A Hand in God's Till: A story of Love, Tragedy and Hope

By Nicholas Cooper

A Hand in God's Till is a thought-provoking and passionate story of love, tragedy and hope, set against the sexual and spiritual backdrop of 1967‘s “Summer of Love”.

As Adam Busk arrives in London, having been expelled from the strict confines of boarding school, he is hungry for excitement.
He is quickly drawn to the burgeoning underground scene of psychedelic music, mind expanding drugs and the promise of sex, where he meets the enigmatic Belinda.
When she disappears, Adam finds himself embroiled in the murky world of drug dealers and corrupt police.

From a Notting Hill commune to a mystical quest across England, this is as much a journey of self discovery for Adam as it is a revelation of the times.
If you’re intrigued by the era, but too young to have been there, or simply want to revisit this evocative time, A Hand in God’s Till will take you on an unforgettable trip.

"Wrapped in each other's arms, our tears eventually sealed our eyes, transporting us to the refuge of sleep, not as lovers, but as guardians of each other's pain."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nicholas Cooper
• Release date: May 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311288547

Nicholas Cooper

Born in Windsor, England in 1950, Nicholas Cooper grew up just outside London, glad to have lived through the transformational period of the 1960s that still echoes through our lives today. He was educated in Somerset at Queen’s College, Taunton, before going on to art college in Guildford, Surrey. In 1970, he was one of the few who successfully travelled overland to India, spending the best part of a year travelling the country and living with Tibetan refugees in Dharamsala, where he was privileged to have a private audience with the Dalai Lama. On his return to England, he studied to be a teacher, going on to work for some years in Illustration and Graphic Design, before being appointed a college lecturer in Graphic Design at Weston College, Somerset. In 2007, he moved to Spain with his partner, the painter, Angie McKenzie, restoring three Andalucian village houses to habitable “works of art”. Nicholas started his first novel, A Hand in God’s Till, whilst still in Spain, finishing it after returning to live in Ramsgate, Kent. Kamala was the sequel, published in 2014.Nicholas and his partner now share their time between their homes in Ramsgate, Kent and the rural wilds of Portugal, where he continues his writing.

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A Hand in God ’ s Till

A Story of Love, Tragedy and Hope

Nicholas Cooper

First published 2012

This edition 2023

A Hand in God ’ s Till

Copyright © Nicholas Cooper 2012/23

The right of Nicholas Cooper to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved.

No part of the publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication, except those in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Every effort has been made to seek permissions where appropriate.

This book contains some violence, strong language

and scenes of a sexual nature/

ISBN : 9781311288547

Typeset by Nicholas Cooper

Cover design and photographic content

by Nicholas Cooper

Copyright © Nicholas Cooper 2012

https://nicholascooper-author.co.uk

Dedication

Dedicated to my precious

Angie.

Thank you for journeying with me

and giving such valuable advice.

Thank you especially for letter from Caroline

Acknowledgments

Thank you also Pauline, Melanie and Niema, who enjoyed the early drafts and gave criticism where it was due.

My dear friend, John Poole, who has gone ahead on the Great Journey. He always did like a good adventure

Love to my children, Anna, Sarah and William.

Synopsis

A Hand in God ’ s Till is a thought-provoking and passionate story of love, tragedy and hope, set against the sexual and spiritual backdrop of 1967 ’ s Summer of Love .

As the young Adam Busk arrives in London, on being expelled from the strict confines of boarding school, he is hungry for excitement.

It is therefore not long before he is absorbed into the burgeoning hippy movement, where the promise of free-love, mind expanding drugs and compelling spiritual ideas are driven by the all pervasive musical soundtrack of the time.

Having met the enigmatic Belinda, her subsequent disappearance becomes the catalyst for a mystical quest across England, where the die is cast for the powerful and unsettling events that will spark tragedy and retribution .

If you ’ re intrigued by the era, too young to have been there, or simply want to revisit this evocative time, A Hand in God ’ s Till will take you on an unforgettable trip.

A Consideration

G ood and evil can be seen as two ends of a spectrum, joined as one by the shades in between.

Of the two, humanity, on balance, aspires to the former, but has an inclination towards the latter. It is therefore fortunate that true evil only inhabits the domain of a few.

I thus now look back on those far off days, with a certain equanimity, when I witnessed the profound effects of such extremes on myself and the many souls who passed my way, inspiring energy and hope or a spiral into the darkest fear and desperation.

So often, we see ourselves as victims of chance and, all too easily, blame others for our circumstances.

As it is, what perplexes, but better helps us come to terms with our predicament, is the real possibility that, maybe, chance had no hand in what life has dealt us and it was all of our own making, whereby a complex system of causality weighs and measures our every action, dispensing outcomes to suit the deeds.

