All language subtitles for Dancing.On.The.Edge.1x06.Special.HDTV.XviD-AFG-eng2

During my friendship with Louis
Lester - and I think I can call it

a pretty remarkable friendship -

I made several attempts
to interview him

in my official capacity
as Deputy Editor of Music Express.

After all, I had
championed his music and his band,

given them a lot of publicity
and rave reviews. What was more

natural than to follow this up
with a really major interview?

I never got a chance to finish it
though,

before the terrible events that
engulfed us all happened.

But I firmly believe the fragments
I got are worth publishing -

especially as the conversation took
such an unexpected turn,

one I could never have predicted.

Subtitles by MemoryOnSmells
http://UKsubtitles.ru.

However, there was a problem with
interviewing Louis, as you will see.

So, are you ready to do this?

That depends. Depends on what?
A few conditions. Conditions?
What conditions?

When I say something is not to be
published, that means it's not to be
published. You understand?

I don't know,
we'll have to see about that.

Depends how exciting
you are on the record.

Well then, forget it.
I've changed my mind.

That was a joke, Louis.

When I say -
and listen to this, Stanley -

that you're not going to print
something, that's what it means.

And you'd better not.

You start by threatening me?
I don't believe this!

No, we start by making my conditions
absolutely clear.

Why don't we do it
like on the wireless?

Is that what you want, all the
questions and answers written out,

like some ridiculously
stilted interview?

"It must be exciting to be
a well-known coloured musician
in London, Mr Lester"?

Now you've promised not to write
anything I don't want...
Did I promise?

We both know that one of us is going
to come out of this interview deeply

regretting they agreed to it,
and it may not be me, Stanley.

You're trying to scare me now?
You think I can't?

I know you can't.

I know I can.

My parents were both from Jamaica,

my mother's family had come to
England 15 years before my father.

He was a merchant seaman,
travelled all over the world.

That's what I started doing too, as
you know - before I formed the band.

I got my first job at sea,
when I was 17...

You're in a bit of a hurry to leave
your parents there. Let's just stay
with them for a moment.

Your mother - what happened to her?

My mother was in service.
She was lucky.

She had a job in a great house
where there had been a tradition,
on and off,

of having coloured servants
going back to the 17th century.

There was a big picture
somewhere in the house

of one of the dukes, at the time of
Charles I, with his black page
standing behind him.

Why was she lucky to be there?

Because the lady of the house
took an interest in her,

which was very unusual - still is.

And no, I'm not going to name her,
because they're still very much

around at the moment, not the lady
in question, but the family.

I read about their social
engagements in The Times newspaper.

Hmm, maybe they're about to have
a great party and they'll ask for
your band to play there,

and you can return in triumph to
where your mum worked.

The thought had occurred to me.

How did this duchess, or whoever,
take an interest in your mother?

Just in small ways, of course.
She gave her books to read,

she gave her Vanity Fair
by William Makepeace Thackeray.

My mother couldn't read, but didn't
dare tell the lady of the house,

so she taught herself to read,
and then she read

the whole of Vanity Fair and she
gave it to me just before she died.

Have you read it? I have, yes,

although I have to admit
I did have to start it three times.

Anyway, your mum and your dad -
were you close?

No, that's all I want to say
about them. Let's move on.

That's twice you've tried not to talk
about them. Is that all you're going
to give me -

your mum and Vanity Fair?

Yes, this is off the record now,
Stanley, and not to be printed.

You're only allowed three.
Who says?

I'm telling you, you're only allowed
three "off the records",
and I'm counting.

Are you sure you want this to be
one of them? Yes.

My mother had problems - especially
when my father was away at the war.

She was in a state of constant fear.

She often screamed when she saw
the postman walking down the street,
or the telegraph boy.

Yes, God, most hated boys,
the telegraph boys.

I thought about doing that
after the war started.

Watched them coming down the street,
and I remember thinking, no, no.

I never want to be one of those boys,
constantly bringing news of death.

You look surprised. I was surprised,
that's, er... A bit serious for me?

I didn't say that.
You meant it though. Leave it.

I should never have interrupted
when you're talking about your mum.

My mother... Well, her moods became
more and more frequent.

She went mad? That's why
we're off the record, yes,

but I wouldn't say she went mad -
she was...

locked inside her own world.

Every night she yelled out at God,

had this passionate conversation
with Him.

She thought that a black soldier,
for some reason,

a black soldier was more
likely to be killed.

I sometimes came across her,
in the kitchen, quite naked,

on her knees, praying, praying.

I've never prayed in my life,
Stanley,

and I certainly never intend
to do so.

But her prayers,
it did bring him back.

Her great love. She only had eyes
for him, always just for him.

But then my father,
he never really spoke about the war.

Nobody wants to talk about the war.
I know. It's as if, at the moment,

there isn't a single person
who wants to remember the war.

We were lucky, so bloody lucky,

to be young enough to just
miss all that.

I remember going
down the river one day,

just after the war had started,
sunny afternoon,

went down to the beach at Battersea

where at low tide you can wade out
into the river.

The boats were all going past,
still a lot of young men on them,

taking their girls out on the water.

And there was this one girl
standing on the river bank,

just above the beach.
She had a young man with her,

and her dog,
and she tied the dog to a tree.

And then they were kissing really
passionately, just near me,

and touching each other all over.
I was only 11,

it was a tremendous free show.

And I... I watched it all.

She says goodbye to him. He was in
uniform, he was going to the war.

And then he leaves her.

She turns round, and the dog was
gone, it'd managed to get free,

so she starts running all over
the park trying to find the dog.

I decided to help her.
I mean, after that wonderful show,

that was the least I could do.

And I remember so clearly,

when I was helping to try
and find her dog, how joyful she was

at what had just happened, because
he must have said how much he truly

loved her, and yet how sad she was
at the same time because he'd gone.

