The Rainbow Soldier

By Mick Deal

In this gripping drama, nineteen-year-old Joe Barley returns to England in the summer of 1984 having gone AWOL from the US Army. Desperate to start a new life and find peace of mind he moves to the picturesque Cotswold town of Westcombe where he finds accommodation in the mesmeric Hastings Cottage, a lodging house run by the benevolent Hazel. Upon befriending his dope-smoking fellow lodgers he soon becomes immersed in the local drug culture. Subsequently under the wing of local villain Chris Wetherly, Joe is absorbed into his mentor’s local crime syndicate, a move which inadvertently changes the course of his life. All that remains is for Joe to relinquish his enemies and lay to rest his remaining demons as he bids an emotional farewell to his past. Only then will he be free to follow what he knows to be his true vocation in life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jun 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781326325114

Book preview

The Rainbow Soldier

The Rainbow Soldier

The Rainbow Soldier

Mick Deal

Copyright © 2015, Mick Deal

Copyright © 2015, Mick Deal

First edition

The moral right of the author has been asserted

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means – whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic – without written permissions of both the author and publisher. Unauthorised reproduction of any part of the work is illegal and is punishable by law

ISBN 978-1-326-32511-4

Distributed through Lulu

www.lulu.com

About the author

About the author

Mick Deal was born in the United States of America in March of 1965 but came to live in England while still a small child. He was educated at Rednock Comprehensive in Dursley, Gloucestershire but returned to the States upon graduation and served for a short while in the US Army.

Upon his return to the UK he came to settle in Stroud, Gloucestershire where he would develop an interest in politics and political theory. The burgeoning pursuit of his academic studies during this period later led to him studying history, politics and philosophy at the University of Kent, at Canterbury. He would later go on to study successfully at postgraduate level. He has worked in the Higher Education sector since 1999 and currently lives in Milton Keynes.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the memory of Brian Hawkins

One

It was a brilliant and cloudless morning in June when the plane landed at the airport. For one individual however, the atmosphere was taut and on edge. Lugging nothing other than a plastic bag in which he carried what was left of his lifetime possessions, a tired and nervous-looking young man made his way through the terminal. Hesitantly looking over his shoulder with paranoid fear, he limped with blistered feet through to customs. He handed his passport sheepishly to the acne-ridden customs official.

Examining the passport with a sullen, lifeless expression, the official asked, ‘How long do you intend staying here in the UK?’

After a slight pause the young man replied, ‘Forever.’

‘Well, that’s not very useful to me. I need to know how long you’ll be staying here.’

‘Well, I don’t know. The rest of my life?’

‘Are you trying to be funny?’

‘No. Funny is something I do when I’m happy.’

‘Well all this passport tells me is that you’re American. You can’t just fly over here and stay for as long as you want.’

‘Why not?’

Taking a deep breath the officer stared the seemingly embittered young man in the eye. ‘Do you understand English? Don’t be so bloody obstinate. Now, how long do you plan on staying here?’

‘For as long as I like. I’m British. This is my home country.’

‘Not according to this passport. All this passport tells me is that you’re American.’

‘Yes, but I was raised in this country. My mother’s English.’

‘Oh really? So where did you go to school then?’

‘Rednock Comprehensive, Dursley in Gloucestershire.’

The irksome official momentarily pondered the information and from the subsequent expression on his face the young man concluded that he was satisfied with this. The official stamped the passport, handed it back and muttered, ‘I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.’

As the young lad peeked inside the passport he was irked to see that it had been stamped ‘LEAVE TO REMAIN IN THE UK INDEFINITELY.’ He walked on past the official and whispered, ‘Wanker.’

The official heard and replied in his own whisper, ‘Twat.’

The young man bungled his way out of the airport and found his way to a coach station and jumped on a ride that would take him to the English county of Gloucestershire.

Once there he caught a bus to the small town of Dursley. It was here that he would stay with an old friend for a couple of days while he arranged longer term accommodation.

It was a relief to be back in England after his punishing ordeal in the States. With his tribulations still fresh in his mind, and despite his age of just nineteen years, he had returned to England a broken man.

