Hollywood Road is right opposite the main entrance to St Stephen’s Hospital on the Fulham Road. As you drive down Hollywood Road you discover it is all private houses with the exception of one small block of exclusive flats. Then you notice, towards the end of Hollywood Road, on the right-hand side, in amongst all the houses, is a restaurant. Two doors up from the offices of Advanced Art, which are submerged in a basement. Let’s face it, where else could Advanced Art possibly be. Keeps everybody connected with the operation out of the regular eye view of the street. Then at the bottom of Hollywood Road, an intersection with Cathcart Road … Keaton’s has become one of the restaurants of the moment. A place to be seen, noticed and observed …
A new recruit, Guy Radcliffe-Fleming, is going out with the crew this week. The Right Honourable as Scott was sharply reminded at first. Looking at him you would estimate he’s mid-thirties, and a bit of a dashing rogue who seems to have adopted the hippie style and ways … Before setting off today, Scott decides to go into Keaton's Restaurant for a cup of coffee. It's quite a large restaurant and beautifully laid out. With eight central tables that seat six with a squeeze. Then around three of the walls, wooden booths for secret assignations. Eight booths, each seating four people, maybe five at a pinch ... Over to the right as you enter the convivial atmosphere of chatter, noise and laughter, is a long wooden-topped counter. This big, darkly stained wooden counter covers one quarter of a side of the restaurant. Long panels of glass on the wall beyond it. High above, rows of bottles, jars, jugs, decanter bottles, carafes and other assorted vessels decorating the brown-stained shelving. The many staff are hip and smart, attractive and friendly. They dress in white shirts or blouses, black trousers or skirts. This restaurant definitely has an Italian feel to it though Scott has never noticed anybody who seems Italian working in there …
Eric, Tom and Carole Bishop want to wait in the car, on an overcast and sultry day in June. Scott has taken to parking the Paris Green Cortina around the corner in Cathcart Road - keeps inquisitive eyes away from the crew. The Cortina rests in the shade of a very leafy elm tree … Scott taking a garrulous Guy Radcliffe-Fleming into Keaton’s Restaurant with him ... Loving the restaurant atmosphere, drinking delicious coffee and listening to the many tales of the Right Honourable Guy Radcliffe-Fleming. He’s witty, sharp and funny as befits an old Etonian and former Sandhurst cadet. Their attention is abruptly diverted by a sudden commotion in the restaurant. The buzz and hum of conversation has gone up a few decibels. A jocular, laughing, loud group of maybe five to six men are leaving. Attentive members of staff are thanking them and ushering them out onto the pavement outside. The whisper spreads like wildfire through Keaton’s. They were members of the Monty Python's Flying Circus television show, with friends. The only one Scott could say for sure he recognized was John Cleese. He’s very tall with a distinctive moustache. Fame is hanging on Scott’s coat-tails today. What to say, who needs it? ...
