Carnforths creation, p.15
Carnforth's Creation, page 15
When the curtain rose, and the boys started clapping, and the girls waved their arms like branches, Gemma suddenly felt better. The band kicked off with a light shuffling beat; restless, nervous, raising the tension until the moment when Roy bounded out from the wings and screeched, ‘Hiya! We’re gonna have a ball, right?’ And like a children’s panto, a great shriek of ‘Right!’ came blistering back. Roy walked no way she’d seen him walk before: right back on his heels, head thrown back; a kind of bouncy strutting in time with the beat. He stood still for a moment, then whipped the mike off its stand and slammed into the first line of Getting Clever. And though screams were coming from all over the hall and the band was blasting like a jet, Roy was still getting across: the perfect blend of delinquency and effeminacy – enough of each to excite a teenage girl without threatening too much. Only now, not trying to listen, did Gemma realize what a performer he’d turned into. One moment hunched and remote, clutching the mike-stand; the next singing to individual girls, skipping to the edge of the stage, then dancing back teasingly.
Next a floating lyrical number; individual members of the band excelling themselves with variations; and Roy, very still at the centre of a fixed spot, singing with quiet clarity:
‘Going nowhere
Is no place to go to…
Give me one break, honey,
And I’ll do my best to show you
Somewhere you’d rather be,
Up in my dream-machine, riding a cloud with me …’
Plenty of sobbing when this one ended, and more when he wrapped himself round an old blues number, going down on his knees in cathartic agony before the end. Obviously he would lift them after this; but that didn’t spoil it; she admired the way he rode the change of mood as smoothly as an aircraft climbing.
Then a murderous solo on drums, and Roy stripped off his loose shirt. Underneath he was wearing the kind of clinging high-waisted trousers that mime artists wear. Gemma watched him loosen a thick jewelled belt, and for the first time wanted to laugh; at any rate till the band cracked into a pounding rhythm, faster and faster; a steam-train; lovers before orgasm; louder, louder, until Gemma almost relived her first rock ’n’ roll concert: the woof of the sound, the floor vibrating, the certainty that any moment the audience would either burst, or go with it … screaming, weeping, anything. Screams were rising around her; sharper, longer; explosions of release, like on the big-wheel, falling. Suddenly the drums relented and slowed. A pause; then Roy whined like a chain-saw,
‘Wanna hear about the little hitch-hiker?’
He lashed the air with his belt.
‘Wasn’t a guy I knew didn’t wanter spike ’er.’
Gemma hadn’t known how this would sound live; whether Roy could manage enough aggression with his predominantly pretty looks. But she had counted without the rawness he could inject, backed by the power of his band.
‘Little hitch-hiker …
Wore hot-pants; were they hot
Damn near showed evrathing she’d got …
I oughta know … talkin’ about the little hitch-hiker …’
Another swipe with the belt; this time cracking it on the floor.
‘Used ter act mean with me in the bar,
Said she didn’t ever go too far …
’cept with guys who played guitar …’
A swift glance back at the band.
‘Little hitch-hiker …’
And now he was really moving with his body; no pumping crotch thrusts at the audience, but a stomping victory march.
‘Shouldna hitched a ride in my truck,
Honey, wasn’t that some kinda … luck?’
Crack went the belt.
‘Wanna hear about the trucking rapist?
Vans and trucks are where it’s safest.
Tellin’ yer so … Oh, yes …’
He flung down the belt, and dragged the mike up the front of his body like an electronic phallus. Then, mouth almost touching the metal grille, he sung hoarsely:
‘Don’ hitch with me if you wanna cheat,
Won’t stay upright in your seat …
Scratch your back till it’s raw meat …
Little hitch-hiker …
Better be a fighter …
Choose another guy,
If you wanna play shy …
Little hitch-hiker … Talkin’ ’bout the little hitch-hiker.’
The song ended on a climax of drums, and left the audience dazed for several seconds, as if caught enjoying a mood they shouldn’t have. Then, a delayed reaction: twenty or thirty girls tried to rush the stage, desperate to hitch any kind of ride with Roy. Boys stood on their seats, stamping, and the stewards dived in. Roy tried to calm them with one of the most detached numbers from his LP.
