Legend Bemusement

legendbemusement

Legend Bemusement by Chris Green

Charlotte walks in on me packing a travelling bag. She suspects, quite rightly, that I am off on a mission. I have not told her. I was leaving this until later.

‘Going somewhere?’ she asks. It is not a polite enquiry, more like the opening salvo of a pitched battle.

‘I was going to tell you,’ I say. ‘Only you were busy with the …… hoovering.’

‘What is it this time?’ she says. ‘Another piece of junk for your collection?’

‘Well. You must have noticed that George died,’ I say.

‘Who?’

‘George Michael. Didn’t you hear me playing his tunes last week?’

‘Oh! Him. He’s dead, is he? Why is that important?’

‘His telescope is for sale.’

‘For God’s sake, Miles. What’s wrong with you? We haven’t got room for any more clutter.’

‘They are quite compact these days. It wouldn’t take up much room.’

‘What would you dowith the bloody thing, anyway? Look at Lucy Love getting ready for work in the mornings?’

‘We could view it as an investment.’

‘Look, Miles. I think I’ve been pretty tolerant about your ridiculous obsession up till now. It wasn’t so bad at first. When you just had a few bits of celebrity memorabilia. Bob Marley’s surfboard, Jimi Hendrix’s kite. A few little novelty mementos. I could handle that. But now you’re adding to your collection weekly. It’s getting ridiculous. You can hardly move downstairs. Tell me! Why do we need Syd Barrett’s bike or Prince’s trampoline in the conservatory?’

We’ve been over this one. I’ve been tearing my hair out trying to come up with a solution but space is always going to be a problem for the collector. When Charlotte and I first moved a year or so back, it seemed we had enough room for a few more collectables, what with both Elton and John having left home. But, you soon fill the extra space. You always need more room.

‘I suppose I could move the bike and the trampoline,’ I say. ‘If you think they are getting in the way.’

‘And do we have to have Leonard Cohen’s pool table in the study? It’s not as if you’re ever going to use it.’

‘Well, if I move Syd’s bike and Prince’s trampoline, it could go in the conservatory.’

‘And, quite frankly, John Lennon’s ouija board on the dining room table gives me the creeps.’

‘OK. OK, I get the message,’ I say. ‘I’ll put that out into the conservatory as well. Anyway, I’ve made arrangements to see the telescope tomorrow.’

‘It would have been nice to have been told,’ Charlotte says. ‘How long are you going to be away?’

‘Well, Charlotte. I have to go to Cornwall. I shouldn’t be more than a day or two.’

‘And you really think it’s worth travelling three hundred odd miles to buy a boy’s toy just because it belonged to a second-rate, drug-addicted pop star with no road sense.’

Momentarily, I wonder whether Charlotte may have a point. After all, George Michael doesn’t enjoy the cult status of Prince. Nor does he have the mystique of David Bowie, whose jetski I was lucky enough to pick up at auction last month. George is an understated legend, perhaps most well known for regularly crashing his car. But there again, George had the courage to go outside when most of the other gay celebrities were staying in the closet, which surely earns him a certain cachet.

You might consider my contact, Izzy Eeing an entrepreneur. I’m not sure how Izzy comes across these rare collectables. I don’t like to think of him as a thief, more as a shrewd negotiator. His tax returns might not bear scrutiny but he is a straightforward geezer and a well-connected one. I have never had any reason to doubt the provenance or authenticity of any of the memorabilia he has sold me. He is far more trustworthy than the London wheeler-dealers. With Izzy, what you see is what you get. If Izzy phones me up and says that he has Kurt Cobain’s strimmer for sale then that is what it will be. Should I want Buddy Holly’s yoga mat, he will get me Buddy Holly’s yoga mat. If I asked him to come up with Roy Orbison’s Wayfarers or Marc Bolan’s wizards hat, I could guarantee results. Izzy is a resourceful man.

…………………….

With Charlotte’s words I may not be here when you get back ringing in my ears, I set off bright and early. I am becoming used to these little contretemps. The same old arguments. All these people are dead, Miles, why can’t you move on? You seem to be going further and further back. Why do you have to live in the past? Why don’t you get a life? So and so is doing this, so and so is doing that. We never do anything together. Charlotte refuses to acknowledge that our cultural heritage is something to be cherished. …… She will simmer for a bit but she will come round.

