‘Biologically incorrect but in all other respects, too fucking right. So buy us a drink.’
‘I’ve no money left. Who’s round is it?’
‘I got the chips on Thursday,’ said Paul.
‘I got the Jelly Babies,’ said George.
‘Still no black ones,’ said Paul. ‘Why are there never any black ones?’
‘Or queer ones,’ said John.
‘How can you tell?’ said Klaus.
‘The taste.’
They all looked at John and Klaus pulled a face.
‘You do talk a load of bollocks,’ said Paul.
‘I thought for an encore tonight we might do a rock version of Ubber Alles,’ said John.
‘Or, as we prefer to call it,’ George told Klaus, ‘Up Your Arses.’
Klaus burst out laughing.
‘One of these days,’ he warned. ‘One of these days.’
‘It must be his round,’ said Pete, nodding at a fat and middle-aged stranger who stood beside their table, sweating profusely in his three-piece suit, and holding a glass of schnapps. ‘On the grounds that he’s pissed and has probably got some money.’
‘I like the cut of his jib, I’ll say that,’ said John.
‘I like his shirt,’ said Paul.
‘I’ll have his shoes if they’re size eight,’ said George.
John winked at the man, gave him a come hither grin and said, ‘Hello, sailor. Buy us a drink?’
The stranger said, ‘How you say? Fuck off.’
Paul said, ‘I like his sense of humour, too.’
‘Go on, lah,’ said John. ‘We’re the band. We’re rock and roll stars.’
The man laughed and nodded at a waiter.
‘All right.’ He put a banknote on his tray. ‘Give them a drink.’
John said, ‘A gentleman and a scholar and a sailor. Now you fuck off.’
Astrid pushed through the crowd, arrived at the man’s side and linked her arm through his.
‘So, you have met.’
‘Who?’ said John.
‘Your new manager. This is Peter Bergfeld. Peter, these are the Beatles.’
‘They are very witty,’ said Bergfeld, still smiling. He shrugged. ‘Maybe half witty.’
‘Oh shit,’ said John. ‘A German joke.’
‘That’s not a nice thing to call the man,’ said George.
From the stage, Rory Storm announced over the sound system, ‘If you thought that last lot were shite, wait till you hear us.’ He turned back to the band and they went straight into a pounding rock number. Bergfeld pointed vaguely with the hand that held the drink in the direction of the bar.
‘We need somewhere to talk.’
‘Why?’ said John.
‘Listen to him,’ said Klaus.
‘Where?’ said Paul.
‘The office,’ said Bergfeld.
‘Peter won’t let you.’
Paul meant the owner, Peter Eckhorn.
‘He will let me.’
John was disinclined to bother but Paul stared meaningfully across the table. Paul would go, even if he wouldn’t.
‘It’ll be a load of balls,’ said John.
‘Well,’ said George, yawning. ‘You always wanted to be a juggler.’
Astrid widened her already wide and beautiful eyes in a plea to John and he shrugged and got up. Paul also got to his feet and glanced at the other two. Pete shook his head and looked over to another cubicle where three girls were giggling and smiling at him. George simply said, ‘I’m knackered.’
Bergfeld and Astrid led the way through the pulsating crowd, which had been reactivated by the new infusion of live music. John and Paul followed. Klaus Voorman stayed with George and Pete. He said, ‘You need a manager. Bergfeld has influence.’
Pete smiled at the girls in the other cubicle.
‘I’ll see you later,’ he said, and got up to leave.
George looked at his watch and told him, ‘In precisely 58 minutes,’ which was when they were due back on stage. As Pete moved towards the female company, the waiter came back with a full tray of drinks. ‘Ah. These will do to be going on with,’ said George. The waiter put Bergfeld’s change on the table and from it George gave him a tip. ‘You might be right,’ he said to Klaus. ‘So far, Mr Bergfeld is my idea of the perfect manager.’
Bergfeld was right. Peter Eckhorn did not object to him using his office. The fat man with the knowing smile sat behind the desk, Astrid sat on a couch and Paul leaned over the desk to shake hands.
‘Paul McCartney,’ he said. ‘He’s Lennon.’
‘I know who you are.’
Paul sat on a wooden chair and John leaned against the door with his hands in his pockets.