‘To make a better world,
You’ll hafta be quite a big timer,
Up there with God or the Devil at least,
A real social climber …’
Maybe it was mention of the devil, but scuffles kept breaking out, and Roy only regained control by shouting into the mike, ‘Okay, let’s see how beautiful you are. You see me, but I can’t see you.’ As the lights came on, the band played one of their gentlest ballads.
Gemma didn’t stay for the whole concert: she had arranged to meet Paul at Roy’s hotel to discuss a newspaper interview she was meant to be doing with Roy later, for the benefit of the cameras. But she had decided to drop it. Roy didn’t need her or anyone else any more, and she for one wasn’t going to try to persuade him that he did.
*
An hour after the concert there were half-a-dozen people in Roy’s hotel room, not counting the film crew. Paul surprised Gemma by making no effort to change her mind about the interview. He too seemed to have recognized that the public phase of Roy’s career would be different. For the moment at least he appeared happy to sit back and watch, like a client who had paid for an expensive cabaret at his party.
Five minutes ago, a girl had got past the security man on the landing. Wearing a hired waitress-costume, she had dropped her tray, and flung herself at Roy so forcefully that they had both ended up on the floor. Before that, the manageress had begged Roy to talk to her teenage daughter who was ‘playing up awful’. ‘All she wants is a few kind words and she’ll be fine.’ Roy had told her past experience made him doubt it. But the woman had gone on pleading and in the end he had given in. The result – all filmed by Matthew – had been an hysterical adolescent, writhing and weeping on the carpet, while her mother hid her face. Afterwards a maid had been filmed mopping up the pee. Then, apart from a father wanting Roy to tape a message for his daughter in hospital, no more visitors.
*
After the departure of the film crew, Matthew stayed on and accepted a whisky from Paul.
‘So how was I?’ Roy asked Gemma, gesturing to her to sit next to him on the large double bed. They were in the Napoleon suite; and in a purple coatee with a white fur collar, Roy looked the part.
‘In whose league?’ asked the bass guitarist, slumped against a radiator.
‘You were great in any league,’ Gemma told him.
The bass guitarist howled with laughter, as did rubbery-faced Len, who leered at Gemma, ‘He means did you wet yourself? And how come you aren’t combing the three hairs on his chest?’
‘Better than the three hairs on your head,’ countered Roy.
Paul told Roy not to worry; he was ‘bigger’ than Callas and Gobbi now.
‘On a decibel rating,’ muttered Len.
‘They lift spirits, I lift roofs,’ laughed Roy. ‘You know that film of Picasso drawing? Saw it at school … big close-ups of his hand, doing it; creating … Wow! You ought to get a camera down my throat.’
The door burst open and the group’s road manager announced that he had some ‘serious chicks’ lined up.
‘Don’t like serious chicks,’ objected Roy. ‘They wear glasses and girdles.’
‘Don’t piss around. They’re not under age and they’ll do anything.’
‘They haven’t seen Len,’ said the bass guitarist. ‘Are they hookers?’
‘No they’re fucking not.’
‘Amateurs,’ sneered Len. ‘Might as well have a look. Do we get one each this time?’
When they had gone, Roy seemed dispirited, ‘Don’t fancy one night stands myself.’
‘A bit hit or miss,’ agreed Paul, buttoning his snakeskin coat. He rattled his car keys. ‘Got to love you and leave you. Meeting in town first thing.’ He shook his head admiringly. ‘Marvellous, Roy … almost perfect. I think you ought to stroke yourself a bit more though. Nothing pansy; a good solid hold on the thigh … sort of dragging the hand along.’ He demonstrated. ‘Really love yourself.’
When Paul had gone, Matthew turned on Roy bitterly. ‘Why did you butter him up like that before the concert … going back on everything?’
Roy shrugged. ‘I’ve decided to play it smogo.’ He reached for Gemma’s hand.
‘You think if you do it Paul’s way, maybe you’ll get more than a finger in Gemma’s pie?’
‘You’ve been working too hard,’ snorted Roy, kicking off his sneakers.
‘They’re an old team, Roy.’
‘Not any more,’ said Gemma.
‘Any idea why Paul shoved off just now?’ asked Matthew.
‘He told yer.’
