Harry's Rusty Bicycle

By Andrew McIntosh

A rock band who play locally to modest audiences decide to play a free gig for the Greenham Common anti-nuclear protesters. The band gain recognition, and a new manager but become involved with certain unsavoury people. This leads them down a dangerous path.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew Keith Hathaway
• Release date: Aug 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781913704506

Andrew McIntosh

Andrew McIntosh is a full time digital illustrator from Melbourne, Australia. He has illustrated many childrens books, book covers, websites, logos, promotional posters, and a stamp. Ever since Andrew can remember, he has had a pencil and paper on hand. He started his artistic career in the video games industry focusing on Pixel art, 3D modelling and UI design. In his spare time, Andrew paints whimsical characters and scenes which are greatly inspired by nature.

Book preview

Chapter 1

It was a sunny day as we drove to Greenham Common. For once, the camper van was running well. An old VW, classic motor. Mary was driving, singing as we approached the vicinity. She’s good; got a style all of her own. I was accompanying her on my mouth organ. Our leader, Harry Wainwright, drummer extraordinaire and Mr Sensible, was checking the map. Two miles ahead there might be a roadblock, he said. Remember people, don’t piss the police off! We’ve got a gig to do. We murmured acknowledgement.

Sure enough, there was a small police presence near to the peace protesters camp. Mary stopped as requested by a female officer. Harry, our main spokesman, got out of the van and squared our presence to the officer.

Mary drove on and soon a woman appeared and flagged us down. Hi! Peace and love! she said softly. You must be here to entertain us.

Yep, Harry’s Band at your service. Mary had a way with words. Rock for peace!

Great! I’ll show you where to set up. I’m Linda, by the way. Linda was dressed typically for a member of the peace fraternity; long flowing brown hair, skirt to her ankles and red top, no bra. I approved.

We all alighted and began to shift the amps and lighting equipment. The protesters had erected a makeshift stage of sorts; wooden pallets nailed together. Harry explained to Linda that the electric generator was on its way, courtesy of one of his many contacts. We placed the speaker just off-stage, likewise the lighting. And as we were taking a smoke break, the generator arrived.

Zac was a mate of Harry’s. A small man in his early forties. Bald, tattooed, dressed in jeans and tee-shirt. Harry spoke to him and handed him some cash. Zac left once we had tested the generator. It worked a treat but was a bit noisy. I pointed that out to Harry who said, Don't worry, Zac’s off now to fetch a shed on a trailer. We put the generator inside the shed and bingo! It’s sort of soundproofed so the noise’ll be toned down. I smiled. Harry was a superb organizer.

Within an hour we had set up. George was our lighting man. Not sure whether he was best at that or playing keyboard. I am the sound man, so all the amps and mics had to be connected and tested. Not wishing to be harassed by the boys and girls in blue, we had agreed that the volume would be less than our usual mark.

Soundchecks and instrument-tuning completed and we were ready to go! Harry was speaking to Linda and a lady in similar hippie gear. Mary was gargling with the usual potion she carried to every gig. No idea what it is; I've never asked. George was warming his fingers up on keyboards, and I hit a few notes on the mouth organ. Next was the guitar. All good! Harry had set his drum kit up and was confident it was ready to go. Having tuned my guitar again, just to be sure, I did a quick soundcheck again. Hello, everyone! Harry’s Band here to entertain you. Five minutes to the off, so gather round. That was ok, so we were ready for the off. The peace people were drifting over from the perimeter fence. The police were showing an interest too. Also, a few Americans who were there to keep the protesters out of the base were watching and might recognise some of our set. Dylan, for instance. Barry McGuire too.

We entered the makeshift stage and I said, Please give a big hand to our founder and drummer, Mr Harry Wainwright! The crowd cheered, a bit half-heartedly. Harry, undeterred, played a quick solo and then said, It’s our pleasure to come here today to play a few tunes. Solidarity with you all! With that, Mary came in with her version of ‘All Around My Hat’, the Steeleye Span number, a good opening track we used a lot. The audience responded well, many of them dancing along.

And then we got them going to a Byrds anti-war song, ‘Chimes of Freedom’. Naturally, that went down well, given where we were and who our audience was. And so, the music continued. We finished the first set with one of my favourites, ‘Roll Over Beethoven’. That usually got people going and sure enough, it did.

