Waiting for Roy Harper in Brixton
Anyone who knows Roy will know that he runs on different time to the rest of us. I lived up in Hull and he lived in Brixton. We needed to get together to do some work on the book. As I had no car at the time and was no longer as partial to hitch-hiking as I once had been I thought that train was the best solution. As it was half-term I had some time. I arranged with Roy the times and set off. He assured me that he would pick me up from the station.
Now I hadn’t quite expected Roy to be standing there when I arrived; I knew him better than that.
Clutching my bag I made my way out of the station and sat myself down on a bench in a prominent place to wait.
This was Brixton a few months after the notorious riots. Watching the news all one saw was rampaging black youths, overturned cars, petrol bombs and houses on fire. Brixton looked like a war zone. Colleagues in Hull, which, at the time was not the world’s most cosmopolitan city, thought I was going into some cauldron of race rioting. I was doomed. They assumed that as soon as the denizens of Brixton set eyes on a white face they would tear me limb from limb.
The minutes dragged into an hour. A lady from one of the shops had noticed me sitting there waiting and brought me a cup of coffee. She asked if I wanted to use her phone (this was before the age of mobiles) to contact someone. I thanked her profusely.
The hour became two hours and I was joined by a very drunk old man who offered me drinks out of his bottle, wrapped in a brown paper bag, put his arm round me, and engaged me in conversation.
After two and a half hours a taxi driver offered me a free lift to wherever I was going. Perhaps they wanted rid of me?
Eventually Roy appeared in his huge car and drove me off to his house.
I could not help wondering if a black guy sitting outside Hull train station would have received such a friendly reception?