‘Not a bit of it, old bean. We know enough to know when we’re outclassed. We can get a table at the best restaurants with nonchalant ease. A seat in parliament? It’s ours by divine right, don’tcha know? But we know talent and skill when we see it and it makes us feel just a little uneasy and small. We’re well aware that we’re an anachronism in these modern times.’
‘Are you?’ said Skins. He gave Dunn a wink. ‘We might not get on, then.’
‘How so?’ asked Danny, clearly slightly disappointed.
‘I’m arachnophobic.’
‘That’s a fear of spiders, you chimp,’ said Dunn, cottoning on immediately. ‘He said he was an anachronism.’
‘What’s that, then?’ said Skins.
‘Buggered if I know. It’s a fear of open spaces or something, isn’t it?’
‘I thought that was angoraphobia.’
‘No, that’s a fear of woolly jumpers. You’re probably thinking of aggrophobia.’
‘No, mate,’ said Skins. ‘I know that one, that’s a fear of punch-ups.’
‘Ankaraphobia?’
‘Fear of Turkey.’
‘Could be agriphobia?’
‘No, that’s a fear of farm animals. You’re probably thinking of agreephobia, anyway.’
‘That’s a fear of concordance. Aguephobia?’
‘Medieval diseases.’
‘Agraphobia?’
Skins grinned. ‘That, my old mate, is an unnatural fear of the Taj Mahal.’
Danny was chuckling merrily. ‘You can see why we find you intimidating.’
‘Just a little bit we’ve been working on for our comedy act,’ said Skins.
‘You do comedy as well?’
‘We’re thinking about it. We sometimes do a bit in our music shows, but we’ve not got enough for a decent act yet. It’s always handy to have another string to the old bow, though. We did a couple of comedy turns in the army, didn’t we? Usually went down all right.’
Dunn nodded. ‘Although, to be honest, the average Tommy was so desperate for a laugh we could have done anything and they’d still have lapped it up.’
‘True, true,’ said Skins. ‘You must have had a different experience in the officers’ mess, though, eh? We played a few dances for the officers and they were much more staid affairs. At first, at least. Get a few brandies in ’em and all soldiers are the same in the end, eh?’
Danny didn’t respond. He was still smiling, but the joy had left him and the smile no longer seemed quite so genuine.
There was a knock at the door and a club servant came in.
‘You rang, sir?’
‘Ah, yes, Cuthbert. Thank you. Pot of tea for three, please.’
‘Very good, sir.’
The servant withdrew.
‘You know all the servants’ names as well?’ said Skins. ‘You’re not at all what we expected.’
The genuine smile returned. ‘Ah, no, not really. Well, yes. In a way. I do know all the servants’ names, because by club tradition all the servants are called Cuthbert. I’ve no idea when it started, but we just sort of go along with it. As it happens, I know that chap’s real name is William, but he’d be mortified if I were ever to address him thus.’
‘Different world,’ said Skins, shaking his head. ‘Different world.’
‘Isn’t it just? But what of you two? How did you come to be the coolest jazz musicians in town?’
‘Right place at the right time, mostly,’ said Dunn. ‘We were playing ragtime before the war – got a bit of a reputation – but we met some doughboys near the end of the war and they changed everything. The blokes from the Harlem Hellfighters introduced us to proper jazz. It was a revelation, you might say. They had some blinding players – musical geniuses, some of them – and they taught us the ropes. Then it was just a case of finding the right people to help us out.’
‘How wonderful. But how do you . . . you know . . . how do you get well known enough to secure engagements?’
‘No idea,’ said Dunn. ‘How did we do that?’
‘It’s the old thing, isn’t it,’ said Skins. ‘It ain’t what you know, it’s who you know. Like Barty says, we had a bit of a reputation before the war. So when the new clubs started opening up, they were pleased to see some familiar faces, especially familiar faces playing the most fashionable new music.’
‘It all sounds a good deal more glamorous than my line of work, I must say.’
‘And what’s that?’ said Skins.
‘Notionally I run an art gallery. But as you can see from my almost-permanent presence here at the club, it rather runs itself. I leave day-to-day matters to my assistant, and he calls me in when he needs to impress someone.’
‘You have a reputation of your own, then?’ said Dunn.
‘A modest one. I specialize in the avant-garde, and I seem to have become one of London’s foremost experts on Dadaism, for my sins.’ He grinned bashfully.
‘We met some of them once, Bart, remember?’ said Skins.
‘I’m not likely to forget. That definitely counts as one of the weirder dates we’ve played. Can’t honestly say I understood what they were trying to do, but they seemed like a nice bunch.’
‘Dada was really quite exciting,’ said Danny. ‘That idea of making sense of things by not making sense. I became quite the enthusiast.’
‘Do you . . . what is it they do? Paint? Draw? Sculpt?’ said Skins.
‘I dabble, but I never quite had the talent. Or the imagination. But it’s why I’m drawn to jazz, I think. Some of the things you do – rejecting the old rules, playing with form, all that sort of thing – they might be said to be a little Dadaist.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Dunn. ‘People certainly complain that we make an unmusical racket. But most of them don’t really understand music, if you ask me. We might not sound like their favourite music-hall song, but deep down we play by the same rules of harmony. We’re just a bit more . . . inventive sometimes. Like your Dada lot still stuck to the rules of shape and colour.’
‘Hmm,’ said Danny. ‘Perhaps. Are you familiar with Cubism, at all? That takes—’
They never found out any more about Cubism. There was a loud knock at the door and a Cuthbert entered smartly.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt, sirs,’ he said, ‘but is one of you gentlemen Mr Ivor Maloney?’
‘I am,’ said Skins. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘There’s a . . . there’s a lady’ – he could hardly bring himself to say the word – ‘at the porter’s desk demanding entry. She says she’s the band’s . . . manager.’ Again, the man’s horror at the very idea seemed to make the words almost too difficult to say.
‘Ah, that’ll be my wife,’ said Skins. ‘Eleanora Maloney.’
‘So she claimed, sir,’ said Cuthbert. ‘But she’s . . . well, she’s American.’
‘Yes, that’s our Ellie. Could you show her in, please?’
‘I’m afraid club rules do not permit it, sir.’