‘Are you a diviner, Mefa?’
‘No, I am a construction worker.’
‘When did you go to Campione d’Italia?’
‘It was precisely August the thirteenth. I have the date on the photographs I took. Can you see?’
‘That’s my birthday!’
‘I had no idea. I have still not read your book.’
It turned out that Mefa’s son was called Patrick, as is mine; his mother’s name was Ilse, like my first wife; and his father was called Albi, the nickname I used throughout my fugitive years. This was too much to take. I grabbed a bottle of hemp beer, drank it and felt sick. Scott helped me up.
‘Well, mate, we can’t ignore a sign like that, particularly about burying and regeneration. I’m going to Ticino tomorrow. Coming?’
‘I can’t, Scott. I’ll be in Barcelona. Cañamo have just published my book in Spanish, and I’m going out to promote it.’
A week later I was back in London after completing the Barcelona promotion and Scott called.
‘What was the name of the place you used to live in Ticino?’
‘Campione d’Italia.’
‘It’s amazing, isn’t it? I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.’
‘I think the same. You spent a couple of days there, yeah?’
‘Not only that, I’ve rented a flat here. I’m still waiting to sign the lease. And I’ve had a look at the mountains. It’s perfect for what we want to do. We’re opening Mr Nice Seedbank right here, right where he was buried all those years ago. You’re the seed, mate. Neville Schoenmaker wants to join us. Between Neville and me, we have produced almost all the winning entries in the High Times Cannabis Cup since 1990. There’s no stopping us now.’
Mr Nice Seedbank began producing and selling seeds during 2000. Everything was done legally and with the full knowledge of the Ticino cantonal authorities, who sent round teams of inspectors at regular intervals. Meanwhile, home-grown marijuana production in Europe soared to unprecedented levels. By 2001, in the United Kingdom more than half the marijuana consumed resulted from the efforts of home growers using seeds produced by Mr Nice Seedbank and several other seed companies which had followed its lead and set up in Ticino. It seemed too good to be true.
‘Which weed a di best, mon?’
The images dancing in front of my eyes changed from marijuana plants on the Alps to marijuana plants on the Caribbean hills.
‘Yo a sleep, mon. Must be di jet lag. Yo neva try di Jamaican gum?’ asked Shortcut.
I knew that ‘gum’ was the Jamaican word for locally produced hashish, but I had never tried it and was certainly interested in doing so.
‘No, I haven’t, Shortcut. Have you got any here?’
‘Next time wen yo come back, mi wi mek sure yo get some.’
As I had been daydreaming of Swiss mountains, even Jamaican time had marched on. I had to think about my plans. I was leaving for Panama in a few hours, flying first from Montego Bay to Kingston’s Norman Manley International Airport, the other side of Jamaica, then after a few hours stopover catching another plane to Panama City. I did not intend to leave Jamaica without paying my respects to Henry Morgan.
The driver took me back to Jake’s Hotel. During the short trip we arranged that for fifty dollars he would drive me to Montego Bay, making small detours on the way to see what my guidebook said were former hang-outs of Henry Morgan. We left Treasure Beach after a late and nourishing breakfast of salt fish, ackee – a fruit, most of which is poisonous but the rest of which is a delicacy – and various members of the banana family. In less than an hour we had arrived at Black River; we then hugged the coast west until we came to Belmont, the birth and burial place of Peter Tosh. Ironically, his success in depicting truth from a ghetto perspective had led to a barrage of demands from old friends, needy causes and shady characters. Tosh began to display signs of paranoia, believing himself both to be the victim of an establishment plot and haunted by ghosts. In 1987, on 11 September, Tosh’s fears were realised when hired killers opened fire in his living room, killing him and two of his friends. We drew up alongside a small red, gold and green mausoleum, decorated with cobwebs, stained glass, and press cuttings. A fine old lady, Peter Tosh’s mother, stood outside.
‘Were you a friend of Peter?’
‘No ma’am, I wasn’t. Unfortunately, I never even met your son. However, I am a strong admirer and champion his cause. Legalise it.’
‘God bless you, my dear.’
