Pretty things.

We last saw Simon in the Mountain Grill. He’s doing fine. He’s figured out that writing is the place to be. It’s just a question of getting a foot in the door. When he needs money he takes odd jobs from Manpower. The money is lousy but it pays the rent. What about Arthur then? Did he get back from India OK? Well yes but it’s all a bit depressing. He’s back in England but he’s drifting already. Events have overwhelmed him. His parents have decided not to live together anymore. Alice is pregnant and he thinks he’ll have to marry her. Much to his mother’s disgust. She finds Alice rather common. His father says nothing. Bert, Alice’s father who lost a leg at the Battle of Jarama, is dying in hospital so somebody has to take care of the tobacconist shop. Which is why we find Arthur now sorting through boxes of Mars Bars and Golden Virginia. India is already fading into memory…yes Simon?

I just wanted to say something about those days Dick if I may?
Be my guest.
You make it sound so…I don’t know…cut and dried. He did this, she said that. The reality was much more organic.
Sorry about that. I do tend to rush it sometimes. I’ll try to slow it down.
Thank you. I write myself so I notice these things.
No problem. I’ll give Arthur a whole chapter later how’s that?
Sounds good.

England was certainly changing fast in the early sixties what with Beatlemania and all that. It was hard to keep up with all the changes. There was lots going on in London. Simon went to parties, dances, pubs. Meeting people was easy. There was something in the air.

One night Simon found himself at Royal College of Art where the Pretty Things were playing. They didn’t look very pretty but they got people dancing. The dance floor was crowded. Simon met some girls from St. Martins and danced with one of them. Her name was Samantha. She had blonde shoulder length hair and a fringe and looked not unlike Pattie Boyd in ‘A Hard day’s Night’. She didn’t seem comfortable getting pushed and shoved by pulsating art students so they stood by the stage and watched the lead singer. Mark my words said someone…this band is the real thing, those Rolling Stones will never get anywhere.

Samantha lived in a flat in Fulham with some other girls. They took a bus to Simon’s bed sitter in Ladbroke Grove. Arthur was waiting outside. He was finishing off a cup of hot chocolate recently purchased from the Automat on Westbourne Grove. He had phoned earlier he said but nobody had answered. Nobody ever does said Simon. The phone is in the hallway and people just let it ring.

It was an awkward situation. Simon and Samantha tried not to make too much noise on the bed but youthful hormones could not be denied. Arthur, in a sleeping bag on the floor, pretended not to notice. Everybody went to sleep eventually.

It was raining in the morning. The three of them walked to Notting Hill Gate and had coffee in the Golden Egg. Arthur had to leave for Victoria. The espresso machine, a pump-driven Gaggia, hissed and gurgled.

What does Arthur do?
He’s a tobacconist.
Really?
Yes. We hitchhiked to India together.
My dad’s in the music business. He knows Tommy Steele and Alma Cogan.
Oh. I’m more interested in Blues and R&B. Bo Diddley and people like that. Do you ever go to the Marquee? Thursday nights is the best. Alexis Korner and John Baldry play there. Cyril Davies too but he died.
I met a couple of the Beatles. In dad’s office. Mostly I like going to galleries. I love David Hockney. He’s a homo but so what?
I don’t know much about painting.
That’s OK. Do you like Dylan? I can get tickets.
What? For the Albert Hall! Too much!
I’m glad I met you.
Me too. Can I give you a call?
That would be nice.
See you later then.