Nocturne

by Hurley, Graham

  Our third meeting, the most important, was scheduled for the Thursday of that last week Brendan was away. I was beginning to miss him a very great deal and I’d planned to take the rest of the afternoon off. He was crazy about early jazz classics - artists like Charlie Parker and Miles Davis - and there was a brilliant second-hand record store off the Essex Road. With luck, and a bit of time, I might just find Brendan the vinyl of his dreams.

  When I got to Sandra’s office I found the door open. She and Brendan shared a secretary-cum-PA called Andi. Andi was sitting behind Sandra’s desk, looking bemused.

  ‘She’s gone,’ she said blankly. ‘Just went.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Wouldn’t say.’

  She showed me Sandra’s scribbled note. Something had come up. She’d had to drop everything and run. With luck, she should be back by Monday. If not, she’d try and phone.

  I met Andi’s eyes over the note. Sandra was Doubleact’s equivalent of gravity. She held us together. She kept our feet on the ground. Buggering off like that - no apologies, no explanation - just wasn’t her style.

  ‘What do you think?’ I said. ‘Sex or shopping?’

  Andi grinned back. My role in Sandra’s private life had been an open secret since the morning I’d turned up in Brendan’s Mercedes.

  ‘You tell me.’ She put her feet on the desk. ‘You’re the expert.’

  With Sandra out of town, my afternoon off started rather earlier than I’d expected. I spent an hour in the record store, going through box after box of ancient LPs, and I was about to settle on a Charlie Parker classic called Inglewood Jam when another album, Montparnasse, caught my eye. Unlike the rest of the stuff in the box, it was in near-mint condition. Across the top, beneath the title, ran a shout-line announcing ‘A Major New Talent’, while below, occupying most of the cover, was a grainy black and white photo of the soloist featured on the album. He occupied a stool on some kind of dais. His head was cocked to one side and the single spotlight threw the shadow of the flute across his face. He was playing with great concentration, his eyes half-closed. I looked at the fingers, the long body, the stoop of the shoulders, and then at the face again, making sure. There was no doubt about it, absolutely none. I was looking at a younger Gilbert.

  I turned the album over. It had been published in 1968. The artist’s name was Gilles Phillippe. I caught myself smiling at this simple sleight of hand, Gilbert’s thin disguise. At the counter, I paid for both records, taking a taxi back to Brendan’s flat. In the taxi, I read the sleeve notes. They struck me as pure invention, the equivalent of the nonsense they put beside the centrefold in men’s magazines. Gilles Phillippe was billed as a bohemian ex-student from the Montparnasse of the album’s title. In his spare time, he wrote poetry. He had plans to become an actor. With luck, he said, he might one day make it into feature films, and work under some of his favourite nouvelle vague directors.

  I put the record on Brendan’s turntable. The music was beautiful, more recognisably Gilbert than even his face on the cover, and I lay full-length on the sofa, remembering the way it had been those first weeks at Napier Road, hearing this stuff filtering down from the flat above. Most of it was lyrical, haunting, as hopelessly exposed as the man himself, and by the time I got to the end of Side One I was beginning to question the way I’d felt about him these last few months.

  He was odd, without a doubt. He did some very strange things indeed. But there was a line in there somewhere connecting all these dots and the deeper I got into the music, the more convinced I became that I’d not only misjudged him but that - in some undefined way - I’d probably let him down. The last conversation we’d had, just days ago on the doorstep, came flooding back. He hadn’t after all killed Pinot. He’d never harm a cat. On the contrary, he’d carried the poor animal back, and stored it as best he could, and waited for my return. I was never there any more. I left the place empty, cold, untended. The cats had to fend for themselves and one of them hadn’t made it. Abandoning Napier Road like that was a betrayal. That’s what he’d really been saying.

