Carnforths creation, p.17
Carnforth's Creation, page 17
The crowd’s focus of interest shifted from the fallen to the film crew. No need for Matthew to ask what had happened, a youth in a kaftan dripping blue dye down his yellow hipsters, began babbling to the camera as if addressing an old friend, ‘Bad vibes from the beginning when the fuzz got heavy … like it was a party till the rip-off started; kids who’d paid good bread being squeezed for more, and the food so goddam over the top pricewise …’ Paul got up, still shaky on his legs. Another voice: ‘The sound system’s all fucked up. We came for a concert …’ A third: ‘Once it turns paranoid, man, nothing’s gonna cool it …’
‘Hey, people, people,’ began Paul, ‘you want it wrapped up and sanitized?’ The camera panned round on him. ‘You want the spontaneity squeezed out? So why not watch the movie in an armchair?’
‘You fuckin’ bastard,’ groaned the injured rocker, heaving himself into a kneeling position.
‘So rock’s about violence for some,’ went on Paul, getting some friendly laughs. ‘It’s about peace ‘n’ love for others … but what it’s not is cotton-wool blandness.’
‘Gotta be memorable,’ echoed an unseen convert, as Paul moved off unsteadily. As he passed the entrance to the beer tent, a youth reeled out, leaned against one of the guy-ropes and vomited.
‘Okay, sit tight, stay cool, we have sound for you now,’ Paul heard booming out from the stage amps. And cool they’d stay, he thought, unless the rain let up. The ground underfoot, already cut-up by the contractors’ lorries, was turning into a bog. It occurred to him that the weather might send home the hordes outside, but the next moment he’d forgotten this cause for celebration. Where had the beauty of the morning gone? The colours and the optimism? Paradise Lost, all right; light-hearted Breughel rapidly turning into Bacon crossed with Bosch. Cold, wet; clothes clinging to them; aeons away from hearing Rory, and light years further from home, the crowd had taken on the look of sullen children, drifting from tent to tent, looking for trouble to make up for whatever else they’d lost. But at last … music. Paul headed for the house in search of dry clothes, brandy to dull the aching of his hand, and a telephone to speed Roy’s coming.
The rain stopped shortly after five, and so did the flow of beer, but with plenty of sweet red wine still available the loss was not considered serious. As shafts of watery sunshine filtered through the clouds, a helicopter dipped down, circled the park and disappeared, without anyone being the wiser why.
Ducking down under the rotor blades, and holding in place a velvet cap, matching his red cape, Roy splashed across the tennis court. Ignoring the children thrusting autograph books, he asked irritably where Matthew was. Paul filled him in on the difficulties: over seventy thousand in the park; the gardens sealed off; no direct access except by the main gates, which were choked by two thousand no-hopers. ‘But the bouncers have got radios?’ screeched Roy. ‘Yer told me so. They can tell ’im to get over here.’
‘You think Mattv can ride in on a radio wave?’
‘So how do I get in there? With half-a-dozen heavies tryin’ to push past that many freaked-out kids?’
‘Through the home farm in a truck.’
‘That’s a great entrance, man.’
‘Suggest another,’ snapped Paul, as another deep throb from his hand made his head swim.
‘Okay, okay,’ placated Roy, taking a pen thrust at him and absently starting to sign his name on anything held out.
Nat Fleischmann, the top PR at Stella, and Jim Heffernan from Exodus’s A & R department, who had flown in with Roy, came up to question Paul. ‘Aw, piss off,’ Roy told them, after they had reacted badly to news of the forgeries.
‘You’ve gotta get Matthew outer the park,’ he insisted, grabbing Paul’s undamaged hand. ‘I screwed it with him … I know that; which is why I’m gonna do everything you said to get us out. Dinner together, keepin’ em waiting, and any buddy-buddy stuff that’s goin’ ter help yer.’
Paul told him about the build-up outside the gates, the mood in the park, the fights, the dope, the disillusion. ‘We can’t wait till dark for you to go on, Roy.’
Roy stared at him in amazement. ‘You’d better be joking? Can’t let a few spaced-out kids spoil it all … you had some great ideas, man.’
