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.