Educating Peter (14 page)

‘There were about two hundred thousand at one stage,' said Michael. ‘I think there are a few less than that now. Kevin used to work in a warehouse and get them free.'

‘A
good
warehouse,' said Kevin.

In a place like this it was easy to get distracted from the itinerary of the day, and time briefly stood still as I reeled slightly. The names flashed before my eyes in a blur – BrewerAndShipleyEastOfEdenCOBStone A n g e l M i g h t y B a b y F r e s h M a g g o t s P e n t a n g l e MellowCandleSunforestAstralNavigations – every cult hippie-era band I'd ever loved, and every cult hippie-era band I wanted to love. I had an urge to bathe in vinyl, or at least to lie on a bed and roll in it in that way that people do with money in films about gambling. It took me a moment to remember that I was a recovering vinyl junkie who wasn't supposed to dribble in the presence of records any more, by which point Michael and Kevin had disappeared downstairs. It took me another moment to realise that Peter was standing behind me, his head at a slight angle. He was looking at me in the way you might look at an overweight kid who's been given free rein in a sweet shop.

‘Have you ever seen anything like this?' I asked him.

‘No. Never.'

‘I mean . . . it's just – everything.'

‘Well, not everything. I mean, I bet he doesn't have
Cruelty And The Beast
by Cradle Of Filth.'

‘I don't think that came out on vinyl.'

Typically, the previous night – a Friday – had seen a party at Circulus HQ, and the acrid weed cloud that served as the band's perennial halo was even more (omni)potent than usual. I'd felt stoned almost as soon as I'd mounted the stairs, and I worried about Peter, since I didn't know how lenient Jenny was about this sort of exposure. Maybe
she
still smoked weed, maybe she did it in front of Peter, maybe she wouldn't dream of doing either. Perhaps Peter had already smoked it himself. Fourteen-year-olds were pretty advanced these days, weren't they? Once again, it was dawning on me how little I knew about contemporary parenthood. But, not wishing to take any risks, we headed out to the garden, stumbling through an ash-caked kitchen and a room decorated entirely in mirrored cardboard, and skirting around slumped survivors from the previous night's debauchery.

Outside, lunch was being served – a charred tray of that specific kind of oven chips that seem to have flour, rather than potato, as their centre – and proper introductions were made. Here, finally, was the chance for Peter to hang out with musicians as you might hang out with friends, and I felt proud as I introduced my six retrograde heroes. There was Michael, for whom the word ‘easy-going' had been invented, for whom there were never enough medieval capes in the world, and for whose looks a new hippie James Bond movie villain needed desperately to be invented. There was dark and mysterious Robin, otherwise known as ‘The Walking Cheekbones'. There was Emma, the angelic vocalist with the cheeky edge.
There was Kevin, who liked to wear wigs. And there were Leo and Sam, who, if I was truly honest with myself, I hadn't got to know particularly well.

Within no time at all, Peter had helped himself to a powdery charcoal chipette and been sucked into a discussion about guitars with Michael and Robin.

‘So you're into Flugelphones, then? We generally prefer something with a bit more give, like a B Pierce Flinbacker.'

‘Cool. Yeah, I like the Flinbacker. But I just tried a Swugelbacker Airbus. It's not so good on feedback, but you should hear it, like,
chime
.'

‘Yeah? Swugelbacker made a wicked Airbus in about '73 – a bad momma. Hard to find now, but you should look out for it. A bit like the Swerving Zed that McCracken made in ‘78, but more solid in the impact area.'

‘Oh. McCracken? Have you ever seen one of their Flying Whores? My mate Raf's always on about them.'

The previous night I'd been in bed by ten, after a History channel documentary, a chicken salad and a lone bottle of organic beer, but now I got the hazy, elated feeling that I, too, had been living it up in the House Of Folk. Circulus had an effortless way of drawing you in to their mindset and their psychic powers seemed to be working on Peter, who, from the moment we entered the house, had instantly seemed more relaxed than I'd ever seen him. As he talked shop with Circulus's rhythm section, I found myself momentarily free of my caretaker responsibilities and took the opportunity to soak up the rare afternoon sun and entertain Orbit with a stray mandolin string. I hoped,
for my hand's sake, that it wasn't the kind made from cat gut, but soon got the impression that Orbit wouldn't kick up a fuss if it was. Even Circulus's pets seemed sort of stoned and groovy.

