Runaway (24 page)

The end of the platform was lost in smoke and light. Great metal arches with glass panels in the roof letting drab afternoon light fall in daubs all along its length, and we shuffled with the other passengers past rows of half-lit wooden luggage trolleys, to pass through the gate and on to a crowded concourse.

London! We were finally there.

The clock tower between the arches in the station’s grand facade dominated King’s Cross and displayed a time of five twenty. Traffic choked the artery that was Euston Road, belching fumes into the late afternoon.

A mini-skirted girl wearing knee-high white boots and a black and white striped top walked by with such confidence that she must have known that every eye was on her. Mine certainly were!

Everything, it seemed, was ‘mini’ that year. Even the cars. Jeff got excited when he spotted a Mini Cooper S.

People dressed differently, especially the young. Clothes-conscious teenagers parading all the latest Carnaby Street couture, Mary Quant and Beatle haircuts, fashions of the Swinging Sixties that wouldn’t reach the provinces for a year or more. I felt like some poor country cousin arriving in the big city for a day out, grey and dated, a refugee from the sepia world of the fifties. Conspicuously old-fashioned.

The thing that struck me most that first day, an impression that only increased with time, was the sense of arriving in a foreign country, a land of wealth and privilege. I would learn, of course, that there was dreadful poverty and deprivation in some of the housing estates and run-down boroughs around the capital, but in the city itself affluence moved in pools and eddies all around you. In such stark contrast to the industrial deprivation of the places we had come from. Glasgow. Leeds. The streets of London were not, as in legend, paved with gold, but money walked the pavements and motored the roads.

Rachel grabbed my hand. ‘Come on, let’s explore.’

‘Wait!’ I held her back. ‘We should take the Underground somewhere. I’ve never even been on the subway in Glasgow.’

‘Why would you?’ Dave said. ‘It just goes round in a silly wee circle.’

So we all piled into King’s Cross tube station and spent several minutes consulting the big Underground map, before deciding to take the blue line to Piccadilly Circus. For no other reason than that it was a name which we had all heard.

We went down into the bowels of the city, where incoming trains dispelled hot air to rush up stairwells and corridors. A couple of boys stood busking, music echoing all the way along tiled passageways. Acoustic guitars strumming, and voices bent to mangled imitation of the Everly Brothers. I clocked the coins that passers-by threw into an open guitar case on the floor at their feet.

I don’t know if I really expected there to be a circus at Piccadilly, but I was almost disappointed to find that there wasn’t. Just a glorified roundabout with a winged statue of Eros set in its centre, red London buses and black hackney cabs circling before heading noisily off to other parts of the city. The roar of the traffic was wearing and relentless, and we had to shout to make ourselves heard above it.

There was nothing for us here, and we headed off along Shaftesbury Avenue.
Robert and Elizabeth
, a musical with June Bronhill and Keith Michell, was playing at the Lyric Theatre. The farce
Boeing-Boeing
at the Apollo. I recognized the name David Tomlinson as an actor I had seen in
Mary Poppins
the previous year, and suddenly felt very close to celebrity and the heart of all things. This, after all, was London. The very centre of the universe.

At the top of the avenue we turned into Charing Cross Road and walked up the hill past Foyles to stop beneath three gold-painted balls hanging outside the door of a pawnbroker’s shop.

I saw our reflections in the window. A motley crew of dishevelled teenagers who had slept rough for two nights, and hadn’t changed clothes or had a proper wash in nearly forty-eight hours.

‘Is this a music shop?’ Jeff said.

I jumped focus and saw that the window was full of musical instruments.

Luke said, ‘It’s a pawn shop. Lends people money in exchange for goods. If they don’t come back to claim them, the shop sells them.’ He turned to gaze thoughtfully at the array of musical instruments on display. ‘I guess musicians must get pretty hard up.’

‘That’s encouraging,’ Maurie said dryly.

But I had an idea. ‘What if we exchanged our electric guitars for a couple of acoustics. Then we could busk in the Underground and make some money.’

This was greeted with a few moments of silent contemplation before Jeff said, ‘And what would I do?’

‘Hold the hat,’ Rachel said, and we all laughed.

‘I wouldn’t have anything to play either,’ Luke said.

But I pointed in the window at a tiny two-octave keyboard about fifteen inches long, with a mouthpiece at the top end. ‘What about that?’

‘A melodica,’ Luke said. ‘I’ve read about those. You blow into it, and when you press a key it opens a hole to let the air pass across a reed. Polyphonic, too.’

‘Let’s see what we can get,’ I said, and we all trooped in, with Jeff bringing up the rear.

‘Jobbies!’ I heard him mutter.

In the event, by adding ten of our precious pounds to the trade, we were able to exchange my electric guitar and Dave’s bass for two acoustics, the melodica and a couple of bongo drums to satisfy Jeff.

We were distracted by a crowd gathering around the door of a little record shop twenty yards or so further on. Its window was jammed full of classic album covers. The Beatles, the Stones, the Beach Boys, the Kinks, the Everly Brothers, Buddy Holly, Elvis.

I heard someone saying, ‘What’s going on?’

And someone replying, ‘They’re playing the new Beatles single. It’s out today.’

We joined the crowd, pushing our way towards the door in time to catch ‘Ticket to Ride’ for the very first time. Hearing the first play of a new Beatles record was like sharing in a part of history. Our history. A seismic shift from the past and our parents’ generation.

