Chapter 1

THE LION AND THE UNICORN

Cautiously, I broach the topic of hitching to India; my girlfriend Yolanda listens with visible eagerness as I explain my intentions. She too has harboured an interest and desire to visit the East, and recognising the possibility of fulfilling this wish, she readily agrees to join me. Pooling our resources we assess that we can scrape together but about a hundred pounds. This sum is fine for a short holiday but is it really enough to take the two of us to India?

Yolanda raises another issue; 'Have you got a passport then?' she challenges, fixing me with her large deep brown eyes.

'No, I've not needed one before,' I reply surprised, then add. 'Do I really need one then?'

'Of course you do you idiot. You couldn't get through all those borders without one,' she points out, frowning.

'I'm sure I could!' I retort petulantly.

Apparently, after her schooling Yolanda left Italy and gained employment in France as an au pair. Since then she has ventured back and forth between Italy, France and England. So, when she speaks of travelling abroad, she speaks from experience, therefore I decide not to argue the point.

Obtaining the necessary forms from the post office, I return home and set about completing them. Numerous though the questions are, most of them I can answer without much difficulty.

I take to researching the questions I am unsure of. But measuring my height proves no easy matter. Even after repeated attempts to determine the answer by means of a tape measure, I meet with little success. Resorting to the time-honoured convention of marking the wall with a pencil, the task becomes easier. I duly record the result, namely, five feet, ten inches (though I feel sure I am taller). Scrutinising my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I am able to reveal the colour of my hair and eyes, being brown (well I have to be sure!) and green respectively. Photographs are also required, thus prompting an excursion into town.

Making use of a Photo-Me cubicle on Earls Court underground station, I position myself according to the instructions and press the two bob bits into the slot. The flashlight blasts away mercilessly; leaving me momentarily blinded. I then wait outside the booth awhile, and some minutes later retrieve the somewhat clammy prize from within the chrome grilled delivery chute.

But at least my hair has recovered from the brutal cutting it received some six months before, though it is still considerably shorter than it was previously, however it frames my face comfortably, loose fuzzy curls sprouting out healthily and placing me over six feet. A flicker of a smile involuntarily tightens my lips. Should I write on the passport form in the section marked height, 'With hair; six foot two?

Getting the pictures countersigned by an authority figure, a person holding some 'status' within the community, who has furthermore known me some years, proves to be the next stumbling block.

'That's impossible,' I moan. 'How can they expect everybody to know a judge or even a solicitor for that matter?'

'Why not get the vicar to do it for you?' comes mum's sage advice.

'But I don't even know him,' I reply uncertainly.

'Never mind. He knows you and he often asks after you. Jurgen Simonson is his name.'

'He doesn't sound very English. What's he like?'

'It'll be alright. He'd love to see you. Now you know where the vicarage is, don't you?'

'Sure, I used to deliver papers up that way. Top of Luttrell Avenue, on the right.'

'That's it. Well see you later, good luck.'

I arrive at the vicarage feeling somewhat resentful. Why should the lack of a signature prevent me from going wherever I please? It is as if I am seeking his approval.

The reverend comes to the door, greets me warmly and ushers me inside. Bidding me take a seat in his study, he asks the purpose of my visit and readily accedes to my request, endorsing the relevant paperwork and signing the back of the photographs. Formalities over, we exchange pleasantries and enjoy a good old English cup of tea thoughtfully provided by his housekeeper. Languishing in the comfort of an easy chair, a distinct mood of calm and serenity pervades the room, this together with the tea makes me feel quite at ease. On guessing that we have been chatting for quite a long while, I begin to get up, indicating my intention to leave. The vicar wishes me well on my journey and vigorously shakes me by the hand.

I walk towards home quite briskly, feeling refreshed by the visit pondering on just where this trip Is going to take me.

