Carnforth's Creation (16 page)

He flung down the belt, and dragged the mike up the front of his body like an electronic phallus. Then, mouth almost touching the metal grille, he sung hoarsely:

The song ended on a climax of drums, and left the audience dazed for several seconds, as if caught enjoying a mood they shouldn’t have. Then, a delayed reaction: twenty or thirty girls tried to rush the stage, desperate to hitch any kind of ride with Roy. Boys stood on their seats, stamping, and the stewards dived in. Roy tried to calm them with one of the most detached numbers from his LP.

Maybe it was mention of the devil, but scuffles kept breaking out, and Roy only regained control by shouting into the mike, ‘Okay, let’s see how beautiful you are. You see me, but I can’t see you.’ As the lights came on, the band played one of their gentlest ballads.

Gemma didn’t stay for the whole concert: she had arranged to meet Paul at Roy’s hotel to discuss a newspaper interview she was meant to be doing with Roy later, for the benefit of the cameras. But she had decided to drop it. Roy didn’t need her or anyone else any more, and she for one wasn’t going to try to persuade him that he did.

*

An hour after the concert there were half-a-dozen people in Roy’s hotel room, not counting the film crew. Paul surprised Gemma by making no effort to change her mind about the interview. He too seemed to have recognized that the public phase of Roy’s career would be different. For the moment at least he appeared happy to sit back and watch, like a client who had paid for an expensive cabaret at his party.

Five minutes ago, a girl had got past the security man on the landing. Wearing a hired waitress-costume, she had dropped her tray, and flung herself at Roy so forcefully that they had both ended up on the floor. Before that, the manageress had begged Roy to talk to her teenage daughter who was ‘playing up awful’. ‘All she wants is a few kind
words and she’ll be fine.’ Roy had told her past experience made him doubt it. But the woman had gone on pleading and in the end he had given in. The result – all filmed by Matthew – had been an hysterical adolescent, writhing and weeping on the carpet, while her mother hid her face. Afterwards a maid had been filmed mopping up the pee. Then, apart from a father wanting Roy to tape a message for his daughter in hospital, no more visitors.

*

After the departure of the film crew, Matthew stayed on and accepted a whisky from Paul.

‘So how was I?’ Roy asked Gemma, gesturing to her to sit next to him on the large double bed. They were in the Napoleon suite; and in a purple coatee with a white fur collar, Roy looked the part.

‘In whose league?’ asked the bass guitarist, slumped against a radiator.

‘You were great in any league,’ Gemma told him.

The bass guitarist howled with laughter, as did
rubbery-faced
Len, who leered at Gemma, ‘He means did you wet yourself? And how come you aren’t combing the three hairs on his chest?’

‘Better than the three hairs on your head,’ countered Roy.

Paul told Roy not to worry; he was ‘bigger’ than Callas and Gobbi now.

‘On a decibel rating,’ muttered Len.

‘They lift spirits, I lift roofs,’ laughed Roy. ‘You know that film of Picasso drawing? Saw it at school … big close-ups of his hand, doing it; creating … Wow! You ought to get a camera down my throat.’

The door burst open and the group’s road manager announced that he had some ‘serious chicks’ lined up.

‘Don’t like serious chicks,’ objected Roy. ‘They wear glasses and girdles.’

‘Don’t piss around. They’re not under age and they’ll do anything.’

‘They haven’t seen Len,’ said the bass guitarist. ‘Are they hookers?’

‘No they’re fucking not.’

‘Amateurs,’ sneered Len. ‘Might as well have a look. Do we get one each this time?’

When they had gone, Roy seemed dispirited, ‘Don’t fancy one night stands myself.’

‘A bit hit or miss,’ agreed Paul, buttoning his snakeskin coat. He rattled his car keys. ‘Got to love you and leave you. Meeting in town first thing.’ He shook his head admiringly. ‘Marvellous, Roy … almost perfect. I think you ought to stroke yourself a bit more though. Nothing pansy; a good solid hold on the thigh … sort of dragging the hand along.’ He demonstrated. ‘Really
love
yourself.’

When Paul had gone, Matthew turned on Roy bitterly. ‘Why did you butter him up like that before the concert … going back on everything?’

Roy shrugged. ‘I’ve decided to play it smogo.’ He reached for Gemma’s hand.

‘You think if you do it Paul’s way, maybe you’ll get more than a finger in Gemma’s pie?’

‘You’ve been working too hard,’ snorted Roy, kicking off his sneakers.

