“Electric?”

“It’s semi-hollow.”

Lenny looked impatient: perhaps he did not know much about guitars. “Can you plug it in, is what I’m asking.”

“Yes—why?”

“Because I need a rhythm guitarist for my group.”

That was exciting. Dave had not thought of joining a group, but the idea appealed to him instantly. “I didn’t know you had a group,” he said.

“The Guardsmen. I play piano and do most of the singing.”

“What kind of music?”

“Rock and roll—the only kind.”

“By which you mean . . .”

“Elvis, Chuck Berry, Johnny Cash . . . All the greats.”

Dave could play three-chord songs without difficulty. “What about the Beatles?” Their chords were more difficult.

Lenny said: “Who?”

“A new group. They’re fab.”

“Never heard of them.”

“Well, anyway, I can play rhythm guitar on old rock songs.”

Lenny looked mildly offended at the phrase, but he said: “So, do you want to audition for the Guardsmen?”

“I’d love to!”

Lenny looked at his watch. “How long will it take you to go home and get your guitar?”

“Half an hour, and half an hour to get back.”

“Meet me at the Aldgate Workingmen’s Club at seven. We’ll be setting up. We can audition you before we play. Have you got an amplifier?”

“Small one.”

“It’ll have to do.”

Dave got the Tube. His success as a salesman, and the beer he had drunk, gave him an inner glow. He smoked a cigarette on the train, rejoicing at his victory over his father. He imagined saying casually to Linda Robertson: “I play guitar in a beat group.” That could hardly fail to impress her.

He arrived home and entered the house by the back door. He managed to slip up to his room without seeing either of his parents. It took him only a few moments to put his guitar in its carrying case and pick up his amplifier.

He was about to leave when his sister, Evie, came into his room, dressed up for Saturday night. She wore a short skirt and knee boots, and her hair was back-combed in a beehive. She had heavy eye makeup in the panda style made fashionable by Dusty Springfield. She looked older than seventeen. “Where are you going?” Dave asked her.

“To a party. Hank Remington is supposed to be there.”

Remington, lead singer of the Kords, sympathized with some of Evie’s causes, and had said so in interviews.

“You’ve caused a stir today,” Evie said. She was not accusing him: she always took his side in arguments with the parents, and he did the same for her.

“What makes you say that?”

“Dad’s really upset.”

“Upset?” Dave was not sure what to make of that. His father could be angry, disappointed, stern, authoritarian, or tyrannical, and he knew how to react; but upset? “Why?”

“I gather you and he had a row.”

“He wouldn’t give me my allowance because I failed all my exams.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing. I walked out. I probably slammed the door.”