‘Go on then. Make us an offer we can’t refuse,’ he said, his voice tired and sarcastic.
‘I’m with the Ministry of Culture.’
‘Fuck me …’
Lennon moved his balance from the door and looked at Astrid.
‘Hear him,’ she said. ‘Hear him speak.’
‘First the spiel,’ said Bergfeld. ‘America is dominant in modern culture. What America records, Europe copies. The Minister believes it is time to reverse the process. If America swings, then Europe should swing more. So we are looking for acts to record and promote.’
‘We’re British, not German,’ said John.
‘We are all members of the European Union,’ said Bergfeld. ‘You are able to play here, in Hamburg, because of that. We would like to make you better known.’
‘We’re well known in Liverpool,’ said Paul, facetiously.
‘You could be known in London, Berlin, Paris and Rome this time next year,’ said Bergfeld. ‘Even New York.’
‘Why?’ said John. He took his hands out of his pockets and folded his arms across his chest, moving from indifference to barricades.
‘Call it a cultural war.’ Bergfeld shrugged. ‘We compete with America in most areas. Automobiles, architecture, wealth, rockets to the moon. Why not rock and roll?’
‘Why us?’
‘Not just you. We have seen what happened in London with Tommy Steele and the rest. The stable of artists created by the owner of a coffee bar.’
John said, ‘They play pop. They’re shite.’
‘Exactly. You are different. I’ve seen how the audience reacts to your music. To you boys.’
‘Most of them are out of their heads,’ said John. ‘They’d dance to the rhythm of a cardiac arrest if you could play it through a speaker.’
The fat man smiled. ‘You are original,’ he said. ‘Like the Goons.’
‘You’ve heard the Goons?’ John was surprised.
‘They are very funny. Very clever.’
The Goons were Derek Norman, Spike Milligan, Harry Secombe and Michael Bentine, four anarchic British comedy performers who had met during their military service in the war against Russia. They poked fun at anything and everything including Prime Minister Mosley, the Fuhrer and the Greater European Union. ‘Only another nine hundred and seventy one years to go!’ was a catchphrase they used that related to the Thousand Year Reich. King Edward was reported to be a fan and Britain’s inner circle of power allowed them to broadcast their politically risqué material on the radio as a sign of the Government’s tolerance of free speech. To a point. The Goons knew where that point was but kept pushing it.
One day, as Klaus Voorman had said. One day.
‘I’m flattered,’ said John. ‘Who else do you like?’
‘I am a great admirer of Dali.’ Bergfeld said. ‘And Marlene Dietrich’s legs.’
‘I quite like Marlene Dietrich’s legs,’ said Paul. ‘But you should see Else’s, behind the bar. Up to her armpits.’
‘His armpits,’ said Lennon. ‘How are you on transvestites?’
‘Between you and me.’ The fat man glanced around the room as if there might be eavesdroppers. ‘I learned long ago that sexuality has many forms, all of them normal. Myself? I am a lesbian, trapped in a man’s body.’ He
laughed so much he shook and put the chair in which he sat in danger.
John smiled for the first time and relaxed a fraction.
‘This isn’t entrapment, is it?’ he said.
‘It is not,’ said Bergfeld.
Astrid said, ‘John, this is an opportunity.’
Paul sat forward, hands clenched between his legs, and said, ‘How will it work?’
Bergfeld said, ‘I audition and record bands.’ He waved a hand. ‘You have already passed the audition and I have arranged with Bert Kaempfert of Polydor for the recording sessions. The band I choose as best will get most of the promotion. The others will be part of a stable. I think you will be top band, with one or two suggestions.’
John bridled. ‘Such as?’
‘You play your own music. Maybe a Chuck Berry song. One, two. But mostly your own music.’
‘You know about Chuck Berry?’
‘That he is black? I know. Just don’t tell anyone else. And if the penny drops in Berlin, it can be explained by metamorphosis. You take an inferior race music tune and turn it into a European cultural hit.’ He shrugged again, something his bulk made him good at. ‘Which proves the superiority of the Aryan races over the Negro.’
Astrid smiled.
‘You’ll like Peter’s humour when you get to know him,’ she said. ‘He, too, could be a Goon.’
