Building a successful crew. No, Scott didn’t achieve it consciously, it just fell together through trial and error. Nobody who can’t sell is going to hang around for very long unless they are infatuated by someone in the crew. But even that can’t withstand the daily torment of not selling. Blanking. Night after night put out on virtually empty streets on new private estates and staring at all those doors you have to knock on. It’s very lonely, soul-destroying.
Scott setting out on day four. Selecting Surbiton as a likely area. The very name lends itself to selection. None of the other crews heading the Surbiton way. Scott fiddling with the car radio. Only went two days with the Eleven Hundred. Couldn’t stand it. Scott wanted the Cortina and that was that. Worth the extra five pounds a week. That five pounds will prove money well spent …
‘Isn’t green an unlucky colour?’ pipes up an antipodean-sounding voice.
On the crackly radio, news is just reaching us that the Canadian Government is strenuously protesting at American plans to stage the biggest underground nuclear explosion ever in Alaska.
‘Do we have to listen to this!’ chimes in a beautiful female voice … Caught at the traffic lights just over Putney Bridge.
‘I see they’re showing the film Deep End at the Putney Odeon. I’ll try and see that film if I ever get the time. Directed by Jerry Skolimowski, with Jane Asher and Diana Dors.‘
‘But we didn’t ask that,’ persists the whiney voice. Scott's not sure whether the voice maybe sounds more Kiwi than Australian.
‘It's a basic sales trick. You change a subject. You ignore a question by substituting something fabulous and exciting, or maybe, ask a question to a question.’
‘I don’t think I like that very much. It sounds underhand and deceitful!’ She has a lovely voice, quite singsong, and her name is Annabelle.
‘I’m only putting out ideas to you. What I’m talking about is taking control of situations and steering the conversation to where you want it to go … You can find your own way of doing it. You’re a clever girl. It’s just a principle so that you don’t find yourself in the worst possible situation in a house. Drinking some awful tea you shouldn’t have accepted. Your art folder sits unopened on the floor, and the family dog is eyeing it up with a view to piddling on it when you’re not looking. You’re having to bat away all these questions and then to cap it all, a neighbour turns up who tells your prospects that a cousin of hers in Harpenden, brought one of these velvet paintings back in February, and it fell off the wall after only two weeks. The velvet wasn’t glued on properly … You have to make a quick exit clutching your art folder dripping in dog pee, and the whole evening spoiled and you haven’t got the heart to knock on another door tonight!’
Scott fiddles with the car radio again. It's been confirmed that President Richard Nixon has re-opened trade and travel links with China ...
‘Tricky Dicky up to his tricks again!’ comes that soft Kiwi voice.
‘Eric, isn’t it?’ A nod of long black hair in the rear-view mirror. Most of the eye contact is in mirror images now.
‘Well, maybe Eric, my guess is he's after a few giant pandas for somewhere like Yellowstone National Park.’
‘They wouldn’t survive.’ intones a Suffolk-accented voice.
‘Heh listen, Tom right? … Good … Survive! If they can thrive in China then they can flourish anywhere.’ … Pause … Lights up a giant-sized joint. Drags strongly on it going up Putney Hill, then passes it across to the girl beside him, whose name totally escapes Scott. So many in only a few days. Hard to register all the names. Janes blur into Sues, Terrys and Gerrys intertwine.
‘Green unlucky? … Well, maybe it is … Are we superstitious?’ Blank.
‘Well, c’mon, all together now … Are we superstitious?? A yes/no chorus ricochets through the thick hashish smoke.
‘I read somewhere once that the Saxon folk of England were driven to woodland. Like the story of Robin Hood. They adopted the colour green to blend in with the forest. The new dominant force in the country, the Normans, as they met with resistance, murder and theft, started viewing green as an unlucky colour. Probably a similar thing with the Celts and the Romans. Though I do know the Cornish view the colour green as extremely unlucky. They're Ancient Celts, and I doubt you’ll find a green car in any showroom in the whole of Cornwall … Anyway, I’ve learnt something today, had never heard of the colour Paris Green ... Tell you what, if we all blank tonight, I’ll change the car at Kennings tomorrow morning, get a white one. Satisfied?’
