Chapter Text
Monday, 10th July 1972;
“We should at least consider it,” Tim insists.
Brian sighs, and glances across the small round table at Roger. They’re sat in The Crown and this debate’s been going on all evening. The teenager’s eyeing his Plenty bandmates with a scowl, although his grumpiness doesn’t stop him running his hand over Rosie’s head. The by now large dog’s almost climbed into his lap she’s so eager for his hand, content to remain at his side, head against his chest and liquid eyes watching the other humans. Roger’d taken her out for a good run about in the nearest park earlier and where the boy’d found the energy for it, Brian doesn’t know, not considering how knackered he’d been by the end of each day recently. Anything for Rosie, he supposes, and a decent way to shake off the fractiousness that’s taken root since Raymond told them of their next gig and the ramifications of it are still being felt.
Not that they’re unhappy with the location, mind you. Shepherd’s Hall’s a fantastic site, and that’s where the frictions begin. What started out as a fake band has apparently earned a decent – very decent – spot and some of the members are wary of burning their bridges back to it.
Tim, for example.
“All right, we don’t really want Plenty to work out,” he accepts, “but just this once, we should do it properly.”
“Do you honestly believe they’re likely to remember you, darling?”
Brian winces. As the discussion’s gone on, Freddie’s tongue has become more and more sharp. Brian would like to point out it’s not helping, but he feels the same. Giving Raymond more clout just for the slight chance of a gig for his real band feels like a step backwards. Unfortunately, Tim’s also got Dennis in his corner.
“What’s the harm in one good gig?” the keyboardist demands of Freddie. “Sell the whole thing, wouldn’t it?”
“Would,” Cliff nods. He’s been very much on the fence, swinging one way to the other with each argument made for and against. Unfortunately, he’s not stated a firm preference, which does nothing to settle the matter. “Show that it’s not us when things go tits up, it’s Raymond.”
Huffing so heavily that Rosie lifts her head momentarily, Roger’s scowl darkens further. “Don’t want to be a decent band, not for this knobhead. Not for Tony, either.”
“One gig,” Tim tells him, almost pleadingly. Why he wants it so bad is clear; he’s hoping to get Humpy Bong one of the coveted spots. Who knows, Brian reflects. He just might at that. Whether it’s because of the years of experience the other members of the band have between them, the collective driving force working better than Smile’s does, or just luck but Humpy Bong have been, as Tim has asserted when he left, going places.
Brian’s going to have to sit Tim down and get him to explain just what it is that the band does to have gotten so far so quickly. And if Tim won’t talk, well. Brian’s got years of blackmail material to fall back on.
“If it’s just one gig,” Cliff says, apparently finding his footing in the discussion. “I don’t see the harm.”
Seeing the rest of Plenty are arranged against him, Roger grumpily gives in. “We do this,” he warns unsurprisingly, “we get going on taking Raymond down. No more fannying about.”
“I’d agree there,” Tim nods, and that’s not surprising either. “No more faffing.”
“Speaking of which,” Dennis says, “do you think we might get a wriggle on with things altogether? Your little’un’s ready to keel over.”
“Not to mention Rich’s been on the warpath the past few days,” Cliff adds, the light glinting in his eyes indicating he’s not really taking the man seriously.
“M’all right,” Roger asserts, but there’s no denying he’s been quieter this evening, still where he’d usually be shifting constantly on his stool; leaning on the table one minute, sitting back the next, thumping the table eagerly as his loud laugh booms over the gathering. There’s been none of that so far, despite the fizzy drinks Freddie’s plied him with.
“You’re doing splendidly,” the singer tells him, but addresses Dennis’ complaint. “You’re right, we do need to move to the next stage.”
“Shenanigans,” Cliff calls out with relish.
“What’ve we got in place?” Tim asks, keen as ever not to sully his own name in the revenge.
“Not much, to be honest,” Brian admits, glancing out of the corner of his eye at Freddie for his grimace. The frontman’s not likely to admit this failing out loud, and equally as unhappy that Brian has.
The anticipated grimace heads his way even as Freddie runs a hand over his hair, smoothing it down about his shoulder. “I’ve one or two little ideas further,” he tells the group confidently.
“More than keeping Brian’s camera close and hoping to catch Raymond with his trousers down?” John wonders mildly, to which Freddie tsks.
“It’s dependent on where he books you next,” he goes on, dark eyes fixing on John in warning before sweeping across the members of Plenty.
