Walter put the telephone down in the hall of Culoheen House, relit his pipe and walked back to the living room, which over the last few days whenever he had found himself superfluous to needs he had set about making a little more shipshape.
On a fine winter’s day he had driven around the Upper Lake and along the east side of Lough Leane and down into Killarney to collect what he needed for repairs, to augment the store cupboard and to place an order for what he had worked out in detail would be required to feed, drink and entertain the house party at Culoheen, now that both Judy and Hubert had leaped at the idea of having an Irish Christmas.
So far he had concentrated most of his efforts on trying to reglaze the windows. There was little he could do about the incipient damp, other than sweeping as many of the chimneys that should be in use with a set of brushes he had found in one of the outhouses and lighting as many fires in as many of the rooms that were to be occupied as was possible. In front of roaring wood fires he aired mattresses, cushions, chairs and blankets, and on yet another trip into town he purchased fresh linen and a dozen new pillows for the beds.
On exploring the attics he found several sets of once rather fine curtains wrapped up in brown paper and placed in sea trunks. They were filthy and full of dust, as well as moth-eaten in places, but they were good curtains, properly lined and interlined so that once they were brushed, aired and cleaned they would not only help to keep out the winds that whistled through the living room and the main bedrooms in rough weather, but also help add warmth to the eye as well as the body. Jean, Gabriel and Kim, all delighted with Walter’s transformations and discoveries, couldn’t wait to lend a hand with whacking the dirt out of them with old-fashioned beaters before hanging them at the windows of the rooms that required them. Finally, exhausted and half choked with dust, they downed tools and sat in the kitchen, quenching their thirst with several bottles of Guinness Extra Stout that Walter had thoughtfully provided.
‘This is great gas,’ Kim announced. ‘I votes we install my da as resident housekeeper.’
‘Here, here,’ Gabriel agreed, raising his black bottle of beer.
‘Absolument,’ Jean echoed. ‘Although I rarzer ’as my eyes on ’im as my assistant.’
‘Here,’ Walter said to Kim when they were alone, the other two men having taken themselves off to enjoy a shave and a good hot bath now Walter had conquered the water-heating system. He handed her a small half-folded piece of paper. ‘It’s not a Christmas present in advance. It’s just simply a present.’
Kim, who was busy letting down her long dark hair from the constriction of its bands, prior to washing it when it was her turn for a bath, took the piece of paper, with a look of curiosity at her father.
‘Ta,’ she said. ‘What is it?’
‘I told you, Kim. A present.’
‘Ta again.’ Kim laughed, then stopped as she unfolded the piece of paper. ‘Jeez. Jeez, Da – five hundred quid ?’
‘I don’t see why old Lordy should be your only benefactor,’ Walter replied. ‘I think you’re doing wonders here – all of you.’
‘Jeez, Da.’ Kim shook her head. ‘You are a right whiz and that’s for certain.’
The Bros played their hit single ‘The Tide’s Comin’ In’, Brewster’s fine, sweet, high tenor voice cruising the melody line over the forward sweeping beat of Lonnie’s gentle drumming and the surging beat of Lee’s and Tam’s guitars. The kids on the floor were doing their half best to stifle their squeals and sighs as the number progressed, and even Jenny standing high above the band found herself held by the slowly building and insistent rhythm and the atmosphere of land, sea and sky the song was creating. Most of all she found herself watching the neat, elegant figure of the bass guitarist, standing swaying to the beat as he laid down his line, along with Lonnie to the left of him driving the band along its musical road, insisting on the beat, changing the harmonic lines and increasing the pulse and thrust just at the right moments. At one moment he looked up and it seemed to Jenny he was looking straight up at her, particularly since he suddenly smiled, but then as he resumed looking down and back at his left hand she realised that it simply could not be possible for him to have seen anyone, let alone her, through the massive battery of blinding lights that hung between them.
Yet he had actually looked up right at her and smiled.
