Chapter Eight

January, 1974
We spent until the New Year at Ellen’s, playing music at home and in the pub in Penisarwaun, going for walks on Craig y Dinas, and doing lots of talking. For us the time was comparatively lazy, but Ellen asked me one evening as we were giving Moran a bath, ‘How do you two talk so much? It would wear me out!’ It would! Morgan hardly ever said more than three words together.
I smiled. ‘We’re used to it; it’s part of the way of life at Findhorn. And Geordie’s an extravert, so he likes to think out loud.’

We talked about the offer on from the Phil, and alternatives to that. When we were down in Zennor in Cornwall cliff climbing in November, we had joked that we could set up in an old cottager - the origin of his remark to his father. But now we seriously considered it, as he decided that the Phil offer would be great, if only it were not in London. Living out of town might work for Izak Perlman, but it wouldn’t work for us, just beginning as we were; he would be at the mercy of the Phil’s rehearsal and performance schedules. He much more enjoyed working with the Early Music Consort, but everyone else there had other jobs.
‘Hell,’ he said, ‘I’d rather play jams in pubs than be stuck in Covent Garden all day.’ We had done that too, driving out to Henley and Reading. When we were in Zennor, we played at the pub there, and were asked to participate in the folk festival next June.

‘There’s always Findhorn,’ I said, when we were out walking in the hills.
‘Become residents, you mean?’
I nodded. ‘We could garden, teach, work in the shops, practise our crafts, do anything we wanted. And we wouldn’t have to live on the resident’s stipend.’ This was five pounds a week for the indigent. It was not a bad deal – all meals were provided by the community. He took a sharp breath and looked at me sidelong. ‘You’d do that for me?’ I could tell he liked the idea. He had certainly thought of it, now and again, but felt a duty to his music.
I nodded.
‘It’s very cold in the winter.’
‘I know.’
‘It’s a fishbowl.’
I laughed. ‘I know!’
He swung my hand in his, his face suffused in joyousness. ‘Let’s talk to Peter!’
As if Peter would say No to George about anything. I smiled.
So it was settled. He rang the Board of Directors at the Phil that afternoon and told them he would not accept the post for personal reasons. They were disappointed, but not heartbroken – they could go with their second choice as easily. Peter, naturally, said Yes, but we had to wait until we could get a caravan from the Moray County Council, which was in March. So, for George’s birthday at the cross quarter, we took my brother Jack up on his invitation to come visit, and went out to California.

March 1974
The lure was the skiing and ice climbing at Idyllwild, not my brother’s company. We spent the first two days of our stay at his house, however, just to adjust to the time zone – and the weather. I had forgotten what warm felt like. Jack picked us up at Burbank Airport in his jeep, leaving Beth and the kids at home. He stood smoking by the gate, waiting, in khakis and a polo shirt, for all that looking very much like the ski bum George had called him. He was tall and raw-boned, truly the golden boy, with Troy Donohue perfect looks and a perfect smile. He was impressive even lounging with a ciggie in topsiders. He was ten years older than me – thirty – with two kids, aged four and three. I had not seen the youngest, Davie, since he was an infant, two years ago. Jack was at the top of his game, wealthy, upper management investor, lean and good-looking. When he was my age, he had avoided the draft by some string-pulling on the part of our father, while his friends went overseas, most of whom never returned. The world belonged to him, and he let everyone know it. He hove himself upright as we came up the gangway, throwing his head up in a kind of odd little nod.

‘Claire.’ It was rather a bark, a command, than a greeting.
I hitched my bag up. We had had two layovers – in DC and San Francisco – and I felt bleary and grotty.
‘Hey Jack.’
He clapped my arm. ‘ So you made it.’ He looked us over.
‘This is George,’ I said. Jack leaned across me and shook his hand.
‘Hi, nice to meet you.’ He turned to me again. ‘Your flight was okay?’
I shrugged.
‘We’re still on London time,’ George said. ‘It’s the middle of the night.’
‘Oh right.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Well, let’s get your stuff..’ He turned towards the corridor with his long stride.
‘Where’s Beth?’
‘Oh the kid’s got a rash or something and she didn’t want to bring him out.’
You didn’t want to deal with them, I thought. George looked at me, and pressed my hand.

