May has arrived and we dance to the same tune every day. Around and around like giddy children scampering round a maypole on an English village green. Scott could say that a pattern has emerged over these past three weeks plus. But it’s the continual sense of chance and impending chaos that makes it fun and exciting. The pain will never go away. You just have to accept it in the daily quest for money.

Today Scott has exchanged five large paintings of a turbulent sea (Storm Tossed, they never sell), for a new production line number Scott has chosen to entitle Shredded Time. Nicky said yes straightaway. He likes it. Larry queried the title. But then he would argue over his own birth. Shredded Time has jagged edges and broken pieces of clocks and watches and tumbling bits of faces, young, middle-aged, old. Set on a turquoise-blue background meant to represent cosmic space. A speeding meteorite soaring away off into the beyond … all very Daliesque … Nicky and Scott already developing a story in the salesroom. Choosing to match it up with Julius Caesar. The clock chimes in William Shakespeare’s play ‘Julius Caesar’. Yet there were no clocks or watches in ancient Roman times. Sundials were the order of the hour. An anachronism. Of another time. People and moments that belong to other times. Shredded against the march of events. Time re-arranged to suit our ever-fleeting impressions …

Larry is not impressed. He blows what passes for a New York raspberry from the back of the salesroom. Some people snigger. Others half turn their heads to see the dark glasses and black leather jacket leaning against the back wall with the front legs of his chair up.
‘I shall simply sell it as Broken Time. Yep. Broken Time will do me. Don’t want to confuse the folks out there with all that Shakespeare stuff!’
‘You’re not in Kentucky now!’ voices Annabelle.
‘Stick to your own crew, Bobo. You’ve got Scott, I’ve got Broken Time – and by the way, babe, I’ve never been in Kentucky in my life ...’ Dom Patel sticks his head around the door and asks James to cover the telephone for him while he has to go out. Effectively breaking the spell of this moment. Our own little piece of broken time when we couldn’t agree upon a title …

Setting off under cloudy skies. Runningt late today. Some altercation going ahead on the pavement outside Keaton’s Restaurant. Seems to be a sacked waitress arguing over pay she is due. Hard to be sure through the shouting. Revving car engines of the crews. The constant burble and chatter of voices … the weather can’t make its mind up today. Maybe it will improve in Ruislip, which is where we are heading. Driving out over Hammersmith Bridge, and a new character, having answered the advert ‘Bread for Heads’, has made it past the salesroom display and interaction, and joined the crew. New folk joining us are like flotsam and jetsam that have been washed up. We may be so many Baby Boomer children born on the incoming tide of hope and expectation, but a lot of us seem to be running aground very quickly. Each new person that comes along with us for the ride has a story to tell. One of the great things about people suffering with some kind of distress is that they tend to be very open. With a joint and a joke, they can free right up. Annabelle’s engaging smile and warm intelligence helps. Each new person has a story to tell. People in crisis. Down on their luck. On the run. Lovesick and shielding a broken heart. Desperate for money. Action. Some seem most in need of communication. Surprisingly, not everybody comes out with us to sell. Some just hanker for the company. Along for the joyride. The new energy every day keeps it all fresh. Because it is such a crisis point in many of their lives they talk freely…

Jeff Jerome is out with us today, motoring towards Ruislip. Six feet tall, long blonde hair hanging down below his shoulders. Good-looking in an angular, high-cheekboned, blue-eyed kind of a way. Wearing an expensive-looking beige jacket and the ubiquitous blue jeans - funny looking, bottle-green pumps. We’ve sat him on the back seat sandwiched between Eric and Annabelle. The three regular crew members are getting very good at doing these sorts of manoeuvres. It gives them a sense of pleasure. The new crew member is straightaway a part of the action, whether they like it or not. When you’re on the road selling there is no hiding place.

Once past Acton and Jeff Jerome starts talking. None of us have recognized him. He was the bass player with Judy Bristow and the Gary Hornby Trinity … Scott has decided to conceal names in The Children of the Empire. Many of the people popping up are famous in their own right or have celebrated connections. If Scott's novel should ever see the light of day and get published, he could well find himself heavily out of pocket. We live in an increasingly litigious age.

