Nocturne (32 page)

‘
Who told you that?
’

‘
It was in the sleeve notes.
’

My contact chuckled again. The sleeve notes, as I
’
d suspected,
formed part of the deal.
Your fee
covered the packaging as well
as the music. Ditto the so-called distribution. For more money than
most people could ever afford, Palisade promised to make you a star.

‘
And did it work ? Ever
?
’

‘
You
’
re joking. Most of the stuff never saw the inside of a shop. The
artist was entitled to thirty presentati
on LPs. Often, the company
never pressed more than that. The profit was all front-end.
’

‘
So there was no distribution? Is that what you
’
re saying?
’

‘
Exactly.
’

‘
And the artists?
’

‘
Got their thirty LPs.
’

I thanked him and hung up, reviewing my scribbled notes. Poor
Gilbert, I thought. In the shape of
Montparnasse
,
they
’
d sold him an
expensive fantasy. He
’
d paid his money, and played his music, and had
his photograph taken. Weeks later, instead of fame, or recognition, or
even the odd letter, he
’
d been left with a box of LPs and the grim
frustrations of scouring the record stores for an album that would
never be on sale. How many other bids had he made for the big time?
How much more money could he afford to chuck away? No wonder
he
’
d ended up in Napier Road. Decorating the front door with those
huge white eyes.

Brendan was due back the next day on the morning Qantas flight. I
was literally on the point of leaving for the
airport
when the phone
rang. It was Brendan.

‘
I
’
m still in Sydney,
’
he said.
‘
There
’
s been a fuck-up.
’

‘
How come?
’

‘
God knows, but I
’
m here for the weekend. I
’
ll fax the office on
Monday. How
’
s tricks?
’

I told him I missed him. At length it dawned on me that he
wanted to
know about
Home
Run
.

‘
It
’
s fine,
’
I said.
‘
Everything
’
s fine. Why?
’

‘
I
’
ve got some interest. Bunch of guys up in Queensland. They
’
re
talking big money, major investment.
’

‘
I thought it was all covered?
’

‘
It is, but you know what they say. While the pot
’
s bubbling, keep
the bastard fed.
’

I
’
d returned the Mercedes key to the hook beneath the mirror. I
hadn
’
t a clue what he was talking about. He sounded slightly manic, a
voice I hadn
’
t heard for a month or two. The jazz LP I
’
d bought him as
a coming-home present was lying beside the telephone. I
’
d spent
nearly half an hour getting the bow on top just right.

‘
When do you think then?
’
I asked him.

‘
Next week. Definitely.
’

There was a long silence. For one awful moment I thought we
’
d end
up talking about the weather then, in a whisper, he told me he loved
me.

‘
Say it again,
’
I caught sight of myself in the hall mirror.
‘
Please.
’

There was a muffled cough at the
other end. Then came an abrupt silence
and
I was still staring at the mirror when the operator came
on.
She was extremely businesslike. She sounded, if anything, slightly
oriental.

‘
Your call is finished,
’
she announced.
‘
Will you please hang up.
’

I went earlier than usual to Napier Road to feed the cat. I took
Gilbert
’
s record with me, hiding it in a fold of the
Guardian
as I let
myself in. As far as I could see the house was intact though when I
stooped to retrieve the envelope with my name on it from the mat
inside the door I found out why. The note came from Mark. He
’
d had
a word with his boss and they
’
d both agreed that I should contact the
landlord. He was the guy to put the squeeze on our friend upstairs.
Once he
’
d quietened down, my flat could go back on the mark
et. Until
then, he thought it best to hold off. No more ambushed
would-be
buyers.
No more awkward doorstep scenes.

I let myself into my flat. Despite the heat wave that had settled on
London, it felt as cold and damp as ever. I made a fuss of Noir and
opened the tin of cat food I
’
d bought him. He watched from the
kitchen door. He looked neglected, reproachful, and I picked him up
again, holding him tight. I could hear Gilbert moving around
upstairs
and I took the cat through to t
he front room where I
’
d left the LP.
The
stylus on my turntable reall
y needed a new needle but I put the record
on regardless, turning up the volume as the first track started.

