Of course he had both suffered and benefited from his father’s status as one of the country’s most prominent businessmen over the years. People knew who he was, they knew he was rich, but at Eton, it counted for nothing. At Eton, the seat of kings, it wasn’t money that was important, it was heritage. Of course money was important to the aristocracy, but a title always trumped a bank balance and the offspring of self-made men were seen as second-class citizens. Miles had risen above it, scrabbling his way to the top by sheer force of personality. Until it had all gone to his head and he had overstepped the mark, stupidly leaving his hash, tobacco and jumbo Rizlas out in an ashtray by his bed for anyone to see. Even he could see that his ego had got the better of him that time, and he had sworn it wouldn’t happen again.
Grabbing his cigarettes, he stalked out of the building and into the college grounds. They were unusually empty for such a sunny day. Normally there would be groups of students sitting around on the grass, smoking and chatting, but it was approaching exam time; most people were probably in their rooms studying. Where I should be, thought Miles. If he was honest, his studies at Oxford weren’t exactly going to plan. He’d already had a frank discussion with his tutor about his scant attendance and the late arrival of a number of essays, not to mention their somewhat sketchy content.
He marched angrily towards the river. Someone shouted his name, but he ignored them, not wanting to speak to anyone at that moment. He increased his pace and walked on through the water meadows until he came to a white-painted wooden bridge that looked like it would have been more at home in Amsterdam. Stopping in the middle, he leant on the railings and looked down at the placid green waters.
Once he had calmed down a little, Miles tried to trace the source of his anger. In theory, he agreed with everything he had said to Jonathon about the Carrington: it was an old-fashioned manifestation of the British class system, which, while still thriving out here in little pockets of Oxford, was swiftly dying. But still. The truth was, Miles Ashford wanted to be a Carrington man. He wanted the status and position his father would never enjoy; he wanted to be part of an elite only a few were ever asked to join. But it was more than that. Miles wanted to be seen as an individual, someone with his own achievements and persona, not just as the son of ‘x’, the friend of ‘y’. He wanted to be looked up to because he was Miles Ashford. Pure and simple.
And then he had a sudden moment of clarity. They were threatened by him. Miles Ashford represented the new guard, a fusion of his father’s new money and his mother’s old-fashioned British class. He was too good for the Carrington, too good, in fact, for this whole dried-up cap-doffing university. He turned and ran back the way he came, sprinting all the way to his room.
When Jonathon knocked on his door four hours later, he was surprised to find Miles hard at work.
‘Rue and Tig and the rest are all going to the White Hart. We wondered if you wanted to ...’ he began, but trailed off, disconcerted by the strange spectacle of Miles Ashford bent over a book, scribbling intently away. ‘Are you OK, Miles?’ he asked.
Finally Miles looked up. ‘Yes, why do you ask?’
Jonathon gestured vaguely at Miles’ desk. ‘Don’t think I’ve ever seen you hitting the books before. Finally panicking about exams?’
Miles frowned, then shook his head. ‘Oh no,’ he said, smiling slowly. ‘Something much better. I’m starting my own club.’
16
August 1991
‘Are we there yet?’ Gavin popped his head around the driver’s seat hopefully.
‘No,’ snapped Jez, turning his head from the steering wheel. ‘And if Alex stopped looking at those tits, we might have more of an idea where we were.’
‘Actually, I was just reading about that coup going on in Russia,’ said Alex, hastily folding up his copy of the Sun and picking up the tatty road atlas.
‘Russians?’ said Gavin. ‘They’d better not let the nukes loose. Not before we’ve had a proper sound check, anyway. That last gig was a disaster.’
‘Bollocks to Russia,’ said Jez, wrestling with the gear stick. ‘I’ll just be happy if we make it to Bath in one bloody piece.’
Ah, the glamour of rock and roll, thought Alex to himself.
The last six months had gone by in a blur of exhaust fumes and ringing ears. Jez and Pete had graduated, and Gav had dropped out of his art course. From the night they had first met at The Boardwalk, every spare moment had been spent in the cellar practising until they were ready for their debut gig at the Queen of Hearts pub in Fallowfield. They had gone down a storm with the partisan indie crowd and Alex had felt twelve feet tall. The moment the lads had left college, they each put five hundred quid into the pot so they could buy a transit van. It was twelve years old, almost white and had ‘J. & H. Hall Window Cleaners’ written down the side in big blue letters. Fortunately it had been a warmish summer and they had been able to sleep in the van between tiny gigs where they would play to six or seven mildly uninterested drinkers then move on to the next place, hoping that this one would cover the cost of the petrol and the service-station pasties. It sounded horrible, but it had been the best few months of their lives. The band, Year Zero, were getting better, tighter with every performance and they all felt they were moving towards something big – whatever that was.
Alex switched on the radio and Bryan Adams’ ‘Everything I Do, I Do It For You’ blared out.
‘Is this still number one?’ groaned Jez, navigating the traffic. ‘Shit, what road are we looking for again?’
‘George Street, but the promoter said if we stay on the A4, it will bring us around to the venue.’
‘Well where is it then?’
‘I don’t know!’ said Alex, exasperated.
‘Come on now, children,’ said Pete from the back.
‘Piss off!’ said Alex and Jez in unison.
It was the same every time they came to a new city. The cameraderie of the road immediately disappeared, to be replaced by annoyance and anxiety; the romance blown away by the reality of rickety stages or playing to empty rooms. No one to
ld you that breaking into the music business was like Dante’s Circles of Hell, where you had to suffer for an undetermined period at the first level before scrabbling your way to the next.
Tonight’s gig was exciting, because Bath Moles Club was a leap up from the working men’s clubs and venues where you were lucky to get fifty quid and a round of drinks to play. When you played Bath Moles, you were on your way up.
Alex hoped so. He had given up his job at Kwik Save and was signing on, and by joining the band he had put all his eggs in one basket; he had to make it work, there was no Plan B. He felt guilty he couldn’t give his mum her thirty pounds a week any more, but strangely, she seemed thrilled that he was giving his music a real go.