Dandelion; Memoir Of A Free Spirit

by Catherine James

  George had just written “My Sweet Lord” and wanted to play it for Eric. As he played, the whole band joined in, and it sounded like music from the heavens. Someone had spiked the punch with mescaline, which made it sound all the more glorious. I was starting to feel pretty psychedelic, and thought I’d better call Denny and say good night to my son while I could still dial the phone. I went into the study next to the living room, and the walls were vibrating with the electric resonance of “My Sweet Lord” echoing throughout the house. As I was speaking with Denny, Mick came into the room and closed the door behind him. I was seated at the desk in a regal, antique high-back chair with ornate carved arms. Mick walked up next to me and just stood there. He was wearing these delicious black-and-white checkered houndstooth wool trousers with a soft cotton white shirt. When I looked over, all I could see was the undulating pattern of the houndstooth. Mick didn’t say a word, but I felt the intensity. He was clearly waiting for me to get off the phone.

  Abruptly, I said to Denny, “Okay, I have to go now, ‘bye.”

  It was just a few months after Mick’s starring role in Donald Cammell’s film Performance. He was just twenty-six years old and at the height of his unbelievable stunningness.

  By now we were both pretty high from the mescaline, and the anticipation of the kiss was almost unbearable. Mick eased me back against the wall, kissing me with a kind of abandon girls only dream about. Just like in a steamy romance novel, we slid down the wall in slow motion, lost in dreamy liquid kisses. By the time we reached the floor “My Sweet Lord” sounded like it was coming through the wall. I was definitely having a stunning moment.

  When the music started to wane Mick and I composed ourselves, and slipped out to explore Eric’s extensive garden grounds. We passed his guitar-shaped swimming pool, and farther down the path we found a lovely little spot with an old vine-covered trellis, and a bench just wide enough for two. It was a warm moonlit summer night, and like a couple of teenagers we kissed till the shape was worn from my lips. By the time we got back to the house it was past four in the morning, and everyone was off on their own trip or had gone back to London.

  Watching Mick pull out of the driveway looking like some kind of god, I thought, “Is this really happening?” Yes, it was. Mick called the next day and invited Eric and me to see Stevie Wonder perform in London over the weekend.

  For the event I wore my long, whimsical, gypsy dress form the posh Ozzie Clark’s boutique. The velvet bodice was formfitting, buttoning down to a billowing skirt of colored silk layers. My pale pink platform boots with appliquéd silver crescent moons and stars from Granny Takes a Trip went perfectly with my outfit. Stevie Wonder was the hottest ticket in town, and I felt like a female divinity sitting between Mick and Eric, taking in Mr. Wonder’s stellar performance.

  On Mick’s twenty-seventh birthday Patti Boyd came up to Eric’s estate, and the two of us spent the afternoon scouting the countryside in her red Mercedes convertible. We were checking out antique shops in search of the perfect gift for Mick. We settled on a floral Victorian animatronic bird sanctuary. It was enclosed in a large oval glass bubble, and when you wound it up, tiny finches sang and fluttered their feathered wings.

  Mick’s birthday party was at his four-story brownstone on Cheyne Walk in Chelsea. I rode in from the country with Eric and Bobby Whitlock. Patti Harrison had already arrived and was holding court in the first-floor parlor. All the boys were drooling, with lust in their eyes. With barely a hint of makeup and her blond locks casually pinned up, Patti looked like a goddess. Mick, in all his splendidness, was upstairs in the main parlor along with Keith Richards, Charlie Watts, and the new Stone, Mick Taylor. The esoteric film director Kenneth Anger and his demonic lot were lying back on some Indian cushions, smoking spliffs of hash in the corner of the room. Mick came over with his boyish smile, as if he’d been waiting for me, and sweetly held my hand. He introduced me to Donald Cammell and his sexy French girlfriend, Myrium. Then he took me on a tour of his Chelsea brownstone.

  On the third floor was the master bedroom, all candlelit and decked in lavish antique Moroccan, complete with pillows, tassels, mirrors, and an ornately carved four-poster bed. You could draw the weighty velvet drapes completely around the bed and be cloaked in darkness. Janice, his spirited young cook, had bought him silver satin sheets for his birthday, and the bed was invitingly turned down. Mick brought out a box that he’s brought from Morocco. The box contained three rings, and he asked me to choose one. I picked the one that had a crescent moon and stars etched in amber, and he slid in on my middle finger. Ah, I thought, perhaps I would sleep in his lord’s chamber tonight.