After a couple of hours of sluggish traffic on the M25, I join the M4. To break up the journey, I stop off at Reading Services for a Sidecar doughnut and Americano. I check my phone and find I have an alert that Frank Zappa’s food mixer is for sale. I have to admit I’m tempted. Who wouldn’t be? I wonder why it has come up now, though. Frank has been dead a while and surely his star must be fading. But, perhaps a food mixer might go some way to placating Charlotte. There again, she would probably just carry on her diatribe about me living in the past.

Charlotte keeps telling me I live in a fantasy world. I respond by saying that in one way or another, don’t we all live in a fantasy world? What about those who read books about a boy wizard performing magic tricks or those who watch movies where dragons and orcs fight for mythical kingdoms? What about the millions watching mind-numbing soap operas every night? What about the ones who believe the stories in the Daily Mail or the Daily Express? Everyone it seems is living in some kind of dreamworld. As T. S. Eliot says in his epic musing, Burnt Norton, ‘humankind cannot bear very much reality.’

On balance, best then to give Frank’s food mixer a miss and concentrate on the task at hand. The sooner I can get down to Cornwall, the happier I will be. I don’t like travelling as much as I once did, but it is necessary for collectors to get about. Tailbacks from accidents further impede my progress and I am forced to make an unplanned stop at Leigh Delamere Services. Despite my earlier hard-line stance, I don’t like to let things at home fester so I give Charlotte a call to see how the land lies. And perhaps apologise for being a little offhand with her, offer to make it up to her. The call goes straight to voicemail. I leave a conciliatory message.

My expensive Domino’s pizza has the consistency of scrunched elastic bands and I regret ordering the double espresso instantly. It tastes like charred wood. I can’t help but recall the days when motorway service stations consisted of no-nonsense greasy spoons and you could have a decent fry-up at any time of day. You could even enjoy a good strong cup of tea with a cigarette afterwards. There’s this assumption that progress is a good thing, but is it? I’m not one of those people that believes in a mythic golden age but so many things were better back in the day. There was more simplicity and honesty. These days you pay more for less so that less people can have more. There again, I could not help but notice that petrol seems remarkably cheap here and they have gone back to using those slower pumps. Safety, I suppose.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of a woman at a table to the side of me looking in my direction, late twenties perhaps, dark hair, nice smile. It’s as if she recognises me. I do not recognise her but I smile back. She looks away and begins flicking through the pages of a local newspaper. I can only see part of the front page headline but it reads ‘dies of cancer’. I strain my head, curious to see who has died of cancer. It is Trogg’s lead singer, Reg Presley. Reg, of course, comes from around these parts. Andover, I believe. But, I remember that Reg died a few years ago. Why is she reading such an old paper? I am about to go over to try to find out when my phone rings. I imagine it is Charlotte returning my call but it is someone from the subcontinent wanting to talk to me about web domains. By the time I have explained that I am not interested, the woman reading the newspaper has disappeared. I search the service area high and low but there is no sign of her.

Confused, I get back on the road. I am behind schedule. Thankfully, the traffic as we come up to the M5 junction seems lighter. Sometimes this is what happens as motorists catch on that there have been accidents on a motorway. Traffic services on the radio and internet will have been putting out warnings and suggesting alternate routes for an hour or two and gradually the information filters through to drivers, keen to avoid the hold-ups. It’s not surprising that there are so many accidents on these motorways though. The carriageways are badly in need of an upgrade. I don’t recall the road surface being this bad though and they seem to have taken out some of the helpful signs and overhead displays. If you did not know your way, you might be going anywhere.

Curiously, there is hardly any traffic on the Avon bridge, which is normally a stretch of road that puts the fear of God into me. Four lanes in each direction with cars and trucks weaving in and out. As I head further south down the M5, through the elevated section there is even less traffic. I’ve never known it so quiet. It is interesting to see so many Vauxhall Cavaliers on the road though. Perhaps there is an owners’ club meeting in Weston Super Mare or somewhere. There’s a couple of Lada Rivas too. I haven’t seen one of those in a while. The Woolworths truck is puzzling. Woolworths ceased trading in, when was it? 2007, 2008? …….. There appear to be no roadsigns at all now, not even at the exit I am approaching. The satnav doesn’t seem to be working. A blank screen. But, I know where I am going, M5 to Exeter and then A30 across Devon to Cornwall. Anyway, I do have a map in case there’s a problem with the route.

