‘What will happen to those Teddy boys?’
‘Probably a drug bust, wouldn’t you say? Might find they were suppliers, not just users. Now let’s take that as a for instance. There’ll be a gap in the market there. It’ll need filling. If I knew people who had access to the pills that young people today like to use, I might be tempted to fill that gap.’
He was watching Hathaway closely.
‘You don’t pop pills, do you, John?’
Hathaway shook his head. Charlie did and Dan had tried them, but he’d never been interested.
‘But you’re not morally opposed to it?’
‘Morally opposed?’ Hathaway laughed at his dad saying those words.
‘Yeah – you know? You understand there’s a difference between the law and what’s right?’
‘Of course,’ Hathaway said, feeling uncomfortable at having such a conversation with his father.
‘Well, I sometimes operate within that gap between the law and what’s right. People want these pills. They give them a buzz. Supplying them isn’t hurting anyone. Public service, you might say.’
Hathaway glanced at his father.
‘Seems to me it’s only reasonable that if my son’s group is providing the music, his family should profit from ancillary activities.’
‘So you want me to sell drugs at our gigs?’
‘No, no, no. In the pubs nobody is selling without the landlord’s say-so. And the landlord’s are beholden to us. You just have to be sure we get our cut.’
‘Rough stuff?’ Hathaway said, and his father burst out laughing.
‘I don’t think so,’ his father said. He saw the look on his son’s face. ‘Not that I don’t think you’d be capable of it. But your role is managerial. I have wage-packet people for anything else. You don’t even need to get involved with the dealers. At the end of the night, when you get your fee, you get an extra envelope too. That’s all.’
At the end of Friday night’s gig, Hathaway took up his duties. Dan and Bill had both gone straight off, so he left Charlie at a table drinking a beer.
‘Hello, Mr Franks,’ he said to the landlord at the bar. ‘Wondered what the take was tonight.’
‘It’s your usual fee,’ Franks, a burly bald man, said, handing Hathaway a thick envelope.
‘No, not for that – for the ancillaries.’
The publican stared at him.
‘I think my father had a word with you about the new arrangements.’
The publican continued to stare. Finally, he said:
‘I was expecting Mr Reilly to do the collecting.’
Hathaway smiled.
‘One grasping hand is as good as another.’
The publican nodded slowly.
‘True enough. The dealer’s nipped off somewhere. He said he’d be back but maybe not until tomorrow. Do you want to come back then?’
It was Hathaway’s turn to stare. He could understand this sour man being irked that some youngster was taking more money off him, but he couldn’t let him try it on.
‘Mr Reilly will be the one to collect it in that case. He’ll doubtless want a word with the dealer too, if you could arrange for him to be here.’
The staring match continued for another minute.
‘Hang on a second,’ the publican said.
He was gone for over five minutes, and Hathaway was getting steamed until the landlord returned with an envelope in his hand.
‘Thought I heard him in the back – he came back sooner than expected. All the calculations are in there too.’
‘Thanks, Mr Franks. My dad will be pleased.’
Charlie watched him back across to his table.
‘What was that all about?’ Charlie said.
‘Just something for Dad.’
‘These machines must be quite good little earners for your dad. He’ll be worth a bob or two.’
Hathaway took a sip of his beer.
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘You’ve got the biggest house on your street,’ Charlie said.
‘Only because it’s on the corner and there was room to extend.’
‘Wouldn’t he want to move somewhere a bit posher?’
‘What’s wrong with Milldean?’
‘Nothing moving out of it wouldn’t fix. If I were your dad, I’d be buying something up the Dyke Road or round Seven Dials.’
‘I think he’d find them a bit snooty up there. He was born in Milldean. He’s rooted there. Don’t you like where you live?’
‘Moulscombe?’ Charlie just laughed. He took a gulp of his pint. ‘You going to work for your father until the group takes off?’
‘I already am, in a way,’ Hathaway said. ‘But it’s not like a proper job.’
‘Couldn’t find anything for me, could he?’ Charlie said. ‘I hate my bloody job.’
‘I’ll ask him. A lot of it seems to be cash under the table if you don’t mind that.’
‘Same at my place. I’m just sick of wearing filthy overalls and spending half an hour every night getting the grease from under my nails. Plus, at this time of year, it’s fucking cold in a garage.’
‘Not much different on the West Pier.’
‘But you’re hardly in that office, are you?’
‘That’s true. I’ll ask.’
‘That’s great. I owe you one.’
‘No, we’re equal,’ Hathaway said.
Charlie frowned.
‘How do you make that out?’
Hathaway shrugged.
‘Your van.’
‘The group pays for me to run that.’
‘Well, you’re a bloody good drummer. Anyway, I’ll see what I can do.’
Charlie studied him.
‘OK,’ he said.
Hathaway and his father rarely coincided at home. His mother was there all the time, usually baking and talking back at the radio. Hathaway was out most nights and slept most days.
The group was earning good money but not enough for the others to live on. Hathaway felt he was rolling in money because of the new salary he got from his father for picking up the pill take. It wasn’t exactly arduous work. He collected an envelope after a gig and dropped it through a night-box at one of his father’s town offices.
He called in at that office late one morning. It was in the Laines, on the first floor over a jeweller, sandwiched between an antiques shop and a Baptist chapel. The Bath Arms was opposite. The Avalons had played there once but the acoustics were dreadful.
A couple of men were listening to a transistor radio in an outer office. They recognized Hathaway and waved him through. His father was alone, staring out of the window, his feet up on a big safe in the corner of the room behind his desk.
‘Yes?’ he said, without turning.
‘Dad?’
Dennis Hathaway looked over his shoulder and dropped his feet to the floor.
‘John. A surprise.’
‘I was in the neighbourhood.’
‘I mean that you’re up – it’s not noon, yet.’