She was so full of both those things
at once

and I could feel it so strongly
because I was right next to her.

And did you find the dog?

Oh, yes, I found the dog.
"Here it is!" I said,

and she gave me a little kiss
on the top of me head

and she was gone.

Funny...

Often think about her,
what happened to her, and if, er...

well, if he ever came back.

She was a beautiful girl.

Sweet little story, really, isn't it?

It is. So why are you looking at me
like that?

You tell me a story of your own,
Stanley, hoping I'll open up to you.

Maybe. But you're going to open up
to me anyway, Louis.

So, no brothers or sisters,
and you're all alone living
with your deeply religious mother?

Yes. Do you have any brothers
and sisters? I don't.

That's a coincidence.
Both of us being only children.

Yes. Might explain something, of
course, although I don't know what.

And both your parents died in the flu
epidemic - that must have been
a devastating time.

Are we still off the record?

For heaven's sake, you can tell me
about that. Both your parents die,
you're incredibly upset.

We are still off the record.
Oh! Go on, if we have to be.

It was in a way,
devastating, of course.

But in another way,
I was already on my own.

I had naturally seen very little
of my father during the war

and when he came back, he really
didn't speak to me very much.

And there was a time,
shortly before he died,

when we were walking along
the street,

and he stopped to buy toffee apples
for both of us.

I was a little old for toffee
apples, I thought,

but I realised
that he wanted one,

and he was pretending it was for me,
the reason why he was buying them.

We walked along a little way
eating our toffee apples

and I did think, here is a chance
to talk to him about the war -

got to try and talk to him about it.

So I asked him about sleep. Was it
easy to sleep in the trenches?

Did he ever get used to it?
And what did he say?

He said he didn't really remember,
even though

it was only a year after the war.

He didn't really remember
about sleep.

And we walked along together
eating our toffee apples

and that was the last time
I ever spoke to him.

Shall I tell you the brutal truth?
The brutal truth?

That sounds promising. Tell me the
brutal truth, Louis, just as long as
it's on the fucking record.

This is on the record, but you won't
want to print it. I'm sure I will.
No, I know you won't.

Thanks for providing the sandwiches,
by the way.

There's champagne. But at this rate,
you're not going to earn it.

Don't rush to judgment, Stanley.
What is the brutal truth?

It is that people don't like
the idea of me being English,

not even you.

What have I done to deserve that?

It's true, they prefer to
think of me as an American.

The most frequent question I get
asked is, "Are you going back to
America soon?"

Yes, but that only proves what a
novelty you are, not a minstrel band.

I'm not sure that's what they mean
when they ask that. Of course,
many people are prejudiced,

but there are many that aren't,
and those numbers are growing.

Is that Stanley Mitchell's
own research?

In a way, yes. It is my considered
opinion as a professional observer

of the current scene.

Is that what you are,
a professional observer?

Anyway, if you were American,
and you were there now, in quite

a few states they'd put you in jail
for sleeping with a white woman.

I'm just going to sit here
and eat your sandwiches

until you move on to something else.

I'm certainly not going to
comment on that.

Of course I'm not going to write
about your personal life! D'you
think I'm that kind of journalist?

I'm quite offended. I will make
one observation, however.

It's that you, Stanley Mitchell,
have never been to America.

You are deeply fascinated by it,

of course, but you have absolutely
no idea what it's really like.

I haven't been to America, yet, no.

My mum hadn't heard an American
accent until a couple of years ago
when we went to the talkies.

That was the same for most of the
country. They hadn't heard it either.

She said, "Oooh,
so that's what they sound like!"

Yes.

To state the obvious, I have seen
more of the world than you.

So, Mr Lester, what's it like being
a coloured musician in London now?

This is off the record now, Stanley.
Oh, for...

When you are a coloured person,
you are very visible, of course,

and people make remarks
all the time, you get used to it.

Sometimes you can't ignore them,
most of the time

you find a way, or at least I do,
of letting it slip past you.

But at the same time
you are invisible.

Because you are coloured,

you are obviously not
a person of consequence.

"Of course, how could he be!"

So even if you hear something
very private, people think you'll

never know anybody important enough
to repeat it to.

And if you are a musician
that is doubly true,

because you are just providing
the background sound to all these

people's lives, so they often
behave as if you don't exist

and you get to hear some
very intimate things.

For instance,
on some of the big ocean crossings,

just after the financial crash,
when I was playing in first class,

I heard people talking about killing
themselves right in front of me.

And I heard other people laying out
all their business plans,

exactly how they were going to
destroy their rivals.

So I feel quite lucky in a way to
have been able to eavesdrop on

so many people, as part
of the furniture of their lives.

And now, because I have had success,

people don't talk like that
in front of me any more.

Give me some more examples of what
you've heard. You think I'm mad?

I'm not sure about all this
invisible, visible stuff.

It's all a bit over-prepared for me,
it's a bit too polished.

But isn't that who I am, Stanley?

A bit of polish is good. Oh, right,
yes, the old Louis Lester polish -
I forgot, of course!

Well, answer me this then,
Mr Louis Lester.

Do you consider yourself
a radical person?

Somebody who has left-leaning
sympathies?

Well, generally
I'm not a political person.

Of course, we live at a time
when there is a huge gap

between the rich and the poor,
and naturally like most reasonable

people, I don't believe that's
right, but I'm not a communist.

I suppose I believe that there's
never just one solution

to any given problem.

God help us. You're not talking to
the Daily Express, you know.

I'm very aware of that.
They would have prepared for this
interview a lot better.

So what's your conclusion about
how things are,
from all this invisibility?

The position you've been in,
which you seem to regard as
quite a lucky position?

And you're going to yell at me,
because it's so obvious. Probably.

My conclusion is - there's
a hell of a lot of ignorance

about people like me.