‘Yes!’ chorus the crew, through the hash smoke fog. They’re catching on.
‘I only listen to a minimal amount of news a day … No, you keep it. Pass it around amongst yourselves, I’ll light another one in a minute … It’s only to check to see if anything major has happened … I don’t know what … Say, the Soviet Union has invaded Finland … or the Queen has choked to death on a fishbone, perhaps there has been a military coup in Nigeria … You get the drift?’
Agreement filters through the coughing, giggling and swirling hash fumes.
‘It’s important to keep abreast of events. Happenings. World news. Just check in every day. It may well prove useful to you.’
‘What exactly are we then, if we are not painters from an experimental art commune in West London?’ queries Annabelle. Scott smiles. They’re catching on quick. This hashish is loosening them up.
‘I'll tell you what we are … We’re all Yippee Ki Yay cowboys today!’
‘Hurrah!’ they chorus.
Heading on out to Kingston-upon-Thames now. The sun is shining, and this crew are gaining familiar faces and personalities … The girl sitting too close to Scott in the front passenger seat is Chrissie. She seems to need reassurance. The softly spoken New Zealander is Eric… Scott drawing on that second monster spliff …
‘Where are you from, Eric?’
‘I’m from New ...’
‘I know that. I mean where exactly?’
‘Christchurch.’
‘Isn’t that South Island?’
‘Yes. My folks were originally living in New Brighton, but we moved into the big city when I was a small boy.’
‘If things go well and we have a really hot day and manage an early start for once, we might just make it all the way to Brighton someday.’
‘We couldn’t make New Brighton though could we!’
‘Thank you for that, Annabelle. Good to know you are still with us.’ Chrissie snorts a laugh and to hide her embarrassment touches Scott’s left leg with her right hand …
‘What exactly are you doing over here, Eric? Visiting the motherland? Any distant relatives?’
‘Are you going to interrogate us all then?’
‘I don’t know, Tom. Depends what I come up with I guess.’ Eric quietly soldiers on. His voice is low, but he is persistent. That’s a very good sign.
‘I’m an artist. I’ve come to Europe to try and develop my technique. Soak up all the art around me. It might be the only chance I ever get. That’s why I’m trying this job. I thought ...’
‘Who’s your major influence then, your favourite artist?’
‘Henri Matisse.’
‘Whatever you do don’t mention Matisse or start getting into conversations about Fauvism. I don’t believe the majority of English people are really that interested in art. Now, if we were selling in and around Paris, especially in a Paris Green Cortina ...’ Chrissie laughs out loud again, this time managing to conceal a snort, and passes on the monster spliff to Tom. Annabelle has wound down her window behind Scott to let in some fresh air.
‘A boy whispered to me in my ear back at the office that you were a sweet-talking Judas.’ Silence.
‘Could you close that window now, my neck is in a draft … Maybe I am. You need me to be one to help you make a success of this job. It's not easy. But I wouldn’t sell my grandmother, bless her, for thirty pieces of silver if that’s what you’re thinking!’
‘Of course, he wouldn’t.’ volunteers an indignant Chrissie … God, she’s setting out to protect Scott already, and we haven’t yet managed to get through Kingston-upon-Thames with all this heavy traffic around today. Scott doesn’t have to say or ask anything of Tom. He simply states,
‘I’m from Colchester. I’m nineteen, and I’m starting agricultural college in September. Okay.’
‘Nuff said … ’
‘Do we all introduce ourselves? Bore the pants off you.’ Chrissie giggles again. She’s well smashed now. Have to be careful. Keep an eye on her, she seems somehow very vulnerable.
‘No, you don’t. Why don’t you remain mysterious, Annabelle? You can be our Mata Hari or Greta Garbo. We can guess all kinds of things about you. Make you Queen of the Nile. An English rose slumming for fun. Our very own Nell Dunn. A sort of Up the Junction with a comic twist. Rich girl goes slumming with hippies and freaks. Taking art to the masses and getting heavily involved in sex and drugs.’ Chrissie seems to murmur approval.