He promised himself that he would never reveal to anyone his secret. He wanted nothing more than to forget that recent experience and to start his life afresh, now that he was back home and once again in the comfort of a familiar environment. The year 1984 was to be his year zero, his new beginning, his new life wherein memories of his embittered recent past were to be expunged.

Two days later he found himself walking through the streets of nearby Westcombe, a picturesque Cotswold town about ten miles north of Dursley. He walked up the Bath Road towards Hastings Cottage, where he had arranged to meet the landlady to discuss his lodgings. He was familiar with Westcombe and had frequented it on numerous occasions as a child. An old market town, particularly famous in its day for its cloth-making industries, it was comfortably hemmed in by five valleys and from certain vantage points the roaming hills and beacons could be seen in all their majesty surrounding the town. Bath Road itself had a tranquil air about it and the young man could sense a peace about the place. As he made his way along the road on that warm, calm evening he picked up a distinctive rustic scent, like the smell of damp hay, which made him feel as if he was being welcomed home. It probably reminded him of his young happy childhood.

He walked up to the front entrance of the cottage. The antiquated stone arch in particular would make an impression on him. It was a large building, built almost entirely with Cotswold stone and he could clearly see that the windows were adorned with strip lead, which conveyed to the young man a medieval nuance. His gaze fell on the engraving at the top of the entrance – HASTINGS COTTAGE 1840. Is it really that old? he thought to himself.

The ancient arched wooden doors of the entrance, which reminded Joe of something from the Adams Family, were welcomingly wide open, yet the young man was unsure as to whether he should knock or walk straight in. After a rather polite tap which remained unanswered, he wandered in and walked through the long hallway up to what looked like the kitchen and from where he could hear voices. He knocked quietly on the door and in a sheepish, almost pitiful voice said, ‘Hello?’

‘Come in,’ said a friendly female voice.

The young man shuffled his way into the large kitchen. Before he could introduce himself the woman’s eyes lit up as she asked, ‘You must be Joe?’

‘Yes,’ said the surprised young man. ‘How did you know my name?’

‘I recognised your voice from over the phone yesterday. Come in, sit down. Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘Wouldn’t say no, thanks,’ he replied, relieved by this cordial welcome.

‘No problem, sit yourself down. I’m Hazel, the landlady of this place. So you’ve come from Dursley?’

‘Yes, just been staying there for a couple of days.’

‘Is that where you’re from? Oh, this is Stephanie, my cleaner,’ she said, as she gestured towards an attractive, thirty-something woman who perched herself up against the kitchen cabinets as if she had been expecting to meet the young man.

‘Hiya,’ he said.

‘You alright?’ replied Stephanie in what Joe assumed to be an estuary English accent.

‘Go on, sit yourself down,’ insisted Hazel with a warm smile as she gestured towards a chair. ‘Do you take sugar?’

‘No thanks, just milk.’

‘Ooh, aren’t you good,’ she giggled, reaching for the milk.

Joe sat down and placed his hands on the large rectangular wooden table as if he was about to negotiate a business deal.

‘Right, I’m all done, Hazel. I’ll be off now,’ said Stephanie as she gathered her coat and bag. ‘Nice to meet you Joe.’

‘Yes, and you,’ he smiled.

‘Yep, thanks Stephanie. See you tomorrow,’ said Hazel as Stephanie made her way out of the kitchen, smiling at Joe as she went.

Hazel handed Joe the cup of tea and then picked up a small handbook from one of the kitchen drawers. As she sat down opposite Joe she couldn’t help but notice the carrier bag on his knees. ‘Were you wanting to stay tonight?’

Anxiously he replied, ‘Yes.’

As Hazel then discussed the terms and conditions of the lodging, Joe felt a sense of relief as it became clear that he would obviously be welcome to stay as from that night. He readily warmed to Hazel as she continued. He stared at her eyes, then averted his gaze for a second, then stared back again. He did this repeatedly as he attempted to determine the woman’s disposition as she spoke in her soft Welsh accent.