I switch on the radio to keep me company and maybe get some traffic reports on too to see what is happening ahead. I am only able to pick up one station, a local one called The Breeze. Unusually for a local radio station, they are playing songs by The Clash, Should I Stay or Should I Go followed by London Calling. Not the usual middle of the road fare at all. I discover these are a tribute to Clash frontman, Joe Strummer, who lived in the Somerset Levels. Joe died yesterday, the disc jockey says. A sad loss to the local community. What is going on? Joe Strummer died back in 2002. I’m certain of this. I bought his yoghurt maker.

A few more bumpy miles and I pull nervously into Bridgewater Services at Junction 24. The operation has been drastically scaled down. The services seem to be undergoing a complete makeover. Even the Travelodge has gone. All that is left are a handful of prefabricated buildings and a gravel car park. The gravel car park is empty, except for a few contractor’s vans. Someone is erecting a Moto sign. Coming soon, it says. Something is very wrong. It wasn’t like this when I came this way with Charlotte last year.

‘Can I help you, guv?’ says a bruiser in orange fatigues and a hard-hat.

I tell him I am looking for the services. Somewhere to get a cup of tea and compose myself.

‘You’re about two years early, mate,’ he laughs. ‘Not scheduled for completion until 1999. That’s if you’re lucky. We’ve fallen a bit behind. The site was flooded here a couple of weeks ago. Big centrifugal pumps we had to hire to get rid of the water.’

1999. What is the fellow talking about?

‘No s’sssservices until …… 1999, I stammer. ‘What do you mean?’

‘If you want to get a cuppa or a bite to eat, bud,’ he says. ‘You’ll have to go on to Taunton Deane. That’s another twenty odd miles. ‘

‘But there were services here. I know there were,’ I say. ‘What have you done?’

‘You taking the piss, mate? Look! I should get back in your car before I set the dogs on you.’

I know there was a huge complex here at the A38 roundabout. You could access it from both carriageways. How can this have just vanished? This nightmare collapse of time is scaring the pants off me. I feel like I’ve inadvertently stepped into in a Philip C. Dark story. I desperately need something to hang on to, something I can believe, a shot of reality. My head is spinning. My mouth is dry. My stomach is churning. I reach into my pocket for my phone to call Charlotte. Or perhaps even Dr Self. He intimated that something unexpected might happen. He suggested I would not like it if it did. He did not go into detail. My phone is not in my pocket. I always keep in in my pocket but it is not there. I go back to the car and search frantically. I appear to no longer have a phone.

It is not until I‘m behind the wheel again that I realise that I am in a different car. It is still a Ford. I’ve always gone for Fords. But, this one is an older model. Like one that I owned years ago. Twenty years ago, perhaps. It is the one I owned twenty years ago. It’s the same car. Blue Ford Escort. No power steering. Oil light that stays on. The same broken radio cassette player. Even the same cassettes in the driver’s side door pocket. And, the same …….. dog on the back seat. My big black bulldog, Elvis. Elvis has been dead for…. Well, he’s been dead a long time.…….. He’s not dead now. He is barking like he does when he is greeting someone. He leaps over the passenger seat into the front of the car somehow knocking the rear view mirror and realigning it as he does so. I catch a glimpse of myself. I now have a full head of hair and I have lost the beard. It is said that reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn’t go away. I try to believe that things are still how they were when I set off but when I look in the mirror again, I find I still have a full head of hair and no beard. How can this have happened? How can any of this be happening? And, where has this thick fog suddenly come from? I can hardly see the road ahead.

When I emerge from the fog, sometime later (flexible, anonymous, irrational time) Elvis is no longer with me. Things appear to have once more moved on. Or back. Time it seems is in a bit of a tangle right now. I find I am in a Ford Cortina. A Mark 2 model. On a narrow windy country lane. Up ahead is a horse-drawn tractor. Princetown 7 miles, says a gnarled road sign. Princetown, I believe is in the middle of Dartmoor. Driving the car is a man that I recognise to be my dead father. He tells me he is taking me to a concert. In Tavistock.