This, I thought, was The Life. Being in a band wasn't about hotel rooms or signing sessions or fashion shoots; it was about being able to sit in your back garden together and talk rubbish all day. Circulus didn't have a record deal, never had any money, spent much of their life on the dole, yet they were the happiest people I knew. The skinniest people I knew, but the happiest. Wherever they went, flares, capes, outlandish headwear and laughter followed. And whatever happened for the remainder of the day, I felt sure Peter could take something positive away from this experience. After all, the kid hadn't exactly had an easy introduction to the rock and roll life: he'd met an axe-wielding busker, hung out at a petrol station, stared into a closed waxwork museum, got stuck in a lift with a frustrated mime artist, and chased the ghost of a cult icon his tutor wasn't even interested in. He needed a break. And he wasn't the only one. As I looked across the grass at my for-once keen-eyed pupil, I felt the lull of driving fatigue, sun and safety kick in, and drifted off into a contented half-sleep. Around me, four or five conversations continued, flitting in and out of my dream-like state . . .

‘Their first album, or the second, with the scarecrow on the cover?'

‘He sucks.'

‘No, it's an Epiphone, I think.'

‘Carrot soufflé! Woo-hoo.'

‘He's mad on chips. I don't know what it is. Is that weird for cats? Crisps, too. But only smoky bacon.'

‘No, I only met him a few months ago. But he's known my mum for ages. This whole thing was kind of her idea.'

‘Yeah, no, the first, with the bear.'

‘Our other cat, Rameses, prefers Twiglets.'

‘What about carrots? We've got loads in the kitchen.'

‘Do you think it will fly if you attach it with this piece of string?'

‘Ha! Wicked!'

‘You dirty old man!'

It was the last voice that prompted me to bolt awake. It had a Smurf-like quality to it – a 45rpm pace in sharp contrast to everyone else's 33rpm. It was hard to tell how long I'd been asleep. Under an hour, I sensed, but as I surveyed how our little garden party had progressed, it felt like at least a couple of days. To my right, Michael, watched by Emma and Robin, was alternately inhaling, shouting, and inflating balloons from a helium canister. To his left, Leo and two of the slumped survivors who'd been around the kitchen table earlier were attaching carrots and chips to the bottom of other balloons with string. Meanwhile, over on an old sofa, beneath the shade of a holly bush, Kevin was showing Peter the correct stance and grip for the firing of a gun.

‘Morning, Tom,' said Emma. ‘We're shooting balloons. Want to join in?'

‘Is that . . . Is that a real gun?' I said, rubbing my eyes.

‘No,' said Peter. ‘Just an air gun. It's Kevin's. The
idea is to chop the carrot down just small enough for the balloon to carry it, then let it go and shoot it. Cool or what?'

‘Er . . . yeah. Be careful.'

Over the previous seven years, I'd interviewed two or three hundred musicians. Some had claimed to drink whisky for breakfast; some had claimed to be the reincarnation of Jesus Christ; others had claimed to be clairvoyant preachers in league with the devil. I'd lain flat on the roofs of skyscrapers and stared at the New York skyline with some; I'd hung out at Stonehenge with others. But never had I come close to shooting carrot-carrying balloons with any of them. Somehow, this fact struck me as hugely significant. Had I wasted my young life? Perhaps. And now it was too late. I was too busy being a responsible father figure to join in.

‘I mean, y'know,' I continued, ‘that thing looks dangerous. Watch it. Seriously. What if it, y'know, twists in your hand when you shoot it?'

‘I'm okay.'

Bang!

‘See?'

‘Mmm. Good shot.'

‘Wanna go?'

‘No. I'll just sit here and eat my chips.'

