“As you wish,” says Jasper.
“If you come across Sleeping Beauty, there’s only one thing to do. But don’t get any big ideas.”
“I shan’t. Princess Charming.”
She sits on a bench opposite.
The roof garden. The country club. The wedding party. Jasper swivels himself upright. Rudderless cloud-wrecks float by, unmoored. Breathe it in and breathe it out. “Are the speeches over? How long was I asleep? We’re supposed to be playing soon.”
Bea counts off her replies: “Nearly. I didn’t set a stopwatch. Yes, you are.” She’s wearing an ink-blue body-hugging dress. She possesses a sharp vivid beauty lacking in her sisters.
“You’ve changed your dress,” says Jasper.
“Bridesmaids’ dresses aren’t my thing. Elf sent me to find you and give you a message.” Below, a car door slams. Bea helps herself to Jasper’s Marlboros and lighter.
Jasper waits patiently.
Bea breathes out smoke. “She says, ‘Get your arse onstage in twenty minutes.’ That was five minutes ago, so make it fifteen.”
“Tell her, ‘Thanks for the message: I’ll be there.’ ”
Bea looks at him oddly.
Is she waiting for more? “Please.”
“What’s it like, being in a band with my sister?”
“Um…enjoyable?”
“How so?”
“She’s talented. She’s a good keys player. Her voice is ethereal and husky. Her songs are strong.” An airplane scrapes by.
Bea slips off her shoes and sits cross-legged. Her toenails are sky-blue, like Trix’s lamp.
Maybe I’m supposed to ask her a question. “How did you know where to look for me?”
“I just pretended I was you and thought,” Bea mimics Jasper quite well, “How do I get out of here?”
“Was that difficult or easy?”
“I found you. Didn’t I?”
A summer breeze sways lavender in pots.
Bea smokes and passes Jasper her cigarette. It’s smudged pink with her lipstick. “Play ‘Darkroom,’ ” she says. “I like ‘Abandon Hope’ and ‘Raft and a River’ too, but I think ‘Darkroom’ ’s your first hit. It’s quite Sergeant Pepper’s-y. Its colors. Its mood.”
Jasper wonders what would happen if he touched her hand, but Trix told him to always let the lady lead. His throat is dry.
“You have heard Sergeant Pepper’s, yes?”
* * *
—
THE CURTAIN BILLOWED out through Levon’s half-open sash window. Jasper lay on the sofa and watched the others as they listened to side one. Elf sat cocooned in the velvet armchair, studying the lyrics. Dean was stretched out on the rug. Levon sat at the dining table, gazing at a bowl of apples. Griff was propped up against the wall, his hands and wrists twitching in sympathy with Ringo’s. Nobody spoke. Jasper recognized the song that Rick Wright had told him about at the UFO Club.
After the carnivalesque “Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite!” Levon flipped the record over. George Harrison’s sitar cascaded around like a skittish comet…and metamorphosed into the clarinet of “When I’m Sixty-Four.” Jasper noticed how two sounds make a third. The last track, “A Day in the Life,” was a miniature of the whole album, like the way that the Book of Psalms is a miniature of the whole Bible. Lennon’s “found” lyrics contrasted with McCartney’s kitchen-sink lines. Together they glowed. The song’s closer was an orchestral daymare finale spiraling upward to a final chord, slammed on dozens of pianos. The engineer raised the recording levels as the note fell away. Jasper thought of the end of a dream when the real world seeps in. It ended with backward laughing gibberish.
The stylus lifted off and the arm clunked home.
Pigeons cooed in the June trees of Queens Gardens.
“Shit the bed.” Dean breathed a long and winding sigh.
“Wow,” said Levon. “Wow. It’s an inner travelogue.”
“I always pegged Ringo as a jammy beggar,” said Griff, “but…how’d he play them drum parts? I do not have a fookin’ clue.”
“The whole studio’s a meta-instrument,” said Elf. “It’s as if they recorded it on a sixteen-track. But sixteen-tracks don’t exist.”
“The bass,” said Dean, “is that crisp, it’s like they recorded it last, as an overdub. Is that even possible?”
