‘No, no. I was just envying how, if yer want to say something, yer just say it. Is that education? Or is it being a girl?’
‘It’s easy being the Enlightened One about other people’s families.’ Elf fanned herself. ‘So why a song about your dad now?’
Dean frowned. ‘Something just says, “My turn”, and it won’t leave yer alone till yer do it. Isn’t that how it is for you?’
I thought I knew Dean pretty well by now, but I was wrong. ‘Ye-es. He must be complex. Harry Moffat, I mean.’
‘“Complex” is one word. If yer just met him one time, yer’d think, Life ’n’ soul o’ the party. If yer knew him better, yer’d think, Nice enough fella, but something’s a bit off. If yer were family, yer’d know why he’s got no friends. He doesn’t drink to get drunk. He drinks to act normal. And his idea o’ normal got really bloody nasty.’
A dustcart drove by. Bare-chested bin-men clung to the side, one with an Action Man’s physique, one with a darts player’s.
Elf asked, ‘Why didn’t your mum leave?’
Dean frowned. ‘Shame. A mother who walks out on her husband’s a failure. That’s what a lot o’ people think. I s’pose she was worried ’bout what’d happen to me ’n’ Ray, too. She was afraid it’d be hand-me-downs ’n’ bread ’n’ marge and never going on holiday. When it comes to divorces, it’s the breadwinner who has the money for a proper lawyer. There’s always a sort o’ twisted hope, too. Hope that last time was the last time. That he’s mellowing out.’
‘That’s twisted logic more than twisted hope,’ said Elf.
‘Agreed.’ Dean dropped his cigarette stub out of the window. ‘The best-selling type.’
‘Your father still lives in the house you grew up in?’
‘Till about a year ago when he was in a car smash. He got away with scratches but the Mini he hit was a write-off. The driver’s in a wheelchair and his ten-year-old daughter lost an eye.’
‘God, Dean,’ said Elf. ‘That’s awful.’
‘Yep. It was an accident waiting to happen, mind. ’Cause he was drunk, the insurance company wouldn’t pay the compo, so he had to sell the house. He’s in a council flat. The cement works’d sacked him. So he had to sign on. Ironic, that. That was why he was so dead set against me being a musician – he was sure I’d just end up on the dole. His drinking buddies stopped standing him rounds. He got barred from pubs. By that point I was thinking, Okay, if it wasn’t Harry Moffat I’d feel a bit o’ pity … But it is Harry Moffat. I just thought, Yer’ve made yer bed, now lie in it.’
‘Has he tried to get help?’
‘Ray told me he’s going to Alcoholics Anonymous. Who knows how that’ll work out? What’s Harry Moffat without his Morning Star?’
Levon returned, climbed in and wiped his face on a spotted handkerchief. ‘Holy crap. When I was chart-hyping for Buster Godwin, chocolates and flattery got the job done. Now they want your first-born child.’ Levon took an envelope from the glove compartment and put in five one-pound notes. ‘A naked bribe.’
‘Can’t I have that?’ asked Dean. ‘Or can’t we just buy a million copies of our single in shops?’
‘The brutal truth is, the world doesn’t give a shit about “Darkroom” and we have a fortnight to make it care. So, whatever it takes to flog this single, we do. Which means me bribing an asshole in a Slough record shop so he’ll report inflated sales figures. It also means you’ – Levon looked at Elf – ‘coming in with me to schmooze the creep. And you’ – Levon turned to Dean – ‘wooing the shop girls with wilting roses. Ready? Once more unto the breach …’
‘Peter Pope.’ The trout-lipped manager of Allegro Records stroked Elf’s hand. ‘At your service.’ Engelbert Humperdinck sang ‘There Goes My Everything’ on the stereo. ‘Welcome to my “HQ”.’
Elf retrieved her hand. ‘It looks super, Mr Pope.’
‘We boast branches in Maidenhead and Staines, too. On Saturdays, trade is humming. Is that not so, girls?’
‘Absolutely, Mr Pope,’ intoned the two shop assistants. Both were young women Elf’s age, but leggier and twiggier.
‘Mmmmmm,’ purred Peter Pope. ‘We have six listening booths. Six. Our competitor by the railway station only has three.’
‘Allegro is the only reputable retailer in the Slough area,’ declared Levon. ‘Care for a smoke, Mr Pope?’
Mr Pope pocketed the whole packet. ‘We cater to all palates, from Ellington to Elvis to Elgar. Is that not so, girls?’
The two assistants said, ‘Absolutely, Mr Pope.’
