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Moonchild

I awoke in a tent. Outside, I could hear Joe’s voice break as he hit the wail in the middle of “With A Little Help From My Friends” – I was here.

But I became aware I was not alone. I turned around to see one of the most beautiful sights I had ever seen. She was about twenty, with an enormous mane of long, dark hair. “Where did you come from, man?” she asked, her mouth open.

“Erm… from where Fate meets Eternity,” I said, with a confidence I did not feel. Would she scream?

“Far out,” she replied, giggling.

I realised that while I was on a trip, so was she. However, my reverie might not last long – according to my earlier research, not all hippies were into free love. “Where’s your guy?” I asked, hesitantly.

“Oh, he split,” she said, “He was pissed ’cause Dylan’s not here.”

“I’m Max,” I said, holding out my hand.

She took my hand and kissed it. “I’m Moonchild.”

“Far out,” I said.

We went outside and lay there, talking about music, love and life.

Eventually, Ten Years After began their first number, but I was in no mood for them right now. She lit up the biggest joint I had ever seen and said, “Wanna go someplace?”

We climbed back in the tent and the hours became as hazy as the air in it. I recall making love with Moonchild many, many times.

Around midnight we stumbled outside, picked up a couple of beers and found a burger stand. We ate two and took a couple more back to the tent.

After we had polished them off, I sat looking at this angel and asked her, “What was wrong with your guy?”

“Oh, he was an arsehole,” she said. Arsehole?

“You’re nice, man” she said.

I could not think of an answer to that, so we made love again.

Afterwards, she popped a pill and swilled it down with the remains of her beer. “It is Saturday, isn’t it?”

“Er, no – Sunday.”

“You sure?”

“Pretty much.”

“Uh-oh.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Look, I’ve been here three days now – I think it’s time I was getting back to New York.”

“Oh, no,” I said, “You must wait ’til tomorrow morning.”

“Why?”

“Two words – Jimi Hendrix.”

“He was supposed to be on tonight…”

“He’ll be on in the morning – and you do not want to miss him, trust me.”

“Oh… okay.”

We cuddled up together. Since it was now late and getting cold, I had my jeans (with The Device) on.

I lay there with this vision of loveliness asleep on my lap. But for that hair, she looked like a younger version of my Mum. They say men are attracted to women who resemble their mothers. I was not sure about that… I was determined not to allow myself to sleep…

I awoke in my flat – alone.

Shit.

And I had missed Hendrix, too.

I showered and changed into something more modern, then went into the main house for breakfast.

I sat, reflecting. Dad said, “Penny for ’em, lad.”

“Oh, I was thinking about Woodstock.”

“Hah! Your mother was there, lad.”

“Now you keep quiet, Frank,” said Mum.

“Oh come on, the lad’s over thirty now – isn’t it about time to tell him the truth?”

“Oh, tell him what you want,” Mum retorted and stomped off to the kitchen.

I raised my eyebrows at Dad. “She doesn’t like to talk about it now, but your mother was something of a Wild Child in her youth. She worked for that music paper – the New Melody Express. They sent her on assignment to New York for a year.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I first met her on the tube when she was coming back. I thought she was a Yank, given her accent. We got talking, one thing led to another and you were born eight months later. Apparently, you were in a hurry.”

“Wow,” I mumbled.

“Of course, she looked a lot different then. She had long, dark hair. A real hippie chick. Naturally, the name Eunice wouldn’t have cut it then – she called herself Moonchild.”

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