We noticed several of the hippy types now topless! Oh shit, I thought. Would Mr Plod try to stop the performance because of that? As it was the interval, the band gathered to appraise the performance so far. Some blokes came forward with beers for us, which were gratefully received. Except Mary. She was gargling again, then asked for some water. The bloke obliged.

Harry asked us what we thought so far. Going well, I said. And some of them are getting their kit off! Did you see that bird in the orange trousers….? Mary interrupted me. Dirty bugger! Now and then Mary would have a moral moment. But I knew we would be waiting for her when we were ready to leave. My money was on her and the bloke who bought us the drinks. He looked her type.

Getting back to the performance. Next up is ‘Eve of Destruction’. Should go well. Then Mary’s solo with ‘I Only Wanna Be With You’. Harry had spoken. He didn’t like to talk about his sexual nature. He even got sniffy when Mary introduced a gig with the line, ‘I do like a big hand on my entrance’ while the punters were clapping and whistling wildly at a university gig.

George said, And are we still finishing with ‘Roll Over, Lay Down?’ Seems appropriate here. Should piss the Yanks off, if they get the meaning, that is. Everyone laughed. I know it’s not these individual soldiers but who and what they represent, but fuck ‘em! George was, if nothing else, quite forthright.

Linda came over with more beers and water for Mary. I’m sending out some fish and chips for after the gig. Is that ok? Perhaps a little party in my tent? Sounded just right so we thanked her and went back on stage.

All went well until I broke a string on my guitar. I always hated to do that as my arthritic fingers meant it was difficult to re-string the thing. Strange as it seems, playing my guitar is fine but restringing is a bugger. Luckily, we had a contingency plan. In the VW was an acoustic guitar, old but playable. I rushed off to get and tune it. This should be interesting, I thought, a Quo number on acoustic guitar. What I didn’t know was that Linda had spotted my predicament and, at Harry’s request, was busy restringing my electric instrument. Harry later told me she was good with her fingers! Apparently, she was a seamstress in an earlier life. I wondered what else she excelled at with her fingers.

Gig over, we were packing up the instruments and other gear when the bloke came over with beers and water. Hi, he said. I’m Simon, Linda’s brother. Thanks for your time and effort. It gets boring sometimes here. Not much else to do than sit around, drinking, smoking and shagging. Sounded good to me.

Hmm, I might stay, I said, smiling and loading the last mic stand into the VW. We’re here cos we agree with your aims. Harry knows Linda and it went from there.

Yep, Linda knocks up car seat covers for Harry sometimes. And he fixes my car when it’s playing up. It’s a good arrangement. Simon looked up and saw Linda waving to him. Grub’s up; this way. We all trouped behind him, the crowd now dispersed. He led us to a large tent near the perimeter fence. Inside was a table, some chairs and some cooking implements. Simon explained this tent was used for meetings with the main faces at the encampment. The decision-makers. We plan our little forays into the base from here. So far, it’s been interesting. The Yanks don’t like us, obviously, but some are useful for ciggies and a bottle or two of booze. Some of our ladies see to the supplies coming through. He winked. Men a long way from home and all that.

What about info? Their schedules and so on? Could be interesting, George asked. He was rolling a ciggie. Two fingers, as he was known to us occasionally, could roll a ciggie in his pocket if he wanted.

(What talent in our band, I mused).

Simon paused, took a swig of his beer and just said, Sometimes the girls get a tit-bit. But we’re here to highlight the fact the buggers are on British soil with our government’s permission. Indeed, their collusion. He spat out through the entrance to the tent. Bastard fascists! Rock on, brov, I thought.

Linda had handed out the food and we were still tucking in when a shadowy figure stood in the tent doorway. Well over six feet tall, in uniform, Mr Plod. He was accompanied by a much smaller female officer. She had sergeant's stripes on her jacket. Evening, officers, did you enjoy our gig? Harry asked.

The male policeman said, Yes. I’m into music. Play the flute myself. But I’m here to ask you to leave. You’re not protesters and we’ve got instructions that there can be no more camped here. He looked round. Nobody moved or spoke. Now!

Harry stood and said quietly, Officer, we will be off soon but my friend is due to come and collect the generator and other bits. Once he’s fetched them, we will be on our way.