‘They’re an old team, Roy.’

‘Not any more,’ said Gemma.

‘Any idea why Paul shoved off just now?’ asked Matthew.

‘He told yer.’

Matthew said gently, ‘Try asking yourself what he’d get out of it if you cut loose.’ He pulled a face. ‘But why should he worry? Hooked on Gemma, you’ll be easy meat for years.’

‘Speakin’ from experience, Mat?’

Matthew flicked at the tassels on the lampshade by his chair. ‘Fine, Roy … get grooving with gorgeous here, but don’t pretend you never knew Paul shoved her at you.’

‘All right,’ screeched Roy, jumping up. ‘Let’s play dirty. Pop’s a bourgeois rip-off … that’s how your old lady says you reckon it. So much for your lying guff about extending popular culture and Paul getting his kicks outa pissing on it.’

Matthew’s face froze.
‘Bridget
said that?’

‘He’s exaggerating … I was there,’ lied Gemma, trying to warn Roy.

‘Sod that,’ he grated. ‘I’m not playing careful.’ He glared at Matthew. ‘What sort of fink do you take me for? Paul’s fooling me, Gemma’s goin’ to string me along. Okay … grab this then, Mat: you wanna louse-up Paul ’cos he’s balling your woman.’

‘Come off it,’ exclaimed Gemma.

Too angry to think of retracting, Roy cried, ‘You ask Tony if we didn’t see ’em smooching.’

Matthew walked to the door. ‘Good of you to tell me.’

‘Wait … I’m coming too,’ called Gemma.

He looked back. ‘Go to hell,’ he said, and left the room.

Gemma stood a long time with her back to Roy, looking out at the dark skyline of huddled houses and factory
chimneys
. ‘That wasn’t very bright of you,’ she said at last. He came up behind her and kissed her neck.

‘C’mon, baby, nobody’s gonna tell me what to do from now on in.’ When she moved away, he lay on the bed and drew his hands up behind his head. ‘Like see it from my side. One day I get Mat saying, “Watch it, kid, Paul’s gonna getya,” and the next it’s Paul saying, “Matty’s real mean, so play it my way.” Well sod ’em both.’

‘You think after what you said, Matthew
isn’t
going to get mean?’

‘After
what
I
said,’
he shouted. ‘Dontya mean, after
what
Paul
did
?
Ain’t
my
fault he plugged inter Matthew’s woman to get her saying his words.’

‘You could be wrong.’

He sat up straight. ‘Was Mat on the level?
Did
Paul ask yer to stay and make it with me?’ She shook her head
emphatically
. ‘Could’ve been a good scene in the lobby … us leavin’ together in the morning. Clicketty click go the cameras … Lady Elly sees the pics in the
Daily
Shitheap,
and thinks, “Great, Gemma’s really outa my man’s life”.’

‘I
am
out of it, Roy.’

About to laugh, Roy paused. Same blue eyes, turned-up nose, gamin hair; but something different. Her sparkle out to
lunch some place. A spooky tone to her; like a cracked disc playing in an empty house. A put-up job? She’d fooled him before. He said, ‘If you’re goin’ ter see me schmaltz about being all beat-up under the armour-plating, I’m not buying.’

‘Who’d blame you?’ she murmured, sitting on the bed. After a pause, ‘Did you ever wonder why I didn’t marry Paul? That kind of money; his looks … character?’ A sad sisterly smile. ‘I’d’ve been wiped out, Roy. It’s happening to Eleanor, and she’s a tougher cooky than I’ll ever be.’

‘You had other blokes …’

‘Always kidding myself …
next
time would be different. Failures … what did they matter, with Paul always around to patch me up?’

‘No more?’

She hung her head. ‘I still can’t believe it. Our lives one story; then out of the blue he gives mine back … just “borrowed” all those years. Marvellous while it lasted, but …’

‘For fuck’s sake; he’s married. You didn’t own him.’

Gemma laughed wanly. ‘Spot on. I wasn’t after sympathy; I told you because you kissed me, said you’d do what you want … right? Meaning why don’t we get together
anyway
?’ Her voice had become very quiet.

Roy applauded ironically. ‘So you nailed me with one of the heaviest “piss off” speeches on record.’

Her cheeks were glowing. ‘I tried to say,
Yes,
let’s
… because I’m clearing off, because I don’t want anything from you … because you were …’ She broke off, and ended quietly, ‘… a better person than we deserved.’