She carried this picture away with her in her mind’s eye as she made her way back down the gallery steps at the end of the recording while the studio slowly cleared. The Bros had long since vanished, somehow smuggled away somewhere through the screaming fans, without any doubt the hit of the night and as far as Jenny was concerned deservedly so. Like many people she was only too well aware that there were far too many pop groups about who were nothing more than cheats, bands of pretty and sometimes not so pretty lads collected together by unscrupulous managers who saw themselves getting rich quickly on the backs of bands who could barely mime to backing tracks laid down by a totally different set of musicians. So when a real group hit the scene, a band that could not only play and sing but also compose, the discovery of their sound, their style, could often be one of the moments in a musical life to treasure – and to Jenny’s catholic ear, which took in and enjoyed all sorts of music, this was one of those moments.
Finding her way back through the green room, she was making her way down the narrow corridor that led to Max’s dressing room as instructed when another dressing room door opened and she found herself once more face to face with Tam.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
‘What a surprise,’ Tam said, recovering his composure. ‘Hi.’
‘Hello,’ Jenny said, looking suddenly down at the ground, all her insecurity returning with a rush.
‘You look great.’
‘Thanks,’ Jenny muttered, still staring at her shoes.
‘What are you doing at the Beeb? You here to see Max?’
‘No.’ Jenny looked up briefly then down again. ‘No – no, I’m not here to see Max.’
‘To play the piano or something? I mean – I don’t know – it’s just such a surprise.’
‘She’s here to see you,’ a voice from behind Jenny announced. ‘Or rather more precisely to see The Bros.’
Jenny turned quickly in relief. ‘Max. How did it go?’
‘Here to see – to see the band?’ she heard Tam wondering, while Max smiled over her head. ‘That’s great. I mean fantastic. I mean that’s great. Really. So what did you think?’
‘She thought you were rubbish, Tam,’ Max said, straight-faced. ‘Absolute garbage. It’s just not her kind of thing.’
‘Oh.’ Tam’s face fell, because Max, being an actor, was good at teasing.
‘I didn’t at all,’ Jenny said quickly, glancing at Tam to reassure him. ‘That’s not at all what I thought.’
‘OK. OK – so what did you think? Please tell me, Jenny. I’d really like to know.’
Jenny paused.
‘I thought you were terrific. Amazing, in fact,’ she said finally.
‘Really?’ Tam was looking at her uncertainly, while at the same time thinking that he really shouldn’t be minding so much. ‘Did you really?’ he asked again, sounding lame, even to himself, and quickly taking a drink of water from a nearby carafe.
‘Yes. Yes, really.’
‘Oh. Good. Good.’
He turned away, wiping his palms down the sides of his trousers like a schoolboy. It was ridiculous but he had a sense of déjà vu, and at the same time one of unreality.
‘I actually thought “wow, wow, wow”. All the way through,’ Jenny went on proudly.
‘Wow is about right,’ Max agreed. ‘You are part of one pretty groovy band, man.’
‘It isn’t groovy, Max,’ Jenny sighed. ‘It isn’t anything like that. It’s a very good band – a terrific band. Musically – presentation – everything.’
‘That really means a lot, especially coming from you.’
‘It shouldn’t – I
’m just like anyone else. I just know what I like.’
‘And you liked The Bros.’
‘Yes, and I was wonderful too, thank you.’ Max sighed over-loudly. ‘Absolutely brilliant in fact, darlings.’
‘As a matter of fact you were pretty good, Max,’ a tall man in a beard put in, as he ambled by. ‘Coming up to the bar?’
‘Try and stop me.’ Max nodded at the departing figure. ‘Mein Herr Direktor. Better go and keep him sweet. You two coming?’
‘I don’t think so, Max,’ Tam said carefully, not wanting to point out that the difference in their status now might lead to a few embarrassing scenes. ‘The band are going back to the hotel. Think I’d better stick with them.’
‘Jenny?’ Max turned to his half-sister. ‘You want to come and wet the whistle?’
‘I don’t think so, Max. You know me and crowds.’