The female officer said, OK, fair enough. I assume he’s on his way so you’ll be gone within the hour. It was an instruction, not a question. George farted. He could fart at will; another of his party tricks. The male officer took a step forward. He thought George was taking the piss. Our keyboard player grinned and said, Curry sauce on me chips, officer. Gives me wind. ‘Scuse me, I need a piss. He winked at me as he left the tent. I could not resist it. Sorry about that, he’s all wind and piss! Mary burst out laughing. The police officers smiled. Beer? I said to no one in particular. Harry took one, I did too but stood and offered the police officers a bottle each. Go on! Fuck the rules! The female sergeant looked tempted. It was a hot day. Finally, she spoke.

You’ll get me in trouble. Just one…. each. She glanced at her male colleague. Not a word to the boss, she said, taking the top off the bottle. Her mate followed suit. Simon looked annoyed. He was no lover of the police, that was obvious. Linda stood and went over to a cd player and put some music on. Party time! And to the strains of ‘White Rabbit’ by Jefferson Airplane, beers were sunk. It was her little joke. But she suspected the young coppers wouldn't understand the drug connotations in the song. The sergeant, who said her name was Sally, did. She wasn’t averse to a joint or two. On her days off.

Zac arrived before the coppers had drunk their beers. We soon had the generator on his trailer and he was off. Harry explained about the need for him to return for the shed. Sally and Thomas seemed ok with that. George was eying up Sally. He imagined having her whilst partly dressed in uniform. Vicky, with her female intuition coming to the fore, sussed him out. He’s got no chance, she vowed to herself.

Meanwhile, Mary had said she needed fresh air and would go for a stroll. That’s Mary-talk for ‘I’m off for a shag’ as we knew. She gestured to Simon and he left the tent with Mary asking him to show her around and introduce her to some of the peace protesters. Guaranteed, if I went to the VW in a few minutes they’d be at it. Mary often did this after gigs. I asked her once about it, after we waited for ages for her to appear. Apparently, she’d been shagging up against the wall of the venue we had played at that night, about fifty yards from where the VW was parked. We were all hanging around the van unaware where she was getting her pleasure with a tall, long-haired man.

On this occasion, they were back quite quickly. Mary told us later he suffered from premature ejaculation. Must have been frustrating for her, I thought. And sure enough, once we had left the peace camp, Mary positioned herself at the very back and pleasured herself.

The old camper van excelled itself; not once did Harry need to sort it out. He’s a good mechanic but like most tradesmen, he didn't spend time and money on his own or band members’ vehicles. I had driven us home; Mary needing to sort herself out, so to speak. And I only handed over to her as I got out. Last man to get home. Mary lives in a bungalow in Benson, a nearby village, so it was the end of a good day for the band. My bed was calling. And my Rowena might be waiting up for me. She hadn’t come to the gig as she was at one of her art classes. We were both artistic in our own fields. We met at one of my gigs before joining the band and married in 1976, so it was soon to be our eighth anniversary. As it happened, she was crashed out in bed when I went indoors. A note told me there was supper in the fridge. Bless her!

After eating my supper in the lounge, I crept upstairs, showered and wandered into our bedroom. And there she was! Rowena, in a skimpy nightdress, awake. Thoughts of Mary masturbating in the back seat of the camper van, having had a frustrating session with Simon, flooded back. Quite a turn-on for most of us blokes. Women masturbating, that is. Rowena noticed the erection I was now sporting. Good gig? she asked, slipping off the top half of her nightie with a smile.

Yep, it went well. And Mary was up to her tricks again. Rowena knew all about Mary’s carnal activities. They were friends and, as often happens with women, they natter about sexual matters. I climbed into bed and told Rowena about Mary’s masturbation session in the van. Within a few minutes, we both came. As I always say, a good orgasm is mainly in the head. And Rowena imagining the scene on the van was too much for her to contain. As I drifted off to sleep, I thought to myself that Mary was responsible for three people having premature orgasms that day. Little did I know at the time that George had come in his pants on the way home, Mary turning him on.