‘Suit yourself.'

And so the afternoon progressed. It was hard to find fault with Circulus, and in the half-decade I'd known them, I'd only located one flaw in their friendship. Actually, ‘flaw' was too strong a word; it was more of an irksome discrepancy between their plane of existence and the rest of the world's. It was known, to
all those who walked in the band's social circle but held down conventional full-time jobs, as Circulus Meantime. Circulus Meantime, which originated a couple of miles south of Greenwich observatory, was a bit like Greenwich Meantime, but with minutes that lasted ninety-eight seconds instead of the usual sixty. Circulus Meantime wasn't merely about being late; it was about being punctually late. Circulus Meantime wasn't about frequently staying in bed beyond eleven am; it was about
always
staying in bed beyond eleven am, and showing
discipline
about it. There were times in the past – social occasions like my twenty-fifth birthday, during which the band had arrived through the pub door just as I was staggering out of it – when the conventions of this different time zone could be frustrating, but over the years I'd learned to allow for it. It was surprisingly easy, once you worked out the ten commandments.

This afternoon was a classic example of Circulus Meantime. The idea had been to head up to the nearby Oxley's Wood to shoot the band's first pop video, but the garden party had become a bit like the party in
Buffy The Vampire Slayer
where the Vengeance Demon grants Buffy's sister's wish that no-one ever leave. On the one hand, I wished I could spend more Saturday afternoons like this. On the other, the eight of us had other, bigger plans for the day, and I had a responsibility to return Peter to Crouch End in time for his fencing class.

‘Shall we go then, guys?' I announced, trying to sound as casual as possible, but somehow feeling like the biggest square in Plumstead.

‘Groan,' said the garden.

Eventually, capes were donned, acoustic musical equipment was gathered and scrawny legs creaked into action. We were to travel in convoy: half of us in Alice, Michael's Seventies Ford Escort, the other half with me in the Ford Focus. I'd put the van into retirement for the time being, having been intimidated by the you're-a-weirdo-aren't-you nature of the looks Clive The Assistant Haulage Executive had been giving me upon my returns to the depot, but now, as I saw Circulus's collection of props, I began to regret it. Considering Circulus were always broke, their rate of gadget-acquisition was astounding. When I walked
into a charity shop, I found endless Barbara Taylor Bradford novels,
Music For Pleasure
albums and rejected Littlewoods clothing for the old beige pensioner market. When Michael, Robin and Emma did exactly the same thing, they unearthed a treasure trove of retro audio gold and bohemian finery. Now, as I dropped hints with my accelerator pedal and watched the metal and cloth pile up in my rear-view mirror, I wondered what my friends were expecting and precisely how long our project would take to complete.

Oxley's Wood on a Saturday was full of golden retrievers, cyclists and small children with ice-cream beards. It was a bit like many other suburban British parks, but more mystical – although whether it would have been as mystical without Circulus there was hard to say. The band had a way of invading and altering a place with their presence. They didn't dress so differently from Ed The Troubadour, but while people whispered and pointed towards Ed, they simply grinned at Circulus and wanted to join in.

Kevin was the first to climb the big oak tree – the biggest, perhaps, in the entire park – and others quickly followed: Michael, Emma, Leo and a zealous-looking Peter. Robin operated the video camera. I, meanwhile, lingered at the bottom of the trunk, passing instruments up to my friends, guarding the ghetto blaster and scribbling in my notebook. On the ghetto blaster, a country and western song about chicken by Sunforest rang out above the trees. In the tree, though, the only things being plucked were
guitars and mandolins. On bongos, Peter, now in a fetching Lincoln green hooded cape, joined the groove and explored his ‘tribal' side. Every few minutes, a confused cyclist or enchanted child would stop and wonder what in the name of Beelzebub these bizarrely attractive people who dressed like elves were up to. Then they'd pause and their faces would no longer express confusion, but wistful wonder, a look which said nothing so much as ‘Why don't I know people who do stuff like this in their spare time?' It was the sort of scene that it was an honour to be part of – the true essence of creativity.