Geoff Nicholson - Still life with Volkswagens

♦

Barry has devised a logo for the Green Beetles. It shows, in profile, a Volkswagen Beetle which has had its wheels removed, and has grown large angel-style wings which sprout from the rear of the car’s roof. The initials G.B. flank the design.

He has painted his own rendition of this logo, in whitewash, on the bonnet of Enlightenment. He has done his best, been painstakingly careful, and tried hard to get the drawing of the Beetle as accurate as possible. But Barry is no artist and he knows it. He doesn’t need anybody to tell him that the painting is crude and messy, but that is precisely what the little tyke with the environmentally unfriendly father, the so-called Ferrous Kid, is telling him right now.

“How come it’s got no wheels?” the kid asks.

“Because it doesn’t need them,” says Barry.

“Beg to differ Barry. My Dad says everybody needs wheels.”

“It doesn’t need wheels because it’s not going anywhere.”

“I see,” says the kid, impressed by the unassailable logic of this, but he is soon thinking on his feet again. “What’s the point of a car without wheels?”

“Well, I don’t want to get pretentious about this,” says Barry, “but it seems to me that in today’s world everybody is rushing but nobody’s going anywhere. Everybody’s in such a hurry that they waste their time. Everybody wants to travel but they can’t decide on a destination.”

“Maybe they’re just travelling hopefully,” says the kid.

“But what are they hoping for? ”

The kid only has to think for a moment before saying, “I suppose they’re hoping for fun, material wealth and good sex.”

“How old are you?” Barry asks again.

Ignoring him, the kid continues, “Surely it’s worth a bit of a journey in order to find those things.”

“Well, yes and no,” says Barry. “The thing you’re journeying to find is probably where you already are.”

“I think my Dad would say you should get out a bit more.”

“He very probably would.”

“He’d probably say you should get in your car, put your foot down, feel the throb of the engine, the thrill of movement, the rush of adrenalin on the open road. He’d say you’d feel very different about all this green business if you did that. And I agree with him.”

“Do you really?”

“Yeah. So how about it?” says the kid. “The car’s sitting there doing nothing. I can get hold of some petrol if that’s the problem. How about it? Why don’t we go for a bit of joyriding?”

“Why don’t you get your Dad to take you joyriding if it’s so important?”

“Nah,” says the kid. “He’s a miserable bugger. My Mum says he never takes her anywhere.”

This gives the kid a moment of reflection, and as he reflects he stares again at Barry’s ham-fisted logo. One or two thick drips of whitewash are starting to bleed down the car’s bonnet.

“So why the wings?” he asks Barry.

“Because it’s the only way to fly,” Barry replies.

♦

A shiny blue and white Volkswagen camper van, complete with elevating roof, cooker, sink, fridge, awning and chemical toilet, is threading its way through a narrow, dappled, English country lane. At the wheel is Davey, formerly one of Ishmael’s younger, more impressionable disciples. Until last month he worked for an agency that recruits accountancy personnel. It was a steady job but it failed to satisfy the inner man. So he handed in his notice, took his holiday pay, polished up his Volkswagen camper and then took to the roads of England, just the way Ishmael once did.

It’s been pretty good so far. He’s stayed at some attractive and well-appointed camp sites, been invited to one or two interesting barbecues, and chatted quite amicably with his fellow campers and holidaymakers. However, if he was being absolutely honest, he would have to admit it’s been a little tame.

The truth is, Davey has an ambition that he hopes to fulfil on this trip. He knows it might sound a bit silly, but what he’d really like to do is fall in with a group of New Age travellers. He doesn’t want to trespass or damage property or leave behind him a trail of unsanitary toilet arrangements, but he wouldn’t mind at all briefly becoming part of a New Age convoy. He imagines he’d feel rather bucked to be among some exotic people with Mohican haircuts and rings through their noses. He’d share their food and drink, play with their dogs and entertain their barefoot children, discuss numerology and auras. He would walk with them in some ancient places. But mostly what he’d like to do is take some Ecstasy and dance in a field till dawn, while a barrage of techno dance music overtakes his senses and gives him a sense of total unity and love.

It’s easier said than done. As he drives along he very seldom sees the battered old vans, ambulances, army lorries and retired buses that he knows would signal the presence of a hippie convoy. Mostly what he sees are spanking new caravans, reps’ cars, hot hatchbacks. But he still has hopes of finding what he’s looking for.

He is well into the second week of his trip before he sees, in a lay-by not far from Scotch Corner, a little tangle of appropriate-looking vehicles. His heart lifts up. There’s an old gypsy-style caravan, a flatbed truck with a sort of log cabin built on the back, and a double decker bus painted with scenes from the Tarot. At the centre of the lay-by there is a wobbly looking teepee and a handful of tents. A fire churns out white smoke, vast speakers pump out dance music, dogs and children roam free. Ragged but supremely hip-looking men and women sit around being themselves.

Davey pulls into the lay-by and brings his camper to a halt right in the middle of the encampment. The inhabitants ignore him completely. He steps out and smiles broadly at everybody.

“Hey,” he calls. “Anybody know when and where the next rave is?”

He addresses the remark to the whole company and gets no response. Perhaps, he thinks, he is being too general. He approaches a man whose head is shaved at the sides, with his hair tied up in a top knot. He has rings through various parts of his body and any number of tattoos.

“I say,” says Davey, changing tack, “any idea where I can get some E?”

The man laughs wetly through his nose but can’t be bothered to offer an insulting reply. He waves Davey away, wearily, but he isn’t to be dismissed quite that easily.

“Hey,” he says, turning back to the whole group, “I can see you guys are all really chilled out. Mind if I join you for a while?”

This is enough to stir at least one of the travellers into action. A woman gets up from her place by the fire. Davey notices that her hands and feet are caked with black dirt. Her skinny body is wrapped in tatters of big, ill-fitting clothes, but her face, he thinks, is rather sensitive, soft, serene, saintly. He could definitely imagine sharing some space with her. She comes up to him and says, “Fuck off and die you middle class dweeb.”

Davey can take a hint, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t deeply hurt. He climbs into his van and drives away. It seems to him that the travellers looked at his vehicle, his clothes and his haircut, and immediately dismissed him. They thought he didn’t look enough the part. This, in his opinion, is not what New Age travellers should be all about. They should take a looser, more accepting attitude towards their fellows.

But he knows this is a difficult area. Only a few minutes later, a couple of miles along the road, he decides to stop for lunch at one of those large pubs you find marooned beside dual carriageways, with a roomy beer garden and a large piece of historic, agricultural machinery arranged outside the front entrance. He parks, gets out of his van and walks towards the pub, and he sees a group of vicious-looking skinheads.