“After Shepherd’s,” Tim clarifies.
“After Shepherd’s,” Freddie agrees, clearly frustrated with his former bassist and trying his best to get on.
“Go on, then,” Dennis prompts, getting things back on track. “Don’t keep us in suspense.”
Waving a hand, Freddie offers the younger man a smile. “As I said, it’s rather dependent on where he gets you in next. Until I know that, I’m not going to be able to move forward with it.”
“You can let us in on it, though,” Cliff says, nudging Smile’s frontman.
Pursing his lips, Freddie considers things. “I also need the man’s office.”
“Does he have an office?” Brian wonders.
“His car?” John offers.
“He has a telephone,” Freddie points out. “Therefore, there’s an office.”
“Why’d you need his office?” Roger wonders, idly scratching behind one of Rosie’s ears to the red setter’s obvious enjoyment. Her half-closed eyes open momentarily as he speaks, easily sliding shut once more as she realises he’s not addressing her.
Now smiling widely, Freddie leans forward onto the small round table before him, glancing amongst the others conspiratorially. They’ve done the usual and dragged two of the tables and their associated stools together to host the seven of them, giving the impression of a longer area and he makes full use of that now. A king before his court, Brian imagines, or a plotter speaking treason and overthrow in a dark corner.
All they need now is candles guttering darkly and perhaps some hooded capes and the scene would be set.
The others similarly lean in, matching his position as they await his words.
“What I’m more interested in is his address book,” Freddie tells them, eyes glittering in that genius or madness fire Brian’s never been quite able to discern.
Pulling back and sitting up straight once more with a huff and a slap at the table, Dennis frowns. “You going to pop round to his mum’s?”
“I’m going to make life very awkward for him,” Freddie replies, without losing his dark enjoyment of his idea, despite Dennis’ – and everyone else’s – disdain.
“How’s that?” Roger wonders.
“Let’s just say people’ll believe anything when you give them just enough truth to keep them invested.”
“Crypic,” Tim notes, rolling his eyes. “Right, chaps, anyone got any actual ideas?”
“It is an actual idea,” Freddie tuts. “You’ll just have to trust me on this.”
“Pillock,” the bassist snorts, but he sips at his pint contemplatively eyeing the singer. “You know, there’s more we could do if we had his office.”
Biting his lip, Brian shakes his head. “If we fuck the place up, he’ll be on alert.”
“Precisely,” Freddie nods. “Leave it to the professionals, darling, and stick to the bass.” Before Tim can form a response, he continues. “I’ve a mind to switch bookings, or more exactly, locations.”
Realising where his best friend’s heading, Brian raises his eyebrows. “Which is why you need to know where they’re playing next.”
They share a swift smile, each enjoying the mischief inherent in the plan.
“You pair of wally’s going to let the rest of us in on this?” Cliff wonders, nudging Freddie again.
With a look that Brian takes to mean he’s regretting sitting next to the man, the singer expounds, “If we can change the venue, make it seem as if Raymond’s fumbled his booking and or mismanaged you –”
“People who matter will take notice,” Roger finishes with a yawn. Lowering his hand from his mouth, he tilts his head to one side. “Could be a stain on his career, if it’s big enough.”
“Couldn’t it just,” Freddie agrees wickedly.
“How’re you planning on getting into his office?” Cliff asks. “Can’t exactly roll on up looking for an appointment, can you?”
“I can,” Roger says, surprising everyone. “Me and Tony can take a trip to discuss things.”
“Discuss what things?” Tim wonders suspiciously.
“Wanker’s been at me to go speak about going forward as a pair,” Roger tells him.
“That old chestnut,” Dennis snorts, well aware of why they’d roped the singer into joining the band and how they did it.
“So you get into his office and … what? Ask him nicely if you can copy a couple of things down?” Tim scoffs.
“Was thinking we might be a distraction,” Roger shrugs, large eyes narrowing dangerously at the bassist.
“When aren’t you?” John smiles, earning himself an eye roll.
Freddie, meanwhile, settles back on his stool, one finger tapping his chin as he thinks. “All I need is access,” he says thoughtfully. “And long enough to work.”
“Long enough – just take his fucking book,” Dennis advises.
“And when things go wrong, what excuse do you suppose he’ll turn to?” Freddie sniffs. “No, darling. If we’re to have any chance of succeeding, we need just enough time to make the calls.”
“And leave the place looking exactly as it was,” John muses. His lopsided smile makes an appearance, turning the serious young man into a dopey sweetheart. “So the crowbar’s out, then.”
