‘I get more than enough mischief hanging around with the band, thank you.’

  ‘I’m sure you do . . . Now . . . let me see, who else would be worthy of the attention of the glamorous American sensation with the band . . . ? Ah, yes. The trio by the window? They might amuse you. Miss Crumlow, Miss Lundy and Miss van Beek. They run the ladies’ archery club. There are rumours – unsubstantiated, of course – that one of them is the reason that chap over there’ – he indicated a bearded man near the fireplace – ‘walks with a slight limp. Bobby Scruggs, by name. They say he took an arrow in the calf for complaining about one of their dogs. Tittle-tattle, of course. Probably.’

  Ellie chuckled. ‘Most illuminating, thank you. I feel as though I know them all.’

  ‘I wasn’t joking, you know. All of this lot will have been stealing glances at you just as much as we’ve been surveying them. Who does your wardrobe, by the way?’

  ‘You’re too kind,’ said Ellie, not minding the forward nature of the young Bilverton’s chat – it was clear he was a dedicated socialite. ‘I have a dressmaker in London. I like the clothes she puts me in very much, but she is always telling me off for not taking more of an interest.’

  Howard laughed. ‘If I ever need to impress a lady with a gift, I might need her card. Do you want anything more to eat?’

  ‘I couldn’t manage another mouthful, thank you.’

  ‘Then let’s see who’s in the drawing room.’

  Howard led them out through the other door and into a small hallway. Another door took them into the drawing room Ellie had seen earlier. There were more guests now, but Ellie’s attention was on the piano.

  ‘That’s a beautiful instrument,’ she said.

  ‘Do you play?’

  ‘A little.’

  Howard gestured towards the Bechstein in the corner of the room. ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t.’

  ‘Of course you can.’

  Ellie allowed herself to be steered towards the gleaming grand piano where, after a few experimental chords, she began to play a song she knew from a gramophone record that Skins often played at home.

  ‘That’s the ticket,’ said Howard enthusiastically. ‘Always loved “Singin’ the Blues”. Do you know it, Peter?’

  He invited a man to join them as Ellie continued playing. He was only a few years older than Howard, but where the other younger guests had chosen more fashionable attire, he had opted instead for the full formal white tie and tails. The suit was exquisitely tailored and fitted him perfectly, but it still seemed to Ellie as though it were someone else’s, as though he were playing a role and trying too hard to impress. Sucking up to the host, she wondered?

  ‘Mrs Maloney, may I present my future brother-in-law, Peter Putnam. Peter, this is Ellie Maloney. Her husband is the drummer with the jazz band.’

  ‘Hello,’ oiled Peter, managing to make the simple informal greeting sound like a lewd remark. ‘What a lucky man that drummer is.’

  He put a hand on Ellie’s shoulder. She tried to shrug him off as she continued to play, but he wouldn’t take the hint. She caught Howard’s eye and was thankful that he was a good deal better attuned to such things.

  ‘I say, is that Betty over there? How’s she enjoying herself this evening?’

  At the mention of his fiancée’s name, Peter hurriedly removed his hand from Ellie’s shoulder and looked around. ‘Where?’

  ‘My mistake, dear boy. Sorry. Could have sworn it was dear Elizabeth come looking for you.’

  ‘I’d better go and find her, though, eh?’ said Peter. He oozed away.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Ellie over the recently mauled shoulder.

  ‘I’d like to say he means well . . . But he really doesn’t. I don’t know what she sees in him.’

  ‘Families, eh?’ said Ellie as she expertly played on.

  The invitations had said ‘Carriages at One’. The evening had been dry and warm, but by the time the chauffeurs and taxi drivers began to line up their vehicles on the drive, it was raining heavily.

  By two in the morning, most of the partygoers had returned home and the rest had retired to the guest rooms on the second floor. The Dizzies, meanwhile, packed up their instruments and cleared the stage, still buzzing with the thrill of performing. The servants were already busy clearing up, so the band trooped out of the marquee with their gear into the pouring rain. A flagstone path ran along the rear of the house, past the walled garden and along a bowered passage to the old chapel. Skins always had the most to carry, but the others helped and they managed to get everything to their billet in one trip.

