by Andy Marlow
Pamela was part of this movement. This was her generation. Gracie and I had had many words with her, but her mind was made up. We could not change it. Nevertheless, she was still only twenty and we were still her legal guardians. So we had arranged this little day-trip today to see what this ‘hippy’ lifestyle was all about in action- in all honesty, hoping to put Pamela off it. It hadn’t worked. She was looking about with wonder and envy at the life she could be living, if only mum and dad weren’t around to spoil proceedings.
“Just look at it,” she said with glee. “Isn’t it amazing? “
“Free love?” I queried. I was looking at the same thing, and it looked nothing like amazing. It looked more like immorality and debauchery. “Doesn’t that just mean free sex?”
“Well yeah, but…” her voice trailed off as she became engrossed in her surroundings once more.
“Pamela, sex and love are not the same thing,” I insisted. “You’re so naïve.”
“Dad,” she implored me resolutely. “It’s not just sex. It’s intimacy. It’s saying that we will all be there for one another, physically as well as emotionally, no one person exclusive with another. Because if we do that, people just end up lonely.”
“I won’t let you do this,” I stated firmly. When she looked at me with those wide eyes and that sad smile, I repeated myself all the more forcefully, “I said no. So button it, little lady, for at least one year. You have no choice in the matter. You’re still only twenty.”
She gazed around her silently, sullenly. I knew her heart was broken by my stern rejection of her wishes and I knew how she felt, for I had felt it in my youth: like an outcast, cut off from the zeitgeist and denied what everyone else was experiencing. Yet I knew it was for the best. I had seen fads come and go, both in society in general and in my daughter’s life, and I hoped that my wise parenting would make this one go away too.
I was wrong.
Chapter 15: May 7th, 1968
“I love you all,” said the community elder in the middle of the hall. “We are so thankful you could come.”
It was the day of Pamela’s birthday. She turned twenty one today and Gracie and I had prepared for her a special birthday surprise: the biggest cake I had ever seen and a trip to Blackpool, her favourite seaside resort. I had even been out to the keycutters especially so that I could give her the key to the house. It was us, however, who would get the surprise. When we awoke that morning, we found her missing. Her room was emptied of all her things, the only evidence that she had ever been there being a crumpled up note laying on her bed.
“Dear Mum and Dad,” it had said. “I’m sorry I had to go like this, but there was no other way. I knew that you wouldn’t approve of my choice so I thought it best. I’ve run away to live on Brookvale farm. It’s a commune run by Doctor Joseph Altberger. You remember him, the man we saw in Hyde park last year? He’s put his words into action and started up a rural community where all the mistakes of modern western culture are corrected. We live together here as one. Free love is not just something we talk about; it’s something we do in our everyday lives. I’m sorry. I hope you’ll understand. Love, Pamela.”
We were livid, of course. After making brief enquiries we discovered where Brookvale farm was and set off immediately.
We had expected to find a mass orgy in a field full of people too stoned to notice us. Instead, what we found dazzled us by its simplicity.
Brookvale farm was just like an ordinary farm, except people lived and worked communally. They slept in dormitories and had a rota for everything: breakfast was at eight o’clock in the morning every day; then, at nine o’clock, everyone would go out for their day’s labouring, with a lunch break at midday; finally, at five o’clock in the afternoon, work would cease and everyone would come together for tea, after which was time to relax, socialise and play games.
We arrived at lunch and found everyone sitting together in a large hall eating what looked to be smoked kippers and salad. Pamela was easy to spot. She turned bright red at the sight of us and hastily, awkwardly, approached.
“Mum! Dad!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
“We’ve come to take you home,” I said angrily. “Come along. The car’s outside.”
She simply glared at me. It was clear she was not going to move.
“Dad, do you remember when you said that when I was twenty one, I could run away and join the hippies?”
“I never said anything of the sort!” I said, flabbergasted that she would use my own words against me.
“Yes, you did, father,” she replied matter-of-factly. “Well, that’s what I’ve done. I’ve had the desire in me for the past five years and now, finally, I am able to act on it. And I’m twenty one now, so you no longer have any legal power to force me back home.”
“But come and have a look inside!” she screamed, suddenly excited. “It’s so brilliant here. It’s everything I dreamed it would be. Come and meet Doctor Altberger. In fact, he’s about to give a speech. I’m sure you’ll be welcome. He loves guests.”
She grabbed me by the hand before I could refuse and pulled me onto a padded sofa in the corner of the room, where she patted the cushion down and beckoned me to join her. I hesitated, so she pulled me down anyway and forced me into a seated position.
I had no time to argue because the esteemed Doctor was about to start talking.
“I love you all!” he began. “We are so thankful you could come. All of you. Guests and residents, visitors and friends, I love you all.”
“Here at Brookvale farm, we live to love. Our love is a pure form, a spiritual form. We lead a completely selfless life, free from any personal possessions or personal desires. We live for the community, and the community looks after us.”
“Out there in the world, they live an impure form of love,” he continued. “They use the word willy nilly and rob it of its meaning. Out there, love means little more than ‘like’, or nothing more than sex. Here, we know it to be different. We don’t just say it. We live it.”