The Right Honourable Guy Radcliffe-Fleming also has a prominent black moustache and is now in the process of telling Scott about his experiences in the recent Paris riots ... They start laughing uproariously over their second cups of coffee. Scott had believed Guy to be talking about his experiences in the 1968 riots in Paris, only to discover that he's describing the riots of 1958. They giggle together at the mistake in time. The difference in their ages showing through for a second ... Scott and Guy making their way out of the restaurant. A tremendous bubble of energy seems to be hanging over all of the tables and booths. Contact with glamour can be very exciting. It’s all very vibrant right now. Scott and Guy feeling it as they head out to the Cortina …
The day progresses and they're heading towards Bicester in Oxfordshire. Scott and the crew get to hear how Guy once saw Christine Keeler kick off her high-heeled slingbacks, strip off all her clothes in front of an approving circle of male admirers. Jump up onto a table stark naked and dance to the Rolling Stones’ Jumpin’ Jack Flash in an English pub in Paris. A group of sweaty men kept buying her drinks. She demanded bottles of champagne. And she danced on. Record after record. Teasing the masculine crowd, getting them going, close to sexual frenzy. No wonder John Profumo, the Secretary of State for War, was so captivated by her. She has a whore-like disposition and will say or do anything according to Guy Radcliffe-Fleming ... The crew listen keenly though they are unsure of him. His old Etonian voice. Sudden bursts of high-octane energy. Stories so wild they just have to be true. He hogs joints and is already on the cadge and they haven’t even got as far as Cheshunt yet …
Nothing fazes Guy Radcliffe-Fleming. He’s got a, captive and captivated audience with the crew and he is going to make the most of it, come what may. He talks of different ways to make money that bend the law, some might say fraud. Guy describes the great wheeze of an insurance scam. Whereby you insure loads of items you don’t own. Articles with some real value - say some expensive luggage, a pricey wristwatch, an electric shaver, a gold cigarette case or a lighter of high value, maybe some gold cufflinks and matching tie pin, and, of course, an expensive camera. The key is to know someone to help you obtain receipts for the imaginary items of opulence. An old school pal from the playing fields of Eton, reduced to working in Aquascutum and only too happy to oblige. You have to go on holiday. Somewhere quick, cheap and simple, like a week in Spain on the Costa del Sol. Bad luck befalls you. Inevitably, you have the expensive frippery stolen. The thieves don’t even leave you your electric shaver.
The Spanish Costa del Sol is notorious for the robberies that take place in the holiday hotels. Unsuspecting tourists burgled. Every itemized item on the insurance cover was stolen. You were in the hot sauna bath at the time. You inform the hotel manager at once. Who in turn contacts the local Spanish police. They don’t come to you, but you are requested to report the theft of said valuable items at the local police station. If necessary the hotel will provide you with an interpreter. You obtain a written acknowledgement from the local Spanish police of your reporting of the robbery. You fill in more forms at the hotel reception desk and the attractive, tanned, Swedish receptionist on duty provides you with a suitable copy. You have all the necessary documents for the insurance company. You have followed every procedure for reporting a robbery correctly. Guy Radcliffe-Fleming claims he received over five hundred pounds for his insurance claim. And what is more, he has done it not once but three times since. He is now uninsurable ...
The crew keep passing round strong joints to try and quieten him down, but it only serves to make him more loquacious. Scott is going to use that word in the novel. All these characters flooding the Children with their thoughts and experiences. A different time relived and played out across the Children, again and again.
The Right Honourable Guy Radcliffe-Fleming blanks that night in Bicester, of course. Scott slid him past the security guards on to the American Airforce base. But it failed, naturally. There was nothing in the Eton curriculum to prepare him for being an artist from an experimental commune in West London. Trying to sell his own paintings on velvet door-to-door. It would seem that the sight of a naked Christine Keeler dancing on tables in Paris and insurance scams in Spain on the Costa del Sol, are more his thing … It seems incredible to Scott to think that a man touching middle-age, the grandson of a Duke no less, with all of his family connections and advantages, has nowhere to stay. No roof over his head for the night. Every bridge would seem to have been burned many times over to reach this destitute situation ... Scott putting him up for the night in Milner Square. The Right Honourable Guy Radcliffe-Fleming has to make do with a sleeping bag on the floor ... He’s still telling stories and spinning yarns at four o’clock in the morning. Having, of course, availed himself of large quantities of Scott’s hashish and cocaine ...
Patricia bursts into the room at a quarter to eight in the morning. Dressed for business with her glasses on. She wants to borrow some money for her taxicab fare. Take ones look at a yawning Guy Radcliffe-Fleming and wants to know why the fuck Scott is bringing tramps in off the street and putting them up in her house! She’s very possessive of this house. You almost feel that she still believes her dead parents own it. It represents her lost childhood and her family … Having been given her taxi money, Patricia surprises Scott by leaning over the futon and kissing him on the cheek as a thank you. Her heaving breasts throb and push against his chest ... Patricia is upright now and on her way into the new day. She bounces across the room, floorboards shaking. Turns at the door on those professional, wedge-heeled black shoes, glares at the ancient morning face of Guy Radcliffe-Fleming.
