The time passed quickly. A waitress from a nearby café brought two sandwiches of thick white bread with fried bacon and ketchup, and Lenny paid her and gave one of the sandwiches to Dave, who was surprised to learn that it was lunchtime. The pockets of his drainpipe jeans grew heavy with coins, and he recalled with pleasure that 10 per cent of the money was his. At mid-afternoon he noticed that there were hardly any men on the streets, and Lenny explained that they had all gone to a football match.
Towards the end of the afternoon, business slowed to almost nothing. Dave thought the money in his pockets might amount to as much as five pounds, in which case he had made ten shillings, the amount of his normal allowance – and he could go to the Jump Club.
At five o’clock, Lenny began to dismantle the stall, and Dave helped to put the unsold goods in cardboard boxes, then they loaded everything into Lenny’s yellow Bedford van.
When they counted Dave’s money, he had taken just over nine pounds. Lenny gave him a pound, a little more than the agreed 10 per cent, ‘because you helped me pack up’. Dave was delighted: he had made twice the amount his father should have given him that morning. He would gladly do this every Saturday, he thought, especially if it meant he did not have to listen to his father’s preaching.
They went to the nearest pub and got pint glasses of beer. ‘You play the guitar a bit, don’t you?’ Lenny said as they sat at a grimy table with a full ashtray.
‘Yes.’
‘What sort of instrument have you got?’
‘An Eko. It’s a cheap copy of a Gibson.’
‘Electric?’
‘It’s semi-hollow.’
Lenny looked impatient: perhaps he did not know much about guitars. ‘Can you plug it in, is what I’m asking.’
‘Yes – why?’
‘Because I need a rhythm guitarist for my group.’
That was exciting. Dave had not thought of joining a group, but the idea appealed to him instantly. ‘I didn’t know you had a group,’ he said.
‘The Guardsmen. I play piano and do most of the singing.’
‘What kind of music?’
‘Rock and roll – the only kind.’
‘By which you mean . . .’
‘Elvis, Chuck Berry, Johnny Cash . . . All the greats.’
Dave could play three-chord songs without difficulty. ‘What about the Beatles?’ Their chords were more difficult.
Lenny said: ‘Who?’
‘A new group. They’re fab.’
‘Never heard of them.’
‘Well, anyway, I can play rhythm guitar on old rock songs.’
Lenny looked mildly offended at the phrase, but he said: ‘So, do you want to audition for the Guardsmen?’
‘I’d love to!’
Lenny looked at his watch. ‘How long will it take you to go home and get your guitar?’
‘Half an hour, and half an hour to get back.’
‘Meet me at the Aldgate Workingmen’s Club at seven. We’ll be setting up. We can audition you before we play. Have you got an amplifier?’
‘Small one.’
‘It’ll have to do.’
Dave got the Tube. His success as a salesman, and the beer he had drunk, gave him an inner glow. He smoked a cigarette on the train, rejoicing at his victory over his father. He imagined saying casually to Linda Robertson: ‘I play guitar in a beat group.’ That could hardly fail to impress her.
He arrived home and entered the house by the back door. He managed to slip up to his room without seeing either of his parents. It took him only a few moments to put his guitar in its carrying case and pick up his amplifier.
He was about to leave when his sister Evie came into his room, dressed up for Saturday night. She wore a short skirt and knee boots, and her hair was back-combed in a beehive. She had heavy eye make-up in the panda style made fashionable by Dusty Springfield. She looked older than seventeen. ‘Where are you going?’ Dave asked her.
‘To a party. Hank Remington is supposed to be there.’
Remington, lead singer of the Kords, sympathized with some of Evie’s causes, and had said so in interviews.
‘You’ve caused a stir today,’ Evie said. She was not accusing him: she always took his side in arguments with the parents, and he did the same for her.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Dad’s really upset.’
‘Upset?’ Dave was not sure what to make of that. His father could be angry, disappointed, stern, authoritarian, or tyrannical, and he knew how to react; but upset? ‘Why?’
‘I gather you and he had a row.’
‘He wouldn’t give me my allowance because I failed all my exams.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Nothing. I walked out. I probably slammed the door.’
‘Where have you been all day?’
‘I worked on Lenny Avery’s market stall and earned a pound.’
‘Good for you! Where are you off to now, with your guitar?’
‘Lenny has a beat group. He wants me to play rhythm guitar.’ That was an exaggeration: Dave did not have the job yet.
‘Good luck!’
‘I suppose you’ll tell Mum and Dad where I’ve gone.’
‘Only if you want me to.’
‘I don’t care.’ Dave went to the door, then hesitated. ‘He’s upset?’
‘Yes.’
Dave shrugged and left.
He got out of the house without being seen.
He was looking forward to the audition. He played and sang a lot with his sister, but he had never sat in with a real group that had a drummer. He hoped he was good enough – though rhythm guitar was not difficult.
On the Tube his thoughts kept wandering back to his father. He was a bit shocked to learn that he could upset Dad. Fathers were supposed to be invulnerable – but that attitude was childish, he now saw. Irritatingly, he might have to change his outlook. He could no longer be merely indignant and resentful. He was not the only sufferer. Dad had hurt him, but he had hurt Dad as well, and they were both responsible. Feeling responsible was not as comfortable as feeling outraged.
He found the Aldgate Workingmen’s Club and carried his guitar and amplifier inside. It was a drab place, with bright neon strips throwing a harsh light on Formica tables and tubular chairs lined up in rows that made him think of a factory canteen: hardly the place for rock and roll.
The Guardsmen were on stage, tuning up. As well as Lenny on piano there was Lew on drums, Buzz on bass and Geoffrey on lead guitar. Geoffrey had a microphone in front of him, so presumably he also did some singing. All three were older than Dave, in their early twenties, and he feared they might be much better musicians than he was. Suddenly, playing rhythm did not seem so easy.
He tuned his guitar to the piano and plugged into his amplifier. Lenny said: ‘Do you know “Mess of Blues”?’
Dave did, and he felt relieved. It was a rock-steady number in the key of C, led by a rolling piano part, easy to accompany on the guitar. He strummed along with it effortlessly and found a special kick in playing with others that he had never experienced on his own.
Lenny sang well, Dave thought. Buzz and Lew made a solid rhythm section, very steady. Geoff had some fancy licks on lead guitar. The group was competent, if a bit unimaginative.
At the end of the song, Lenny said: ‘The chords round out the sound of the group nicely, but can you play more rhythmically?’
Dave was surprised to be criticized. He thought he had done well. ‘Okay,’ he said.
The next number was ‘Shake, Rattle and Roll’, a Jerry Lee Lewis hit that was also piano-led. Geoffrey sang in unison with Lenny on the chorus. Dave played choppy chords on the off-beat, and Lenny seemed to like that better.