Peter May - Runaway

‘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.

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.

Dr Robert took us up to the next floor. ‘I mostly live on this level,’ he said. And pointing down a long hallway with doors opening off on both sides, he told us, ‘My study’s down at the end there. But I spend most of my leisure time in here.’

We passed through a door into a high-ceilinged room that ran from the front of the house to the back. Perhaps two rooms at one time, but opening now one into the other through an arch. The front half was dominated by a vast, ornately carved wood and marble fireplace, around which settees and soft armchairs were gathered on a polished wooden floor as if huddled there for warmth. Bay windows gave on to a view over the park. Shelves on the wall opposite the fireplace groaned, floor to ceiling, with books. The back room was used for dining. A long, polished oval table reflected light from every window, and a gleaming silver tea service stood on an elegant, low mahogany sideboard.

In stark contrast with the old-fashioned gentility of these rooms, the walls were covered by the most extraordinary modern artwork. Large and small canvases, mostly black and white. Squares and circles, cubes and whorls, painted in such a way as to create the illusion of depth. Almost 3D. An image folding in on itself. Another buckling within its frame. Distorted geometry. Trompe l’oeil , an expression I had learned during my history of art classes at school. Fooling the eye. They were startling works, really, and quite out of keeping with the rest of the house.

‘Do you like them?’ Dr Robert was clearly proud of his collection.

No one knew quite what to say.

‘All works of a friend of mine. Bridget Riley. She’s exhibiting soon in New York. Going to be huge.’ He smiled his self-satisfaction. ‘And these, my friends, are going to be worth a small fortune one day.’ As an afterthought, he added, ‘Although I have no intention of selling them.’

He took us up through the rest of the house, waving expansively along corridors to his left and right, following the curve of the polished wooden bannisters from floor to floor. It seemed that most of the other rooms in the house were bedrooms, including several in the attic, which he said had once provided accommodation for the staff.

‘Of course, I have no staff,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t afford it, even if I wanted to. I was fortunate to inherit the house from my parents, but it’s as much as I can do just to pay for the upkeep of the place.’

On the top floor we went out through French windows on to a wide, square terrace with a low, white-painted stone balustrade around three sides. And from here we had a view across the rooftops of Kensington. A forest of chimneys sprouting from steeply angled slate roofs, in turn broken by countless attic dormers.