“I want this fucking tramp gone by tonight, Scott!” ... She disappears. Clomping down the rickety stairs.
“Just who was that fat bitch?” asks Guy. Scott leans over and lights the first spliff of the day. With Guy Radcliffe-Fleming around, his morning yoga, breakfast, swim at the baths in Ironmonger Row, have all gone out the window. He still feels tired. The Right Honourable is sapping his strength.
“Why, that was the gorgeous Patricia! A vampira when the sun has faded and my ersatz landlady.” That old Etonian voice of Guy Radcliffe-Fleming never stops for a second. Scott and Guy hit it off, but Scott’s role is that of the listener. The responder. The one who reacts, smiles, laughs, pulls the appropriate face. Raises an eyebrow in homage to Dirk Bogarde. Grins and asks the expected questions in the right places. Guy is, by turns, witty, charming, funny, a fund of marvellous stories and experiences, exhausting and demanding ... On the drive to Hollywood Road, Scott switches the car radio on to catch the latest Radio Four news. Guy Radcliffe-Fleming talks right over the news broadcaster’s voice. His latest morning story about being completely fooled by a very beautiful and sexy female impersonator in a nightclub in West Berlin seems to mesh with the radio soundtrack of many thousands of Ugandans fleeing Uganda under the Idi Amin regime and finding sanctuary by coming to Britain. The German female impersonator is starting to dance as Scott just about manages to hear the piece of the latest production if the ballet Romeo and Juliet with Lyn Seymour and Rudolf Nureyev, starting in the middle of June at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden ... Funny, you'd think they would be performing at Sadler’s Wells ... Pointless straining to hear anymore. Scott turns off the radio and goes back to listening to all the various vicissitudes in the packed life of Guy Radcliffe-Fleming …
Over the next few days, the crew get to learn that the Right Honourable Guy Radcliffe-Fleming was a Captain in a crack cavalry regiment. What is truly amazing is that he shows no signs of embarrassment or shame in the recounting of his tales. As if he was acting as a fifth columnist all along. Throwing off the ways of the rich and privileged. Helping to sabotage the old guard in the aid of the new age hippie revolution. Of course, he’s just a cheat and a blackguard who doesn’t give a damn and couldn’t care less ... The Right Honourable Guy Radcliffe-Fleming was cashiered out of his famous regiment of guards for cashing forged cheques. He seems to enjoy telling the story. He didn’t just cash these fake cheques once, twice or even three times, but many times he proudly tells the crew. They listen in utter silence, any thought of a crew chorus has long since gone out of the Cortina window. His Commanding Officer kept issuing him with warnings. His Grandfather, the Duke, covered some of the early forgeries. But enough is enough. The power and the privilege of his family position was not going to save him forever. You just can’t carry on flouting authority. In the end, his Commanding Officer was left with no alternative. Just how often do you bend over backwards to accommodate an obvious crook because his Grandfather happens to be landed gentry and a Duke? The famous cavalry regiment did their very best to hush it all up ... The crews’ eyeballs are glazing over, but no one has the strength or the power to stop Guy Radcliffe-Fleming. Not even Carole Bishop in one of her dark mood swings ... The twenty-eight-year-old Captain Radcliffe-Fleming was cashiered. How he has been using his time and what exactly he had been doing these last eight years is hard to fathom. The dashing, exotic stories and bawdy tales intertwine. The only running theme seems to be a continual shortage of money.
