Fragment 24: The Life & Times of a Social Experiment
Old music, new music, and love, life and death.
What a time it was! Wedding bells ringing - just not for me. You remember Jeanne - my once-upon-a-time partner, when we were so rudely interrupted by her parents one Saturday evening at her home? She got married and I went to the wedding. As the happy couple drove off, her father turned to me and said: “That should have been you, you know.”
And Libby got married. Rupert, in his Reverend Rupert capacity, conducted the ceremony. I was there.
Libby and I had talked about her decision. I did understand it. The special bond that linked us was our association with Rupert. Last time, if you recall, I described us as two waifs that Rupert had taken under his wing. An important outcome of the rackety upbringings that we shared was insecurity. Deep insecurity. A sense that, whatever good things there might be were built on flimsy foundations. But Libby’s chosen marital partner was from a more solid background - he was an accountant, a professional. It was the secure choice.
Soon after their marriage, Libby phoned me. They had bought a house in Croydon and would I visit for the weekend? The Cortina again pointed south down the M1 motorway and I arrived at their home on the Friday evening. After a meal and a chat we all retired for the night. The following morning, Libby came into my room and got straight into bed with me. Did I resist? No, of course I didn’t. And that’s how life went on.
In fairly short order the time arrived for me to say bye-bye to P&G, and to Leicester, and relocate to London to take up my job with Hertz. Having now returned my company car to P&G I needed, for the first time in my life, to rent a car. Ironically, there was no Hertz outlet in Leicester so I was forced to give my patronage to one of their rivals at the time, Godfrey Davis Rent a Car.
With all my worldly goods packed into a Cortina Estate, I yet again headed south back down the M1 motorway. In London, I parked in the mews at Colosseum Terrace, Albany Street, and carted my goods into my new basement accommodation. This had been made possible, remember, because Libby was a friend of my new landlady, Judith.
It didn’t take long to realize just how extraordinary the new digs were! Although my bedroom was in the basement, I had access to the communal rooms. This included the large space which, as in all Georgian buildings, was on the floor above the ground floor. It was elegantly furnished and featured a range of audio equipment that was absolutely amazing: kit to play everything from early wax cylinders and onward through the repertoire of record recording history. Landlady Judith’s husband, Nick the surgeon, had assembled this collection to enable him to play his absolutely amazing collection of original recordings of classical music.
The circle of friends that shared Nick’s passion for this music included some well-known people. I recall, for example, a visit from Barry Humphries. At that time, I was aware of Humphries’ via the cartoon strip that he created with artist Nicholas Garland in the magazine Private Eye. I was fascinated by the fact that this chap who had invented the crude, lewd Barry McKenzie character (he of the one-eyed trouser snake!) should be so intense and knowledgeable about classical music.
Not that Nick was there a lot of the time. His work schedule, I’m sure, was quite taxing but that didn’t explain the half of it. When he was at home he spent a great deal of time locked in ‘his studio’, as I was told it was, on a half-landing - a sort of mezzanine just up from the ground floor. And, oh, he was invariably not there at night. This was because he spent the nights at his mistress’s home, somewhere in nearby Marylebone. Perhaps he thought that, having co-created five children with Judith was quite enough to be going on with?
Judith compensated for this absence with another Nick. A tad ironically, lover Nick was a member of the vice squad at Marylebone Lane Police Station. He was a good bloke and we became good friends.
And, oh, yes, every so often, Libby would visit her friend Judith. Know what I mean?
So, if that was the domestic situation, what about the new work situation? It was kinda similar!
P&G had always felt somehow ‘moral’. Although I don’t recall anything having been explicitly said on the topic there was the sense that marriage was the proper goal of a relationship and fidelity was to be prized. Not least, it explained the sheer panic that had afflicted my married colleague when, in Newcastle, quite innocently mentioned that he and I had been to a nightclub and that the pursuit of female company might have been part of our reason for the outing.
Hertz was quite different. The polar opposite. I never knew of any naughtiness by the big boss, but below that they were a randy bunch. I suppose the set-up really asked for it: management overwhelming at that time by men; with a high proportion of female branch staff - labelled rental reps. I found it so striking that I actually wrote about it at the time, all those years ago. In fact what I might do is put some of it up here as a post. Would that be a good idea?
Anyway, I was told that, to start with, I needed to get some operational experience. Sounded reasonable. So, I did a short stint at the Hertz branch near Victoria Station and was then made manager of the branch in Trevor Place, Knightsbridge. I think I’m right in saying that, at the time, this was the busiest branch in the UK.
My recollection of it all is that, overall, it was fun, if often pressured. Ford motor cars featured high in our offering and, in addition to the standard Cortinas et al, the range then included the impressive Cortina 1600e and the Capri. Ensuring that the right mix of vehicles was available was a never-ending battle, sending our people hither and yon to get the right machines to be in the right places at the right times.
And, on Saturday 5th July 1969, we were conveniently situated for me to be able to sneak out for an hour or so to nearby Hyde Park to catch a chunk of the Rolling Stones free concert. Just a couple of days previously, the founder and original leader of the band, Brian Jones (1942-1969), had died. He had a history of drug taking and died at the bottom of his swimming pool. Rolling Stone magazine carried an obituary that includes this:
A true rake. He wasn’t acting out the Stones’ music, he just happened to be the Stones’ music, and that was one reason why you know the Stones always mean it, why you know they aren’t sitting around thinking up clever ideas that might make a good song — it was always valid and Jones was the reason, part of the reason, why “the red ’round your eyes shows that you ain’t a child” wasn’t an idea, wasn’t “hey, let’s write a song about methedrine,” but was fact, rough fact, rake’s fact.1
Back in Colosseum Terrace, some time later, I was wakened one morning by a rather shocked-looking Judith. She had, she told me, just been informed that Nick (the surgeon, her husband) was dead.
Thanks for reading.
Marcus, Greil. Rolling Stone (August 9th, 1969)
What licentiousness! What a time to be alive!
This is my shocked face :-O
Shocked!