‘Alright. If that’s the way you want to play it, Judas. I’ll be your mystery girl.’
‘Don’t call him Judas, it’s not nice!’
‘Oh, I am sorry. Do you have some kind of claim on him? Are you really a couple pretending to be strangers for our benefit? Is that why you keep touching him and looking at him as if he’s Jesus, rather than our sweet-talking Judas?’
‘Now, now ladies, we haven’t reached Surbiton yet … I’ve never met Chrissie before today. Honest.’
‘We believe you.’ Three of the crew chorus ironically.
Chrissie looks glumly out her passenger-seat window. Drugs can have that effect. Severe mood swings if you are not properly centred.
‘We haven’t heard from you, Chrissie, now that we are in the introduction business.’ Silence. Annabelle passes the monster spliff over Scott’s right shoulder. Some falling bits of tobacco and hash brushing against his shoulder, singeing his short blue velvet jacket.
‘Ouch!’ Damaged goods now. Jacket with shoulder burn mark.
‘Pass it round the other way next time, alright!’ Annabelle seems to be taking some kind of control. She should sell well if she can do it in a house. But you never can tell. Chrissie uses the ensuing silence to her advantage. Coolly states,
‘I’m from Haywards Heath. I’m eighteen and I’ve run away from home … Is that enough for you?... And oh yes… I’ve never met Scott before today … Satisfied?’ ...
Our mystery girl stays silent, seemingly concentrating on the passing cars … You always get this with crews. All day long tensions. People who have claims on someone, or so they think. Usually sexual tension, or in some cases, people who plainly don’t like one another … This group seems much better than most. After all, we are all in it together. If any of us had somewhere else to be, we wouldn’t be heading out to Surbiton right now, would we!
‘Right, down to business now we all know one another. Can anybody go through the art folder of paintings, and tell me their names and each individual story behind them that we’ve invented? How are you going to present these paintings in a room? Which ones you like, and why? Which large painting compliments which small one in your eyes? What gave you the idea for the velvet painting? How much are you going to ask for them, and what is the minimum you will accept?’
‘Well, the –’
‘I ...’
‘One at a time … Tom.’
‘Well, I like The Audience and The Greek Mask. I'll try and sell them as a pair. I have to give you five pounds fifty for the large, and three pounds fifty for the small ...‘
‘Oh, the blessings of our new decimal currency.’
‘Pounds, shillings and pence had more class. They were English. Now we are just like other countries.’
‘Maybe we're stepping into line in readiness to join the Common Market, Greta’ ‘Was Garbo really a mystery lady? I thought she just wanted to be alone, and anyway, they won’t let women into their special club yet.’
‘I don’t know about that. I like the idea of being European. Holland and Italy are countries I’d happily live in.’ Annabelle the mystery girl pouts deliberately as Scott looks at her in the adjusted rear-view mirror. Tom, not put off, continues in that Suffolk burr which we now know to have Essex overtones. His family must have moved to Colchester at some time.
‘I might try and sell The Guitar with a Broken String and a Three-Legged Chair with A Cat’s Head, or A Bolt of Lightning with George Harrison. Try putting two large together.‘
‘How did you come up with the idea of the paintings, Tom?’ questions Scott.
‘Well, I liked The Beatles. Particularly George Harrison ...’
‘They’re the day before yesterday’s news!’
‘You’re a mystery girl, keep quiet.’
‘My sister likes cats. We get a lot of lightning storms around Colchester and The Greek Mask is, well, it’s just a Greek Mask.’ This boy will sell well. Scott doesn’t know why particularly. Tom’s quite unprepossessing really. Skinny with red, straw-like hair. Chocolate-brown freckles. Hair not particularly long. Just a red and white checked shirt, blue jeans and coffee-brown sneakers. You never can tell.
We are on the edge of Surbiton now. Scott driving around to try and find some fairly new prop. Many very expensive-looking streets and avenues, and private cul-de-sacs … Driving on a little further to find less expensive and imposing places. This crew has promise, don’t want to scare them off before they’ve even begun … We settle on some property but can’t find a cafe. Not that sort of area, too sedate. It’s still not four o’clock and the pubs are shut. So, at Annabelle’s suggestion, we buy a large bottle of Coca Cola, and get five Cornish pasties and an assortment of cakes from a local baker’s.
