by T E Kinsey
‘Actually, yes,’ said Skins. He hadn’t given any thought as to how they were going to approach this interview. Were they going to casually chat? Would there be any profit in a direct approach? Should they construct an elaborate ruse? Or just come straight out and tell him what they were up to?
Dunn came to the rescue. ‘We arrived early for this evening’s lesson and we thought it would be nice to get to know a few of you blokes a bit better. Seems a shame to come here three times a week and not know anybody. Especially when we’re so involved in helping you with your dance contest.’
‘How very decent of you,’ said Danny. ‘Why don’t we retire to the bar – leave the chaps in here to their rest?’
‘We’ve just come from there,’ said Skins. ‘It’s a bit lively. The police are asking questions about the night Blanche died.’
‘Ah, yes, of course. Terrible business. How are you coping?’
‘Well enough,’ said Dunn.
‘One can only imagine. Come on, I know a place.’
He stood up and led them out. They followed him back to the portrait corridor and on to a closed door, the sign upon which proclaimed it to be the ‘Theodorus Room’. Danny opened it and ushered them inside.
It was a smallish committee room, with a table set for six attendees and with four armchairs arranged around a low table beside the unlit fire on the other side of the room. As elsewhere in the club, a marble bust on a plinth in the corner surveyed the proceedings.
‘This room’s almost never used,’ said Danny. ‘I often come in here when I want a bit of peace and quiet. Make yourselves comfortable. I was thinking of ordering a pot of tea just before you arrived. Would you care to join me? I can get you something stronger if you prefer.’
‘Tea would be nice,’ said Skins. ‘Ta very much.’
Danny pressed the electric bell push beside the fireplace and sat in one of the armchairs opposite the musicians.
‘It’s really rather splendid of you to come and try to mix with the hoi polloi, you know,’ said Danny. ‘We look on in wonderment as musicians array themselves on our stage for our entertainment. What’s the word you jazz types use? You’re “cool”, that’s it. Stylish, fashionable – everything we duffers aren’t. We’re quite in awe of you, we really are.’
‘I never thought of it like that,’ said Skins. ‘I thought members of clubs like this were all public-school confidence and “yah boo” to the rest of us.’
‘Not a bit of it, old bean. We know enough to know when we’re outclassed. We can get a table at the best restaurants with nonchalant ease. A seat in parliament? It’s ours by divine right, don’tcha know? But we know talent and skill when we see it and it makes us feel just a little uneasy and small. We’re well aware that we’re an anachronism in these modern times.’
‘Are you?’ said Skins. He gave Dunn a wink. ‘We might not get on, then.’
‘How so?’ asked Danny, clearly slightly disappointed.
‘I’m arachnophobic.’
‘That’s a fear of spiders, you chimp,’ said Dunn, cottoning on immediately. ‘He said he was an anachronism.’
‘What’s that, then?’ said Skins.
‘Buggered if I know. It’s a fear of open spaces or something, isn’t it?’
‘I thought that was angoraphobia.’
‘No, that’s a fear of woolly jumpers. You’re probably thinking of aggrophobia.’
‘No, mate,’ said Skins. ‘I know that one, that’s a fear of punch-ups.’
‘Ankaraphobia?’
‘Fear of Turkey.’
‘Could be agriphobia?’
‘No, that’s a fear of farm animals. You’re probably thinking of agreephobia, anyway.’
‘That’s a fear of concordance. Aguephobia?’
‘Medieval diseases.’
‘Agraphobia?’
Skins grinned. ‘That, my old mate, is an unnatural fear of the Taj Mahal.’
Danny was chuckling merrily. ‘You can see why we find you intimidating.’
‘Just a little bit we’ve been working on for our comedy act,’ said Skins.
‘You do comedy as well?’
‘We’re thinking about it. We sometimes do a bit in our music shows, but we’ve not got enough for a decent act yet. It’s always handy to have another string to the old bow, though. We did a couple of comedy turns in the army, didn’t we? Usually went down all right.’
Dunn nodded. ‘Although, to be honest, the average Tommy was so desperate for a laugh we could have done anything and they’d still have lapped it up.’