‘Okay, I get the message; today but not tomorrow.’ He thought a moment, then shrugged. ‘I’ve nothing against special offers.’

‘Please, Roy …’ she whispered, hurt by his defensive mockery.

‘Don’want
nothing
from
me,
right?’ She caught his eye, and slowly nodded. He rolled on to his side and squinted up at her. ‘Wadya say to taking everything off and starting in here?’ He patted the eiderdown. She answered him by
peeling off her T-shirt. He took a deep breath. ‘Wait till I get hold of
you,
baby.’ As she watched him stumbling about with one leg stuck in his skin-tight trousers, his eagerness seemed touching rather than crude. He murmured, ‘Just tell me the way you like it, huh? Only one performance …’ He tugged at pants, which ripped. ‘Boy, am I going to try ter …’

‘Er … Roy,’ she began, slipping between the sheets. ‘Five thousand kids screaming their heads off is quite an act to follow.’

‘You’re crazy. That was nothing.’

‘Then
you’re
crazy too,’ she giggled.

He slid in beside her. ‘I talk too much when I’m nervous.’

‘Don’t be,’ she murmured, opening her arms.

Anger was no help to Paul. Nothing short of a masterstroke seemed likely to mitigate the havoc Roy had caused. But at this late stage could anything be expected to prevent Matthew representing him either as a cynical shark, or witless trendy, dwarfed by his protégé’s triumphs?

When Paul fixed on a plan, he was aware of drawbacks as well as possibilities. If Roy were to take part in an open air concert at Castle Delvaux after his triumphant tour – and walk arm-in-arm with his benefactor to the stage in the park – Matthew would be obliged to film the event, and however biassed his editing, viewers would still consider Roy’s
gratitude
and dependence unaffected by his success. Far from looking irrelevant, Paul’s position as eminence grise would be enhanced (nothing ‘grise’ about it in fact). The visual images would say it all: old aristocracy and new, as
myth-making
co-producers of the ultimate modern fantasy – take an ounce of tradition; two of classless novelty; add raw vigour and beat briskly for hours and hours.

Over Roy’s shoulder in shot after shot, the floodlit battlements
and towers would dominate the scene. His fans, pouring through the famous heraldic park-gates, would look like pilgrims visiting the birthplace of a god.

So what of the disadvantages? Simply Eleanor’s
opposition
.

Paul promised her the best security money could buy: the confinement of fans to the park; the removal of all litter, chemical lavatories, hot-dog stands, alien people and
impedimenta
from the park within twenty-four hours of the last song. He guaranteed a setting-up phase not exceeding three days (security to operate from dawn on day one).

Yet nothing budged Eleanor. They had agreed certain things in the past, most important among them being never to use Castle Delvaux for anything resembling the
proceedings
Paul had in mind.

Knowing Eleanor blamed his involvement with Roy for most of their difficulties, Paul was painfully conscious of the risks, were he to go ahead in spite of her. But the likely effects of a documentary disaster on their marriage outweighed all other anxieties. Matthew had named October as the last month for filming. With only three months left, Paul felt obliged to make his first moves, while matters were still unresolved with Eleanor.

*

Paul had expected Eleanor to leave Delvaux, during what she had for some time referred to as ‘the invasion’. She had gone away when the earlier filming had taken place; but that, she told him, had been different, posing no threat to house and gardens. This time, more would be at stake than her personal feelings. Knowing how intense these were, Paul was
disconcerted
by the coldly disinterested tone she adopted on their walks along the perimeter, separating park and gardens. His Elly, who lived at Delvaux and loved it, was now replaced by a clinical field officer, expert in assessing the strengths and weaknesses of a threatened front.

The ha-ha was an obstacle of sorts, but the ditch would have to be filled with barbed-wire. Existing fences would presumably serve as ground-anchorage for taller corrugated-iron
barriers. The outer walls of the estate, on the park side, were tall enough to keep out all but the most athletic ticketless fans, but what if cars and vans were parked close to them? She suggested small groups of security men operating as roving ‘snatch squads’, a method she had learned was used in demonstrations. Eleanor attended all Paul’s
consultations
with contractors, as did the agent, head gardener, and estate carpenter. She was also there when he gave notice of his plans to his tenant farmers, and put forward suggestions of her own about the location of car parks when Paul held discussions with the local police.

Although to some extent reassured by her acceptance of the inevitable, Paul found her personally aloof and
withdrawn
. But hoping this would change when the night passed off uneventfully, he concentrated on the arrangements.