“Our day is strictly organised so that we can work for the good of the community. We eat well, we work well, we sleep well. We do not do drugs here and we are most certainly not lazy. I hope, therefore, that we have rid ourselves of the hippy stereotype forthwith.”
“He’s changed,” I whispered to Pamela. “Last year he was all about free love and passing the puff.”
She nodded. “But for the better,” she added. “You were right, Dad, about one thing. Those hippies in the park were misguided. They spoke of free love, but really meant free sex. It isn’t the same thing.”
“You want to stay here, don’t you?” I asked her, knowing the answer already.
She nodded. “It’s perfect here, Dad. This is how humans were meant to live.”
I sighed. “All right, then,” I said reluctantly, “you have my blessing. I don’t really have any choice now, anyway, given that you’re an adult now. It would just have been nice of you not to run away in the night like that.”
“I know,” she admitted. “I’m sorry. I was just scared about how you’d react. I was scared that you’d stop me.”
“I would have done,” I said sternly. “Of course I would. But I can’t change what has happened. I suppose if I did drag you back home, you’d just find your way back here again.”
She nodded. The conversation was over and we went back to listening to the learned Doctor as he whittled on about how brilliant his little social experiment would be. I had to admit, it sounded like a good idea. Living on the land, working honestly and existing as a community- it certainly sounded more appealing than a nine to five office job surrounded by people who were barely strangers. I had to hand it to her, maybe there was something in this communal living thing.
The sociologist finished his speech and it was time to go. We left Pamela there and drove home. It was a heartbreaking goodbye, especially considering that it was so unexpected. We kissed, we hugged, we said poetic platitu
des to each other. And as the sun was setting, she disappeared through the barn doors while we drove out onto the A road.
Chapter 16: December 4th, 1975
“I love you Gracie. Is there anything I can do for you, get for you?”
“No, thank you Pat, I’ll be alright. Just hold me.”
That morning we had received news that Gracie’s father had died. At the impressive age of 84, he had finally succumbed to the throat cancer which had been plaguing him for much of his life and died peacefully in his sleep.
She had been devastated, of course. I had woken to find her weeping in the armchair. When I asked her why, she could not answer with words so showed me the letter she had just opened. It was from her sister:
“Dear Gracie,” it read. “It has been ever so long since we last spoke. I am truly sorry to write to you in such circumstances, but I have some bad news. Dad is gone. He passed away this morning peacefully in his sleep. The funeral will take place on December 6th at Lichfield Cathedral. I hope you can make it. Love from, Agatha.”
The news had hit me like a wave of sadness, and he had only been my father-in-law. I had barely known the man. I couldn’t imagine the grief my wife was going through now.
I wanted to be her hero, to rescue her from her suffering, but I could not. The only possible remedy for this agony was for her father to walk through the door now and declare that it was all a mistake and he was fine, really. That was impossible. And so I was doing all I could for her now: being a physical support, someone to lean on and hold onto while the bitterness reigned in her heart, something stable and comfortable, like the teddy bear from her childhood. She managed to smile through the tears in gratitude.
We lived alone now. Ever since Pam had left us those seven years ago, she had never returned except to visit. From what we heard, though, she was thriving at the farm. She would write to us telling how happy she was and announcing the latest successful harvest of beetroot or carrots, peas and tomatoes. The new goal of Dr. Altberger’s community was to become entirely self-sufficient, never having to go to the shops ever again. They had nearly reached their goal: apparently, 70% of the food they now ate was grown by them. I was honestly impressed.
Yet it could get lonely in the house without Pam, especially on days such as today. If she had been here, we could have shared the burden of comforting her mother; as it was, the whole responsibility fell to me, and I was worried that I wouldn’t do a good enough job of it. Gracie was smiling through her tears, though, as if to say thank you, so I let myself believe that my consolations were helping.
Chapter 17: August 2nd, 1983
“She said she loved me. But it was all lies,” Jimmy railed at me bitterly.
Jimmy was my best friend. We had the kind of relationship where we didn’t see each other for months at a time, but we didn’t need to. I knew that if ever I needed him, he’d be there, and if ever I told him a secret, he’d keep it confidential. I offered him the same service and today he needed it.
Her wife of thirty years, Gladise, had left him. Completely unexpected, he had woken one morning to find her packing a suitcase and announcing that she was going and he would never see her again. He had been devastated. Though he had asked why, she had refused him an answer and simply left, wordlessly, at precisely twenty past nine that morning, never to be seen again.
We would later hear from her in 2003, twenty years in the future, when she would write Jimmy a letter apologising for her conduct and asking him how he was. She would tell him that she had settled down in Greece with a dashing fellow named Arnando and she hoped he could forgive her one day. Of course we were not to know this back in 1983. Even if we could have known, it would have been little comfort to my broken hearted friend.
We had met at the Bull and Crown pub on Hagley road. At first he wouldn’t speak to me. It had taken three pints of bitter before he could bring himself to open his mouth and admit what he had suffered.
“Weren’t you the one to say that love was meaningless?”