C hapter One

M id June, 1967 , and I ’ d not long been in London.

Amid the profusion of talk, I ’ d heard a good place to hang out was the Duke of York in Rathbone Street – said to be a watering hole for some of the alternative people, who were already beginning to populate my life. The Central Line ran all the way to Tottenham Court Road and the shabby, Victorian pub was not hard to find in the shadow of the Post Office tower.

One warm evening, sitting alone by the open door, a pint before me on the sticky table, I had a good vantage point to watch and listen.

To a background of Scott McKenzie ’ s, San Francisco and The Stones ’ , Ruby Tuesday on the jukebox, customers came and went through the haze of cigarette smoke.

The barman couldn ’ t have been much more than four foot tall with the characteristic large head and short limbs of a dwarf. As his stubby fingers collected empty glasses, a lumbering Great Dane wandered freely, his back skimming the undersides of the tables as he licked slops and food crumbs from the soiled wooden floor.

A row of motor bikes stood outside, while their long haired riders, dressed in scruffy jeans, leather and denim jackets, had formed themselves around some of the tables, laughing and swilling their drinks; their boots weighing heavy on the creaking floorboards. I snatched snippets of conversation, infused with strong regional accents.

Despite the assurances I ’ d been given, there was nothing of the alternative lifestyle I ’ d been hearing about and certainly no hippy paraphernalia to be seen. The reality was, instead, both bizarre and disturbing, engendering something akin to the fascination of a circus sideshow.

One lone man, leaning against the bar, contrasted strongly with the others. His dark, slicked hair, newly cut and keenly combed, glistened in the light. The leather shoulder pads of his donkey jacket were as unfashionable as they were conspicuous, the creases in his jeans, sharp and dangerous, while his well buffed black boots placed an uneasy question mark over him.

Perversely, I was more fascinated by him than anyone else in the pub, until he dropped his matches. As he bent down, a cut throat razor fell out of his pocket and slid across the floor, its steel blade neatly tucked inside an ivory handle. Instinctively, I stretched down to pick it up. As I placed it in his outstretched hand, I caught his callous blue eyes briefly acknowledging mine. A deep scar down his left cheek quivered as his mouth formed a contemptuous smile. He said nothing.

I immediately turned away, shuddering at the icy chill I felt inside, not daring to look again at what I perceived to be the undiluted evil before me. Deep within, I prayed that what had happened had never taken place. But it had and something of my soul had been stolen from me at that moment.

He finished his drink and left shortly after, the pungent smell of Old Spice after shave lingering in his wake.

It would be some time before I felt inclined to talk about the incident; only precipitated by the events that would follow and the growing comprehension of their significance.

Meanwhile, I was prompted to think back to the circumstances that had brought me to this encounter with the dark side of fate.

My father sat in his solid Windsor chair at the head of the table. The morning post had just arrived and he was systematically slitting the letters open with the wooden paper knife he had always used.

I sensed something was wrong by the melancholy silence underscoring the crunch of my toast as he laboriously read one letter in particular, the furrows on his brow deepening by the line. At the end, with a rare sadness to his mouth, he stood up, drew a deep breath and silently handed it to my mother at the other end of the table.

The silence persisted, unrelieved, as I watched her scan down the paragraphs, finally looking at me despairingly and screaming, ‘ That ’ s it. You bastard! That ’ s the end! ’ angrily thrusting the paper into my hand.

I knew something like this was on its way as, only three days earlier, I ’ d been in my headmaster, Mr. Trott ’ s, study.

‘ It would be untrue to say that I ’ m not disappointed in you, Busk, ’ he had said, his face taut and severe. ‘ I hear from your masters that your work is not up to standard, from the prefects that you are a nuisance and I gather you have gone as far as to say you find the school routine irksome; all this, following your assurances of a change in your attitude.

I recognise you are something of a rebel, for which I have some sympathy and understanding but, occasionally, the price has to be paid for this.

As a sixth former, you have continued along this path, only yesterday evening, leaving the school premises with two of your friends to buy cider, before retiring to your dormitory – drunk! Not only have you broken school rules, but also the law. What do you have to say for yourself? ’

The oppressive gloom of the oak panelled study represented everything I found disagreeable about the school – the punitive petty rules, the tyrannical and bullying jurisdiction of the prefects and the suffocation of living with so many other boys, twenty-four hours a day.

‘ It was an end of term celebration. I ’ m sorry, sir. ’

There had been exchanges of letters over recent months between Mr. Trott and my parents, discussing my troublesome nature and how best to deal with me.