We got our skis and climbing gear from the oversize claim and as we stood in the queue waiting for the baggage carrel to start rolling, Jack chatted up George about climbs he had done. He had the grace to be impressed that George had done most of the 14ers in the Alps, so they talked about 14ers in the Rockies, to which Jack could make some comparison, and debated the merits of ski mountaineering over rock and ice climbing.
‘Well, for pure sport, there’s nothing like rock and ice,’ George said
Jack laughed. ‘Oh you are one of those gnarly trad boys, I see. You should do the big walls in Yosemite and Joshua.’
George smiled a little.
‘I’d love to; meanwhile, Tahquitz.’
‘Oh those Stoned masters,’ Jack rolled his eyes. ‘Freaks if there ever were, but damn can they climb. I met Long John once up in Joshua and he left me in the dust, and I’m pretty good.’ He squinted at George ‘You solo free?’
George nodded and smiled. ‘Yeah.’ He looked at me. At least, in the confessional lingo of the climbing world they could find some common ground.
‘You look like you would.’ Jack shook his head. ‘Fucking amazing. I watched Dean Potter free solo between El Cap and Half Dome. Sandbag, man!’

The bags were coming down now, and we gathered them up on a trolley before Jack whipped out a five dollar bill and gave it all to a porter. Outside, the hot air was a blast furnace compared to San Francisco, where it had been 50 degrees. We got to the jeep and Jack let the porter load the whole show, and if George hadn’t pitched in with our gear, the man would have had a hernia. George thanked him but Jack simply flung himself in the front and lit another ciggie.

As soon as we were off I started pulling off layers because I was very overheated. Jack looked through the rear view mirror. ‘Hey, no orgies back there, Rhea,’ he said. He hadn’t called me that since I was ten, the ‘kid sister.’ I was down to underwear – a sodden camisole and petticoat – and rolled my eyes at George, who followed suit stripping off down to a t-shirt. His hair was sticking to his neck.
‘Ha!’ Jack cackled. ‘ You’re too used to that rainy weather. You need some of our California sunshine!’
‘I burn, if you’ll remember,’ I said. ‘Besides, it was snowing at Ell’s when we left the dog there on Tuesday. There was a cold snap.’
‘There was ice in the Thames for the first time in a hundred years,’ George said.
‘Shit! Well, you can hang out in the pool, then, and unfreeze.’

He turned out of the carpark.
‘How is Ell?' He asked, turning onto San Fernando Blvd.
‘Fine.’
‘She’s still with that maudlin fiddler, then?’
‘Jack, for Pete’s sake!’
‘Well he went around like fucking Lurch when we were in Vail. Never said two words.’
‘Some people are not talkers.’ George laced his fingers through mine.
‘Right,’ Jack said.

We were on the I-5 now, and I looked out over land that had once been orchards, and was now housing tracts.
‘We lived up there,’ I said to George, pointing out our old house in the Glendale hills, among the pine trees. ‘I can take you up there.’
‘Are you driving now?’ Jack asked.
‘Yes, but not on this side of the road. It may be an adventure.’ I said.
‘She refused to before,’ he told George. ‘It was too modern and noisy for her.’
‘I just couldn’t hang with your Camaro,’ I shot back.
‘I sold it,’ he said. ‘And got a Mercedes. I couldn’t take clients to dinner in a car that made me look like I took risks. Got a Range Rover, too. This old thing is just Beth’s knockabout.’
Then we were at his house, in a very tony estate on the border of Pasadena. It was a split-level house, with a rolling, immaculate golf-course lawn, a pool, a tennis court, and an apartment over the garage.
‘Home.’ He said, pulling up the brake. ‘You know where to go.’ He got out and opened up the back.

Beth and the kids were out in the pool, and she waved as we went up the stairs at the garage. Since my parents died, the ‘mother in law suite’ had been my digs there when I was home from school, which was not often. We left our gear in the jeep and stowed the rest upstairs, then went down to join Beth and the kids.
‘There you are, look at you!’ Beth exclaimed, and ran to give me a hug.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t come out, ‘ she said, glancing at Jack. ‘Kids you know.’
I rather got the impression they had a row.
‘And this is George,’ She took his hand. ‘ Welcome to the States!’
He nodded. 'Hi, Beth.'
‘I don’t know what’s in the air over there, all my sisters marrying Englishmen. Must be charm.’ Beth had been a sweet girl, one of Jack’s regulars, and she was still nice, but the sparkle had gone out of her. But not with George. ‘You must be awfully tired. Go and change, and you can come and lounge with us.’ She turned. ‘Ani,’ She said, to a teenaged girl I hadn’t noticed before. ‘Bring Davie over here. Come here Barbie!’ She called to her daughter. The au pair girl in the pool came out with Davie, still wearing his ducky ring, and set him down in front of me. Beth leaned down,

