Chapter Three

Wednesday 12 Sep 1973
The next afternoon George came round at teatime. All my early-music instruments were by the door, ready to go: knee harp, mandolin, bones, and pennywhistle. James answered the door, as I was in the back kitchen doing emergency surgery on my mandolin strap with an awl and a piece of gut. James was very casual. George said he just nodded and said, ‘She’s in the back,’ and went upstairs. I looked up from tying off one end of the gut in a double fisherman’s knot to find him watching me with his head cocked, hair falling in his face.
‘Girls on the rope,’ he said, ‘lovely sight.’ He came over. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Surgery. The strap broke. I won’t be a tick; I just have to secure the other side. Sit down.’ I looked down the hall. ‘Who let you in?’
‘James. Rather airy bloke, if you ask me. Does he always let just whomever in and wander away?’

I laughed. ‘Yes.’ I fiddled with the other side of the gut for a few minutes, securing the end, and put my tools way in the box.
‘You’re quite handy,’ George said.
‘I make jewellery, so I’m used to manipulating fiddly bits.’
‘Do you? A woman of many talents.’
‘Yes,’ I said smartly. I looked at him fully for the first time and felt that rush of emotion. I could fall into his eyes and be enchanted forever. Who needed love philtres? There was a long moment of falling into each other’s presence. Presence expanded and the world contracted until there was nothing else.
‘You’ve got me, baby,’ he said at last, ‘heart and soul.’ He tossed his head. ‘Come on, or we shan’t get there at all.’
I felt a ripple of something. ‘Would that be so bad?’ I whispered.
‘For chivalry, yes. For us,’ he shook his head with a little smile, touched my face, and then started, clearing his throat. ‘Come on, naughty girl, or you shall be undone.’
I smiled. I got THAT. It mattered to him. Not to me, because I accepted that what I felt was love.
‘That wouldn’t be so bad,’ I dared.
He gave a start and swatted my backside. ‘Claire! Naughty girl. You’re playing with fire, baby,’ the last was hushing, for he was standing very close. ‘You get me going, and there’s no telling what I might do. But make no mistake, I like this side of you. It is a good portent for the future.’

The whisper of the words brushed my temple, as we stood transfixed and suffused. ‘God, baby, what you do to me.’ I got that too, for I could feel it; quite apart from arousal, he was burning hot. His hand was on my hair, clenched in it. His struggle was impressive. His control was impressive. But the power of sexuality – to have each other in such a state – was even more impressive.
‘You’re about as passive as a siren,’ he murmured at last, ‘for all your still silence.’ He moved away a little to look at me. ‘Lawrence said I listen to the stillness of you, My dear, among it all; I feel your silence touch my words as I talk, And take them in thrall. That is what this is. Yes.’ He smiled now, his pale eyes warm and not burning. ‘We should go, because I’m starving. I still haven’t made up for last night.’
I smiled, nodding and picked up my mandolin and we went out.
Dinner was at the café in the Bells’ old parlour. We sat at a table near the window looking out onto the square, eating shepherd’s pie and drinking pints of bitter while we talked about early music research. Christopher Hogwood was a founding a member of his little group, as was David Munrow, so this was the big time of ancient music. George admitted, rather casually, that he had played on a couple of the Consort’s recordings, namely Ecco la primavera, which was Florentine music of the 14th century, and The Art of Courtly Love. Further, among his friends George counted Graeme Taylor of Gryphon. His modestly was striking, for he had in fact merely called the EMC ‘some friends of mine’, and Graeme’s name came up in passing. It was only because I listened to Gyphon’s album regularly that I knew the name at all.

We walked to the garage where George kept his Austin, as it was too far to carry instruments on the tube. George had woodwinds with him – recorder, crumhorn, and oboe – as well as his English guitar and fiddle. When we arrived at James Tyler’s house in Wimbledon (the setting for the practises rotated) we found Tyler, James Bowman, Hogwood (‘Chris please’) and David, as well as Marian Burns, Sheila Tormly and Marcus Heywood. All of them were ten years older than we, but were happy to have me sit in. It was serious music, and George took it very seriously. I discovered, very movingly, what an excellent musician he was. The night was not without singing, for among the items we played were Amours me fait desirer; Dame, se vous m'estés lointeinne; Quant Theseus/Ne quier veoir; A L'Arme, A L'Arme, virelai; Trés doulz amis-Ma dame-Cent mille fois; Contre le Temps, Virelai. But they were not serious about themselves. There was a good deal of messing about, and brandy and wine entered into the lists.