To be fair, Mr. Trott and his staff had bent the rules, enabling me to stay on and retake failed O levels, following my disastrous results the previous summer. They had given me one chance after another to fulfil my promise, only for me to let them down. A misplaced consensus had, at one point, declared that I was at last seeing the error of my ways and turning a corner to, work for the community. As usual, I started with good intentions, only to find myself sliding into further misdemeanours.

‘ You ’ ve done well in the school play, your prowess in running has brought credit to yourself and the school, yet you find it impossible to apply the same commitment to your work and behaviour ’

I could appreciate his concern and was indeed grateful for his efforts to rehabilitate me. But, as I bent over the worn leather chair with its protruding tufts of horse hair, gazing through the stone mullioned windows to the wind pummelled trees beyond, all I could consider was the pain being induced by the bamboo cane landing repeatedly on my backside – the cause of broad weals that would take weeks to fade.

‘ I shall be writing to your parents in due course, ’ Mr. Trott concluded.

So, there I was, at the end of March, facing the consequences of my inability to follow rules. The letter had confirmed my opposition to discipline and my wish for more freedom; the recommendation being that I leave immediately and go to a Technical College, where I could pursue some kind of art training.

This latest occurrence had given Mr. Trott just cause to rid the school of my influence. He must have realised that, with my prowess in sport and the recent award of my first colours, I was in line to become captain of athletics and, as in the normal course of events, he would have to have made me a prefect. This would ’ ve been an abomination to him.

I ’ ve often wondered how different things might have been if I ’ d been able to stay on and follow a conventional path. As it was, the repercussions of my wish for more freedom very soon began to unravel, well assisted by the meddling of the Fates.

I sat at that breakfast table with the letter in my hand, a sick fluttering in the pit of my stomach as if all was lost. Rather than the elation I ’ d imagined I would have had on being given the freedom I craved, I felt bereft and abandoned at the loss of friends and opportunities. I could not imagine, at that point, what would come along to take their place.

At just seventeen and with five O Levels to my name, I was not the strongest employment prospect. But, this was 1967 and even those had some value.

Within days, I was looking to the future and, on the strength of my grade one in art, had made an application for an art foundation course, which then posed the question of how I was going to fill my time until the following September.

Despite my father ’ s disappointment at the premature end to my academic progress, he was nevertheless sufficiently concerned to help me into something worthwhile in the intervening months. He worked in television and was able to pull a few strings.

Therefore, just as I should have been returning to school for the summer term, I was dressing in shirt and tie, sports jacket and twill trousers and nervously accompanying my father on the drive to work from the leafy suburbs of West London.

I was officially designated a Photographic Assistant; an overblown job description as I rarely saw a photographer, let alone assisted one. Instead, I passed my days dry-mounting graphics for presentation in front of the TV cameras.

My colleague Chris had worked in the job since leaving school, some three years earlier. A local Acton boy and an avowed mod, he dressed in a smart grey, Italian style suit and black chisel toe shoes. A clean white shirt every day was essential, as was a trendy tie. His fair hair was fashionably cut and, seeing it touching his collar and well over his ears, an aspiration for me after the savagery of school barbers. Chris was the lad about town, still living with his parents, spending his wages on records and clothes, while fully exercising his eye for the girls.

On the daily trek to the canteen for lunch, we would navigate the curved corridors of the main building, where Chris would acknowledge the mini-skirted girls who flitted by. Some were clearly career oriented members of the extended television family. Others seemed to be more for decoration; flouting their long legs, trendy clothes and Mary Quant hairstyles, while avoiding eye contact as if their lives depended on it.

Three policemen had been shot the previous year at nearby Wormwood Scrubs by three small time gangsters – the most notable being career criminal, Harry Roberts. Although all three had been captured, tried and sentenced, Harry remained an anti-hero for many.

The commissionaire, in his peaked cap and navy serge uniform, replete with service medals, was a striking jobs-worth and ripe for one of Chris ’ jokes. Taking him aside one lunch time, he whispered his request.

People hovered with trays of food and drinks from the self-service, scanning the cafeteria for empty tables. We were already ensconced by the window overlooking the gardens, when a throat clearing was heard through the Tannoy speakers. Then, in a precise, clipped tone of voice, ‘ Mr. ’ arold Roberts. Calling, Mr. ’ arold Roberts. Will Mr. ’ arold Roberts, please report to reception. That ’ s, Mr. ’ arold Roberts, ’ the commissionaire concluded.

The diners exploded with nervous laughter, looking around them in disbelief, not really sure whether the convicted murderer was possibly somewhere in their midst.

Some days later, a call went out for a Mr. Andrew Pandy.

