Runaway (26 page)

The first thing we learned was that rich people treat you as if you are invisible. You simply don’t exist as anything other than a minor irritation. Had we been a string quartet playing a Bach prelude, we might have had a different reception. But Elvis and the Beatles went down like a bucket of cold sick – at least, judging from the crinkled faces and noses upturned in our direction.

The second thing we learned was that working-class porters are punctilious in sparing their wealthy clients exposure to riff-raff like us. They knew their place and were quick to tell us that we should know ours. Two top-hatted porters detached themselves from their duties at the door within a matter of minutes and told us in no uncertain terms to move on.

Rachel suggested that they might like to go forth and multiply.

And the older of the two lowered his voice, ‘If you’re not out of here in two bloody minutes, I’m calling the rozzers.’

I could see that Luke was about to embark on one of his diatribes about the freedom of the individual when our fractious gathering was interrupted by a young man wearing a tailored suit that hung on his lean frame as though he were a male model. Hair longer than conservative was, nevertheless, beautifully cut. His skin was lightly tanned, as if he had recently been abroad, and I noticed immediately his long fingers with their pale, manicured nails. He wore a light blue shirt, open at the neck, with no tie. His aftershave smelled expensive, and he had a smile to match. It was the first time that we set eyes on Dr Cliff Robert, and it is a moment I will never forget.

‘I’ll sort this out,’ he said confidently to the porters. ‘No need to cause a scene.’

‘If you say so, sir.’

The two of them retreated reluctantly towards the door, and the young man turned to us.

‘Who’s the head man here?’

There were several moments of confusion. Nothing had ever been discussed or acknowledged in regard to who should speak for the group, but all heads turned towards me and the man drew his own conclusion. He held out a hand to shake mine, and I took it uncertainly.

‘Cliff Robert,’ he said. ‘And you are . . .?’

‘Jack Mackay.’

‘Ah. Scottish, I’d say from the accent.’

It was an accent that seemed gauche and broad compared to his creamy public-school drawl.

‘Does the group have a name?’

‘The Shuffle,’ I said.

But he didn’t appear impressed. ‘Interesting sound. I like your vocals. But that’s for another time, maybe. Right now, how would you boys,’ he inclined his head towards Rachel, ‘and girl, like to make a few pounds?’

I glanced around the faces of my friends and saw the same trepidation in them as I felt myself. ‘Doing what?’

‘Oh, nothing very much, and it won’t take more than half an hour or so of your time. We have a documentary crew round the back of the hotel here setting up to do a bit of filming. We just need a few strategically placed bodies to prevent vehicles or pedestrians from interrupting once we’re turning over.’ He looked at us expectantly, showing beautifully white teeth behind pale lips, and a winning smile that crinkled around his blue eyes. ‘What do you say?’

_III

A narrow, cobbled lane called Savoy Steps climbed the slope off Savoy Hill, squeezed in between the small white-stone Queen’s Chapel and a brick wall at the back of the hotel that was covered in builder’s scaffolding. A group of young men was clustered around a thickset man with a cumbersome-looking cine camera strapped to his chest. He was young, too, with an unruly mop of wavy brown hair. Various pieces of equipment lay around, and the group seemed to be involved in a debate over the words scrawled on a pile of large white cards, about eighteen inches by twelve, which were stacked up against the wall. Random words, it seemed, without any meaning. The top one read
BASEMENT
. The cameraman was talking to a small skinny guy who looked about sixteen. He had long, curly hair that might have been permed, and wore a dark waistcoat unbuttoned over a long-sleeved shirt. He seemed to me to be in need of a square meal.

‘Jees, Bob, I know they’re heavy, but they’ll get lighter as you drop them.’

You could tell straight away from his accent that the cameraman was American, and I felt an immediate thrill. I had never met an American before.

‘That’s alright for you, Donn,’ the kid said. ‘You don’t have to hold ’em up there.’

‘Maybe you’d like to try the camera on for size, Bob. You can bet your life it’s a damned sight heavier.’

The kid with the perm sucked in smoke from his cigarette and threw it away. ‘Just kidding, man. Let’s do this thing.’

‘Okay,’ Donn said. He turned to the others. ‘Hey, Allen, you and Neuwirth get over there by the sacks and try to look like workmen, willya?’

A large bald man with a beard and glasses, dressed up like he might have been a workie, and a thin guy with a flat cap and a stick detached themselves from the group and stood by a wooden crate on the other side of the lane, lighting cigarettes.

‘What’s going on exactly?’ I asked Cliff Robert.

‘They’re making a documentary of the UK tour,’ he said. ‘This is the opening sequence they’re shooting here. All those cards have got bits of lyrics from the new single scrawled on them. Bob’ll hold them up and drop them one by one as the words come up in the song.’

Jeff said, ‘Whose single?’

‘Bob’s, of course. It’s called ‘Subterranean Homesick Blues.’

‘Daft name for a song,’ Rachel said.

‘Bob who?’ Maurie asked.

Cliff Robert looked at us as if we all had two heads. ‘Dylan. He’s just arrived for his first tour of Britain.’

I looked again at the skinny guy with the curly hair and the haunted face as he hefted the cards up into the crook of his right arm. And was both amazed and thrilled at the same time. Bob Dylan! We were in the presence of rock royalty.

My jaw went slack. ‘Dylan and Lennon both on the same day!’

Cliff Robert frowned. ‘Lennon?’

And I told him about our encounter at the agency.

He smiled. ‘I doubt very much if that was John Lennon.’

But I didn’t have time to be disappointed. Because this really was Bob Dylan.

