denominator.’
‘There’s worse,’ said Judy, smiling.
‘Well, yes,’ agreed Miss de Mauny, the hysteria in her voice abating somewhat, ‘I suppose that’s true. But what those women do, they’ve done since the dawn of time. Beauty parades – pageants—’ she spat the word out ‘—these things are man-made, and man-made now and today.
‘Frankly I’m appalled Temple Regis should lower itself in this way. But I don’t suppose your male editor would agree with that view – probably rubbing his hands at all the photographs he can print of girls in bathing costumes. Hence my reluctance to talk when you came to the door. Nothing will change.’
‘Yes, it will,’ said Judy, calmly. ‘There will come a time, and you mustn’t give up hope.’
‘You’re wrong. The only way any of this will change is if something radical is done.’
‘Parliamentary reform?’
‘Direct action,’ said Angela de Mauny fiercely. ‘That’s the only way to get things done. Sometimes men only stop to think when they see blood spilled on the ground.’
The journey back to the office was a difficult one. First, Valentine insisted Judy take the controls of the bubble car. Though it was called a car it was more like a motorcycle, but much more difficult to handle than dear Herbert. But it seemed only appropriate, given the tenor of the recent conversation, that a woman should take her turn at the wheel and so the couple made their halting way back to the Riviera Express.
They talked over the barely veiled violence in Miss de Mauny’s closing remarks.
‘Extraordinary woman,’ said Valentine. ‘I’d say barking mad.’
‘I wouldn’t say that, but she’s certainly unusual. How many more colourful relations have you got up your sleeve? Gilbert Drury, the Admiral, now Miss de Mauny.’
‘There are more, many more, believe me. No, I found it quite frightening at one point, actually. When she was talking about blood, it was if she meant it.’
‘You see her point.’
‘Well, sort of.’
‘I do,’ said Miss Dimont, ‘and if you were a woman you might understand things a bit better.’
‘I’m a quick learner,’ said Valentine, and turned his dazzling smile on her. He meant well, but what did he know? Boys’ public school, a stint of National Service, no experience of the world.
‘It’s a man’s world. You’re a man.’
‘I was brought up by an aunt,’ he said, as if by way of exoneration. He started to say something else, but they had reached their destination.
The reporters made their way through the front hall and trudged up the dusty stairs and along the corridor into the newsroom. People were still hard at work and the place was buzzing with activity. They just walking to their shared desk when …
‘Miss D-I-I-I-M-M-M-M!’
‘Action stations,’ said Judy, and pushed Valentine into his chair.
‘Yes, Mr Rhys?’
‘In my office, Miss Dim! Be quick about it!’
The door slammed shut, but Valentine could still hear above the office kerfuffle the sounds of voices raised in what seemed to be accusation and counter-accusation. It startled him, since he could tell Miss Dimont gave no ground to her employer, rather that she seemed to have the upper hand.
A few moments later, she emerged and returned to her desk, a little tense perhaps, but otherwise perfectly calm. She did not sit down.
‘Here’s a question to which you should be able to answer yes,’ she began, in a tense tone. ‘Have you heard of Danny Trouble and The Urge?’
‘Well, that sounds rather like … I’m not awfully musical, you know.’
‘No matter, Mr Ford. They’re on stage at the Pavilion Theatre, or just about to be,’ said Miss Dimont tersely, ‘and there’s a riot going on. Get going!’
Geraldine Phipps had seen many West End successes in a long and glittering career, but never anything like this. The chaos and excitement even outweighed anything she’d witnessed at the Coronation – and this was Temple Regis, not The Mall!
Screaming girls with thick sweaters and clumpy shoes had invaded the foyer of the Pavilion Theatre and were raiding the snack counter; the green-eyed pansy in charge had taken one look when they broke through the door and scarpered. Here and there a greasy-haired lout in a leather jacket and jeans ducked between the knots of girls, egging them on by shouting ‘Danny! DANNY!!’ and the screams would come again and again, thick and fast.
‘Stop that immediately, Gavin!’ ordered Mrs Phipps severely, for underneath the disreputable disguise she recognised her grandson, once the young man of great promise.
‘Danny! DANNY!!’ he yodelled, oblivious to the dowager’s cry, and the girls took up their screaming once again. ‘DANN … EEEEEE!!!!’
The singer and his mates felt less enthusiastic about Temple Regis than its inhabitants felt about them. The band’s ancient Bedford van had broken down outside Torquay and nobody had the money to pay for repairs. Eventually, they’d been offered a tow down to the town and had arrived long after the fans had settled themselves in. A service road at the back of the theatre had obscured this ignominious arrival and now they were hastily unloading their heavy equipment and hauling it backstage.
‘That Gavin,’ panted Danny Trouble, whose real name was Derek, ‘what a way to start a gig – I’m going to kill ’im.’
‘You hold him an’ I’ll hit ’im,’ offered Boots McGuigan, the bass guitarist.
‘Crazy, man, crazy’ said Taz, who played the drums. ‘What’s happening to us? We’re Number One in the Top Ten and we have to be towed here.’
‘Well, we aren’t going anywhere now. Not for the next six weeks,’ said Boots. ‘Someone’ll fix it.’
‘If it don’t get ripped apart by the fans.’
‘That’s another thing,’ said Danny, picking up a heavy amplifier. ‘Number One, and we’re stuck in this dead-and-alive hole for the next six weeks. We should be in London! If anyone’s doing the killing it’ll be me.’
‘Where’s Tommy?’
‘Where d’you think?’
Britain’s No 1 beat group had paused for a quick cigarette in the wings but their guitarist, a red-haired Irishman, was already onstage, guitar plugged in. He was noisily experimenting with various catlike cries he could squeeze from the instrument, fully aware that the racket he was making was filtering through the locked auditorium doors to the fans beyond, driving the girls to even greater ecstasy. He moved his body unnecessarily to the sounds he made, deeply in love with himself.
‘Turd,’ said Danny. Nobody bothered to respond because the singer had voiced the collective thought.
Boots McGuigan was sorting out the cat’s cradle of wires without which the magic and the mystery of their latest hit Please Me Baby Please would be inaudible. Each member of the band had a different responsibility beyond their musical role, and Boots’ was to make sure the sound equipment worked. Danny made the tea, Taz made sure they got paid. The exception was Tommy – who never did anything except play his guitar and waggle his hips in a most unpleasant fashion.
A curious rumbling, not unlike an earthquake, now gripped the building. The fans were drumming