‘And my latest is you hit that stage as soon as I can get you there.’ Paul indicated a Bedford truck backing towards the court. When he caught hold of Roy’s cape, he pulled away leaving it in his hands.
‘You think I’ll let Mat make a creep of me nationwide? Like what’s he doing now? Shooting aggro and hassles … right? Shove me on now, and we’re playing his game. We’ll look like panicky kids ourselves.’ He moved towards Paul, almost pleading, ‘You were right from day one; we gotta stand by our image; gotta go through with it. Christ, man, I used to envy your guts.’
‘Listen, you little jerk,’ cut in Heffernan. ‘You gotta hundred thousand punters out there who made you what you are and if they get hurt cos you kept stalling you can bet your ass you’ll get …’
‘Get nothing you Irish nurd. What harm did rioting do the Stones in the States?’
‘They sell on violence,’ shouted Fleishmann, ‘you’re the “getting clever” kid … so tell us what’s cool or clever about smashed skulls?’
Roy walked towards the helicopter. ‘These things go down nice and low; let’s do a body count before we get into this kinda blackmail.’ When no one answered, he sat down on the soaking grass. ‘I stay here till someone nabs that fucking film crew and gets it over to shoot me gettin’ outa that chopper.’
Thick-headed with too much brandy on an empty stomach, Paul told him to get up. Roy shook his head. ‘Made your own myth,’ he murmured, ‘couldn’t hack it if you screw it up now.’
Paul told him again, Roy stayed sitting.
*
Dinner as originally planned; candle-lit formality. Glinting silver against polished oak, and through the leaded window-panes the light-towers glowing as dusk came on. Wearing his stage make-up, and a black and gold costume out-doing anything worn by Holbein’s statesmen, Roy eyed Matthew’s camera and smiled at Paul. So this was where he had to take it on, and lead. The poor sod could hardly eat, with his hand puffed up almost twice its size. Through the windows he could hear music and the rumble of the crowd. He took a mouthful of pheasant, grouse or whatever. ‘Wonder what’s on their menu,’ he said, jerking his head towards the window. ‘Know what we ought to’ve fixed? A big screen so they could watch us noshing.’ Nothing from Paul. ‘Know what sticks in my head? When you said James Dean didn’t belong to the same world the Beatles took over. Blew my mind. From rebel misfit to flip self-confidence in one teen-generation. Gotta hit the mood spot on before it shifts.’
‘I said that?’ muttered Paul, staring at his hand.
‘And how … like Fitzgerald in the Twenties, getting it over so clear he ends up being the goddam mood …’
A faint smile from Paul. ‘What did we end up doing?’
Outside the crowd notched a new high in decibels. ‘What did we do?’ gasped Roy, as though not believing what he’d heard. ‘We gave pop class, that’s what we did. And a fuck’s sight more of it than those groovy dope-heads deserve.’
Matthew told the cameraman to cut. Roy jumped up. ‘Whydya do that? Cos I’m lip-reading his words?’ He advanced on the crew. ‘Well I’m Mr Big now, and you can get yer junk outer here before I smash it.’
Matthew looked enquiringly at Paul, who said quietly, ‘Why not do what the man says?’
As the crew carted out its gear, Major Bourne came in, his tweed jacket ripped; a livid bruise on his forehead. ‘I’m sorry, Lord Carnforth … This can’t go on. ‘His voice shook with shock and emotion. ‘Unless you agree to open the gates, someone’ll get killed out there.’
‘Can’t do it till Roy’s on stage, Freddy,’ said Paul.
‘Let’s go,’ announced Roy, heading for the door. He heard Paul questioning his quailing agent. A clear-cut situation. Hundreds of lads from villages roundabout had turned up wanting to pay, but had been stopped and thumped by city kids, who’d bought dud tickets and couldn’t afford to replace them with the real thing. Jealousy, frustration, violence …
‘An ugly business … very ugly,’ muttered the old soldier, as the cameraman crammed in a fresh mag and the recordist said, ‘Got ’im on sound, Chris.’