  I did sleep in Mick’s bed that night. The feelings and passion were as dreamy as any romantic-minded girl might imagine. I remember his kiss. It was like tasting something I couldn’t get enough of, like the steamiest liquid kisses you ever saw on the silver screen.

  After that night I pretty much moved right in. Master Damian had his own little nursery on the top floor, which had formerly accommodated Marianne Faithful’s son, Nicholas. Mick liked having a child in the house, and because of Damian’s cherubic face and golden ringlets, he would sweetly comment, “Your son looks like you found him under a mulberry bush.”

  In the evenings after a romantic dinner at the fancy Mr. Chow’s, or at some unknown hideaway, we’d go for long walks through the provinces of Chelsea. Mick was passionate about architecture and would tell tales, historic accounts of the aged dwellings and quaint carriage houses. He knew all the history, when the homes were built and what famous person or artists had lived in them. My favorite was the pre-Raphaelite artist Dante Gabriel Rossetti, who kept goats and other beasts in his abode.

  Back at home we’d sip champagne and listen to obscure recordings. Mick loved Gram Parsons and Stephen Stills, and turned me on to blues accordionist Clifton Chenier. I’d laugh as he tried to show me how to do the James Brown. Mick would glide effortlessly across the living room floor, but I couldn’t get the hang of it.

  Patti Boyd invited Mick and me up to Friar Park, where she and George lived in an amazing fortress in Henley-on-Thames. Usually Mick’s chauffeur, Alan, drove us around in the white Bentley, but today it was just the two of us, off to Oxfordshire with the top down. While Mick drove I played Motown 45s on his state-of-the-art portable record player, secured under the glove box. As we neared the castle, I could see the Union Jack flying along with a skull and crossbones from the uppermost turret of George’s estate. Hare Krishna devotee were plowing and seeding a rural plot on George’s thirty-five-acre estate. There were breathtaking Victorian gardens surrounded by miles of whimsical man-made lakes that Mick, Patti, George, and I later boated around in. There were also mysterious underground caverns that made it feel like a Victorian Disneyland.

  The Gothic mansion had previously been a convent, and the former nuns had filled in all of the lakes with earth. George said that when he bought the place he’d had the same contractor who had filled them in return and dig them all out again. While Mick and George had tea in the kitchen, Patti took me on the grand tour. There were at least five stories, and more than a hundred rooms. The Hare Krishnas lived on the high top floor, but the mansion was so immense you’d never know a soul was there.

  Every room was like a palace, with religious stained glass, Victorian painted murals, inlaid floors, and molded seraphs swooping down from the corners of the ceilings. I was amused to see that the sisters had also painted loincloths on every cherub in the manor. As George and Patti had only recently acquired this enormous fortress, except for an Eastern religious shrine with an ancient Buddha and fresh-cut flowers, there was little in the way of furnishings. Most of our day was spent in the big, cozy rectory-like kitchen.

  I was having an amazing, dreamy time with Mick Jagger, and we were becoming an item. Envious girls would whisper, “Do you think she really loves him?”

  What was not to love? He was painfully beautiful, sweetly romantic. He had amazing taste, so
phistication, and was some kind of lover. Yes, I was crazy about him. At twenty years old, who wouldn’t be?

  It was late August 1970, and the Stones were about to go do a European tour. Mick thought it would be nice if we took a little holiday to Paris before his departure. Heather and Roger Daltrey took Damian off to Berkshire, and I flew across the channel with Mick for a romantic weekend in Paris.

  We stayed at Johnny Hallyday’s, the French Elvis Presley’s country home, nestled in the forest of Honfleur, just outside Deauville. In the afternoons we took long walks in the secluded backwoods and hunted for truffles. In the evening, the guests of the house would sit at an extended candlelit table, where stunning food that had simmered all afternoon arrived in several courses throughout the evening. The final course was fresh peaches and stinky cheese. The aged cheese smelled like sweaty old socks but tasted like lifetimes. It was luscious with the crusted French bread and vintage ruby merlot. The French guests dipped slices of fresh peach into their wine glasses and savored it from the points of their knives. Being with Mick, the warm candlelight, and sensuous French accents, the sound of clinking glasses and laughter, all had a dreamy elegance, which has stayed in my head like indelible photographs.