  Just that short walk had left them all soaked through, and there was a scramble once they were inside to find places to hang clothes where they might dry.

  The army cots had been set up for them in two rows of five on either side of what had once been the aisle. Ellie and Katy moved one of them so that the six men and four women could sleep on opposite sides.

  ‘Do you want a screen down the middle?’ asked Katy.

  ‘Can you be bothered to do it?’ asked Puddle.

  ‘Well . . . I just thought . . .’

  ‘Then no, we’ll be fine. They’ve resisted our charms so far, after all.’

  ‘It’s not that we don’t love you,’ said Dunn. ‘It’s just that we’re knackered.’

  ‘See?’ said Puddle. ‘Shut up and get some kip, sis.’

  Chapter Three

  Saturday, 27 June 1925

  The Dizzies slept well, and the first of them began stirring at about ten the next morning.

  The men had all served in the war, and Ellie had been a nurse in the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, so most of them were used to roughing it. Vera and Puddle had grown accustomed to dossing down with their bands when they played engagements far from home. Only new girl Katy had struggled.

  ‘You never told me I’d be living like a tramp,’ she said to her sister. ‘I thought being a jazz band’s manager would be a sight more glamorous than this.’

  ‘This is luxury,’ said Puddle. ‘You should see some of the places we’ve kipped in over the past couple of years.’

  ‘I think I might give touring a miss in future. I’ll be one of those managers with an office in Denmark Street. I’ll smoke cigars and hire a dishy secretary so I can flirt with him. And I’ll not sleep on army surplus cots in shabby old chapels.’

  There was movement on the other side of the room.

  ‘Anyone mind if I go first?’ said Elk.

  There were mumbles of consent and Elk got up and lumbered towards the chapel vestry, which had been converted into a bathroom. While he saw to his ablutions, a rota quickly evolved to get the Dizzies washed and dressed.

  ‘What are the arrangements for breakfast?’ asked Eustace.

  ‘They promised me they’d have something ready for us in the kitchens,’ said Katy. ‘If a couple of you would be absolute poppets and nip up there to get it, we can eat down here.’

  ‘If I can have the bathroom next,’ said Mickey, ‘me and Elk can go as soon as I’m dressed.’

  The two men set off in the rain shortly after that.

  There was an urn on a table at the back of the chapel to keep the studio’s clients supplied with tea during a long working day. While Mickey and Elk were gone, Dunn fired it up and was already handing out cups and mugs of tea by the time they returned, utterly sodden. Fortunately the much-awaited breakfast was covered.

  ‘It’s bedlam up at the house,’ said Mickey as he set down the tray of food. ‘Guests everywhere. The hall’s full of baggage. Looks like an evacuation.’

  ‘That will be the overnighters going home,’ said Katy. ‘Quite early, isn’t it? I suppose they have places to be. Young Howard Bilverton was charmingly apologetic about having to put us up down here, by the way. “Plenty of spare beds,” he said, “but they’re all taken – family friends and whatnot.” I said we wouldn’t mind. Perhaps I shouldn’t have.’

  ‘It was only one night,’ said Vera. ‘It was an adventure. Like camping.’

  The others politely agreed.

  They sat on their cots to eat their breakfast, with a few of the boys chattering eagerly about the exotic electronic recording equipment they’d found in a side room.

  ‘It’s good, then, is it?’ said Katy.

  Mickey nodded sagely. ‘I should say so.’

  ‘Why? What’s so special about it?’

  ‘Well . . . it’s . . . it’s electric, ain’t it?’

  Katy laughed. ‘I see. Well, I’ll have to take your word for it. Does that mean you’d be pleased if your new manager had arranged for you to make a recording in here today?’

  Eating and conversation stopped abruptly.

  ‘Pleased?’ said Mickey. ‘I should bloody well say so. You little darlin’.’

  ‘Nice one, Katy,’ said Elk.

  The rest of the band began talking all at once, excitedly speculating on what it would be like to make a proper modern recording.

  Breakfast was down to the last few rounds of toast when they heard the clatter of the latch on the old chapel door.

  ‘Are you decent?’ a voice called.