‘It’s all right, he says. ‘I told your mother we would be late.’

‘A concert. You mean like people on a stage,’ I say. I cannot now recall having been to a concert before.

‘That’s right, son.’

‘Who are we going to see?’

‘Jimi Hendrix,’ he says.

‘Who?’ I say.

‘No. Not The Who, lad,’ he says. ‘Jimi Hendrix. He’s just arrived in this country. He has a record called Hey Joe. He plays the guitar with his teeth. He’s going to be famous. You’ll probably be buying posters of him for your room and who knows what else before long.’

© Chris Green 2017: All rights reserved

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Jimi Hendrix’s Kite (2015)

jimihendrixskite2016

Jimi Hendrix’s Kite by Chris Green

Part 1: The Twenty Seven Club

It is seven on a Saturday morning. I am enjoying a leisurely bath before going to the Strawberry Fields car boot. This gets going at about eight thirty so I have plenty of time. My bath is a large cast iron Victorian model with claw legs. I liberated it from a skip. Purists of Victoriana would maybe not approve of the zebra pattern I have painted on it, but it is in keeping with the jungle theme I have carried through the bathroom. It looks particularly good against the yucca and the kentia palm. I am sipping a cup of echinacea tea and scanning the Miscellaneous classifieds in the Advertiser, when something jumps out of the page: Box kite, large, rainbow colours, once owned by Jimi Hendrix, £27, no offers.

Why on earth would it matter to someone looking for a kite that Jimi Hendrix had owned it? It was not like it was a guitar, or even a jacket. And why £27? I try to remember if Jimi Hendrix is a member of the 27 Club, that elite band of rock stars that died aged 27. The ad has a mobile number. I phone it. There is no reply. Perhaps seven is a tad early. I leave a message on the voicemail.

When I was made redundant eighteen months ago, I decided to express myself at home. Do what I wanted with the house. Live my own kind of life. If I didn’t do it now I reasoned, I never would. I was nearly sixty for Heavens sake. Both the children had grown up and left home long ago and recently my partner, Judy had joined them. I didn’t have a mortgage, so what was the point in getting another job.

While homeowners are being encouraged to paint their houses in neutral colours so they they can sell them on, I have gone all out to make mine as distinctive and as brightly coloured as possible. Conformity is the curse of the modern world. From the trompe l’oeil front door to the Mondrian pattern patio at the back of the house, my house is a statement of individuality.

I make a living by buying and selling. The tools of the trade are charity shops, classifieds, auctions, ebay and car boots. All that is needed is a careful eye for a bargain. Last month I sold a folded movie poster for Mulholland Drive at auction for £350. Clic Sargent had been embarrassed to sell me this gem for £5 because it had a small tear in one corner. Last week I sold a Leika camera that I picked up for £20 for £250 on ebay. I do not need premises, only a phone line.

The economy is fuelled by the idea of built in obsolescence. Harassed twenty four seven by merciless advertisers to buy new ranges of commodities, people repeatedly accumulate too much clutter. What they need most in their lives is space to accommodate the new items. I help to give them that space. Second hand prices of most goods are at an all time low. Bargain hunting is fun. I do not miss the office or the High Street stores one bit.

It is spitting with rain when I arrive at the boot and there are only a few vehicles there. This is not a problem. Ninety five percent of the stock at car boots is utter junk. The skill is to spot the valuable or interesting amongst the junk. I have honed this skill and after all it is a buyers’ market.

In between buying a set of tyres and some ornamental grasses, still having change from a twenty, I continue to piece together the 27 Club. I calculate that Jimi Hendrix definitely was a member, as were Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, and Brian Jones. These were the icons that Kurt Cobain had reputedly wanted to join, when he put the gun to his head.

I do not normally pay too much attention to CDs at car boots but I cannot help but notice Axis Bold as Love, on a trestle table that otherwise had little but kitchen utensils and ornaments. The dazzling Hindu iconography of the front cover screams out. I don’t think that Axis would not have been a casual purchase for anyone. You might expect to find Greatest Hits occasionally, but this is a most unexpected find. I take it as a good omen and just as I am paying the 50p my Samsung rings.

