Roxan ~ In My Life with the Beatles

13

A Ride in the Country 1964 (age 22)

Finally, I will bid farewell to the cell, my home for the last year. Most of the coppers in this establishment were fine upstanding men and I, thankfully, was not harassed or scared during my time there. 

After a month I was treated basically like the resident solicitor anyway so I would offer advice to other detainees and, often, to the officers themselves if they had a tricky arrest to make.

I had arranged with James to come collect me at 9a.m. so I stood on the sidewalk with my few belongings and a small bag of crumpled dirty clothes. I also had a stack of papers and folders tied with string- my volunteering services still had clients that needed me, although all formal proceedings would go through a registered solicitor.

I was excited to see James but worried for my immediate future, I couldn't just plonk myself into his life, could I. I needed to find a job and truth be told what upstanding legal firm was going to hire a girl, one that is a disbarred solicitor (well it is the sixties and not many girls were solicitors, they should be at home tending children apparently) and 'recently released from prison' didn't look too great on the CV either!

A sleek black Jaguar car pulled up in front of me. I ignored it as I knew James was borrowing his mates mini to come and collect me. The front driver's window rolled slowly down and the driver started to speak.

"Excuse me are you Miss Roxan Nicholls?' he looked down at his note in his hand and back up to me as I looked at him in a confused manner.

"What? Pardon. Yes, I am Roxan. Who are you?" I spoke back after a brief moment of confusion.

"Just sent to pick you up madam. The boss just told me to come to the courthouse and you would be waiting outside. A Mr. James Nicholls is mentioned on my sheet 'ere" He lifted one eyebrow as if to say well are you coming. I nodded, a little worried but also a tad inquisitive to be finding out what was going on.

The driver jumped out and opened the back door for me, taking my bag and placing it in the front next to him. The papers stayed with me, they were important. 

I hopped in quickly and smelt the leather emitting off the seats, in the centre I noticed a small table inset with different coloured timber, 4 crystal glasses were in little padded secure holders and a beautiful cut-glass bottle of brown liquid, maybe scotch, sat in its own little alcove so not one item would break if the car hit a bump in the road, very posh. I wondered where James was but, as the driver knew where I was going to be, I could only assume James had organised with the owner of this beautiful car a fancy lift to London.

The car ride was uneventful, I couldn't question the driver as there was a partition between him and me. We passed silently through the streets of Manchester, the beautiful car's motor purred and passed over the River Irwell bridge and as we set off through the countryside, the Jag leap to a racing pace, I presumed we were heading towards London but as I hadn't travelled all that much I wasn't entirely sure on directions. I fell asleep after the first hour the leather seats more comfortable than the cell cot ever was.

I woke up as we turned down the last few streets that looked to be in the centre of London. My stomach was starting to knot from the nerves of the unknown and as we slowed to park I glanced up at the white building a sign was beside the door '3 SAVILLE ROW'. A 5 storey building like a townhouse stood, wrought iron fence along some of the front and the same iron work carried up onto of the brickwork along the buildings stairs to the huge double front door. 

This surely was not James' home.

The driver exited the motor with my bag and opened my door directing me to the buildings doors and bidding me a 'good day' . He then drove off with nary a backwards glance.

Ok, I can do this, I thought as I mounted the first step. It's not as if a person that owns a lovely motor car and a fancy townhouse is going to jump out and scare me now; I fumbled in my pocket and found what I was searching for- my 'winks' not at all good to eat anymore but nice and comforting for my fingers to tumble over and touch. Remembering their origin and relaxing my tension. 

Whoever it was had gone to far too much trouble to collect me all the way from Manchester and get me to this point to be nasty. I gathered myself and stood tall taking the steps slowly up to the impressive door.