“Unfortunately so,” Brian snorts. “You’ll have to find another excuse to use it.”
“Yes,” Freddie nods, “your life of crime will just have to wait.”
“Shame,” Dennis tells John. “You’ve the perfect face for a balaclava.”
“What’re you really hoping to achieve with Raymond’s numbers?” Tim asks, pulling the conversation back to the matter at hand and away from the jokes beginning to crop up. “Lots of ifs, buts and maybes in this, mate.”
“There are,” Freddie accepts. “It all depends on what I’m given, by his contacts list and by the people I manage to snag.”
“Sounds promising,” Tim snorts.
“Fred’s adaptable,” Brian reminds his old friend. “He’ll make something out of the scraps he’s got to work with.”
“That how Smile operates, is it?” Cliff laughs. “Making something out of scraps?”
“What’d you know about it?” Roger asks. “You barely book anything.”
“Ah, but what we do book is always something,” Cliff tells him playfully. “Work smarter, me ol’ mucker, not harder.”
Brian’s hard pressed not to follow the small drummer’s example and roll his eyes. While The Crowd comport themselves with an exaggerated flair and extreme confidence, a swagger Brian doesn’t think he’d ever achieve, there’s really been very little excuse for it. They play on a haphazard schedule, relying on old favours and extended promises to keep them booking the few places they gig. He’d be the first to admit he’d love that sort of bluster and the self-assurance to pull it off, the thought of running a band that way makes his skin itch.
Surviving on an aging reputation’s no way to push forwards, as far as he’s concerned.
Roger appears to agree to his way of thinking. “Bet you’ve gigged more with Plenty than you have with The Crowd in the past six months.”
“Not quite,” Dennis tells him, before glancing at John. “Your pup’s getting yappy, Deacs. Is it past his bedtime?”
“Piss off,” Roger answers for himself, fighting mightily not to yawn again Brian thinks.
“Blondie runs short on patience when having to deal with an idiot on a daily basis,” Freddie points out tartly.
Gasping, hand clutching at his heart, Dennis turns to his brother. “I fear I’ve been mortally wounded, old chap. Tell mother I love her, and not to sell my Who albums.”
“’Course she ain’t going to sell them,” Cliff assures his younger brother. “I’m nicking them the moment you pop your clogs.”
“Fair enough.”
“It’s times like this I’m glad I’m an only child,” Brian observes conversationally to John.
“You must learn to share, darlings,” Freddie tells them cheerfully.
Snorting, Brian glances pointedly at Roger, tonight clad in one of his tops. While he mostly prefers to raid Freddie’s wardrobe, there are plenty of pieces he’ll happily borrow from Brian. It’s no longer cold enough to claim that big cream jumper, which has admittedly caused a dramatic reduction of ‘Bri, can I nick…’ but there’s other finds for him to dig out.
Brian had almost forgotten he had the slim, satiny black shirt Roger’s wearing and seeing the teenager bring it out had reminded him how much he liked it. The last time he’d worn it himself, he’d teamed it with a thin black and white scarf, but Roger’s added the gold chain of Freddie’s he often wears instead.
Brian’s been refusing to admit he thinks Roger might wear the top better than he does.
Noticing his, John’s and Freddie’s attention have turned to him, Roger frowns slightly.
“What?”
Deftly moving on from Roger’s borrowing habits, Freddie smiles. “I was thinking of calling it a night.”
“Can do, if you like.”
That the boy’s eager to be done with The Crown and Plenty and possibly the day in general is hard to disguise, but Roger manages to sound unbothered by the idea. Smiling fondly again, Freddie drains his pint.
“Come along, then, darling. Let’s take our leave.”
“You staying?” Roger asks Brian, simply because they share a flat Brian’s sure rather than a desperate need to have him close at hand.
“Might do, for a spell.”
“I’ll keep my eye on him,” Tim assures the drummer. “Don’t you worry, sunshine.”
“It’s Bri,” Roger shrugs. “Not gonna get up to much, is he?”
“I’ll have you know,” Brian informs the cheekily smiling little git, “I’ve been known to let my hair down.”
“Nineteen-sixty-eight, wasn’t it, Bri?” Tim nods.
“Oh, there’s a story there,” Cliff crows. “Come on, tell us.”
“In that case,” John says. “Think I might hang about for a bit too.”
“Wonderful,” Freddie tells him. “You can let us know how red Brian went.”