Chapter 2

For the next few days, Rowena was busy with her art classes and, when at home, her other passion, baking. So, with the house to myself most of the time, I busied myself writing a new song. George joined me with his keyboard and together we worked away on the project. Whilst most of our sets consisted of standard hits from yesteryear, we did perform our own compositions as well. Always, our own stuff was anti-nuclear or anti-establishment-related. George and I are a good team and within three days we were almost finished. George loved working at our place as Rowena always fed him well with her pastries and scones. He worked best with a few beers inside him, so I made sure the fridge was well-stocked when he and I were working on our ‘new masterpiece’, as we called every new song.

Wednesday evening was rehearsal night. All the band members assembled at the village hall and, as Harry often said, put out some good vibes. Mary arrived last and held us all up as she gargled, as was her custom before singing. I sometimes wondered if she gargled in the shower, prior to singing in her bathroom. My mind boggled at the vision I had of her ablutions.

George told the assembled band members that he and I were nearly ready to unveil a new number to the world. He was sure it would be ready for next week’s rehearsal. Meanwhile, we practised the two sets we knew well. At the gig in Greenham, we didn’t perform all our repertoire. This was because Zac needed to pick up his equipment by eight o’clock. Apparently, he had a darts match that evening and Zac was a very keen darts player.

So, we ran through the entire two sets, and as always, Harry recorded it. This was for future scrutiny, he explained. Ever the perfectionist, he would listen when at home and make his observations at the next rehearsal. Rowena was in the kitchen whilst we played. She often, art classes permitting, supplied the band with refreshments at the end of the session. This session was no different. There was tea, scones with jam and cream and beers for those who wanted some. And whilst we were rehearsing, Rowena had photographed the band in action with a view to sketching the image. Rowena and I had a plan which we were keeping to ourselves at that time. She winked at me as I passed the hatch to the kitchen.

Over the refreshments, Harry stood rather formally and announced he needed to say something important to us all. What he said changed all our lives forever.  Something has happened recently that you all need to know about. Someone I have known for years is dead! He was found by other peace protesters at the camp at Greenham yesterday. Peter was a kind and gentle man who passionately opposed any form of war. He and his girlfriend were living at the camp for a long time, on and off. I have spoken to Victoria on the phone and she is convinced he was murdered! There was murmuring in the hall. A sadness had descended upon the room. A like-minded person murdered?

How did it happen, do you know any more, Harry? Mary asked. Harry sipped his tea, coughed and replied, I don’t know any more than what I’ve just said but Victoria has asked me if we could go to Greenham on the pretext of arranging another gig. Obviously, the police were called when he was discovered but she has been told it looks like suicide. She says that is very unlikely and wants us to help. I was, after all, an old friend of Peter’s. There were murmurings at the food table. Mary said, Surely it’s best for the police to investigate? What can we do that they can’t? Harry replied, Under normal circumstances, I would agree. But the police don’t seem interested in any other reason for his death than suicide. There is a post mortem today and Victoria says they will get back to her after they know the results of that. If it’s deemed suicide, there will be a coroner’s hearing at some point, just to make it official. But I stress, she doesn’t believe he took his own life.

So, if we decide to help her, how long will we be living at the camp? George and I would need to book time off from work, Mary asked. And Harry would need to leave his garage in the hands of his junior mechanic.

Yes, good point, Mary. My situation is fine. Young Joe is capable of working on his own for a few days at least. George,  how will you be fixed for time off? Harry looked at George as he spoke. He was drinking a beer.

I’ll make a call in the morning. Haven't been off sick for ages so a touch of summer flu should not be a problem. He winked. I do get fully paid for sickness.

And as far as I’m concerned, a few days away will be fine. How about you cancelling your classes for a bit and joining us, Row? She nodded. My bet was she would use the time at the camp to sketch the people and their living conditions ready for a future exhibition. It would be just up her street.

With that decided, Harry told everyone he would be expecting a call from Victoria once she knew the result of the post mortem. That should be tomorrow, with luck. I suggest we should be ready to go to Greenham as soon as we know what she says. And with that, the band members all.

On our walk home, I suggested a quick half in the pub. The Checkers was a typical town hostelry, with oak beams, copper objects hanging from them and a warm welcome from Trevor and Lizzy, the hosts. We entered and I ordered a beer and a Baileys. Trevor, a man born in England of West Indian parents, wanted my opinion about the selection of the England cricket team for the forthcoming test match against New Zealand at Trent Bridge. I declined and told him Rowena and I had something urgent to discuss. He looked at me and said, That’s a first, you not wanting to talk about cricket! I made a mental note to call in soon and discuss it with him. As things turned out, I never did.