  Next day, at the office, I made time to phone the publishing company listed on the back of the album. Inevitably, the company no longer existed but half a dozen more calls took me to a clerk in the Performing Rights Society for whom Palisade Music seemed to ring a bell. He sounded elderly and slightly startled by anyone wanting to waste their time on such an inquiry.

  ‘It was a vanity operation,’ he said. ‘There were dozens of them around at the time.’

  He told me the way the deal had worked. Ambitious musicians with little hope of a recording contract could, for a hefty fee, pay to have their talents immortalised on vinyl. He interspersed the key words - talents, immortalised, vinyl - with a series of throaty chuckles, and the way he did it convinced me he’d had a hand in the action. When I suggested exactly this he denied it but the longer we talked the less guarded he became and by the end of the conversation he was being extremely frank.

  ‘Most of it was dreadful,’ he said. ‘Absolute bilge.’

  ‘Can you remember any names at all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Gilles Phillippe?’

  ‘Who?’

  I spelled the name. He said he’d never heard of him, just like no one had ever heard of the rest of them. We went back to Palisade. They’d been, he said, the most blatant scam of all. Laying down eight tracks - say forty minutes of recorded music - would cost well over a grand. At today’s prices, for Montparnasse, Gilbert would have wasted at least ten thousand quid.

  I scribbled the sum down. It sounded a great deal of money for a penniless young student from some draughty Left Bank atelier.

  ‘You mean Paris?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘It was in the sleeve notes.’

  My contact chuckled again. The sleeve notes, as I’d suspected, formed part of the deal. Your fee covered the packaging as well as the music. Ditto the so-called distribution. For more money than most people could ever afford, Palisade promised to make you a star.

  ‘And did it work ? Ever?’

  ‘You’re joking. Most of the stuff never saw the inside of a shop. The artist was entitled to thirty presentation LPs. Often, the company never pressed more than that. The profit was all front-end.’

  ‘So there was no distribution? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And the artists?’

  ‘Got their thirty LPs.’

  I thanked him and hung up, reviewing my scribbled notes. Poor Gilbert, I thought. In the shape of Montparnasse, they’d sold him an expensive fantasy. He’d paid his money, and played his music, and had his photograph taken. Weeks later, instead of fame, or recognition, or even the odd letter, he’d been left with a box of LPs and the grim frustrations of scouring the record stores for an album that would never be on sale. How many other bids had he made for the big time? How much more money could he afford to chuck away? No wonder he’d ended up in Napier Road. Decorating the front door with those huge white eyes.

  Brendan was due back the next day on the morning Qantas flight. I was literally on the point of leaving for the airport when the phone rang. It was Brendan.

  ‘I’m still in Sydney,’ he said. ‘There’s been a fuck-up.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘God knows, but I’m here for the weekend. I’ll fax the office on Monday. How’s tricks?’

  I told him I missed him. At length it dawned on me that he wanted to know about Home Run.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘Everything’s fine. Why?’

  ‘I’ve got some interest. Bunch of guys up in Queensland. They’re talking big money, major investment.’

  ‘I thought it was all covered?’

  ‘It is, but you know what they say. While the pot’s bubbling, keep the bastard fed
.’

  I’d returned the Mercedes key to the hook beneath the mirror. I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about. He sounded slightly manic, a voice I hadn’t heard for a month or two. The jazz LP I’d bought him as a coming-home present was lying beside the telephone. I’d spent nearly half an hour getting the bow on top just right.

  ‘When do you think then?’ I asked him.

  ‘Next week. Definitely.’

  There was a long silence. For one awful moment I thought we’d end up talking about the weather then, in a whisper, he told me he loved me.

  ‘Say it again,’ I caught sight of myself in the hall mirror. ‘Please.’

  There was a muffled cough at the other end. Then came an abrupt silence and I was still staring at the mirror when the operator came on. She was extremely businesslike. She sounded, if anything, slightly oriental.

  ‘Your call is finished,’ she announced. ‘Will you please hang up.’