‘Hello,’ I say.

‘Hi man,’ says a man’s voice that sounds as if it is coming from outer space. Perhaps it is the echo on the line. Or the slowness with which he speaks. ‘You called me about Jimi’s kite.’ Or the long spaces in between his words. ‘

‘Yes’ I say, ‘interesting ad. What’s the story behind it?’

‘Heeey, look man! It’s a long story. Not now eh, I’m a busy man. Do you want to see it or don’t you?’

I think his manner a little abrupt, even if he is not familiar with the ways of Earth. But, I do want to see the kite, so I humour him. I listen while he gives me a complicated series of directions. I hope I am writing them down correctly. So far as I can judge Rainbow Bridge, which I’ve never heard of, is about fifty miles away. I arrange a viewing for 1 o’clock. This gives me time to have an unhurried breakfast somewhere along the way.

I have not played any of Hendrixs music for some time. While he is frequently named as the greatest ever guitarist, few people actually listen to his music. You hear Crosstown Traffic on TV adverts and sometimes you might hear a snatch of Stone Free, to accompany a trailer, but these are minor works in the canon. I put the CD in my £15 Alpine player and set off. What a treat! Jimi’s playing sounds so fresh. As I listen to his fingers sweeping up notes along the neck of his Stratocaster, I begin to imagine him flying a kite. A multicoloured box kite, soaring on a brisk westerly, fluid and free. He has such fantastic dexterity; he would be a natural at flying a kite. I remember also reading that he was a paratrooper when he was younger. He would have been familiar with floating in space. He would understand the air currents. He could have been an Olympic contender at kite flying.

In Tesco at Backwater, I order a nine item all day breakfast and am faced with a choice between The Daily Grail and The Horror on the news-stand. Send Them All Back Home, yells the Grail, ahead of a paranoid tirade against migrants. I choose The Horror. The Horror enlightens me with a story about a junior cabinet minister’s sex change operation, and about England striker Rane Spooky’s cocaine binges with his girlfriend, Shagga (will he be suspended ahead of the all important World cup qualifier against Bhutan, wonders England coach, Tunc Moloko). After another cup of tea, I set off across country to Rainbow Bridge. It is eleven minutes past eleven.

Part 2: If You Can Remember The Sixties

There comes a point when you have to finally admit that you are lost. When any sense of pride regarding your spatial awareness must be abandoned. Admittedly Judy had undermined my sense of spatial awareness over the years, but I still felt I could find my way around within a small margin of error. But having driven round and round in what seems to be some kind of alien landscape for the best part of an hour, I reach this stage. I am lost. L.O.S.T. No doubt about it. The last obvious landmark was a series of derelict huts on a disused RAF base about an hour and a half back.

I am sure, well almost sure, that I followed the directions properly and came off the B42 or whatever it was at Beckett Hill, and forked right at the first junction as instructed. Since then it has been a progression of ever more narrow country lanes, and now tracks and bridle paths. As far as the eye can see in any direction there is a patchwork of fields and woodland, following the geometry of the landscape. This is remote country. There has not even been a farmhouse. The last road sign I saw was the one at the Beckett Hill turn-off, which said Winwood, 3 miles. As it is overcast I do not even have the sun to guide me. I take out the mobile to call ahead, but this is more out of habit than faith. Of course there is not going to be a signal. Have you ever heard of a place called the back of beyond? Well, this is it!

I get out of the Volvo and scan the horizon in every direction. No sign of life. No farm animals. Not even birds. No buildings. Nothing. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of what might be a small movement. I squint to try and get a better look. It takes a while to come into focus but it appears to be a red and white electric milk float making its way up a slight incline from left to right, across my field of vision. What a peculiar sight out here in the middle of nowhere. Reason suggests firstly, milk comes from the country so there would not be large profits in a such a rustic milk round and secondly that the short life of a battery might be an inhibiting factor. But, presumably the milk float is headed somewhere. I turn the car around and head in its general direction.

I come to a fork in the road and take a right, thinking this might represent a short cut. After five minutes or so I find myself in thick woodland. Perhaps this is Winwood. maybe the earlier signpost wasn’t referring to a village. Winwood might be just that, a wood.