Finding a leafy spot to park the Paris Green Cortina on a sunny April afternoon we open the car doors and stretch out our legs. Chrissie sits on a grass verge eating her pasty and looking at them all. It’s a false relaxation though because everybody knows what’s coming later. You just can’t hide from it. When you’ve done it successfully a hundred times, the thought of getting out of that car and knocking on doors still haunts you like a heavy stone of dread lodged right in the pit of the stomach - although, this foreboding can sometimes drive a real adrenalin rush …
Scott going over the details of the hand-in and explaining the points system to them once again.
‘Now remember, for each large painting you sell, you have to give me five pounds and fifty pence. Is that clear?’ They all half-nod in the warm afternoon sunshine. The travelling, the dope, the pasties, the sun has made them a little drowsy.
‘I won’t hide anything from you. I have to hand in five pounds and twenty-five pence to the office manager Dom Patel. I make twenty-five pence on every painting you sell. Remember, it’s three-pounds-fifty for the small. So, you had better ask fifteen pounds for a pair of large and small and at worst don’t take less than twelve pounds if they should start to haggle. Be firm. Just remember, you’ve produced these paintings. It’s your time, your creation and you are not about to give them away for nothing now are you! Now there is a points system in place. Each large painting you sell is worth two-and-a-half points to you, while the small is one point. If you sell twenty points in a week, Monday to Saturday, you will get fifty pence a point and receive ten pounds. If you should go crazy and sell thirty points in a week, Advanced Art will pay you an additional pound a point between twenty and thirty, so you would receive an extra twenty pounds in all, besides the money you can make on the sales … Is that clear, Chrissie?’ She nods half-heartedly at Scott and eats another chocolate cornflake cake.
‘Now, just so as you know: if we as a crew reach fifteen points on an evening, I receive an extra three pounds, classed as petrol money. There isn't anything else, you now know it all. Is that perfectly clear?’ The crew chorus a drowsy understanding with Chrissie late joining in.
‘I have a question,’ states Eric, in that soft Kiwi manner of his.
‘And what would the artist from the land of the long white cloud like to know?’
‘Only a sweet-talking Judas would ever say something like that.’ ventures Annabelle.
‘Shut up!’ hisses Chrissie, getting a rush, no doubt. from the delicious chocolate cornflake cakes. We bought ten and she’s eaten about five of them at last count.
‘She’s definitely on your side,’ laughs Annabelle.
‘She’s my angel of mercy for today and I shall look after her,’ Chrissie suddenly smiles with pleasure and her whole face lights up under those brown curls, and she looks young and attractive for the very first time. All frowns blown clean away.
‘Okay Eric.’
George Harrison, Jesus Christ or Charles Manson. Why?‘
‘Now believe it or not, this is only my fourth day out on the job. On my second night out, in the first house I managed to get into. The woman pounced on this painting when I took it out the folder and said excitedly
“That’s George Harrison! You’ve painted George Harrison. That is marvellous! Though his face looks quite grey and gloomy doesn't it dear?”. The hubby is nonplussed and nods. He senses a wifely spend coming on and money leaving his hands … Well, I said he’d probably had a very troubling day. What with all those court hearings with Alan Klein and the other Beatles when they sued McCartney. Then there was the Apple business fiasco … Scott quick as a flash.
‘Of course, she’s a fan. They didn't want anything else, just George Harrison. I asked fifteen pounds for it as the hubby cringed. I didn’t have to add anything else because the wife chirped up with …”
‘Fifteen pounds is very cheap to get George Harrison hanging on our wall.” ...
‘So, you see she did it all for me! Small point. About hanging the velvets. They may well ask about getting a picture frame for them. Be clear and fast on this. We don't sell frames; we don't supply them. We are poor young artists, remember. Tell them to simply fix coloured cord to the back of the painting and suspend it from a hook. Very simple. They can do it from the middle of the painting. If they wish to show the coloured cord, all well and good.’
Chrissie has got up from the grass verge and come and sat right in front of Scott as if to glean further important information at close quarters.
