‘That’d take a long time.’
‘What would?’
‘Combing a beach.’
‘Idiot.’
They kissed slowly. Passion had been satisfied earlier.
'Ronald’s changed,’ she said. ‘He frightens me.’
‘It’s only the uniform.’
‘It’s more than that. He spouts ideology all the time. I’ll be glad when he goes back.’
He gave her what was left of the cigarette and when she had taken the last drag, she leaned over to stub it out in the grass for safety. He spooned up against her back.
‘Temptress,’ he said.
‘Brian,’ she said, a mock, whispered admonishment. ‘I think this is the only reason you say you love me.’
‘Of course it is.’ His hand began to go beneath her skirt. ‘It works, too.’ He kissed her neck. ‘I love you.’ He kissed again. ‘I love you,’ and his hand went above her stocking and she giggled.
‘Ronald.’ Simon’s voice outside was a warning. ‘I didn’t know baked potatoes were your thing.’
‘I’m looking for my sister.’
‘Shit,’ whispered Helen.
Brian pointed to the back of the tent where he had loosened the guy ropes in case. Avoiding Archie Roberts had been an education. He lifted the canvas and she kissed him quickly on the lips and went beneath it. He followed and they crouched in the darkness between the back of the tent and the perimeter wall. He pointed and whispered. ‘You go that way, I’ll go this.’ He helped her climb the wall and she dropped over the other side. She lost a high heel shoe in the process and he passed it to her. She blew him a kiss and was gone in the direction of the entrance to the field.
Brian walked ten paces into the darkness towards the pavilion end and then swung round out of the shadows so he could see the fire and Simon and Ronald talking and Ruth, tossing a hot potato from one hand to the other as if it were a grenade.
‘Fancy seeing you here?’ he said, as he walked back. Simon, languid and apparently at ease, glanced round with a smile. Ronald was stiff. Permanent erection must be very trying, thought Brian. ‘Sorry,’ he said to Ronald. ‘We’re not burning books tonight, just spuds.’
‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Call of nature. Not that it’s got anything to do with you.’
‘Sure you don’t want a potato?’ said Ruth. ‘We have plenty.’
‘No. Thank you.’
He couldn’t be sure if it was a genuine offer or if she, too, was making fun of him.
‘Ronald? Is that you?’ Helen walked towards them from the other direction. ‘I need my chaperone. You know what father said.’ She smiled at the others. ‘Hi Ruth. Simon, Brian. Jacket potatoes.’ She said it as if famished. ‘Got any spare?’
‘We don’t have time.’ Ronald said, walking towards her and taking her arm. ‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Where’ve you been?’ she retorted. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’
‘Night Helen,’ they called.
‘Night.’ She waved.
‘Night Ronald.’
No response.
Brian and Simon exchanged smiles.
‘Don’t tell me,’ said Simon. ‘It’s all done with mirrors.’
‘And loose canvas.’ He looked at his sister. ‘Is that for me?’
She threw it to him and said, ‘Gannet.’
He bit into it and began to eat it carefully because of the heat.
‘I’ll say goodnight, then.’
He strode off into the dark.
Simon walked back to Ruth and sat alongside her.
‘Then there were two,’ he said.
Ruth looked at him coyly.
‘Bit chilly, isn’t it?’ she said but he didn’t reply. ‘Might be warmer in the tent.’
They kissed and got up and she led him by the hand to Mrs Humphrey’s headquarters and the nest of blankets that were still warm.
Willie and the Colonel sat at the bar in the Black Bull. It was malt whisky time.
‘Poor Archie,’ said Willie. ‘He’s been trying for three years to be accepted and then his brat of a son turns up in uniform. He might as well have brought an alsatian with rabies.’
‘Thank God he’s going tomorrow.’
‘Don’t get paranoid. And don’t forget to talk to Simon.’
'I will.’ He sipped the whisky. ‘Wonder where he is?’
‘Don’t be silly, Jimmy. He’s young and has a beautiful girlfriend.’