It was a late night. We did not get back to the Fulham Road until one o’clock, and later still for George because we dawdled, being now loath to say good night. In the end we did, he with courtly and chaste kisses of my hands and forehead. I watched him walk down the steps, dizzy with exhaustion. We had agreed to go to the Tate tomorrow, and I had to write a paper on atonal polyphonies in 13th Century France, so I sat up until five in the morning, working out alternate tunings to simulate the early modes. I also had to make up my notes from the theory reading I had missed yesterday. Love could be hazardous to one’s health.

Thursday 13 Sep
At the Tate we looked at the Pre-Raphaelites, for their folklore component, and I remarked how similar their technique was to stained glass – the colours very bright and clear – which was why I supposed, so much stained glass was done in that mode. George didn’t miss a trick.
‘Do you do that as well?’
‘Yes,’ I smiled.
He turned to me, ‘what else do you do?’
I looked up at Morris’ La Belle Iseult. ‘Domestic arts, like Morris. Spinning, dyeing, soap, herbcraft, corn weaving, including chairs, knitting. Clothes because I must to get what I want.’ He was staring.
‘What?’
‘Where did you come from?’ He pressed my arm as he held it above the elbow. ‘Where did you learn all this?’
I smiled. ‘I taught myself, mostly. Some I learnt from my sister. She lives in Wales. I usually go there at the weekends. She has a sheep farm.’ Which reminded me that I had to ring Ellen and tell her I was going climbing this weekend.
He shook his head. ‘Are you sure you won’t move to Cornwall with me and revive the old life?’
Looked up at him, a bit stunned. ‘Is that a proposition?’
He was breathless and his eyes watchful.
‘No, lady. But it could be a proposal. Let’s see, shall we?’
I felt weak and was speechless. ‘Oh my…’
He tangled his fingers in mine, clasping my hand strongly. ‘Let’s just get through this weekend, shall we?’ He drew a deep breath. ‘I need to talk to a friend of mine.’
I could barely take in the words. He shook his head. ‘Not to worry, it’s not a girl on the side,’ he smiled. ‘It’s my friend Hamish in Scotland. He’s like a brother to me, from long ages past.’
So he wasn’t entirely reckless and impetuous, but took advice from trusted friends.
‘Good.’ I managed.

We spent another hour at the gallery, and I got to see my favourite Millais – Mariana – up close before we went down to the cafeteria and shared a huge pile of chips as a pre-dinner snack.
This evening we spent at my flat in Fulham Road. He met all the flatmates – Hazel and Beth were in a swoon, Alicia watchful, James and Mark chummy. The guys talked about football with him, while the girls asked him a thousand questions about how to get on at the Phil. After dinner we holed up in my room playing music together and he read my papers on modal forms after examining every piece of bric-a-brac and picture in the room. He asked about my brother and sister when scrutinising a picture of us all at Vail last Christmas, so I told him a bit about Jack and Ellen and their lives.

‘Jack was big into basketball in school, star athlete, all that. Plays the bass. He used to be quite cool, but he’s got a bit obsessed lately. He has a wife and kids now and was okay until they were born, but he’s become fixated on “providing” for them. I think he’s scared.’
‘What does he do for his living?’
‘He’s an investment manager with Bear Stearns.’
George made an unappreciative noise. ‘Too bad. He looks like a ski bum.’
I laughed. ‘He was. We all were….’ I bit my tongue from blurting about my parents. But he caught it.
‘…And Ellen?’
I smiled again. ‘Ellen went on a holiday to Caernarfon and never returned. She met Morgan Evans and got married.’
‘And has a sheep farm,’ he concluded. He cocked his head. ‘ Why did she go to Wales?’
‘It was a tour with a bunch of hand spinners she knows – in her guild. Jack thought she was mad. But she always wanted something else from life. We both did.’