‘OK. You’re a big girl now. They’ll get you a taxi at Reception – if there isn’t one waiting out front. Be good.’
With a cheery wave Max disappeared, leaving Tam and Jenny standing alone in the corridor. Their solitude wasn’t long-lived, however, because suddenly a handful of young girl fans appeared screaming and waving autograph books, having somehow slipped through security, to judge by the expressions of the men in hot pursuit.
‘Here,’ Tam said, quickly opening his dressing room door to Jenny. ‘Till they’ve got rid of them.’
Once they were inside, Tam bolted the door and stood with his back to it, while Jenny stood a little sparely in the middle of the tiny space, clutching her handbag in front of her like a maiden aunt.
‘Sorry about that.’ Tam smiled, apologetic.
‘It’s not your fault – quite something, this amount of popularity, though, isn’t it? I mean quite difficult to handle, I would have thought.’
‘They can be quite scary. When we arrived at Heathrow, we all thought no one would have heard of us. But there were masses of them up on the roof, screaming and yelling and jumping about all over the place.’
‘A bit like the Beatles.’
‘I have the feeling that it doesn’t matter who we are – if they find they’re within screaming range of a pop group, out they go and scream.’
‘Still, must be a bit – well, disconcerting, I suppose.’
‘Frightening. Weird. Freaky. I suppose you wouldn’t like to come out to dinner?’ he added in a sudden rush. ‘I mean – you know – we could go and have a quiet dinner. If you’d like, that is. If you don’t, it doesn’t matter.’
‘Doesn’t it?’ It was Jenny’s turn to pull a straight face.
‘Yes of course it does!’ Tam retorted, all at once annoyed with himself. ‘I didn’t mean that. I just meant . . . I was trying to be polite.’
‘Don’t be.’
* * *
Once in the taxi Tam realised he hadn’t an idea as to where to take Jenny for dinner. The driver suggested a place that simply defined itself as Number 28.
Tam peered at its doors as they arrived.
‘It looks a bit smart. And I’m not exactly wearing smart.’
‘You look just fine, mate,’ the driver assured him. ‘And so does she.’
Jenny smiled and climbed out of the taxi.
‘It looks just fine,’ she told Tam. ‘But maybe a bit quiet.’ She put a hand up to her ear. ‘No sounds of anyone screaming.’
‘Mockery is the sincerest form of sarcasm.’
Tam paid off the cab, and they walked into the restaurant together feeling oddly, as Tam observed suddenly, as if they had been doing just that for as long as they could remember.
Afterwards it was difficult for them to remember just what it was that they’d ordered for dinner. Jenny remembered Tam had just begun to describe the Big U and R.J., complete with hilarious imitations, when the door of the restaurant burst open and four large men in wide-shouldered mackintoshes stepped over the threshold in swift succession. They didn’t run in shouting. One of them simply kicked the door open with his foot, shattering the glass and splintering the frame, and then all four simply strolled in and stood looking round the half-full room.
Seconds later the three members of the trio took themselves quietly off the bandstand and disappeared into the gentlemen’s washrooms, thoughtfully locking the door behind them, as crockery and glass started to fly in every direction.
Tam, who was seated just behind the intruders’ eyeline, nodded to Jenny who was watching him closely and pointed with one finger downwards, indicating that the safest place to be at that moment was on the floor and under the table, well out of sight. Jenny immediately slid herself down slowly off her chair and joined Tam in the darkened privacy underneath the heavily clothed table.
‘What is going on . . .’ Jenny began in a whisper, because even now, no matter how hard she tried, she still hated the sound of breaking glass. Tam put a finger to her lips, pressing his mouth to her ear.
‘I think someone might owe them some money,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t worry. They’re not concerned with us.’
‘They’ve a funny way of collecting it, haven’t they?’
Together they sat holding each other’s hands as tightly as they could while the incomers kept chanting the proprietor’s name.