‘This is Aunty Claire, Davie. You remember I told you she was coming?’ He nodded solemnly, big blue eyes watchful.
‘Are you swimming with your ducky?’ I asked him.
He nodded. ‘He does quack!’ He squeezed the head of the duck, and it made a noise like the old canisters that we used to get in our Christmas stockings. Beth smoothed his brown hair – which was cut very short- and straightened.
‘Go play with Ani now,’ she said. 'Barbie, you remember Auntie Claire,' she said.
Barbie nodded, and looked at George. 'Not him,' she said. I smiled.
'No, I'm new,' George said. He looked over into the water. 'I see you can swim by yourself, can't you?'
Barbie nodded. 'Yup. I go to swimming lessons. I can swim in the deep end.'
'Very good!' He looked at me. 'I wonder if she climbs as well.'
'I can climb!' Barbie asserted. 'I climbed our tree-' she pointed. 'Only Daddy made me come down.'
'Well done,' George said approvingly.
'Go and get your things out of the pool, Barb,' Beth said. 'We're going to have dinner.' Barbie went, looking backward at George.
'She's usually very shy and hardly talks to anyone,' Beth said.
‘Davie’s adorable.’ I said.
Beth smiled. ‘Well, go and change, and we’ll fire up the barbeque.’
‘I’ll send you up a pitcher of G&T,’ Jack said. He wasn’t joking.

Upstairs I said to George, ‘He’s making the au pair…. They had a row about it. That’s why he didn’t want her to come.’
He sighed. ‘That’s hard.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘You know, in some ways he reminds me of Werner Erhard.’
‘That’s not an encouraging advert for est.’
He smiled ruefully. ‘No but it’s true. He's very flash, very cocksure of himself.’ He leaned and kissed me. ‘No nay never, darling.’
‘Thing is,’ I said, pulling off the sodden camisole, ‘he’s just like my father. I never thought about what that meant, until just now.’
There was a knock at the door. He smiled.
‘Go change. I’ll get it.’
I went into the bathroom.
When I came out, he was standing in the middle of the room in climbing shorts, the only cool things we had.
‘That woman didn’t speak English,’ he murmured.
‘That’s Elena, she’s Mexican.’ I said. ‘She’s got it good – her father was a farm worker. At least she has a roof over her head.’
He nodded at the pitcher. ‘What do I do with that? I hate gin.’
‘Leave it. I’ll give it to her later.’
He stretched his arms over his head in the Sun Salutation and groaned when his back cracked. ‘I couldn’t have servants. It’s just so bloody unfair.’
‘Good.’
He went on stretching for a few minutes. ‘Right, ready when you are.’
‘Never,’ I said.

In the house after dinner, George was looking at the picture collection on the table in the sunken den – pretending to listen to Jack's nattering about the neighbourhood association – and leaned down as I came over with a proper whiskey.
'Thank you, ' he murmured. 'Is this your father?' He touched the filigree frame. My father at Tuolumne, in hobnailed boots. Tall, curling sandy hair, raffish.
'Yeah.'
'He looks like Hillary.'
I laughed. 'Everyone said that.'
'What are you whispering about over there?' Jack called.
'How Daddy looked like Ed Hillary.'
'Oh God, not that again! We couldn't go anywhere without someone commenting. '
'There are worse fates,' George smiled.

Beth came in with Elena following, with a tray of zabaglione in brandy glasses. Well, at least it wasn't fondue, but it was fairly swish.
'What are we talking about?' Beth asked brightly.
'Hillary,' Jack said, lighting a cigar.
Her face fell.
'Oh you aren't going to talk about climbing all evening are you?'
'Maybe,' Jack said,
'No,' George said gently. He took a glass from her. 'Thank you Beth, this is lovely.'
'George can tell us about himself,' Jack said. He was rather potty, why I had not given him a scotch. Beth had asked me not to do.
'Not of my favourite subjects,' George said.
‘Well at least you can tell us what you do,’ Jack said irritably.
We sat down on the leather love seat.
‘Am I what I do?’ George asked, smiling.
‘I told you that he is a violinist interning at the London Philharmonic,’ I said.
‘Wow,’ this from Beth.
‘That just finished up,’ George said.
‘Yeah yeah,’ Jack said, ‘ but who are you?’
George laughed, a rich sound. He glanced at me. ‘I doubt we mean that in the same way, so let’s try this –‘ he gave a very brief run-through of his dossier, some of which was unintelligible to the others.

