Juno recovered the moment David brushed against her in the dark of the main lounge, and didn’t give another thought to Jock’s end.

‘I’ve decided to stay in LA,’ she told David casually as they sat down at a table. ‘The light’s real good for painting…’

‘Hey, I’m so glad,’ breathed David, his arm resting nonchalantly on the back of her chair.

‘Hi guys…’ said somebody. Juno struggled to take her eyes off David and look up; it was the dark-haired Southern belle she’d met the last time. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but we’re all havin’ a jam at my place after… You guys in?’

‘Wanna go?’ David asked Juno.

‘Sure,’ she said.

‘Yeah, great, Linda, thanks. I guess we’ll grab a ride with Jim.’ Just then the band started onstage. Linda smiled and moved on.

‘So tell me, do you think the Civil Rights Act goes far enough?’ said David and bent closer as if not to miss the most trivial of Juno’s words.

 

Linda’s house was by a beach. The Jim in whose car they rode there turned out to be a different one, older and even more in control and, Juno thought, a little out of sync with these hot-blooded kids. David told her Jim was present on business, not pleasure, and introduced him as the Beefeaters’ manager.

The inside of the house was pretty much a candle-lit extension of the scene at the Troubadour, just without amplification and a stronger smell of marijuana. The familiar dense and lithe feeling greeted Juno right at the door. So it had come along, too, and lost nothing of its intensity. Folks were squatting barefoot on floors and cushions and the few chairs, or leaning against walls and the wooden balustrade of the veranda to a backdrop of the moon riding the waves. Bottles of wine and whisky were going ’round. Juno lost count of the many shapes of guitar. There were bongos and maracas and a battered piano. Not everybody was playing an instrument, but even those who weren’t seemed well clued up to the conversations, which all revolved around chords and gigs and some old song that one person mightn’t know but another one did and promptly burst into. At the first opportunity Juno let drop that she’d seen Ian & Sylvia and the Travelers. That went down well, particularly with David who just beamed at the company. But nevertheless and in spite of her grounding in folk clubs, Juno soon started feeling uncomfortably and uncharacteristically out of her depth. Nobody seemed anything but real friendly and laid-back, yet she knew without doubt that these hip guys and gals here were on a different plane from all the players she’d seen in Canada. All but one. Juno caught herself thinking that Joni Anderson would fit right in.