Jeff, once he lets go, is an engaging talker. Relating how as a nineteen-year-old, he joined up with Gary Hornby in nineteen sixty-six … So, he’s twenty-four then. Looks older. Must be all that rock and roll wear and tear … Of course, they took off as a band a couple of years later when Judy Bristow joined. Fantastic singer. Compelling looks. Her face could well be emblematic of the nineteen sixties, beloved of fashion magazines … as the Paris Green Cortina whizzes by signposts for Harrow-on-the-Hill, Jeff explains how intelligent and careful she was not to get sucked into that sixties London scene. So easy to become a casualty. Her real desire is apparently to be accepted as a jazz singer. She idolizes the likes of Ella Fitzgerald, Sarah Vaughan and Cleo Laine we are told. Of course, Judy Bristow left the band at the start of the nineteen seventies and married a well-known British jazz musician. That’s why Jeff is talking in the car right now. They had a few big hit records in the late sixties, and with a slight Bob Dylan connection, toured America. Jeff finally gets to why he’s sat here right now, wedged between our artist from the land of the long white cloud and mystery girl …

Motoring past the turning for Harrow-on-the-Hill and heading on to Northolt now … Jeff Jerome is handing around a spliff of his own. He must be interesting Tom in the front passenger seat, his his book on modern farming methods remains unopened on his lap. Looking casually out of the Cortina car window as we slide on towards semi-countryside, really listening to every word that Jeff says … Judy Bristow and the Gary Hornby Trinity go to play in the San Francisco Bay area halfway through their tour … No, not Candlestick Park in answer to Scott’s question. When you are a famous rock and roll band touring America, you get treated like visiting royalty everywhere you go. Especially since the British invasion of nineteen sixty-four, when The Beatles exploded on the American scene and blew the music door down, bursting it wide open for all those subsequent British bands. In San Francisco they stayed in a large mansion owned by one of the tour management. In the celebrated area of Nob Hill. After dinner and the laudatory comments of the tour entourage, the band were given a special treat. The American tour manager produced this highly prized bag of grass, Panama Red. They all smoked about three joints. Jeff said that after the initial hit and humour, giggles and amazing thoughts that seemed to percolate through the air. He felt himself levitating up through this wondrous ceiling of the mansion. Past the sculptured, painted images of cherubs playing the pipes of Pan, and up over the rooftops of Nob Hill. Gazing transfixed on the city lights of San Francisco. As Jeff passes his joint on in the Cortina, he says he has never truly come back down to earth since that night.
‘That must have been some amazing grass you smoked,’ offers Eric. Jeff Jerome smiles and looks three years younger. He explains that the next day, the American tour manager recounted to them how that Panama Red had been kept in a homemade laboratory in San Francisco for three months. Set up in such a way that it had liquefied lysergic acid diethylamide dripped through it continuously for twelve weeks. Jeff clearly enjoyed saying the complete words for LSD. The band had smoked Panama Red, which had effectively been drip-soaked through in very strong Californian sunshine for all that time.
‘Levitating through roofs.’ laughs Scott. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t fly right off into the cosmos!’ They all laugh. Handing round another joint thinking of that dripping acid. The sheer image of it is enough to set you tripping. Jeff Jerome concedes that it was that night in San Francisco that really blew the band apart. They never played that well again on the remainder of their tour dates. Afterwards they went their separate ways. Judy Bristow went and got married, and effectively gave up rock and roll for good. When you are a rockstar you get all of the very best drugs handed to you …

We’ve reached Ruislip early. Plenty of time to check the prop. Eat a meal. Ease down from space city. Prepare oneself for that door-knocking pain. Jeff Jerome sells one small Mask of Apollo for five pounds. The crew suffered in Ruislip. Maybe the potential buyers are too accustomed to evening callers peddling their wares. Scott makes a mental note to always take the crew much farther afield in future. The greater London overspill must be regular targets. Jeff Jerome pronounced it far harder to sell a painting on velvet than stand and play bass guitar live on a stage in front of fifty thousand people. Travelling back into London. Jeff is the first drop-off in Barnes. He has a large, expensive-looking, detached house on the fringe of Barnes Common … Won’t we all come in? Why not! We may have had a disappointing day sales-wise, but a little bit of rock and roll stardust has been sprinkled over us …

