“It means an awful lot of ensemble work,” said Edward. “And a hell of a lot of arranging. And would it be right for your club, Pete? It won’t be exactly intimate dance music, will it?”
“Maybe not,” said Pete. “But who wants intimate dance music? I want the club to be a place where people come to listen. They can dance, too, if they want to. But it’s going to be a reflective sort of place, you know what I mean? Somewhere where you can go and drink and listen or dance, but where you won’t feel obliged to do either.”
“It’s a great idea, Edward,” said Judy. “There’s nowhere you can go to hear good modern jazz six nights a week without having to put up with a lot of crap, too.”
“That’s the point, really,” said Pete. “There’ll only be a tiny floor. We’ll make it like the American jazz bars—you have to pay some minimum—five bob, say—and then you can drink as much or as little as you like. And you can listen.”
“Don’t make it a shrine,” said Edward.
“Yeah, that’s one of the problems,” said Judy. “Like Greg said, once something arrives here from America we start stylising it, draining the life out of it. We mustn’t make it too solemn.”
Edward, who was sitting on one of the tip-up seats, said suddenly, “Look, Pete, I hope you’re not counting too much on me. I’m going to be pretty busy the next few weeks, with this man Shrieve, and the audition and everything.”
“Oh, sure,” said Pete. “We’ll have to see how things pan out. Nothing’s fixed.” He frowned and added, “It’s about time something was.”
“What’s all this about your man Shrieve?” said Judy.
“Oh, he’s a sort of game warden for some primitive people in Africa,” said Edward. “And the country’s about to become independent, and he wants to make sure nothing horrid happens to them.”
“Since when were you interested in primitive people?”
“Since a few days ago.”
“You are weird,” said Judy. “What do you want to go and get mixed up with all that for? You know we need you for the band.”
“That’s my way,” said Edward. “You know me. I don’t like to commit myself too much.”
“It’s about time you did,” said Pete. “You can’t spend your whole life hanging about.”
“For Christ’s sake, you sound like my father. I haven’t even had my viva yet. Get off my back, will you?”
“O.K., O.K.”
“You are weird,” said Judy again. “In fact, you’re nuts, Edward.”
“So I’m nuts. I like to eat with both hands, that’s all.”
“Don’t choke yourself, baby.”
“Talking of choking,” said Edward, “did you hear that Albert Swetman?”
“We heard him,” said Judy.
Pete began to whistle through his teeth.
“Well, he’s what I don’t want to be. And I hope you’re going to help me not be like him. I mean, you know how my judgement goes haywire sometimes. I need your advice about my new song. It’s about a man who knows every girl in the district but doesn’t love any of them.”
He described the brief plot. There was lots of adolescent yearning for experience in the big outside world where Real Love takes place, and the climax was (he hoped) an irresistible plea to be understood. Already the tune was taking shape, and the words were coming along nicely. That the shape of a pop song was rigidly limited by the conventions of the form didn’t worry Edward in the least. After all, people had done some pretty good things with the sonnet.
He was so pleased with his song that when they arrived at Pete’s flat he said, “I’ll pay for the taxi. Count it as part of my rent. Really, it’s just an anticipation on the enormous revenues my pop life will bring in.”
Pete shrugged and made no protest.
A few minutes later they were sprawled in the bedroom drinking coffee and Pete was saying, “Edward, are you really serious about this audition, or is this just another of your nonsenses?”
“Serious? Why not?”
“Why not?” said Judy. “Tell us why, for God’s sake.”
“Yeah,” said Pete, jamming a pillow under his head. “Go right ahead and tell us.”
“Well, you know, for heaven’s sake,” said Edward. “I mean, we’ve been through this before, haven’t we? You know how I feel about it. There’s nothing wrong with pops, and if you can make a lot of money out of them, so much the better.”
“That was all right while we were fooling around at Oxford,” said Pete. “That was a good joke, if you like. But now we’re grown ups, right? I want to run a band that plays decent music. Pop is indecent music.”