Rowena found a window seat which had no one else seated nearby. She wanted to talk about Harry’s revelation. Once I joined her, she took a sip and asked what I thought. Well, if his girlfriend is right, and the police aren’t convinced of his murder, I guess it’ll be down to us to prove it one way or another.

Yes, but why us? she asked. I suspect the other protesters won’t have been too keen to help the police. You know many of them have been harassed for their actions in the past. And there are thousands of them from time to time. They tend to come and go. But there’s always the hard core of permanent protesters.  Most will be anti-authoritarian, but I think Harry is counting on them to open up to us.  At the moment, there’s not too many at the camp. A few thousand, perhaps. After all, they saw us perform there less than a week ago and know we were on their side politically. I drank some beer, thoughtfully. After all, he was after the same aims as us, the whole band. And it won’t be a bad thing to get away for a few days. I’ll check out the loft in the morning and put the camping gear in the car. I smiled.

Just like our younger days all over again then! said Rowena with a giggle. What fun! When we had walked home from the pub, we had a coffee and went to bed. And we both drifted off within minutes. If only we had known what was to come!

Chapter 3

Victoria had called Harry from a pub in Greenham. She had gone there with Julie, another protester of long standing. Some camp inhabitants had lived there for years. Most were benefits claimants, so they had the time to spend there. Others were of independent means, as they say. Victoria was one of the latter. Her Uncle had endowed her with a trust fund. He was loaded and once she was eighteen, he set up the trust. It allowed her to withdraw up to £10,000 per year. Victoria was not a material girl, though, so she didn’t go through anything like that.  She was a typical young person with a passion for her own sense of right and wrong. And quite introverted, sometimes.

The call confirmed that the police angle was suicide as Peter was found with his wrists slashed. Despite her telling them he wasn’t depressed or worried about anything, they said there was no evidence of foul play. Their report was on its way to the coroner. Harry told her the band would be arriving that evening. He suggested she told the other campers it was for arrangements to be made for a regular gig at Greenham camp and that one of our number was an artist who wanted to sketch the protesters. Victoria was very happy with that and said she would speak to Linda and Simon about their arrival.

The VW was loaded with the instruments and a PA system; Zac was on his way to the camp later with his generator. They set off with me driving. Mary and Rowena sat in the back seats, chatting generally. They got on well and Rowena was keen to explain her sketching techniques to an interested Mary. As I drove, the vision of Mary masturbating in that same back seat came to the fore. Keep your mind on the road! I muttered to myself.

We arrived to find there was only one policeman patrolling the track that led to the camp. He just nodded as we drew level with him. Linda must have been watching out for us because she approached the VW as we stopped. Everyone got out and after hugging Linda, she said, Vicky’s in the main tent. She’s quite upset, as you would imagine. The police questioned her for hours on the day Peter was found. Let’s go to the tent and have a brew. And with that, she strode off towards the large tent. We followed, leaving our equipment in the VW. I locked it and trailed after the others. Vicky was looking very distressed, bags under her eyes. She had put the large kettle on the calor stove and was fumbling around with mugs and tea bags. She was drinking what looked like whiskey or brandy. When she saw Harry, she burst into tears and hugged him. In a weak voice, she said,

Thanks for coming, all of you. Please help me; he must have been murdered. She wiped her face and pointed to the boiling kettle. Help yourselves. There’s booze over there in the cupboard if you prefer.

Once everyone was suitably refreshing themselves Harry suggested Vicky told us all what she knew of the police’s assessment of the situation.