Belmont merges subtly into Bluefields, where Henry Morgan thought of the brilliant idea of invading Panama, and from where he and his men set sail to fulfil his idea.
Whoever transported Henry Morgan from Bristol dropped him at Barbados and put him to work on a sugar plantation. He led a revolt, escaped, captured a boat and became a pirate, a tough and dangerous career. Disease was rife, and a hacksaw the only surgical instrument available. Psychologically, Morgan displayed most symptoms of bipolarity and managed his oscillations of temperament with ample quantities of rum. His sailors, a gang of sea thieves, rogues and vagabonds, were also dependent on rum to function in conditions of peril, fearful storms, poisonous insects, deadly diseases and unexplored hostile territory.
Although piracy was contrary to the law of all seafaring nations, Britain, when at war against Spain, found it hard to disapprove of Spanish galleons being looted. British Caribbean governors issued letters of marque, which legalised attacks on Spanish galleons provided a percentage went to the crown. Pirates became known by the more respectable name of privateers, and as long as they confined their antics to the sea, were not breaking the law. Henry Morgan seized Spanish galleons, but his real interest lay in the cities that held South American precious metals before they were exported to Spain. His eyes were on Panama, the biggest bank in the world. While swigging rum at his place in Bluefields he reasoned that even if it was illegal to sack Spanish settlements, the British authorities, especially those thousands of miles away, would turn a blind eye to any such attack.
Leaving my driver to have a snooze in his car, I walked around Bluefields looking for traces of Henry Morgan’s abode. The only significant building was the largely derelict Bluefields House, next to the police station. It looked promising at first, but there was no mention of Morgan. I asked the resident caretaker, but he had never heard of him. Instead, he took me through the wild gardens to a breadfruit tree, the first in Jamaica. Captain Bligh had planted it from seedlings brought from Tahiti.
We then headed inland towards Montego Bay, arriving in time for me to catch my flight to Kingston. The plane flew over the spectacular Blue Mountains, source of the world’s best coffee, and landed at Kingston, where I discovered the flight to Panama had been cancelled; there wouldn’t be another for a couple of days. I was not perturbed; Jamaica had plenty to offer. Reluctantly, the airline provided accommodation at the Pelican Hotel in downtown Kingston. I checked in and telephoned Leroy in London.
‘Leroy, what’s a good nightspot in downtown Kingston?’
‘Yo crazy, mon. Yo stay in a di hotel until sun come up. Yo hear mi.’
‘But I’ve been to all sorts of places today. The people have been really kind and friendly. There’s been no danger of any kind – the opposite, in fact.’
‘Kingston a no place fi play with, mon. Yo stay in a di hotel.’
I was not used to arguing with Leroy. I stayed in the hotel.
I checked my emails. One was from a woman called Tina: ‘Dear Howard, I know this must come as a huge surprise to you, but I am your daughter. My mother is Susan Malone. I’m living near her in Swansea. She told me all about the day in the chapel. I’ve known for ages. I tried to see you in Brixton Prison in 1980, but the guards would have none of it. Since then, I’ve been too shy to approach you. If you were any old Joe Bloggs, I would have. But you’re the local hero down here. I’m happy to have a DNA test if you want.’
I was overwhelmed with both the joy of having another child and the sorr
ow of not knowing her. I had heard of love children suddenly appearing in people’s lives, but it hadn’t happened to any friends of mine. Henry Morgan and the Observer would have to wait; I was flying home to see my new daughter.
Four
SEEDS
Flying from Kingston to Gatwick, I thought of 1963, the year I met Susan Malone, the year when just about everything that could happen did happen. The world’s first disco, Whisky A Go-Go, opened in Los Angeles; satellites and rockets careered through space; the Pope, the most immortal of mortals, died; President Kennedy, the world’s most powerful person, was assassinated; and Martin Luther King voiced his dream of racial harmony. The world was changing faster than ever before. The British Conservative party went as far right as it could by choosing a grouse-killing peer of the realm (Alec Douglas-Hume) as its leader and the Prime Minister but the Tories were on their way out. Hugh Gaitskell, leader of the Labour party, died, leaving the way clear for Harold Wilson to rise to the top, and Labour were on their way in. But most of my memories of that year are of sitting as close as I could to a raging coal fire to protect myself against the coldest winter of my life.