  I went earlier than usual to Napier Road to feed the cat. I took Gilbert’s record with me, hiding it in a fold of the Guardian as I let myself in. As far as I could see the house was intact though when I stooped to retrieve the envelope with my name on it from the mat inside the door I found out why. The note came from Mark. He’d had a word with his boss and they’d both agreed that I should contact the landlord. He was the guy to put the squeeze on our friend upstairs. Once he’d quietened down, my flat could go back on the market. Until then, he thought it best to hold off. No more ambushed would-be buyers. No more awkward doorstep scenes.

  I let myself into my flat. Despite the heat wave that had settled on London, it felt as cold and damp as ever. I made a fuss of Noir and opened the tin of cat food I’d bought him. He watched from the kitchen door. He looked neglected, reproachful, and I picked him up again, holding him tight. I could hear Gilbert moving around upstairs and I took the cat through to the front room where I’d left the LP. The stylus on my turntable really needed a new needle but I put the record on regardless, turning up the volume as the first track started.

  The cat had fled back to the kitchen by now and I stood in the window, feeling the warmth of the sunshine through my grand- mother’s net curtains, listening to the music. Until I’d heard Gilbert play, I’d never really understood the word ‘plangent’. It means mournful, resonant, aching, the kind of music that strikes chords way down keep inside you, and Montparnasse was full of it.

  Upstairs, the footsteps had come to a halt. The music was loud enough for Gilbert to hear and when we got into the second track I heard him moving about again. Then, magically, came the sound of a second flute, same theme, same haunting musical figures, echoing the LP. At first, he was perfectly in time, then - like the jazz musician he’d one day become - he began to improvise, gliding up and down the scale, changing key, stretching the melody this way and that. Track 3, ‘Souvenirs de Printemps’, was lighter in mood, and over- head came a new sound, footsteps again, heavier, quicker, a tempo that urgently shadowed the music. Still standing in the window, I tried to visualise what was going on up there, what on earth Gilbert was doing, then I heard a little yelp, the kind we girls used to make at primary school in music and movement lessons, and I finally realised what he was up to. Gilbert, my nightmare pal, my loony neighbour, was dancing.

  After Side One, I retreated to the kitchen to see how the cat was getting on. Gilbert must have come downstairs very quietly because I didn’t hear his footsteps in the hall, or even the sound of the front door opening, but he’d definitely been out there because there were splashes of fresh paint on the step when I left. The paint was white gloss and it wasn’t until I turned round to close the door that I understood what he’d been doing. Beneath the two big eyes, straddling the letter box, Gilbert had added a big, fat, happy mouth. Our little house once again had a smile on its face.

  Back at Brendan’s flat that night I got a phone call from Gaynor. I’d given her the number and she’d called to check I was OK. It was a nice thought and I told her so.

  ‘Yeah,’ she sounded unconvinced. ‘You sure though?’

  ‘Sure of what?’

  She told me she’d been talking to one of the community beat lads. She’d asked him to keep an eye on Napier Road and he’d come back only yesterday with a tale about eyes on the front door.

  ‘Are you still trying to sell the place?’

  ‘Yes. Sort of.’

  ‘And he’s messing you around again?’

  I thought about the question. In essence, of course, she was right. Gilbert was making it as hard as he possibly could for me to find a buyer. But there was a logic in there somewhere, no matter how crazy, and one way or another I was determined to understand it.

  ‘I’m going to find the freeholder,’ I told Gaynor, ‘and sort it out that way.’

  ‘Are you sure? Only we could have him for harassment…’

  For a second or two I gave the proposition serious thought. Then I heard the music again, and the clumsy, artless thump of Gilbert dancing around upstairs, and I knew there was no way. He didn’t deserve to be arrested, cautioned, bollocked. If anything, it would probably make him worse. Another betrayal. More evidence of the world turning its back.

  ‘Thanks,’ I told Gaynor. ‘But I still think I’ll sort it with whoever owns the freehold.’