The trees are now in full leaf and little light is getting through the canopy. I catch several fallow deer in the beams of the headlights. Signs of life at last. I stop the car. No deer. Nothing again. Just trees and more trees. I am leaning heavily towards the idea of turning back and heading the way I came, when there up ahead and coming towards me is the milk float. The track I am on is little more the width of my car. The milk float continues heading straight for me. And there is no one at the wheel. It has no driver. To avoid a collision I back the Volvo up turning into a small clearing, only to collide with the stump of a recently felled beech. The tyres and the grasses I bought earlier tumble about in the back of the car. The milk float carries on regardless at a steady ten miles an hour, milk crates rattling as it makes its ghostly way through the woods. I am seriously shaken.

I look at my watch. It is eleven minutes past eleven. Time seems to have stood still but my mind is racing. I can think of no rational explanation to any of this, but feel that I really need one. I feel faint and take a series of deep breaths. I dust myself down and begin to follow. What else can I do? Gradually murky daylight filters through and we come out of the woods and are back in open country. The patchwork of the landscape spreads like a mantle towards the distant horizon and what seems a very large and empty sky.

Nothing could have prepared me for what I witness next. There, in front of me, bouncing its way across the landscape in a spectacular fashion at about the speed of a fast car is a large pink bubble. Because I am a fan, this powerful image is instantly recognisable to me as Rover, the spherical guardian from the cult 1960s TV series, The Prisoner. In the series, Rover hunts down any person who attempts escape from the secret seaside resort known as the Village. When Rover catches an escapee, it envelops their body and suffocates them. I am both fascinated and frightened at the same time by this surreal sight. Each bound takes it about fifty metres. Rover leaps over trees with consummate ease. Fortunately it does not seem to be heading towards me and for this I am thankful.

With the appearance of Rover, I begin to read some significance into the driverless milk float. In the deep recesses of my consciousness, I recall an episode of The Avengers the cult 1960s TV series. In this episode, there was a milk float that had no driver, and there was a disused airbase like the one I had passed earlier. As I can remember nothing about the plot, this does not really help with an explanation of these incidents beyond that there might be a connection. It is after all quite unusual for sixties television to come to life twice in the space of a few minutes. I begin to wonder whether the TARDIS from Dr Who might be about to materialise.

3: For The Benefit Of Mr Kite

I arrive at Rainbow Bridge at quarter to one. The journey has been relatively straightforward, taking me through some beautiful countryside. The directions I hurriedly took down earlier on the back of an envelope for all my concern about their vagueness, were accurate. I turned off the main road at Beckett Hill and forked left at the next junction, which took me through a beautiful little hamlet called Winwood. I passed a large area of mature woodland on my right and stopped a few miles further on at a nursery and garden centre for a cup of papaya and ginseng tea (I couldn’t resist buying a pampas grass for £5). I passed through Hockney and turned right at Mellow Yellow which took me just as my directions had said to Rainbow Bridge.

Rainbow Bridge is not a large village. There is only one street, the main one through the village. The directions say, last house on the left. I park outside the small semi-detached stone cottage. The cottage is built on an incline with a steep gravel path leading through a lawn up to the front step. The place looks in good repair. The door and the windows are nicely turned out. There is a Georgia creeper growing up the front of the house, a brightly coloured border, and a Chinese fan palm and a bamboo growing in Moroccan-blue glazed pots.

I knock on the door. The leaded stained glass diamond-patterned panel in the door is particularly impressive. Mr Kite has good taste. I half expected to find a ramshackle house with a goat tethered by a piece of frayed rope, Purple Haze playing at deafening volume, an untidy bunch of latter-day hippies sprawled in a haze of skunk smoke, the acrid smell of which would assault me the moment the front door opened. The ashtrays would be full, the heavy velvet curtains would be drawn, a black and white mongrel dog would be slumped on a threadbare settee, rugs would be hanging on the walls, and dishes would be piled up in the sink.

I am revising my appraisal when on the second knock, the door opens, releasing with it a cloud of acrid blue smoke. From within this a tall, lean figure with oriental features and dark slicked back hair appears. Inside a fine set of laughter lines, his eyes are deep set and he has a scar above the right temple. It is a difficult face to put an age to. He might be anything between 50 and 70 years old but his style of dress seems to belong to a younger man. He wears red loafers, distressed green denim cut-offs, and a baggy crimson sweatshirt with the number 27 printed on the front. He wears a chunky gold neck chain and his stubble is designer-plus.

