Edge of Eternity (49 page)

“Good luck!”

“I suppose you'll tell Mum and Dad where I've gone.”

“Only if you want me to.”

“I don't care.” Dave went to the door, then hesitated. “He's upset?”

“Yes.”

Dave shrugged and left.

He got out of the house without being seen.

He was looking forward to the audition. He played and sang a lot with his sister, but he had never sat in with a real group that had a drummer. He hoped he was good enough—though rhythm guitar was not difficult.

On the Tube his thoughts kept wandering back to his father. He was a bit shocked to learn that he could upset Dad. Fathers were supposed to be invulnerable—but that attitude was childish, he now saw. Irritatingly, he might have to change his outlook. He could no longer be merely indignant and resentful. He was not the only sufferer. Dad had hurt him, but he had hurt Dad as well, and they were both responsible. Feeling responsible was not as comfortable as feeling outraged.

He found the Aldgate Workingmen's Club and carried his guitar and amplifier inside. It was a drab place, with bright neon strips throwing a harsh light on Formica tables and tubular chairs lined up in rows that made him think of a factory canteen: hardly the place for rock and roll.

The Guardsmen were onstage, tuning up. As well as Lenny on piano there was Lew on drums, Buzz on bass, and Geoffrey on lead guitar. Geoffrey had a microphone in front of him, so presumably he also did some singing. All three were older than Dave, in their early twenties, and he feared they might be much better musicians than he was. Suddenly, playing rhythm did not seem so easy.

He tuned his guitar to the piano and plugged into his amplifier. Lenny said: “Do you know ‘Mess of Blues'?”

Dave did, and he felt relieved. It was a rock-steady number in the key of C, led by a rolling piano part, easy to accompany on the guitar. He strummed along with it effortlessly, and found a special kick in playing with others that he had never experienced on his own.

Lenny sang well, Dave thought. Buzz and Lew made a solid rhythm section, very steady. Geoff had some fancy licks on lead guitar. The group was competent, if a bit unimaginative.

At the end of the song, Lenny said: “The chords round out the sound of the group nicely, but can you play more rhythmically?”

Dave was surprised to be criticized. He thought he had done well. “Okay,” he said.

The next number was “Shake, Rattle and Roll,” a Jerry Lee Lewis hit that was also piano-led. Geoffrey sang in unison with Lenny on the chorus. Dave played choppy chords on the offbeat, and Lenny seemed to like that better.

Lenny announced “Johnny B. Goode,” and without being asked Dave enthusiastically played the Chuck Berry introduction. When he got to the fifth bar he expected the group to join in, as on the record, but the Guardsmen remained silent. Dave stopped, and Lenny said: “I usually play the intro on the piano.”

“Sorry,” Dave said, and Lenny restarted the number.

Dave felt dispirited. He was not doing well.

The next number was “Wake Up, Little Susie.” To Dave's surprise, Geoffrey did not sing the Everly Brothers harmony. After the first verse, Dave moved to Geoffrey's microphone and began to sing with Lenny. A minute later, two young waitresses who were putting ashtrays out on the tables stopped their work to listen. At the end of the song they clapped. Dave grinned with pleasure. It was the first time he had been applauded by anyone outside his family.

One of the girls said to Dave: “What's your group called?”

Dave pointed at Lenny. “It's his group, and they're called the Guardsmen.”

“Oh.” She seemed mildly disappointed.

Lenny's last choice was “Take Good Care of My Baby,” and again Dave sang the harmony. The waitresses danced along the aisles between the rows of tables.

Afterward, Lenny got up from the piano. “Well, you're not much of a guitarist,” he said to Dave. “But you sing nicely, and those girls really went for it.”

“So am I in, or out?”

“Can you play tonight?”

“Tonight!” Dave was pleased, but he had not expected to start immediately. He was looking forward to seeing Linda Robertson later.

“You got something better to do?” Lenny looked a bit offended that Dave had not accepted instantly.

“Well, I was going to see a girl, but she'll just have to wait. What time will we be through?”

