Mike is the Specialist. He just turned up out of the blue one day as they all do. Never said if he’d seen the advert, ‘Bread for Heads’. Someone had mentioned Advanced Art and the office in Hollywood Road to him. He never said who though. He’s at least thirty, very ordinary looking. Sandy-brown, fairly short hair. Clean shaven. Brown eyes. A little under six-feet tall. Wearing a green and white-checked flannel shirt, open at the neck. Crisp blue jeans. Light brown desert boots with black laces. He doesn’t wear any rings, identity bracelets, crosses or earrings, just a plain watch with a brown strap. It's a cold day - and there have been a few so far this summer - he sports a light-brown, tweed type jacket. He hasn’t got an upper-class accent or a posh BBC voice. But he is well-spoken all the same. As Frank Zappa would say ‘A real straight arrow Howie’ ... Mike only ever appears on a Friday or a Saturday. Sometimes, he doesn't show for more than two weeks at a time. He never seems to talk to anyone except Scott. Mike must have decided from the very beginning when he first showed that Scott was his man. He is truly a specialist and somehow Scott understood that secret straightaway. A crew leader like Scott has to make quick, accurate assessments to survive this game …

One of the benefits with the Cortina is that without much of a pinch, you can travel safely with six up. When Dominic was with the crew those few days or this new young girl called Selinda. Sounds like a name you might make up. She’s Canadian. They just love to sit on the boys' laps. This embarrasses Eric and Tom no end, which just seems to add to the girls’ enjoyment. Mike always sits in the back, wedged up tight against the window behind the front passenger seat. When a joint is passed around, he diplomatically accepts it, and then passes it on automatically without toking on it. He has the car window on his side maybe a quarter of the way down for fresh air. If Mike is traveling out with the crew, Scott always heads for the most expensive property he can find … A Saturday like today and heading out to Cobham in Surrey. A very, very rich area, with many private roads guarded by gates. Threatening signs abound, defying all trespassers, hawkers, vagabonds, gypsies and salesmen to enter. The imminent threat of legal prosecution and police action. Images on signs of lethal looking dogs, usually wolf-like Alsatian heads, with intense menace indicated …

To go down one of these rich and well-guarded private roads takes a lot of courage. You may well be taking your life in your hands. These are not yellow-brick roads for the faint hearted. That of course is the whole object of all these gates and ‘Beware of the dog’ signs. To keep you out! Keep you well away, so as you don’t contaminate the doorsteps of the rich and privileged. Enter at your peril … It doesn’t deter Mike, Scott or Tom … Dropping off Eric, Carole Bishop and eager young Selinda first on modern, detached estates closer to Cobham. Then heading into the coveted area of rich properties. Immediately finding Mike the most expensive and secluded looking private road. He always sells well in these kinds of places. I guess folks believe that he’s just walked over from the million-pound house across the fields to enquire about membership of the local Cobham tennis club, theatrical company or operatic society.

One of the keys of all selling is to appear as at one with the people you are selling to. You simulate their speech, mannerisms, ideas, politics, cultural behaviour in a flash and they accept you, thereby becoming receptive to whatever it is you have to offer. It is a very difficult trick, worthy of a high-quality actor. Mike must perform it very well for he always sells. On maybe twelve outings over three months he’s only ever blanked once. He is agreeing the time of the pick-up with Scott. He is the only crew member who goes out with Scott who ever insists on synchronizing their watches. Such is his keen attention to detail … Watching him now as he moves off briskly down a private road. Skirting the imposing gates and oblivious to the picture of a ferocious canine head … He’s disappearing around a curve in the precious road, carrying his red and black-edged art folder. The hot afternoon sunshine in the middle of June makes everything seem possible … Mike nearly always sells two large and a small. He tells Scott he never drops his price of twelve pounds for the large and six for the small. Which of course means that after the fourteen pounds and fifty-pence hand-in to Scott, he makes himself fifteen pounds and fifty pence in new money. Not bad for one day’s work when the supposed average wage in the country is reckoned to be twenty pounds a week, so they say …
‘Just who are they?‘ chorus the crew whenever Scott says that.
‘Why, all of us, of course, baby blue. We all make up the considered opinion, even people living on the edge like us. The outsiders and semi-outcasts, looking for a foothold in so-called society, without compromising. The heroes and dreams that drive us on. Our youth is an energy that just cannot be denied!’
‘Hurrah!’ cheer the crew … Mike the Specialist is not interested in the points system. His usual six, or sometimes seven, points Scott awards to the other members of the crew. Sharing them out. Particularly to help Eric. Scott doesn’t want to lose him …

