47
Beep Dewar came to see Dave Williams at Daisy Farm, his recording studio in Napa Valley.
The rooms were plain yet comfortable, but there was nothing plain about the studio, which had state-of-the-art equipment. Several hit albums had been made here, and renting the place to bands had turned into a small but profitable business. Sometimes they asked Dave to be their producer, and he found that he seemed to have a talent for helping them achieve the sounds they wanted.
Which was just as well, for Dave was not making as much money as he once had. Since the break-up of Plum Nellie there had been a greatest hits album, a live album, and an album of out-takes and alternate versions. Each had sold less than the previous one. Solo albums by former members had done modestly well. Dave was not in trouble, but he was no longer buying a new Ferrari every year. And the trend was down.
When Beep called and asked if she could drive up and see him next day he had been so surprised that he had not asked whether she had some special reason.
That morning he shampooed his beard in the shower, put on clean jeans, and picked out a bright blue shirt. Then he asked himself why he was making a fuss. He was no longer in love with Beep. Why did he care what she thought of his appearance? He realized that he wanted her to look at him and regret jilting him. ‘Bloody fool,’ he said aloud to himself, and put on an old T-shirt.
All the same, he wondered what she wanted.
He was in the studio, working with a young singer-songwriter making his first album, when the gate phone flashed silently. He left the artist working on the middle eight and stepped outside. Beep drove up to the house in a red Mercury Cougar with the top down.
He expected her to have changed, and was intrigued to see what she would look like, but in fact she was the same: small and pretty with an impish look in her eye. She hardly seemed different from when he had first met her, a decade ago, when she had been a disturbingly sexy thirteen-year-old. Today she wore blue matador pants and a striped tank top, and her hair was cut in a short bob.
First he took her to the back of the house and showed her the view across the valley. It was winter, and the vines were bare, but the sun was shining, and the rows of brown plants threw blue shadows, making curvilinear patterns like brush strokes.
She said: ‘What kind of grapes do you grow?’
‘Cabernet sauvignon, the classic red grape. It’s hardy, and this stony soil suits it.’
‘Do you make wine?’
‘Yes. It’s not great, but it’s improving. Come inside and try a glass.’
She liked the all-wood kitchen, which looked traditional despite having all the latest gadgets. The cabinets were natural hand-scraped pine, washed with a light stain to give the wood a golden glow. Dave had removed the flat ceiling, opening up the height of the room to the underside of the pitched roof.
He had spent a lot of time designing this room because he wanted it to be like the kitchen of the house in Great Peter Street, a room where everyone came to hang out, eat and drink and talk.
They sat at the antique pine table and Dave opened a bottle of Daisy Farm Red 1969, the first one he and Danny Medina had produced as partners. It was still too tannic, and Beep made a face. Dave laughed. ‘I guess you have to appreciate its potential.’
‘I’ll take your word for that.’
She took out a pack of Chesterfields. Dave said: ‘You were smoking Chesterfields when you were thirteen.’
‘I ought to give it up.’
‘I had never seen such long cigarettes.’
‘You were sweet at that age.’
‘And the sight of your lips sucking on a Chesterfield was strangely arousing to me, though I could not have said why.’
She laughed. ‘I could have told you.’
He took another sip of the wine. It might be better in a couple more years. He said: ‘How is Walli?’
‘Fine. He does more dope than he should, but what can I tell you? He’s a rock star.’
Dave smiled. ‘I smoke a joint most evenings myself.’
‘Are you dating anyone?’
‘Sally Dasilva.’
‘The actress. I saw a picture of the two of you, arriving at some premiere, but I didn’t know if it was serious.’
It was not very serious. ‘She’s in LA, and we both work a lot. But we get a weekend together once in a while.’
‘By the way, I have to tell you how much I admire your sister.’
‘Evie’s a good actress.’
‘She made me weep with laughter in that movie where she played a rookie cop. But it’s her activism that makes her a hero. A lot of people oppose the war, but not many have the guts to go to North Vietnam.’
‘She was scared shitless.’
‘I bet.’
Dave put down his glass and gave Beep a direct look. He could not contain his curiosity any longer. ‘What’s really on your mind, Beep?’
‘First, thanks for seeing me. You didn’t have to, and I appreciate it.’
‘You’re welcome.’ He had almost said No, but inquisitiveness had overcome resentment.
‘Second, I apologize for what I did back in 1968. I’m sorry I hurt you. It was cruel, and I’ll never cease to be ashamed.’
Dave nodded. He was not going to disagree. To let her fiancé find her in bed with his best friend was about as cruel as a girl could be, and the fact that she had been only twenty at the time was not enough of an excuse.
‘Third, Walli is sorry too. He and I still love each other, don’t get me wrong, but we know what we did. Walli will tell you so himself, if you ever give him the chance.’
‘Okay.’ She was beginning to churn up Dave’s emotions. He felt echoes of long-forgotten passions: anger, resentment, loss. He was impatient to find out where this was leading.