All the relevant bits and bobs (including my birth certificate, which I have discovered amongst our family papers) are now dispatched to the Passport Office. With little to do other than wait and fret, I set myself to gather necessary items like sleeping bags and a rucksack. Common sense suggest that it is best to ask around before deciding to buy new. Trekking to High Street Kensington one day, we make our way to French Michelle's flat in Hornton Street - I haven't seen Michelle for a while and it's nice to share some time with her. I like Michelle a lot, ever since we first met on the same fateful evening as I first encountered Yolanda, in a West End night-spot. I thought the two of them looked so very similar with their long blond hair, pretty faces and good clothes sense.

Michelle is in high spirits.

'Paul how are you Man? What's all this about going with Yolanda to India? It sounds great!! I'm sorry Paul I haven't got a pack, a bag. What do you call it Man? But I've got some sleeping bags, you're welcome to them, Man, I don't need them.' Michelle slips off to find the sleeping bags as we sit and drank our tea. She soon returns; 'Sorry they're not better love but ...there you go Man.' The way she pronounces the word love, 'loov' is a delight in itself. I can't restrain my laughter. She really cracks me up.

'That's fine Michelle, don't get hung up about it, they're groovy. We'll get the rucksack somewhere, don't worry. By the way they're sometimes called knapsacks. Have you heard the song? "...How I love to go a wandering with a knapsack on my back".'

'Oh cool it,' Yolanda admonishes, impatient as she is to catch up with her friend.

Pressure to re-appraise the sense and validity of hitchhiking to India asserts itself within me, for I am still affected by pendulum-like swings of mood. Michelle's support for the idea is very welcome. Her healthy interestedness, along with a general improvement in the weather (with spells of sunshine) does much to better my mood; I begin to see our journey differently, as something even vaguely trendy! And interesting an adventure very definitely desirable.

So, the rucksack I am forced to buy new, I find myself purchasing it at a camping centre in central London in Leicester Square, where I also feel rather tempted to buy a small tent. I leave the tent, but emerge with a rucksack, bluey grey in colour with space for a fair amount of stuff, and with two separate pockets, clasps and leather straps. The bag though not overly spacious is reasonably affordable and will do the job.

At last a telephone call comes from the Passport Office:-
'Hello? Mr. Mason? Paul Mason? Yes? Petty France here. Your passport is ready Sir. Would you like to come in and collect it? Yes? Well come to reception and they will deal with you'.
I discover I like being addressed as 'Sir'.

At the Passport Offices in Petty France near St. James's Park Station, I endure the formality of a long wait and am then shown to a room where an official plies me with questions concerning which countries I intend to visit. But I am loath to reveal myself to be anything other than a run-of-the-mill tourist getting ready for a Continental break, and therefore omit any mention of my hope to eventually travel to India. At length he hands me my passport and wishes me a good holiday.

On the way back home by tube train, I study the passport with its black leatherwork cover from which issues an odour similar to that found in antique shops. At the top of the front cover in a lozenge shaped window, my name, 'MR. P. MASON' written in blue fountain pen ink on fresh white paper, with the number '355468' appearing in a similar window at the bottom. Embossed in gold leaf between are the images of a lion and a unicorn holding twixt paw and hoof a shield wrapped in ribbon, on which the words; 'HONI SOIT QUI MAL Y PENSE, DIEU ET MON DROIT' are written (in French) - and this on a British passport! Top and tailing the emblem the words: 'BRITISH PASSPORT UNITED KINGDOM OF GREAT BRITAIN AND NORTHERN IRELAND'.

Adhered to one of the inner pages I find the smallest form of the seeming mass that I had filled in, which reveal my most personal details. 'MUSICIAN', born 'LONDON', 5ft 10ins' tall with 'Green' hair and 'Brown' eyes. No, a second glance and I read it correctly as brown hair and green eyes. On the back of the front cover in old-fashioned copperplate handwriting and printed on what looked like a high denomination banknote, the message:

Her Britannic Majesty's
Principal Secretary of State
for Foreign Affairs
Requests and requires
in the Name of Her Majesty
all those who it may concern
to allow the bearer to pass freely
without let or hindrance,
and to afford the bearer
such assistance and protection
as may be necessary.

