Edge of Eternity (58 page)

But would she give Jasper an interview?

When he got home to the house in Great Peter Street, Evie was in the red-tiled kitchen, learning lines. Her hair was pinned up untidily, and she wore a faded old shirt, but she still looked fabulous. Jasper’s relationship with her was warm. Throughout her girlish crush on him, he had always been kind, though never encouraging. His motive for being so careful was that he did not want a crisis that would cause a rift between him and her generously hospitable parents. Now he was even more glad he had kept her goodwill. ‘How’s it going?’ he said with a nod at her script.

She shrugged. ‘The part isn’t difficult, but film will be a new challenge.’

‘Maybe I should interview you.’

She looked troubled. ‘I’m supposed to do only the publicity arranged by the studio.’

Jasper felt a mild panic. What kind of journalist would he make if he failed to secure an interview with Evie, even though he lived in her house? ‘It’s only for the student paper,’ he said.

‘I suppose that doesn’t really count.’

His hopes rose. ‘I’m sure not. And it might help you get accepted by the Irving Drama School.’

She put down the script. ‘All right. What do you want to know?’

Jasper suppressed his feeling of triumph. Coolly he said: ‘How did you get the part in
All Around Miranda?’

‘I went to an audition.’

‘Tell me about that.’ Jasper took out a notebook and started writing.

He was careful not to bring up her nude scene in
Hamlet.
He feared she would tell him not to mention it. Fortunately, he did not need to question her about it, for he had seen it himself. Instead he asked her about the stars of the movie, and other famous people she had met, and gradually worked around to Hank Remington.

When Jasper mentioned Hank, Evie’s eyes lit up with a characteristic intensity of feeling. ‘Hank is the most courageous and dedicated person I know,’ she said. ‘I admire him so much.’

‘But you don’t just admire him.’

‘I adore him.’

‘And you are dating.’

‘Yes, but I don’t want to say too much about that.’

‘Of course, no problem.’ She had said, ‘Yes’, and that was enough.

Dave came in from school and made instant coffee with boiling milk. ‘I thought you weren’t supposed to do publicity,’ he said to Evie.

Jasper thought:
Shut your mouth, you over-privileged little shit.

Evie replied to Dave. ‘This is only for
St Julian’s News,’
she said.

Jasper wrote the article that evening.

As soon as he saw it typed out, he realized it could be more than just a piece for the student paper. Hank was a star, Evie was a minor actress, and Lloyd was a Member of Parliament: this could be a big story, he thought with mounting excitement. If he could get something published in a national newspaper, it would give his career prospects a major boost.

It could also get him into trouble with the Williams family.

He gave his article to Sam Cakebread the next day.

Then, with trepidation, he phoned the tabloid
Daily Echo.

He asked for the news editor. He did not get the news editor, but he was put through to a reporter called Barry Pugh. ‘I’m a student journalist, and I’ve got a story for you,’ he said.

‘Okay, go ahead,’ said Pugh.

Jasper hesitated only a moment. He was betraying Evie and the entire Williams family, he knew; but he plunged on anyway. ‘It’s about the daughter of a Member of Parliament who is sleeping with a pop star.’

‘Good,’ said Pugh. ‘Who are they?’

‘Could we meet?’

‘I suppose you want some money?’

‘Yes, but that’s not all.’

‘What else?’

‘I want my name on the article when it appears.’

‘Let’s get the story down first, then we’ll see.’

Pugh was trying to employ the kind of blandishments Jasper had used on Evie. ‘No, thanks,’ Jasper said firmly. ‘If you don’t like the story, you don’t have to print it, but if you do use it, you must put my name on it.’

‘All right,’ said Pugh. ‘When can we meet?’

*  *  *

Two days later, at breakfast in Great Peter Street, Jasper read in the
Guardian
that Martin Luther King was planning a massive demonstration of civil disobedience in Washington in support of a civil rights bill. King was forecasting that there would be one hundred thousand people. ‘Boy, I’d love to see that,’ said Jasper.

Evie said: ‘Me, too.’

It was to take place in August, during the university vacation, so Jasper would be free. But he could not afford ninety pounds for the fare to the US.

Daisy Williams opened an envelope and said: ‘My goodness! Lloyd, here’s a letter from your German cousin Rebecca!’