‘Meet Pale Becky and Dark Becky,’ said Peter Pope. ‘Girls. Miss Elf Holloway is a true English nightingale.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ said Elf.
Pale Becky’s smile said, We’ll decide that.
Dark Becky’s smile said, Yes, you’re in a band, yes, you have a single out, but who’s here begging for favours?
‘Here’s a little something –’ Dean gave the Rebeccas a bouquet each ‘– from Utopia Avenue.’
‘Fancy that,’ said Dark Becky. ‘Twelve red roses.’
‘What will we tell our boyfriends?’ fretted Pale Becky.
‘That they’re the luckiest fellas in Slough, Maidenhead and Staines,’ replied Dean. Elf could have puked, but the Two Beckies looked at each other like reluctantly impressed judges.
‘The stocktaking won’t do itself, girls,’ said Peter Pope.
‘No, Mr Pope.’ They retreated to the stockroom.
The manager turned to Levon. ‘So, Mr Franklin. My little dolce per niente?’ Levon handed him the envelope of money. It vanished into Peter Pope’s jacket. ‘I own your EP “Oak, Ash And Thorn”, Miss Holloway. It and you are exquisite.’
Elf tried to look pleased. ‘Thank you, Mr Pope.’
‘There’s a piano in my office.’ The manager’s eyes swivelled to a door. ‘Once upon a time, Allegro sold musical instruments.’
‘Is that so?’ asked Elf. ‘Why did you stop?’
‘My brother stole that side of the business.’ Peter Pope sucked in his cheeks. ‘No. Your ears do not deceive you.’
‘That doesn’t sound very fraternal,’ said Levon.
‘I never waste a thought on that backstabbing thief or his pig-pen of a shop by the station. Success is the sweetest revenge. But since both you and a piano are to hand, Miss Holloway, would it be horribly greedy of me to request a tune? All for myself, I mean?’
Levon said, ‘We’re on a tight schedule, I’m afraid—’
‘A sweetener,’ Pope patted his jacket pocket, ‘adds to the sales figure for the chart compilers at Melody Maker. A private audience with Miss Elf Holloway playing “Any Way The Wind Blows” will multiply those figures by a factor of … ten.’
Elf could smell Peter Pope’s body odour.
Levon’s face told Elf, It’s your decision.
Here was a chance to nudge ‘Darkroom’ up the charts to where a DJ might sit up and take notice. ‘Just one song, then.’
‘We’ll be listening at the keyhole,’ half joked Dean.
‘You could,’ Peter Pope pinched his lips into a triumphant pucker, ‘if there was a keyhole. Mmmmmm.’
Elf told herself not to worry. It was just one song.
The back office of Allegro Records was beige, tidy and had a view of dustbins. Filing cabinets lined the walls. A black upright piano stood across from the desk. On the piano sat a framed photograph of a stern woman in buttoned-up clothes. Peter Pope closed the office door and lowered his voice. ‘Miss Holloway, I must warn you. Your manager, I think he’s a … you know … one of …’
Elf has no intention of discussing Levon’s homosexuality. ‘His private business is his private business, Mr Pope, and—’
He exhales egg fumes. ‘“Business” is the whole point! It’s all his sort care about. You have read The Merchant of Venice?’
Elf was baffled. Peter Pope’s blackheads were like sweaty braille bumps. ‘The Merchant of Venice?’
‘If your man
ager is one of them’ – he stabs his sausage finger at the door – ‘I very much fear for your career.’
Elf didn’t understand. Until she suddenly did. ‘Hang on – are you asking me if Levon’s Jewish?’
Peter Pope’s nostrils flared. ‘Of course. Is he?’
Elf’s first instinct was to say, ‘No, he’s not Jewish at all!’ but then she stumbled: to deny Peter Pope’s accusation would be to validate the gravity of the charge – and what was wrong with being Jewish in the first place?
By now Peter Pope was smiling at his powers of deduction. ‘They hide. I seek. I find. Mmmmmm. It’s the noses.’
‘What? Would you be happier if they all embroidered a Star of David on their smocks?’
‘Oh, you hip young things gobble up their propaganda like Jelly Tots. Wake up! CND? Run by Jews. BBC? Ditto. LSD? Invented by Jews. Bob Dylan? A Jew. Brian Epstein? A Jew. Elvis Presley? A Jew. Your counter-culture is a Zionist smokescreen.’
‘Do you seriously believe this?’ asked Elf.