Without expert back-up from Exodus, he would have been lost, nor would anything have been possible without a hefty subsidy from Roy’s record company. But with the next Rory Craig single due for release a week after the concert, the executives at Stella Records had been looking for publicity; and because their investment was too large to be recouped by ticket sales alone, were determined to make the most of it in other ways: a special press train, there and back, with food and drink thrown in free, hand-outs stressing the ‘magic’ of an evening in the grounds of ‘a Tudor mansion never before opened to press or public’, and PR gush about ‘Rory Craig’s personal and professional association with the trend-setting Marquess of Carnforth, whose family …’

A marketing director’s dream, with only one cloud in the sky: Paul’s decision to limit the ticket-printing to thirty thousand before having any idea of demand. How many acres was the goddam park? Well, quite a few … but with Eleanor breathing down his neck and Paul’s priority being Matthew’s film and not gate-receipts, he refused to concede. The ads in the music press should proclaim it a ticket-only event, these obtainable in town by application to x, y and z, and
not
at the venue. Did he have any idea how big Rory was? Then how come he didn’t realise thousands of fans weren’t
going to be put off making the journey by the small print in the ads? All right, Paul had said: a ticket issue of forty thousand, twenty-five for sale in town, fifteen at the venue,
but
the ads still to make out tickets only available in town. More objections from Stella. Since the venue was eighty miles from London, up to twenty per cent (more if the weather was bad) might not make it, so to cut back on advance sales would be crazy. The final arrangement:
thirty-five
thousand for advance sale, fifteen thousand available at Delvaux, but not advertised.

With six weeks still to go, Paul was under pressure again. With only ‘modest’ advertising, a London sell-out looked certain. No change from Paul. Cursing and groaning from Stella, and a suggestion that ‘in his own interests’ he should get more tickets printed for sale his end, unless he had a private army. The concert was ‘making a big buzz on the rock festival grapevine’. Four days later he spotted a small ad in a music weekly, succinctly stating that ‘a limited number of tickets will be sold on site’. Vehement denials of
responsibility
from Stella and Exodus. A journalist on another rock paper previewed the concert and mentioned the venue tickets. Obliged to provide more lavatories and food, Paul had to tell Eleanor he had been taken for a ride. ‘I wonder who
did
place those ads?’ was her mild response. Paul tried and failed to keep his temper. More and more she reminded him of a classical heroine foreseeing her fate and quietly preparing for it.

Ten days left, and the post office had to lay on extra deliveries to Castle Delvaux. Mostly enquiries about tickets, but amongst them a threat against Roy’s life, dismissed by Paul as a hoax, and less specific warnings from a couple of astrology nuts who thought the organizers ought to know the moon would be in Scorpio. The rest were from girls, treating Delvaux as a convenient poste restante for ravings addressed to ‘Rory’. Since the estate office also had to deal with matters as various as accounts, staff salaries, repairs, and all estate purchases (except those accounted for by the housekeeper), Paul spent more time in the company of Major Bourne, the
agent, and Miss Legge, his secretary, than he ever had before. His relations with the major, a fixture even in his father’s day, were correct but never warm, and the immense amount of extra work caused by the concert did not improve them. Miss Legge, who doubled as estate telephonist, was soon doing nothing but attend the switchboard; and the employment of a temp only marginally improved matters. It took one of the most experienced secretaries from Exodus to stem the tide. Even so, local reaction to her clothes and make-up gave Paul an indication of the culture-shock in store. While Eleanor predicted resignations, Paul was more sanguine. The perks in housing, food grown on the estate, and, in ordinary circumstances, a very easy life, were not to be so lightly thrown away – least of all by the major, who, though doing less than the managers under him, earned more than any of them.

*

The day dawned bright and fair, and though up at six, Paul found Eleanor had beaten him off the blocks. Shortly before half-past seven, having visited the estate office and the park, Paul found her in the Gatehouse Court, addressing the entire outside staff – maintenance men, gardeners, labourers from the home farm, even the chauffeur. Though irritated, he was also touched. She was sending them out with whistles to various strategic points in the gardens, the youngest footman and the hallboy to act as runners. (Rather as if his own security men with their radios and vastly superior numbers, were figments of his imagination.) The only tragedy, or
perhaps
blessing, was that Matthew, who would not arrive till nine, was not here to record this poignant survival of feudal loyalty. Later she might well have plans for putting the
inside
staff through fire drills, and other defensive procedures. (Delvaux folklore in the making: the young marchioness who saved the estate when her husband let in the rebels.)