“It isn’t,” said Edward. “In any sense. Saying that, you’re really just being a snob about the people who like it.”
“No, no,” said Pete. “I don’t mind people liking it. At times I even like it myself, you know I do. But it’s strictly commercial, Edward, and you know it. While with our sort of music, like Greg said, we do it for ourselves. There’s a difference in the quality of approach as well as in the quality of the music.”
“Wow,” said Edward. “There’s a difference in the amount of money to be made, too.”
“Oh, hell, Edward,” said Judy. “What do you want that kind of money for? You can make quite enough a hundred ways without selling yourself to the music business for a few years.”
“That’s the point,” said Edward. “No one lasts in the pop market. But if you can make it for—oh, a year or two—then you’re rich for life. A year or two of being commercial for decades of being comfortably off—I can’t see what’s wrong with it.”
“I suppose there isn’t anything wrong with it,” said Pete,, “except that it involves betraying all the standards and tastes you have. There’s nothing wrong, perhaps, in embracing self-corruption. It’s just not very nice, that’s all.”
“Self-corruption?” said Edward. “What is this?”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but there’s no system of religion or morals, surely, which encourages a man to do something for money that he doesn’t believe in.”
“Oh, all that,” said Edward. “And if you’re about to say there are inner satisfactions that come from believing in what you’re doing, don’t bother. There are some big outer satisfactions to be got from being rich enough to do whatever you like.”
“Platitudes, platitudes,” said Judy. “Edward, what exactly do you want to be free to do, please?”
Edward flushed. “I don’t know. When I’m rich, I’ll have the leisure to think about it, won’t I?”
“Weird,” said Judy.
“You’re the sort of man that gets modern youth a bad name,” said Pete.
“All right, I don’t know what I want to do. But I feel O.K. so long as I’m doing something. It doesn’t matter what. I like to be busy. You know, I really enjoyed digging up that Roman villa.”
“You’re beyond me,” said Judy. “You spend your whole time saying there’s nothing you want to do, and then you say you’re only happy if you’re doing something. You need to make up your mind, Edward.”
“So I’m mixed up. Maybe that’s why I play the piano. You don’t get nice normal people playing musical instruments.”
“What I don’t understand,” said Pete, “is how you can really want to be a pop singer if you genuinely enjoy playing jazz. Why don’t you stick to one thing at a time?”
“Perhaps it’s because I know I’m not a very good pianist and never will be.”
There was silence. Edward knew that Pete wouldn’t contradict him. But although he was glad about Pete’s honesty, he was discomfited by it, too.
“Oh, you’re not that bad,” said Judy. “And if Pete wants you to play for him, you must be quite good, anyway.” She laughed and took his hand.
Edward grinned at her. “Oh, I’m better on piano than Prank Barrett is on drums. I could get by, I suppose. But I don’t think I want just to get by.”
“What makes you think you’ll do better sing
ing pops?” said Pete.
“Nothing. But pop singing is such a mad world, anything could happen. You don’t have to be good but lucky.”
“Well, I’ll cross my fingers for you,” said Pete. He closed his eyes and began to hum.
“Bedtime,” said Judy. “I have to work in the mornings, unlike you two. Will you be all right on that mattress, Edward? I did air it.”
“I’ll be fine. And thanks very much.”
“Good night,” said Pete, still with his eyes closed. “I’ll work on that song for you, if you’ll play in my band.”
“It’s a deal,” said Edward.
There was nowhere to put his clothes in the sitting-room, so he draped them over the extension speaker of the gramophone. He got into his low bed, then realised the light switch was by the door. He got up again and switched off the light, then made his way carefully back to the mattress. He hated stubbing his toes.