She mentioned that she was forty years old. Joe could see that she was still very attractive. She wore long, straight white-blonde hair which contrasted pleasantly with her bright, blue eyes and long eyelashes. To Joe her face was kind and friendly and yet conveyed life experience. He could see that this was a woman who had lived; a woman who had been dealt blows along the road of life but who had overcome them.

With her accommodating voice and her perceptive demeanour Joe sensed that this woman knew things about being alive. He felt that she could be someone he could trust.

‘Have you been to the dole office yet?’ she asked.

‘Not yet,’ said Joe. ‘I’ll be going down tomorrow morning to make a claim. I’ll try and get an emergency payment so I can give you some rent.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that. It normally takes a week or two for a claim to go through, but they backdate it anyway. All of the boys staying here have to sign on at the moment.’

‘How many are there here? It’s a big place.’

‘At the moment,’ smiled Hazel, ‘I’ve got eight young lads, all about your age. Then there’s Rose and Stacy who share a room. I’ve got Bob and Plunkett, they’re older chaps and both retired, they share one of the downstairs rooms. I’ve also got Raymond, he’s in the other downstairs room on his own. He likes his privacy. We’re a happy bunch I think. I don’t get much trouble from the lads. They can be a handful at times but they’re alright. I’ve had some right thugs here in the past, but I think I’ve got it about right now.’

‘How long have you been running this place?’

‘I’ve had this house for nearly two years, but I’ve been running lodgings for almost five. Used to own a house down the road. I started after me and my husband separated.’

‘How did you manage to afford it, it’s huge!’

‘Well, let’s just say that I had some money stashed away after my divorce. This is a listed building you know, built in the nineteenth century. Used to be a school house apparently.’

‘Yes, I saw the date on the front, built in 1840. That’s old! Why’s it called Hastings Cottage?’

‘I think it goes back to some Earl, or Lord or whatever, who retired here in Westcombe. It was named after him. When he died it became a school of some sort. I’m very attached to the place.’

‘Yes, I can see why. It’s beautiful.’

‘Anyway, I’m just going to write your name in my rent book. It’s Joe?’

‘Barley. Joe Barley.’

‘Right you are, Joe, can I ask you to just sign here.’

As Joe signed he couldn’t help but notice Hazel’s surname – Faulkner. ‘Faulkner?’ he asked. ‘Isn’t that Scottish?’

‘Oh it is’, giggled Hazel, ‘but it’s my ex-husband’s name. My maiden name is Jones.’

‘Ah, how original,’ he joked.

‘So what brings you to Westcombe Joe?’

‘Well I was just looking for lodgings and this seemed like a good place to be. I’ve known Westcombe since I was a kid. I used to cycle up here often from Dursley to buy records.’

‘Were you living with your parents?’

‘No, I haven’t seen them for a while. I’ve been out of the country for a couple of years.’

Hazel perked up. ‘Oh yeah, where have you been?’

Joe instantly regretted letting such information slip out. It wasn’t something he wanted to discuss. ‘Nowhere special. Just got back the other day. How long have you lived in Westcombe?’ he asked, trying to change the subject.

‘No, I asked you. Where have you been?’ insisted Hazel.

Without wanting to encourage further interrogation on the matter Joe quickly mumbled, ‘Er, just America. Nowhere special. So how long have you lived in Westcombe?’

‘Really!’ exclaimed Hazel. ‘I went there years ago, on my honeymoon. We stayed in California. Where did you live?’

‘New Jersey.’

‘New Jersey? That’s East coast isn’t it? Why did you come back to England?’

Joe paused long enough to think up an excuse. ‘Just homesick I guess.’

‘Yeah, it’s nice to be home isn’t it? I miss Wales sometimes.’

Joe used this as an excuse to try once again to change the subject. ‘My grandfather was Welsh.’

‘Really, where was he from?’

‘Somewhere near the Rhonda Valley. It was a coalmining community.’

‘Yes, I know. My dad used to work down the mines when he was young, before he joined the army. It was his road out.’

‘Interesting. That’s what my grandad did. He joined the army too, just to escape from the mines.’