  It was six weeks before I got the chance. Brendan returned on the Wednesday of the following week, physically exhausted but bursting with ideas. It was lovely to see him and we had a glorious morning in bed before the umpteenth call on the mobile tugged him back to the office. The bedroom at De Beauvoir Square opened out onto a terrace at the back of the house. The garden faced south and we’d had the French doors open since dawn, flooding the room with sunshine.

  I lay in bed, wrapped in a single sheet, watching him get dressed. He seemed to have lost weight. He looked thinner, and very pale.

  ‘So tell me,’ I said, ‘about these Queensland people.’

  Brendan mentioned a couple of names, production companies I’d never heard of. It seemed they were big players in Infotainment, a category of programming into which Home Run would evidently fit. Brendan had pitched them the concept in separate meetings and they’d both come back the next day.

  ‘They liked it?’

  ‘Bigtime, they liked it.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘We’re in an auction situation, one against the other.’ He grinned at me. ‘Whatever happens, we’re definitely looking at a co-production.’

  ‘I thought we already had a co-production?’

  ‘I mean three ways.’

  He’d done a little research. Australia, it turned out, had a modest special forces outfit. They tended to avoid the limelight but lately there’d been threats of budget cutbacks.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘They want publicity. Of the right kind, of course.’

  He’d talked to some people in the Ministry of Defence in Canberra. The notion of hoisting dead-end kids onto prime-time TV had caught their imagination. A deal was more than possible. How did I feel about producing Home Run down under?’

  I said it sounded lovely. I was trying to coax him back to bed. Without the sheet, the breeze through the French windows felt cool against my body. Brendan was trying to decide between a denim outfit and a beautiful shirt in a cotton print I’d bought him a couple of weeks back. I rolled over, stretching out a hand for him. He sat on the side of the bed for a moment, rubbing his face, preoccupied.

  ‘One thing I forgot to mention,’ he said, ‘but I’m sure it won’t be a problem.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘We’ll have to bring the production schedule forward, a couple of weeks at least. Otherwise the shoot times don’t work out.’

  I gazed up at him. What had I done to deserve such a perfect morning? First Brendan, back in one piece. Then this abrupt change of birthplan for Home
Run. Bringing the location forward to - say - September would be the answer to my prayers. Not only would we be shooting in sensible weather but I’d have ample post-production time to get the thing into some kind of shape before the real baby arrived.

  ‘What do you think? Can do?’ Brendan was looking anxious. Obviously he’d made promises only I could fulfil.

  I lay back, taking his hand again and guiding it downwards. En route, as warm as ever, it strayed across my belly. Was now the time? Should I tell him our news? Break it gently? Make his day?

  I reached up, cupping his face in my hands.

  ‘I love you,’ I told him. ‘And everything’ll be just fine.’

  Advancing the shoot, though, gave Gary and me a pretty savage deadline. It was already June. By September, we needed to have the kids sorted, a month’s worth of training in the can, and all the production assets in place for the Brecon Beacons shoot. So far we’d drawn a blank on the kids and the Brecon Beacons, as far as I was concerned, was no more than a name on the map. And that, of course, was only the UK end of the shoot. What about the US operation? The fabled Green Berets? Fort Bragg? All that?

  I’d been in touch, off and on, with Everett, and with the PBS station in Washington DC that Brendan had roped in as co-producers. To date they’d been making good progress - better, certainly, than us - and when I phoned again Everett had some good news.

  ‘Found the kids,’ he told me, ‘and you won’t believe how good they are.’

  He’d started by looking in Washington, assuming that a Home Run team from the capital city would give the show the right profile. If anything, though, Washington had been too far gone. Most of the problem kids were up to their eyes in hard drugs and he’d had to widen the trawl first to Baltimore, and then south to Richmond, and finally out to the coast. Norfolk, Virginia, he said, was perfect. There was a big naval base, a sprawl of inner city projects, and a suburb called Portsmouth where he’d found exactly what the show needed.