So it obviously wasn’t him!
When the old streets were demolished to make way for the new flat—blocks, their residents had been rehoused elsewhere. It was intended that they would all get new flats as soon as the building work was completed. But I suppose there must have been some clerical error, or the council must have mislaid their new addresses, or something, because none of the original residents of that area ever came back to Brentford to live in the flat-blocks. Young, smart, out-borough types, who wore suits and had jobs in the City’ moved in.
The Doveston moved in also.
He was very lucky, as it happened. The top floor of Hawtrey House should have been divided into three separate flats. But it seemed that the council must have run out of money, or something, because the dividing walls were never put in and the Doveston got to rent the entire floor for the price of a single flat. He told Norman that an uncle of his had put him on to it. Norman told me that he couldn’t remember this uncle’s name, but he thought it had a Scottish ring to it.
It certainly was a pretty fab flat.
Its décor was all of the modern style. Lava lamps, bean bags and curtains of bead. Colourful rugs lay all scattered about. The floor was gloss-painted, the blinds were of reed.
By now the Doveston had accumulated an extensive collection of books dedicated to the subject of tobacco. Many of these bore the distinctive stamp of the Memorial Library upon them, but I did not comment on this.
There were, however, a number of items in the flat which I did comment on. There was a most exquisite jardinière, which I had first seen in the conservatory of Jon Peru Joans. A leather-bound and studded teapot, from which tea had once been poured for me in the House of Correction. And a beautiful box, wrought from skin, that I felt certain was the very one Professor Merlin had shown to us in his caravan, nearly a decade before.
When I asked about the provenance of these objets d’art, the Doveston was vague in his replies.
The sheer spaciousness of the flat gave it an air of grandeur. Its broad windows overlooked the borough, offering romantic vistas. The smell ofjoss sticks (the Doveston created his own) filled the air with heady fragrances and the sounds of sitar music, issuing from the Doveston’s new hi-fl, added that certain something.
I would have been quite sick with jealousy, had my mother not taught me that ‘jealous boys all go to Hell, where they have to look at Heaven all day through the wrong end of a telescope’.
The Free Festival Committee consisted of myseW Norman and Chico. Chico had survived a recent shooting and now worked full time as the Doveston’s chauffeur. The Doveston’s first car was a battered Morris Minor that Chico had converted into a low-rider. Since then the Doveston has owned a great many cars, but he never learned to drive himself.
We sat upon bean bags, smoking the cigars we were offered, and spoke about how things were going. The festival was to take place on the weekend of the twenty-seventh ofJuly, which, by coincidence, was the Doveston’s birthday.
‘Speak to me of bands,’ said the Doveston.
‘Right,’ said I. ‘Bands, yes indeed.’
‘So?’
‘Yes, right.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Right, yes, absolutely.’
‘You have actually booked some bands, haven’t you?’
‘Oh yes. Well, not actually booked, as such. Which is to say that there’s nothing down on paper. No contracts or anything. But I—’
‘But you what?’
‘Chico just punched me in the ear,’ I complained.
‘Bands,’ said the Doveston.
‘Yes.’ I rooted a crumpled list from my kaftan pocket. ‘Well, I couldn’t get any big names. They were all too busy, going on their holidays and stuff like that, and a lot of them seem to have buggered off to San Francisco.’
‘So who have you got?’
I read from my list. ‘Astro Lazer and the Flying Starfish from Uranus. Rosebud Lovejuice. The Seven Smells of Susan. Wompochumbassa. The Chocolate T-Shirts and Bob Dylan.’
‘Bob Dylan?’ said the Doveston. ‘You got Bob Dylan?’
‘Yes, his dad said he could have the Saturday off.’
‘Bob Dylan’s dad?’
‘Johnny Dylan, owns the delicatessens in the High Street. Bob usually does the cheese round on Saturdays. But his dad said it would be OK for him to have the time off so he could do his juggling in front of a live audience.
‘Bob Dylan is a juggler.’
‘Of course he is, what did you think he was?’ The Doveston shook his head. ‘Anyone else?’ ‘Sonny and Cher,’ I said.
‘Sonny and Cher?’
‘Sonny Watson and Cher O’Riley. They manage a pub in Kew.’
The Doveston raised his hand. ‘And they juggle too, I suppose.’
‘No, they tap dance.’
‘Perfect. And do you have a uni-cycing plumber from Chiswick who goes by the name of Elvis Presley?’
I checked my list. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Do you want me to put him on?’
Chico smote my ear once more.
‘Stop doing that,’ I told him.
‘So,’ said the Doveston, taking out his yo-yo and ‘chasing the dragon’. ‘We have a bunch of completely unknown bands and three—’
‘Ringers,’ said Chico. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking, boss?’
‘That we might just elevate Bob, Sonny and Cher to the top of the bill?’
‘It should bring in a lot ofpunters.’
I scratched at my head. It was a far less scabby head now, though I still had plenty of dandruff ‘I don’t get this,’ I said. ‘Bob, Sonny and Cher aren’t all that good. I thought they might just fill in between the bands.’
‘Trust me,’ said the Doveston. ‘I know what I’m doing.’ And of course he did. But then, so did I. Because I was not completely stupid. I knew perfectly well who the real Bob Dylan and the real Sonny and Cher were. But I wasn’t going to let on. The way I saw it was this. If I’d just given the Doveston a list of complete unknowns, he would probably have had Chico throw me out of the window. This way it gave him the opportunity to do one of the things that he enjoyed doing most.
Getting one over on people.
And the way I also saw it was this. If the duped crowd turned ugly and ripped the festival’s organizer limb from limb, it was hardly my business. And it would serve him right for blowing up my Biscuit.
‘So that’s settled then,’ said the Doveston. ‘Will you see to the posters?’
‘Oh yes please,’ I said. ‘I’ll draw them myself. How do you spell Dylan? It’s D-I-L-L-O-N, isn’t it?’
‘Perhaps you had better leave the posters to me.
‘All right. If you think that’s best.’
‘Now, we need a good name for this festival.’
‘I’ve got one,’ I said. ‘It’s Brentford’s Ultimate Music Festival of Love and Peace. BUMFLAP for short.’
‘I like it,’ said Chico. ‘I don’t,’ said the Doveston.
‘Nor do I,’ said Chico. ‘I don’t like it at all.’
‘You’re becoming a right little yes-man, Chico,’ I told him. ‘No I’m not.’
‘Yes you are.
‘No I’m not.’
‘Yes you are.
‘Chico,’ said the Doveston. ‘Get us all a beer.’ ‘Yes, man,’ said Chico.
Oh how we laughed.
Once we had all got our beers and the laughter had died down, the Doveston said, ‘We are going to call this festival Brentstock.’
‘I like that,’ said Chico.
‘I don’t,’ I said. ‘What does it mean?’