It’s strange, but no-one else in the Hollywood Road office seems to notice Mike. It’s not that he’s invisible exactly. More that amongst all the long haired, exotic, chattering, hungry types who frequent the basement office from day to day, Mike seems so ordinary. You wouldn’t give him a second glance … He’s reached the stage after a couple of weeks whereby he will often turn up just as Scott and the crew are about to get into the Cortina and set off. Sometimes, if his timing is slightly awry, he'll slip into Keaton’s restaurant and sit down next to Scott. Never ordering anything mind you. Determined to stay on the absolute fringes as much as possible … He never really talks in the crew. The others accept him because he is quite clearly a super salesman, and with the exception of Carole Bishop, is much older than them. He doesn’t push himself forward and never makes any effort to sit in the front passenger seat or try and exercise power in any kind of way. Truly the cult of the anonymous person … Mike has never, ever made any comment about himself or offered up any information. Where exactly he lives and who with, if anybody, remains a complete mystery. His final drop-off point on a Friday or Saturday night is always by the side of Hammersmith Bridge on the Barnes side, at the start of Castelnau. Never deviates, no explanations. Probably thinks the crew and Scott are not people to be open with. And in some ways he may well be right. Scott surmises that he lives in a big house on the borders of Barnes Common. Probably not far from the Bull's Head public house. Jazz evenings with the Dick Morrissey trio, John Mayer and the Indo Jazz Fusions featuring Joe Harriet … Mike must live with his mother, a grandmother or maybe an aunt. Has his own set of rooms in a large, detached house. Settled in his ways, living within his interests and hobbies and the money once a week is enough from Advanced Art to keep this going until he finds something better or more lucrative … Scott finds that when folks tend towards secrecy, his imagination starts to run wild. Unfortunately, Mike is too old to be included in The Children of the Empire. Born too early which is a crying shame. Behind that anonymous persona lurks a mine of information, otherwise how else could he sell so well? … Of course, he’s really living in an old, disused hut off Barnes Common, and a local lady takes pity on Mike. Washes and irons his clothes for him each week and lends him the train and bus fares to get him to Hollywood Road. Scott’s curiosity is piqued. Possibilities endless …

A hot summer’s afternoon in the district of Cobham. Scott drives around on his own looking for a likely private road. You have to be so careful these days. You could easily encounter an irate investment broker on his Saturday afternoon in the sunshine, who takes great exception to your presence on his private property and tries out one of his new Purdy rifles on you … Scott picking a private road that hints at overgrown pathways. Has no tall, locked gates and no visible signs of menacing guard dogs. Caution ... Parking a quarter of a mile down this roadway. Well-spaced, detached houses in the distance. Approaching a red-bricked house, a large front garden with an enormous old oak. Really a wonderful sight. Bushes and flowers everywhere and the scent of summer … The front door is white with a gleaming gold knocker, all located on a porch. Scott finding an old-fashioned bell cord and pulling it. The ring sounds like a church bell being rung at chapel … A long wait. Somewhere off in the distance the sound of high-pitched voices … Nothing for it, having to pull that cord again. Ding-dong … At last, someone is coming. The white door is opening and the smiling face of a man in his late thirties, who resembles the actor Alan Bates.
‘That looks suspiciously like an art folder. I used to have one when I was a student. Long time ago of course. Hot day, won’t you come in?’ Scott follows this friendly man, who introduces himself as Jonathon … Scott is led into an immense lounge. French windows wide open, leading onto what looks like an endless expanse of garden.
‘You'll have to excuse us, Scott, isn’t it...? Good! I got it right. Terrible head for names. Memory like a sieve. Forget my own sometimes. We are having a birthday party in the garden for our oldest daughter, Amelia. She’s twelve today. So why don't you just sit there and I’ll try and be with you in a while. Will get you some cool lemonade and a slice of birthday cake. Unless of course you would care for something stronger to drink?’
‘No, thank you. Lemonade will do just fine … I hope I’m not putting you out?’
‘Don’t be silly. We just love visitors. Especially young artists … Now, I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’ He is so friendly and welcoming it is hard to believe. Scott is always prepared for axe murderers to suddenly come jumping out from a wardrobe or closet. But Jonathon seems genuine enough. We live in suspicious times when you can doubt what you see and hear … A massive, screened colour television is far across this palatial room. Dense cream carpet. Silk wallpaper by the looks of it. A small chandelier. Chairs, tables, cabinets, standard lamps, sofas, table lamps, radiogram. It would be hard to complete an inventory on a hot afternoon in June. Scott settles for leaning back into a plush, amber sofa and idly looking at the colour television way across the room. It’s competing with the sound of joyful laughter emanating from the faraway garden …

Left all alone in this large, luxurious house. The trusting nature of these people is amazing. Scott could easily be Charles Manson’s English cousin, and the crew, currently wandering around the private roads in the vicinity of Cobham, a clever front for a Manson style family … Scott leaning forward and listening intently to catch the end of the news broadcast on the television set. The news announcer’s voice competing with blackbirds singing sweetly in the garden trees through the open French windows. The rise and fall of laughter in the distance. A lone aeroplane somewhere off in the distant blue yonder.
‘The Government has released the unemployment figures for May. The worst since the war in 1940 … Today sees the launch of the new Morris Marina.’ On the screen: pictures of smiling executives, glamour girls, a super looking car… ‘And finally, the Tunisian tourist board has announced plans to tempt British tourists ...’

