George explained to Verena: “Brown is the senior Republican on Smith’s committee. Either he’s telling Smith to tough it out, and ignore the lobbying . . . or he’s saying that Republicans can’t take this pressure much longer. If two people on the committee turn against Smith, his decisions can be overturned by a majority vote.”

“Could it all be over so quickly?” Verena marveled.

“Smith may jump before he’s pushed. It looks more dignified.” George moved his plate away. Tension had ruined his appetite.

Half an hour later Dickerson came by again. “Smith caved,” he crowed. “There will be a formal statement tomorrow.” He walked on, spreading the news.

George and Verena grinned at one another. Verena said: “Well, God bless Lyndon Johnson.”

“Amen,” said George. “We have to celebrate.”

“What shall we do?”

“Come to my apartment,” said George. “I’ll think of something.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

There was no uniform at Dave’s school, but boys were mocked for being overdressed. Dave took some ribbing on the day he showed up in a four-button jacket, a white shirt with long collar points, a paisley tie, and blue hipster trousers with a white plastic belt. He did not care about the teasing. He had a mission.

Lenny’s group had been on the fringes of show business for years. As things stood, they could spend another decade playing rock and roll in clubs and pubs. Dave wanted more than that in 1964. And the way forward was to make a record.

After school he took the Tube to Tottenham Court Road and walked from there to an address in Denmark Street. On the ground floor of the building was a guitar shop, but beside it was a door leading to an office above, and a nameplate that said CLASSIC RECORDS.

Dave had spoken to Lenny about getting a recording contract, but Lenny had been discouraging. “I’ve tried that,” he had said. “You can’t get through the door. It’s a closed circle.”

That made no sense. There had to be a way in, otherwise no one would ever make records. But Dave knew better than to chop logic with Lenny. So he decided to do it on his own.

He had begun by studying the names of the record companies in the hit parade. It was a complicated exercise, because there were many labels, all owned by a few companies. The phone book had helped him sort them out, and he had picked Classic as his target.

He had called their number and said: “This is British Railways Lost Property. We have a tape in a box marked: ‘Head of Artists and Recording, Classic Records.’ Who should we send it to?” The girl who answered the phone had given him a name and this address in Denmark Street.

At the top of the stairs he found a receptionist, probably the one he had spoken to on the phone. Assuming a confident air, he used the name she had given him. “I’m here to see Eric Chapman,” he said.