Authors: Graham Hurley
Before he
’
d plunged into the arms of Qantas, Brendan had stressed
how important it was to end up with the right ethnic mix, and Gary
and I argued for hours on the telephone about exactly how many
blacks, browns, yellows and greens we
should be adding to the pool of
contenders. Put this way, the process sounds a bit like coo
king and it was only after Gary came up
to town
for a session in the pub
that we
found
a recipe that satisfied us both. In all, the team would
number twelve.
Half should be white. Of the rest, at least four should
be West Indian, Bengali, Chinese or Malay. The other two places were
up for grabs, depending on the talent available.
It was after we
’
d met in the pub, incidentally, that Gary announced
he
’
d missed the last train. He lived in the outskirts of Ross-on-Wye, a
house he
’
d bought when he was still with the SAS at Hereford, and the
chances of making it back after half past nine were zilch. We
’
d had a
nice time at the pub,
marvelling at all the stuff
we were up to,
and I was delighted to offer him the key to Napier Road when he
inquired about
a bed for the night. I wrote
the address on a scrap of
paper and gave it to him before he ducked into the taxi.
‘
Make yourself at home,
’
I told him.
‘
Use whatever you want.
’
That night I lay awake waiting for Brendan to phone from
Australia, wondering whether Gilbert might confuse Gary with me.
The thought of my crazy neighbour appearing at Gary
’
s bedside in the
small hours was too yummy to resist, and despite the absence of a call
from Sydney, I drifted off to sleep with a smile on my face. Gary would
probably throttle him. That would make Mark
’
s day.
Gary appeared at the office next morning. When I asked him
whether he
’
d slept OK, he looked surprised.
‘
Yeah,
’
he said.
’
Any reason why not?
’
It was at this point that Sandra, of all people, disappeared. We
’
d had a
couple of preliminary meetings about
Home
Run
,
trying to block out
cash flow on the basis of the pledges Brendan had wrung from the
sponsor. Both meetings, to my relief, had been businesslike, even
civilised, and Sandra had listened to my critique of the original idea
with something close to sympathy.
Like me, she was wary of underestimating the challenge of trying to
motivate the kids, and she also agreed that Brendan was short-
changing us over location facilities for the shoot itself. Leaving the
pictures to the kids was the kind of after-lunch decision that simply
wouldn
’
t survive contact with reality.
The principle was sound enough
(
whole progra
mmes had been built around it)
but in
this case the pressures were
far
too heavy to expect the kids to produce half-
decent pictures as well. Wouldn
’
t they have enough on their plates
simply trying to survive?
My despairing question drew an understanding nod from Sandra, and when I took her back to Brendan’s original
decision, the word
‘
macho
’
brought a smile to her lips.
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 st
uff 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
s
ure. 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 Phill
ippe?
’
‘
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 we
nt 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.
’