The Dry-Mounting room was long, narrow and L shaped – the toe being occupied by the cast-iron mounting press. With little natural light, even my six foot required that I climb on the press to see the rooftop view of Shepherd ’ s Bush through the only window.

The predictability of the daily routine very soon became apparent. Every morning, at around half past ten, the tea lady rattled her trolley along the corridor. Queuing for tea was respite from the tedium and an opportunity to talk with others in the Department; principally the graphic designers.

I would occasionally wander around the drawing boards, watching them in flowery shirts, tight trousers and flamboyant neck scarves, skilfully using sheets of Letraset, paints and inks to produce illustrations and signs.

To an extent, this reinforced my decision to get an art school training, although I was always reminded of an aunt who ’ d once said, ‘ Adam, you can ’ t make a living as an artist. They ’ re all dead. ’ She ’ d been a little confused in the expression of her thoughts, but I understood well enough the sentiment of what she was trying to say.

May passed uneventfully as did the lifts with my father. Sometimes, he would work late, leaving me to take the tube and bus, often sitting snug against a rainswept window, watching the thousands following their burdensome daily routines. I was beginning to see the relentless monotony in this life beyond school and I had only just entered it.

Could there possibly be alternative and more fulfilling ways to pass one ’ s days?

Within the next few weeks, that question would begin to be answered. Events would sweep me along into a way of life that would irreversibly shape my thinking.

Earlier in the year, I ’ d seen a trailer for a TV documentary about the proliferating underground scene in San Francisco. The voice-over drew me into a grainy, black and white clip of a long haired group called the Grateful Dead, performing against a wall of swirling lights.

Against the background of my regimented life, these extraordinary images germinated a deep unrest within me.

The first of June was a Thursday, unremarkable in most respects, except I had read in Melody Maker it would mark the release of a new Beatles long player.

At lunch time, disappointed by Sold Out signs at the nearest record shops, I eventually found myself queuing at Smith ’ s in Hammersmith to pay thirty shillings for the prized record.

Arriving back at the office, half an hour late, I could hardly take my eyes off the Sergeant Pepper ’ s Lonely Hearts Club Band cover, propped up on the workbench with its photo montage of historical luminaries.

There had never been anything like it. The lyrics had been printed over the deep red back cover with a photo of The Beatles in their acid coloured uniforms across the centre spread. Then there were the assorted cardboard cut-outs inside the sleeve and the bizarre rumour that the corners had been soaked in LSD. All this, without even having heard the music.

Later that afternoon, one of the designers came in. ‘ Who ’ s the music fan? ’ he asked, on seeing the cover.

‘ It ’ s me. Just got it. ’

‘ Don ’ t know if you ’ d be interested, but I ’ ve got a spare ticket for this new guy, Jimi Hendrix. Do you want it? ’

I looked at Chris briefly, a polite gesture, but not long enough to let him reply.

‘ Well, yes! Thank you. ’

The arm on my Dansette record player stayed up all that evening as I lay on my bed listening continuously to the new record. Gone were the simple love songs, replaced by poignant, sublime and perplexing lyrics, woven with instrumentations redolent of dimensions far removed from most people ’ s experience. The music articulated humanity ’ s materialism and frailty, whilst tinged with an optimism that we really could make life better. There was much I didn ’ t understand, but it prompted a curiosity that I felt compelled to pursue.

My arrival at the Art Deco, Saville Theatre in Shaftesbury Avenue was therefore full of anticipation.

On this Sunday evening were gathered many of the prime movers in the burgeoning alternative society of musicians, artists and writers, intent on doing things differently. These beautiful people, in richly decorated Indian style clothes, mingled in the plush foyer with a rare energy as they waited to enter the auditorium; the anticipation heightened by rumours that the Beatles would be at the show.

My seat, in the circle, was well placed to see and hear everything, including, as predicted, two of the Beatles, George Harrison and Paul McCartney, in one of the boxes.

Jimi Hendrix was just part of a wider line-up but, when the heavy red curtains finally pulled back, the audience couldn ’ t have anticipated what was to come. Dwarfed by the vast stage, he and his two musicians compensated with a wall of amplifiers that blasted the music to all corners of the theatre.

In the three days since its release, they ’ d learned the first track on Sergeant Pepper , starting the set with a unique rendition.

This left-handed, black musician in unbuttoned, purple silk shirt and green velvet jacket resolutely attacked the strings of his upside down guitar with fingers and teeth. His wild hair, tinged by the spotlights, was an ever changing aura of colour, synchronised with mesmerising solos that lifted our senses to new levels of the sublime.

Picking up a lavishly, hand painted guitar for the final number, he ran the strings up against the amplifiers to produce screeching feedback, ultimately smashing the body on the floor until the neck broke and he tossed the sacrificial remains into the spellbound audience.