Scott taking a chance. Rolling a quick single-paper spliff, standing just outside the open French windows and smoking it in the sunshine. He can’t see the children’s party taking place down this spacious garden. Too many trees and bushes. But all the garden smells of summer are intoxicating. Such a special treat. Smell is a primal sense. We live in a society that increasingly tries to obliterate smell. Neutralize odours. Freshen up life with man-made fragrances ... Stood here right now, on the edge of this heavenly garden, Scott can taste time … Sat back into that amber-coloured sofa again. Can see the Australian tennis player John Newcombe, complete with moustache, playing a televised match at Queen's. The sound of fresh voices and laughter making their way up into this room … Shortly, Jonathon reappears with a long, tall glass of iced lemonade on a hot afternoon. A plate with a slice of birthday cake and a small fork. He vanishes into the depths of the garden again, promising to return when he can.
‘I hope you’re not too bored ...’ was his passing, and sole comment.

John Newcombe seems to be winning the match at Queen's in the traditional warm-up for Wimbledon. Not really interested in tennis. Just noticing the moment. Alive to the second. It just feels so special. The quality of summer light. The drifting laughter. The implicit trust. The sheer Englishness of it all, though it could be West Virginia or Nice. The whole of time seems to stop and hold in the second. Breathless. That expression, ‘time stood still’. Well, to Scott right now, time is motionless, and he just wishes he could carry this moment with him forever. He can feel himself alive this second. All of his life at once …

The magic spell breaks. Jonathan reappears apologizing for having left Scott alone for so long. It felt like five minutes and turns out to be about seventy … Jonathon watching as Scott shows some of the paintings on velvet. Going through the routine … Jonathon doesn’t stand on ceremony. Instantly pounces on The Audience and The Mask of Apollo and buys them, offering Scott twenty pounds. Waving Jonathon goodbye down the long driveway. Still the sound of reverberating laughter of people Scott will never see … Driving the Cortina slowly down the private road. Refreshed in the blazingly hot June sunshine. Picking up the crew one by one. Time seems to have slipped by so quickly. It’s gone half past four. Mike the specialist sold three large paintings that afternoon for thirty-six pounds. Tom sold two large and a small. Eric, Carole Bishop and young Selinda, bless them, all blanked …

Patricia, back at the squat, is a specialist of sorts - though you would never guess it if you ever caught a glimpse of her after the sun has gone down on Milner Square. But during the daytime, for five days of the week, she wears an expensive black dress, well-made high-heeled shoes, flesh-coloured stockings and a good quality coat. Natural nail varnish, a slim expensive watch, gold earrings and a golden cross around her throat. Lightly-shaded makeup and face powder to disguise the late-night excesses, and plain, non-prescription glasses, which she doesn’t need to wear. Her eyesight, as Scott observes, is as good as yours or mine. Well, most of the time. In the vernacular, she scrubs up well … she is a specially trained, highly skilled secretary. Eighty words-per-minute of accurate typing and a hundred-and-twenty for shorthand, which she can read. Audio typing skills developed in a legal practice. Brilliant with the boss’s business and personal diaries. Expert at telephone calls, company policy and agendas. Running an office smoothly is her natural instinct. She enjoys it and gets paid a handsome remuneration for it. She was head-hunted from a well-known legal firm in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. She is now the personal assistant and right arm of a very famous Greek shipping tycoon-based part of the time in London. Patricia occasionally gets to travel to the other main office in Athens, also the New York office, where she is on her best behaviour. And of course, the multi-millionaire yacht sailing the high seas; or more often to be seen in the waters of the South of France. She may only be referred to as an assistant and a secretary, but she holds a key position of power in one of the world’s largest shipping companies … The indispensable secretary. Discreet. Careful of her place. A brilliant memory for detail and trained precisely to her varnished fingertips …