He regarded me keenly at that. ‘And what did your parents say?’
Well, here it was. I took a breath. ‘My parents died four years ago in a car accident.’
He paled. ‘Oh my God.’ He reached out and took my hands. ‘I’m so sorry.’
I shook my head. ‘I was away at school – we all went to boarding schools, like public school here. I never saw anything.’
‘Still,’ he said, ‘that’s rough…. How old were you?’
‘Fifteen.’
‘Shit.’ He clasped my hands strongly. ‘So who looked after you?’
I had to laugh at that, not a little ironically. ‘School! Well, nominally Jack, but it was only on paper. More or less I was let to run wild, and so I did.’
He smiled. ‘ I can see how wild you are.’
I shook my head. ‘Jack thinks so. He calls me his hippie-dippy sister. Here, look,’ from the desk I pulled out a family portrait from old days, when I was still establishment: shoulder-length hair, headband, pearl earrings, twinset and all. It was a far cry from dirndl skirts, Art Nouveau jewellery, and thigh-length hair.

George peered at me, and the picture. ‘I wouldn’t have looked twice at that girl. What happened?’
I could laugh now. ‘The Summer of Love!’
‘I’m glad.’ He put the picture down and put his arms around me. ‘I’m sorry about your parents, little one, truly. That’s quite a blow.’
I shook my head. ‘We didn’t have a great emotional attachment- ’ feelings welled up. ‘We were always at school you see, except at holls. Then we would go skiing or climbing- and that was nice – we went everywhere- ’
He was so kind with my struggling, with the surprising emotion that surfaced.
‘Hey,’ he said softly, and gathered me into an embrace. He did not say trite things, only stood there, enveloping me, swaying a little, gently. After a long time, he moved away a little.
‘If you want to tell me about it, now or ever, I’ll hear it.’
I nodded. ‘Thank you. I haven’t told anyone…. I don’t want to be a downer.’
He put a finger on my lips.’ Shh shh, baby. This is real, not drama. It’s not a downer.’

Well, that unstopped something, because I blurted out, ‘They were on the interstate, coming back from Palm Springs – Daddy had liked to golf – and there was a lorry – its brakes went – They say that they never knew, that it was instantaneous, that they did not suffer.’
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.’
‘Thank you.’ I was sniffing now.
‘…Is there more you want to say?’
There it was – an opening, for all the shocking deep anger that lurked within. ‘Yes… You see, in part I was glad – because I felt… that they didn’t care for us very much, that we were only possessions, part of their perfect little life. They didn’t relate to us as people. They might have loved us in some abstract way but sure as hell didn’t give a damn about us as people—‘ I heard myself, sounding so angry, and couldn’t go on. Where was the peace love and understanding?
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry to dump this on you.’ I was about to move away, but he held me fast.

‘Hey,’ he said gently. ‘There are ways to handle this. And we will. I promise.’ He kissed my forehead. ‘As for right now, Claire oh baby, don’t you think I know about anger? I was the angriest young man God ever made. That’s why the wild life; I was running away from facing all that. I’ll tell you about it, all the stuff with my father. But for now, I know, and I want you to know that. What you feel is normal, and is a part of grief. Don’t feel bad for it.’
I looked up at him, into those clear grey eyes, so full of compassion and tenderness – and I loved him with my whole soul.
‘I love you,’ I said. Out it came, simply, naturally, surely.
He nodded, his strong fingers still holding me fast. ‘Yes. Yes indeed. I know that you do…. I love you, Claire. To the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.’

He went downstairs and got some whiskey from James, and we sat on the bed drinking it and talking.
‘What happened with Jack and Ellen? Did they feel the same as you?’
I shook my head. ‘No, they were older, had their own lives already. Jack certainly buys into their paradigm…’ I paused, thinking. ‘Ellen had made her break already. She was a Ren Fair brat – that’s how she got into all her traditional crafts. Her boyfriend took her once, and she was home.’ I smiled. ‘She ditched the boyfriend and kept the lifestyle…. Oh, they disapproved, certainly, Mother and Daddy, of her shaggy hair and gauze skirts and pentacle – she became a Wiccan, and filled her room with posters of the Green Man and the Tree of Life. But she was clean and organic and they couldn’t really complain –‘ I laughed, ironically. ‘ She still went climbing and skiing with us, so that was acceptable!’