‘What are you hangin’ around for?’ asked Roy, pushing past them. ‘Might miss a murder.’ The camera, and a hand-held battery light, swung round on him. ‘No second chances,’ he snapped, ‘got work to do.’
*
Bouncing along a narrow farm track in the Bedford with Paul and three security men, Roy asked about the height of the stage, how long the lights would be out before he appeared, when his group had arrived; anything and everything except what would happen when several thousand fans who loathed each other’s guts were allowed to mingle with a vast uncertain-tempered crowd. Would the hate, infecting a few, spread like gangrene to the rest? In the critical seconds after the lights flicked on, would he be able to seize control? Grab it before the ticket-holding majority realized thousands of new arrivals hadn’t paid a cent? And if he failed … if they stormed the stage?
Every time the truck’s wheels hit a rut, Paul’s face contorted with pain. ‘You frightened?’ he asked at last.
Roy licked bone-dry lips. ‘I’m not goin’ to the fuckin’ guillotine. Course I’m scared.’
‘They mustn’t sense it.’
‘You don’t say.’
The driver swung into the park and accelerated. About twenty yards from the backstage enclosure, the wheels sank into the mud, and went on sinking as they spun round. Outside, milling kids had no idea who was inside; not yet.
Crouched down in the back, waiting for the driver to fetch more heavies from the enclosure, Roy turned to Paul. ‘Must be pretty weird … waitin’ to be crunched by your own creation.’
*
From the moment the music had started, Eleanor had recognized the futility of trying to keep in touch with her people by using whistles, shouts, or any other sounds. The din coming from the coffin-like boxes on the stage had been loud enough to rattle the windows at the back of the house, and be heard over a mile away. Certain that the garden perimeter was safe, she had taken herself off to the tower at midday; while daylight lasted, it afforded the best view of the wall along the Frimpton–Belstead road. After dark she had sent the entire outside staff to positions along the wall, from which flashlight signals could be seen from the gatehouse. Given an SOS she would then set off the fire-alarm to summon all other estate volunteers to the threatened area.
Whatever might happen in the park or on the road, Eleanor held to her determination to concentrate only on the defence of house and gardens. As dusk came on and she heard that fights were breaking out between local boys and ‘visitors’, she felt sick and saddened that Paul should have brought this on those whose interests should have been his own. But she did not think of short-term consequences. In fact it occurred to nobody as likely that if people who knew the area well were driven back from the most obvious points of access, they might be willing to trudge many miles across country to gain their objective. Eleanor had dismissed this idea days ago, partly because so little could be done about it, and partly because she had never really supposed country people would be prepared to trespass en masse for the sake of a pop concert. Had such thoughts taken serious root, two others would certainly have followed: that given a local lead, outsiders might recognize a promising idea; and, if coming through the arboretum (instead of the home farm), they would undoubtedly try to reach the park through the gardens.
About half-an-hour after twilight dimmed to proper darkness, there was a longer than usual interval between groups. This was accompanied by an eery drop in the main crowd’s familiar noise-level, and a rising clamour from outside the gates. Then (probably another power failure) the lights in the park went out, and, like a waking giant, the crowd began to grunt and roar. Only minutes after the loss of the lights, Eleanor saw a clear signal being flashed to her, not from the wall, but from much closer to the house. A second signal, not far from the first, decided her. As the alarm bells rang out, she ran down the twisting stairs to begin an hour she would look back on as the worst of her life.
*
In a tent directly behind the stage, Roy, Paul, and members of the group waited tensely. After their frantic struggle to reach the backstage enclosure, nobody who had been in the truck was under any illusions about an easy ride ahead. While the group tuned-up, Roy began jumping and bending, loosening muscles; doing what he could to prepare himself. Still pitch darkness outside. Paul was arguing with a security man who had said the stage was too low and ought to have had more crash barriers immediately in front.
‘What we gotta know,’ the man went on belligerently, ‘is how many of us you want on stage … Like if one cat from the audience gets up there and stays, we might as well …’
‘He’s got to be seen,’ said Paul sharply, ‘so don’t crowd him.’
‘If we don’t, there’s plenty of others will.’
