VT Coughtrey - Headrow Clothes (5)

NOTES	The next trip to London, shortly after the one described in the previous chapter, was a very different affair. I had a week's summer holiday entitlement (not more, because I had not yet been at Headrow Clothes for a full year) and I decided to take it in July. A boy of 16 or 17 who also worked there and seemed to have fallen under my spell to some extent, decided he would take his week at the same time so that we could go somewhere together. I was begining to feel nostalgic for life on the road and was no doubt eager to impress the teenager with my expertise in living rough. It was therefore decided that we should hitch to London (he had never been south of Wakefield before), keeping strictly to minor roads so that it would take two or three days and give us the chance of camping out. I bought a small tent, a rucksack, a sleeping bag and a goodly supply of food.
	We started out very early in the morning, on the day of the World Cup. As a way of slowing things down, the rule about sticking to minor roads proved all too effective. By afternoon, after a few short lifts and much walking, we had got no further south than somewhere near Barnsley and it was raining. Furthermore, my companion was insisting on listening to the World Cup on his radio as we trudged along. I still had a deep hatred of sport and the sound of a football match on the radio, going on and on, was extremely irritating to me. In company with most of the rest of the population his patriotic fervour boiled over every time England scored and he went wild at the final whistle. I found this sickening and probably said so. This was the beginning of his suspicion that there was something wrong with me and the tension mounted from that point.
	When we came to pitch camp that night, in a wood somewhere in Nottinghamshire, we found we had failed to keep our sleeping bags dry. Our clothes were saturated, so my erstwhile friend decided that we should get going again at about three in the morning and head for the M1 in order to get to London as quickly as possible. By this time it was clear that any last vestage of belief in me on the part of my young fellow-traveller had disappeared. He was making the decisions now. We happened to get a lift to somewhere in west London, and my companion insisted on visiting the observation platform at Heathrow. While this was certainly very interesting, I felt that it was probably not what we had come on this rather arduous journey to do (although I had no better idea). Afterwards, we went to the West End, where the boy suddenly announced that he wanted to go home straight away and by train. Of course, he had no money, so I paid his fare on the understanding that he would pay it back in a week or two. I decided to travel back on the train with him, but he was very sullen the whole time.
	The following Monday he failed to turn up for work and, in fact, never returned. I went round to his house to ask him for the money he owed but his father came to the door and told me in a menacing tone not to show my face there again. I didn't argue and I never saw him again. So that, for the record, is my memory of England's Glory Day.
	Later trips to London, by train and alone, in the autumn of '66 and the spring of '67 were rather more successful. All I did, though, was to observe and occasionally participate in the 'Happenings' - the spontaneous and extraordinary little gatherings that were now likely to occur in any inner London street or square, and which could take many forms - a very free style of dancing, poetry recitals, little plays etc. The dress and make-up of the participants became increasingly flamboyant and exciting. Anyone could join in, as long as their intentions were peaceful. The intentions of the police were certainly not peaceful, however. They generally broke up the Happenings with a degree of unwarrented violence. The term 'hippie' was now beginning to be heard in connection with these happenings.
See archive of International Times and a history of OZ. They both look rather puerile now - nothing like I remember them!	These random comings-together were made up of people of all ages, though more often than not they were very young. I was very happy to see that the boys were beginning to let their hair grow. As detailed in Chapter 30, I had always been puzzled by the unwritten law - the most sacrosanct of laws to some, yet so recent in origin, that all men must have very short hair. Although long hair on men was still regarded as criminal lunacy by most people (and certainly the police), there was beginning to be strength in numbers, at least in London. I tried growing mine an inch below the regulation length but Leeds, apart from the student area, was even less ready for it than the rest of the country. In London I naturally bought the new 'counter-culture' magazines that were beginning to appear, such as International Times and Oz.
	Back at the factory, I tried interesting the girls with the mags, with tales of London Happenings and with revolution, but it was no use. They weren't antagonistic, just apathetic. The only time I remember them getting worked up about anything (apart from my extra inch of hair) was during the trial of the Moors Murderers, Ian Brady and Myra Hindley. Every day over the lunch table, I was treated to the girls' unspeakable proposals with regard to these two. The tortures they devised, especially for Myra, made the Holy Inquisition look positively unimaginative. It began to get on my nerves, so I suggested an approach to the two child-killers that was not quite so mediaeval. They were annoyed with me for several days and said my comments were disgusting. By the way, Myra died a few days before this chapter was written, having been in prison for 36 years. Brady is still locked up.
	Oddly enough, the factory girls were responsible for another stage in my evolution into a creature of the Sixties. I was invited by Marjory Sutcliffe to her eighteenth birthday party. Marjory lived on a smart council estate in Cottonmills. Nearly all of the guests seemed to be girls aged between about 15 and 18. The Beatles latest album Revolver was being played over and over again. It was something of a revelation to me. I had hitherto thought of the Beatles as just another irksome pop group. But I now realised that many things, even popular music, seemed to be drifting in my direction. After a few drinks I actually danced - the first time ever. My wild gyrations were inspired by some of the Happenings I'd seen in London and the girls seemed mightily impressed. However, they weren't impressed enough to do more than merely tolerate my gropings, and then only up to a point.
	After a lot more to drink I decided to punish them by taking the heavy front garden gate off its hinges and carrying it for a mile or two before abandoning it. My strength and stamina used to double after a sufficient quantity of alcohol. At the lunch table on Monday Marjory said "After work, Victor, you will find our gate, even if it takes all night, and you will put it back on - understand?". I understood, but by sheer good luck, it didn't take all night. Next day, footsie under the table resumed as though nothing had happened.