He was smiling. ‘And what did they think of you? Ellen was married by then?’
I drank some of the peaty scotch. ‘Yes. As for me, Mother only said “not another one!” and told me to wear dresses with sleeves if I wasn’t going to shave.’
George laughed out loud. ‘Can’t have them being natural and sexy,’ he said.
‘Is it?’ I looked up.
He nodded cheerfully. ‘That’s why in paintings only the whores had body hair. You can look, next time we are at the Tate.’
I smiled. ‘I believe you.’
‘What about Jack? You said he smoked grass. Does he still?’
‘Heck no! He gave that up when he became a senior account manager.’
‘Could he have become a ski bum, really?’
I considered, frowning. ‘Maybe if he had gone away after school, taken a year off. But the draft came, and he had to go right into college. He’s very uptight.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘So am I. He’s made it in the world’s eyes, but he isn’t connected to anybody.’
‘Even his wife.’ It was not a question.
‘No. She’s a nice girl too. It’s a shame.’
He nodded, taking it in. I heard him thinking That will not happen to us. It was the weirdest thing, because I had never been telepathic before, but looking into his eyes, I saw it there, and he knew it. I nodded. We were agreed.

We played Vivaldi for a little while, and I marvelled as he improvised accompaniment on my mandolin, especially as I was a bit potty and had to concentrate on the melody myself. Then we lay on the bed in the soft light of the mica desk lamp, and he told me – fingers twined in my hair – how he had grown up a very spiritual child, but not religious, hearing voices and seeing angels in trees like Blake and was forced by his father’s being a vicar into the pinching shoe of the Anglican church, where mysticism was not appreciated.
‘My father was very low-Church, you understand,’ he murmured. ‘Perhaps I’d have done better in a High Church setting – all the Popish candles and incense and chant,’ I smiled because he was teasing me. ‘But I’d never heard of Julian of Norwich. Certainly not Evelyn Underhill. My father would have – did! – call that rubbish.’ He sighed. ‘In working through this, at Findhorn, I realised that all the anger I had, from the time I was about twelve, was from feeling shut out from my natural space. I certainly never liked conformity! But it was stunning to realise that I should call myself a mystic above all. That’s about as far from a nihilist as you can get.’ He was smiling gently.

‘I am impatient, as you’ve seen,’ he said. ‘And I have had a difficult time being lazy – mellow – because my mind is always going, and I wanted so much to experience everything. So I took to climbing because it was a way to get back to that space – and it was a thrill. I’ve free solo -climbed a lot and probably should have been killed ten times over, but I was never afraid. There is a sort of understanding between me and the rock.’ He shook his head. ‘I didn’t understand why until I was at Findhorn. Now I do. My reasons for climbing are complex, but transcendence is certainly one of them.’
I nodded, taking it in. So he was as daring on rock as he was in playing music and romance. Of course he would be all of a piece. But, ‘You’re pretty mellow just now,’ I said, ‘lying here just talking. Not restless.’
He laughed. ‘But my mind is going a hundred miles an hour!’ He patted me. ‘But I know what you’re getting at. In answer,’ he kissed my temple, ‘I learned meditation from Hamish, because it is de rigueur at Findhorn, so I know now to turn it off and be present. It has been the greatest blessing of my life.’
‘Hamish is your friend that you wanted to talk with about us?’
He nodded. ‘The very same. You’ll meet him.’ He paused, thoughtfully. ‘I met him at school and he has been a mentor for me ever since. He was a couple of forms ahead, and rather took me in hand of his own accord, even though I wasn’t assigned to him…. He was brill in maths, but gave it up to become a carpenter, and now he does geomancy there. He’s very down to earth, but he understands the spiritual part of things better than anyone I’ve ever known….’ He turned to look at me. ‘ I spoke to him today.’
‘And?’