But in spite of Joe’s enthusiasm for the common experience of their families, Hazel steered the conversation back.

‘So are you American then?’ she asked.

‘Erm, yes, originally. But I was raised in England.’

Sensing his awkwardness Hazel left it at that and went back to the terms of the lodgings.

‘So fifty-five pound a week inclusive of all bills and meals. Does that suit you?’

‘Sounds fine to me,’ said Joe.

‘I don’t mind you having friends around, but I’d rather they didn’t stay too late. And there’s no sneaking in girls late at night. That’s one of my strict taboos. It’s okay to have girlfriends round in the daytime, but I don’t want any hanky panky.’

‘No problem. What time are meals?’

‘Well you can help yourselves to breakfast but I serve dinner at around five thirty. If you’re out and you know you’re going to be running late, just give me a call and I can put a dinner by.’

‘Sounds fine.’

Hazel then turned her attention to Joe’s features. ‘What lovely eyebrows you have,’ she said, referring to his thick, dark eyebrows that almost met in the middle. ‘And I like your hair colour. Is it natural?’

‘No, I dyed it red a few weeks ago. I’m sort of light brown, dark blond, naturally,’ he replied as he combed his fingers through the short mop of wavy hair.

‘It’s a nice shape,’ said Hazel.

Before she could continue the sound of heavy footsteps could be heard stomping down the narrow stairwell that led into the kitchen. A short, plump lad, about Joe’s age, burst abruptly through the stairwell door and gestured towards Hazel.

‘He’s doing it again, Hazel,’ he declared in his thick Gloucestershire accent.

‘Oh what’s eating you now, Mitchell? What’s he doing now?’

‘The bastard’s only clipping his toenails on the bloody carpet. I wish you’d do something about it. I’ve told you twice already this week. The filthy bastard doesn’t listen to me.’

‘Well as long as he cleans up after himself, what’s the problem?’ reasoned Hazel.

‘Clean it up? Clean it up! He doesn’t know what that means. He’s too bastard thick to know what that means. Are you gonna tell him?’

‘Oh for goodness sake, Mitchell, just tell him from me. Don’t know why you got to make such a fuss over everything. Keep your voice down. And don’t be so rude, we have a new lodger with us today. This is Joe.’

Joe stood up and held out his hand for Mitchell to shake, but Mitchell, his face contorted as if in pain, looked him up and down and simply said, ‘You’re fuckin’ tall, ain’t ya?’ before stomping back up the stairs, cursing as he did so.

Hazel apologised on Mitchell’s behalf, but Joe wasn’t at all fazed by the rudeness. If anything he found it amusing.

‘Friend of yours, is he?’ he joked.

‘That’s our Mitchell. He can be a right mouthy shit at times, but he’s alright once you get to know him. I’ll introduce you to the others later, but come with me and I’ll show you to your room. You’ve got the pink room. It’s a single, so you’ll be by yourself.’

As Joe grabbed his carrier bag Hazel couldn’t help but ask, ‘Is that all you’ve got?’

He was slightly embarrassed because it certainly was all he had. A couple of pairs of socks and undies, a T-shirt, a small towel, a toothbrush and a denim jacket were his worldly possessions. Other than that all he had were the clothes on his back. He was thankful that Hazel said no more about it as she led him up the stairs to his room.

He spent his first evening at Hastings Cottage locked away and gave himself an early night. He was a somewhat bashful character and was a little uncomfortable with the prospect of meeting the other lodgers. Yet he felt relieved. He was safe, and he had a warm bed to sleep in and somewhere to live. He also had an instant liking for Hazel and he was confident that he could trust her. Out of all the lettings adverts that he had browsed over in the Dursley Gazette, he felt as though fate had played a hand in guiding him towards one particular advert. He fell asleep that night content that he had been fortunate in his discovery of Hastings Cottage.

Early the next morning, after a restless night’s sleep, Joe was up and dressed. While hurriedly eating some breakfast he was introduced to Bob, one of the two senior lodgers. Joe found the rotund chap a rather jovial figure and he was grateful to him for showing him round the kitchen and the pantry, even though he had already discovered the facilities for himself.