‘Listen to those drums!’ Jeff was in awe.

Ringo’s staggered, staccato half-beats drove the song, building around the repeating guitar riff and leading to the punctuated harmony at the end of the line. It was exciting, and I loved it immediately.

But Rachel was listening to the words. ‘God, Lennon sounds just like Andy,’ she said. ‘Like it was all
my
fault, or
hers
in the song. Because, of course,
he
was bringing
her
down, and that’s why
she
had to leave. Couldn’t possibly have been because
he
was such a shit.’

I looked at her in astonishment and realized for the first time that perhaps the sexes interpreted lyrics differently. I had empathized with his sadness. His girl had left him and made up an excuse for it, blaming him.

‘Anyway,’ I said. ‘It’s a great song.’

She shrugged, indifferent. ‘I’m hungry.’

In Wardour Street we stumbled on the entrance to the Marquee Club, aware that this was probably the most important venue in the pop music of our generation. The Stones, the Who, the Yardbirds with Eric Clapton, and the Animals had all played here, and we could do no more than dream that someday we might do the same.

But it was Rachel who spotted the newly opened Pizza Express just along the road. The first time any of us had encountered British fast food. Ironic since the cuisine was Italian. It wasn’t particularly cheap, but we were inclined to celebrate. We had got to London, we had musical instruments, a little money in our pockets, and a bucketload of self-belief.

We shared three pizzas among us. Hot, soft, bready pizzas with delicious tomato and cheese toppings, all washed down with ice-cold bottles of Coca-Cola, and by the end of the meal there were more than a dozen cigarette ends in the ashtray.

When we had eaten we sauntered off through the falling evening, and I was aware for the first time that it was warmer here. There was a softness in the air that remained in spite of the gathering dusk. The city was alive. People and lights. Diners crowding tables in the windows of expensive restaurants, drinkers spilling out of pubs to head for West End shows.

At the end of Park Lane we arrived at Marble Arch without passing Go or collecting £200, and crossed into Hyde Park, where we set up to busk for the crowds at Speakers’ Corner. Jeff squatted on the grass beside an open guitar case and the rest of us gathered around to start playing through our repertoire.

It’s not really for me to judge, but I think we were pretty good, in spite of our acoustic constraints. At least, I could see from Rachel’s face that she thought so. It was clear that we exceeded any of her expectations, and she stood watching us with a kind of wide-eyed astonishment. She saw me looking at her, and we locked eyes for a moment. I felt as if something were kicking in my stomach trying to get out. Butterflies with hooves.

Pennies and threepenny bits, sixpenny pieces and the occasional shilling showered into our guitar case, and I almost started to believe we could make a living just doing this. We played for half an hour and made almost three quid before two London bobbies wearing tall helmets with silver Brunswick stars moved us on. Jeff gave up some cheek and they told us to scarper, and we went running off across the grass, jumping and whooping and shouting obscenities at the coming night. Until we settled ourselves on the bank of the Serpentine, lying on our backs in the grass and watching the sky overhead clear itself as darkness drew a veil over the park.

With the arrival of night, and the first chill breath of damp air rising from the water, the euphoria of just being there began to fade, and a more sombre reality settled itself on us like down after a pillow fight.

‘Where are we going to sleep tonight?’ Luke said.

Nobody knew.

‘There’s bound to be cheap hotels somewhere, or a youth hostel or something,’ Jeff suggested.

But I was the one who quickly dispelled dreams of a soft bed for the night. ‘We can’t afford it. Even somewhere cheap would go through our cash in no time.’

‘So what do you suggest, smart arse?’ Maurie cocked an eyebrow in my direction.

‘We passed an eatery earlier. The Serpentine Restaurant, I think. Overlooking the lake. Weird thing with glass pyramids on the roof. It’ll be closed by now.’

Jeff’s voice was derisive in the dark. ‘Well, if it’s closed, what use is that to us?’

‘It had kind of open terraces under concrete eaves. It would give us shelter for the night.’

‘Mmmmh, concrete pillows,’ Rachel said. ‘Just what I’ve always dreamed of. You boys really know how to show a girl a good time.’

I said, ‘Just for one night. Maybe we can get ourselves sorted out with something better tomorrow.’

_II

It must have been after midnight by the time we got ourselves settled among the shadows on the terrace of the Serpentine Restaurant. Coats laid on concrete, underwear balled up inside shirts for pillows. Rachel and I shared my coat but sat awake for a long time, smoking in the dark and listening to the heavy breathing of the others as one by one they drifted off. It was an extraordinary journey that had brought us here, and I had never for one minute expected to meet someone like Rachel on the way.

Moonlight dappled the water, and its silvery reflection shimmered under the eaves of the restaurant. I stole a glance at her as she gazed out across the lake.

‘How are you feeling?’

She shrugged. ‘Okay.’ But she didn’t really look it.

I took her hand. It was ice cold, and I could feel her trembling. ‘Is it still bad?’

She pressed her lips together as if trying to stop herself from speaking. ‘I’m alright. Last night was worse. Give me another fag.’

I lit one and passed it to her. She sucked on it savagely and drew the smoke deep into her lungs.

‘What did you dream of?’ I said.

She gave me an odd look. ‘What? Last night?’

I smiled. ‘When you were young. What was your dream? What did you want to do with your life? Who did you want to be?’