I smile to myself.

'Let's hope that everyone reads this or I will be in trouble!'

During the last few months my girlfriend has been working part-time in a shop near Trafalgar Square selling souvenirs and jewellery. Recognising that there is now nothing holding us back from leaving for India; Yolanda begins to show her first signs of doubt, earnestly seeking reassurance that I really want to travel. It is time for her to give notice to her employer and to her digs in Earl's Court where she has been living in a cupboard (well, it barely qualifies to be called a room), in a house situated on the corner of Nevern Road and the busy Cromwell Road.

The days drag by as she works out her notice, during which time an uneasy stillness descends on the basement flat in which I live. And now I have nothing to express my pent-up feelings; my guitars along with my amplifier and effects pedals are gone - having been sold to raise money for the journey.

Sitting in my bedroom day after day I have so much time to reflect, far too much time, in fact, I am getting fed up. I make the decision to finish repainting my bedroom, the walls of which had been covered in doodles and messages, even a series of story-telling cartoons neatly executed by a friend. The ceiling was more in need of attention being in a dreadful state, as many moons ago I drew smoke pictures on it with a lighted candle. There too are the splattered remains of flies I had swatted, each one circled in pencil. I remember my father having been very disapproving about this. I made a rather half-hearted attempt to re-decorate the room the previous year. My father and I had visited a shop in Hammersmith, West London.

'Have you any purple paint?' I enquired.

The old gent in a brown coat gave me a 'knowing' look. 'No. Just the colours on the chart over there,' he answered pointing. But I found no purple there, no snazzy colours at all in fact.

'What about other shops, would they have purple?' I persisted.

'Doubt it,' he grunted, 'Never seen it myself that is.' So I settled instead on buying cans of sky blue and dark blue, the darker being for the woodwork with the lighter colour for the walls.

Back in my father's estate car, I discussed the purchase; he too gave me a 'knowing' look and raised his eyebrows. 'He's probably right. They know their job Paul. That's a very good shop. If they haven't got any, you probably won't get that colour paint anywhere else.'

This being the first time I had tackled any decorating I was determined not to overdo it, and since no one could see behind the brown desk (a relic from my schooldays), or behind the cupboards and shelves. 'Why', I had asked, 'should I get fussed about them then?' So I hadn't, contenting myself merely to paint around them, around the pictures and posters too.

Nowadays the walls of my room look naked without the brightly coloured psychedelicc posters that I have rashly given away. And worse is that there they were hung the former lemon yellow decor stands revealed. There is my abstract too, my masterpiece (entitled 'Train Drivers Cufflink) in bright red oilpaint on the wall beside the window, painted after listening to Jimi Hendrix's 'Stone Free' after leaving it to repeat endlessly on my mono record player. But no, I can't bring myself to paint over that.

The light is fading; the weather has become suddenly overcast. Turning on the both of my table lamps, one with the brown bear carved in hard wood and the effort I made at school, does little to dispel the gloom.

I reflect that I should not be hanging about the house having a gloomy afternoon, reasoning that at my age I should be at my prime - staying out all night, tripping the light fantastic, footloose and fancy free. But I have already been through all that. 'What's in store for me in the future?' I wonder whimsically.

I have never really given a much thought to growing up. Once though, as a child, I had puzzled over a Kellogg’s cornflake packet on which was an artist's impression of the 'normal' family outside their dream house. Casually dressed, suave and well groomed the man of the house with his 'Cindy doll' wife and two kids getting into their new car. I really didn't relish the idea of being a 'grown up'. Maybe my mother realised this for she sometimes addressed me as Peter Pan; I guess I just don't want to lose the fun of being a child. What Is the point in growing up if all it can promise is the chance to earn money and get married?