We sit in Jeff Jerome’s lounge. Look around and laugh. Smoke joints. The crew drink beers. Scott always careful to avoid alcohol when driving. Others take the chance. Larry reckons he drinks half a pint of Jack Daniels a day … Janis Joplin is blasting in the background and Jeff Jerome confesses that right now he’s in some trouble. We are young strangers. It’s somehow always easier to talk to the right kind of stranger. That distanced sympatico and you may well never see them again, and the conversation will go no further. You are safe to blurt out some truths … Jeff’s wife has taken their young daughter to stay with her mother in Cheltenham. Jeff Jerome is struggling to pay the mortgage right now. Up to his ears in loans and borrowings from friends and family. This spectacular house is what he has to show for five years of rock and roll and he is fighting to keep it. Answering the advert ‘Bread for Heads’ and going out with the crew to Ruislip was really hitting rock bottom. He confesses that music is really all he knows. If he can just somehow get through this difficult time. Get his marriage back on track. Get a roll of money and make a tour of the clubs and music venues. Pubs and dance halls with live music. Looking for a young and up-and-coming band with talent. He has the know-how and experience to manage a successful band. Get them famous … The crew wish him well as Janis Joplin tails off. Jeff Jerome has the intelligence, charm and confidence to be successful again with a few lucky breaks.

Driving away from Barnes Common. It's the last we shall see of Jeff Jerome, a brief glimpse of rock and roll fame, is followed by a week of musicians rolling on through. Kim appeared one morning and cottoned straight on to Scott - all the new hopefuls keen to succeed vie to be in Nicky’s or Scott’s crews. Kim is extremely forthright - he goes and sits straightaway in the front passenger seat. Tall with long, mousy brown hair. Dressed in a conventional style of jacket and trousers but with an ostentatious manner. Wears a gaudy pink cravat. Sports calf-length black leather boots. Speaks with an English public-school accent, which turns out he tells us to be Marlborough. He’s not slow to tell the crew he’s a musician. A very dominant talker. They warmed to Jeff Jerome. They prickle and keep quiet with Kim. In no time at all, as we head out to Guildford, he’s telling us about his residency at the Red Lion pub in Barnet. How he played with this Scottish idiot called Don, who ended up becoming famous as Donovan. Kim informs us that he's a far better musician and singer … Scott thought that Donovan was Irish … Kim is quite obviously a lot older than he appears. Twenty-eight, twenty-nine-ish … Disgruntled and angry. He believes he should be a famous musician by now. Should have made it. Snarls when he mentions Donovan’s name again …

Scott gropes around to overcome the power of Kim ... what will he do in a house selling a velvet painting? There is no telling … The last resort. Switching on the latest news update on the car radio.
‘A protest in South Africa by the cricketing Pollock brothers over the refusal of admittance to non-white cricketing tourists … Marshal Tito is due to have an audience today with Pope Paul the sixth at the Vatican in Rome’ ... Scott thinking, as Kim talks over the rest of the news broadcast, that Peter and Graeme Pollocks’ protest is a carryover from the Basil D’Oliveira affair. How the Pope always gets to meet everybody in the end … Kim will not be silenced and a passed around joint seems to encourage him even further. He’s got a ready-made audience that cannot escape.

It proves a relief, getting Kim out onto the semi-detached, virgin prop on the outskirts of Guildford. The regular crew are grumbling about Kim after he’s dropped off first. The faint sign of rumbles of discontent. A public-school bad apple foisted on us for the day. We all go our separate ways just glad to be free from that piercing voice beating a tattoo in the brain.

Guildford is prime prop. Everybody has sold well. Scott leaving Kim until last. Pulling up to him and it looks like he has the art folder under one arm and something protruding like a baseball bat from out of the other. Can’t be certain in this Surrey evening light … He’s full of himself. He’s sold on his very first night out with these velvet paintings. A large, The African Warrior. In lieu of money he’s exchanged the painting for an air rifle. A Webley no less. He is cock-a-hoop … Kim won’t let go of the air rifle as if proof of his success. Scott tells him bluntly that he can’t go into Dom Patel’s office at the hand-in brandishing a rifle. Dom will dive under the desk for cover. This is a cash only business. Whether the Webley air rifle is in good condition and worth a bit of money is beside the point. How can Dom say to Bernard the accountant, just put down air rifle instead of five pounds cash? Dom rakes in twenty-five pence across every sale … All the way out we had Kim the brilliant musician never given a proper chance, while lesser mortals succeed. All the way back from Guildford to central London, there is a continual argument between Kim and Scott over the air rifle. Scott won’t take the Webley which effectively leaves him five pounds and twenty-five pence out of pocket … The day has proved a pain but at least the sales were good. Now even that is ruined for Scott. In truth, he’s somehow acquired an extra folder of paintings, he knows not how, but that is beside the point.