He seems a little surprised to see me, unsure of who I might be. I tell him I’ve come about the kite.

‘Hey man! You made it OK then.’ Mr Kite’s voice has inflections of Jack Nicholson about it. ‘Only I wasn’t sure about the directions I’d given you, man. You know what I mean.’

‘No I found it easily,’ I say. ‘Nice drive. Lovely scenery.’

He seems to want to stay on the subject of his directions. ‘I couldn’t remember if I told you to fork left or right at Beckett Hill, man. You dig? Don’t turn right. Big mistake if you turn right.’

‘No. I turned left like you said. Look, here!’ I show him the envelope. ‘Why? Where does it take you if you turn right?’

‘No-one knows, man. You get lost. You know what I mean.’

He seems more friendly than he did on the phone. He grins a lot.

‘It’s sort of like a black hole. Like the Bermuda Triangle. …… Anyway come on in man, let me show you the kite.’

He offers me the large spliff he has been smoking. I decline but I am already beginning to feel stoned from passive smoking.

The hallway is like a gallery with an exhibition of framed photographs, mostly black and white in black frames, but a few of the pictures are in colour and these are in green, red or yellow frames. My gaze settles on one in particular. This must be Mr Kite when he was younger with Jimi Hendrix. They are seated on stools playing acoustic guitars. He plays right handed and Jimi plays left handed. They mirror each other like John and Paul. It is a fantastic shot. I move closer to study it. The clothes, the hair styles, the whole ambience of the picture seems to capture the era perfectly. The times, they were a-changing. There was something in the air.

‘You like it, man? What about the sideburns, eh? That was taken in 1968. Or was it 1969? Olympic Studios, in Barnes. I had a …… I suppose you could call it a flat in Putney at the time. Jimi used to crash there if he was working late at the studio. We went out a few times to fly the kite in the park around the corner. You know what, even then he would take his guitar. He would walk down the street with it like a travelling minstrel. Happy times man.’

‘Should I have heard of you,’ I ask?

‘I don’t know. ….. Probably not, I was with lots of bands in the sixties. I was a bit what you might call wayward. Never stayed with anything very long.’

He takes a final pull on the spliff.

‘Heard of The Electric Bananas? I was with them for a while, and some American bands. California mostly. My name’s Dave by the way’

I introduce myself, he puts the spliff in an ashtray and we shakes hands.

‘In here,’ he says, leading me into a deceptively spacious front room.

The kite is laid out on the floor. It is fantastic. Rainbow is an understatement. It has so much colour. It is so spectacular it makes everything else in the room look grey. Even the yellow walls, the Ken Done curtains, and the art deco settee, and the Matisse prints on the walls.

‘It’s brilliant,’ I say. ‘I’d like to buy it, but I’m curious, why £27? Why not 25 or 30?’

With this he becomes animated. He has clearly been waiting for me to ask.

Twenty seven’s a cool number, man. You know. The house number’s 27. Didn’t you notice? I always take number 27. I’ve lived at 27 Mulholland Drive – a long time ago. 27 Ladbrook Grove, 27 Love Street, 27 Mandela Mews, 27, I could go on and on, man. My birthday’s on the 27th. And Jimi’s was. We were both born on November 27th. 27 is a magic number. It is the cube of 3. It is the result of a prime reciprocal magic square of the multiples of 1/7.

He waits for me to show that I understood what a prime reciprocal magic square is. I don’t, but nod anyway.

‘And did you know there are 27 books in the New testament,’ he continues. ‘But …. I know what you’re thinking, man…. the 27 club. Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, Brian Jones, Tim Buckley, Robert Johnson and Kurt Cobain all died at 27.’

I have by now had chance to think this through. If I felt like debating the issue I could point out that there are lots of famous musicians that did not die at 27. Otis Redding and Nick Drake died at 26 and Marc Bolan died at 28 for instance, Bob Marley was 36 when he died, John Lennon lived to the ripe old age of 40, and many even those who have led dissolute lives are still alive. And for the record Buddy Holly was just 22 when he met his maker. Besides, some of those on his list are a little obscure: Tim Buckley and Robert Johnson are hardly household names.