Matthew said gently, ‘Try asking yourself what he’d get out of it if you cut loose.’ He pulled a face. ‘But why should he worry? Hooked on Gemma, you’ll be easy meat for years.’
‘Speakin’ from experience, Mat?’
Matthew flicked at the tassels on the lampshade by his chair. ‘Fine, Roy … get grooving with gorgeous here, but don’t pretend you never knew Paul shoved her at you.’
‘All right,’ screeched Roy, jumping up. ‘Let’s play dirty. Pop’s a bourgeois rip-off … that’s how your old lady says you reckon it. So much for your lying guff about extending popular culture and Paul getting his kicks outa pissing on it.’
Matthew’s face froze. ‘Bridget said that?’
‘He’s exaggerating … I was there,’ lied Gemma, trying to warn Roy.
‘Sod that,’ he grated. ‘I’m not playing careful.’ He glared at Matthew. ‘What sort of fink do you take me for? Paul’s fooling me, Gemma’s goin’ to string me along. Okay … grab this then, Mat: you wanna louse-up Paul ’cos he’s balling your woman.’
‘Come off it,’ exclaimed Gemma.
Too angry to think of retracting, Roy cried, ‘You ask Tony if we didn’t see ’em smooching.’
Matthew walked to the door. ‘Good of you to tell me.’
‘Wait … I’m coming too,’ called Gemma.
He looked back. ‘Go to hell,’ he said, and left the room.
Gemma stood a long time with her back to Roy, looking out at the dark skyline of huddled houses and factory chimneys. ‘That wasn’t very bright of you,’ she said at last. He came up behind her and kissed her neck.
‘C’mon, baby, nobody’s gonna tell me what to do from now on in.’ When she moved away, he lay on the bed and drew his hands up behind his head. ‘Like see it from my side. One day I get Mat saying, “Watch it, kid, Paul’s gonna getya,” and the next it’s Paul saying, “Matty’s real mean, so play it my way.” Well sod ’em both.’
‘You think after what you said, Matthew isn’t going to get mean?’
‘After what I said,’ he shouted. ‘Dontya mean, after what Paul did? Ain’t my fault he plugged inter Matthew’s woman to get her saying his words.’
‘You could be wrong.’
He sat up straight. ‘Was Mat on the level? Did Paul ask yer to stay and make it with me?’ She shook her head emphatically. ‘Could’ve been a good scene in the lobby … us leavin’ together in the morning. Clicketty click go the cameras … Lady Elly sees the pics in the Daily Shitheap, and thinks, “Great, Gemma’s really outa my man’s life”.’
‘I am out of it, Roy.’
About to laugh, Roy paused. Same blue eyes, turned-up nose, gamin hair; but something different. Her sparkle out to lunch some place. A spooky tone to her; like a cracked disc playing in an empty house. A put-up job? She’d fooled him before. He said, ‘If you’re goin’ ter see me schmaltz about being all beat-up under the armour-plating, I’m not buying.’
‘Who’d blame you?’ she murmured, sitting on the bed. After a pause, ‘Did you ever wonder why I didn’t marry Paul? That kind of money; his looks … character?’ A sad sisterly smile. ‘I’d’ve been wiped out, Roy. It’s happening to Eleanor, and she’s a tougher cooky than I’ll ever be.’
‘You had other blokes …’
‘Always kidding myself … next time would be different. Failures … what did they matter, with Paul always around to patch me up?’
‘No more?’
She hung her head. ‘I still can’t believe it. Our lives one story; then out of the blue he gives mine back … just “borrowed” all those years. Marvellous while it lasted, but …’
‘For fuck’s sake; he’s married. You didn’t own him.’
Gemma laughed wanly. ‘Spot on. I wasn’t after sympathy; I told you because you kissed me, said you’d do what you want … right? Meaning why don’t we get together anyway?’ Her voice had become very quiet.
Roy applauded ironically. ‘So you nailed me with one of the heaviest “piss off” speeches on record.’
Her cheeks were glowing. ‘I tried to say, Yes, let’s … because I’m clearing off, because I don’t want anything from you … because you were …’ She broke off, and ended quietly, ‘… a better person than we deserved.’