  Mickey gave a falsetto giggle. ‘No, but you can come in anyway.’ He grinned at his friends and bit off another mouthful.

  Malcolm Bilverton came in. He was dressed in tweeds, and his elegant walking cane of the evening before had been replaced by a more robust, bucolic stick. He limped into the body of the chapel among the munching band members on their old army cots.

  ‘Morning all,’ he said, giving the semblance of a bow. ‘Malcolm Bilverton of Bilver-Tone Records at your service. How wonderful to meet the Dizzy Heights in person at last.’

  ‘For our sins,’ said Skins, who was the only one of them without a mouthful of food. ‘Nice place you’ve got here.’

  ‘I’m glad you like it – I have a proposal for you. Do you have any plans for the rest of the morning? Young Howie tells me you’re stuck here till the charabanc arrives at lunchtime to take you all back to London.’

  ‘Well, I don’t. What about you lot? Did anyone have anything they particularly wanted to do?’

  ‘I would have quite liked a walk in the grounds,’ sighed Puddle, ‘but not in this weather.’

  ‘Well, quite,’ said Malcolm. ‘You see, the thing is I spoke to Mrs Cannon yesterday and asked if you’d like to cut a couple of discs while you’re here.’

  ‘Did you?’ said Mickey. ‘Katy, why didn’t you tell us?’

  ‘Ignore them, Malcolm,’ said Katy. ‘I told them just now. They were positively giddy.’

  Malcolm chuckled amiably. ‘You’re keen, then? It’s just that I was thinking I have one of London’s hottest jazz bands trapped here in my lair for the morning. It would give me an opportunity to hear you all again, and you’d end up with some recordings you could use for promotion.’

  ‘No need to try to convince us,’ said Skins. ‘You should have heard the reaction when she told us about it.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief. I had a speech prepared, but it wasn’t a terribly good one. So we shall make a recording or two for your own use. Although Mrs Cannon and I might even strike a commercial deal. One never knows.’

  ‘Well . . . I . . .’ said Katy.

  Malcolm smiled. ‘Splendid, splendid. Why don’t you and I have a little chat while your chaps set up? The cots live in the storeroom over there.’

  He took Katy into the corner and left the overexcited band to convert their dormitory back into a recording studio.

  It took the Dizzies quite a while to tidy everything away and then set themselves up to play. It took Malcolm even longer to find exactly the right spot for his microphone. He began by having the band play as normal and then walking around until he heard roughly the sound he was hoping for. Then he had them shift their chairs backwards or forwards as a way of balancing the different instruments. Skins and his drum set ended up at the back.

  Next, he spent almost half an hour arranging a number of what looked like oversized hospital screens hung with thick blankets around the room to ‘control the reverberation’, as he put it. Then he would make his way surprisingly nimbly back to his chosen spot, listen intently, nod sagely, and set off to make more adjustments.

  Finally, he seemed satisfied.

  ‘How’s that for everyone?’ he said as he set the heavy iron microphone stand in place.

  ‘We’ll get used to it,’ said Skins. ‘I can’t hear Barty so well. To tell the truth, I can’t hear anyone too well. You’ll all just have to follow me.’

  ‘It’s a revelation for me,’ said Barty Dunn. ‘Without that wiry little idiot banging and crashing next to me, I can hear things I’ve never heard before.’

  They rehearsed a couple of numbers while Malcolm checked the sound on the loudspeaker in the side room. He came out and excitedly told them everything was set up perfectly.

  ‘Are you ready to make a record?’ he asked. ‘It’s going to be marvellous. Absolutely marvellous. I’m so glad you all agreed to do this. So very glad. Glad indeed.’

  Skins gave Ellie a bemused frown. ‘All right then, Malcolm, m’boy, let’s go.’

  But as Malcolm set off at an unexpectedly energetic trot towards the control room, Eustace piped up. ‘We don’t want to record the count-in, do we?’

  They didn’t.

  ‘And Skins can’t use his stick like a conductor’s baton because he’s at the back and we can’t see him.’

  They couldn’t.

  ‘So how will we know when to come in?’