Joe wasted little time in leaving the house to make his way to the Department of Health and Social Security, commonly known as the DHSS, to make his unemployment benefit claim. Hazel had advised him to go straight to the main DHSS building on the outskirts of the town to make his claim, rather than to the dole office, as it would speed up the application and he would receive some emergency money.

Although there were many claimants waiting in the queue that morning he was able to get the necessary forms, which he completed there and then in the office, and handed them straight back. After waiting patiently for the best part of the morning he was seen by an advisor and explained his situation and the fact that he had just moved into lodgings at the cost of fifty-five pounds a week in all-inclusive rent. He was told to sit and wait for a response.

After another one hour wait he was finally summoned to a small room. On the other side of the thick glass panel the member of staff verified some details and got him to sign a form. He was then handed his UB40 signing on card and a brown windowed envelope containing his emergency Girocheque.

With that business sorted he trotted rather contentedly back into Westcombe town centre to cash his Giro and to buy some new clothes.

Although he was already familiar with the town from his childhood, he nevertheless took the time to explore the town centre further, weaving his way in and out of various shops and up and down the main streets. It was a small, quaint place but the streets were busy nevertheless. Joe was impressed by what appeared to him to be the Georgian architecture of many of the town centre’s official buildings. The large slabs of stone and the long cylindrical pillars certainly gave the place a historical ambience as far as Joe was concerned. These contrasted intriguingly with some of the other Victorian features of the town.

What struck Joe most however was the endless climbing of the steep streets. The High Street was perhaps the steepest. But it was a rewarding exercise nonetheless because once at the top, the view of the surrounding hills beyond was breathtaking. Someone like Joe had never cared much for scenery, but even he couldn’t fail to be moved by the beauty of this environment.

After buying the few cheap clothes he needed, along with some toiletries, Joe treated himself to a pint in one of the local pubs. As he set foot inside The Beagle for a late lunchtime drink he felt the eyes of the punters upon him. This was obviously a locals’ local and he was a stranger. But he didn’t care. He ordered his pint, sat down and lit a cigarette. Propping up the bar was a skinny individual with spiky hair, which he wore long at the back like a horse’s mane. Joe tried not to take any notice but he couldn’t help but overhear the guy waffling on about how he had lost his forefinger in an accident at work. He kept waving his hand in the air and Joe could see that the left forefinger in question was indeed missing. He was a weird looking chap in his mid-twenties, but came across as amicable, repeatedly cutting his own conversation off to greet his pub mates whenever they walked past. From that he learned that the chap’s name was Eric. Thinking no more of it, Joe finished his pint and walked the short distance back to Hastings Cottage. Hazel was pleasantly surprised when Joe handed her the first week’s rent.

He spent the rest of the afternoon in his room, nervous that at some point he would have to meet the rest of the housemates. Shortly before dinnertime he decided to bite the bullet and wandered downstairs into the spacious, musty smelling living room, where several of the inhabitants were lazing about on the couches. A couple of the lads mumbled some greeting or other and there was also one of the girls, Stacy, who said a warm hello. They were watching Blockbusters, the teatime quiz show hosted by the amiable Bob Holness. Joe had never even heard of this show, so as an excuse to strike up some conversation, he asked what it was about. No one answered immediately, which made Joe feel a bit embarrassed, but then some softly spoken lad with a haircut almost identical to that of U2’s lead singer Bono mentioned that it was a quiz show which featured school kids. After barely a couple of minutes of watching, the structure of the show and its mode of questions and means of progress along the Blockbuster board became apparent to Joe. The board was populated with letters and the contestants had to pick one and then answer a question, the answer of which began with the letter nominated. Joe was enjoying it. Some of the lodgers attempted to answer some of the questions but answered poorly.

When one contestant said the infamous line ‘Can I have a P please Bob,’ the living room was in stitches.

‘Can I have a pee please, Bob,’ the lads kept repeating to each other.

‘Can I have a piss please, Bob,’ another said.