  Back at Heathrow Airport, and being a Yankee, I had to go through special customs, and once again the customs agent denied me entry. My visa had expired, and he wasn’t letting me back into the United Kingdom. I didn’t think he’d actually believe my story, but I gave it a go: “I’m on holiday with Mick Jagger, he’s just gone to pick up our luggage.”

  My declaration only made it worse; besides being an illegal, he now assumed I was a mental case. “Please come with me, madam.”

  Mick finally came to the rescue, and I may as well have been with the pope. The customs agent got Mick’s autograph, and I was granted a full year extension on my visa.

  Early the next morning Mick was off to Brussels for the Stones’ European tour. I was half asleep when he kissed me good-bye, promising to call when he got to Brussels. He was wearing the black-and-white houndstooth trousers, the ones he’d worn when I first met him, and it made me smile. I was faintly awake long enough to see him disappear through the bedroom door,

  I didn’t know it then, but this was to be our last kiss, our last moment. Our sweet time was up; I would never see Mick again.

  We talked on the phone and made plans for after the tour, which would only be a month away. I still had a plane ticket to California, and felt secure enough to go back for a visit while he was away. After the tour we planned to meet in Los Angeles, or I’d fly back to London. I closed up the house on Cheyne Walk, and left a black-and-white photo-booth picture of myself with a smoochy soft lip print on the back. I then boarded the train at Victoria Station and was on my way to Berkshire to collect my son and have a visit with the lovely Heather. Roger was on tour with the Who, and Heather was happy to have a bit of company.

  The three of us ate like it was the Last Supper. Every day we’d trot down to the local village in full mod, hippie regalia, with young Damian, three dogs, and a rolling shopping basket in tow. We’d stop at the local bakery and procure still-warm-from-the-oven country bread, then slather it with creamy English butter. Heather showed me how to make the most delicious apple pie, using the tart apples from her tree in the garden.

  We got a surprise call from London; it was Devon Wilson, Heather’s friend and comrade from New York. Devon was a pretty black girl with a New York street edge, acerbic tongue, and dark, funny sense of humor. She was with Jimi Hendrix, and they wanted to come up for the weekend. Heather and I had no idea was in store.

  Jimi and Devon arrived in a minicab, along with a couple of friends. It was a lovely September afternoon, and we all enjoyed a nice, civilized cup of tea in the garden. Jimi loved Roger and Heather’s cottage, and the tranquility of Berkshire. As outrageous as Jimi appeared, he was actually quite shy and soft-spoken. He had a gracious, gentle nature, and always made you feel special. He said he wished he had a home of his own, and that he was tired of living in hotels. In essence, he was a homeless, wandering gypsy, but he really wanted to settle down, and maybe even get married.

  Devon had brought along some LSD, and without a thought we all downed it with our afternoon tea. By nightfall we were howling at the moon, accompanied by Neil Young’s new album, After the Gold Rush, and Bob Dylan’s Bringing It All Back Home on the stereo. Out of the blue, Jimi’s friends said they had to get back to London, and called a minicab to take them home, leaving the four of us as high as psychedelic kites. Jimi and Devon were recounting Dylan lyrics in the living room, then Jimi went off on his own mystical riff. The most profound, transcendent poetry began flowing effortlessly from his lips. It was as if it was being channeled from beyond, and his words were all in amazing flawless rhyme. As he spoke I could see sparkling diamonds, rubies, and sapphires falling from his lips. Heather and I were both in awe. We agreed we should be recording Jimi, or at least writing it down. Unfortunately we were way too high to do anything but listen in reverence.

  I think Devon and Jimi had taken something besides the acid. Devon was staggering around, so completely out of it that Heather had to help her upstairs and put her to bed.

  Jimi could barely stand, and repeatedly asked, “Do you have any more Mandies, or some Valium?”