‘True, true,’ said Skins. ‘You must have had a different experience in the officers’ mess, though, eh? We played a few dances for the officers and they were much more staid affairs. At first, at least. Get a few brandies in ’em and all soldiers are the same in the end, eh?’
Danny didn’t respond. He was still smiling, but the joy had left him and the smile no longer seemed quite so genuine.
There was a knock at the door and a club servant came in.
‘You rang, sir?’
‘Ah, yes, Cuthbert. Thank you. Pot of tea for three, please.’
‘Very good, sir.’
The servant withdrew.
‘You know all the servants’ names as well?’ said Skins. ‘You’re not at all what we expected.’
The genuine smile returned. ‘Ah, no, not really. Well, yes. In a way. I do know all the servants’ names, because by club tradition all the servants are called Cuthbert. I’ve no idea when it started, but we just sort of go along with it. As it happens, I know that chap’s real name is William, but he’d be mortified if I were ever to address him thus.’
‘Different world,’ said Skins, shaking his head. ‘Different world.’
‘Isn’t it just? But what of you two? How did you come to be the coolest jazz musicians in town?’
‘Right place at the right time, mostly,’ said Dunn. ‘We were playing ragtime before the war – got a bit of a reputation – but we met some doughboys near the end of the war and they changed everything. The blokes from the Harlem Hellfighters introduced us to proper jazz. It was a revelation, you might say. They had some blinding players – musical geniuses, some of them – and they taught us the ropes. Then it was just a case of finding the right people to help us out.’
‘How wonderful. But how do you . . . you know . . . how do you get well known enough to secure engagements?’
‘No idea,’ said Dunn. ‘How did we do that?’
‘It’s the old thing, isn’t it,’ said Skins. ‘It ain’t what you know, it’s who you know. Like Barty says, we had a bit of a reputation before the war. So when the new clubs started opening up, they were pleased to see some familiar faces, especially familiar faces playing the most fashionable new music.’
‘It all sounds a good deal more glamorous than my line of work, I must say.’
‘And what’s that?’ said Skins.
‘Notionally I run an art gallery. But as you can see from my almost-permanent presence here at the club, it rather runs itself. I leave day-to-day matters to my assistant, and he calls me in when he needs to impress someone.’
‘You have a reputation of your own, then?’ said Dunn.
‘A modest one. I specialize in the avant-garde, and I seem to have become one of London’s foremost experts on Dadaism, for my sins.’ He grinned bashfully.
‘We met some of them once, Bart, remember?’ said Skins.
‘I’m not likely to forget. That definitely counts as one of the weirder dates we’ve played. Can’t honestly say I understood what they were trying to do, but they seemed like a nice bunch.’
‘Dada was really quite exciting,’ said Danny. ‘That idea of making sense of things by not making sense. I became quite the enthusiast.’
‘Do you . . . what is it they do? Paint? Draw? Sculpt?’ said Skins.
‘I dabble, but I never quite had the talent. Or the imagination. But it’s why I’m drawn to jazz, I think. Some of the
things you do – rejecting the old rules, playing with form, all that sort of thing – they might be said to be a little Dadaist.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Dunn. ‘People certainly complain that we make an unmusical racket. But most of them don’t really understand music, if you ask me. We might not sound like their favourite music-hall song, but deep down we play by the same rules of harmony. We’re just a bit more . . . inventive sometimes. Like your Dada lot still stuck to the rules of shape and colour.’
‘Hmm,’ said Danny. ‘Perhaps. Are you familiar with Cubism, at all? That takes—’
They never found out any more about Cubism. There was a loud knock at the door and a Cuthbert entered smartly.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt, sirs,’ he said, ‘but is one of you gentlemen Mr Ivor Maloney?’
‘I am,’ said Skins. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘There’s a . . . there’s a lady’ – he could hardly bring himself to say the word – ‘at the porter’s desk demanding entry. She says she’s the band’s . . . manager.’ Again, the man’s horror at the very idea seemed to make the words almost too difficult to say.
‘Ah, that’ll be my wife,’ said Skins. ‘Eleanora Maloney.’
‘So she claimed, sir,’ said Cuthbert. ‘But she’s . . . well, she’s American.’