The following day, the fifth of June, the euphoria continued at work as I was compelled to describe the sensational things I ’ d seen and heard, but it would be only hours before the ugly realities of the world beyond were to make themselves felt.

On the way home, I sat with the Evening Standard, as usual, but this night ’ s edition had particular significance. IT ’ S WAR , screamed the headline in heavy type.

Israel had launched a pre-emptive strike against the thousands of Egyptian and Syrian forces massed along its borders. Within hours, they had inflicted huge damage on the Egyptian air force as well as the Syrians and Jordanians.

After the exhilaration of the night before, I was now anxiously facing the very real possibility that a war, which had so far eluded my generation, could become a very present reality.

How ironic it would be, in those days of proliferating love and peace, that a global catastrophe could well swallow all those aspirations in a few moments of nuclear madness, fuelled by that old human folly – the lust for power and acquisition.

Hemmed in on the Piccadilly line, that pernicious headline was displayed repeatedly down the length of the carriage as I contemplated the implications of the story, wondering if my call-up papers were going to be dropping through the letterbox, as was now happening to so many Americans of my age.

The rest of the week was fraught with worry as newspapers and television reflected the unfolding story of growing Arab casualties and increasing land acquisitions by the Israelis. But, by the following Saturday, the evening news announced it was all over and a ceasefire would be signed the following day.

It had been a stark warning of what could so easily come about unless my generation, and others so inclined, made a collective effort to promote peaceful solutions.

The previous decade had seen anti-war marches led by prominent intellectuals, politicians, writers and artists. The annual CND, Easter March from the Atomic Weapons Establishment at Aldermaston had, at its height, attracted over 150,000 protesters on the fifty-two miles, culminating in demonstrations and speeches in Trafalgar Square.

Only at the end of May, there had been a Youth for Peace, anti-Vietnam rally in London. Meanwhile, in the United States, a strong peace movement had already been established, motivated by the escalating Vietnam war and the number of boys returning in boxes from a conflict most people did not believe in or understand.

The younger generation was advocating other ways of solving conflict. Experiments in communal living, the demise of capitalism, mind expanding drugs to help open up spiritual awareness and music as a communicator of the message were all seen as essential components for achieving world peace.

The West coast of California had been at the forefront of these ideas, but the pendulum was now swinging towards London and mythical Albion.

So far, my exposure to this changing social order had been restricted to vicarious and apocryphal stories, often sensationalised through newspapers and television, occasionally drizzled with a conversation from which I could glean some real information.

My only spiritual experiences to that point had been morning assembly at school, during which the hymns and prayers, written in a bye-gone jargon, warned against straying off the path in case one ended up in Hell. Most of the time I paid little attention.

God was not a concept I understood or had been sufficiently interested in to want to pursue. He, She, It was unrelated to my experience. To therefore now be seeing my contemporaries actively pursuing a so called spiritual dimension to their lives was something that needed some explanation. But, as I ’ d already realised through some of the words contained in Sergeant Pepper and elsewhere, this interest was something that was already permeating the lives of many prominent people.

With my undiminished curiosity and the already perceived bohemian undercurrent, it was inevitable that my immersion in this alternative lifestyle would not be far away.

C hapter Two

C hris, for all his Mod affectations , was obsessed with Indian curries and regularly shared his excitement about a new restaurant he had found in South Kensington. The sound of bells and exotic smell of incense often permeated the tube or bus and a few people at work were often talking about India, travel and the search for a more fulfilling life.

Russ Gallagher, one of the scenic artists, would pop in for a bit of cardboard and a chat. He had recently returned from travelling in the Middle East and Africa and, being a good ten years older, already looked the part with his shoulder length blond hair, beard and loose fitting cotton kaftan. I was enthralled by the tales of life in these other cultures. The thought that I could realistically go to such places had seemed implausible, until then.

‘ London really is where it ’ s at now, ’ he said, one day. ‘ There are happenings at places like UFO and it ’ s becoming a strong spiritual centre for the hippies. ’

‘ UFO and happenings? ’ I had to ask, totally bewildered by what he was saying.

‘ UFO ’ s a club in Tottenham Court Road, run by the editor of the underground newspaper, International Times. Every Friday night, until dawn, there ’ s live music, poetry, films, macrobiotic food ... ’

‘ Macro what? ’

It was all happening too fast and I could see there was much to learn. What was beyond doubt, I needed to break my current routine and spend more time in London after work. Up to this point, my exposure to a life outside boarding school and my suburban home had been limited.

The previous year, I ’ d been to Tiles, the basement club in Oxford Street, where I ’ d seen The Who, danced until the early hours and kissed a girl called Moira.