There were four possible approaches to the corner of Savoy Steps, and we were given our instructions to stand guard at all of them, and politely stop any people or vehicles from coming through while they were filming.

I have seen that video many times in the years since. Allen Ginsberg and Bob Neuwirth hovering in the background pretending to be workers, a bored-looking Dylan standing in the foreground, right of frame, dropping the cards to match the lyrics. Well, almost. He got a little out of sync here and there.

It was a chilly, grey London morning. The video captures that, and Dylan’s sullen mood, perfectly. And all these years later I can almost believe that the world itself was black and white that day, and that it wasn’t just the film in the camera. They say it has been acknowledged as the very first modern pop video. And me and Rachel stood together at the entrance to the access tunnel under the Savoy Hotel and watched them shoot it.

Afterwards, Dylan and his entourage headed back into the hotel and one of the men paid us a tenner for our trouble.

‘Jesus’ jobbies,’ Jeff said. ‘That’s more than I earned in a week at Anderson’s.’

We made our way back up the hill to the Strand and stood debating what we should do now. A frustrating morning had ended well, but the future did not look promising.

‘So what brings you to London, boys?’

We all turned at the sound of Cliff Robert’s voice. He had come up the hill after us.

I was embarrassed to tell him, and shrugged hesitantly. ‘We sort of ran away.’

‘The whole group,’ Jeff added quickly. ‘We’re looking to be signed up by an agency and get a recording contract.’

Cliff Robert smiled. ‘Just like that.’

‘We’re good.’ Luke was defensive.

The older man shrugged. ‘I don’t doubt it. But the world’s full of great groups nobody’s ever heard of. You’re just another in a long list.’

One of the cabal of men from the Savoy Steps passed us and slapped Cliff Robert on the shoulder. ‘Thanks, Doc.’

‘My pleasure.’

‘Doc?’ Maurie said.

Robert smiled. ‘I’m a qualified doctor. But medicine’s not my passion. Music is.’

‘You got a practice?’ Rachel asked.

And he smiled again. ‘Let’s just say I’m freelance.’ His smile faded. ‘Look, if you boys are any good, and you’re serious about making it in this business, I might be able to help.’ He looked at our two acoustic guitars. ‘Is this all the stuff you have?’

Jeff said quickly, ‘Our van got stolen. With all our gear.’ And he shifted uncomfortably as the rest of us looked at him.

Dr Robert nodded. ‘Well, I know where you can borrow some gear, and find a place to rehearse. But I’d like to hear you before I make any promises. And if you want to make a bit of cash in the meantime, I know someone who’s looking for performers.’

‘You mean you can get us a gig?’ Jeff said.

The good doctor seemed reluctant to elaborate. ‘Well, not a gig exactly. And not the kind of performing that you’re probably used to. But it’s money, and I can offer you a roof over your heads. At least temporarily. If you want to come back to my place I’ll explain it to you.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I just have a little business to conclude with Donn Pennebaker and I’ll be right back. Think it over.’

He headed off along the Strand to the entrance of the hotel. We stood on the corner, with the traffic rushing past us on the street, and the first drops of rain spitting from a frowning sky. For quite a while no one knew what to say.

It was Jeff who sliced through our hesitation. ‘I think we should go for it.’

Rachel’s scepticism was evident in her voice. ‘You really trust that guy?’

‘Not as far as I could throw him,’ Luke said. ‘He says he’s a doctor, so what possible connection could he have with the music business?’

I said, ‘Well, he was with the Dylan entourage, wasn’t he? That’s pretty connected, if you ask me.’

Maurie weighed in. ‘I don’t know about the rest of you, but I wouldn’t mind somewhere reasonably civilized to lay my head tonight. And it seems to me that’s what’s on offer here.’

‘Yeah, but what else is on offer?’ Rachel looked at me. ‘Come on, Jack. The guy’s a creep.’

‘A connected creep,’ I said. ‘It’s the only offer we’ve had all day, and probably the only one we’re likely to get. There’s six of us. If we stick together, what harm can there be in it? We should at least find out exactly what it is that’s on offer.’

‘I agree,’ Maurie said.

‘Me, too.’ Jeff looked around the faces of the others like a dog hoping someone will throw the ball.

Luke sighed. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Aye, well, that’ll make it five.’ It was the first time that we’d heard from Dave all morning.

Rachel just shook her head. ‘You boys need your heads examined, you know that?’

And I have often wondered since how different all our lives might have been had we followed her instincts and chosen not to go with Dr Robert that afternoon.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

_I

Dr Robert lived in Onslow Gardens in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea, in a fabulous four-storey townhouse with a basement, attic rooms and a huge roof terrace. It looked out over tree-shaded gardens behind wrought-iron railings, a stone’s throw from Old Brompton Road and its rumble of distant traffic.

It was a grand property in yellow brick and white-painted stone, with porticos and balustrades. The streets around it reeked of wealth, lined by expensive cars and flanked by beautifully manicured gardens. There was a sort of reverential hush in those streets, as though it might be considered vulgar to raise your voice. Our silence, though, was induced by open-mouthed awe.

We arrived, all seven of us, in two taxis that Dr Robert paid for, and he led us up steps and through glazed doors into a wide hallway with carpeted stairs sweeping up through a half-landing to the next floor. Everything looked freshly painted. White, glossy woodwork, pale pastel walls, blue and yellow and cream. The hall and stairs were carpeted in a rich, subtly patterned grey. Through open doors I could see into a large kitchen in the back, and a dining room that overlooked a garden where the trees were heavy and fragrant with blossom.