Chapter Thirty-Four

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

G race led Jack along the rehearsal corridor, her eyes dancing.

‘Ruby has had another triumph.’

As they approached, faintly through the closed door they could hear Lillian and Nikolai singing together.

Grace went to open it, but Jack stopped her. ‘No, Grace, let me listen. ’He frowned. ‘It’s the song that Nikolai sang, isn’t it? From the day Clara got stuck.’

‘So I’m told,’ Grace replied. ‘I wasn’t here that day. But isn’t it wonderful?’

‘It is.’

Nikolai’s baritone and Lillian’s alto voice wrapped around each other like vines, supported by strong minor chords on the piano. There should have been something discordant about it – certainly, the sound was not as smooth and pleasant as many of the tunes Ruby had written – but then this was infused with Marakovia. What had Nikolai said in his newspaper interview? ‘Plum brandy and romanticism’ – that was it. Grace could feel it vibrating through the door, then – miracle of miracles – Mabel Mills’s trumpet joined them: a line of longing, clean as spring water, bursting between their voices and reaching high and wide.

Grace realised Jack was staring at her, his jaw hanging slightly open. He took her hand and squeezed it hard.

‘God, she’s brilliant!’ He frowned. ‘What’s it called?’

‘“The Sunrise Song”. Do you think it will work, Jack? As our first recording? I mean, we’ll have other tunes, too. But this could be our calling card – The Empire Records announcing its arrival.’

He nodded. ‘It’s perfect. What else have we got?’

Grace leant against the wall of the corridor and counted on her fingers. ‘I haven’t been completely idle. Mabel Mills and her Jazz Band will record for us, and so will Josie. She’ll do some of the numbers from Cairo Nights . Her agent is thrilled, it’s exactly what she needs at the moment. That will give us our first ten, then I think we could have the house band record some dance tunes. There won’t be a lack of music, I promise.’

‘None of this would be possible without you, Grace. You know that, don’t you?’

‘I do,’ she said, trying to sound more pleased than she felt. ‘Now we’ve just got to get Dixon to record it all, Tom to press it, and finish building a shop to sell it all in. Have you had an idea for a picture story for Wilbur yet?’

‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘Gosh, it really is a very special tune.’

‘Shall we go in and congratulate them?’

He nodded, though his face had that slightly tight look it tended to take on whenever he was going to have to be polite to Nikolai. ‘Dixon’s on course, I think, but I’d better go and see Tom myself. My picture idea relies rather heavily on him.’

Grace patted his arm, and an idea drifted through her head. That line of poetry Ruby had quoted in her room the other day when they had talked to Sally. It was becoming more solid, so she could just catch the edges of it.

‘What is it, Grace?’

‘Nothing,’ Grace said as the idea disappeared again. ‘Go and see Tom, and take Ruby with you.’

When Jack and Ruby arrived at Shed Number Four, Tom and Patterson were waiting for them – forewarned by Miss Chisholm, of course. The shed was a long, low box of corrugated iron on a steel frame, constructed hurriedly in the early days of the war. Tom had given it a fresh lick of paint – the same cream that many of the cottages in the dales were painted – and someone had put potted plants next to the office door.

Tom ushered them into the office area with all the pride of a new wife showing off her first home to her in-laws. There was a neat little lobby with a counter and chairs to wait on, and Tom’s office led straight off it. Jack couldn’t help noticing it was a great deal tidier than the old restaurant.

‘Nice view,’ he said.

‘Bit of a perk,’ Tom admitted. The office had two desks in it, a large leather-covered one in the centre, and a smaller one tucked in the corner at which Ruby Rowntree took her place. She had turned the corner into a rough approximation of her room at The Empire, with a cork board above it and drifts of manuscript paper. One of her patchwork quilts was slung over an armchair tucked between a filing cabinet and the window.

‘Ruby! Gosh, you’ve made it positively cosy. But what will you do here?’

‘Jack, dear, I’ll be composing, naturally. And providing moral support to Tom and Mr Patterson.

‘You don’t need a piano?’

She tutted. ‘Good Lord, no, though Tom insists on having one put in.’

‘That’s for me as much as anything, Ruby. I’d like to keep arranging as well as running things here, so I’ll need it. I can’t just play it all in my head, the way you do.’

‘I’ve just heard “The Sunrise Song”, Tom. It’s sensational.’

‘I know. Ruby’s a genius.’

‘Thank you, dear,’ Ruby said vaguely. ‘Yes, I’m rather proud of it. Circumstance rather slotted it together. The tune is traditional, of course, but the arrangement came together well. Now, where’s my pencil?’

‘Behind your ear, Ruby,’ Tom said. ‘Now come on, Jack. Let me show you the rest.’

The office had a second door which led directly out to the factory floor. It was a clean, bright space, divided into different areas, Tom explained, for the creation of the masters, electroplating, casting, pressing, smoothing and finishing.

‘No, no, no! Patterson? Miss James has found another one!’ An irate gentleman in a foreman’s coat, with a startling head of red hair, was waving a disc in the air. ‘If the hole isn’t in the very centre, every singer sounds like a drunk! Recalibrate!’

‘Who’s that?’ Jack asked.

‘Jeremy Fossil,’ Tom said. ‘I pay him a lot of money to tell me what idiots my workers and I are. ‘I’m discovering new things that can go wrong every day, from a careless hand mixing the shellac to warping. Jeremy is explaining all of them to me one by one, and why each fault is my responsibility.’

‘You’ve started pressing records?’ Jack asked, eyebrow raised.