‘A Ministry Goon,’ John said, giving the word its other meaning, but not elaborating.
‘Nein,’ said the fat man. ‘They would need too many cows to make me the leather coat.’
Paul said, ‘You said suggestions. Plural. What other suggestions?’
‘Astrid should advise on clothes. On you, I think black leather is good. And the hair. That should be changed. Oh, and you need a new drummer.’
John said, ‘We’ve got a drummer.’
‘He’s too good looking and he’s not good enough. Starr, the drummer with Rory Storm. He’s better. He’s not good looking.’
John said, ‘He’s hardly a model of Aryan genetics.’
‘Have you seen Herman Hessinger’s son?’
Hessinger was the German Minister of Culture. His son bore a passing resemblance to the drummer of Rory Storm and the Hurricanes.
Paul said, ‘We can’t just swap drummers. Pete’s been with us for years.’
The fat man smiled. ‘I shall handle that.’
‘How?’ said Paul.
‘I shall tell Rory Storm exactly what I have told you, only that his chances would be improved with a better looking drummer. I shall propose the exchange. I shall tell him it will be to mutual advantage.’
‘Will it?’ said John.
‘Of course.’ The fat man smiled. ‘I shall make you real rock and roll stars. Trust me.’
Chapter 3
June 15. Ollerton
Colonel Jimmy Humphrey and Willie Ashford sat on a bench beneath a row of elm trees and watched the cricket. The Colonel’s 12-year-old Labrador, Paddy, was asleep by their feet. The pavilion was 50 yards away and behind them was the back garden of the Black Bull.
Upper Bedford were 87 for three from 35 overs in a limited 50 over-a-side match and Brian Ogilvy, the shopkeeper’s son, was bowling medium pace from the Black Bull end, his blonde hair flopping with his exertions. The receiving batsman cracked the delivery towards long leg and a fielder ran to stop the boundary. The Colonel had a drink from his pint glass and wiped his moustache with a familiar forward and backward motion of his left forefinger.
‘He’s trying too hard,’ he said. ‘Line and length, Brian.’ He said the advice to himself. ‘Line and length.’
Bob Harvey, the headmaster at the local school and captain of the team, clapped his hands and shouted encouragement.
‘Line and length, Brian,’ he said. ‘Line and length.’
Willie Ashford was the managing director of a farm machinery company that served the county and which was located at Knutsford, six miles away. He was the fourth generation to run the business, which was the basis of a comfortable family fortune. He lived in a small Georgian mansion, two miles outside the village, and enjoyed shooting and fishing and taunting the Colonel, who frequently claimed the family success was only due to the fact that Willie's great-great-grandfather had been the illegitimate son of the Duke of Devonshire.
‘A fact I will not dispute,’ Willie would say. ‘Although I would have thought the Duke could have thrown in a title with the bounty he paid my ancestors. I think I would rather suit a title.’
He was a tall handsome man with a shock of prematurely white hair. He wore a worn check shirt and a pair of corduroy trousers. He shifted his lean limbs and grunted at the discomfort.
‘You should have brought a cushion,’ said the Colonel.
‘It’s all right for you. You come with your own padding.’
The Colonel laughed and patted his stomach.
‘All bought and paid for, old boy. You should try it. Eating, I mean.’
‘I can’t help aesthetic good breeding,’ said Willie.
They sat in silence as Brian Ogilvy returned to line and length and completed the over without conceding any more runs.
‘Life doesn’t get much better,’ said the Colonel. His gaze took in the cricket ground with its black and white pavilion, the trees, the sun-bleached sky and the players in white. ‘Leather on willow and all that.’
‘Are you waxing lyrical?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Yes, I know.’
They both knew that part of the Colonel’s satisfaction was in watching his son return to play for the village team.
‘How’s Toby?’ said the Colonel. ‘That thing with the ministry?’
‘He got the contract. He and Stella are talking about a house in Chelsea.’
‘Then he must be making money.’
‘Oh, he is.’
Toby was Ashford's only son, married with no children and unlikely to have any until he had banked his first million. Toby was more ambitious than farm machinery in Cheshire, which is why he had gone to London and married a barrister.
The vicar paced out his run from the scoreboard end and prepared to start his first over.