From most people?

From everybody.

From everybody?
Well, fucking hell Louis,

it's a good job we're doing
this interview then, isn't it?

# Come into the warm, it's Christmas

# Time for you to toast
your toes... #

The feeling in the ballroom
of the Imperial Hotel

when the band played used to vary
wildly from night to night.

From high excitement
to complete incomprehension.

The performance
I really wish I'd been there for was

when they played to the old dowagers
on Christmas Day as
they tucked into their puddings,

the old ladies looking to see if
they'd been lucky and got
a sixpence in their portion.

Never had there been a more unlikely
audience for jazz music.

And yet, I'm told,
there was a feeling of reasonable

tolerance in the room,
broken only by the shocking

spectacle of members of the German
Embassy walking out in protest.

Which just helps to prove how
powerful the right music can be

when it confronts the wrong audience.

# Come ye faithful, come,
it's Christmas... #

For some reason,
you're not asking me the question
you really want to ask.

Oh, how very idiotic of me. And
why am I not asking that question?

I don't know, Stanley. I don't know
why you're pussyfooting around.

What is that question?
This is off the record.

That's three down, now.
Come on, you've had your lot.

We'll see about that.

The question you're not asking is
why are so many
upper class people...

No, not so many, that's quite wrong.
Why are some upper class people,

including royalty, so interested
in jazz music and black musicians?

Ah, well, I don't have to ask that
question, for the very simple reason,
I know the answer.

You know? Yes, it's easy - cos
they find it very sexually exciting.

So that's the reason, is it?

You can look me in the eye, and tell
me that's not the reason? Go on, try.

Some of that is true.

What do you mean? It is the truth.

If you're talking about
Prince George. Certainly the
princes, but not just the princes.

It is exotic for them, that is
the attraction, and a change.

From the ghastly Jack Paynton,
and all those terrible foxtrots!

I agree about that,
but if you want my opinion...

That is why I'm here.
They find in the music a chance
to escape, for a minute or two,

from all the rules and codes
of behaviour they have to live by.

But you love all that, don't you?

Love what?

Royalty. And all the rules of
etiquette. Having to bow to them.

Having the chance to talk to them
for a few precious seconds,

having to play for them, having to
answer their dumb questions.
I'm right, aren't I?

It is an exciting challenge,

putting on a performance
for a royal audience, yes.

Come on, I can't believe you just
said that. You're not on the bloody
wireless!

And an honour too, of course,
a great honour.

"Mr Louis Lester says it's a great
honour playing for the Royal Family!"

Well, fuck me, Louis, that is the
scoop of the century, right, Louis?

# Trucking along
and I'm happy to see you

# Ain't right or wrong if I do
or I don't

# I'm holding on for a dance
at the Voodoo

# Crazy in the mood for love

# Never say you won't be leaving

# You can buy me time and teasing

# You can show me ways of pleasing

# Crazy in a mood for love

# Crazy in love and I'm looking to
make it... #

Do you consider yourself famous?

No. But you are quite famous,
right at the moment.

The band has had success.

Jessie, our lead singer,
has had great success, yes.

So the band is famous? The band is
well-known, at the moment, yes.

What's the biggest change that fame
has brought you? What can you do now
you couldn't before?

Well, being able to use the front
entrance at the Imperial Hotel.

Mmmm. Being able to call for a taxi,
having some money,

not having to worry about members
of the band being deported

because we have regular work. So you
feel much safer, much more secure?

Of course, as much as anybody can
at the moment.

Do you think you've had to be quite
ruthless to get where you are?
No, I don't think that, no.

But your manager, Wesley Holt,
was deported over a year ago,

ending a long association
between you,

and that didn't seem to affect you
that deeply. On the contrary,
it was a very difficult time.

Didn't seem to throw you
off your stride at all.
I wouldn't put it like that.

We had many months when I felt the
band was making no progress

and we were going nowhere.
As you well know, Stanley.

And Wesley Holt?
Do you know what happened to him?

We've lost touch.
You've made no attempt to find out
what happened to him?

Of course I have.
I've made several attempts.

There was a serious court case
pending in the state of Illinois,

wasn't there, for him? I believe so.
I'm sure he didn't go back there.

Do you know if he's dead or alive?
I'm sure he's alive.

So why haven't you heard from him?

Because I think
he may have felt that

I could have done more
about his situation.

I'm not sure I could have done.

Would you like me to find out
what happened to him?

Of course, if you think you can.
Maybe I'll try
my own line of enquiry.

My point is, how has success
changed you? Your personality?

In my experience it changes most
people. So how has it changed you?

You've got to answer. You've got to
allow me underneath the surface

otherwise all this is pointless.
How have you changed?

I will answer that. Go on.

But in this way, Stanley.
And it's not what you're expecting.

Surprise me, Louis. There has been
a very interesting side

to the little bit of fame we've had,
something you could never guess at.

And it'll give you a story.
Marvellous.

But you've got to do a bit of work
for it first. You've got to speak to
Carla, and to Jessie,

and then you might know
what question to ask.
You're setting me tasks now? I am.

Is this because I've started asking
you awkward questions? No, it's not,

it's because that's all the time
I can spare you now.

Jessie's impossible to talk to.
She won't talk about herself,
absolutely refuses to!

Get Carla on your side
and maybe she will.

What's she going to tell me?

Oh, you infuriating bastard.

# Fog on the river,
mist in my heart... #

Carla always got very nervous
before she sang.

She had extraordinary presence
but didn't seem to realise

the effect she had on people, how
much they were drawn to watch her.

Did Louis say this was all right?

He did.
He said I had to talk to you.

I can't see why. What are you going
to find out from me?

Well, I'm trying to do a really
full interview about Louis

and the success of the band
and Louis believes strongly that

you should be in the article.
So do I, of course.