‘So, you see, Eric, I think that people decide themselves that it’s George Harrison. It’s not too dissimilar to his picture on the Abbey Road album cover, is it.‘
‘In your dreams.’ It's Annabelle, who seems perturbed at Chrissie’s closeness to Scott.
‘Artistic licence mystery girl. Remember, we are not Claude Monet, Pablo Picasso or Salvador Dali. We are fresh young hopefuls with talent starting out in life.’ Chrissie has drawn her knees together, put her arms around them and they are supporting her chin as she stares off wistfully into the vague, sun-filled distance.
‘Now Jesus Christ is a different proposition altogether … One thing I forgot to touch upon before I get onto Jesus Christ. If a miracle should happen, and the crew does fifty points in a working week, I receive a bonus of twenty pounds. Thirty pounds for seventy points, and if the Gods smile down upon us, and the grace and power of Apollo and Athena entered our very souls, and we achieved ninety points, I would receive the princely sum of forty pounds and treat us all to a special meal in a Greek restaurant in Charlotte Street.’
‘Hurrah’ the crew chorus as one.
‘That's given me an idea,’ smiles Scott. ‘We could call The Greek Mask ... The Mask of Apollo!‘
‘Is there no stopping this boy?’ exclaims Annabelle. Chrissie bites back immediately,
‘You’re only jealous because you didn't think of it first!’
‘You want to be careful of her, mister sweet-talking Judas. She’ll be making your bed for you every day before you even know it. And that’s not all.’
‘Now, now, mystery girl. No need for you young ladies to be so catty, is there. Save your barbs and energy for the coming assault this evening. You’ll need everything you’ve got ... and Jesus Christ ... well before I get on to the Christian saviour, a few more important items. I keep throwing all this information at you in the hope that some of it will stick. Like mud against a wall, I suppose.’ Chrissie laughs out of tune. Why, Scott doesn't know. Maybe she suddenly caught sight of herself as mud slip-sliding down a wall …
‘Where possible always take cash. If they go to write a cheque, say 'Sorry, I can’t get a bank account. No banks or building societies seem to like broke young artists these days.' Tell the story of Vincent Van Gogh having to sell his paintings for food and wine’ ... Eric starts scratching his left ear furiously and everybody laughs. Humour relieves the building tension …
‘Observation is a key component in selling. You have to notice all the little clues without seeming to look at all. Be keenly aware of your surroundings. If you enter a house and you start talking to a couple, you might notice that the woman has a small gold cross around her neck. Let’s face it, people don't usually broadcast out loud, right! You won’t enter a room, Annabelle, and see a three-foot-high cross with Jesus Christ crucified on it, in flashing red lights and the record player blasting out Gregorian chants. Are they going to shake your hand and say, “We only eat fish on Fridays, you’ve got just ten minutes before we have to leave for vespers, we are already running late.” It’s a delicate matter. The old saying rings true. Never discuss politics or religion. People espouse strong emotions. I’ve yet to sell Jesus Christ’ Giggles all round …
‘Heh, the Church has been doing a brilliant job of selling him for nearly two thousand years, so why should I climb aboard the bandwagon. Yet if the occasion should arise and you get a sign, take the plunge and go for it. One fine morning you felt inspired to produce a painting on velvet of our Lord Jesus Christ; when you learnt that your maternal grandmother had just passed over, and you thought of her teaching Sunday School for over thirty years to young people in the ‘Sowing League’.
‘I couldn't possibly say that!’ exclaims Annabelle. ‘It would make me seem like a sacrilegious hypocrite and I'm not religious at all!’
‘Well, that leads us neatly to our third option, doesn't it Eric ... I mentioned keen observation. The other key aspect is drawing people out. You have arrived from out of the great blue yonder. Dropped in to provide half-an-hour’s entertainment which, if you are lucky, you will be compensated for. Now, just as some people have a touch of religion about them, so a lot of folks these days are cynical. You switch on the television set each evening for the main news and see pictures of the Vietnam War. You hear and read daily of the confrontation between the Soviet Union and America and the Cold War. The constant threat of mass nuclear destruction with atomic bombs ten-thousand times more powerful than ‘Fat Man’ or ‘Little Boy...’