Kim of course turned up the second day. Even had the cheek to get in early and go and speak to Dom. Explaining what took place. He’s still got the blasted air rifle with him. How, Scott didn’t understand. No imagination. Why? He could get fifteen pounds for this prized Webley in a second-hand shop … Dom will not be moved. A far more intransigent person than Scott … Kim won’t let go. Insists on taking the air rifle with him. Resting it in the boot of the Cortina out of harm's way … Heading back to Guildford. A long drive but worth it. You can't have too much of a good thing … Kim blanks. These Surrey people are rubbish. Monosyllabic morons … Tom is the last one picked up. The farm boy has had his best night so far. Sold three large paintings and two small. Nine and a half points on his own … Kim leaves it for about fifteen minutes on the way back, then refers to Tom’s voice and country manner as appealing to the people of Surrey …

Would you Adam and Eve it! Kim turns up again next day. Scott attempts to lay him off on Larry, but the word is already out. No extra people today so can’t use the excuse of a full crew. A straight refusal would cause a huge argument. Don’t want to unsettle the whole office in preparation for a day’s sales. Nothing for it, just have to bite the bullet. And yes, just to drive the point home, Kim has brought that cursed air rifle with him once again. Guildford here we come …

If this carries on much longer, Scott will lose his brilliant crew by the end of the week. They’ll all ask to be exchanged and go out with Nicky or James. Another blinding evening though. Kim has sold a large Shredded Time. In exchange for the painting, he has taken a small, Italian-made, card table. Made in Sienna, he boasts to Scott.
‘Lucky the hooves of all those galloping horses in Sienna didn't kick it to pieces!’ Scott’s not usually sarcastic. Kim totally ignores the remark. Clutching his card table in glory and recounting endlessly to the rest of the crew, who sit in stunned silence, the brilliance of his sale. His masterful flourishes. Why, once he’d finished, the buying couple thought of Shredded Time as virtually on a par with the Mona Lisa. Air rifles, hand-made card tables. Tomorrow it could well be African bongo drums. Kim isn't listening, he doesn't listen, he’s following his own beat, so caught up with his own brilliance. After three days of this, Scott and the rest of the crew are fed up to the back teeth with it … No, Scott will not accept the hand-made card table in lieu of five pounds fifty, even if the new owners of Shredded Time claim they paid the equivalent of thirty pounds in lira for it in Sienna. This is not the land of swap shop …

Kim won’t get out of the Cortina. For once Scott breaks a rule and doesn’t get out of the car to hug where required, encourage and say good night, well done, to each crew member. Even without the car keys, Scott doesn’t trust Kim not to hot-wire the Cortina and drive off. Kim insists on accompanying Scott into the Hollywood Road basement office for the late-night hand-in. Is there no end to this? Kim is by turns cold, sulky, belligerent and downright nasty in that cut-glass public-school voice. He’s clutching the hand-made card table with him as they enter Dom’s domain. Larry starts laughing behind those large black shades of his. Says something along the lines of,
‘The one-eyed Jacks are wild ... Hearts and Spades for sure’, in that sardonic New York accent … Kim totally ignores him. Goes straight up to Dom’s desk, almost elbowing James out of the way.
‘This idiot’, indicating Scott, ‘won’t accept this rare, hand-made Italian card table for one lousy Shredded Time painting. It’s worth ten times as much!‘ Scott expects Dom to explode. Instead, he starts laughing. Kim has placed the hand-made card table squarely on his desk on top of paper, notes and some cash.
‘You need to sell for money. I told you that this morning. We’ve taken a gamble on you, letting you occupy one of Scott’s seats, but we are not in the gambling business. We don’t swap paintings, trade goods. That is not our business. You dig?’ Kim abruptly picks up the hand-made card table, spins on the heels of his black leather boots, and marches straight out without looking at anyone. Cursing softly under his breath.

Dom Patel reverts back to James, collecting his hand-in money and recording the individual sales … Twenty minutes later and only Scott is left. Dom smiles at him. Very friendly.
‘Never take that posh idiot out with you again. Not worth the hassle. Sorry, but you have to make up this money. Give it half an hour, then come over to my flat as arranged.’ Dom Patel has a ground floor, two room flat on the corner of Collingham Gardens and Harrington Gardens. Dom has been looking for a cocaine connection. Up in the street the burble and laughter of noise coming from Keaton’s restaurant. Kim’s not laughing, he’s waiting impatiently for Scott. Starts shouting at him as he surfaces onto the pavement on the Hollywood Road.
‘You’re a dickhead, that’s what you are! A fucking dickhead! You’ll never get anywhere you hear me?’ Scott offers to drive Kim home. Is refused. Told in no uncertain terms to fuck off. Kim is last seen striding into the night down Hollywood Road clutching his hand-made, Italian card table, and heading for the Fulham Road. Swivelling his head around and shouting back at Scott above the ripple of laughter emanating from Keaton’s.
‘You’re all dead heads that’s what you are! The whole goddamn bunch of you are fucking dead heads!’ Scott’s not sure Kim really knows what a dead head is. No matter. Good thoughts. Wish him well. He may get lucky with his hand-made Italian card table. Move on …