Guy Radcliffe-Fleming doesn’t say as much, but reading between the lines, Scott reckons his monthly family allowance was cut off after he was cashiered out of the army. Bringing disgrace to the good name of his family and showing no sign of remorse. Totally unrepentant ... Scott senses that Guy Radcliffe-Fleming has burnt nearly every connection and friendship he’s ever had. Just simply plundered what he can get with no thought to the consequences. Probably been disinherited. He took with glee to the Hippie Trail. Lived in Goa and Katmandu. In the process he has lost his account with Coutts Bank. Ever the resourceful con man, he spent a large sum of money with his two credit cards in far flung places, where there can be up to a three months’ time delay in the processing and accounting. All this divulged to the glazed eye crew without a flicker of remorse. The crew have become his priests. Guy is confessing everything ... He has actually managed to sell a painting on velvet after four days of trying. He was determined so he said. The previous day he persuaded Scott to give him a one-to-one sales presentation just on one painting, Shredded Time. That way, Guy Radcliffe-Fleming felt he could concentrate and do justice to a painting on velvet. Attempting to go through the whole folder and memorize the story behind each of the fifteen paintings is only confusing him and not taking him anywhere …
Strange how much you know sometimes, stuff you didn't know you knew. It can really surprise you. As the rest of the crew eat a pub meal, Scott pitches Guy in the garden of the Fox and Goose. Introducing Shredded Time as our latest masterpiece. Highlighting a montage of a picture of the assassination of President John F Kennedy. An image of the atomic bomb, Little Boy, engulfing Hiroshima. The flash of Halley’s comet. A full moon, a mellow sun bursting through cloud cover. The Andy Warhol face of Marilyn Monroe. An image of the Titanic sinking. Right in the centre of the picture is the face and magnificent moustache of Salvador Dali. His mutilated hand is holding up a gold pocket watch ... Tom and Scott have sold Shredded Time on countless evenings and matched it up with The Mask of Apollo ... The time in the garden of the Fox and Goose was well spent. Guy Radcliffe-Fleming sold a Shredded Time for ten pounds and promptly spent his four pounds and fifty pence profit on scoring some dope off Carole Bishop who’s back in business with the help of Ricky and Earth Mother Martha ... That evening after the rest of the crew have been dropped off at their favoured spots, and the hand-in with Dom Patel in the basement office in Hollywood Road has been negotiated, Scott is charmed into giving Guy Radcliffe-Fleming five pounds. Guy wants to take him to this wonderful restaurant he’s been raving about. It’s located on the Ifield Road and called Muffins.
Ifield Road, a blast from the past. Remembered visits as a young boy to the upholstery workroom in a basement. Industrial Singer sewing machines treadling away. A break for a cup of tea and a biscuit and being surrounded by all the women making a fuss of poor Scott with his broken right arm in plaster … Muffins is almost at the end of the Ifield Road on a junction with Finborough Road, not too far from West Brompton tube station. Scott expects the outside of the restaurant to have a picture of Muffin the Mule. Or maybe a giant-sized poster of a muffin. Nothing like that. Just a sign in black and white, lit up with a few lightbulbs saying Muffins ... They enter the restaurant with Guy Radcliffe-Fleming excitedly verbalizing about the glories of Muffins. These lovely people, young restaurateurs new to the business, are friends of his, so he says. Just getting started.