‘What’s an A Level?’ asked Beth.
‘The general education certification,’ George said, ‘it’s a prerequisite to university.’
‘It’s like taking Honours courses,’ I added.
‘And you did five? I don’t get it.’ From Beth, who was shaking her head.
‘They’re by subject,’ George nodded.’ Mine were Further Maths, Chemistry, French, English Language and Literature… and Music.’ He smiled. No points for guessing.
‘So you were a nerd,’ this from Jack.
‘Yes.’ He laughed.
‘So, if your internship just finished up, what are you doing now?’ Jack asked.
George looked at me. ‘Moving to Scotland. We’re waiting on our housing authorisation.’
‘To do what?’
He shook the hair from his face. ‘Teach, play music, make instruments, grow.’
‘Teach music?’ Beth asked.
‘No, enlightenment,’ George smiled. Jack made a rude noise.
There was a long silence.
‘I don’t understand,’ Beth said at last. Bless her, at least she was trying.

George stretched out his legs and leaned back into the squashy sofa. ‘Findhorn, where we are going, has workshops to teach people how to communicate, with each other and with God and nature…’ He smiled at me. ‘They also grow vegetables.’
‘Oh, what a crock! Hippie mumbo jumbo!’ Jack exclaimed. ‘You’d better hope you do better with the rest of it.’
‘We’ll do fine.’ George murmured.
Later, he said to me, ‘I think you’re right about Jack being afraid. Anger is a wall to hold out fear, and his is this velvet prison,’ his glance encompassed the bedroom, the house, Jack’s whole way of life. He sighed. ‘We all have to cope with it somehow, I suppose.’

In the morning we went over to our old house in the Glendale hills, up the rough-paved, narrow road to a tree-lined lane and the unpretentious Craftsman house with the bold overhanging eaves, a veranda and stained glass and mullioned windows.
‘This is a lot less swank than Jack’s place,’ George said.
‘Daddy put his money in numbered accounts not properties,’ I wasn’t joking.
We got out of the jeep and went up to the door. I knocked.
‘Hello, Mrs Benson!’ I said loudly to the old lady who opened the oaken door. She was a bit deaf. ‘It’s Claire Walter, do you remember me?’
‘Oh yes!’ she said, vaguely. Then, ‘You’re Jack and Margaret’s girl.’
I nodded. ‘ Yes ma’am.’ I turned. ‘This is my husband. I just wanted to show him the house. Do you mind if we wander about outside?’
‘Oh no!’ she said. ‘Do you want to come in? I could make some tea.’
‘No thanks, dear.’ I patted her hand. ‘We don’t want to disturb you.’
‘Well, if you’re sure…’
‘Yes.’ We made our farewells and went around to the back, where there was a tiny garden beside the garage. 'Mrs. Benson is Jack's tenant. She is the mother of one of Mother's friends. Jack didn't want to let go of the house –it's paid for – so she lets it for a pittance. As you can see, she's a bit deaf and dotty.'
'You were very good with her.... How old is she?'
'A hundred and eight.'
He laughed, and then looked up at the glorious windows at the back of the house. ‘I can see why you like the Arts and Crafts,’ George said. ‘Living here, how could you like anything else?’
‘Oh! It was heaven when I was a kid! Full of all sorts of nooks and places where the sun sparkled in and magic.’

When we were finished poking about, we walked up the lane to the top of the hill, looking at the other houses, and I pointed out where neighbours lived. We got into several conversations with old friends of my father’s who came out to see who was standing in front of their house. It was a nice afternoon.

We stopped on the way back at Fiddler’s Dream, the coffeehouse down in town, which was strewn with ratty sofas, odd tables, books, newspapers, anti-war posters, old concert posters. As we waited for our food, George looked about at all the detritus, coming back at last to murmur,
‘This is just the sort of place I’d imagine you’d like.’
‘Ellen turned me on to it. I used to play here.’
‘Perfect!’
The next morning we went up to the mountains. We had booked into a B&B in town because it was too cold to camp. We left at seven, and by half-past eight we stopped at the ranger station in Banning to put on the chains and change into warm clothes. Geordie really enjoyed the pines, and enjoyed even more the hairpin turns and spectacular mountain views on Highway 243 to Idyllwild. We got into town at about half-past nine, and to our digs by ten. They let us stow our bags and gear and off we went for some cross-country skiing. There were no downhill runs, none of the unpleasant crowdedness of ski centres, just peace and quiet, with the occasional creak of tree branches and lufts of falling snow.