“Only if they recorded the other parts to a rhythm track playing inside their heads,” speculated Elf. “Is that possible?”
“Good job they’ve stopped touring,” said Dean. “They couldn’t play that live in a month o’ Sundays.”
“Not touring,” replied Griff, “freed ’em up to make this. They thought, Fook it, we’ll record what the hell we want.”
“Only the Beatles can get away with not touring,” Levon said. “Nobody else. Not even the Stones. Managerial footnote.”
“Look at this sleeve.” Elf held it up. “The colors, the collage, the way it opens up to reveal the lyrics. It’s stunning.”
“Our LP should look that classy,” said Dean.
“That,” Levon warned, “needs real love from the label.”
“The lyrics in ‘Darkroom’ are pushing it,” said Griff, “but ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’? Surely that’s LSD?”
“What ’bout that stuff ’bout ‘I’d love to turn yer on’ in that last one?” said Dean. “He’s not talking about light switches.”
“Have the Beatles just killed psychedelia?” asked Elf. “How could anyone possibly top that?”
“They’ve lit a fuse,” said Levon. “ ‘Darkroom’ is perfect for the summer of Sergeant Pepper’s. This settles it, for me. ‘Darkroom’ has to be the first Utopia Avenue single.”
An ice-cream van was playing “Oranges and Lemons.” The shimmering chords echoed off the stuccoed Georgian frontages of Queens Gardens. Jasper heard his name.
Everyone was looking at him. “What?”
“I asked,” said Dean, “what yer thought o’ the album.”
“Why stick labels on the moon? It’s Art.”
* * *
—
TWO WEEKS LATER, Jasper sees a familiar face in the mirror above the adjacent washbasin. The reflected face belongs to Elf’s dad. “Congratulations on the wedding, Mr. Holloway.”
“Ah, Jasper. Enjoying yourself?”
Jasper stops himself saying no but yes would be a lie so he says, “The prawn cocktail was excellent.”
For some reason Mr. Holloway finds this amusing. “These occasions are for, and by, the womenfolk. I never said that.”
Jasper notes that now he shares secrets with Elf’s sister and Elf’s father. “Thanks for having your lawyer look at our contracts.”
“Time will attest to Mr. Frankland’s financial probity, but my lawyer assures me you didn’t sign your soul away this time around.”
Jasper attempts a witticism. “They come in handy, I’m told.”
Mr. Holloway’s reflection frowns. “I beg your pardon?”
It fell flat. “Um…in folklore and religion, the soul is a useful thing to hang on to. That’s all.”
The roller-towel rattles. “Ah.” The older man’s voice changes timbre. “Elf tells me you went to Bishop’s Ely. The top brass at my bank includes a few Old Elysians.”
“I was only at Ely until I was sixteen. Then I moved to the Netherlands. My father’s Dutch, you see.”
“How does he feel about you forfeiting the advantages of a top education on a ‘pop group’?”
Jasper watches Elf’s father dry his hands, finger by finger. “My father leaves me to my own devices.”
“I’ve heard the Dutch are a permissive bunch.”
“ ‘Indifferent’ might be truer than ‘permissive.’ ”
Mr. Holloway pulls down the towel for the n
ext user. “This much I do know. Any candidate for a job at my bank who played in a ‘band’ would be rejected. Whatever school he went to.”
“So you disapprove of Utopia Avenue?”
“I’m Elf’s father. The band harms her prospects—and what about the occupational hazards? What if that bottle at Brighton had hit Elf? Scars may suit a chap, but they disfigure a girl.”
“The worst clubs have cages to protect the performers.”
“Was that meant to reassure me?”
“Well”—a trick question?—“yes.”
Mr. Holloway’s stab of a laugh echoes off the walls. “To top it all, this so-called ‘underground culture’ is awash with drugs.”
“Drugs are everywhere. Statistically, a fifth of the wedding guests are taking Valium. Then we have tobacco, alcohol—”
“Are you being willfully dim with me?”
“I don’t know how to be willfully dim, Mr. Holloway.”
The bank manager frowns as if a column of figures won’t add up. “Illegal drugs. Drugs that—that ‘hook’ you and…make you jump off buildings, and so forth.”