Following O levels, I ’ d hitched to Barcelona and sat around an open fire in a French field of sweet-corn, smoking my first joint with a young English guy. It had done nothing that I could remember, but merely served to further fuel my discontent and restlessness on my return to school in the autumn.

Being a mod, with a sharp suit, a scooter and a Small Faces haircut, was too simplistic – a fancy dress that anyone could comply with.

Being a hippy, seemed fraught with complications and variables. There was a mindset whose roots lay embedded in centuries of profound philosophies, mythology and the practices of ancient civilisations – ideas that undermined the very essence of our own culture. There was something beyond the mere ephemeral.

I was in the heart of London, on the periphery of an incomprehensible whirlwind of energy, drawing me towards unknown delights and dangers. I was intrigued and charmed by the momentum of what was happening. There was an absurdity that alienated and even amused me – the bells and beads, the hippy speak – but my curiosity outweighed everything else.

My ability to explore very soon became severely restricted by the daily trek backwards and forwards to my parents. I ’ d started looking in the Evening Standard for rooms to let and would spend lunchtimes stood at the pay-phone, making appointments to see some solitary room in Earls Court or Hammersmith.

I ’ d knock on shabby doors after work, following an overbearing landlady up a bare, ill-lit staircase to see the ubiquitous old bed, dark wooden wardrobe, grimy sink and Baby Belling gas cooker. Dirty brown lino might cover the floorboards or even a threadbare carpet, all illuminated by one dull, central light.

Such rooms could be had for the princely sum of two to three pounds per week but, on my weekly wage of eight pounds, ten shillings and five pence, I would have had little change after feeding myself and the meters.

My unscheduled meeting with the cut throat razor man had continued to haunt me. I would often wake in the night, imagining him leering over me, his bloodied blade glinting in the moonlight. Nevertheless, I had to be rational, forcing myself to believe that it was nothing personal – just an unfortunate coincidence.

With this self-imposed reassurance, I revisited the Duke of York, a week or so later, relieved to find my nightmare wasn ’ t propping up the bar.

A young man, about my age, was making a roll-up a couple of tables along, his thick, dark hair tumbling over his downturned face.

‘ Have you got a light? ’ I asked, taking out a cigarette.

‘ Sure, ’ he replied in a strong Scouse accent, his solid, work worn hands striking a match for me.

‘ What ’ re you drinking? ’ I offered, seeing his glass reaching the dregs and an opportunity to strike up an acquaintance.

‘ A Guinness would do me, Ta. ’

The bar was not very full, so I didn ’ t have to wait long for the dwarf to stand on a beer crate and pull a couple of pints.

‘ My name ’ s Adam. ’

‘ I ’ m Sean. Sean McCarthy. I ’ ve just moved down to the Smoke, like. I ’ m workin ’ in the kitchens at Liverpool Street station and dossin ’ in a hostel. ’

‘ That sounds grim. ’

‘ The work ’ s okay, like, in that I ’ m gettin ’ free scran, but the hostel ’ s shite. Just a big dormitory full of drunks, coughin ’ and cursin ’ all night. Know what I mean? I ’ ve gotta get out. ’

‘ I ’ m still living with my parents, but spending the evenings checking out crummy bedsits. ’

‘ I don ’ t know you and that, but you seem like an honest kidda. Maybe, with rents bein ’ so high, like, it would be a good idea if we found a room together. It would be easier and a lot cheaper. Yer know, until we get on our feet, like, ’ suggested Sean, looking at me directly with his chestnut brown eyes.

‘ Why not. Something ’ s bound to turn up, ’ I replied, warming to the real prospect that my luck could at last be changing.

I didn ’ t feel Sean was on the same direct path of enquiry as myself, sensing his circumstances had been a lot tougher and his interests probably lay elsewhere. ‘ What about this underground scene? ’ I asked.

‘ I was here last Friday, and it was full of hippies. You know – beads, flowers – the whole works. Said they were goin ’ to some place called UFO. All sounds a bit queer to me. Know what I mean? ’

‘ I ’ ve been told it ’ s the place to go at the moment. Where they all hang out. ’

‘ I don ’ t really know much about hippies miself. ’ Sean replied, confirming my suspicions about another agenda which, I imagined, probably circled around a pint of Guinness.

Nevertheless, as I got to know him better, so I gave up going home in the evenings and resolved to sleep wherever the opportunities arose, until we found a room.

Over the following two weeks, we would meet up after work to discuss the various bedsits we ’ d each seen, spending the remainder of each night somewhere quite different.

An evening would start off with a couple of pints in the Duke or the Round Table, an Irish pub, just off Leicester Square. At closing time, we would move on to Bungles just off Charing Cross Road or Caf é des Artistes near the Fulham Road, both basement coffee bars, before finally having to contemplate a few hours sleep.