An attractive young woman, Isobel, greets them cordially enough. The restaurant is totally deserted at eleven-thirty of a Wednesday evening. Guy and Scott sit at a table right in the centre of the room. The lighting is very bright. The tablecloths are orange. The walls are painted a combination of yellow and orange. All the chairs are simple, armless affairs. No music plays. The menu is discreet and limited. Guy is explaining how Justin and Isobel have come up with this great idea whereby you bring along your own wine. He should have mentioned that before. Scott can’t really remember what they ate. It felt like warmed-up patties. Justin, the owner, came over and spoke briefly to Guy. It seems he was expecting the old Etonian to bring a party of friends with him. Most disappointed just to see Scott. They didn’t seem to be friends, rather Guy Radcliffe-Fleming talking too loudly, making elaborate, friendly overtures that don’t seem to be reciprocated … To Scott’s way of thinking, this yellow and orange affair of a restaurant called Muffins makes The Hayloft appear as a five-star, cordon bleu, French restaurant … They leave quickly with Scott picking up the overpriced bill and the departure isn’t that friendly. These Muffin people, Justin and Isobel, are going bust and Scott knows it …
All quiet that night back at Milner Square. Patricia has taken to spending most of her evenings doing drugs and talking with American Al. Then heaving herself up the rickety stairs and into her large, spacious bed with big, blonde Sheila and her catch-as-catch-can night-time activities. Scott is just relieved not to have to deal with a naked and predatory Patricia come bursting through his squat door at one o’clock in the morning …Keaton’s Restaurant today gained the Royal Seal of Approval. George Harrison had lunch there with a member of Monty Python. Someone whispers in Scott’s ear, the waitress, Alice, that it was Eric Idle, Scott wouldn’t have known … The visits of iconic rock stars is all very handy for Advanced Art. The usual five cars parked from eleven until one o’clock during the day. Then the activities at night with the hand-ins. The constant visitations from Christophe, Ali, Bernard. And then, of course, the twenty-five or so strange-looking young people milling around that eleven to one slot, every day, six days a week. Different types all of the time. But now with the busy crush that is starting to develop at Keaton’s, from eleven in the morning until one o’clock the following day. The chic clientele with rock star glamour. Long hair and weird clothes are the trend. The ‘Bread for Heads’ sales hopefuls mingle in and around, along the edges of this gaily dressed In-Crowd. Rock stars, actors, musicians, models, comedians, photographers, fashion designers, film directors and agents can be seen on the pavement of Hollywood Road at all different times. You just can’t get a table. And yes, the fashionable clientele do look the same as the Advanced Art crowd. Better dressed, visibly successful and on the up. Superior, very expensive clothes, but the types are all drawn from the same well …
Guy Radcliffe-Fleming took Scott to meet his sister, Lucinda. She has a third floor flat in Roland Gardens off the Brompton Road, just past the little, local library. Lucinda is a very dark lady in colouring. Much younger than Guy. It was a very puzzling hour or so. Lucinda and Guy sat together on expensive furniture and discussed family members. Scott, for no accountable reason, went and sat way across the room, almost out of earshot. Lucinda’s jet-black hair and flashing black eyes seemed to spread a cautious note in him. He can hear Guy telling his sister what a brilliant talker and communicator Scott is. How maybe he is just shy of her tonight. Why, only today, at a urinal, Guy, noticing what a large prick Scott has, blurted something about it making him think of his sister, Lucinda. She laughs in a risqué manner and Scott feels the need to hide, strategically in the plague of Oran and Albert Camus. For some reason, this sister woman is bringing out his old teenage shyness … Nothing for it. Moving swiftly across the large, expensively decorated room of purples and browns. Sitting down next to Lucinda on a large, chocolate-brown pouffe. Producing silver foil, a silver tube. Why, wouldn’t you just know it, she loves freebasing. Even her Siamese cat, William, seems interested … Small talk covers the awkward longueurs. Scott is on show, he is being paraded and he is not performing, Charley notwithstanding. Scott left abruptly. He could probably have stayed for three months with Lucinda but declined. He doesn’t know why, he just did …