‘Yes, that’s our Ellie. Could you show her in, please?’
‘I’m afraid club rules do not permit it, sir.’
‘I don’t imagine she’s best pleased to hear that,’ said Skins with a grin.
‘No, sir. She’s making rather a scene. Would you . . . Could you . . . ?’
‘I’ll see to it, Cuthbert,’ said Danny. ‘Come on, chaps. Let’s go and meet this wife of yours.’
They found Ellie glowering in the entrance hall. She caught sight of Skins and Dunn and, having checked that no one else was looking, gave them a grin and a wink before rearranging her face into an angry scowl.
‘Now then, Cuthbert old chap, what seems to be the problem?’ said Danny as he approached the porter’s desk.
‘It’s this . . . lady, Mr Daniels. She’s making a scene.’
‘I am doing no such thing,’ said Ellie. ‘I am merely trying to do my job.’
‘There you are, then, Cuthbert,’ said Danny. ‘The lady’s just trying to do her job. Surely there’s no need for all this fuss.’
‘But she claims that she’s the band’s manager, sir.’
‘And you dispute this claim?’
‘Beg pardon, sir?’
‘Do you doubt that Mrs Maloney is the manager of the Dizzy Heights?’
‘Well, sir, not if you and the . . . musicians say she is. But she’s . . .’
‘She’s what, Cuthbert? American? I can see how that might flummox you.’
‘No, sir, not American. She’s . . . It’s just that they’re not allowed in the club. Strict rules.’
‘Rule seventeen, paragraph two, I believe, states that women shall be admitted to club premises for social events approved by the committee, and “when their presence has been previously agreed by the committee, provided that they be vouched for by a full member of the club”. I vouch for Mrs Maloney.’
‘But her presence hasn’t been agreed by the committee,’ said the porter with a note of triumph.
‘Has not the committee approved the presence of all members of the jazz band known professionally as the Dizzy Heights?’ said Danny. ‘I believe I read that in the committee minutes. In which case Mrs Maloney, as a vital member of the band’s organization, is a welcome guest. I’ll sign her in, shall I?’
The porter reluctantly pushed the visitors’ book across the counter and handed Danny a pen.
‘Thank you, Cuthbert,’ he said once he had entered the relevant details and signed his name with an extravagant flourish. ‘You’re doing a wonderful job.’
The porter scowled and took back his pen.
‘Do come in, Mrs Maloney,’ said Danny. ‘I’m sure you’d like to check that the band’s equipment has been set up properly for this evening’s lesson.’
Ellie took his arm as he set off in the direction of the ballroom, with Skins and Dunn trailing behind.
Chapter Eight
Setting up in the ballroom at the Aristippus Club had become routine. It was still far too early for the rest of the band to have arrived, but Skins and Dunn had two willing helpers in Danny and Ellie and were able to get everything in place without even the slightest amount of fuss.
While ‘the best rhythm section in London’ were fastidiously tweaking their instruments, Ellie sat down with Danny.
‘It’s quite a place, this,’ she said. ‘Have you been a member long?’
‘Not too long, no. Nominated by an old pal of my father’s as part of some sort of recruitment drive. Trying to get some new blood in the place.’
‘It must be lovely to have somewhere to go where you know you’ll find some friendly faces. I have plenty of buddies but I haven’t really had that feeling of “belonging” since I was a nurse in the war. I kinda miss it.’
‘Fanny or Very Adorable Darling?’
‘I was a Fanny – shut up, Ivor – they got me before I’d heard of the Voluntary Aid Detachment. Where did you serve?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t like to talk about the war. Prefer to put it all behind me.’
‘I can understand that,’ said Ellie. ‘There’s a lot more to be gained from looking forward than looking back. Although . . . well, I don’t suppose you know anything about’ – she looked around, as though checking that they couldn’t be overheard – ‘the Treasure of the Mayfair Murderer?’
Danny laughed. ‘You’ve heard about that, too, eh? Before we got embroiled in this dance contest brouhaha it was all the Alphabet Gang could talk about some days. Secret vaults, club regalia. I swear they were all gaga.’
‘You don’t believe in it, then?’