Most nights, we ’ d get an invitation to sleep on someone ’ s floor, often a tube or bus journey away, perhaps arriving at a house in North London where, with an old blanket to cover us, we ’ d share the space with five or six others.

We once slept in the crypt of Saint Martin in the Fields, just off Trafalgar Square, sharing a cold floor with what seemed to be the entire population of London ’ s dispossessed – drunks, mental patients and the many drug addicts who ’ d just collected their prescriptions from the all night Boots chemist in Piccadilly Circus.

Another night, freeing ourselves from the incessant noise and claustrophobia, we helped ourselves to a couple of deck-chairs in Hyde Park, before being moved on by a passing policeman, shuffling through the damp, empty streets, shivering and yawning while we waited for the gents at Charing Cross station to open.

‘ Can I lend yer toothbrush? ’ Sean asked, quite matter of factly, as if it was the most natural question in the world. I ’ d bonded with him a little over our time together but, even after living with a crowd of boys over several years, I ’ d never been asked that before.

Of course, I agreed, feeling it would have been rude to refuse.

I ’ d often arrive earlier than usual, descending to the changing rooms, where I could take a hot shower, freshen up and go to the office as if nothing untoward had happened, except for one night.

The evening had been spent in a German bierkeller in Stratford East where, several litres later, I was breathing in lungfuls of fresh air at the top of the steps and a similarly drunk girl thought it a good idea to spray my clothes with perfume. Next thing, I was throwing up in the street. Having spent the rest of the night sprawled on a market stall, I arrived at work with Chris immediately asking what the smell was – a question posed several times throughout the day as the combined stench of cheap perfume and vomit took a firm grip on the office.

Finding a place to live was by then imperative.

Near the end of the second week, I ’ d been to see another dreary, overpriced room in Earls Court. The pressure to find somewhere, combined with the lack of sleep, was finally taking its toll as I sat on some steps, my head in my hands – half in a gesture of despair and half as a momentary snatch at some of that elusive sleep.

‘ Hey, you okay? ’ a girl ’ s voice filtered through the barrier of flesh and bone I ’ d erected against the world. Rubbing my eyes, I looked up. Two chicks in flowery mini dresses and patterned headscarves stood before me.

‘ Yeah. I ’ m just tired. ’

‘ Do you want to come to a party?

At the bottom end of Kensington High Street, they led me to Russell Road, running parallel to the tube lines and in full view of the curved glass roofs of the Olympia exhibition halls.

It was already ten o ’ clock and the summer light was fading as we arrived at the house. One of the girls knocked on the door and, with no response, I stretched over the parapet and peered in the ground floor window. The room looked dark and empty as did the view through the letterbox to the hall.

Have we got the right house? ’ I asked.

‘ Yes. This guy gave us the address and said he ’ d be along later, ’ said the second girl.

I looked up and down the empty street.

‘ We ’ ll wait a bit longer, ’ she said.

I wasn ’ t feeling much like conversation and was quite happy to lean against the steps and close my eyes.

‘ Been in London long then? ’ asked the first girl, her chirpiness bringing me back to reality.

‘ Only a couple of weeks, but it ’ s so hard finding anywhere to live that ’ s affordable and half decent. ’

‘ We got a place in Earl ’ s Court. It ’ s not bad. One big room and share a bathroom. Four pounds a week... ’

The sound of shoe leather scraping the pavement distracted us, announcing a young man with long straight hair and black horn rimmed glasses.

‘ Sorry to keep you, ’ he volunteered.

‘ We brought this fella with us. Hope you don ’ t mind? ’ the first girl said.

‘ Shouldn ’ t be a problem, ’ he said, amiably.

He slid the key into the lock and we followed him into the dark hallway.

‘ This is creepy, ’ said the second girl.

‘ It ’ s okay, ’ he reassured us as the stairs creaked with our weight. Coming to a door at the top of the house, a thin, red strip of light filtered through the crack beneath it. Lightly pounding music could be heard within. ‘ I ’ ll just check how much space there is. ’

A moment later, he reappeared and beckoned us in.

A dozen or so people had arranged themselves variously around the room. Some lay stretched out on their backs, looking at the ceiling. Some, propped on one elbow or sitting cross legged with eyes closed and contented smiles on their faces, tinted by the red patina of the lamp. A couple lay entwined amid the dishevelled sheets covering the mattress on the floor, the girl ’ s dress scrunched around her thighs, revealing her white knickers. Twisted lines of drifting smoke hung heavy on the air and the pungent, undeniable smell of hashish caught my nostrils. I breathed deeply.