The cat had fled back to the kitchen by now and I stood in the
window, feeling the warmth of the sunshine through my grand-
mother
’
s net curtains, listening to the music. Until I
’
d heard
Gilbert play, I
’
d never really understood the word
‘
plangen
t
’
. It means
mournful, resonant
,
aching
,
the k
ind of music that strikes
chords
way down keep inside you, and
Montparnasse
was full of it.

Upstairs, the footsteps had come to a halt. The music was loud
enough for Gilbert to hear and when we got into the second track I
heard him moving about again. Then, magically, came the sound of a
second flute, same theme, same haunt
ing musical figures, echoing
the
LP. At first, he was perfectly in time, th
en - like the jazz musician
he
’
d one day
become - he began to improvise,
gliding up and down
the scale, changing key, stretching the melody this way and that.
Track
3,
‘
Souvenirs
de
Printemps
’
, was lighter in mood, and over-
head came a new sound, footsteps again, heavier, quicker, a tempo
that urgently shadowed the music. Still standing in the window, I
tried to visualise what was going on up there, what on earth Gilbert
was doing, then I heard a little yelp, the kind we girls used to make at
primary school in music and movement lessons, and I finally realised
what he was up to. Gilbert, my nightmare pal, my loony neighbour,
was dancing.

After Side One, I retreated to the kitchen to see how the cat was
getting on. Gilbert must have come downstairs very quietly because I
didn
’
t hear his footsteps in the hall, or even the sound of the front
door opening, but he
’
d definitely been out there because there were
splashes of fresh paint on the step when I left. The paint was white
gloss and it wasn
’
t until I turned round to close the door that I
understood what he
’
d been doing.
Beneath the two big eyes, straddling the letter box, Gilbert had added a big, fat, happy mouth.
Our
little house once again had a smile on its face.

Back at Brendan
’
s flat that night I got a phone call from Gaynor. I
’
d
given her the number and she
’
d called to check I was OK. It was a
nice thought and I told her so.

‘
Yeah,
’
she sounded unconvinced.
‘
You sure though?
’

‘
Sure of what?
’

She told me she
’
d been talking to one of the community beat lads.
She
’
d asked him to keep an eye on Napier Road and he
’
d come back
only yesterday with a tale about eyes on the front door.

‘
Are you still trying to sell the place?
’

‘
Yes. Sort of.
’

‘
And he
’
s messing you around again?
’

I thought about the question. In essence, of course, she was right.
Gilbert was making it as hard as he possibly could for me to find a
buyer. But there was a logic in there somewhere, no matter how
crazy, and one way or another I was determined to understand it.

‘
I
’
m going to find the freeholder,
’
I told Gaynor,
‘
and sort it out
that way.
’

‘
Are you sure? Only we could have him for harassment
…
’

For a second or two I gave the proposition serious thought. Then I
heard the music again, and the clumsy, artless thump of Gilbert
dancing around upstairs, and I knew there was no way. He didn
’
t
deserve to be arrested, cautioned, bollocked. If anything, it would
probably make him worse. Another betrayal. More evidence of the
world turning its back.

‘
Thanks,
’
I told Gaynor.
‘
But I still think I
’
ll sort it with whoever
owns the freehold.
’

It was six weeks
before I g
ot the chance. Brendan returned
on
the Wednesday of the following week, physically exhausted but
bursting with ideas. It was lovely to see him and we had a glorious
morning in bed before the umpteenth call on the mobile tugged him
back to the office. The bedroom at De Beauvoir Square opened out
onto a terrace at the back of the house. The garden faced south and
we
’
d had the French doors open since dawn, flooding the room with
sunshine.

I lay in bed, wrapped in a single shee
t, watching him get dressed. He
seemed to have lost weight. He looked thinner, and very pale.

‘
So tell me,
’
I said,
‘
about these Queensland people.
’

Brendan mentioned a couple of names, production companies I
’
d
never heard of. It seemed they were big players in Infotainment, a
category of programming into which
Home
Run
would evidently fit.
Brendan had pitched them the concept
in separate meetings and they
’
d
both come back the next day.