Young Steve just appeared one day and stuck around. He doesn’t come out with us every day. Only ever attended one sales meeting and seemed fidgety and bored. He’s yet another musician. We seem to be collecting a whole band of them at present. Steve’s seventeen. Plays the guitar. Hangs out in a room in Battersea off Queens Road. He plays both rhythm and lead guitar. His hero is Jimi Hendrix and he’s trying to model his hairstyle after Hendrix, but without much luck. Can he sell? Well, it’s usually one small or a blank. The other crew members like him though. He’s casual and fresh. He comes out maybe two, sometimes three days a week. He’s skinny, so it’s easy for Scott to carry six up with him. The advantage of the Paris Green Cortina again. Steve is a habitual sleepy-head. Having to take the crew via Battersea as we set off for the day. Steve never answers his door. Scott having to yell up to him on the third floor. The whole street can hear them. Odd heads appear at windows. Some necks crane out, but most people couldn’t give a monkey’s cuss, such is the nature of Battersea … Steve eventually appears at his window pulling a scarlet, tie-dyed tee-shirt over his frizzed brown locks. Quite often it’s a mumbled ‘not today’.
‘What did you say?’ But no amount of Scott’s persuasive manner can make it otherwise. When he does come along for the ride he’s easy and only the first crew joint of the day brings him to. Never any money. Scott gives him more dough than he makes. Is he a good guitarist? Well Steve sometimes brings that acoustic of his out with him. Strums along and sings if they have a picnic or sit in a pub garden for their evening meal. At least two pub landlords asked him curtly to stop playing. So, his musicianship did not thrill them. But you can see from his fingers he practises hard. He could well improve … A crew needs many different components to be successful. Ten weeks can be a long time together on the road.

Paul Shakespeare is altogether another matter. He boasts he’s related in some way to the Bard. Probably like thousands of Englishmen before him who’ve never even been to Stratford-Upon-Avon. Though funny enough, Paul does live in Stratford. The East End of London kind. He smiles a lot. Is attractive to the eye, with long black, curly hair. Annabelle is quite clearly taken with him. Important to keep Mystery Girl happy. Along with Scott and Tom, the three of them can make seventy points a week on a good run … Paul Shakespeare plays the alto saxophone and the flute. He can’t play them both together at once like Roland Kirk … Paul Shakespeare is an incorrigible night bird like Sleepy-Head Steve. Having to drive across London to Stratford to take him out. Mystery Girl is insistent and tosses her shapely head at Eric’s teasing … Paul Shakespeare has a large front room looking out onto a leafy street. Sycamore and Plane trees line the pavement. We are very late getting started and will probably have to settle for Leytonstone today. Perhaps reach Gidea Park. Paul plays the saxophone for us. He’s good. Soft jazz style. He likes Sidney Bechet and plays a version of Summertime for us. Like thousands before him. Mystery Girl is enraptured. Makes tea all round. Rolls spliffs.

Between songs Paul Shakespeare tells us he’s been travelling with a theatre troupe as a musician. They specialize in Shakespeare productions in marquees and tents at festivals and fayres. They attempt to recreate and put on the plays in the Elizabethan tradition. With girls pretending to be boys playing girls. Paul accompanies on the flute. The Tempest and A Midsummer Night's Dream are perennial favourites … Will we never get away into the day? No one wants to leave. We are getting far too comfortable and this Paul Shakespeare is a spellbinding talker. Paints pictures with words and can be very funny. Breaks off to play a tune on the saxophone. Demonstrates an original Elizabethan folk tune on the flute. Pulls a face when Mystery Girl requests him to play Greensleeves, but complies all the same … Will we never get away today … Scott dragging them all reluctantly out to the Cortina. It’s gone four o’clock on a sunny afternoon. Only Tom is keen. Always wants to make money … And yes, in the end they have to settle for Leytonstone. Which proves something of a disaster …

Paul Shakespeare disappeared completely one day without explanation. The other tenants at his place in Stratford didn’t know where he had gone. Mystery Girl was forlorn for a day or two. Strange that such a spellbinding talker with a fund of stories, could only manage to sell one small, A Cat’s Head, in five nights out ...