John sat down and Jim sat down and John stared hard at Jim. “You bought a round for twelve?” he whispered. “You, a round for twelve?”
“I don’t wish to talk about it, John.” Jim took another pull on his pint. “It was a very trying evening. I’d rather just forget all about it, if you don’t mind. But you must promise me this. Never, ever, speak of The Pooley again. Do you promise?”
“I promise,” said John. “If it means so much to you.”
“It does and I thank you. And so.”
“And so?” asked John.
“And so down to business. I have arranged for the band to meet us here at seven o’clock. To celebrate the founding of Brentford Records. Which gives us a bit of time before they arrive, to work out our business plan.”
“Business plan.” Omally gave approving nods. “Very professional, Jim.”
“Thank you, John. Now the first thing we’re going to need is a recording studio. There are some vacant units on the old industrial estate down by Cider Island. There’s one called Hangar Eighteen that I like the look of. We’ll rent that and fit it out and—”
“Have to stop you there,” said John.
“Oh yes, and why?”
“Why? Do you know how much it costs to fit out a recording studio? All the equipment you need?”
“Haven’t a clue,” said Jim. “Which is why I’ll leave that side of it to you. Ducking and diving and wheeling and dealing is what you’re all about.”
“Yes I know, but—”
“Come on now, John. Pull your weight.”
“It’s not a matter of pulling my weight. It could cost at least half a million quid to fit out a recording studio. Probably much more than that.”
“Fortune favours the brave,” said Jim. “Now, regarding the look of Hangar Eighteen. I think we should go for something really distinctive. Something eye-catching. I have a vision of a huge hairdryer up on the roof. Or, even better, a dirigible shaped like a hairdryer, moored to the roof and floating in the sky and—”
“Stop!” said Omally. “Stop stop stop.”
“You’re not keen on the dirigible?”
“I’m not keen on any of it. We don’t need a recording studio, Jim. It isn’t necessary.”
“It isn’t?” said Jim. “But how can we make records if we don’t have a recording studio?”
“We’ll record the band when they play live. On a portable mixing desk.”
Pooley gave this a moment’s thought. “That’s brilliant,” he said.
“And we’ll get Norman to turn out as many copies of the tapes as we want. We’ll pay him a retainer, or two bob a tape, or something.”
“That is also brilliant,” Pooley said.
“And then we’ll distribute them to the record shops.”
“That is not so brilliant,” Pooley said.
“Not so brilliant? Why is that?”
“Because the record shops won’t take them. I’ve discussed all this with Ricky. The shops are all owned by the big record corporations. They won’t sell tapes that are independently produced.”
“They’re bastards,” said Omally.
“I agree, and that’s why we’ll beat them. Brentford Records are going to have their own retail outlets. A chain of independent record shops.”
“What?” went John. “What?”
“A chain of small shops up and down the country.”
John Omally shook his head in a weary kind of a way. “Jim, Jim, Jim,” he said to Jim. “And where will the money come from?”
Pooley smiled a broad and cheery smile. “Ah,” he said. “I was wondering about that myself. But as you’ve just saved us half a million quid on the recording studio, we can use that money.”
Omally buried his head in his hands and Jim got another round in.
The arrival of the Gandhis at precisely seven o’clock came as a bit of a surprise. And if their punctuality glared into the face of rock ’n’ roll, their appearance positively gobbed in its eye.
The Gandhis looked—
Respectable.
The four male members wore matching dark grey business suits. Their big hair had been slicked back and tucked down the collars of their white shirts. White shirts! And these white shirts were buttoned at the neck. And these white shirts had ties!
Litany, grey moustached but make-up free, favoured a demure beige two-piece number over a white cotton blouse. She wore sensible shoes on her feet and she looked like a lady librarian. She even had a briefcase!
“Jesus Jones!” said John Omally.
“By the prophet’s beard!” said Jim.
“Good evening, madam, good evening, gents,” said Neville the part-time barman.
Litany smiled upon Neville and Neville pinked up at the cheeks. “I’ve heard you draw the finest pints of Large in Brentford,” she said.
Neville’s pigeon chest came swelling up his shirt front.
“Then five pints, please,” said Litany. “The gentleman there will be paying.”
Neville glanced at the gentleman there. The gentleman there was Jim.
“Hmm,” went Neville, his pigeon chest falling. “The gentleman there. I see.”
The gentleman there had his mouth hanging open. The gentleman with him had too.
“Is that really them?” whispered John.
“It is,” Jim whispered. “It is.”
“But why are they—”
“Dressed like that? Because I asked them to, John. I didn’t want Neville getting all upset, so I asked them to dress down a bit.”
Omally shook his head. “Well, we can’t just sit here staring. Let’s give them the big hello.”
Pooley made the introductions. John shook hands all round, lingering somewhat longer than was perhaps necessary on the shaking of Litany’s.
Litany smiled up at John.
And John smiled down at Litany.
And whatever thoughts were now going through John’s head, he kept very much to himself. But had these thoughts been set to music and brought out on a CD, it is a certainty that the CD would have needed one of those labels that says PARENTAL GUIDANCE: EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT.
“Can I have my hand back, please?” asked Litany.
“Oh yes,” said John. “Won’t you all come over and join us at our table? Jim will take care of the drinks. Won’t you, Jim?”
“I will,” said Pooley. “I will.”
Neville brought a tray out and loaded up the pints. “Now that’s more like it, Jim,” he said. “A bit of class in the bar. Estate agents, are they? Or accountants?”
“Something like that,” said Jim, fishing out his wad and peeling off a ten-spot.
Neville held it up to the light. “This better be kosher,” he said.
“But it’s the change you gave me from the last round.”
“Exactly,” said Neville. “So watch it.”
Pooley struggled across with the tray and set it down on the table. “Don’t I get a seat?” he asked.
“Bring one over, Jim,” said John, who was sitting next to Litany. “I’d give you my seat, but I’m sitting here.”
Pooley dragged a chair across and squeezed himself in between Gandhis.
A description of the Gandhi men might be useful here. But sadly there is little to be said. In their suits and with their hair dragged back, they all looked much of a muchness. Tall and lean, with sticky-out cheekbones, big on sunken eyes. Very much like brothers, they looked. But not at all like the Osmonds.
There was Ricky Zed, on lead guitar. Dead Boy Doveston on bass. Matchbox Finial on rhythm guitar and occasional keyboards, and Pigarse Peter Westlake on drums. There would no doubt have also been Adolf Hitler on vibes and Val Doonican as himself had this been the Bonzos’ Intro and the Outro. But it wasn’t, so there wasn’t.
So to speak.
Jim pushed pints around the table, smiling all round and about.
“Now, before we begin,” said Litany, “there is something that Pigarse wants to say. Isn’t there, Pigarse?”