A man in his early thirties, in suit and tie and shortish curly hair, gestured with a nod for the three of us to join him, moving some coats to make room on the floor.

With a record cover resting on one knee, he was in the process of sticking three cigarette papers together. I watched him carefully, following the ritual until he deftly rolled the papers and their contents into a fat cigarette. There was confidence and experience betrayed in the way he so casually assembled all the components, concluding with a little twist of the papers at the open end.

With the joint in his mouth, he lit a match, noisily drawing breath until the end glowed brightly and a thick swirl of white smoke meandered up into the room, spreading the heady smell with it. He held his breath a few moments before releasing the remnants of smoke from his lungs with a rush of air, repeating this a couple of times until he eventually passed the joint to one of the girls.

When it eventually came to me, I was a little apprehensive about this almost cigar sized thing, smouldering in my hand. Putting the end to my lips, I slowly drew in the smoke as I had seen the others doing, only to splutter most of it out on a short cough. I persevered until I could comfortably hold it in. I still had no real idea of what to expect, although the fixed grins of the others sprawled across the floor gave a good idea.

The confusion of expectations left me bewildered. On the one hand, I thought I should be looking for some wonderful hallucination, on the other, I wasn ’ t even sure if I was high. What I did know was that I felt different.

The joint was passed a few more times before the smoke became too hot to breath in and I lay down, closed my eyes and felt my body unwinding into the space I occupied on the floor. This was not how I had recently felt after drinking too much. No head spinning out of control and feeling violently ill. I was relaxed and at peace – trusting of those around me.

Dawn had broken when I woke and the man in the suit was busy at the small sink in the corner, rattling mugs and a teaspoon.

‘ Tea? ’ he asked.

I rubbed my eyes and looked around the room. Most of the other people had already left, including the girls who ’ d invited me.

‘ Yes, please. ’

‘ I ’ m Blue, by the way, ‘ offering his name in a pronounced southern Irish accent.

‘ I ’ m Adam. ’

The couple on the bed were still asleep and the long haired man, who ’ d brought us in, was already rolling another joint. Blue brought the mug over to me.

‘ Sugar? ’ he asked, putting a packet of Tate and Lyle on the floor, a teaspoon sticking out of the top.

‘ Thanks. ’ I took two heaped teaspoonfuls as an antidote to my hunger on this particular morning.

‘ Is this your pad, then? ’ I asked, using one of the hip words I ’ d recently learned.

‘ No, I ’ m just staying over for a few days before moving into me own place. It ’ s Brian ’ s, ’ he said, pointing across the room to the man just finishing the joint. It was then that I noticed an electric guitar leaning in a corner.

‘ You ’ re a musician? ’ directing my question at Brian.

Yes. Our group plays around the Gate and we had a gig at UFO recently. ’

‘ UFO? I keep hearing about this place. ’

‘ You haven ’ t been yet? ’

‘ No. I ’ ve not had a chance. Too busy looking for somewhere to live. ’

‘ You really must go. It ’ s every Friday night, just under the Berkley Cinema in Tottenham Court Road. It all started last year, so the underground scene could come together for experimental happenings, music, lights, poetry or whatever takes your fancy. Some people call it, Unlimited Freak Out, others, Unidentified Flying Object. John Hopkins, one of the IT editors, started it with Jo Boyd, who produces The Pink Floyd. It ’ s a great place to get stoned and trip out. ’

‘ Pity is, ’ interjected Blue, ‘ it ’ s beginnin ’ t ’ get a bit overcrowded and dere ’ s been trouble recently with drunks and skinheads crashin ’ in hoping for some Free Love . ’ He raised his hands and tweaked the first two fingers on each hand to clarify the quote. ‘ Now Hoppy ’ s been put inside, the future ’ s lookin ’ uncertain. ’

‘ Yes, I read the recent front page and now even that ’ s been raided, ’ I said.

‘ Yeah, the fuzz took away an entire edition, sayin ’ it was obscene. I don ’ t tink they ’ ve got a case, but we ’ ll have t ’ see. ’

‘ We thought it was all gonna change after things like the Fourteen Hour Technicolor Dream at Ali Pali, ’ said Brian, ‘ but the fuzz are now arresting people, closing things down and busting people ’ s pads for dope, ’

‘ What happened at Ali Pali then? ’

‘ An all night happening, man. The Pink Floyd, Pretty Things and Soft Machine. A cool place for everyone to blow their minds. Beautiful people like Lennon were wandering around, grooving to the vibes. When The Floyd came on, it was just far out. ’

It all sounded so weird to me, but I was nevertheless intrigued by what I was hearing. ‘ I hope I haven ’ t arrived in London