I see. I'm interested in how success
has changed you and the band,

if it has, that is?

Well, we've been so lucky,
so very lucky, in all sorts of ways.

I mean, not having to
worry about food,

about being hungry, for a start.

Have you ever been hungry?

On occasions, yes,
like walking home after school.

You've never been hungry, have you?

Well, not like you, Carla, no.

Well, the biggest difference for me,

the very biggest difference success
has meant to me, was going into

Fortnum and Mason's and having three
Welsh Rarebits, one after another,

in a place that I could never have
gone into, not in my wildest dreams!

Never, ever, ever.

Three Welsh Rarebits!

It's rarebits by the way,
not rabbits, which is
a piece of cheese on toast -

I know what
Welsh Rarebits are, Carla.

D'you know why it's called that?
I don't know that, no.

No, nor do I. I forgot to ask.

Well, that's the biggest difference,
three Welsh Rarebits,
one after another.

And that's it? That's why Louis
wanted me to talk to you?

To hear about cheese on toast?

I thought you wanted to talk to me?

Yes, I do, of course. Go on.

Well, that's the biggest difference,
that's what success has meant to me.

What happens if it goes?

Of course, I'm not saying that it
will, but sometimes in showbusiness
things don't go on for ever.

How difficult d'you think it would be
to go back? Go back where?

To your life before.

It would be easy.

Would it?

Yes, and I expect it will happen.
One day.

But before then, do you have a sort
of dream where you may end up?

Your own West End show? Hah!

What does that mean, "Hah"?

Louis told me if you asked me
that question I should tell you
about the man in our street.

Louie's been coaching you
how to answer my questions?

He talked to me, yes.
He said if you wanted to know
the answer to that question,

I should tell you about the man
and the room.

Well, I think I would have anyway,
because that's what I believe.

In the street where I grew up...

Which was where? I'm not going
to tell you that now, am I, Stanley?

Why ever not? Because it's private.

But it was in London?
You can tell me that much.

Yes, it was in London.

Good!

We didn't have much space.

We didn't have very much space
at all.

There were six of us,
my brothers and sisters and I,

and we all slept in the same room.

So a room of your own was
a really special thing.

So one day across the street,
a man arrives.

Mr Dunwoodie, he was called.

He was from Scotland,
although he didn't have
a Scottish accent really.

He was a short man, and he was
so full of energy and life.

And every time he passed us
on the street he'd say

"Hello children, what a day
it is today. A lovely day,
a day for great ideas!"

So Mr Dunwoodie had two rooms
of his own across the street,

all to himself.

And we soon found out that
Mr Dunwoodie was working on this

wonderful invention that was going
to make him his fortune,

and he said he was going to show it
to us as soon as it was ready,

and that's why
he needed the two rooms.

So when we saw him on the street,
we'd call out to him.

We'd ask him how it was going,
if it was nearly ready yet.

And he would always answer, "Nearly
there, children, nearly there!"

But after a few months,
we couldn't wait any longer.

You know what kids are like,
we had to see this great invention.

So we ran across the street
and we knocked on the door.

"Can we come in?"
And he shouted, "Go away, children!"

Well, we didn't go away.

We tried the door handle,
and it wasn't locked,

and the door flew open
and in we went.

And all over the floor
were these bits of metal,

a terrible mess,
little pieces and big pieces.

Everywhere you looked,
there were pieces of scrap metal.

And Mr Dunwoodie,
he was screaming at us.

"Go away, you terrible children,
go away right now!"

And of course we ran away.

And for days we didn't see
Mr Dunwoodie.

And when he did come out into the
street, he looked so different.

Pale, and older looking.

His face was so, so terribly sad.

And he never smiled at us again,
not once.

A little while later,
he went away, disappeared,

he took all of his bits of metal
on an old cart.

But I learnt from that a big lesson.

You can have a dream, but you must
never describe that dream to anyone,

or let them see too closely
inside of it,

because one day they might
burst through the door

and you may have to see your dream
through someone else's eyes,

how it might seem to the world,
and that can destroy it for ever.

How strange. What's strange?

Well, that Louis should coach you
like this, make you tell me
some kind of a fable.

It's not a fairy story, it happened.

I'm not saying it didn't happen,

but I don't know who I'm meant to be
in this story.

I'm not going to try and destroy
your dreams of success,

for goodness' sake,
quite the opposite.

You know, I thought this was going to
be easy, interviewing Louis and you.

It's proving
quite the bloody opposite.

Well, I'm sorry I didn't give you
the answer that you wanted.

No, no. If you want to talk about
things changing people,

maybe you should talk to Jessie,
of course.

D'you think she'll talk to me?
We'll see.

If you could be gentle with her,
and not get too impatient, Stanley.

But do you think you can do that?

# Stars burning brighter,
I'm on an all-nighter

# Serenading to a tune

# I've popped the bull's eye
in a celestial night sky

# I'm dancing on the moon... #

I always found Jessie unknowable,

a mysterious little creature who
seemed to have emerged into the world

fully-formed without parents,
brothers or sisters,

or any past she would talk about.

# Life is a glass of champagne

# A silver souvenir will
never cost me dear

# In a starlit avenue... #

Her tragic death has only deepened
the mystery, of course.

But I knew, the morning
I spoke to her,

I had to try and relax her
if she was going to open up to me
and give me a lead.

So I encouraged her to bring some of
her family out with her, and I tried

to ask her as little as possible
and be patient, something I find it
very difficult to be.

The letters I get are such
a mixture, such a strange mixture.

Everyday I wake up and think,
"What surprise will there be today
in the box?"

I put them all, each new lot
of letters, in this blue box -

and then I go through them,
without opening them,

just looking at the writing
on the envelope,

deciding which I'll open first,
and which maybe I'll never open.

A lot of them, of course, are saying
nice things about me,

usually very nice,
about how pretty my singing is

and what a good dancer I am.