Today Scott has just slipped into Keaton’s for a quick cup of coffee before hitting the road. The crew have had more than enough of the Right Honourable Guy Radcliffe-Fleming. He’s tapped them all up for money. Partaken of their drugs. Cadged food and coffee. Dominated them with his performance in the car and sold one large painting on velvet in six days. Hardly worth all the hassle … Alice, the Keaton’s waitress, seems to have a soft spot for Scott, and lets them use a small, brown, wooden booth by the far end of the extensive counter. This booth is usually reserved for staff … today, on celebrity lookout, they recognise the actor, Peter Wyngarde. Guy doesn’t know who he is and lovely Alice called him Jason Wyngarde. He could well be Peter King, the character he plays in the television series Department S. It’s worth mentioning this because Guy Radcliffe-Fleming could well pass for Peter Wyngarde if he had his hair trimmed a little and smartened up his appearance …
That Saturday night Scott tripped out on microdot LSD with Guy Radcliffe-Fleming and a builder buddy of his called Robin Gabriel. Robin has got a flat just off Praed Street in Paddington. Winsland Street. What is fascinating about this flat, which is three storeys up, is that it looks out over railway lines and the approach into Paddington mainline station … a large bed in a psychedelic sitting room. Flashing lights. A patchwork counterpane that seems to change colour and move by itself all the time. Music by Spirit, Santana and The Band provides an excellent soundtrack. Guy and Scott rap on for hours like soulmates. Robin Gabriel, a burly, red-haired, twenty-three-year-old, has this amazing collection of coffee table books. Expensive, glossy, all in A3 size. Full of brilliant colour photographs; books on the Jefferson Airplane, the Grateful Dead, the Furry Freak Brothers, the Merry Pranksters. A special collective Rolling Stone book of magazine interviews reproduced in a glossy, full colour format. A gorgeous book full of stunning Hieronymus Bosch images, and a fabulous book on the ornate designs of Faberge and many, many more … Guy and Scott seem to be as one as they talk. Robin Gabriel stands over Scott.
‘How long have you two known each other then? You very old friends?’
“About eight days,” smiles Scott.
“You seem like you’ve known each other forever!”
“Across lives and time. Reincarnation. Adrift in Atlantis. A death in Memphis. A sighting in Athens. A moment in Rome.” Red-haired Robin moves away as Guy resumes excitedly talking. Robin feels left out … The sound of a night train rumbling slowly into Paddington Station seems like a truly thunderous experience. Slow and deliberate. Just looking at it Scott knows exactly why the native American Indians called them Iron Horses … Scott leaves at ten o’clock on a sunny, Sunday morning. Still tripping. Leaving Guy and Robin laid out, half asleep, staring off into space. The constant sound of the trains from Paddington Station now that daybreak has been passed …
Guy Radcliffe-Fleming didn’t show at Hollywood Road on Monday morning. To the relief of the crew, he never came back. Scott never saw him again. A few weeks later Scott went for breakfast with his Grandmother on the Peabody Estate in Chelsea Manor Street. Glancing through her copy of yesterday’s Evening Standard, his eyes become riveted on a small caption down the bottom of page six – “Grandson of Duke goes to prison”.
“Sweet mother of Jesus!”
“Are you speaking to me?” calls Scott’s Grandmother from the kitchen.
“The Right Honourable Guy Radcliffe-Fleming. Aged thirty-six, of no fixed abode, was yesterday found guilty and sentenced to five years in prison at Marylebone Magistrates Court. He was convicted of sex with an unnamed fourteen-year-old girl. Corrupting a minor. Possession of LSD, cannabis and amphetamines. He is the grandson of the Duke of Suffolk. Robin Gabriel aged twenty-three, an unemployed builder of Winsland Street, Paddington, was found guilty of sex with an unnamed fourteen-year-old girl. Corrupting a minor. Possession of LSD, cannabis and amphetamines. He was sentenced to seven years in prison.” … Robin Gabriel got an extra two years for not being the grandson of a Duke and for allowing his flat to be used in the criminal acts …
Scott eyes his toast and drinks tea with his Grandmother, making a mental note to include ‘Sailing Close to the Wind’ in The Children of the Empire. Everything in the end gets stripped bare …
Scott, sat at the booth reserved for staff in Keaton’s, drinking a cup of delicious coffee with Alice who’s on a quick break.
“I’m glad you don’t come in with that man anymore. You know the one I mean. I didn’t like him. He was always poncing off you!” Scott just smiles at Alice…