Then another said, ‘Can I have a big fat fuckin’ blow job, Bob, you fuckin’ cunt you,’ which caused everyone, including Joe, to giggle like children.

No sooner had the commercial break begun than one of the lads, the Bono lookalike, sat up from the couch and introduced himself formally to Joe. His name was Miles and apparently he was the roommate of Mitchell, the chap who had complained about the toenail clippings the previous evening.

Another chap, Brent, also introduced himself. ‘Anything you need mate, just ask us,’ he declared in his affable, although slightly drunken-sounding, thick Gloucestershire accent.

Joe would soon learn that Brent didn’t sound like that because of any form of intoxication, it was just the way he spoke. Nevertheless Joe appreciated the helpful gesture and they continued to talk during the rest of the commercial break, which made Joe feel more at ease. Then Hazel shouted out from the kitchen that dinner was ready and everyone lifted themselves off the couches and into the dining room. It was during this meal that Hazel formally introduced Joe to the rest of the household. He was seated next to Raymond, the chap who preferred the solitude in one of the large downstairs rooms. As he spoke to him in his camp voice Joe made the assumption that he was probably gay.

Opposite them were Rose and Stacy, who asked Joe questions about where he was from, although he skillfully managed to avoid getting into too much depth without sounding rude. He also found himself somewhat irritated by the old Irish chap, Plunkett, who constantly waffled on to his roommate Bob about the horseracing. What made it more bearable was that whenever Bob spoke, the lads would giggle and take the piss and quietly imitate his ‘village idiot’ way of talking. Joe assumed that Bob would have been aware of this, although if he had been, he certainly didn’t seem fazed by it. What entertained Joe most however were the hairstyles worn by most of the young lads. He had become unfamiliar with British youth fashion during his two years out of the country, so wasn’t sure what to make of these flamboyant and slightly effeminate haircuts, typified as they were by a long or wavy mop on top with short sides and a long horse’s mane at the back. The worst offender was a lad called Dave, who rented one of the caravans in the spacious and steep back garden. His hair was literally halfway down his back, and he wore large earrings in each ear which didn’t match.

There was a jovial chap Josh, who was undoubtedly the giggliest of all, with a big cheesy grin and a tendency to laugh at just about anything. He too wore the outlandish hairstyle, but his mop was made ultra spiky, set in place with what must have been, based on Joe’s reckoning, a plum-sized ball of strong hair gel.

Then there was Mitchell, whom Joe had already met briefly. He didn’t have any particular hairstyle, just a ball of white-blond curls. He sat throughout dinnertime chastising his roommate Miles, although amusingly Miles didn’t seem in the slightest bit interested.

These lads seemed okay to Joe. A little bit cheeky and infantile, but okay nonetheless. They were his new housemates, and also his own age, so he was keen to be part of their apparent clique. Joe sincerely hoped that it was going to be an enjoyable experience living at Hastings Cottage.

Later that evening, persuaded by a positive review from Hazel, Joe walked down the far end of Bath Road towards the village of Wickendale to visit the local old pub, The Plough. It was a quiet drink but memorable for Joe because as he sat quietly supping his two pints of Trophy Bitter, two particular records came on the radio that was buzzing quietly from behind the bar. The first was a re-release of ‘Waiting in Vain’ by Bob Marley, the second ‘Life on Your Own’ by The Human League. The two very different records resonated in his head. He hadn’t heard either tune before but he immediately warmed to both. While he listened with pleasure to both songs, Joe fell in love with the cheerful reggae rhythms of ‘Waiting in Vain’. He pictured himself on a sandy beach during a hot summer’s evening, with the waves sweeping gently onto the shore. As for ‘Life on Your Own’, he had never been a big fan of The Human League, but he liked this particular melody and he related to the song’s sentiment of wanting to live life alone. Not that Joe wanted eternal solitude, far from it; but for the time being, considering his recent nerve-shattering experience back in the States, he knew it would be best for him not to get involved in any serious relationship. For him, being surrounded by new friends was great, but a relationship with a woman would only complicate his life further and he didn’t need any more stress or worry. He needed peace and tranquility and while listening to ‘Life on Your Own’ he knew that he could find it there in Westcombe and at Hastings Cottage.