I am a good dancer, I think.

Not many people have written about
that, Stanley, you know. Hmm!

Then of course, there are the
letters which are simply disgusting,

about people thinking about me
without my clothes on
and that sort of thing.

I wonder if Jack Paynton
gets letters like that?

I expect he does.

It's not something one wants to
think about, a naked Jack.

I'm sure even Mrs Paynton has
a problem with that!

Sorry - I interrupted.

Yes, well, there's one thing
about these letters I really wish.

It would be so much better if people
sent pictures of themselves

with the letters.
Because I often think,

after receiving
a very peculiar letter,

who could have written a letter
like this?

I wonder what he looks like?
Or what this woman looks like?

Because lots of women write to me
too, it's not just men.

I wish I had a picture of the man
who sent me
three boxes of peaches last week.

Yes, I got three boxes of peaches.

They were delivered to the hotel
with a note saying "In Admiration".

And a few weeks ago I got
a little dog. I got sent a puppy!

Couldn't keep it, of course -

we're not allowed pets in our rooms
at the hotel.

But somebody is looking after it for
me, and I will get it back one day.

And sometimes, you know, Stanley,
people write about their lives to me

in such a way, all the most
private things, and asking me

for advice, and you can't really
help them at all - I mean, I can't.

No, you can't read them.

I didn't say anything, Jessie.

No, but I'm just making clear,
nobody can read them,

not even my letters from the Prince,

and I've had several letters
from the Prince,

and those, of course,
are the most special of all.

Course. And, er, your parents?
They must be very proud of you.

Do they write to you often?
I don't talk about my parents.

My dad disappeared when I was three,
I never knew him,

I think he's dead now anyway.

He was white.

I think he worked in Covent Garden,
you know, in the market.

My mother, I'm not talking much
about my mother either.

She left, as well,
when I was little.

I was about eight when she went.

She was a bit of a singer,
too, as it happens.

One of my few good memories of her
is her singing to me when I was tiny

as she said goodnight,
but she didn't do it that often.

She had many admirers, many men.

Nearly all of them were white.

They came and knocked on the door

and gave me a little pat
on the head.

Really?

She sang at Collins Music Hall,
the one in Islington,

so she can't have been
that bad, can she?

Did you ever go and see her
in the theatre?

Yes, I saw her once.

I think it must have been
at Collins.

There were three of them,
with my mum in the middle,

singing a silly song about bananas.

And I knew at once I wasn't going
to be a singer like her.

I was going to be a singer,
I knew that much,

but I was going to be
completely different.

She left us, anyway, me and my aunt.

She left us.

Suddenly, one night, she was gone,
never was in touch.

I haven't seen her for years.
Maybe she's dead, too.

You think I sound hard?

I didn't say anything, Jessie.

I know you didn't say anything.
I'm asking you, do I sound hard?

You sound like you haven't
forgiven her.

I haven't, no.

I don't think I've forgiven
either of them,

but that doesn't mean I'm hard.

After all, I owe everything
to one man,

and I always say that,
I always make that clear.

You mean Louis, I take it?

Well, Louis too, of course,
but no, I didn't mean him.

I meant before him, there was
my teacher in the East End,

Mr Rabinowitz.

He gave me singing lessons.

Of course, I couldn't really pay
him, not what he usually charged,

not what he charged the others.

My aunt paid what she could.
He did a special rate for me.

I wish he could see me now.

I wish he could have been there
when I sang for the Prince of Wales,

and heard me singing
on the wireless.

I'd have given anything for him
to be there, to be here still.

But he died three years ago.

His heart was broken.

Who broke his heart, Jessie?

Well, it certainly wasn't me.

There was one girl who had lessons
with him called...

Well, I'll call her Annie,
though that's not her real name,

because you'll know her real name.

She was very pretty,
now she's beautiful.

I don't know where she lived.

Not round us, anyway.

She came and had lessons
with him twice a week.

She was very good and he was
really taken with her.

I mean, he was in love with her,
but he never would do anything

with her, you know,
which wasn't proper, wasn't right.

He never took advantage
of any of us.

He was in love with her talent

and how amazing she was when
she sang, so he loved her.

Anyway, Annie, the person
I'm calling Annie

has become very successful.

She's starring in a revue right
now in the West End.

I probably shouldn't have said that,
now you'll probably guess her name.

I won't guess that, Jessie.

Although she owed him everything,
owed Mr Rabinowitz her career,

she never answered his letters.

And when he went to see her
the first time

she was in a West End show,

she kept him waiting for ages
at the stage door,

and then she didn't even
come down to see him.

Instead she sent down a box
of chocolates,

and when he opened them,
half of them had already been eaten!

Imagine doing that to
your old teacher!

What a terrible thing to do!

It broke his heart.

He was my friend.
I could never behave like that.

I could never change towards
people in that way,

no matter what happens.
People who have helped you.

However much you get your head
swollen by what people say

in these letters, you mustn't
believe them, you mustn't change.

You know, some of them run down the
street after me blowing kisses,

just like Julian said they would!

But I'm not going to change.

Of course, just like the letters,
the people that wait outside

the hotel for my autograph,
outside The Imperial,

are such a mixture, too.

But you can see their faces,
so whatever they say to you,

and sometimes they do whisper things
that are a shock,

whatever they say it isn't as
strange as some of these letters.

And you can smile at them and talk
to them, and be friendly enough

so it doesn't become anything
worse.

You understand what I mean?

Yes.

Oh, has Louis told you
about the woman?

What woman?

No, he hasn't.

He hasn't?

I'm pleased to see today we're
starting with champagne.

Last time it never showed up did it?

Well, today it's a bribe.

I realise that.

So I've been on the little mystery
tour you wanted me to,

and Jessie told me
to ask you about the woman.