I had a choice of three pastimes – watching television, studying for my A levels or braving the dark, lonely streets to slip into a pub for some serious underage drinking. The most entertaining television programmes of that black-and-white era were the first weekly broadcasts of Doctor Who and That Was the Week that Was, an insolent satirical review of everything. That Was the Week that Was relied shamelessly on such sagas as the Profumo Scandal, the continuing tale of the penetration of the British elite by the Russian KGB, who used hookers and West Indian playboys as their means of entry. Tabloids carried photographs and cartoons of sexy prostitutes fawning over cabinet ministers and of Caribbean immigrants smoking marijuana in west London’s illegal shebeens. From Russia with Love, 1963’s big box-office hit, was happening in London. James Bond was real – and British.
Until 1963 I had thought of crime as violent, cruel, a bit silly and necessarily wrong. The Great Train Robbery, during which £2.3 million – equivalent to £40 million today – in used banknotes was stolen from a Royal Mail train, changed that. The gang fitted the Hollywood image, with each member providing a particular skill. Buster Edwards, a small-time thief, fraudster and ex-boxer, helped out. Bruce Reynolds, an antique dealer, was the brains and meticulous mastermind; Gordon Goody was the muscle. Charlie Wilson was the well-connected underworld crook; John Wheater, a public-school-educated solicitor, was the respectable front man. And Ronnie Biggs recruited a driver for the hijacked train.
At 3.00 a.m., in the grey light of an August morning, the mail train pulled to a stop at false signals erected in the remote Buckinghamshire countryside, and a group posing as railway workers wearing uniform blue overalls appeared on the tracks and quietly took 120 sacks of loot to a nearby rented farmhouse. The plan was for no violence – the gang wanted a victimless crime – but for reasons best known to himself the driver of the train decided to take them on and ended up receiving a thump with an iron bar.
The media jumped on this to demonstrate that the robbers were nothing more than sordid men of violence, but we weren’t fooled. The train robbers were romantic daredevils who had made a mockery of the foolish and out-of-touch Tory government. They showed what could be done. They were heroes. We loved the reports of how they played Monopoly with real money as they lay low in the farmhouse. I dreamed of one day meeting Bruce Reynolds.
The police closed in and the train robbers scattered. Forensic experts found fingerprints on the Monopoly set. Gang members fled to all corners of the globe. Possible sightings of the fugitives filled tabloid front pages. Occasionally, one of them would be caught and locked up; we would go to the pub and commiserate. Then another would escape from prison; we would go out and celebrate. We were proud to be British. We had the world’s best criminals.
At the time I was completely unaware of any Welsh–English hostility or problem. Neither my parents nor other adults with whom I came into contact taught me that England was anything other than a friendly and powerful parent country. In school we had learned how in the early years of the fifteenth century Owain Glyndwr had failed to drive the Anglo-Norman conquerors from Welsh soil, but since then the two nations had been joined in indivisible union. Wales had no capital city until 1955. Road signs and official forms were in English. The Welsh were just western English. England was no enemy; that epithet applied to the Germans and the Japanese; the hangover from the Second World War continuing to manifest itself in ration books, comics and boys’ games.
There were differences, of course. The Welsh could sing better, but not the songs that I liked. The English had glamour and sex, while the Welsh had chapels and sheep. The English were better footballers; Wales had just four teams in the four football divisions and only one player of note, John Charles, who quickly left Cardiff to play for Leeds. The Welsh were good at rugby union, and it was important to beat England at least in this sport. Although tempers occasionally flared both on and off the field, such as when my grandfather beat the radio to bits with his hobnail boots when Wales missed an easy penalty, it was just good sports-field rivalry. In 1952, Wales had won the Grand Slam, trouncing Scotland, Ireland, France and England, but that year we joined the English in their mourning of the death of King George VI. His grandson would be the next prince of Wales, the first since the future Edward VIII took the title in 1910. We seemed pleased, and the next year queued outside the few houses that had television to watch the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II.