He watched her finish her address and stride over to him, in one of her oldest hacking-jackets. ‘I suppose you know there are four thousand people outside the park?’ Paul said he did know, but had been asked not to let them in until the
catering and other contractors were ready for them. A lorry had split one of the main water pipes twenty minutes earlier; about half a ton of expensive equipment was still outside the backstage enclosure; and the second beer tent hadn’t been erected. Add to that three out of four of the largest lighting towers still on the ground, and the electricians having a hard enough time without being trampled on, and a case must surely exist for sticking to what was printed on the tickets: namely gates open noon?

Eleanor listened patiently. Did he know that the four thousand had started as less than one thousand at dawn, most of whom had slept in sleeping bags? Did he also know that the police had been on the line saying that the gates would have to open the moment traffic was stopped on the
Frimpton
–Belstead road? Had he heard that at least four hundred fans were on their way from Frimpton station, and that the police thought there would be upwards of twenty thousand in the area by ten o’clock? Another fact he might find interesting: according to one of the security men,
three-quarters
of those outside had no tickets.

Having been more concerned with progress in the park, Paul hadn’t known all this. Hearing it, he couldn’t help smiling at the sheer scale of the thing. Eleanor’s mouth opened and closed. ‘What’ll you do if … they just keep coming … all day?’

He shrugged. ‘Pray for rain?’

‘There could be a quarter of a million.’

‘No way of keeping that number out.’ He took her hand. ‘It’ll slow down soon. Let’s take a look anyway.’

From the top of the gatehouse they could see the road clearly. The best possible autumn weather: a slight mist dispersing in scarves of sun-haze. Seeing a moving phalanx of fans coming over the brow of the hill, bathed in golden mist, Paul was left speechless. But where was Matthew? He ought to be up here. He was about to race down to the office, when Eleanor asked him why so many people were walking. About to say, ‘Because the road’s clogged up for miles’, Paul suggested a coach might have broken down just out of sight.
‘How many kids that age have cars anyway?’ he ended brightly. He paused a moment to look down at the park.

An extraordinary sight from above: two hundred yards beyond the peaceful geometry of the gardens, a scene of twentieth century chaos struggling towards order. The large square stage and overshadowing rig, tricked out with bat-like spots, already in position; behind it the backstage area, fenced off like a US cavalry fort, with its press tent, and large marquee ‘Performers Only – Private’. Also inside the
stockade
the more successful support groups’ caravans, and a whole tribe of hangers-on, roadies, gophers, groupies, wives, children, workmen, milling around like leaderless ants. Outside the sacred grove, the huge catering tents, the square boxes of the lavatories, and the temporary huts the
contractors
’ men had lived in for the past two days. As he watched, one of the spindly light towers teetered into an upright position not far from an ancient elm of similar height. Lorries and vans were constantly coming and going,
off-loading
equipment brought in through the home farm. A generator sputtered into noisy life, emitting clouds of
monoxide
.

Eleanor, he noticed was looking down at the house: the quiet courts, roofs dominated by stone beasts and finials, the black and red house flag stirring on its staff above the hall. Her eyes drifted back to the densely sprinkled dots on the Frimpton road. As the generator stopped abruptly, they could hear bleating car horns, and the garbled clamour of distant voices.

She leaned against the battlements. ‘Do you think you made it more popular by making such a fuss about limiting the tickets?’

‘You think that’s why I did it?’ he gasped.

She gazed at him opaquely. ‘I gave up trying to guess things like that months ago.’ Her fatalism drained him of anger. He could say,
Look
down
there;
Roy
was
nothing
till
he
met
me;
look,
look
… But he didn’t. Two tiny figures were clinging to the wrought-ironwork of the gates, inching
upwards
.

‘Before anyone gets hurt, don’t you think you should …’ She turned. Paul had already gone.

The right decision after all, Paul thought, to have let them in an hour before time. Performances not due to start till three, but before that lunch, and wandering about the park, chatting, sharing food, sitting in the grass. Without
turn-styles
, it’d been hard to deal with ticket selling and checking those already bought, but security had come out on top in spite of minor scuffles and a dozen or so getting in free. Ten groups were due to play as many alternating sets as required till Roy’s appearance as dusk fell. Better then, because the wait would build up tension and the lights focus all attention on the stage, blotting out the darkening park. Just ‘Rory’, a sun-bright figure in black and gold satin, prancing into the light. While against the sky, Delvaux would begin to glow.