Reading, U.K. 1978.
Saturday evening outside the Odeon Cinema. (It might have been the Hippodrome of course, perhaps even the Empire – that would have been neat). Dave was looking at Bill’ - it had been her idea after all.
“Why are we going to see this junk?”
“It’s not junk,” she replied. “Don’t judge it ‘till you’ve seen it.”
“I hate robots, I hate guns, I don’t care for sci-fi.”
Bill’ laughed.
“Listen to yourself! ‘I don’t much care for sci-fi’. You sound like a priest.”
“I didn’t say ‘much’, besides, what have you got against priests.”
Bill’ had a lot against priests – …………. the history of abuse, and the way they peddled an untrue story for a start.
“Religion is the opium of the masses; you know that don’t you?”
“I thought it was science fiction.” Dave pulled out a fiver from his pocket, it was all he had left from his dole money. He would rather be spending this on … what exactly? He was just being grumpy - he liked going to the cinema, had done ever since his mum had taken him to see Swiss Family Robinson and later Mary Poppins - but he had had a humiliating week.
It had begun well.
The local community-paper had published his poem about the adventure playground and when he had volunteered to distribute the latest issue on the high street he thought it would be fun. Very quickly he learnt how scared most people were when you approached them, how fearful they were of anything offered for free, how cruel they were in the way they blankly ignored him. He had felt unclean. The only person who spoke to him all morning was the guy trying to recruit people for the Revolutionary Social Worker’s party.
“We could use someone like you. Come along and meet the other comrades.”
Dave did not feel like a comrade; in fact, he didn’t know what he felt like.
His parents had always voted for the Liberal Candidate and Dave liked the orange colour of the posters but his political opinions were still forming.
True, he had paid a membership fee to the international Marxist party - mainly because it seemed ‘cool’ in much the same way he had switched support from Liverpool football club to Paris St Germain. He had even read Sartre’s book Nausea, though it made him feel sick more than existentially enlightened.
And he was shocked that his friend Bill’’s parents had been refused entry to the U.S.A. simply because they were members of the Communist Party. They lived in Biggleswade for god’s sake! The town was hardly the centre of communist intrigue; more people went to the local real-ale pub than read The Morning Star.
The pub was more like someone’s front room – no bar as such, and just arm chairs and a few low tables. The landlord- much too elderly to hurry – circulated the room taking orders and then disappeared for a while as he struggled down the ladder to the cellar where the casks of beer waited. Here he would hand fill glasses, then return, negotiating the ladder steps even more carefully. There wasn’t a great choice when it came to ordering, you could have a pint or a half. The only decision was the quantity.
That’s it, Dave realised. He’d rather be there than about to walk into a crowded cinema to watch Star Wars Episode Four.
Bill’ and Dave were new – as a couple - they had met the previous term at university. It was a party, a lot of drink had been drunk and neither of them could ever remember how exactly they had ended up snogging In the kitchen -they were clear, however, that it was not kissing.
The next morning, Bill’ – still reeling from the encounter- had called round. Dave was out and so Bill’ chattered with one of the other students that shared the house.
“Why do you call yourself Bill’?” H had asked.
“Why do you call yourself H?”
After that they became good friends, went on marches together, blockaded the American base one time and got thrown into the same cell for the night for their troubles.
Helen told Bill’ that Dave was out, that he probably hadn’t expected to see Bill’ again but Bill’ decided he was worth it and persevered. Their first date was to spend an evening at the University Folk Club. There, they sang along as best they could, drank tea and marvelled at the singer’s commitment.
“Who is he?” Dave had asked.
“Martin Carthy, he’s one of the best.”
Dave didn’t know anything about folk music. He didn’t know much about anything in fact, especially women. Helen had been right; he had not been thinking of an involvement at the party. His intentions had been more rudimentary.
The following week they sat and listened to ……..
“She’s pretty,” he observed.
Bill’ taught him where to put opinions like that.
Another week passed and since the folk club had a break they went to see a show in the Student Union Hall – Viv Stanshall from the Bonzos, solo with robots.
Dave liked these robots, they made him laugh and he knew who the Bonzos were. A week later Bill’ moved in and Dave had to swap his small downstairs room with H’s larger, first floor bedroom.
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