How exactly does Patricia do it? Well, come rain or come shine she gets up every workday morning at seven-thirty sharp on the ringing alarm clock. It doesn't matter if she’s only had two hours sleep, which is often the case. She washes herself down and prepares herself. Gets into work-mode. Keeps all her professional clothes carefully together in an old family wardrobe. No time for breakfast, just a quick cup of coffee and the first cigarette of the day. Brushing her thick, black hair which she keeps short and manageable. Applying all the make-up and powder. Judging the English weather of the morning and off she goes. She always has a black taxi waiting for her in Milner Square. Eight-fifteen on the dot. The same cabby come rain or come shine … Patricia is due in the office at nine o’ clock, but she always aims to get to the office block in Thomas More Street, around eight forty-five, traffic permitting … The black taxi is her special treat and it paves the way for a brisk start. Once in the office she is in command. Catching up on the overnight telexing. The night-staff messages. Attending to the details of the day. She refrains from smoking when she is working which is a clever trick. Her boss may be a multi-millionaire shipping magnate, yet his Greek background and age suggest that if he saw a woman smoking a cigarette openly in the street, that would make her nothing less than a prostitute in his eyes ... Patricia doesn’t stop once the clock is running. An office boy goes out and gets her a cup of coffee and a bacon sandwich from a local cafe. She eats and drinks her coffee as she works and doesn’t eat again during the day … Patricia is always present at office conferences. Busy taking notes and offering suggestions if asked. Introduced to clients and privileged visitors of the rich and famous … None of them would ever suspect … Quite often she may not finish her working day till gone seven o’clock. Will stay and perform for whatever is necessary and needs to be done. This is what people pay her for. Not the clock watching masses who can’t wait to leave work, when their day truly begins. That is why Patricia is a specialist. It is her attention to detail and her innate pride in being a professional …

At night when the vampira are about, Patricia transforms from Miss Jekyll into Jezebel Hyde. Her daytime clothes are carefully discarded and she dresses and performs as a wanton slut. Heedless of anyone or anything. Hungry for sex, booze and drugs. Determined to enjoy them nightly and will try anything for a thrill … It is so hard to put the two different creatures together. When Scott first encountered Patricia on the rickety stairs one morning as she was heading out to work. For the first second he was thrown. Thought this smartly-dressed woman must have been Patricia’s overnight lover. Her latest squeeze. The glasses flummoxed Scott. But as soon as she opened her mouth, all was revealed. Though it was still very hard to believe. He spent hours that day thinking hard about it. Admiration in the end for Patricia was where he got to …

Patricia was away in Athens with her Greek shipping tycoon in early May. Just a few days. Big, blonde Sheila came clomping down the rickety stairs. They must have creaked with fright. Came straight through Scott’s door. No one knocks on Scott’s door in this house. They all barge right on in as if it’s a given. Sheila goes right ahead and plonks her sizable bulk down on the futon. It seems it can stand the strain … Sweet Mother of Jesus, what does she want? Scott soon has his answer. Sheila indicates towards the joint he is smoking.She wants to buy some dope … handing her the spliff. Of course, in a transaction of this type, small talk intervenes. It seems a matter of compulsion. Sheila is looking intently at Scott. Perish the thought. If you have a person in common between you, then it’s only natural that you start discussing them … Big, blonde Sheila buys a quarter of an ounce of Afghani Black. Starts rolling a joint and launches straight into Patricia.
‘Did you know that Patricia washes herself down in cold water every morning, Scott?’
‘How could I?’
‘Behind her neck and ears. Under her hairy armpits. She even scrubs her fanny, not that it makes a blind bit of difference!’
‘Preparing herself for work and the day ahead I guess.’
‘You could say that!’ Puffing away. When she hands Scott the joint, he’s careful how he accepts it from her. Just thankful that big, blonde Sheila, with the build of an all-in wrestler, is a dedicated 'Devotee of Sappho'.
‘She has this special bottle of perfume that she hides from me by keeping it in her office. Can you imagine that! The sly bitch! As if I would steal her bloody perfume, I ask you!’ Scott smiles to himself. All the moon children when push comes to shove, reveal themselves in the thoughts and actions of their parents. Nothing changes that much … Patricia being the ultimate professional. Careful to the Nth degree. Just a hint of patchouli behind a frozen smile of efficiency. Selah …

Sheila lumbers off upstairs, still bitching about Patricia, her lover, as she goes. She works part-time in a snack bar. Patricia by contrast has a brilliant memory for details and is trained to her naturally painted toenails. Scott will say it again, but you could just never, ever comprehend the transformation. How she gets up and performs every morning is some kind of miracle. It’s like she drinks warm human blood for breakfast and metamorphosizes instantly. Rock solid energy. Perfect timekeeper. A true specialist in all regards and she can keep secrets too, which is just as well, especially in her particular job. She gets to hear and see hidden things, details, connections, documents, the shady dealings of the rich and powerful. Maybe that’s how they got that way... Scott greatly admires Mike and Patricia. They are both specialists in their given fields of activity. To look at them you wouldn’t pick either of them out from the crowd in a million years. Now that is special!