‘And if there was no sex in the communes,’ said Ally, ‘she wouldn’t have got pregnant then.’
‘Maybe it was Fi who was pregnant?’ Sara suggested.
Ally shrugged. ‘I saw her in London at The Seventh Star place. She would have mentioned it, surely?’
‘At least we know what happened to Mitch’s parents and why we couldn’t find them here in the UK.’
‘So where do we go from here?’ I asked.
‘Back to London,’ said Sara. ‘See if Lauren has had any luck.’
‘She’s working with two companies that claim to be able to find anyone anywhere in the globe,’ said Ajay. ‘Nothing to report as yet but it’s still early days.’
‘Maybe Fi and Mitch went over to New Zealand to join their parents. That would explain why Mitch seems to have disappeared.’
‘I doubt it. She was never that close to either of her parents. Don’t you remember her dad and how scary he could be?’
Ally and Jo nodded.
‘Lauren will find out,’ said Ajay.
I hoped so. People don’t just disappear. The Fab Four will ride again, I thought as we got into the car and headed back to the station.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Mitch
Autumn 1974
The vision of Paul and his ensuing conversion took place on the road to Damascus. Mine took place just off the A406, behind World of Leather.
I learnt that the man in the chenille coat was called Tom Riley.
I learnt that the teachings of the group were devised by four Americans, John, Robert, Maya and Debra who’d done the hippie trail in the sixties. On their journey, they had studied the philosophy of a guru from Kerala in India. The guru was old and didn’t travel but he did provide advice and direction to American founders.
‘Indigos’ were members who had been trained to pass on the teachings. They had been members since the beginning and spent their lives travelling wherever they were told to go by John, Robert, Maya and Debra.
We heard that there would be an introductory session to the meditation side of the teachings in October, led by one of these indigos. When I learnt that Tom Riley was going, I decided to go with him.
As we drove to the venue in his clapped-out van, we discovered we had a lot in common. We were both twenty years of age. We’d both been reading Carlos Castaneda and Herman Hesse but The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran was our favourite. We both liked Captain Beefheart and His Magic Band and had both been affected and inspired by what we had heard from the Rainbow Children. As I got to know him, I discovered that he had a lust for life and all its pleasures – food, women, wine and music – and was an all-or-nothing man, presently aspiring to a higher path. Although he was attractive, there was no chemistry and I didn’t fancy him, but I felt comfortable with him and could tell we were going to be friends.
The meditation session was to take place in Harlesden in northwest London in a commune where a number of the followers lived. I’d imagined some hippie-type place, a bit like The Seventh Star where I worked, but when we got there it looked like an ordinary semi-detached house. We took off our shoes and left them on the pile outside, then were ushered into a front room where there was no furniture and nothing on the walls apart from a rainbow mural on one wall. The house smelt of curry, incense and unwashed socks. All sorts of people packed in, about thirty of us – old, young, different cultures. We sat cross-legged on the floor and waited for the arrival of the indigo.
‘Do we have to pay?’ I whispered to Tom.
He shook his head. ‘The message is given freely. They accept donations, though.’
As we waited, I thought back to when Sara and I had attempted to learn to meditate a couple of years ago. We’d sat on the floor of my bedroom with our ‘How to’ book open, and attempted to do the lotus position. In a flash, Sara had folded her legs and sat with her feet resting on her knees, a smug look on her face. My legs wouldn’t go beyond cross-legged. ‘Obviously easy for me because I’m a superior soul on my thousandth incarnation,’ she’d said, ‘whereas you’re obviously just a low-life and it’s your first time on the planet.’
‘Not true,’ I had told her, ‘because superior souls don’t judge and you just cast me as a low life.’ She’d laughed. ‘Fair point.’ The book had told us to say Om Shanti over and over until it became a vibration of sound. We’d closed our eyes and given it a try. It felt nice and I’d got into it. Ommmmmmm shantiiiiiiiii. When I’d reopened my eyes, Sara had been asleep on the floor. ‘Superior soul?’ I’d said when she woke up. She’d grinned sheepishly. We had discovered cannabis soon after so we never tried the Om Shanti Express again.
My reverie was disturbed by the entrance of a plump middle-aged woman dressed in an indigo-colored kaftan. She looked in her thirties, Italian or Spanish, and reminded me of Jo with her brown eyes and dark hair. She introduced herself as Francesca then she sat on the floor in silence with closed eyes. I’d never seen anyone so still or serene.
After a few minutes, she opened her eyes and began to speak. ‘Today we’re going to learn a breathing meditation. Like a radio, you have to turn the radio on and tune into the right frequency. The human body can be likened to a radio in that it is the perfect instrument to tune into the life force that is everywhere and the nature of it is peace. Meditation is the key, and now I will show you how to do that so that you can experience it for yourselves.’ She got up to dim the lights and I