  I had already given Jimi two Mandrax, but he had already forgotten he’d even taken them. He was now stumbling and toppling into us and the furniture like an unsteady drunkard. Despite his tipsy state, he was still enchantingly charming, until he finally passed out cold on the floor. Heather and I were going to just cover him with a blanket, but then decided we didn’t want young Damian to come down in the morning and find Jimi comatose on the living room carpet. Heather took his arms, I grabbed his legs, and we lugged Jimi Hendrix up the narrow wooden staircase. He was a ton of dead weight, and it took us twenty minutes of huffing, puffing, and careful maneuvering to get sweet Mr. Jimi to bed. We’d seen Jimi pretty high in the past, but never like this. We went down to the kitchen and put the kettle on for a calming cup of tea. Heather sighed. “Oh God, what if he ODs here? Roger will kill me.”

  “Let’s go check, make sure he’s breathing,” I said.

  Just then, Jimi appeared like a shadow in the doorway, saying, “I’m here for the interview.”

  Five days later, on September 18, we got a call from London; our dear Mr. Jimi had departed permanently.

  Soon after that, with my two-year-old son in tow, I boarded British Airways for what I thought was going to be a short visit to California. I stayed with Mimi, who was now in her early sixties but still staggeringly youthful, not a line or wrinkle in her beautiful cream-puff face. Phone calls from Mick became less frequent, and soon came to a deafening halt. The next thing I knew Mick was all over the covers of every tabloid in Los Angeles with a new girl, the exotic Bianca, by his side. To be sure, I called his house in Chelsea and an austere-sounding woman with an imported accent answered, inquiring, “Ooo is thees?”

  My heart went thud; I could picture her all propped up and cozy on my side of the bed. In a split second the romantic summer I’d spent with Mick flashed through my head, and I gently put the phone down on the receiver.

  11

  I’d certainly got my fill of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. In my heart of hearts all I truly ever wanted was a somewhat sane family of my own, and maybe a little house in the country, but simplicity always seemed to elude me. I’d had this idea that somewhere in the universe there was a country girl who longed for the city lights. I was the city girl who longed for the heartland; it was simply a cosmic mix-up. I had a son now, and this was my chance. I could give him the life I’d dreamed of.

  With the five hundred pounds I got from signing off on the Air Force album, I took my son and headed east from Los Angeles. Maybe I’d find a place in Woodstock, in upstate New York.

  From our modest motel room in the rural village of Brewster, New York, I pored over the rental listings in th
e local Gazette. I found an ad that read, “Log cabin on lake in Connecticut. Two hundred dollars a month, call Perry Katz.”

  In my rental car I followed Perry’s directions along the lakeside until the road ended and became unpaved gravel. Old Mr. Katz was parked out front in a spanking new white Caddy convertible. He sported a fancy white yachting cap, and was smoking a chubby cigar—not at all like I pictured him.

  The enchanting old cabin was built of smooth, peeled cherry logs and sat on a grassy knoll overlooking Candlewood Lake. It was the beginning of October, and in the final days of a late Indian summer. The sun was softly pale and the air had a crisp chill of impending winter. The only sound to be heard was a light wind blowing through the tall surrounding Noble pines. Inside, the cabin was dark, and had the musty smell of a freshly opened, vintage trunk. Perry explained that the old place hadn’t been lived in for many years. His stately summerhouse was the other side of the lake; he only used this stead to store his old furniture, which I was welcome to use.

  When he opened the dusty plank storm shutters, the cottage filled with light. The living room had a twenty-foot ceiling with heavy crossbeams and a log staircase that led up to a cozy little loft. The whole place had a peaceful tranquility, a calmness that reminded me of Heidi’s cabin in the Alps.

  There was a huge granite fireplace that reached the rafters and wide floorboards of smooth pine. The surrounding porch was screened in, and paned windows opened out to a view of the pristine lake. I was home; this will be the perfect place to raise my blond three-year-old cherub.

  Before signing the lease Perry asked in a hushed voice, “You don’t have any jungle bunny friends, do you?”

  I’d never heard that expression before, and didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. He said, “You know, spearchuckers. I didn’t know a soul in Connecticut, and now I was really confused. I imagined Watusi warriors leaping from the bushes, heaving spears.