She sat on one of the comfy chairs the group had obtained from a second-hand shop in a nearby village. We gathered round and she began. Peter was found in the early hours of the morning by Larry, one of our group. He had gone for a piss; we have a chemical toilet near the woods, away from the tents. Peter was laying on the grass with his wrists slashed. She was welling up again. Mary went over to her and put her arm around her. After a few minutes, Vicky composed herself and continued. Larry called out and that woke most of the group. Simon examined Peter and sent Mike, one of our friends, to the call box to ring 999. I wrapped his wrists with a tea towel but when the ambulance arrived they said he was dead. Then the police came. Vicky shuddered. They took statements from Larry, me and others. They took photos of the knife found on the ground near his hand. His right hand! You see, that’s odd, ‘cos he was left-handed. Vicky strutted around the large tent, nervously wringing her hands together. Listen, all of you! Some fucker killed him, I’m sure of it. He wasn’t suicidal! And with that powerful statement, she left the tent and headed towards the chemical toilet. She had had a few and was upset on top of that, so we all decided to give her some space. The band members set about erecting our tents. Once we had done that, I offered to drive into town in the hope of finding a fast food outlet of some sort. Rowena joined me and we were silent on the way to the only late-night eatery open: Good old Maccky Ds!

Driving back to camp with a mountain of burgers and fries, Rowena said, From what I’ve heard, I believe her. She’s sure he wouldn’t top himself. And us women know a thing or two about intuition. She smiled at me. So many times, her intuition had been right over lots of things through the years. She convinced me there was something in Vicky’s claim that it wasn’t suicide. But if it was murder, the question was, who did it and why? Would we, a rock band, be able to suss that out? I suspected we would need help and guidance to enable us to come to a correct conclusion. Luckily, help would be forthcoming. But Rowena and I didn’t know that then. The musicians and a few campers ate together in the large tent and, because there were others present besides those we knew, no one spoke of the alleged murder. After all, it could be anyone at the camp.

So, we discussed the request by the protestors for another gig. All we charged for the other one was expenses; petrol, hire of the generator and so on. It was agreed that we would perform again soon. But whilst we were there for a few days, we would do solo spots, just for fun. And George and I would try to perfect our latest ‘masterpiece’. That brought a cheer from those assembled.

Quite late that night, we all turned in for a kip. But Harry, Mr Sensible, was awake most of the night. After all, a man was dead, maybe murdered at the campsite. What if the murderer was still at the camp? What if he or she struck again? Harry had spoken to me and George and we took turns to keep our wits about us. But, as it happened, there were no incidents overnight. Noticeably, the thin blue line of the Thames Valley policemen was also present, in a squad car. Two of them, asleep most of the night, I noted. Rowena whispered to me as I got into the sleeping bag beside her. Exciting, isn’t it? She took my hand and placed it on her breast. Can you feel my heart beating? Just her way of getting me to feel her up, of course. Perhaps she was feeling randy, I thought. So, I got my fingers to work on her. It didn’t take long before she came. Luckily, not too loudly. Our tent was next to Mary’s and we didn’t want to wake her up. Little did I know, Mary was wanking herself silly with her latest sex toy. She had told Rowena about it on the way to Greenham in the VW. Rowena probably guessed what was going on in the next tent. So, with both ladies satisfied, I drifted off to sleep.

In the morning, I first saw George, sitting outside his tent. We had a coffee together, brewed up in the communal tent. Linda was also there. She had taken Vicky a cup to the tent she now shared with her. Linda had asked her to sleep in her tent as she couldn’t see her sleeping alone in the tent she had shared with Peter. After about half an hour, all the band, Vicky, Linda and Simon, were sitting in the big tent as other protestors came in and out for a morning drink. Most stopped and asked Vicky if she was OK.

There was a camaraderie amongst the protestors, naturally. They all stood for the same goal. But Harry felt we needed to check out all the others, those we had not met personally. I recognised some from the audience at our latest gig the previous Friday. Harry had had a quiet word when I took over from him in the night. He insisted we get friendly with as many other protestors as possible.  I estimated there were around 20,000 protesters at the camp, but they were so spread out there weren't too many camped near us. You could say we were on the fringe of the campsite. It was possible, after all, that one of them had killed Peter.

Also, he thought Vicky should speak to the policemen and women on duty at the camp, asking them what happens now. What will happen at the inquest? Have his parents been informed by the police? Just the sort of questions any stunned girlfriend might ask.

So, by mid-morning, she approached a female officer policing the campsite. They had said hello before. Vicky knew they were only doing their job, keeping the peace at the protest. The genuine protestors had no axe to grind with the police presence. They were anxious to avoid the violent or criminal element that sometimes frequent protests, marches and the like.