In the middle of the afternoon we were traversing over to the ridge back towards town and came into a meadow above Foster Lake. He was ahead of me, breath blowing plumes about him, a leggy figure surmounted by a red anorak. All of sudden, he stopped, and I nearly crashed into him.
'Hullo!' He said. 'Look at that!'
'What?' I huffed, expecting a deer or falcon out for its dinner.
'There,' he pointed with his pole.
Yonder was a cabin, buried about four feet in snow.
'Come on, cupcake, let's go check it out,' and off he went, smoothly as an Olympian.
The cabin was two rooms and a lean-to, with a great stone chimney at one end. George went round it several times, and then we stood looking at the top hinge of the front door, which was at about my waist level. It was an Arts and Crafts hinge.
‘I wonder if anyone owns it,’ he said, bemused. I was startled.
'What do you mean?'
‘Let’s ask in town.’
‘What!’
‘Let’s ask in town whether anyone owns it or if we can lease or buy it,’ he said slowly.
‘You’re serious.’
‘I am, cupcake.’
'But what about Findhorn? Our caravan is supposed to be ready when we get back.'
He turned to me fully, with that intense gaze. 'Why live in a fishbowl when you can live in paradise.'
I shuddered, and he nodded. 'It told me that.... What do you think?' I had to breathe for a moment, fully aware that this moment was as portentous as Tintern Abbey.
‘I always wanted to live in a place like this, live off the land,’ I said at last. ‘Ever since the Summer of Love.’ He looked at me and gripped my hands with his strong fingers.
'Let's do it!'
So off we trekked to get the jeep and went over to the ranger station. As most buildings out here in the wild, we discovered that the cabin was owned by the National Park Service, but so unused and off their radar that the clerk had to go and look it up on OS maps. They sold it to us for $300, and the three acres around it.

We went back to our B&B and celebrated with a bottle of wine before the fireplace in the common room. Joan, the woman of the house, asked if we'd had a good day out.
'Oh yes!' I laughed.
'We bought a house,' George smiled.
She was startled. 'Did you come here looking for properties?'
'No we came to climb and ski,' he said, looking at me with a glance full of mischief.
'Well my goodness. God certainly works in mysterious ways.'
He laughed. 'Yes he does!'

Later that night he was still so high that he couldn't sleep, so we stayed up talking until the small hours, about what arrangements we would have to make for furniture and personal belongings and whatever legal hoops we would have to jump through so he could stay in the country. We could sell the car – Andy would take it for cheap – and give most of the furniture back to Oxfam as it wouldn't be suitable for this climate – we had planned to do that when moving to Findhorn anyway. We would only need to take our clothes, music, instruments, climbing gear, books and tools; we could get furniture down in Los Angeles. We should probably have to buy a truck or jeep – a car would be no good on these mountain roads.
'And, you know,' he said, his eyes far away into the future, 'living out there, we probably should be as self-sufficient as possible. What do you think of that?' He looked at me, smiling.
'You mean grow our own food and such?'
'And such,' he murmured. 'That should be a bomb for you, handy as you are.'
I was breathless, and teary. 'It's what I've always wanted....'
He smiled his blissful smile and kissed me.
'This is so much better than Findhorn,' he said. 'Here we can make our own rules and are answerable to no-one. We can make it up as we go along and do what works for us. No dogma, no interference...."Why live in a fishbowl when you can live in paradise?' That is what It said....'
'There's only one problem that I can see,' I said, drawing a long breath.
'What's that?'
'We shall have to wait for the snow to melt.'
He laughed. It was good to see him so happy.

We were up for breakfast in the morning, then went off to climb the Weeping Wall on Suicide, and the Lark on Tahquitz. The next day we did the Trough and then went over to the North Gully on San Jacinto. At the end of that we were pretty much toast, so spent the next day as a slack day skiing. We wandered the galleries in the evening, along the main street in town, and settled in at our B&B with hot whiskeys in the sauna. Paradise indeed.

Well, I came upon a child of God
He was walking along the road
And I asked him, Tell me, where are you going?
This he told me
Said, I'm going down to Yasgur's Farm,
Gonna join in a rock and roll band.
Got to get back to the land and set my soul free.
Well, then can I roam beside you?
I have come to lose the smog,
And I feel myself a cog in somethin' turning.
And maybe it's the time of year,
Yes and maybe it's the time of man.
And I don't know who I am,
But life is for learning.