Actually, as a child, the thought of my parents seeing me getting married used to fill me with acute embarrassment. Now here I am, engaged to get married. Yolanda never met my father; he died in hospital shortly before her return to England. What with her being foreign and a bit of a glamourpuss, perhaps she would have been 'a bit much' for him. I can't be sure.

I now light an incense stick, position it in a holder on the shelf, and watch for a while the spiralling plume of smoke.The wooden shelves by my bed, I painted in the same two-tone blue emulsion paints as the rest of the room, a combination which reminds me of Wedgwood china, like our cheese dish. I ponder over the assortment of treasures on the shelves, my collection of nick-knacks. The silver boot hook, the antique china cream pot I had salvaged from some nearby roadworks and those miniature statues my uncle had given me. 'I wonder where they're from?' I puzzle, as I pick up the Indian-looking bronze image of a seated figure with what looks like a child beside it. I am minded of the little wooden box covered with Indian postage stamps my father’s coin collection is kept in and wonder if my uncle has been to India, he never mentioned it if he had.

Right now I want to DO something, but I didn't know quite what. In former times I would have given vent to my feelings on the fretboards of my instruments, now I cannot. I turn instead to my depleted record collection, once spanning the breadth of the fireplace and now numbering barely a dozen. The choice is between Syd Barrett's 'Golden Hair' and Sonny Boy Williamson's 'Peach Tree Blues', songs which have become abiding companions of late. I choose the latter and find the track with practised alacrity, casually dropping the worn stylus into the groove. The rich and deeply soulful tones of Sonny Boy once more break out full throttle and re-awaken me to their beauty. 'Oh look at that honey ooh ooh eee, way over down by the pe-eeach-a tree'. The temptation to join in, again possesses me, I utter the words with impassioned force keeping time by slapping my knees. 'Oh look at that honey ooh ooh eee, way over down by the pe-eeach-a tree' … and that harmonica ...wow!

I resolve that the time has come to tell my mother that I am going to try my luck, on the road. It isn't easy, but I break the news to her and I feel better for that. She endures my attempts to explain with a concerned patience that fails to conceal her disappointment. I feel as though I am betraying her in some way, it feels awful. But I steel myself against the emotions I feel; I can't let this chance to travel, to try and to sort myself out slip through my fingers

The day arrives when Yolanda sleeps for the last time in that excuse for a room she has been renting. Accompanying her up the ill-lit stairway to collect her suitcases is a depressing experience, the roar of the traffic outside causes us to shout to one another as we scoop the last of her belongings into a paper carrier bag. Perhaps to rid ourselves of the effects of the place, perhaps just for the hell of it, we hail a black cab to take us back to Putney and blow the expense. The idea is that Yolanda will stay overnight at my place and we will leave together in the morning. I do hope that my mother doesn't mind her stopping over. Since when the two of us will be on the road together day and night, what difference will one extra night make?

This evening, after supper is finished with, we start to pack. We are decided to take the minimum of bulk. I begin collecting what I will need plucking socks and underwear from my chest of drawers, a couple of of Yolanda's towels are added.

'I won't bother with any spare jeans or extra shoes,' I state.

'Well I'll take some spare things, they won't take up much room,' replies Yolanda placing a couple of blouses and a dress on the pile. Realising that the weather might sometimes get a bit parky, I add a woolen sweater, hand knitted by my mother.

'Well, we're almost finished then,' I announce.

'I don't believe it!' Yolanda replies. 'Surely we need more than that, there's the toilet things and my make-up yet.'

These being added I scour my brain for anything more to take. Those years in the Wolf Cubs have left their mark. Our motto 'Be Prepared' rings in my ears. 'I'll take a penknife too, it could come in useful.'

'Yes, and a needle and cotton,' suggests Yolanda.

'A biro, some paper too and where's your passport?' I ask. 'We'd better get them together as well.'

After rummaging around in her suitcase she hands me her passport. Being naturally curious I flick it open.