Dave swallowed a mouthful of Sugar Puffs and said: ‘Who the heck is Rebecca?’

His father had been leafing through newspapers with the speed of a professional politician. Now he looked up and said: ‘Not really a cousin. She was adopted by some distant relations of mine after her parents died in the war.’

‘I’d forgotten we had German relatives,’ Dave said.
‘Gott im Himmel!’

Jasper had noticed that Lloyd was suspiciously vague about his relatives. The late Bernie Leckwith had been his stepfather, but no one ever mentioned his real father. Jasper felt sure Lloyd had been illegitimate. It was not quite a tabloid story: bastardy was not as much of a disgrace as formerly. All the same, Lloyd never gave details.

Lloyd went on: ‘Last time I saw Rebecca was in 1948. She was about seventeen. By then she had been adopted by my relation, Carla Franck. They lived in Berlin-Mitte, so now their house must be on the wrong side of the Wall. What’s become of her?’

Daisy answered: ‘She’s obviously got out of East Germany, somehow, and moved to Hamburg. Oh . . . her husband was injured escaping, and he’s in a wheelchair.’

‘What prompted her to write to us?’

‘She’s trying to trace Hannelore Rothmann.’ Daisy looked at Jasper. ‘She was your grandmother. Apparently, she was kind to Rebecca in the war, the day Rebecca’s real parents were killed.’

Jasper had never met his mother’s family. ‘We don’t know exactly what happened to my German grandparents, but Mother is sure they’re dead,’ he said.

Daisy said: ‘I’ll show this letter to your mother. She should write to Rebecca.’

Lloyd opened the
Daily Echo
and said: ‘Bloody hell, what’s this?’

Jasper had been waiting for this moment. He clasped his hands together in his lap to stop them shaking.

Lloyd spread the newspaper on the table. On page three was a photograph of Evie coming out of a nightclub with Hank Remington, and the headline:

KORDS STAR HANK

& LABOUR MP’S

NUDIE DAUGHTER, 17

By Barry Pugh and Jasper Murray

‘I didn’t write that!’ Jasper lied. His indignation sounded forced, to him; what he really felt was elation at the sight of his own name over a report in a national newspaper. The others did not seem to notice his mixed emotions.

Lloyd read aloud: ‘“Pop star Hank Remington’s latest flame is the just-seventeen daughter of Lloyd Williams, Member of Parliament for Hoxton. Movie starlet Evie Williams is famous for appearing nude on stage at Lambeth Grammar, the posh school for top people’s children.”’

Daisy said: ‘Oh, dear, how embarrassing.’

Lloyd read on: ‘“Evie said: ‘Hank is the most courageous and dedicated person I have ever known.’ Both Evie and Hank support the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament, despite the disapproval of her father, who is Labour spokesman on military affairs.”’ Lloyd looked at Evie severely. ‘You know a lot of courageous and dedicated people, including your mother, who drove an ambulance during the Blitz, and your great-uncle, Billy Williams, who fought at the Somme. Hank must be remarkable, to overshadow them.’

‘Never mind that,’ said Daisy. ‘I thought you weren’t supposed to do interviews without asking the studio, Evie.’

‘Oh, God, this is my fault,’ Jasper said. They all looked at him. He had known there would be a scene like this, and he was ready for it. He had no difficulty looking distraught: he felt horribly guilty. ‘I interviewed Evie for the student paper. The
Echo
must have lifted my story – and rewritten it to make it sensational.’ He had prepared this fiction in advance.

‘First lesson of public life,’ Lloyd said. ‘Journalists are treacherous.’

That’s me, Jasper thought – treacherous. But the Williams family seemed to accept that he had not intended the
Echo
to run the story.

Evie was close to tears. ‘I might lose the part.’

Daisy said: ‘I can’t imagine this will do the movie any damage – quite the reverse.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ said Evie.

‘I’m so sorry, Evie,’ said Jasper, with all the sincerity he could muster. ‘I feel I’ve really let you down.’

‘You didn’t mean to,’ Evie said.

Jasper had got away with it. Around the table, no one was looking accusingly at him. They saw the
Echo
report as nobody’s fault. The only one he was not sure of was Daisy, who wore a slight frown and avoided his eye. But she loved Jasper for his mother’s sake, and she would not accuse him of duplicity.