George smiled. ‘He said see how we climb together because that tells a lot, but otherwise he gave his blessing. His guide said that we had an etheric connection.’ He laughed. ‘I knew that the moment I saw you. I didn’t need a discarnate entity to tell me that.’
‘…So it’s down to whether I fall off or not?’ I was joking. He laughed again.
‘No. You’ve done the Long Climb at Tahquitz, so I think your bona fides are safe… no, it’s more about fit. You know what I mean in climbing terms here.’
I nodded.
‘It’s like sex – you have to know if you’re compatible, if someone turns you on or not. If both aren’t on the same vibe, it won’t work.’
‘What about chivalry?’
He turned and looked at me, fully and seriously. ‘Woman, know thou this true thing: I want you, and I know that you want me by signs you don’t know you’re making. I can tell by your eyes, your breath, and the sex flush that you cannot manufacture at will –‘ he touched my chest over my heart with hot fingers. ‘So I don’t need to make you to know that we’re on the same vibe. Even though I want to…’ he smile ruefully. ‘I’m also enjoying this tension. It’s a lovely game and completely new to me. So I am remade.’ He smiled here, eyes crinkling. ‘The risen Osiris!’ Lawrence again. The Man who Died. This man was an education. He breathed deeply for a few minutes, full of bliss. ‘Oh! I am high, and it’s not the Scotch, though that was nice. It is being here, tangled up with you. Sex is the icing on the cake. I told Hamish that, and he told me that I’d made a breakthrough. I certainly have! Thank you.’

I said, into the peaceful silence, 'I talked to Ellen today, to tell her I was going climbing, so not coming out at the weekend. She asked me who I was going with, so I told her about you.'
'What did she say?'
'"Get thee to a chemist!" '
George laughed out loud, shaking his head. Then he sobered and flung his arm over his head, considering. 'We'll have to find something else. I could say I was allergic to sheepskin or latex, but the truth is I just don’t like condoms. They spoil all sensation at just the wrong moment.' He kissed my temple.
'Well, she wasn't suggesting that.'
'What then?'
'Wild carrot.'
'Excuse me?'
'She told me to get some wild carrot from a herbalist – only because she didn't have time to send me any. It's what she uses, and they have one kid and only will ever have one kid.'
He frowned. 'How does it work?'
'You chew it up and swallow it when you're fertile. Like the pill only more specific.'
'Hmm.... Beats nasty tasting gels I suppose,' he said philosophically. Well, there was one-up on me! I pondered the possibilities of his meaning for a while, until he prodded me. 'Have I shocked you into silence?'
I smiled. 'No, it's all just through a glass darkly to me.'
'All in good time, lassie. All in good time.' He raised his head to look at the wind-up clock on the desk. Then I was enveloped in a bone-crunching embrace, enveloped by arms and legs. He was shaking deeply. 'Well, we have to decide, do I stumble home or sleep here and shock your flatmates?'
It was so warm and comfortable in his arms, 'Mmm. I'd much prefer that you stayed.'
'So would I.' He considered. 'Ah but, I'd have to leave in a few hours to feed and walk Ferg.' He kissed the top of my head. 'So I should best go.'
'Will he mind if you come in early?'
'I don’t think so.'
'Then stay. I don’t mind wakening up in a few hours.' It was two in the morning.
'Oh Woman! Most dangerous is that temptation that doth goad us on to sin to loving virtue. Pity me, poor knight in thy humble service lady! I cry you mercy!'

Conscious of Hamish's advice, I put my fingers to his lips. 'Hist! Consider it, then, fair Galahad, the Siege Perilous and by this trial be thou thus transformed.'
He gave a moan that shot through me like a ribbon of fire.
'Claire! You undo me.' He breathed for while, still shaking deeply, and I realised that I had fit a key into a specific lock into a deep place in his soul. The power of the game was heady.
'A test!' he complained after a time. 'A sore test. But as you make it and have made no other, I shall take it up,' He kissed my face. 'I shall stay then, lady. But set the alarm.'
I did, for six as he instructed, and we slept in bliss for four precious hours.

I sent him off with a cup of tea from the dark kitchen.
'I'll collect you at two,' he said. My last lecture was out at one. I nodded.
'And mind the chemist!' He said, smiling wearily. That sent a shudder through me. It was proof that he was serious indeed.