So I'm hoping you're not going
to muck about.

Muck about?

Yes. Hope you're going to tell me
about her straight away.

I will, in a moment.

In a moment? Here we go again,
bloody off the record business!

What tiny bit of this interview

am I actually going to be
allowed to publish?

I'm not saying this
is off the record.

You're not? Why not?
It can't be that exciting then.

It's just I know you won't have the
guts to publish it.

I'm not going to rise to that.

You know, I've been very stupid now,

and you don't often hear me
say that. That's true.

I forgot for a moment
that you're a musician,

and you're treating this interview
a bit like your jazz music.

You seem to be improvising,
talking about this and that,

and all the while I'm being led
somewhere, aren't I?

You are, yes.

To the woman.

To the woman, yes.

What I meant by the
interesting side of fame.

This will never be in your magazine.

I'll bet you £100.

I don't bet, but who knows,
if it's worth it,

I might pay you something.

Now, where did you meet this woman?

I was dressed like this, getting
ready to play in the ballroom.

It was about two months ago.

I was in a little room near
Schlesinger's office,

he lets me use it sometimes
to get away from the band.

'I was in a rather good mood,
I remember.'

'There's a telephone call for you,
Mr Lester.'

Thank you.

'Hello?'

Hello?

'You don't know who this is,
do you?'

I have to admit I don't.

'You've never noticed me, then?'

Noticed you? Where?

'But if you have to be told,
then you haven't noticed me.'

Well, if you told me your name,
it might help.

'You want to know my name?

'How would that help
if you haven't noticed me?'

'Well, if you described yourself.'

'Describe myself?

'What if I told you I was naked?

'Does that help?'

Excuse me, I'm just getting
ready for tonight's performance,

so I will...

'I'm sorry, don't ring off...'

I shouldn't have said that.

That was plain stupid, Mr Lester.
I apologise.

There's no need to apologise.

'No, I do apologise,
first of all because...'

Well, I'm not naked, so it was
pointless me saying that.

Though depending on
how long we talk,

that situation can always change.

I really must go now.

I'm sorry, that was just
a poor joke,

and actually, I do have something
very interesting to tell you,

so I should stop spoiling it,
shouldn't I?

The point is, I'm, of course,
a great admirer of your work,

and I've sat in the ballroom
at the Imperial

and heard you play many times,
and maybe I was there last night,

sat quite close to the stage,
wearing a rather revealing dress,

and maybe you did notice me?

When I'm playing, I don't see much
from the stage.

Oh, well, I'm sure you're
concentrating on your music,

Mr Lester, of course!

I was just explaining what a devoted
follower I am of your band,

and perhaps at this very moment
I'm telephoning

from somewhere in the hotel,
so I'm not too far from you.

'But before you reply to that, let's
leave all that vague, shall we?

'Because I don't think
I should tell you too much.'

I think it's probably better that
you don't know my name.

I think it'll be safer for you,

and a lot safer for me,
if you didn't know my name.

Safer?

In what way safer?

Oh, I keep saying things I oughtn't,
things that make me sound bonkers,

and that is precisely how
I don't want to sound.

'But yes, I think it would be
much safer for both of us

'if I remain anonymous.'

I hope you don't think
that's too cowardly.

Do you think it's cowardly?

I'm sure it isn't.

But now, whoever you are,

I really am in the middle of
doing some work here,

'so intriguing as it is to talk to
an anonymous lady who may...'

or may not be naked, I'm sorry,
but I'm going to ring off now.

If you ring off, you won't stop me.

Blimey, I can't believe you did
that! Why did you ring off?

I had work to do.

Of course, I forgot,
you're always working.

The next day,
at exactly the same time,

about an hour before we were going
to play, the telephone rings again.

And I warn you, Stanley, you're not
going to like this.

Why not?

Because it's going to affect
you personally.

I left this bit out when
I told Jessie.

I'm flattered I'm getting it all.

'How very unimaginative of you
to ring off last night.'

Well, I explained, I had work to do.

Oh, you sound just like my husband,
whom we will soon be talking about.

Please don't ring off,
it's important, promise me.

I won't ring off, yet.

Good. Now,
are you wondering what I'm wearing?

'Well, that was a long pause.'

Come on,
I'm rather an attractive woman.

I can't believe you're not wondering
how much or how little I'm wearing,

especially as I hear you're rather
partial to white women.

'So, what do you think I'm wearing?'

Before you tell me that...

'Yes? What do you want to know,
Mr Lester?'

What do I call you,

since you won't tell me
your real name?

Oh, good, I'm so glad you're not
threatening to ring off yet.

You can call me Josephine,

'as in Napoleon and Josephine.'

So, Josephine,

'what are you wearing?'

I'm sitting here in my petticoat,
waiting for my husband to come back

and take me to a very boring
dinner party.

So why did you call me?

'I'm coming to that.'

But I realise before you
can take me seriously,

you need somebody to vouch
for me,

so I'm going to hand the telephone
now to somebody who you know,

'but on one condition.'

What condition is that?

You must never make her tell you
who I am. Do you promise that?

I promise that.

If you break your promise, it could
be fatal for me, you understand?

I understand.

Good.

Oh, it's going to be Pamela,
isn't it?

It's going to be one of her nutty,
upper-class friends

on the phone, isn't it?

Hello, Louis.

You've got to promise you won't
try and make her tell you
who this lady is.

Oh, now I've got to promise, do I?
What is this all about, Louis?

Unless you promise I won't tell you.

I'll have to promise, then,
won't I?

And mean it. I mean it.

I mean it.

Good evening, Pamela.

I'm here with the person
you know as Josephine.

And she's got something to tell you
which she hasn't told me,

and which she won't tell you
until I've left the room,

but I'm letting you know she's not
batty, not batty in any way,

and I think what
she's got to tell you

might make you understand something.