‘Saw Sheila and Eliza, yesterday, in Knutsford,’ said the Colonel. ‘She looked well.’
‘Yesterday was a good day.’
Willie’s wife, Sheila, had been paralysed from the waist down in a riding accident 10 years before and had been wheelchair bound ever since. Her sister, Eliza, lived with them and looked after her. Eliza’s husband had been killed in the Russian War.
The vicar bowled an off-spinner and the batsman fished for it and missed.
‘Well bowled, vicar,’ said the Colonel, in a loud voice. Then, to Willie, he said, ‘Nice girl, Eliza. Shame she never married again.’
‘She had offers. Just wasn’t interested.’
The next ball from the vicar was miss-hit and caught at long off by Kevin Andrews, the village postman. The rest of the Ollerton team applauded and captain Bob Harvey slapped the vicar on the back.
‘It doesn’t get much better,’ the Colonel said, retreating once more into reverie. Willie sucked on his pipe but it had gone out. He struck a match, dipped the flame to the bowl, covered the end with the matchbox and puffed. He began to blow smoke again. ‘Even your bloody pipe, Willie,’ the Colonel said. ‘I do like the aroma of a good pipe tobacco.’
‘I’ve had this 20 years.’ Willie held up the pipe as if it were an exhibit. ‘It’s a Dunhill, cost me thirty bob at Jacob Rothstein’s in Knutsford.’ He puffed more smoke. ‘Nice chap. Remember? He had a limp from a piece of shrapnel on the Somme. I wonder whatever happened to Jacob?’ The Colonel sighed and refused to be drawn. Willie had known he wouldn’t, but it was his duty to drop the occasional barb into conversation. Jacob Rothstein, who had been born and grown up in Manchester, had been forcefully repatriated to Palestine in 1941 with his wife and son. ‘There’s never been a shop quite like Jacob’s since,’ said Willie, puffin
g the pipe. ‘Nice chap.’
‘Yes, he was,’ said the Colonel. ‘Christmas, 1940, he got me a box of Romeo and Juliets. Damned shame. Casualty of war. Damn war. Hope we never have another.’
Willie neither agreed nor disagreed. Sometimes, he reflected, wars were necessary. He puffed his pipe and watched a new batsman stride to the crease.
‘You never know,’ he said. ‘The next one might be with America. Détente has gone chilly since young Kennedy started his reforms.’
John F Kennedy had become United States President in 1956, in succession to his father, Joseph P Kennedy, the former ambassador to Great Britain and acclaimed peacemaker. Joe Kennedy had been elected President in 1940, guided America through the war with Japan, witch-hunted Communists, and had imposed Nuremberg-style laws on Jews, whom he had placed firmly at the back of the bus alongside blacks. The shock of his son’s civil rights reforms had, it was said, contributed to the old man suffering a stroke that had left him paralysed and unable to voice his disapproval.
‘Kennedy isn’t threatening Europe,’ said the Colonel. ‘You’re talking nonsense, Willie, and you know you are.’
‘If America and Canada formed an alliance, we could end up fighting the Queen. Now that would challenge loyalties.’
‘Have you been listening to Voice Of America, again?’
‘What if I have?’
‘There’s a law against it.’ The Colonel glanced round. ‘Oh, I know it’s the fashionable thing to listen to, along with that jungle music from Radio Luxembourg, but you want to be careful. You know, it’s a good job you only spout this nonsense to me. Somebody else might take you seriously and think you were a fifth columnist. You’re a bloody fool, Willie. Now watch the cricket. Well bowled, vicar.’
They watched the rest of the over out and the Colonel groaned.
‘Don’t look now, but the bloody gauleiter’s walking this way.’
‘He’s harmless.’
‘He’s from Manchester.’
Archie Roberts was the owner of a wholesale butchery business in the city. Five hundred and sixty four souls lived within the boundaries of Ollerton and the majority had been here all their lives and had generations of relatives buried in the graveyard to prove their antecedents. But in recent years, up to 30 families had moved from the spreading urbanisation of Manchester and Warrington, mainly into a new estate of detached houses in the village, from where they commuted to their businesses and professions every day.
The Heydrich Sanction Page 2