“Do you mean LSD, specifically?”
“According to The Times, there’s an epidemic.”
“That’s a lurid word. People choose to use recreational drugs. Some of your employees may even use them.”
“I assure you they do not!” His voice goes up.
“How do you know?” Jasper’s stays low.
“Because none of them are ‘junkies’!”
“You enjoy a glass of wine, but you’re not an alcoholic. The same is true with drugs. It’s the pattern of consumption that does the damage. Heroin’s an exception, however. Heroin’s awful.”
A toilet cistern goes drip, drip, drip. Mr. Holloway clasps his head. Exasperation? “I’ve heard your song ‘Darkroom.’ The lyrics are…Well, are you admitting that the song is drawn from…”
Jasper knows not to guess the ends of other people’s sentences.
“…personal experiences of…drug-taking?”
“ ‘Darkroom’ was inspired by a young German photographer I met. She had a darkroom. Psychotropic drugs and I wouldn’t mix well. I’ve a condition that LSD might well inflame. Amphetamines aren’t as dangerous, but I’d drop notes, fluff lyrics, and so forth if I took them. I’m afraid I’m really rather straight.”
Mr. Holloway narrows his eyes, glances around the gents, and looks back. “And, um…Elf?” He’s sweating.
“Elf’s the same.”
“Ah.” Mr. Holloway nods. “You are a strange fish, young man. But I’m glad we had this talk.”
“If I am a strange fish, I am an honest strange fish.”
The door bangs open and Griff wafts in, backward. His hair is askew, his scar is livid, and his tie is tied around his head. “King Griff’ll be back,” he tells at least two laughing women, “once he’s sunk the Bismarck.” The door swings shut. “Eh up, Zooto. Dean thought you’d flown off with Puff the Magic Dragon.”
Mr. Holloway gapes at Griff. Dismay?
Mr. Holloway looks back at Jasper. Anger?
Mr. Holloway storms out. Who knows?
“What’s up with him?” asks Griff. “It’s a wedding, not a funeral.”
* * *
—
UTOPIA AVENUE START their slot with “Any Way the Wind Blows.” Elf sings and plays her acoustic guitar; Griff limits himself to brush-work, except for the point in the song when he got hit with the bottle at Brighton Poly—when he thumps on his bass drum, spins a stick in the air, and catches it like a bandleader. The second song is Elf’s new song-in-progress, “Mona Lisa Sings the Blues.” She plays it on the piano. Dean complements her bass keys while Jasper noodles a solo in the middle. The women listen closely to the lyrics, which are changing with every rehearsal. Griff takes up his sticks for a beefy “I Put a Spell on You” with Dean on vocals and Elf vamping on piano. Some of the younger guests begin dancing so the band stretch it out. Jasper plays a saxophonic solo on his Stratocaster. Looking up, he sees the bride and groom dancing. If I was better at envy, I’d envy those two; they have their families and they have each other. Bea is dancing, too, with a tall dark handsome student, though she looks at Jasper, who hands the solo to Dean, who plays a slapping bass run. Clive and Miranda Holloway stay seated. Jasper wishes he could read Elf’s father’s expression. He’s placed his hand on his wife’s, so maybe he’s calm again. Music connects. The Glossops are sitting in their chairs with their arms folded, stiff and visibly disgusted even to Jasper. Music can’t connect everyone…
Yet Jasper notices Don Glossop’s foot tapping and, almost imperceptibly, his wife’s head nodding in time to the rhythm.
Or maybe it can.