May make me understand what?

Well, I'm guessing, of course,
because I don't know

what special thing she has
to tell you,

but I'm sure it has something
to do with the world of my parents

and their friends, and their country
house parties

and all the things they hate.

'You know, of course, already,
how they hate what they call niggers,

'and they hate Jews, and they hate
the Irish, and they hate the French

'and the Americans,
everything American,

'and they hate musicians, and they
hate actors, and they hate gypsies,'

and they hate homosexuals,

even though some of them
are queer themselves.

So many hates, and they find new
ones all the time!

And the funny thing is,

and I mean funny in an awful way,

they spend a lot of time
in their beautiful houses

with the most wonderful gardens,

but they never look properly
at what they've actually got!

They move around their
lovely, lovely properties

with so much loathing
going through them.

My father, he had a good education,

better than the one
he provided for me.

And do you know what he says?

"Too many fucking pictures!"

'"Too many fucking pictures on our
fucking walls!" That's what he says.'

Of course, I know I shouldn't
talk about all the families

whose houses I've been to like that,

and probably I'm being so unfair,

because they can't all be like that,
can they?

But, actually, I want to be unfair,

because I want to make you
listen to Josephine.

I'm going to leave the room now.

I'm handing the phone back,
and I'm leaving.

'She said all that to you?'

She did.

More than she's said to me.

I bet.

You will keep your promise, though?

Not got a reason to break it,
not yet.

Are you still there?

Yes.

We're alone now, just you and me,
Mr Lester.

What do you want to tell me?

Well, what I have to tell you
is this, and God forgive me.

I know - I'm not sure that
I'm meant to, but I do know -

that Pamela's brother Julian showed
you a little hole that allowed you

to spy on the freemasons
in their temple

in the basement of
the Imperial Hotel.

'Is that true?'

'Oh, come on, Louis, because
obviously I do know. Is it true?'

Yes.
It was in a linen cupboard.

A linen cupboard?

How wonderful!

You, in a linen cupboard,
spying on the masons!

And, I think I can assure you,
it's all right,

they're not going to come
and slit your throat for that,

for spying through a hole.

Well, not today, anyway.

So, this is what I've got
to tell you, Louis.

My husband is a mason,

just like Julian, and members
of the government and Civil Service,

and not forgetting all sorts of rich
people from the City of London.

And my husband is a member
of the lodge

in the basement of
the Imperial Hotel.

And of course they have
their silly rituals

and they exchange gossip,
and I'm sure raise some money

for charity, too, because, well,
that is what they say they do.

And so there are a lot of very
important people down there

in this basement, and in other
basements across the city,

because they like basements best.

And it goes without saying it is a
very powerful group, these lodges,

a very powerful octopus,

with its arms stretching out
all over the place.

And these people are not easily
impressed, Louis, do you understand?

I'm sure they're not, no.

Not easily impressed at all.

But just before
the great financial crash,

in the lodge that is in the
basement of the Imperial,

there was a new member who'd just
joined, a little man called Mr Luke.

And he did the most
extraordinary thing.

He prophesised the crash,
and not just that,

he was right about every firm
that went under

and every firm that
managed to survive.

He was advising all the other
members of the lodge what to do

with their stocks and shares,
but nobody listened to him.

'But Mr Luke was right.'

He made money when everybody else

was hurt by the most
grievous losses,

and naturally, everybody was
amazingly impressed,

because a lot of them
had lost their whole fortunes.

Of course, most of them still
had their country estates,

but life looked, for a time,
rather uncertain.

And here was Mr Luke, the wizard,
whom nobody had listened to.

But after a time, because he was
such a funny little man,

and his manners were very abrupt,
they stopped holding him

in such awe, and started referring
to him as the Fluke.

And even though we are in the middle
of a great depression,

most of the people found that they
were still quite rich,

that they could sell a few of their
assets, and life was good again.

And so not only did they not look
to Mr Luke for advice,

they began to ignore him, wish
he wasn't part of the lodge,

that he would go elsewhere.

They began to refer to him
as the Complete Fluke.

And so he has remained,
the Complete Fluke,

who nobody really talked to,
until a few weeks ago that is.

'Are you still there?'

Yes, I am.

I'm sorry. I just had to
stop for a moment.

I thought my husband was coming
back, and if my husband finds me

telling you this, I shall be
in terrible trouble.

'No, it was somebody else,
they've gone past,'

although I ought to keep an ear out.

My husband has very small feet,
he creeps up.

It's all right, I can go on.
Do you want me to go on?

If you want to go on, Josephine.

Well, what kind of an answer
is that?

I am risking things
to tell you this.

Of course I want you to go on.

So...

Mr Fluke is ignored
in the basement temple.

"He was always so vulgar",
people say to themselves.

"He comes from trade, how did
he ever become part of the lodge?"

And then, suddenly,
one day Mr Luke appears

and says "I've joined another
lodge, I won't be here anymore".

And people are very relieved.

But then he adds, "It's in
a basement just like this,

"but it is the most beautiful
basement I have ever seen.

"That is where my new lodge is."

And of course everybody there
is rather curious,

and some want to know more.

"You can come with me
if you like," he says.

"You are welcome to come."

And this splits the lodge
down the middle.

And some think, "Well, what does
he know that we don't?"

And others think, "Good riddance,
go away, horrid little man!"

But this special temple
really does exist, Louis,

and it is extraordinary.

'I can tell you where it is,
its exact location,'

but I think I'd better not.

But, what I can tell you is,
during the war,

because of the airships and
their bombs, there were some

wonderful, subterranean apartments
created in the City of London,

where a few very rich families
could scuttle down

when there was a bombing raid.

And out of these luxury apartments
below the street

is where the temple
has been created.

And that is where the Fluke
has been going.

"Come and follow me," says Mr Luke,
"to this new lodge."