Upon finishing his second pint, and in good spirits, he left the pub and started to walk the mile and half back to the cottage. As he strolled his way along Bath Road he was taken aback by the scenic pleasantries of Wickendale village and its neighbouring hills and fields. The surrounding greenery blended in comfortably with the Cotswold stone buildings, and the pastoral allure of these environs provided Joe with a sense of happiness and well-being.

Returning to the cottage he took a moment to stand in the driveway and take in the view of the place. He had a good feeling about Hastings Cottage, as if it could soon become his sanctuary. He was grateful to be there.

As he made his way in and up the long, broad, creaky stairway he could almost smell the age of the place. He peered down from the top of the stairs from where he could still see the grandiose entrance and the large wooden doors which remained permanently agape. He could almost picture the atmosphere of the place back in its early days. He imagined young school children walking through the hallway dressed in their frilly Victorian school costumes, and a Rubenesque school mistress draped in her crinoline bringing the children to order. Such imaginative scenes were facilitated by the array of old paintings that adorned the walls with their depictions of Victorian lifestyles. There were pictures of hunters on horseback surrounded by the hounds, of country squires addressing their noble audience, of landed gentry hunting on the wooded spinnies of their estates, of farmers stacking the hay onto their carts using pitchforks, and of steam trains alighting at the station. Such imagery conjured up in Joe the Victorian antiquities relating the cottage’s early years.

As Joe walked the long stretch of landing to the bathroom he was greeted by Mitchell who had just made his way up from the kitchen stairwell at the opposite end. ‘Ah, there you are,’ he said with some relief.

‘What’s up, mate?’

‘I was looking for you. A mate of yours from Dursley phoned to ask whether you wanted tickets to a ZZ Top concert. What was his name? Mike somebody.’

‘Oh yeah, Mike. Yeah I’ll call him back tomorrow. Cheers.’

‘How you settling in then? Found your way round the place yet?’

‘Just about. So many rooms here. Such high ceilings. Is there a ghost in this place?’

‘Well there’s one that lives in your room that I know of.’

‘Yeah, very funny,’ said Joe as he made his way into the bathroom.

As he wandered back out he almost collided with Josh Fender, who happened to be stepping out of the adjacent bathroom. With neither expecting the other, they both jumped in surprise. While Joe didn’t find anything particularly amusing about this sudden encounter, Josh, after his initial shriek, giggled inanely as he made his way along the landing, behind Joe.

Why on earth would he giggle so much? thought Joe as he started to walk to his bedroom. Before he could make it into there however, Josh called out to him.

‘You can come upstairs for a smoke, mate, if you want,’ he said cordially.

Joe hesitated, but then about-faced and walked towards Josh. A few feet from Joe’s bedroom door there was another door which led to the third level of the house where the attic rooms were. Josh pointed to it and gestured Joe to follow him. He stumbled his way up the stairway and onto the attic landing, Joe following. They turned right and through the door and into Josh’s bedroom.

Two other guys were seated in the room: Brent, who Joe had already met, and another gaunt looking chap with a pale complexion and a few clearly visible spots around his chin. Apparently his name was Fabian.

After quickly introducing him to Joe, Josh sat back on his bed to continue the job he had started of rolling a joint. As everyone sat in silence, Joe observed as Josh placed an album sleeve back onto his lap and took hold of a grape-sized chunk of hash and continued heating the corners with a lighter to soften it. The next task was to crumble the bits of soft resin along the stretch of tobacco he had sprinkled along the three cigarette papers which he had already glued together. There was a stale stench of tobacco and hash in the room and Joe assumed that the piles of unwashed clothes strewn along the floor probably added to the odour. With nothing more than a small skylight window on the slope of the roof to let in some fresh air, there wasn’t much in the way of light. Josh compensated by using a dim red bulb in his lamp, which gave the room a certain warm, psychedelic tint.