Beep said: ‘Could you ever forgive us?’
He was unprepared for the question. ‘I don’t know, I haven’t thought about it,’ he said weakly. Before today he might have said that he no longer cared, but somehow Beep’s questions were reawakening dormant grief. ‘What would forgiving you involve?’
Beep took a breath. ‘Walli wants to re-form the group.’
‘Oh!’ Dave had not been expecting that.
‘He misses working with you.’
Dave found that gratifying, in a mean-minded sort of way.
Beep added: ‘The solo albums haven’t done so well.’
‘His sold better than mine.’
‘But it’s not even the sales that bother him. He doesn’t care about the money, doesn’t spend half of what he earns. What matters to him is that the music was better when the two of you made it together.’
‘I can’t disagree with that,’ said Dave.
‘He’s got some songs he’d like to share with you. You could get Lew and Buzz over from London. We could all live here at Daisy Farm. Then, when the album comes out, maybe you could do a reunion concert, even a tour.’
Against his will Dave felt excited. Nothing had ever been as thrilling as the Plum Nellie years, all the way from Hamburg to Haight-Ashbury. The group had been exploited and cheated and ripped off, and they had loved every minute of it. Now he was respected and fairly paid, a television personality, a family entertainer, a show-business entrepreneur. But it was not half so much fun.
‘Go back on the road?’ he mused. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Think about it,’ Beep pleaded. ‘Don’t say yes or no.’
‘Okay,’ Dave said. ‘I’ll think about it.’
But he already knew the answer.
He walked her out to her car. There was a newspaper lying on the passenger seat. Beep picked it up and handed it to him. ‘Have you seen this?’ she said. ‘It’s a photo of your sister.’
*
The picture showed Evie Williams in camouflage fatigues.
The first thing that struck Cam Dewar was how alluring she looked. The baggy clothing only reminded him that underneath was the perfect body the world had seen in the movie The Artist’s Model. The heavy boots and the utilitarian cap just made her more cute.
She was sitting on a tank. Cam did not know much about armaments, but the caption told him this was a Soviet T-54 with a 100mm gun.
All around her were uniformed soldiers of the North Vietnamese Army. She seemed to be telling them something amusing, and her face was alight with animation and humour. They were smiling and laughing the way people anywhere in the world did around a Hollywood celebrity.
She was on a peace mission, according to the accompanying article. She had learned that Vietnamese people did not wish to be at war with the United States. ‘There’s a fucking surprise,’ Cam said sarcastically. All they wanted was to be left alone, Evie said.
The picture was a public relations triumph for the anti-war movement. Half the girls in America wanted to be Evie Williams, half the boys wanted to marry her, and they all admired her courage in going to North Vietnam. Worse yet, the Communists were doing her no harm. They were talking to her and telling her that they wanted to be friends with the American people.
How could the wicked President drop bombs on these nice folks?
It made Cam want to puke.
But the White House was not taking this lying down.
Cam was working the phones, calling sympathetic journalists. There were not too many of those: the liberal media hated Nixon, and a part of the conservative media found him too moderate. But there were enough supporters, Cam thought, to start a backlash, if only they would play along.
Cam had in front of him a list of points to make, and he chose from the list depending on whom he was talking to. ‘How many American boys do you think have been killed by that tank?’ he asked a writer for a talk show.
‘I don’t know, you tell me,’ the man replied.
The correct answer was probably none, since North Vietnamese tanks generally did not meet American forces, but engaged the South Vietnamese Army. However, that was not the point. ‘It’s a question liberals ought to be asked on your show,’ Cam said.
‘You’re right, it’s a good question.’
Speaking to a columnist for a right-wing tabloid he asked: ‘Did you know that Evie Williams is British?’
‘Her mother is American,’ the journalist pointed out.
‘Her mother hates America so much that she left in 1936 and has never lived here since.’
‘Good point!’
Speaking to a liberal journalist who often attacked Nixon, Cam said: ‘Even you have to admit she’s naive, to let herself be used like this by the North Vietnamese for anti-American propaganda. Or do you take her peace mission seriously?’
The results were spectacular. Next day began a backlash against Evie Williams that was larger in scale than her original triumph. She became public enemy number one, replacing Eldridge Cleaver, the serial rapist and Black Panther leader. Letters vilifying her poured into the White House – and not all of them were whipped up by local Republican parties around the country. She became a hate figure to the people who had voted for Nixon, people who clung to the simple belief that you were either for America or against it.
Cam found the whole thing deeply gratifying. Every time he read another tabloid diatribe against her, he remembered how she had called his love ridiculous.
But he was not through with her yet.
When the backlash was at its height, he called Melton Faulkner, a pro-Nixon businessman who was on the board of one of the television networks. He got the switchboard to dial the call, so that Faulkner’s secretary would say to him: ‘The White House is on the line!’