'Wow! You look really different here, it doesn't look like you at all,' I laugh, Yolanda returns me an embarrassed, soulful look. I ask her; 'What does 'Casalinga' mean?'

'Housewife,' she replies, her face reddening considerably.

'Oh!'

This reminds me of a declaration Yolanda made to me; 'I don't want to be like every other Italian woman, tied to the kitchen sink. My life will be different from that', but here her declared occupation - 'Housewife'.

'Shall we take something to read?' I ask, 'I thought of the Bible.'

'Oh yes, I'll take this book,' she replies taking a green hardback book from her suitcase whereupon she looks at me expectantly. It is 'The Voice of Isis', she has shown it to me before. I had browsed the pages of this book a couple of years before at a friend's flat in Wigmore Street, the site of many a 'scene' in it's day. Opening it again I notice a picture of a sunset on the sea's horizon that she has drawn in coloured pencils. She wrote to me concerning this, she had drawn it whilst on holiday in France, with Michelle. This book is no ordinary book, it seeks to direct the reader along 'The Path' and contains numerous references to Egyptian beliefs, and Yolanda sometimes quotes it attempting to add weight to her stated beliefs. On the subject of stimulants, it is categorical in its condemnation, stating that those who use them 'can never achieve the Goal in this lifetime'. Personally, I believe the book to have been written by a couple of oddballs, though I keep this opinion to myself since Yolanda obviously derives solace from its pages and I believe that is important.

Another book she has taken to reading of late emanates from the 'Hare Krishna' people. It is a commentary on a work previously unknown to me, called Bhagavad Gita. But I don't take to this sect as when I had been going through the worst days of crisis some weeks before I had taken to sitting in Hyde Park in an effort to clear my head. On one such occasion a band of them approached, chanting their dirgelike hymn. Finding a group of tourists seated on a nearby bench they set about appraising this captive audience of their beliefs, brandishing their brightly coloured magazines zealously aloft. Since I believed myself in need of spiritual comfort and direction, I observed their antics with rapt attention. Long they badgered passers by and after having gained the coins they eagerly sought, formed a column and resumed their cymbal crashing, head shaking and general hullabaloo. Though they glanced at me, they me passed by, evidently I was not a unworthy target for their attentions, perhaps I did not look wealthy enough?

Now, Yolanda makes no sign of wishing to take the Hare Krishna book which is fine by me, if no other reason than it weighs a ton.

Preparations for travel finished, we clean our teeth and bid my mother good night, then settle down. Yolanda is to sleep in my bed with its veneered wooden headboard etched with a former girlfriend’s bid for immortality 'Don't cross out my name, Harriet!’ Tonight my resting-place is the floor.

Though formerly a sound sleeper, I no longer enjoy the thought of going to bed, I have begun to harbour an unhealthy dread of the night. Long I lie there in the gloom reviewing the events of the day, my chest tight, my breathing active. Everyone is in bed now, probably fast asleep. Yolanda sighs deeply and turns over.

'See you in the morning 'Landa. Night night.'

'Uh what? Oh yeah. Night night Paulikin.'

It is morning, I open my eyes and am surprised to find myself lying on the floor. Oh yes, I remember. I gave my bed to Yolanda.

Yolanda opens her eyes and peers at me dozily.

'Oh hi ya,' she murmurs.

'Would you like a cup of tea, some breakfast?' I ask.

'Oh I'll get up,' she responds.

When morning ablutions and breakfast are over, I pack some last things, tooth brushes, hairbrushes and a couple of handkerchiefs in the bag. There is one problem though. How are we to carry the sleeping bags? 'What we need is a strap,' I suggest. Unable to find one I rummage through the chest of drawers.

'I could use these,' I say holding up a bunch of disused ties. Yolanda eyes me in apparent disbelief. 'They'll do if I tie them together,' I say, trying to convince myself.