‘Not a word,’ he said. ‘It’s exactly the sort of old nonsense some joker at a club like this would have made up a hundred years ago for a lark.’ He laughed again. ‘Secret treasure.’ He shook his head.
‘Ah, well,’ said Ellie. ‘That’s my daydreams of wealth and glory shot down. How about the future, then? Are you looking forward to your dance contest?’
Danny smiled ruefully. ‘Hardly. I honestly don’t understand why we’re putting ourselves through it. Someone at the Wags Club said something to one of our chaps about our dancing prowess one night. There followed a few minutes of ragging and manly chest-thumping, culminating in the throwing down of the gauntlet and the acceptance of this ludicrous challenge. None of us can dance. I don’t think any of their lot can either, though, to be honest. Still, honour must be satisfied and all that. At least it didn’t come to blows.’
It was Ellie’s turn to laugh. ‘When exactly is it? Ivor did say, but I can never remember.’
‘A week on Friday at our regular Friday dance. The twelfth of June.’
‘Just four more lessons to go after this one, then.’
‘Don’t remind me. It’s a good thing we managed to secure the services of your husband and his pals for the extra lessons or it would just have been two. We’re going to look like such fools.’
‘There are worse things than looking like fools.’
‘Many, many worse things. But there’s something about dancing. I don’t know. It’s all a bit . . . personal. Do you know what I mean? Like singing in public.’
Ellie laughed again. ‘I’m sure you’ll all have a wonderful time.’
‘Who’ll have a wonderful time doing what?’ Puddle had arrived with Benny. ‘Hello, Ellie darling.’
‘They’ll have a wonderful time at their dance contest.’
‘We’ll all have a wonderful time, don’t you worry.’
Danny stood. ‘I’d better leave you to your preparations. I also feel the need for a good glug of scotch to calm the old nerves before this evening’s ordeal. I’ll see you all soon.’
‘OK,’ said Ellie. ‘An
d thank you for looking after me.’
He waved over his shoulder as he left the room.
‘Looking after you?’ said Puddle.
‘There was a bit of a kerfuffle with the doorman. He didn’t want to let me in.’
‘But you’re our manager,’ said Benny with a wink.
The band had been briefed about Ellie pretending to be their manager for the duration of the investigation.
‘Such things count for little in the eyes of a Cuthbert,’ said Ellie.
They looked blankly at her.
‘The servants here are all called Cuthbert,’ she said with a grin. ‘I’d have thought you’d all know that by now. Score one for the Yank.’
‘We knew,’ said Skins.
‘Oh,’ said Ellie, somewhat deflated.
‘But we only learned it this afternoon. Danny told us.’
‘But why are they all called Cuthbert?’ said Puddle.
‘Tradition,’ said Dunn. ‘Got to respect the traditions.’
‘They’re all completely barmy if you ask me,’ said Puddle. ‘But never mind that. How’s the snooping coming along?’
Ellie shrugged. ‘I’ve only really spoken to Danny so far, and he was no more forthcoming than when I spoke to him at the dance the other week. There’s definitely something odd about him, though. The boys might have had more luck with the others.’
‘No,’ said Skins. ‘He’s the only one we’ve spoken to as well. Nice bloke. Runs an art gallery.’
‘There was something about the way . . . Oh, never mind, I’ll tell you later.’
Charlie and Millie had come into the ballroom, closely followed by a few Alphabets and the remaining Dizzies. Discussion of Danny’s oddness would have to wait.
The lesson began with something similar to the usual uncoordinated chaos, but things were slowly improving. They were still some way from perfecting the old steps, but they were getting closer, and the new steps Millie was trying to teach them were coming more easily. For three of them, at least. Alfie and Ernie were still struggling.
Ellie watched from her seat on the stage with an uncomfortable mix of amusement, bafflement and pity. She didn’t count herself one of Nature’s most gifted dancers, but she was confident enough on a dance floor. More than that, she enjoyed it. It brought her genuine pleasure, and the only thing about Skins that had ever truly disappointed her was that he had absolutely no interest in dancing. He would get up and join in when pressed, but it was clear that he wasn’t really enjoying himself so she never made him stay away from his seat for too long.