‘Of course. I keep forgetting. Were we like that, Willie?’
‘I was. I don’t know about you. I always suspected that chaps who made a career in the military had homosexual tendencies. I, of course, served my two years and was glad to get back to civvy street. Perhaps your sap rose for different reasons.’
‘Quite right. There’s nothing quite so invigorating than the sight of a barrack room of bollock-naked squaddies.’
‘You’ve gone all misty-eyed with nostalgia, old chap.’
The Colonel snorted. ‘But were we?’ he said. ‘Young people today, their whole world seems to revolve around the opposite sex. Perhaps it’s rock and roll.’
Willie laughed, finished the whisky and put his glass on the bar.
‘And on that note.’
‘Is it that time already?’
‘It certainly is and I can’t keep the chauffeur waiting. Goodnight, Jimmy. And take care.’
‘Goodnight, Willie. Tell Sheila I enjoyed myself.’
The car was waiting but Joe was driving. Willie was disappointed. Eliza was avoiding him in the dark. Wise girl. Who knew what he might say.
They made the journey in silence. At home, Eliza was still up, reading a book, with a whisky glass on the table next to her and listening to a Mozart string quartet.
'How’s Sheila?’ he said.
'In bed and asleep. She had a good day.’
‘Yes. She seemed to enjoy it. So did Jimmy Humphrey.’ He poured himself a whisky. ‘The only damper was Ronald Roberts strutting around like the Gestapo.’
‘I almost told him to go forth and multiply,’ she said.
‘I know. You’re not safe to let out alone.’
He added a splash of water and sat in an armchair.
‘Good job I had you to protect me, then.’
Their eyes met and he smiled but saw she was not smiling. What a bastard life could be. The riding accident had robbed him of his wife, a loss that had brought into his home a woman he had grown to love. She sipped her drink and their desire remained unspoken as it always had, always would, and he damned his upbringing for making him honourable.
‘I’ll always protect you,’ he said.
‘I know you will.’
He finished the whisky and stood up.
‘Time for bed, I think. Goodnight, Eliza.’
‘Goodnight, Willie.’
On this occasion, he did not kiss her. The contact would have been too painful.
Chapter 6
September 2. Scotland
The road was long and winding and going North East through Scotland. John lounged full length on a double bed in the back of a campervan. Paul sat alongside him, propped up on cushions, writing lyrics in a pad. Ringo was curled on a bunk by the back window, nursing a hangover, and George sat in the front alongside their driver and road manager, Neil Aspinall.
John was daydreaming about being a star, singing duets with Elvis and having sex with Audrey Hepburn. Then they went over a pothole and he was jarred back to reality.
Wonderful place, Scotland. The bit in between the sodden land and the sodden clouds was a damp course. Daydreaming was preferable to watching uninspiring scenery. If you’d seen one glen wreathed in mist, you’d seen them all. He kept his eyes closed and thought of England and the promises made by a German.
Bergfeld had said they were going to make a lot of money but they hadn’t seen any of it yet. They were touring some of the most godforsaken places in Britain known to man and still
waiting for their first record to break into the charts. Last night they had played Carlisle and tonight they were due at the Ayr Pavilion.
They had been recorded by Bert Kaempfert who had wanted to sign them to the German Polydor label but Bergfeld had refused. Four weeks later, Bergfeld took them to see George Martin of Parlophone at the Abbey Road studios in London. Bergfeld played him the acetates made in Hamburg and Martin gave them a studio test and recorded them. Among the numbers they performed was a new one they had written, Love Me Do.
John liked George Martin. He was a quiet professional who was good at what he did. Even though the band were unknowns, he gave them respect and they returned it. Besides, he’d recorded Derek Norman and Spike Milligan of the Goons. He deserved respect.
He took the trouble to explain the equipment in the studio.
‘Anything you don’t like?’ he said.
‘Yeh,’ George said. ‘I don’t like your tie.’
Martin laughed. He had a sense of humour, too.