Joe noticed that Fabian was taking regular sips of water from a pint glass and had to regularly clear his throat. He was a short lad, about three years Joe’s senior, and again Joe couldn’t help but notice the spots on his chin. Unlike many of his contemporaries, who wore trendy hairstyles of the day, Fabian allowed his hair to remain in its natural, curly state. Joe made fleeting glances in his direction attempting to determine the sick-looking man’s character. Yet that would not be an easy task because Fabian rarely changed his facial expression. Joe would also notice as time went on that Fabian would rarely address more than one person whenever he spoke and would fix his stare on the person he was talking to. Joe wasn’t sure how to take him at first.

‘How much longer with rolling that spliff, Josh?’ demanded Fabian as he lit up another cigarette.

‘Almost there, man,’ replied Josh as he began the rolling stage of the joint building before licking the papers and sealing the thing together.

Clearing his throat again, Fabian eyed up Joe and said, ‘Sorry, mate, I’m not ignoring ya, it just takes me a while to get to know strangers.’

Brent couldn’t help but interrupt in Joe’s defence. ‘He’s alright actually,’ he declared as he swept his fingers through his Flock of Seagulls haircut, an effeminate stylish cut with the hair combed up from the sides and pointing down over the forehead.

‘Do you smoke, mate?’ asked Fabian.

Unbeknown to Joe there was an undisputed assumption within the Westcombe drug community. When enquiring as to whether someone ‘smoked’ it meant did they smoke the weed, the hash, the dope, the holy herb.

Joe lowered his thick eyebrows. ‘Well yeah,’ he said, raising the hand in which he held a burning cigarette. ‘I’m smoking now. That’s why you invited me up here isn’t it?’

Josh bent over, tilted his head to the side and with his front teeth clenched together in a big cheesy grin, giggled silently.

After Fabian explained to Joe what ‘smoking’ was, Josh immediately repeated the explanation almost verbatim.

‘Okay, I’ve got it,’ said Joe. ‘But anyway, no, I haven’t really smoked much weed before, but...’

‘Fuckin’ hell, Josh,’ said Fabian, cutting Joe off in mid-sentence. ‘Are you gonna light that fuckin’ spliff or what?’

Josh, still baring an impish grin, placed the joint in his mouth and attempted to light it but his lighter wasn’t working. He tried several times.

‘Ah no, what a really heavy bummer,’ he cried, much to the amusement of the others.

‘What’s so funny?’ asked Joe.

‘You didn’t get that, Joe?’ asked Brent.

‘Get what?’ replied Joe.

‘You didn’t watch The Young Ones then?’

‘What’s that?’ enquired Joe.

‘You didn’t watch The Young Ones?’ asked Josh.

‘What? Do you mean that old Cliff Richard film?’ asked Joe, naively.

Brent perked up. ‘Well Cliff is an important element in The Young Ones, so you could be right, Joe.’

Josh giggled inanely, managing to squeeze out the words, ‘He’s the king of rock and roll man,’ as he did so.

‘What?’ said a bemused Joe.

Fabian turned to him. ‘It’s a recent TV series, Joe. You may not have watched it. It’s just a whacky comedy show. Josh was aping one of the characters, a spaced-out hippy called Neil.’

‘Oh,’ said Joe. ‘Far out.’

Joe didn’t stay long for much longer. Although he had a few puffs of the joint as it got passed around, it didn’t make him feel any different. He made an excuse shortly after and took himself off to bed.

The following evening after dinner Joe was sitting on his own in the lounge watching television when Josh and Fabian walked in and seated themselves on one of the other couches.

Fabian looked over to Joe and said, ‘Hey, mate, have you just returned from the States?’

Joe, not expecting such a question, especially from someone he’d only met briefly the night before, replied hesitantly, ‘Last week.’

‘How long were you there?’

‘A little over two years.’

‘Really? Whereabouts? I was living in Florida for a few months. Came back in March.’

‘Oh yeah? I lived in New Jersey. What brought you to America?’

‘My mum remarried an American bloke. Went to live with them in Miami. Fuckin’ great time.’

Despite his