And everybody did. Julie even sang them a ditty of her own creation she’d never before admitted to anyone, not even her father. It was called “Let the Leaves Fall” and was autumnally sad to begin with but then, in verses two and onwards, came the new growths of the following spring. “Things can only get better,” was the refrain.
Barry loved it. “Just hold on a mo,” he said, rummaging in a cupboard until he found the battered old Gibson guitar he hadn’t touched in years. “Bear with me,” he added, “while I play you that old Chinese folk song called ‘Tunin’.’
“Didn’t know you were a guitarist, Prof,” said Maurice. “One lives and learns.”
“Indeed one does. Nothing fancy though, old chap, just a few basic chords,” Barry said, holding an ear to the soundboard as he twiddled the pegs until satisfied with the tuning.
“Ah, that should do it. Now then, young Julie, sing us your song again and let’s see if I can keep up with the melody.”
So, giggling, Julie performed a reprise and, after only two more run-throughs she and Barry had a workable song, bluesy to begin with but then lightening up.
“How about we all join in on one last version?” Maurice proposed.
“Then we could be a group and go on X Factor.” Dennis stood and wiggled his bottom.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, all we need is love,” chorused Jeremy Beatle-ishly.
And, you know what, the final result didn’t sound half bad, decent harmonies and everything. When it was over, Julie did a little dance to thank everybody.
“WOW-EEEEE,” she whooped as she pirouetted.
Jeremy shook his head and smiled in wonder.
Heartened by this musical coming together, when everybody was back on their chairs and sofas while Barry strummed through a serviceable rendering of Eric Clapton’s “Layla,” even including some of the twiddly riffs, Maurice leaned over and whispered in his ear, “Igor time?”
“Huh?” said Barry, his mind and fingers elsewhere.
“Ripurpantzov? Our little project? A good moment to spread the news?”
Barry carefully laid aside the ancient Gibson and nodded. “If you judge the auguries to be in our favour, Double O Seven.”
“Seventeen actually.”
“Ah, the new and improved model.”
Maurice laughed.
“Jeremy on board, is he?” Barry asked.
“I judge so. Seems prepared for the next step.”
“Well then, let us go for it. I believe that’s the current parlance.”
Twenty-one
For the psycho in the White House, things were going from poor to appalling, at least by rational standards, none of which, being psychotic, he shared. As if facing impeachment over allegations of Ripurpantzov’s role in his election (which he denied as fake news) weren’t bad enough, he was now facing a string of further allegations (also denied as fake news) of a plethora of sexual harassments and assignations with porn stars, as well as bestowing sinecures on members of his family, one of whom was claimed to be illegitimate, which he categorically denied as “the fakest of fake news. FAKE!!!”
Additionally there were continuing investigations into conflicts of interest between his business affairs and those of his presidential office, his refusal to declare tax returns, and nefarious money laundering deals done with the Russians by his son-in-law and his daughter. And matters weren’t helped by the insider reports of backbiting, fury and intimidation in the White House, which the baby man commander-in-chief had dismissed in an outraged tweet as “a fucking fake fantasy” dreamt up by all his enemies: the Democratic Party, women, some “freaks” in the Republican Party, the media, immigrant communities, women, the UN, and “strangers” in general—basically anyone who wasn’t male, mega-rich and white like him. In short, the guy was a mentally deranged bigot with a short fuse and, judging by his hands, some said, an even shorter dick.
Still he was the one who’d been chosen president, so he could do what he liked: declare Jerusalem to be Israel’s capital even if it pissed off the Palestinians, play macho games with the “rocket man” in Pyongyang over who had the bigger nuclear button (dick) even if it pissed off the Chinese, dub as “shitholes” the countries from which he intended banning the intake to the US of any more brown or black people never mind how pissed off the UN got, “reform” tax laws so the poor imagined themselves less poor and the rich (him) got even richer, threaten to start World War Three any time he felt like it, fire or otherwise punish underlings who disagreed with these “policies” or, as in one case, called him “a fucking moron”… anything he wanted he could do. And just like any baby craving affection, he threw out of his pram all the toys he didn’t like, supporting the rationale for such actions by re-tweeting his view of himself as a genius who’d gone to all the best schools. Such wonderful tools the social media! Without ever leaving his lavatory, he could offload on the world all his darkest thoughts, albeit they lacked syntax, logic, or lexical accuracy. But that was just one more way he imagined of endearing himself to those who wrote their tweets just the same way he did. From the heart, he liked to think.
It was not only psychoanalysts around the globe who tut-tutted and shook their heads in concern at this behaviour. Practically everybody everywhere reckoned the bloke was off his trolley. You have to wonder how such a screwball could have been elected in the first place with or without Ripurpantzov’s assistance, let alone remain in office for even six weeks.
Well, the answer is sadly simple. Because his hillbilly and redneck supporters from the outbacks of Tennessee and all points south all the way up north to the Rust Belt were as paranoid as he was, that was why. Folk who had been ignored by the “pinko liberals” in Washington DC “swamp” for far too long were over the moon suddenly to see their values reflected in the White House. John Wayne-type National Rifle Association bible-thumpers who shot first and asked questions later. Whose wives cooked them apple pie and looked sideways if they strayed a little into whorehouses. Guys with good ole American family values who shot moose, collected roadkill, and froze them for winter. Guys whose ancestors had driven the covered wagons west killing Injuns along the way, then given the Spanish invaders a good kicking when they arrived. Guys who didn’t see why they shouldn’t still be slave owners. In other words guys—and gals—stuck in a time warp falsely called the American Dream. And they were damned if any foreigner, especially Muslims or Mexicans, were going to take that away from them.
Hardly surprising the madman in the White House should be their hero. Every time he hollered “America First” at the only rallies he ever agreed to attend, i.e. those packed with his adoring hillbillies, rednecks and the “left behinds,” they whooped and cheered. Which played nicely with the Republican Party establishment currently running both houses of Congress. Far too difficult it would have been for them to ditch the very working-class (albeit billionaire) hero who was keeping them in power even though he was clearly crazy as a coon under a red wagon.
And this was the president with whom PM Clarissa hoped to maintain the “special relationship” nurtured by Roosevelt and Churchill and later aped by Reagan, Thatcher, Bush and Blair when the Brexit negotiations came crashing down around her ears and there was no more Europe left to trade with. The president who, in a recent poll, had been deemed by 72% of British citizens to be a threat to world peace and thus never to be invited to their shores. How embarrassing would that be for the elderly Missus Queen and her gaga husband? Still Clarissa went on renewing the invitation, as did Fat Slob the foreign secretary, who had recently been seen practically genuflecting at the White House. Not that the baby madman seemed likely to accept when so many Brits loathed him. Might make him cry.