“This is a workingmen's club. They don't stay up late. We come offstage at half past ten.”

Dave calculated that he could be at the Jump Club by eleven. “That's okay,” he said.

“Good,” said Lenny. “Welcome to the group.”

•   •   •

Jasper Murray still could not afford to go to America. At St. Julian's College, London, there was a group called the North America Club that chartered flights and sold cheap tickets. Late one afternoon he went to their little office in the student union and inquired about prices. He learned that he could go to New York for ninety pounds. It was too much, and he left disconsolate.

He spotted Sam Cakebread in the coffee bar. For several days he had been looking for a chance to speak to Sam outside the office of the student newspaper,
St. Julian's News.
Sam was the paper's editor, Jasper its news editor.

With Sam was his younger sister, Valerie, also a student at St. Julian's, wearing a tweed cap and a minidress. She wrote articles about fashion for the paper. She was attractive: in other circumstances Jasper would have flirted with her, but today he had other matters on his mind. He would have preferred to talk to Sam on his own, but he decided that Valerie's presence was no real problem.

He carried his coffee to Sam's table. “I want your advice,” he said. He wanted information, not advice, but people were sometimes reluctant to share information, whereas they were always flattered to be asked for advice.

Sam was wearing a herringbone jacket with a tie and smoking a pipe: perhaps he wanted to look older. “Take a seat,” he said, folding the paper he had been reading.

Jasper sat down. His relationship with Sam was awkward. They had been rivals for the post of editor, and Sam had won. Jasper had concealed his resentment, and Sam had made him news editor. They had become colleagues, but not friends. “I want to be next year's editor,” Jasper said. He hoped that Sam would help him, either because he was the right man for the job—which he was—or out of guilt.

“That's up to Lord Jane,” said Sam evasively. Jane was provost of the college.

“Lord Jane will ask your opinion.”

“There's a whole appointment committee.”

“But you and the provost are the members who count.”

Sam did not argue with that. “So you want my advice.”

“Who else is in the running?”

“Toby, obviously.”

“Really?” Toby Jenkins was the features editor, a plodder who had commissioned a dull series of worthy articles about the work of university officials such as the registrar and the treasurer.

“He will apply.”

Sam himself had got the job partly because of the distinguished journalists among his relations. Lord Jane was impressed by such connections. This irritated Jasper, but he did not mention it.

Jasper said: “Toby's stuff is pedestrian.”

“He's an accurate reporter, if unimaginative.”

Jasper recognized this remark as a dig at himself. He was the opposite of Toby. He prized sensation over accuracy. In his reports a scuffle always became a fight, a plan was a conspiracy, and a slip of the tongue was never less than a blatant lie. He knew that people read newspapers for excitement, not information.

Cakebread added: “And he did write that piece about rats in the refectory.”

“So he did.” Jasper had forgotten. The article had caused uproar. It had been luck, really: Toby's father worked for the local council and knew about the efforts of the pest control department to eradicate vermin in the eighteenth-century cellars of St. Julian's College. Nevertheless the article had secured the job of features editor for Toby, who had written nothing half as good since. “So I need a scoop,” Jasper said thoughtfully.

“Perhaps.”

“You mean, like, revealing that the provost is skimming off university funds to pay his gambling debts.”

“I doubt that Lord Jane gambles.” Sam did not have a great sense of humor.

Jasper thought about Lloyd Williams. Might he provide some kind of tip-off? Lloyd was frightfully discreet, unfortunately.

Then he thought of Evie. She had applied to attend the Irving School of Drama, which was part of St. Julian's College, so she was of interest to the student newspaper. She had just got her first acting job, in a film called
All Around Miranda.
And she was going out with Hank Remington, of the Kords. Perhaps . . .

Jasper stood up. “Thanks for your help, Sam. I really appreciate it.”

“Anytime,” said Sam.

Jasper caught the Tube home. The more he thought about interviewing Evie, the more excited he became.