Jasper stood up. ‘I’m going to the
Daily Echo
office,’ he said. ‘I want to meet this Pugh bastard and see what explanation he can offer.’

He was glad to get out of the house. He had successfully lied his way through a difficult scene, and the release of tension was enormous.

An hour later, he was in the newsroom of the
Echo.
He was thrilled to be there. This was what he wanted: the news desk, the typewriters, the ringing phones, the pneumatic tubes carrying copy across the room, the air of excitement.

Barry Pugh was about twenty-five, a small man with a squint, wearing a rumpled suit and scuffed suede shoes. ‘You did well,’ he said.

‘Evie still doesn’t know I gave the story to you.’

Pugh had little time for Jasper’s scruples. ‘Bloody few stories would ever be published if we asked permission every time.’

‘She was supposed to refuse all interviews except those arranged by the studio publicist.’

‘Publicists are your enemies. Be proud you outwitted one.’

‘I am.’

Pugh handed him an envelope. Jasper tore it open. It contained a cheque. ‘Your payment,’ Pugh said. ‘That’s what you get for a page-three lead.’

Jasper looked at the amount. It was ninety pounds.

He remembered the march on Washington. Ninety pounds was the fare to the US. Now he could go to America.

His heart lifted.

He put the cheque in his pocket. ‘Thank you very much,’ he said.

Barry nodded. ‘Let us know if you have any more stories like that.’

*  *  *

Dave Williams was nervous about playing the Jump Club. It was a deeply cool Central London venue, just off Oxford Street. It had a reputation for breaking new stars, and had launched several groups now in the hit parade. Famous musicians went there to listen to new talent.

Not that it looked special. There was a small stage at one end and a bar at the other. In between was room for a couple of hundred people to dance buttock-to-buttock. The floor was an ashtray. The only decoration consisted of a few tattered posters of famous acts that had played there in the past – except in the dressing room, where the walls bore the most obscene graffiti Dave had ever come across.

Dave’s performance with the Guardsmen had improved, thanks in part to helpful advice from his cousin. Lenny had a soft spot for Dave, and talked like an uncle to him, although he was only eight years older. ‘Listen to the drummer,’ Lenny had told him. ‘Then you’ll always be on the beat.’ And: ‘Learn to play without looking at your guitar, so that you can meet the eyes of people in the audience.’ Dave was grateful for any tips he could get, but he knew he was still far short of seeming professional. All the same, he felt wonderful on stage. There was nothing to read or write, so he was no longer a dunce; in fact, he was competent, and getting better. He had even fantasized about becoming a musician, and never having to study, ever again; but he knew the chances were small.

The group was improving, however. When Dave sang in harmony with Lenny they sounded modern, more like the Beatles. And Dave had persuaded Lenny to try some different material, authentic Chicago blues and danceable Detroit soul, the kind of thing the younger groups were playing. As a result they were getting more dates. Instead of once a fortnight, they were now booked every Friday and Saturday night.

But Dave had another reason for anxiety. He had got this gig by asking Evie’s boyfriend, Hank Remington, to recommend the group. But Hank had turned his nose up at their name. ‘The Guardsmen sounds old-fashioned, like the Four Aces, and the Jordanaires,’ he had said.

‘We might change it,’ Dave had said, willing to do anything for a booking at the Jump Club.

‘The latest vogue is a name from an old blues, like the Rolling Stones.’

Dave recalled a track by Booker T and the MGs that he had heard a few days earlier. He had been struck by its oddball name. ‘How about Plum Nellie?’ he had said.

Hank had liked that, and told the club they should try out a new group called Plum Nellie. A suggestion from someone as famous as Hank was like a command, and the group got the gig.

But when Dave had proposed the name change, Lenny had turned it down flat. ‘The Guardsmen we are, and the Guardsmen we stay,’ he had said mulishly, and started talking about something else. Dave had not dared to tell him the Jump Club already thought they were called Plum Nellie.

Now the crisis was approaching.

At the sound check they played ‘Lucille’. After the first verse, Dave stopped and turned to the lead guitarist, Geoffrey. ‘What the fuck was that?’ Dave said.

‘What?’

‘You played something weird halfway through.’

Geoffrey gave a knowing smile. ‘Nothing. It’s just a passing chord.’

‘It’s not on the record.’

‘What’s the matter, can’t you play C sharp diminished?’