Then we have a brief and whispered Pow-Wow.
Are we really going to go, still? Go this very day?
'No time like the present,' I think out aloud, but ask Yolanda 'Would you like to leave it a while then?'

'No, today's fine by me. Have you told your mother yet?'

'Yes, but not that we're leaving today. But she must have noticed us packing. I'll go and tell her now.'

'Whereabouts are you going?' my mother asks, her expression is grave. She tilts her face a little, as if looking over an invisible pair of glasses, 'Do you still want to go to India?'

'That's right and we hope to go to lots of other places too. Around Europe, Morocco, even the Holy Land.'
I gaze at her ashen expression and at her greying hair, noting for the first time that her beautiful copper curls are losing their engaging colour.

'Lunch will be ready soon, you'll want some before you go?'

'Thanks. Yeah we'll leave after lunch.'

Encountering my brother Raymond in the front room ( he is staying whilst on his summer break from studies at university and working as a conductor on the buses). We exchange pleasantries.

Raymond is slightly older than me, perhaps it is his being about one and a half years older, that encourages him to view me to as his 'little' brother, a situation I find but only slightly annoying, sometimes even a little amusing. After all his social life is just beginning whereas mine has been in swing some years. Though he is of course aware of this, he nonetheless seems to relish this role of him as the older, wiser, brother and plays it with well-seasoned practice.

'So,' he says, 'Mum tells me you're off to India.'

'Yes, that's right.'

'Do you know people there then?'

'Yolanda's got a few addresses. Yes.' This is true to a point but, in truth, they are not people that she actually knows. And we have decided not to take the addresses. But I don't need to tell him that.

'How much money have you got?' he queries, 'You'll need at least a hundred and twenty each for the fare.' I wonder that perhaps he has been aware of my intentions for some time!

'I don't need that much,' I answer.

'Yes you do, that's how much the airfare is! Have you got enough for it?' he demands with just a hint of menace arising in his voice.

'Well that's as much as you know,' I respond, slightly threatened by his manner, 'Actually we're going to hitch-hike you twit.'

'That's a bit dodgy isn't it? That could be really dangerous!'

Actually, my brother looks genuinely concerned. He's a good lad, in spite of our differences and all our ups and downs. I reckon his heart is in the right place. But right now though he is evidently trying to make me feel foolish and I won't have it; I tire of his tones.

'Look I've hitch-hiked hundreds of miles. I've been all over the place, with Henderson, on my own, all over the place.'

'A bit different though, going to foreign countries,' he retorts, ever the 'last word Harry'.

'Not really!' I say, wondering all the while.

At this moment my mother enters the room, I sense that she has been hovering about whilst my brother and I talked. I am glad of the interruption. In truth he has begun to piss me off.

At lunch, conversation is down to asking for the 'condiments' and vying with each other in giving thanks to mum for cooking the food.

At length, after returning to my bedroom, I let out a sigh of relief, 'Phew that was heavy, come on let's go, there'll be no better time to leave.'

Fastening the straps of my rucksack, I hoist it aloft and swing it onto my back. I survey my room slowly and thoughtfully.

'Have we got everything then?' I ask, 'Do you want to carry the sleeping bags?'

'I think so. No, you take the bags, I'll carry the backpack.'

'If you really want to,' I say, only halfway paying attention to her.

Walking from the bedroom and down the hallway I shout, 'We're off everybody. Bye-ee!'

My mother and Raymond emerge and in raised voices make their farewells. Hugging my mother, we kiss each other. I then make my way to the front door.

Will I ever see my mother again? She who has brought me up and given her me such tireless devotion. Would this be the last opportunity for me to tell her how much I love her, how much she means to me? I can't bear the thought. Struggling hard not to show it, I weep inside.

Making last gestures and words of farewell my throat suddenly feels dry, I speak with difficulty.

'Bye mum. Bye Raymond. I'll write to you when I get the chance.'

'God bless,' my mother says, 'God bless you both.'

'See you in time for tea!' my brother calls out.