‘Who do you think ushered Adolf Hitler into power? The Rothschilds. They knew the way to the State of Israel was through the concentration camps. All down history, they’ve been pulling the levers. I described it for The Times but my exposé was censored.’
‘Maybe The Times needed proof,’ suggested Elf.
‘Amateurs might leave “proof” lying round, but the Zionists don’t. That’s why we can be sure they’re running things.’
‘So your only proof is your lack of proof?’ asked Elf.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Forty days exactly after sending my exposé to The Times, I was invited to join the Slough Masonic Lodge. Oh, I sent the trouser-tuggers packing. Peter Pope is not for sale.’ He lit one of Levon’s cigarettes and took a few puffs.
The sooner I play it, the sooner I’m out of here. Elf sat at the piano and played a quick D scale to wake her fingers …
… In the final verse, scissors snipped close to her ear. Elf yanked her head away from the blades. Peter Pope peered at a long lock of Elf’s hair, pinched between his forefinger and thumb. He looked sexually aroused. Elf jumped off the piano stool, banging her knee. She was shaking. ‘Why– why did you cut my hair off?’
‘A chap’s entitled to a souvenir.’ Peter Pope twirled the scissors around his finger. He brushed his cheek with the lock of her hair, savouring Elf’s disgust and liking it. ‘Your hair’s like Mother’s.’ Elf hurried over to the door. Nightmarishly, the knob wouldn’t work. She turned it the other way, not daring to look back, and was out, into a record shop on a Friday afternoon in Slough.
Lulu was singing ‘Let’s Pretend’ on the shop stereo.
Levon was flicking through the jazz albums.
Dean was chatting up Pale Becky, by the look of it.
The shop bell dinged as a customer entered.
Levon looked up. ‘That didn’t take long. All well?’
Elf was about to say, ‘No, that pervert just snipped off a strand of my hair!’ But what could Levon do? Tell Peter Pope to give the lock of hair back? She didn’t want it back. If she reported the manager to the police, the desk sergeant would laugh. What law had the shop manager broken? If the slimy creep told Melody Maker that ‘Darkroom’ had sold 800 copies across his three stores instead of eighty, who’s to say that wouldn’t nudge it into the Top Fifty?
‘I’ll treasure the memory of my private audience.’ Peter Pope appeared. There was no sign of Elf’s hair. ‘Till the day I die.’
Elf didn’t trust herself to answer.
‘So,’ said Levon, ‘Mr Pope, we can rely on your support?’
‘My word is my bond.’ Peter Pope smiled at Elf, opened and closed his fist, like a toddler waving goodbye. ‘Don’t be a stranger, Nightingale.’ His trout’s lips blew her a kiss.
The trout on Elf’s plate gazes up. Lunchtime chatter fills the Seven Dials restaurant. Elf’s mother, Imogen and Bea are looking her way. They asked you something. ‘Sorry, what was that? I was distracted by my trout. It reminded me of a manager. In Slough.’
‘He must have made quite an impression,’ says Elf’s mum.
‘Mmmmmm.’ Elf sinks her fork through the trout’s eye
Bea recites the John Betjeman poem: ‘Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough! It isn’t fit for humans now. There isn’t grass to graze a cow. Swarm over, Death. Then, of course, bombs really did fall. Betjeman must have felt absolutely dreadful.’
‘I went to Slough for a teaching seminar once.’ Imogen dabs her mouth with her napkin. ‘There are worse places.’
Bea spears a gherkin. ‘I can see the roadside signs: “Welcome to Slough: There Are Worse Places – Imogen Holloway.”’
‘Imogen Sinclair now,’ their mother reminds her.
‘Still can’t quite get my head round that,’ says Bea. ‘Mum, there’s un petit goutte left in here. Go on.’ She tips the remnants into her mother’s champagne glass. ‘You’re only fifty once.’
‘Bless you, dear,’ says her mother. ‘Though “a drop” is feminine, “une petite goutte”. You can run into trouble if you guess your genders wrongly.’
‘In French grammar as well as certain Soho clubs,’ says Bea. Her mother and sisters give her a look. ‘So I’m told. By Elf.’
‘Funny.’ Elf dismembers the trout with her fork. ‘Levon said to send you all his best wishes, before I forget.’
Elf’s Mum is pleased. ‘Send mine back. He was quite the gentleman at Immy’s wedding. Ever so well-presented, and so well-spoken. I imagine he’d be a very fair-minded boss.’
‘We’re lucky,’ says Elf. ‘Most managers in show-business are just one step up from the Kray Twins.’