Vicky returned to Linda’s tent and told her and Harry that the policewoman had said, as far as she knew, her bosses were satisfied that the evidence found at the post-mortem indicated Peter had taken his own life. Vicky had said to the young constable that was wrong, but the constable pointed out it wasn’t her place to question her experienced bosses. She would pass on the date of the inquest when she was told herself, and that was the best she could offer Vicky.

I suggested George and I ran through our new song together outside our tent. My thinking was it might attract other members of the protest group who we hadn’t yet had verbal contact with. Perhaps we could glean something from one or more of them relating to Peter’s death. After all, they are much more likely to speak to us than the police. Harry agreed and soon George and I had drawn a small gathering. They were obviously interested in our song, indeed one of them brought his acoustic guitar over to our tent and started to play along. Tom introduced himself and told us he was in a band until he decided this protest was more important to him, and travelled to Greenham from Leeds. Been here about a year now, he said. It’s basic, no home comforts but you get used to it. Can I play along when you’ve completed your number? Keep my hand in, so to speak. We agreed. I could tell from the short time he had jammed with us that he was good. A good musician can pick up another’s vibes and jam along, even if they don’t know them. Harry had observed this and said to Rowena, Looks like Andy and George have made a friend. He whispered, Might be useful, you never know. Rowena looked up from sketching. Yep, we need to know as much as we can about all the other campers. Now, Harry. Just keep still for a few minutes and you’ll be in this sketch. Harry posed for Rowena with several campers in the background.  Rowena was photographing many scenes around the camp on the pretext of copying the images onto paper with her trusty pencils.

Actually, she was systematically photographing as many protestors as she could. The images may come in handy later, she had said earlier. She had an exhibition in mind. Once she had photographed all the campers, she took the VW and drove to Newbury to get them processed. She was told they would be ready for collection the next day. Thanks, that’ll be fine, she said to the shopkeeper, and, leaving the VW parked up, she wandered around the corner to a supermarket. Lots of food and drink needed at the camp for themselves and their contacts there.

Within an hour, she had returned to the camp, the vehicle loaded with supplies. George and I took a break from song-writing and helped unload the van. The one problem was they had no fridge or freezer at the camp, so Rowena had bought lots of tinned food and snacks. Zac was a regular visitor to the camp. He had a smallholding nearby and supplied eggs and veg to the protestors. Sometimes, if he had time, he bought meat from a local butcher and sold it on to the campers. Linda would then organise a barbecue.

Zac and his wife, Sue, did quite well financially out of the peace protesters and so, once against the motley crew setting up camp near his property, he was now quite happy to sell to them. Indeed, he was seeing their point of view regarding their aims. He would be happy for the Americans to bugger off, taking their weapons with them. But not yet. He was trading with the protestors weekly, and making good money out of them too. But the Americans, knowing he was doing business with the campers, wouldn’t buy anything from him. His wife had a market stall in Newbury on a Saturday but the off-duty Yanks, strolling around the town, never bought from him. Indeed, some verbally abused her as the wife of the man who sympathised with the bunch of scruffy hippie types, as they saw the protesters. She just ignored them, but under her breath, she swore at them. ‘Fuck back off to Yankie-land with your weapons, you bastards!’ was her usual mantra.

Most locals welcomed the Americans. Shopkeepers, pub landlords and the like made good money from the Yanks when they were off the base in Newbury. Some even approved of their presence on political grounds. So, Sue and Zac were in the minority in Newbury and the surrounding area. As Sue had often said to Zac, Fuck ‘em! We live in a staunch Tory area, so what do we expect? But our consciences are clear. Better to be alive but not rich, than encourage the possibility of nuclear war by welcoming the weapons and their handlers. Sue was quite forthright. Zac was less outspoken. He just quietly dealt with the peace campers. Harry had known them for ages. He had come across them when they needed some help when their car wouldn’t start after a football match at The Manor Ground in Oxford. As it happened, they were parked near Harry and he offered to take a look. Harry got them going and they were friends from that time on.

After the meal served up by Rowena, cooked on the calor gas stove, Harry said he needed to drive into town to make a phone call. Someone you all need to meet, Harry had said when George asked if it was related to their mission. He left it there and drove off in the VW. He parked up in Newbury and found a public call box. He chatted with his mystery contact for about ten minutes. Call over, he walked into a nearby pub. He was on his first pint when he noticed a policeman taking