‘Test runs. We bought a couple of masters from one of the London firms to test the equipment, and I’m very glad we’re doing them. Sensitive little devils, these records. The lady standing next to him is Miss James. She stays at the same boarding house as Ruby and is going to be our head of quality control. Once we have some quality to control, that is.’

He sighed, and Jack studied him sideways. ‘How are you doing, Tom? You’ve taken on a great deal very suddenly.’

Tom pursed his lips. ‘I’m discovering there are a lot more hours in the day than I knew, and each one seems to throw up a new problem. But I’m enjoying it, Jack. I’m enjoying it a great deal. It’s a different thing, isn’t it, going to bed dog-tired because you’ve actually been working all day?’

‘Yes, it is.’

Jack looked around him. It was clear Tom’s days over the last couple of months had been very full indeed.

The vast space was full of half-unpacked boxes, metal drums, machinery with packing straw still clinging to it, tea chests piled on wooden pallets. It reminded Jack of the backstage at the theatre when a large musical was getting in, and it had the same air of busy excitement. Workers moved back and forth, whistling warnings as they manoeuvred wheelbarrows and trolleys over the painted concrete floors. Shouts and commands as the great industrial presses were calibrated and adjusted. The air was sharp with smells of hot chemicals – a clear astringency with an undercurrent of oil and sweat.

‘We have twenty on staff now,’ Tom went on. ‘And Miss James will have a dozen girls in her department, polishing and checking the discs and adding the labels . . . when we have them. How are things going in the studio?’

‘Dixon and Little Sam are blood brothers. I can get no more detail there than the fact “it will be ready soon”. But I heard the electric company sent the wrong cables, and one of the microphones exploded yesterday morning. I’m sure it will all work out wonderfully.’

‘And what of Harry?’ Tom asked.

‘We’re keeping out of each other’s way, for now. But Dixon is so fond of the creature, and working so hard on the studio, I really don’t have the heart to say anything.’

‘And Miss Chisholm?’

‘Has worked out how we can offer milkshakes to the record-buying populace. It is a marvel what a difference she’s made. And I still have enough time to scurry about drumming up business for the theatre. The last couple of touring plays we’ve had in did rather well.’

‘No more snags, then?’

‘I wouldn’t say that. Only, with Miss Chisholm’s help, I’m managing to get out in front of them a bit more. And I told her to keep an eye out for Ray Kelly and any of his associates, in case they start sniffing around the theatre again.’ Jack saw the expression on Tom’s face and stopped. ‘They’re still only rumours, you know, about your mother being involved with him and his people.’

Tom nodded. ‘But I’ve been rather slow to make the effort to find out if they’re true or not, haven’t I?’

‘Understandable, old chap.’

They walked back into the office to find Ruby in her chair, one of her notebooks open on her lap, and a broad grin on her round, red-cheeked face.

‘Look at you both – I’m so terribly proud of you.’

Jack was surprised to find he was blushing. ‘You might not be in a second, Ruby. I’ve had one of my plans. For the opening day at the shop.’

‘Do tell . . . Actually, wait a moment.’ Tom leant out of the door. ‘Fossil! Patterson! Miss James? Could you possibly join us for a moment? Treadwell’s had an idea, and if it’s anything like his usual ones, it might be best if you hear it from him, rather than blame me for it later.’

Jack found himself facing a slightly larger crowd than he had intended.

‘Lovely to meet you all,’ he said, ‘I’m hoping to enlist you for a bit of a stunt on the opening day for the shop. We’re intending to open at four in the afternoon, twenty-fifth of March, and stay open into the evening, and . . .’ The whole enterprise was feeling more and more ridiculous with every syllable he uttered. ‘Well, I want the newspapers to get a proper story out of it, so I thought . . . what if we make a recording in the morning, of this wonderful new song of Ruby’s, sung by Nikolai and Lillian?’ They stared at him. ‘The press could take pictures of the whole process, you see, from cutting the master to rushing it here, to checking the finished discs and getting it on the shelves at the shop. It makes us look . . . very modern.’

The clock on Tom’s wall ticked loudly.

‘Utterly impossible,’ Fossil said, his voice as flat and hard as granite.

‘Utterly impossible, or just extremely risky?’ Jack said hopefully.

Patterson had taken a pencil out from behind his ear and was making quick calculations on a piece of Tom’s elegant stationery. He sucked his teeth. ‘It’s theoretically possible, Mr Lassiter.’

‘Practically, highly unlikely!’ Fossil protested, looking around at his fellow workers as if they had gone quite mad.

‘It’s an excellent idea, Jack,’ Ruby stated. ‘We must rise to the occasion, Mr Fossil. Do a favour for an old woman. I’m very fond of that song.’

She fixed him with an expectant, hopeful stare. She had something remarkably kittenish in her manner at times, and looked as if she very much hoped Fossil would be kind enough to wave a pretty ribbon for her to chase.

It happened. Stone melted.

‘I suppose we can try.’

She beamed at him.

‘But, Jack . . .’ Tom lifted his hand. ‘The other recordings Mabel’s and Josie’s, and the tunes from the theatre band. We’ll have those in well before opening, won’t we?’

Jack’s thoughts flitted back to a fierce debate about a hatch between the instrument room and the musicians’ den, as they were calling it. He wondered if it would still be ongoing when he returned.

‘Yes, absolutely. No problem at all. Dixon suggested Josie do the ballad from Cairo Nights first. Your arrangement for piano and violin.’

Ruby pressed her palms together. ‘A good choice for Josie.’ She wrinkled her nose at Mr Fossil. ‘She can be marvellously expressive in her lower range.’

‘We shall take good care of it, Miss Ruby.’ Mr Fossil sounded flinty again. ‘I shall return to my shellac, Mr Lassiter.’