*
The neon sign above the Brachs Building burned until three. In an office on the twentieth floor a sallow man of thirty-five or -six was sitting at his desk and reading the regular night reports of Champney, Morrison, Dulake’s talent scouts from the favourite teenage haunts. It was necessary in the music business, Mr Brachs believed, to be several jumps ahead of one’s rivals. It was better to sign up six young hopefuls, one of whom might eventually be a mild success, than to lose through caution the one in a thousand who could be a best-seller. And if you caught them young and green enough, of course, they cost a good deal less. As a result of this policy, eight of the nine English singers in the current top twenty were clients of Champney, Morrison, Dulake and Co, and in Tin Pan Alley the firm was known as “the slave market”.
The sallow man pushed his horn-rimmed glasses firmly on to his nose and took a new report from the pile. It was by Ken Hepwith, the regular scout at the Racket. First came a general summary of the evening’s music and a list of all the musicians who’d played. Then came a comment on the audience—its size, age, and general composition—and its reactions to the different bands. Finally, and at some length, came detailed criticisms of each band. Most of the names were familiar to the sallow man, and some of them had been auditioned on the eighteenth and nineteenth floors of the Building. Several had been given noncommittal contracts by Fred Martin and others on the twentieth.
The Choke, it seemed, was beginning to catch on. At least Ken Hepwith thought so. The sallow man thought Hepwith might be right. It was comparatively easy to dance, it involved a lot of sensual hip movement and shuffling, it had a simple beat. There was, however, the question of who was to launch it, who was to become the King of the Choke. And then the name—it would have to be changed or every sexual strangulation in the country would be attributed to it. How, too, was it to be sponsored? The Hammersmith Palais, of course, and similar places would get full treatment, but Mr Brachs had let it be known that he was dissatisfied with the system of provincial one-night stands in cinemas and dance halls. It was taxing on the artists and complicated to arrange, its effects weren’t lasting, it didn’t fully exploit the market. The last dance Mr Brachs had launched had netted over two million pounds, not counting the extra sales of Free and jeans which it might have stimulated. The sallow man knew that Mr Brachs would not be content with less than five million for his next promotion.
Ken Hepwith had asterisked Greg Smith as a man to watch. He had been on top form this evening with the queried trumpeter Harrisson and a new pianist called Gilchrist. Gilchrist said he was being auditioned next week as a singer, but this might have been a joke or a lie.
The sallow man grimaced at the poverty of Hepwith’s information. Smith had been watched for several months, Harrisson’s playing at Oxford had been regularly reported on, and Gilchrist was known to Champney, Morrison, Dulake as both pianist and singer. The sallow man read with distaste that “Frank Barrett once again showed himself a drummer of high class”. Barrett’s drumming had long ago been dismissed as loud and vulgar, and Hepwith’s continued efforts to push him showed a lack of that personal detachment which was essential for a useful informer in the music business. Once a talent scout started pushing his friends he was on the way out. The sallow man made a neat cross in green biro against Hepwith’s name.
He was putting Hepwith’s report on one side (there were three more to go before he made his summary of the night’s work for Mr Brachs) when the blue television beside him suddenly spluttered to life.
“Mr Burgess,” said Mr Brachs.
“Yes, sir,” said the sallow man, sitting to attention.
“Make a note for Jefferson of Brachs Restaurants that the breakdown of expenses for last year isn’t detailed enough. Tell him I want a much fuller account by the end of the week.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Good night, Mr Burgess.”
The screen went dead.
Burgess relaxed and made the note Mr Brachs had ordered. It was always alarming when Mr Brachs wanted him in the middle of the night, it might be anything from immediate dismissal to the Tokyo stock market prices. Mr Brachs was unpredictable. But his night confidential secretary was handsomely paid and rather enjoyed being alone at the top of the Building. Alone, that was, except for Mr Brachs. But then, one couldn’t ever get far from Mr Brachs, his name was all over the country. And if you were his night confidential secretary, you knew that his influence was spread even further than his name.