‘Stop it!’ screeches Chrissie. A raw nerve has been exposed.
‘Now that is it. Chrissie’s reaction exactly … yet you know what, she is quite right. The Doomsday Clock is registering two minutes to twelve o’clock and that really is a warning signal.’
It’s amazing what some people will laugh at. Tom is not the smiling, joking kind. A serious countrified face, whatever that is. A child of the Empire if ever there was one. Well, Scott has found his weak spot. His funny bone. He’s laughing at the idea of the Doomsday Clock and time running out for the human race … heh, it's all over now, baby blue …
‘Now, what could happen is you could produce large paintings like The Audience, An African Warrior and A Bolt of Lightning from out of the art folder. No response. Zilch. This is not going to work. The wife seems pleasant enough but distracted. They have obviously had some kind of tiff, you think. Maybe they just don’t get on ... staying together to pay the mortgage and raise the children until college age. The guy isn't interested. Art? Who the hell needs it anyway! He’d rather be out with the boys having a good drink than stuck here … you ain’t gonna sell here tonight.‘ Shock tactics. It doesn’t matter.
Scott has simulaneously decided he won’t hit on Annabelle or Chrissie. In fact, their sexuality and looks have barely pricked his interest
‘So, take a chance: 'This painting is a portrait of Charles Manson. The maniac responsible for the Sharon Tate murders.' There may well be a silent response at that juncture, press on. Raise your voice a tone. 'The Manson family are reckoned to be responsible for over twenty brutal murders in the state of California and beyond. Of course, not all of the bodies have never been found or discovered. The Manson Family refuse to give up information on the whereabouts of the graves. Will not turn State Evidence to get a special deal. All seemingly under the hypnotic influence of Charlie Manson. The Manson family made up of mostly young women on drugs, LSD, with a strong lust for sex and killing. I suppose sex and murder are very closely linked, aren’t they,' … By now you may be getting some kind of response. It helps if you say all this holding the painting of Charles Manson out in front of you. Take a look at the husband. He’s suddenly very interested. Go for it: 'Why, I wouldn’t want to screw any of Charlie Manson’s pox-ridden, unwashed dogs! Would you?' ... If he half-laughs, pulls a face, motions a response, you’ve got him. Push on hard, looking at the wife. 'I mean, just look at those eyes, they bore right through you don’t they! I bet Rasputin the mad monk had similar hypnotic eyes that could kill with a glance.' ... The wife shudders. The husband smiles. He immediately buys Charles Manson just to spite her. Done deal.’
‘That’s a nasty thing to do!’ retorts Annabelle.
‘Quite agree Annabelle, brainwashing girls in the Manson family to butcher Sharon Tate and her nine-month-old, unborn baby in the womb was a particularly heinous and nasty thing to do!’ Silence as Tom goes and puts the accumulated waste of their impromptu, roadside picnic in a bin some way down the road. Good country instincts of tidiness.
Apropos of nothing, Chrissie asks if she can stay with Scott tonight. Nowhere else to go for this young runaway. Scott quickly mentions Elgin Avenue. He will sort something out for her. Visibly, not what she wants to hear, but she's grateful for the promise of a place to sleep …
‘I heard someone refer to that Elgin Avenue squat place as the Smack Shack,’ Eric’s soft-sounding Kiwi tones.
‘Well, I don’t know about a Smack Shack, maybe a Smack Palace would be more accurate … Don’t look so worried, Chrissie. I have friends there, I'll introduce you to them tonight. Sure they take drugs. Heh, who doesn’t? But they don’t inject smack. They may smoke it occasionally but Elgin Avenue is a huge squat. As you'll see for yourself. Maybe over forty houses, nearly a couple of hundred people. Loads of women and children. Kids and babies all over the place. Certainly not a Smack Shack! These squatters are very organized, Eric. They have a committee, a positive agenda, a political weekly newsletter. They're not just a group of heroin addicts … Now, if you ever need help with accommodation, my friend, you only have to ask.’ Eric declines to reply as a way of an answer …