White-faced Roy shouted at him to keep quiet; that he’d rather have no protection on stage than heavies aggravating the crowd.
‘You want security, man, or dontcha?’
‘Just stop’em climbin’ on the speakers, okay?’
Roy closed his eyes and breathed deeply. ‘Now get this right,’ he heard Paul saying, ‘you radio the gate when he’s half-way into the first number …’ After that, time racing; guards and aides around him and the group in a tight cordon. All of them blundering up the steps in the dark; roadies bumping around plugging in the groups’ leads. Roy held himself back ten feet from the mike, ready for the lights to trigger his movements.
Waiting for the lights, Paul had moved stage left, and was looking down into the crowd over some of the smaller amps. Sensing activity on stage, there was a lot of pushing and shoving, which was panicking people being pushed up against the crash barriers beneath the stage. Some slid under them, followed by others, so that soon the whole area immediately below was filled. As he wondered about the construction of the supports, the upturned faces were frozen in the flood of light that drenched the stage. He turned and saw Roy spring towards the mike, his black and gold costume flashing; and then he felt the stage move. If the stillness caused by the sudden blaze of light were succeeded by frenzy, the whole stage could keel over on to the crowd. Only seconds left for action.
‘Fellers, fellers,’ he heard Roy calmly at the mike, ‘I feel the earth move, but uh that’s not why we’re here. Couldyer step back from the stage … I was gonna sing Riding a Cloud with Me, but let’s keep one foot on the ground, huh …’ He whipped the mike from the stand and pushed aside a security man, ‘Hey, hey … you cats at the back, give these people space to move back. I wanna sing to yer so don’ take too long.’ He moved right to the edge, making slow sweeping movements with his arms. No response visible; the stage still rocking, but Roy’s voice no less confident and warm, ‘This is great, you’re doing fine back there. I think we’re almost cool now. Let’s give ourselves a few seconds to catch our breath, and then we can groove …’ Hands on hips, Roy whistled a few bars of Going Nowhere; then what Paul had never thought to see: the beginnings of movement way back in the crowd, ripples spreading right through it. When every instinct would have been to press forward, one small figure in fancy dress, with nothing but his voice had averted catastrophe.
As the movement reached the front, security men slipped down into the void. Some pushing developed again, Roy blew into the mike, ‘You saw those guys go down? I wancher to know they’re fragile, so don’t hurt ’em … Okay?’ He moved back centre stage, and the band kicked into Getting Clever.
And there it was, control, performer’s magic; then the song itself, jaunty, sly, but irresistibly cheerful, winning them round, even those most inclined to sneer at gloss and finish. As Roy jinked and capered round the mike, Paul could hardly credit what his senses told him: that in spite of everything, the mood had changed, and somehow, they were going to have a party.
When the crowd erupted in applause, Paul’s personal tribute was to be so caught up in Roy’s performance that, for a moment, he raised his swollen hand and tried to clap.
*
At first she told herself there would not be many: a dozen or fewer. But long before she reached the spot the signals had come from, she knew better. Dark shapes everywhere, on the terraces, in the Statue Walk, ducking under pergolas, stumbling down the sloping rock garden. A hundred, two hundred, Eleanor couldn’t tell. The park was still in darkness, but as the lights came on, greater urgency seemed to grip the trespassers, as lemming-like, they crashed on down towards unseen barriers they would never get past.
Her thought then had been a megaphone; with no music coming from the park, some of them might listen if told to turn back. But the opportunity was lost as the music started again – as if to mock her, the song: Getting Clever.
Then suddenly she remembered the ditch filled with barbed-wire below the ha-ha. They would see the park, the lights, hear Roy singing. Both hands shot to her mouth as she imagined them jumping into what they would think a harmless hollow; others would be following, landing on top of one another … If trying to climb up from the park, nobody would have given it a second try.
Lights approaching: an under-gardener (Phelps, Hanson?) and two foresters she didn’t know. ‘The ha-ha,’ she gasped, ‘get down there, quick.’
The chauffeur and a cowman from the farm were there before them, one waving his torch and shouting to the approaching fans to warn them, the other comforting a youth spreadeagled on the wire.
