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Volume CXXXI, Number 24 |
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A burnt-out hippie
LUDWIG RANG
ALUMNUS WRITER
Going back to England in '69 meant my life had come full
circle. In-between leaving school in spring '54 and starting college at
Bowdoin in the fall, as readers of my first Orient series may remember,
I had spent the summer in London. Here I met Rosemary and Nigel, already
engaged, and soon after to be married. A few years later they asked me
to be godfather to one of their children, a pretty girl called Penelope,
or Penny for short.
Eleven now, Penny had an older sister, plus three younger
brothers, all of whom except the youngest I'd met when, after getting
an overseas discharge from the army, taking my German girlfriend Helga
to Cornwall in summer '63.I hadn't seen the family since. Now quite unexpectedly
it was to provide a safe haven for a burnt-out hippie case.
Writing to me in the "winter of my discontent"
in New York, Rose had told me I'd be welcome to stay with them as long
as I wished. Penny was dying to see her absentee godfather again. What
I didn't realize at first was that this generous invitation was in part
prompted by the fact that after fifteen years and five children my friends'
marriage was more or less on the rocks.
Taking me aside soon after my arrival for a confidential
chat Nigel admitted as much. Always an ambivalent type, he had fallen
in love it seemed, if only platonically, with one of the apprentices at
the firm whose training program he ran. Leaving Rose to look after the
children he'd go off for the weekend hiking and camping with the lads,
including young Robert who could have been his son. Rose didn't mind,
Nigel said, because she was no longer interested in sexual relations with
him herself. He was, in effect, giving me carte blanche as far as my own
relations with her were concerned.
Having had a youthful crush on Rose, five or six years older
than me, my feelings for her hadn't really changed, though they had reached
a different stage. Just over forty now, but still attractive, and with
undiminished sexual desire, she was just the woman I needed. I was put
up in the guest room, and the children-before getting dressed and going
off to school-would come rushing in to horse around while I had breakfast
in bed, a special treat for a guest they treated like an older brother.
When they were gone, dropped off by Nigel on his way to work, Rose would
come up to collect the breakfast tray and, not yet dressed either, slip
into bed with me. Acquainted with my past sexual history, she may not
have expected what happened next, though was pleasantly surprised, she
afterwards told me.
It was thus that within days of my arrival a true love-child
was conceived. Naturally there was great excitement when the children
were told Mummy was pregnant again. Nigel for his part took it all in
good stride, glad to be able to go off with his young friend. Obviously
the baby wasn't planned, but Rose adamantly refused even to contemplate
a termination. A boy was born on New Year's Day, 1970.
Since we both liked the legend of King Arthur we decided
to name him Mark. With a part?time job teaching German at a local college
I was able to contribute to household expenses. My longer-term aim was
to write, particularly about my experiences as a Hippie in America, including
what I still believed had been "surveillance" by the FBI. Remembering
a young barrister I'd shared digs with in London in '54, now a Member
of Parliament (and eventually Solicitor General under Callaghan), I made
an appointment and went up to London to see him. Over drinks in the bar
of the House of Commons I told Peter Archer my story. Much of it sounded
quite plausible he thought.
The FBI after all was known to have kept tabs on thousands
of anti?war activists, and would have been particularly interested in
one who at the height of the cold war had spent six months in West Berlin,
making frequent trips into the eastern part of the divided city. My file
with the Bureau, perhaps even passed on to M16, probably was as thick
as the New York telephone book, Peter laughed. We left it at that.
A more important question facing me was whether to stay
in Cornwall or not. There being no question that Rosemary and Nigel would
stay together, if only for the sake of the children, including number
six, I decided to go back to Germany. It wasn't an easy decision. But
best for all concerned everyone was agreed, except of course Rose. For
her it was heart-breaking. But at least she had the love-child. Brought
up with his English family Mark never was told who his real father was.
Fortunately he had an excellent relationship with the man he called daddy.
Married last year, he may make me (an unacknowledged) grandfather soon.
For me this was the end of gay life. It was a phase of my life that I'm
not ashamed of and look back on with pleasure. Basically, like most people,
I'm neither exclusively heterosexual nor homosexual, but just sexual.
I'd like to conclude this second Orient series with an apt quote from
the philosopher Schopenhauer.
The first forty years of one's life, he said, are the text,
the rest is commentary. I've been at work on the latter, off and on, for
quite a few years now. Some day soon I hope to complete and present it
in book form.
Don't watch this space, watch the bestseller lists.