‘Bea’s flying the nest, come September,’ Imogen reminds their mother. ‘Have you thought of going back to work?’
‘Oh, I’m hardly kicking my heels, what with the Rotary Club, the Women’s Institute, the garden … not to mention your father.’
Bea slices her quiche. ‘Do you miss teaching, Immy?’
Imogen hesitates. ‘I’ve hesitated too long, haven’t I?’
‘Marriage takes acclimatisation, darling,’ says their mother. ‘For you and Lawrence. But don’t worry. You’ll get there.’
Imogen squishes peas onto her fork. ‘It’s what we sign up for, isn’t it? House and home and all that.’
‘In the meantime,’ says Bea, ‘we can live a vicarious rock ’n’ roll life via our jive chart-topping sister.’
Elf harrumphs. ‘Not even “chart-scraping”.’
‘It’s still early days,’ says Imogen.
Elf loads a forkful of fish onto a buttery potato. ‘Early days is all most bands get. Pop’s not as cottage-industry as folk. Overheads are bigger. Studio fees. Marketing. Forty-nine out of fifty acts fail before they get a sniff of fame and fortune.’
‘You’ll be the one in fifty,’ says Imogen. ‘My friends are still talking about the songs you did at the wedding.’
‘I loved that “Mona Lisa” one,’ says their mum. ‘Goosebumps. Why didn’t you release that as a single, darling?’
Good question. ‘Because there are two other songwriters in Utopia Avenue, and we all want a crack of the whip.’
‘How did you decide on the first single?’ asks Bea.
Three months ago, the day after the Gravesend gig, Elf’s first thought was, It’s got to be ‘Mona Lisa’. The problem was, Dean nominated ‘Abandon Hope’ and Jasper voted for ‘Darkroom’.
‘Pretend I’m Victor French,’ Levon suggested. ‘Pitch me why your song should be the one.’
‘“Abandon Hope”’s got a great riff,’ said Dean. ‘It gives us all a chance to shine. Plus, I need the money more than Elf ’n’ Jasper.’
Elf didn’t smile. ‘If we release “Abandon Hope”, we’ll get pigeonholed as a blues band. It’s very bloke-y.’
‘And “Mona Lisa”’s very girlie,’ objected Dean.
‘You’re guys,’ said Elf, ‘so guys’ll listen to us anyway. If we release “
Mona Lisa”, we’ll get girls buying our records, too.’
It was Jasper’s turn. ‘“Darkroom” has a psychedelic vibe. It’s our song for the British Summer of Love.’
The clocks above Levon’s desk ticked. ‘All three could be hits,’ said their manager. ‘It’s a lucky problem. Griff?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Griff. ‘But you’ve got to sort this fairly. By the end of Archie Kinnock’s first band, all Ratner and Kinnock and the others did was squabble over fookin’ royalties.’
‘So what do yer suggest?’ asked Dean. ‘Pool all the songwriting money from the singles, and divvy it up equal?’
‘Or credit all songs to the three of us?’ suggests Jasper. ‘Lennon-McCartney. Jagger-Richards.’
‘I did that with Bruce for the Fletcher and Holloway EP,’ said Elf. ‘It made more problems than it solved. If the EP had sold, the problems would’ve grown even nastier.’
‘We could leave it all up to Ilex,’ suggested Levon. ‘Tell them, “You decide and leave us out of it.”’
‘No thanks,’ said Dean. ‘Our music, our decision.’
‘We should roll a dice, then,’ announced Jasper.
‘You … look like you’re being serious,’ guessed Levon.
‘I am. Whoever rolls the highest has the first single. The second highest roll decides the second single. The third, the third.’
‘That’s bloody nuts,’ said Dean. ‘Even for you.’
‘One dice. No blame. No bitching. Why’s that nuts?’
Elf looked at Dean, who looked at Levon, who looked at Elf.
Jasper placed a red dice with white spots on the coffee-table.
‘You ain’t half a weird fooker sometimes, Zooto,’ said Griff.
‘Is that a good thing or a bad thing?’ asked Jasper.
Griff shrugged, smiled and frowned, all at once.
Dean picked up the dice. ‘Are we actually doing this?’
‘It’s bizarre,’ said Levon, ‘but I admit, it’s … fair.’
‘It beats having a blazing, inconclusive row,’ agreed Elf.
‘Bigger things’ve turned on the toss of a coin,’ noted Griff.
‘The answer’s yes, then,’ concluded Dean. ‘We’re doing it.’
After a pause, the three songwriters nodded.
Utopia Avenue : A Novel Page 18