‘Okay, I get the message; today but not tomorrow.’ He thought a moment, then shrugged. ‘I’ve nothing against special offers.’
‘Please, Roy …’ she whispered, hurt by his defensive mockery.
‘Don’want nothing from me, right?’ She caught his eye, and slowly nodded. He rolled on to his side and squinted up at her. ‘Wadya say to taking everything off and starting in here?’ He patted the eiderdown. She answered him by peeling off her T-shirt. He took a deep breath. ‘Wait till I get hold of you, baby.’ As she watched him stumbling about with one leg stuck in his skin-tight trousers, his eagerness seemed touching rather than crude. He murmured, ‘Just tell me the way you like it, huh? Only one performance …’ He tugged at pants, which ripped. ‘Boy, am I going to try ter …’
‘Er … Roy,’ she began, slipping between the sheets. ‘Five thousand kids screaming their heads off is quite an act to follow.’
‘You’re crazy. That was nothing.’
‘Then you’re crazy too,’ she giggled.
He slid in beside her. ‘I talk too much when I’m nervous.’
‘Don’t be,’ she murmured, opening her arms.
13
Anger was no help to Paul. Nothing short of a masterstroke seemed likely to mitigate the havoc Roy had caused. But at this late stage could anything be expected to prevent Matthew representing him either as a cynical shark, or witless trendy, dwarfed by his protégé’s triumphs?
When Paul fixed on a plan, he was aware of drawbacks as well as possibilities. If Roy were to take part in an open air concert at Castle Delvaux after his triumphant tour – and walk arm-in-arm with his benefactor to the stage in the park – Matthew would be obliged to film the event, and however biassed his editing, viewers would still consider Roy’s gratitude and dependence unaffected by his success. Far from looking irrelevant, Paul’s position as eminence grise would be enhanced (nothing ‘grise’ about it in fact). The visual images would say it all: old aristocracy and new, as myth-making co-producers of the ultimate modern fantasy – take an ounce of tradition; two of classless novelty; add raw vigour and beat briskly for hours and hours.
Over Roy’s shoulder in shot after shot, the floodlit battlements and towers would dominate the scene. His fans, pouring through the famous heraldic park-gates, would look like pilgrims visiting the birthplace of a god.
So what of the disadvantages? Simply Eleanor’s opposition.
Paul promised her the best security money could buy: the confinement of fans to the park; the removal of all litter, chemical lavatories, hot-dog stands, alien people and impedimenta from the park within twenty-four hours of the last song. He guaranteed a setting-up phase not exceeding three days (security to operate from dawn on day one).
Yet nothing budged Eleanor. They had agreed certain things in the past, most important among them being never to use Castle Delvaux for anything resembling the proceedings Paul had in mind.
Knowing Eleanor blamed his involvement with Roy for most of their difficulties, Paul was painfully conscious of the risks, were he to go ahead in spite of her. But the likely effects of a documentary disaster on their marriage outweighed all other anxieties. Matthew had named October as the last month for filming. With only three months left, Paul felt obliged to make his first moves, while matters were still unresolved with Eleanor.
*
Paul had expected Eleanor to leave Delvaux, during what she had for some time referred to as ‘the invasion’. She had gone away when the earlier filming had taken place; but that, she told him, had been different, posing no threat to house and gardens. This time, more would be at stake than her personal feelings. Knowing how intense these were, Paul was disconcerted by the coldly disinterested tone she adopted on their walks along the perimeter, separating park and gardens. His Elly, who lived at Delvaux and loved it, was now replaced by a clinical field officer, expert in assessing the strengths and weaknesses of a threatened front.
The ha-ha was an obstacle of sorts, but the ditch would have to be filled with barbed-wire. Existing fences would presumably serve as ground-anchorage for taller corrugated-iron barriers. The outer walls of the estate, on the park side, were tall enough to keep out all but the most athletic ticketless fans, but what if cars and vans were parked close to them? She suggested small groups of security men operating as roving ‘snatch squads’, a method she had learned was used in demonstrations. Eleanor attended all Paul’s consultations with contractors, as did the agent, head gardener, and estate carpenter. She was also there when he gave notice of his plans to his tenant farmers, and put forward suggestions of her own about the location of car parks when Paul held discussions with the local police.