Jasper knew the truth about Evie and Hank. They were not just dating, they were having a passionate affair. Her parents knew she went out with Hank two or three evenings a week, and came home at midnight on Saturdays. But Jasper and Dave also knew that most days after school Evie went to Hank's flat in Chelsea and had sex with him. Hank had already written a song about her, “Too Young to Smoke.”

But would she give Jasper an interview?

When he got home to the house in Great Peter Street, Evie was in the red-tiled kitchen, learning lines. Her hair was pinned up untidily, and she wore a faded old shirt, but she still looked fabulous. Jasper's relationship with her was warm. Throughout her girlish crush on him, he had always been kind, though never encouraging. His motive for being so careful was that he did not want a crisis that would cause a rift between him and her generously hospitable parents. Now he was even more glad he had kept her goodwill. “How's it going?” he said with a nod at her script.

She shrugged. “The part isn't difficult, but film will be a new challenge.”

“Maybe I should interview you.”

She looked troubled. “I'm supposed to do only the publicity arranged by the studio.”

Jasper felt a mild panic. What kind of journalist would he make if he failed to secure an interview with Evie even though he lived in her house? “It's only for the student paper,” he said.

“I suppose that doesn't really count.”

His hopes rose. “I'm sure not. And it might help you get accepted by the Irving drama school.”

She put down the script. “All right. What do you want to know?”

Jasper suppressed his feeling of triumph. Coolly he said: “How did you get the part in
All Around Miranda
?”

“I went to an audition.”

“Tell me about that.” Jasper took out a notebook and started writing.

He was careful not to mention her nude scene in
Hamlet.
He feared she would tell him not to mention it. Fortunately he did not need to question her about it, for he had seen it himself. Instead he asked her about the stars of the movie, and other famous people she had met, and gradually worked around to Hank Remington.

When Jasper mentioned Hank, Evie's eyes lit up with a characteristic intensity of feeling. “Hank is the most courageous and dedicated person I know,” she said. “I admire him so much.”

“But you don't just admire him.”

“I adore him.”

“And you are dating.”

“Yes, but I don't want to say too much about that.”

“Of course, no problem.” She had said “Yes,” and that was enough.

Dave came in from school and made instant coffee with boiling milk. “I thought you weren't supposed to do publicity,” he said to Evie.

Jasper thought: Shut your mouth, you overprivileged little shit.

Evie replied to Dave. “This is only for
St. Julian's News,
” she said.

Jasper wrote the article that evening.

As soon as he saw it typed out, he realized it could be more than just a piece for the student paper. Hank was a star, Evie was a minor actress, and Lloyd was a member of Parliament: this could be a big story, he thought with mounting excitement. If he could get something published in a national newspaper it would give his career prospects a major boost.

It could also get him in trouble with the Williams family.

He gave his article to Sam Cakebread the next day.

Then, with trepidation, he phoned the tabloid
Daily Echo.

He asked for the news editor. He did not get the news editor, but he was put through to a reporter called Barry Pugh. “I'm a student journalist, and I've got a story for you,” he said.

“Okay, go ahead,” said Pugh.

Jasper hesitated only a moment. He was betraying Evie and the entire Williams family, he knew; but he plunged on anyway. “It's
about the daughter of a member of Parliament who is sleeping with a pop star.”

“Good,” said Pugh. “Who are they?”

“Could we meet?”

“I suppose you want some money?”

“Yes, but that's not all.”

“What else?”

“I want my name on the article when it appears.”

“Let's get the story down first, then we'll see.”

Pugh was trying to employ the kind of blandishments Jasper had used on Evie. “No, thanks,” Jasper said firmly. “If you don't like the story, you don't have to print it, but if you do use it you must put my name on it.”

“All right,” said Pugh. “When can we meet?”

•   •   •

Two days later, at breakfast in Great Peter Street, Jasper read in the
Guardian
that Martin Luther King was planning a massive demonstration of civil disobedience in Washington in support of a civil rights bill. King was forecasting that there would be one hundred thousand people. “Boy, I'd love to see that,” said Jasper.