‘Be patient,’ Bergfeld told them, afterwards. ‘He’s only interested in talent and he has something to prove. He’s the man who turned down Tommy Steele.’
As far as John was concerned, George Martin could have no finer accolade.
Love Me Do backed with Hello Little Girl was released as their first single and Bergfeld packed them off on a tour of one-nighters in a pair of VW vans. He had a Mercedes limousine in which he travelled ahead to smooth out problems and make sure the record shops had their disc in stock. He said. Some nights he even turned up for the gig, but mostly he phoned or left messages and promises. Next week, he said. Next week they would make the charts.
‘Fucking hell.’
Neil swore and braked and the van slid on the wet tarmac.
‘Fucking hell,’ said Ringo, as he fell off the back bunk and landed on John and Paul.
‘Aspinall, you wanker,’ shouted John.
They heard the screech of the brakes of the following van, that carried their equipment, and braced themselves for a tail-ender but it didn’t happen. Paul pushed Ringo onto the floor and looked out of the back window. George rubbed his head where it had hit the windscreen and stared out of the front but Neil turned round to look into the back, his face white.
‘It’s the SS,’ he said. ‘No fucking jokes, Lennon.’
Someone shouted outside and Neil looked to the front. He and George raised their arms. A thump on the side of the van.
‘Out, out.’
The door was between the bench seat where Neil and George sat and the bed on which John and Paul lay. Ringo got his feet, dazed from the double tumble, went down the first step and reached for the door as someone outside pulled it open.
‘Shit,’ he said, his voice disappearing along with his head.
Paul followed and John got off the bed and looked out for the first time. Quips were not appropriate. Three men in long black coats, slick with the damp, stood on the grass verge pointing submachineguns at the van. Lapel flashes of forked lightning, jackboots, attitude. They were out in this bloody weather, manning a roadblock and looking for an excuse. Neil and George climbed out and he went down the steps. Ringo was at the bottom, half sitting, half kneeling in a puddle.
‘Ingratiating sod,’ John said.
‘Shut it cunt,’ yelled one of the men in black.
Not just SS, thought John. Scottish SS.
He and Paul helped Ringo to his feet.
‘I’ve ruined me kecks,’ he said.
‘I told you to shut it.’
The storm trooper grabbed Ringo by the throat and banged him against the side of the van. The gun killed argument but John and Paul stood either side and as close to their drummer as they could in the only show of solidarity they dare make. The man had a fleshy face, small eyes and a thin moustache. This was definitely not the time for jokes.
‘We’re a band,’ said Neil, being prodded round the front of the van at gunpoint.
A soldier went into the van.
‘You look to me like you’re smuggling hymies,’ said their very own, friendly trooper. He put the end of his gun against Ringo’s nose.
‘Leave him, McKay.’
An English voice and an officer. But not necessarily a gentleman, thought John. Short, too. No more than five six. He wondered if he’d had to have his jackboots turned down. The gun was removed from Ringo’s nostril and the trooper took a step back.
‘We’re a band, sir,’ said Neil, doing his best to be road manager and protect them from misfortune, but this was a bit different from holding girls back, or letting girls in, and arguing about sound checks and complementary drinks. He put his hand into his jacket and the three closest SS troopers levelled their weapons at his head. Neil froze and shut up. He gulped for saliva. The officer waved a hand to restrain his men and then held it out to Neil.
‘Papers.’ Neil remained frozen. ‘Show me.’
The roadie brought out an envelope between finger and thumb and gave it to the officer who inspected the contents that included a travel document, which stipulated their four destinations in Scotland.
‘We’re in Ayr tonight, sir,’ said Neil.
‘Identity cards,’ said the officer, returning the envelope.
They produced their cards, which the officer inspected. He took a particular interest in Ringo. He looked past them to the second van. A trooper ran from it to make a report and the officer took him to one side to listen. He shook his head and said, ‘That won’t be necessary.’ The trooper who had searched their van got off and shook his head. Nothing found. Liar. John said goodbye to his Amsterdam porn collection and thanked the deity, any deity, that the rest had not been discovered.
