Interlude

Things Seen at Dawn

God’s breath is the early morning mist that gently invades the Somerset hills. At the bottom of those hills begins a carpet of green that slowly undulates itself towards me.

The sky is an unblemished blue, the sun is a yellow ball slowly breathing itself into heat, second by second and minute by minute.

It is seven in the morning and I am sitting in my sister Nina’s garden sipping espresso and thinking about the poet, Shelley. Was it not he who said that heaven is here on earth, that the curse of our existence is that we are just too blind to see it?

I want to shake the man’s hand. If the view in front of me was made beautiful by one more inch I don’t think I could stand it.

Everything is so right, so perfect, so tranquil.

Van Morrison now appears in front of me, singing that beautiful song of his about the angels that live in the land just across the bridge, and how to see them I must close my eyes.

So I close my eyes and I wonder and I dream yet I feel a slight disquiet in my soul. I know the problem.

Even though I am having a relaxing weekend I cannot help thinking about this book. I go to bed at night with it on my mind, I wake up in the morning thinking on it. It is a familiar set of instructions.

Don’t forget to insert that sentence, don’t forget to resolve that issue, don’t forget to introduce that character, make sure you write Terry’s in a fractured style so as to reflect a drug trip, keep this section in the present tense so as to insert some energy, and – most important of all – think up a great opening line for the next section, one that grabs the reader and won’t let them go.

Also keep Norman’s chapter terse, so as to reflect his character on the road and the same with David so as to mirror the frustration of a child that no one listens to.

Although I have now interviewed the four guys and written their chapters, there is something missing, someone I have not met and faced up to. First off, I think it must be that I have not spoken to any of the girls who I lived with.

There is an explanation for this anomaly. I found two girls from my Burbank days, and both refused to talk. They had no interest in telling their life stories. When they told me their reasons, I understood why.

So if it wasn’t the girls…

And then, a beautiful realisation.

Burbank Children’s Home. That is the character missing from this book, the character that binds us all together. Burbank Children’s Home.

Many years ago in my memoir, The Looked After Kid I described Mount Vesuvius in the bay of Naples as a brooding, imperious presence. I think I was actually describing Burbank. For so many years, that is exactly what it has been at the back of my mind.

When I moved to London, I did so because I wanted to escape its dark shadows, its ghosts, its bitter sweet memories. I wanted to forget I was an orphan, escape from that title and re-invent myself.

At first, I told no one of my past in London. My aim was to write for the music press and I did not want to achieve that dream by playing the sympathy vote. I wanted to be judged fair and square.

Of course, when I did land my dream job, I became convinced that my employers IPC had a huge secret computer stashed away somewhere which had given them my details and that is why I had been given the job.

Let us put that thought aside. The reality is this – I need, no, have to meet Burbank, and face it head on. I have to visit every one of its rooms and dispel forever this dark presence in my soul.

The wheel has turned, the bell has rung: I have no choice now. It is time to face Burbank full on. And I knew just the man to do it with.

I reach for my phone and I call him.

‘You are coming to Burbank with me and you can’t say no,’ I say, and then I hang up.

Happy as the morning sun now, I took some more coffee, closed my eyes and lost myself in those fields of wonder.