* * *
—
THE SOUND OF knocking Jasper heard on the cricket field during the match against Peterborough Grammar didn’t reoccur that day, or the next, or the next. Jasper persuaded himself it hadn’t occurred at all. Late one afternoon, the master of Swaffham House sent Jasper to the cathedral with a satchel full of sheet music for the chorister. An east wind was rising. It tore the last of the blossoms from the cherry trees and shoved Jasper along the Gallery, one of Ely’s medieval streets. Up ahead, he heard a door being slammed open and shut and open and shut and open, and as he passed an archway, a wooden gate, torn loose from its hinges, bowled past him with demonic force, missing his sixteen-year-old head by no more than twelve inches, and smashed into kindling against a wall across the road. It could have snapped Jasper’s neck, cracked his ribs, or staved in his skull. Shaken by the near miss, Jasper nevertheless hurried onward to the cathedral, through the great door, and into the cavernous gloom. Candles flickered. The organist wove chords. A few tourists were shuffling around, but Jasper did not pause to observe the masterpiece of medieval architecture. It was a bad evening to be out on. He walked around the cloisters to the chapter house, where the chorister had his office. He approached the door and was about to knock, when—
Knock-knock…
Jasper hadn’t knocked, but he had heard the sound.
He looked around for an explanation.
There was no explanation. Cautiously, Jasper raised his knuckles to knock again—
Knock-knock…
He hadn’t touched the door.
Was someone knocking on the inside of the door?
Why? A prank? Was this funny?
How were they timing it? There was no spyhole.
A third time Jasper readied his fist to knock.
Knock-knock…
Someone must be in the chorister’s room.
Jasper tried the door. Stiffly, it opened.
The chorister was behind his desk, across the room, reading The Times. “Ah, de Zoet. You know, a chap of your manners really should know better than to enter a room without knocking…”
PURPLE FLAMES
Dean steers the beast off the A2 at the Wrotham Road roundabout. It’s a miracle we got this far. They’d had a flat tire at Blackheath. Dean and Griff changed it while Jasper sat by the roadside. How come the rich own the world when they’re so bloody useless? The Beast’s engine is snarling. If the carburetor’s buggered, that’s another fifteen quid gone, easy, on top of the fiver for a new tire. Despite two or three gigs a week, Dean still owes Moonwhale and Selmer’s Guitars an impossible number of pounds. I had more spare cash when I worked for Mr. Craxi…We need a record deal, we need a hit, we need to raise our gig fee. Past the twenty-four-hour Watling Street café, favored by long-distance truckers on the London-Dover-Continent run; past the old army barracks, mothballed for a future war; past a maze of council houses that was all fields when Dean was a boy; and over the lip of Windmill Hill, where gravity takes over and pulls the Beast down into Gravesend’s spillage of roofs; its cheek-by-jowl streets, alleyways, bomb sites, building sit
es, cranes, the railway to Ramsgate and Margate, steeples, gasworks, the new hospital sticking up like a box, blocks of flats, and the sewage-brown Thames, where barges dock at Imperial Paper, at Smollet Engineering, at the Blue Circle Cement works and, over on the Essex side, the Tilbury power stations. Smoke from the factory chimneys hangs over this hot, still, late July afternoon.
“Welcome to Paradise,” pronounces Dean.
“If you think this looks grim,” says Griff, “just try Hull in the middle o’ January.”
“Paradise is the road to Paradise,” says Jasper.
Whatever the bollocks that means, thinks Dean.
“It all looks very…authentic,” says Elf.
Is she taking the piss? “Meaning?” asks Dean.
“Nothing,” says Elf. “It was a pleasantry.”
“Sorry it’s not all lovely like Richmond.”
“No, I’m sorry I’m such a clueless little rich girl, so out of touch with reality. I’ll watch Coronation Street to make amends.”
Dean presses the clutch and lets the Beast coast downhill. “I thought yer were taking the piss.”
“Why would I?”
“It’s hard to tell with yer…”
“ ‘Clueless little rich girls’?”
Dean says nothing for a bit. “I’m on edge. Sorry.”
Elf huffs. “Yeah. Well. Playing for the home crowd’s a big deal.” The slope steepens and the Beast gains momentum. Truth is, thinks Dean, I’m worried Jasper and Elf’ll take one look at Nan and Bill and Ray and think, Who are these troglodytes? I’m worried Nan and Bill and Ray’ll take one look at Jasper and Elf and think, Christ, who are these la-di-dahs? I’m worried we’ll get booed offstage at the Captain Marlow. I’m worried we’ll be a laughingstock. And most of all, the closer I get to Harry Moffat, the colder and sicker I feel…
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