“I’m not going to go red,” Brian mumbles, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut and let Roger call him boring without a fight. More over, wishing Tim had kept his mouth shut and let Brian make his snappy comeback without comment.
His friends are all dreadful people and he should look for new ones, he reflects.
“Pint, Brian?” John offers.
All right, not all his friends are completely awful then.
“If I’d known the skinflint was putting his hand in his pockets, I’d have stayed on,” Freddie observes, watching Roger say his goodbye’s to Rosie and, thanks to proximity, Trish back at the bar.
Eyebrow raised as his lips twitch upwards, John turns to Freddie. “I’m just careful with my cash, is all.”
“On account of having short arms and low pockets,” Dennis points out, a friend since John had arrived in London for his degree, having gone through the same or similar course. Brian’s never been certain just what the keyboardist did at Uni.
“You’re getting dangerously close to getting crossed off my Christmas card list,” John warns mildly, nodding a farewell to Freddie and Roger as the boy returns while he makes his way up to Trish for those pints he’d mentioned.
“Oh, you’ve done it now,” Cliff tells his brother, shaking his head and making Dennis laugh.
“The world’s close to ending,” Freddie agrees, before slinging a friendly arm over Roger’s shoulder. “Let’s get home before it does, eh? Say goodnight, Blondie.”
“Goodnight, Blondie,” Roger parrots, yawning again.
“Ta-ra, sunshine,” Tim calls. “Be ready for rehearsal tomorrow.”
“Not too early,” Roger tells him.
Gone before Tim can clarify, the bassist turns to Brian. “What’s considered early at your place these days?”
“He’s a morning person,” Brian reveals. “Usually up around six.”
Wincing, Cliff shudders. “Glad I don’t bunk with you lot.”
“What’s early for you, then?” Brian wonders, pondering the other man. Certainly, he’s rarely seen him before midday, although that might have something to do with the fact he doesn’t socialise much with anyone from The Crowd and mostly when he does, it’s at a gig or the pub. All the same, he feels he should get a dig in while he can. “Noon, is it? Sometime in the early afternoon?”
“I’ll have you know, Bri me ol’ mucker, I live a full life –”
“Full of rubbish,” Tim scoffs, eyeing his Plenty bandmate. “Live a life of leisure, you do.”
“Just jealous,” Cliff proclaims as John returns. “Not everyone’s got it worked out like I have.”
Snorting again, Tim returns his attention to Brian. “Six, eh?”
“Usually,” Brian nods. “All the same, he’s been sleeping in a bit recently, so make it closer to eight for a bit of peace, would you?”
“Can do,” his old friend agrees easily, and slightly rapidly. Picking the teenager up at eight sounds a more his speed, apparently.
“Looks like you’ve an early morning after all,” Brian tells Cliff, who groans theatrically.
“It’s like having Den go through childhood all over again.”
“Bit of a terror as a kiddie, was he?” John wonders.
“Was a perfect angel,” Dennis defends, nudging his brother. “Was you who got us into scrapes.”
“Was me what got us out of them, Dennis old son,” Cliff replies grandly and Brian sees an opportunity to distract Tim further from mentioning his own shenanigans.
“Can imagine you had your share of mischief,” he prompts, crossing his fingers beneath the table that the pair’ll spot the opening and start reminiscing. They’re fairly close in age, only a few years between them and quite close, but he supposes when you’re younger, that gap in age might make more of a difference. Certainly, he remembers it did for him, gazing wide eyed at the final year students at secondary school as a brand new, fresh faced eleven-year-old.
“Didn’t we ever?” Dennis agrees and Brian’s careful not to breathe a sigh of relief nor look at Tim.
“This little blighter,” Cliff reveals, leaning forward to better make certain he has the table’s attention, “used to get up at the arse crack of dawn to start trouble.”
“And met you downstairs,” Dennis observes wryly.
“Sometimes,” Cliff shrugs. “Had to keep my eye on you, didn’t I?”
“What sort of trouble?” John asks, sipping his pint, curious eyes darting between them.
“Tormenting the neighbour’s cat for one,” Cliff reminisces.
“Pesky thing was always at the birds.”
“He’d set off fireworks,” Cliff points out. “Not at the moggy, of course, and just little ones but it’d give more than the blooming cat a fright, eh Den?”
“Turns out none of our neighbours enjoyed my wake-up call,” the younger man shrugs. He leans forwards. “Now, what was that about Brian and nineteen-sixty-eight?”