And so some of the people,
including my husband,

from the Imperial lodge do follow,
a few, just to have a look.

And they go down the steps,
below the pavement

and into this special temple
and it is indeed exquisite.

And Mr Luke says, "If you join me
here now in this lodge,

"you must promise not to repeat
what you are about to hear

"to anybody, ever."

And those that have followed
him down there,

look around them, see how special
it is and feel they have to agree.

They promise.

I think my husband is the only
one to have broken this promise

by telling me.

My husband is often rather drunk
and thinks that I forget everything.

'Josephine?'

I'm still here.

And then, after they have
all promised, they say,

"But what is it we mustn't repeat?"

And the little man says,
"Come next door,"

and they go into the room next door

which has the black and white
Masonic floor,

but there is nothing else in it
except an enormous travelling trunk.

And my husband and the few
that followed Mr Luke

stare at the trunk as the door
is shut behind them.

And then the man they call
the Complete Fluke says,

"Something extraordinary is going
to happen, very soon,

"worse than you can ever imagine.

"Many are going to die.

"Many, many millions will die.

"Old horrors will be repeated,
and completely new horrors

"beyond your wildest nightmares
will start to happen.

"Whole cities will be destroyed.

"Families you know will die,
your brothers will die,

"their houses and businesses
wiped out.

"But since we here at this temple
know it is coming, we can find a way

"of staying alive,
of protecting what we've got,

"and of taking advantage
of what will follow.

"Because even in disaster,
there is opportunity."

"We can, and we will be,
the lucky few,

"if we do the following things."

'Sarah, who are you talking to?

'Nobody, darling,
just having a good gossip.'

Oh, God, Louis, my husband is back.

I don't think he heard anything.

'What's that?

'Are you still on the telephone?'

He can't have heard, can he?

Louis?

'I hope you hear from me again.'

'Josephine?'

'Hello. Who is there?

'Hello?

'Are you going to tell me
who is there?

'I would strongly advise you
to tell me who you are.'

So, what happened to her?

I don't know.

She didn't call back?

No.

Well, she was obviously
completely barking.

Yes.

She must have been.

You know, the masons hold special
dinners for installing

their Worshipful Master
in the Imperial Hotel,

and they sometimes have music,
too, would you believe.

Maybe one day they'll ask for you!

I doubt it.

But I'll certainly go and play
to them if they do.

I'm really curious now.

Course, it isn't the Imperial masons
that have this special temple,

the Imperial masons...

Are all perfectly jolly fellows!

Well, I doubt they're that,

but they're not the people she was
talking about. I wonder who they are?

Wouldn't it be amazing to find that
special luxury temple?

At least, discover exactly
where it is. It would be.

Be careful of these people
though, Louis,

you don't want to cross them
in any way.

Yes, I realise that.

How could I ever cross them,
Stanley?

So you're convinced
she was just a crazy person?

Yes.

Having thought about it a bit, yes.

I think she found it
rather exciting,

to try to scare me.

She was one of your aroused
aristocrats.

Maybe, an aroused aristocrat.

Have you told me everything?

Yes.

Almost everything.

There was one last phone call.

There was?

A very short one.

'There's a call for you, Mr Lester.'

Thank you.

Pray for me.

Will you pray for me, Louis?

Josephine?

Josephine?

'Josephine!'

And that's the last I heard
from her.

So where was she?

In some asylum somewhere?

Is that what she was suggesting,
that they'd locked her up?

People don't do that
to their wives anymore, surely?

Who knows what goes on
in those big houses, Stanley?

Hmmm.

But it was that last call
that convinced me

that she wasn't genuine.

I'm pretty sure it was just a game
on her part.

A strange game to play, isn't it?

Yes.

But what I've worked out is this.

I think she probably loved
watching the band.

She loved the music,
all that is true.

She wants to escape the life
she has,

but she knows there are
several women in the ballroom

that feel the same.

She wants to be noticed,

so she summons up
a sort of nightmare,

so I'll remember her.

And you have.

I have, yes.

And I know one thing, Stanley.

You are never going to publish this.

You're right,
she must be merely some mad aristo,

some upper-class nutcase who simply
wants to sleep with you.

Precisely.

Why else would she choose me
to tell this to?

But just in case
she isn't a complete madwoman,

you're not going to try to find out
more from Pamela?

I gave Josephine my word.

No, I promised, remember?

See you in a few days, Stanley.

And then you can show me how much
of this you've dared to write.

And then, of course,
events engulfed Louis,

very soon after our conversation.

A matter of days, really.

And quite a big part of
what happened to him

was connected to the masons

and their ability to look
after their own.

Or at least that's my view of how
Julian Luscombe was protected.

And that would have continued
if Julian hadn't killed himself.

And as I write this, I'm not at all
sure Louis wasn't right.

I may not have the guts
to publish Josephine's story.

After all, Louis is safely out of
the country now and I am not.

I am still here
and have every intention of staying.

The masons have fled
the Imperial at the moment,

because of its loss of reputation.

And that great big crumbling
palace of a place,

which, for a couple of years,
really burst with life

and was so full of possibilities,

is just hanging on like
a beached creature,

hoping the next tide will
make it buoyant again.

And if that happens,
will the masons return?

One thing I can't stop thinking
about is, does Mr Luke really exist?

Or was he a figment of this woman's
imagination, as Louis believed?

At the moment I've kept the promise
not to try to make Pamela

tell me more, anything that might
lead me to Josephine.

Or at least,
I've half kept the promise.

I've asked her in a roundabout way

and she said she hadn't a clue
what I was talking about.

After her brother Julian's death,
it is obviously an impossible subject

for me to really press her on.

But if Mr Luke does exist, does he
really know something we don't?

Or is he a complete fraud,
the Complete Fluke?

I think I might just try
and find him.

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