7
ON Wednesday afternoon Shrieve came out of the office of Sir Sebastian Filmer with his sense of inadequacy painfully aggravated. The more he talked to people in London, the more he wished he’d stayed with the Ngulu and left the negotiation to someone who could estimate the suave phrases of Whitehall for what they were worth. He wasn’t, he felt, at all the right man to try to apply pressure, even to make his case clearly. The interview with Filmer had been typically unsatisfactory.
Filmer was a tall man with silvery grey hair, the sort of hair which all men in authority in London seemed to display, as Frenchmen display the ribbons of their Légions d’Honneur. Two wings swept with careless elegance above his ears, and the whole coiffeur looked as though it had just come from under the tactful drier of a barber who displayed the royal coat of arms. His clothes were so well bred that they seemed to be holding themselves slightly away from his skin, it being distasteful actually to touch him: a white shirt glowed against the pinkness of his neck, and the black coat and striped trousers were tailored to conceal any hint of paunch. The effect was deliberately subdued and unassuming, one created, Shrieve felt, by a man who assumed and subdued without ever raising his voice. Filmer was like a very expensive car, his power visible only in a vein in his pink neck where it idled inaudibly.
He had been, of course, charming, had enquired about Shrieve’s father as though he was an old friend, had offered a cigarette and not taken one himself when Shrieve refused. Then he had come down to business. The Minister was much concerned with Shrieve’s problem. It was always the policy of Her Majesty’s Government to do everything possible to protect minority interests. There was no intention of modifying this policy. The Minister was taking a most keen interest in the matter, and was determined to ensure that proper safeguards would be arranged.
At the phrase “proper safeguards”, Shrieve had broken in to ask what the Minister had in mind. “Proper safeguards”, he had suggested, were the whole crux of the problem.
Filmer had said that the matter was, of course, still under active consideration. Besides, it would all have to be negotiated at the constitutional conference. It was essential to maintain flexibility.
That was just what he was hoping there wouldn’t be, Shrieve explained. He hoped very much that the Minister would take a definite stand on the matter before the conference began, so that the question of negotiating it need never arise.
These things, Filmer was sure Shrieve understood, didn’t work quite like that. The conference would be a most delicate affair, and no firm positions on matters of detai
l could be taken beforehand. On a broad basis, however, it was firmly intended to press for “proper safeguards” for the Ngulu. Shrieve would see the need, in dealing with the political leaders of the colony, many of whom were extremists, at least in their public statements, to avoid any unfortunate exacerbation of a delicate situation.
Shrieve quite understood that. But he was afraid that people in Whitehall, and even the political leaders of the colony, extremist or otherwise, would forget that the Ngulu lived in a very distant part of the country which was extremely difficult to reach. He feared, and he had put his fears plainly in his memorandum, that while “proper safeguards” might be most sincerely arranged in London, they would prove ineffective in the bush. The Luagabu, he reminded Sir Sebastian, lived less than half a day’s journey on foot from the Ngulu, while the capital was three days away by jeep.
Filmer quite appreciated that, and this aspect of the question was causing the gravest concern in London. He was sure, however, that a satisfactory arrangement could be worked out.
Shrieve wondered if he might ask what kind of arrangement Filmer had in mind.
Sir Sebastian was not, of course, at liberty to say what discussions had taken place between himself and the Minister on this matter; but he could, completely unofficially, report that the Minister had said that he thought there would be no difficulty in achieving a satisfactory settlement.
Shrieve wondered what sort of satisfaction this would give and to whom. Could Sir Sebastian give him no indication of the sort of thing the Minister would consider satisfactory?
Filmer was afraid he couldn’t, but, again wholly unofficially, he didn’t think there would be any harm in letting Shrieve know that, for instance, there would be provisions in the Treaty of Independence which would guarantee the British supervision of all military training for the next seven years at least. This would involve the continued presence of many British officers and N.C.O.s in the colony. Thus the Army, if it was called upon to come to the aid of the Ngulu, would do so without question.
The White Father Page 14