  Ellie was at the other end of the room. ‘I can conduct,’ she said, making her way down towards the band. ‘It’s not like I haven’t heard your entire repertoire a million times before. Ivor can give me the tempo, then I can give you one bar for nothing once the recording doodad is doing whatever it is recording doodads do.’ She was one of only a very few people anywhere in the world who ever called her husband Ivor.

  ‘That’ll work,’ said Eustace. ‘Thank you.’

  And that’s how it went. Skins tapped his sticks. Ellie did a little jig on the spot to keep the tempo fixed in her head. In the side room that housed all the equipment, Malcolm lowered the stylus on to the shellac recording disc and switched on the red light to signal that everything was working. Ellie conducted one bar and they were off.

  Then, as stealthily as she could, Ellie slunk to her seat in the lounge area by the tea urn, where she sat with Katy in perfect silence until the number was over and Malcolm had emerged from his lair to give the thumbs-up. They whooped and whistled.

  ‘That’s one for posterity,’ said Malcolm. ‘Care to try another before the muse leaves you?’

  The band enthusiastically agreed and Malcolm disappeared once more to change the disc.

  The same procedure followed, though this time Ellie stayed near the microphone to try to get an idea of how it might sound on the disc.

  Malcolm had originally intended just to record two numbers so that they could have a few copies of a single disc duplicated for their own use. They had proven so suited to the recording process, though, that he decided to record a few more songs just in case anything came of the ongoing negotiations with Katy.

  They were part way through the sixth number when the chapel door clattered and creaked open. Malcolm lifted the recording stylus and hurried out to stop the band.

  ‘Come in if you’re coming,’ he called.

  The entire rain-drenched Bilverton family trooped in, led by John Bilverton and his young wife.

  ‘Not come at a bad time, I hope,’ said John.

  ‘Of course you have, dear boy,’ said Malcolm. ‘But it’s my fault – I did suggest you all came down here, after all. I need to install a red light on the outside of the door to match the one in here.’

  ‘It would make the place look like a Parisian brothel,’ said Howard from the back of the group.

  ‘Must you always be so vulgar, you obnoxious little twerp?’ said the man Ellie had heard arguing with his wife at the party.

  ‘That’ll do, boys,’ said John. ‘Not in front of guests.’

  He completely ignored Katy and Ellie and walked down towards the band, his family trailing behind him.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, but we find ourselves confined to barracks by the rain and I thought it might be a treat – since we have what my children tell me is one of the “hottest jazz bands in London” staying with us – if we all came down to Malcolm’s little studio and spent some time listening to music. After all, we’ll lose you to the bright lights of London as soon as the charabanc arrives.’

  His position at the back of the band put Skins closest to John, so he decided to speak for them all.

  ‘Don’t mind at all,’ he said. ‘Always happy to have a captive audience. We’re the Dizzy Heights, but you knew that. We’ve got Barty Dunn on bass and Elk Elkington on banjo.’ He indicated the two men, who each gave a small wave of greeting. ‘Then we’ve got Eustace Taylor on trumpet and Benny Charles on trombone.’ Eustace waved, while Benny gave a warm smile and a nod. ‘The woodwind section is Isabella “Puddle” Puddephatt on sax, clarinet and occasional flute, and Vera James on clarinet and sax.’ The two women just smiled. ‘Mickey Kent is our singer and I’m Ivor Maloney, but everyone calls me Skins.’

  ‘Do they, indeed? And what do you do?’

  ‘I just came in to read the gas meter.’

  The man laughed. ‘Jolly good. Well, if we’re doing introductions, I suppose I ought to introduce my lot. This beautiful lady is my wife, Marianne. Then we have my eldest son Gordon and his wife Charlotte.’ He indicated the arguing man and the slapped woman, who were both still looking hostile. ‘My daughter Elizabeth and her fiancé Peter Putnam.’ A short woman and the oily man Ellie had met while she was playing the piano at the party. ‘That’s my daughter Veronica.’ Taller and more athletic, but somehow less graceful than her sister. ‘Youngest son Howard and his . . . pal, Henrietta Hollis. But I believe you’ve already met.’ The two youngsters from the previous evening were familiar to the whole band. ‘I’m John Bilverton and you already know my little brother, Malcolm. Welcome to my home.’