He looked at me darkly. “You say that to other people, Pat. You don’t mean it for yourself. When it’s applied to you personally, you understand that it has no clear meaning, but instead ascribe that to the great mystery you both share in. Sure, I couldn’t exactly place the meaning of the word. I still believed in it, though. I had to, for the sake of my sanity. Why do you think I spoke so glibly about it? Because my belief was strong enough that even such words could not shake it.”
“Love is a meaningless word in itself, to be sure,” he continued, seeming to find some consolation in his philosophising, “but you can give it meaning. If the two of you say it to each other with a firmly decided definition of what ‘love’ is, then you can be happy. You can know that when you say it and the words come back to you, you both mean the same thing. You both feel the same way.”
He grew suddenly silent as a realisation struck him.
“Oh, God. I’m going to have to start dating again, aren’t I?”
I nodded pitifully. There was little I could do for him except listen to his words and simply be there for him. He had always liked talking, in love with the sound of his own voice, so to be an audience to his one man show may have been some consolation.
“They call it the dating game these days,” he mused. “I don’t know anything about it. From what I see, it’s all about attractive young things dancing towards each other in trendy nightclubs and buying each other drinks. It wasn’t like that in our day, was it Pat?”
“No,” I agreed. “Much more honourable when we were growing up. More decorum.”
“Look at me,” he said thoughtfully. “I’m sixty years old. Where am I going to find a date? I’m balding, I’m fat and I’m no good at dancing. No wonder Gladise left me.”
“Let’s go looking tonight,” I suggested. “Go ‘pull a bird’, as the young people call it.”
“No,” he answered thoughtfully. “Another time, but not now. It’s too soon. She might come back.” A sad smile appeared on his face as he contemplated the impossible image of his loyal soulmate returning to him that evening, apologising for her rashness and pledging never to leave again. It was impossible, though. The firmness of her conviction had been clear when she left.
“Besides, I’d be no good. It’s all about being the lowest common denominator, the most normal, ordinary person you can be, the closest to the modern masculine ideal. And I’m nowhere near that. What woman would want me?”
“Gladise did,” I pointed out, but that proved to be a mistake. At the mention of her name he seemed to withdraw into himself once more, returning to the state in which I had found him when I entered the pub. Despite my efforts, he could not be moved to speech so I was simply left with the task of sitting with him as a form of physical comfort until he was able to recover himself.
It was almost closing time before he finally became his normal self once more. A cheeky look appeared in his eye which I had not seen since his youth as he surveyed the bar scene.
“She’s a bit alright, isn’t she?” he said, beckoning behind me.
I looked round and saw a stunning redhead at least thirty years his junior sitting by the bar. I smiled. He had no chance with her, and I don’t think he even wanted one, but his words showed me that he was ready to move on, however hard that would be. He would be alright in the end.
Chapter 18: September 1st 1991
“I loved him,” wailed the widow at the front. “And now he’s gone.”
It was 1991, and Gracie and I, though we did not feel it and though we were loathe to admit it, were getting old. I was 71 years of age while she was a sprightly 70.
We had been receiving our pensions for six and ten years respectively. The slow onset of old age aches and pains, or arthritis as the doctors call it, had inevitably crept up on us so that our arrival to the church today had been slow, labourious.
We were here for the funeral of a family friend. Pam had left the farm to join us today, for we had all kn
own the man well. She had known him better than most; he had been like an uncle to her.
The woman speaking at the podium was his wife. She was coping remarkably well for someone who had suffered such a loss as hers. Her name was Agnes; the deceased was called Peter. We had often visited Peter and Agnes on our regular family trips to Cornwall. Theirs had been a friendly home: a cottage nestled in a forest which you could only reach by traversing several narrow country lanes. They had been worth the detour, though. We were always weighed down with cakes and sweets whenever we left their abode, which is probably why Pam had adored them so.
She was crying now. Tears poured down my daughter’s face as she listened to the beautiful eulogy being given by the grieving Agnes.
“Peter was a saint,” she was saying, her voice faltering at certain points. “He was always doing things for other people. He always tried to do more for others, ever fearful of becoming selfish. But he never could be that. It was against his nature.”
“I’m sure we all remember that time at Janine’s wedding when he went missing for a few hours. I was so angry at him. And then we found him, in the cellar, being daft as usual trying to make her a sculpture. He was so embarrassed when we found him. That was so typically him. Always so secretive, yet so kind. If ever he was hiding something from you, you knew it was more likely to be a surprise party than a dirty secret.”
“Missing… I miss him so much…” Her voice trailed off and she could speak no more. She had been cut-off in the middle of her speech, but the grief was too much for her. She was led away by her son and the vicar took over proceedings.
They had always been a close couple, Peter and Agnes. Their marriage had spanned decades. Agnes’ face was like a treetrunk sawn in two: as the tree exhibits its age by the number of rings it possesses, so too did her face show her age by the quantity and depth of its wrinkles. And most of those wrinkles were evidence of the years she had spent with Peter. Her face, her whole image, had been defined by her husband, their shared life; now he was gone, part of her was, too.