‘Why don’t you want to keep the kite,’ I ask?

‘It’s my life laundary man,’ he laughs, as he licks the edge of a cigarette paper. ‘It’s not the sixties anymore, you know what I mean? What do I need a kite for? You’ve got to let go.’

Part 4: Eleven Minutes Past Eleven

Dr Robert tells me that he feels I am suffering from false memory syndrome. This is as a result of the accident. I was unconscious for 48 hours, and my Volvo, tough car though it was, was a write off as a consequence of the collision. Beckett Hill is a notorious accident black spot. I have now been in hospital for a week, recovering from a catalogue of serious injuries, including a fractured skull, damage to my neck, my thorax, and broken bones in my arms and legs. Dr. Robert is a visiting consultant, specialising in head injuries.

‘A false memory,’ he tells me, ‘is a memory, which is a distortion of an actual experience, or a confabulation of an imagined one. Many false memories involve confusing or mixing fragments of memory events, some of which may have happened at different times but which are remembered as occurring together. Many false memories involve an error in source memory. Furthermore, memories are often mixed; some parts are accurate and some are not. Some involve treating dreams as if they were playbacks of real experiences.’

He adds that my accounts of the day leading up to the accident are colourful and detailed compared to most examples of false memory, but research on memory indicates that the actual act of remembering inevitably involves creativity and imagination. As I can remember important things like what my name is, where I live and what my bank details are, he does not seem to be too concerned about these flights of fancy. He seems especially pleased that I can remember my bank details. He is optimistic that, given the appropriate stimuli, my memory will in time begin to function normally.

Dr Robert leaves and a nurse that I have not seen on the ward before helps me back to bed. I notice from the badge on her blue uniform that her name is Sunita Kapoor. Nurse Kapoor can see that I have been a little troubled by the discussion with Doctor Robert and tries to put my mind at rest. Unlike one or two of the nurses I have met during my stay Nurse Kapoor seems genuinely concerned about my welfare.

‘It is not unusual to be confusing things that have happened with things that have not,’ she says as she manipulates my wheelchair around the trolleys on the ward. ‘Imaginings are very powerful. My religion is based upon powerful imaginings.’

As she is wearing a bindi on her forehead I take it to be Hinduism she is referring to. I do question whether seeing, or imagining I saw, the TARDIS materialise in the middle of hundreds of square miles of gently undulating countryside might be a little outside the realm of those studying the Upanishads, but as she does seem very friendly, I do not mention this concern.

Nurse Kapoor asks if I have tried reading to take my mind off of things. I tell her that I do like reading but I do not have a book and I have read all the Collectors Weekly magazines that my friend Annie brought in. As she uses the EZ lift to replace me back in my bed, she promises she will find me some books.

‘There are many good books in the nurses’ rest room that might be interesting you,’ she says. ‘I do like to have a good read myself. I have just finished a story called The Garden of Forking Paths by Jorge Luis Borges. It is quite short but it is very complicated. It is about a Chinaman who is a German agent in the war. He goes to the house of a man named Stephen Albert whose name he has got from the phone book and shoots him. When the story of the killing turns up in the papers, the Germans know through a secret code they’ve devised, where the important British munitions dump they must attack is located: a French town called Albert. The story mentions a book about time written by Chinese philosopher Ts’ui Pen. Dr. Jayawardene is telling me that it has a subtext. The subtext is that at every point in time and space, history branches out in an infinite number of different directions. This offers you endless realities which all occur at once and it also suggests that you can be whatever you can imagine.’

‘It sounds quite a story,’ I say. ‘I should like to read it.’

‘I will bring it to you this afternoon,’ she says, ‘but now I have to see other patients on the ward.’

‘I’ve got The Advertiser, if you would like to read it,’ says the heavily bandaged patient in the next bed.

‘Thanks,’ I say.

Instinctively I find myself turning to the classifieds. I scan these, arriving at an item in the Miscellaneous. It reads Mistral Malibu Wind Surfer with mast, boom and sail, once owned by Jimi Hendrix, £27, no offers. I look up from the paper. It is eleven minutes past eleven.

© Chris Green 2015: All rights reserved