‘Peter!’ they called, in exaggeratedly tired cockney tones. ‘Peter – Peter – Peter? Be a good boy and come on out, right? Come on out and see us right – and we’ll be off, OK? You really don’t want to have to redecorate the whole of this lovely joint, do you?’
Tam was dying to lift a corner of the cloth to see for himself exactly what was happening, but chose discretion instead, listening out for muttered instructions, voices murmuring assent and dissent, while he carefully placed a reassuring arm around Jenny.
‘You’re going to think that you’ve only got to see me and something terrible happens,’ Tam said, sighing, as the general cheering from around the restaurant denoted that the gang had obviously left, at which they both started to laugh so much that, inevitably, it was some time before they eventually emerged from their hiding place.
‘How are we doing, my old friend?’ Waldo wondered as he settled down by the bar with Richards to have a warming whisky Mac, the December weather having suddenly turned from mild to bitter, the heavy frost of morning still unthawed, icicles still visible on the shiny black capstans, and frozen puddles of sleet still catching the unwary as they picked their way across the quays. ‘How’s the Save the Three Tuns appeal bottle doing?’
He tapped the enormous glass bottle that stood on the bar, happy to see it full to the very brim with silver coins and folded notes.
‘We intend to count it tonight,’ Richards replied. ‘I doubt if one could get another sixpence in there.’
‘Must be a few hundred quid, wouldn’t you say?’
‘A few hundred will not be enough to stop this place going under, Waldo.’
‘Added to this it might.’
Waldo produced a small leather-bound account book from his coat pocket, searched for the right page, then bent the stiff-spined ledger open and laid it on the bar. Richards put on his reading glasses slowly and carefully, as if about to consult a menu rather than a column of figures that might decide the fate of his beloved public house one way or the other.
‘These are projections, are they, Waldo?’
‘These are pledges, old pal. Some of them have coughed up already.’
‘Who on earth is Wesley Atloda when he is at home? If indeed he has one?’
‘I’d say a guy as generous as Mr Atloda can afford to have a couple of homes, if not more,’ Waldo said a little hastily, turning over the page, only for Richards to turn it back again.
‘Why should a total stranger want to pledge that kind of wampum?’ Richards demanded. ‘I for one have never heard of anyone so oddly named in these parts.’
‘As it happens he’s a very private guy – and that’s just his nom de plume.’
‘Well, well,’ Richards sighed heavily. ‘I would ne
ver have guessed – Wesley.’
Waldo glared at him and drained his drink. ‘Let’s have another. My shout.’
‘No, I think it’s mine, Wesley,’ Richards said, poker-faced, as he got up to go round behind the bar.
‘Richards.’ Waldo sighed, reaching for his cigars. ‘It is my money, and I can do what I like with it.’
‘You can’t save the whole of Bexham, Wesley – and you know it. That is beyond even your superhuman powers.’ He gave Waldo the famous Richards eye and sat down back next to him, both their glasses recharged.
Waldo sighed again, and set his cigar to one side.
‘I can’t save Bexham single-handed, you’re right, old chum, but then thank God I don’t have to – the rest of these signatories are perfectly pukka, as you would say, and they have genuinely plighted their dibs.’
‘How near to salvation are we, Waldo? Or how far from it? Much as I appreciate your immense generosity – and believe me, I most certainly do.’
‘Hell, I know that, old man.’
‘The point is that even if we do save this place—’
‘This place is as good as saved.’
‘There’d be no point in this place going on being this place if the rest of Bexham is no longer going to go on being Bexham.’
Waldo nodded, picked up his unlit cigar and stared at the end of it.
‘I know what you mean, just as I know things have to change. I just don’t see why they should change this way, and this suddenly.’
‘Que sera, Waldo. Que sera.’
‘In that case we might just as well roll over now.’
‘It’s probably me, Waldo – I’m getting old. The fight’s gone out of me.’
‘This is the moment I wish I could show you a vision of the future, old pal. I wish I could take you forward to a time when you could see how and what this place is going to be – if someone doesn’t take steps to try and prevent it.’
The Moon At Midnight Page 34