Knowing and understanding little more Welsh history than that, I remember sitting down with Marty at the Moulders Arms, a rough and ready pub in Cardiff city centre near the edge of Tiger Bay. The Four Seasons’ ‘Walk Like a Man’ belted out of the jukebox. We silently mouthed the lyrics, showing off our knowledge of modern music. Although intending to celebrate prematurely our eighteenth birthdays, we were also drinking in an attempt to cheer up. Wales hadn’t won the Grand Slam or Triple Crown for over ten years, and hopes for any turn in the losing tide had just been dashed by losing 6–13 to England at Cardiff. Welsh heavyweight boxers Joe Erskine and Dick Richardson had lost their British empire and European titles. In ten years there had been only four Welsh singers in the top twenty: Shirley Bassey, Petula Clark, Maureen Evans – who sang cover versions for Woolworth’s Embassy label – and Ricky Valance (‘Tell Laura I Love Her’). To add to our depression, Wales was enduring the worst of British winters, now known as the Big Freeze of 1963.
‘Marty, I think Liverpool should have been made capital of Wales. There’s probably more Welshmen there than in Cardiff, and a lot more happening with music and football. There’s nothing here – it’s dead. I’m going to London for a university interview soon. I can’t wait.’
Marty leaned over to whisper, ‘I agree with you, but I wouldn’t say how great Liverpool is in too loud a voice. Liverpool council have drowned the Tryweryn Valley just to get cheap water. Loads of families lost their homes. They were just told to bugger off and live somewhere else. There’s a lot of bad feeling about it, especially round here.’
Marty’s warning came too late – I had been overheard.
‘So you’re an English-lover, are you?’ asked a red-headed bloke with arms of pure muscle.
‘I’ve nothing against them.’
‘And you call yourself Welsh?’
‘I am Welsh and probably speak the language better than you do.’
Welsh was my first language; I learned English at the age of four. At the same time my father, recently retired from the Merchant Navy, began to learn Welsh. I was quicker so we conversed in English while my mother and I continued to speak to each other in Welsh. A year later my sister was born, and both my parents and I spoke to her in Welsh. My father and mother talked English to each other. I attended an English-speaking primary school where fewer than 5 per cent of the pupils spoke Welsh and quickly became more articulate in English than W
elsh.
‘All the more reason for you to hate the fucking English then. Have you got any idea what they’ve done to us?’
‘Yes, but that was hundreds of years ago,’ I said.
‘Was it indeed? Hundreds of years ago? Time you learned something other than the words of English pop songs.’
‘American, actually. That was the Four Seasons.’
‘Same fucking thing. The English might suck up to the Yanks; fucked if I will. Hundreds of years ago? When did the English charge us for using our roads? When did the English physically force us to stop speaking Welsh by putting Welsh Nots around our necks? When did they rape our country by turning it into a heap of slag? When did they send starving Welsh children down the pits so they could steal our coal, our tin, our lead and even our gold? When did they flood our valleys to steal our water? Hundreds of years ago? I don’t fucking think so. It happened during our parents’ time. It’s happening now, and wankers like you just sit back and watch them take the piss out of us, silence us, and starve us to death while they use our money to build bloody Polaris submarines. You may as well fuck off to Liverpool or London; you’re no fucking use here, you groveller.’
Marty stood up. ‘Come on, Howard, let’s get out of here.’
‘Go on, you English-loving yellow-bellied chicken. Go and pollute some other pub.’
Marty and I scarpered. We knew we didn’t stand a chance.
‘What was all that Welsh Not stuff about?’ I asked Marty.
‘Haven’t you heard of that? I thought you were doing A levels this summer.’
‘I am, but in science and maths not Welsh history.’
Marty patiently explained that a hundred-odd years ago, when popular disturbances and riots were common in Wales, MPs had asked in Westminster why the Welsh people were so prone to lawlessness. Parliament decided the Welsh language was the problem: Welsh was not an official language and simply wasn’t a suitable medium for education. The moral and material condition of the Welsh could only be improved by force-feeding them English. To accomplish this piece of cultural oppression, schools introduced the Welsh Not. Any child heard speaking Welsh during school was given a plaque to be handed on to whoever next spoke the language. At the end of lessons, the child left with the Not was punished.