The officer turned to them and said, ‘I’m sorry you’ve been delayed. You are now free to continue your journey but don’t pick up any hitchhikers. Good day, Gentlemen. Thank you for your cooperation.’
He clicked his heels and raised his right hand in the fascist salute, turned and ran up the road towards the crossroads. Neil, breathing deeply in relief, raised his right arm in response and flushed in embarrassment as he realised the lads were looking at him. As the troopers moved back into the fields, he waved the fingers of his fascist salute in goodbye.
They re-boarded the bus and John looked in the cupboard. The porn collection had gone.
‘Bloody sieg heil?’ said George.
‘Shut up,’ said Neil.
He started the engine. They were all subdued; they had never had such an in-the-face confrontation with the SS before. They had been stopped in London a year ago by traffic cops who hadn’t liked the look of their Bedford van (but then, they hadn’t liked the look of it, either) but they had just been Bobbies with attitude. This lot had been scarily different and had shown them a side of Britain of which they were rarely aware.
The SS were a political military police, a force halfway between the unarmed constabulary and the regular army and answerable direct to Mosley. During the Russian War, a British regiment of the SS had worn German uniforms with Union Jack shoulder flashes. Afterwards, Mosley had retained the tradition and the German name of Schutzstaffel, the Elite Guard, and had kept the distinctive way of writing SS with forked lightning flashes in imitation of runic characters.
‘What was all that about, then?’ said Paul.
‘It was a nervous reaction,’ said Neil.
‘No. That.’
They were driving past the crossroads. The officer was climbing intro a black Wolsley staff car to escape the damp. The car and a van were parked out of sight of the main highway. Lying in the grass on both sides of the road were armed men waiting for the next vehicle.
‘Bastards,’ said John, climbing back into his place on the bed near the window.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Ringo. ‘Me kecks are soaking.’
He unfastened his trousers, pushed them down to mid thigh and sat on the edge of the bed to pull them the rest of the way. The sight of his rear end in baggy Y-fronts would normally have
prompted some tart remark from John but instead he said, ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yeh. I’m all right.’
The bunk at the back where Ringo had been lying was above the engine. Paul tilted the mattress.
‘Give us your trousers,’ he said. He straightened them, lay them flat and put the mattress back down. ‘They’ll be dry by the time we get there.’
Ringo climbed back onto the bunk and pulled a blanket over himself.
‘I didn’t mean to give a salute, you know,’ said Neil. ‘It was automatic. Relief. I mean?’
‘Give them a taste of power and they think they’re Hitler,’ said Paul. ‘Like bus conductors.’
John stretched full length and crossed his legs.
‘Hitler was a painter,’ he said. ‘I don’t think he was ever a bus conductor.’
George said, ‘Well I wouldn’t want him painting my house, not after the mess he made of Poland.’
Neil laughed and John and Paul joined in. Only Ringo remained silent. George’s bad joke broke the tension for the rest of them. John closed his eyes but couldn’t bring Audrey Hepburn back. She was probably having it away with Elvis. He couldn’t think of anything but what had just happened. George, Paul and Neil continued to joke about it but his anger remained at the way Ringo had been picked on. Bloody hell, they were from Liverpool. They had no chance of racial purity. The port had welcomed all races and creeds for generations and who knew whose blood they shared. And what the hell did it matter if they did? What did it matter if they were Jew, black or German as long as they were right people?
John didn’t know any Jews. Well, none that admitted it. Rumours said some Jews had escaped the work camps and repatriation by changing their names and going underground and still lived in Britain as gentiles. These evaders were called submarines. As a youngster, he remembered occasional newspaper reports about families being unmasked. The Hidden Menace was one headline that had stuck in his mind, over a photograph of a middle-aged shop assistant and his wife and two frightened children. They looked normal. They couldn’t menace a nursery. But there had been no recent discoveries. Either the submarines had all been found or those that were left were well submerged.
The Heydrich Sanction Page 7
