But that was eleven years ago, when Martin and Moira were still living on the commune, their undergraduate days not far enough behind them for them yet to have learned that the golden dreams of youth bore no relation to reality.

In retrospect it seemed to Martin that it hadn’t been a commune in the true sense of the word. Its members had lived under one roof, eaten together, enjoyed each other’s company. But there had been no common aim. Each of us, he reflected, was concerned with doing our own thing.

Under that roof was a lot of talent. Martin and Andy, and Rhoda, were not the only ones who had since become well-known names. Martin’s friend Bill Dryden, with whom he had remained close, now made TV documentaries that topped the ratings, and Bill’s wife, Sukey, was making a fortune with her beautiful ceramics.

What the commune did was relieve us all of individual everyday responsibilities, Martin now saw. Living there together allowed what was in each of us to flower. Even those whose talents were not the creative kind had, as though it were a breathing space, benefited from that shared interlude before blossoming into what they had later become.

When had that euphoric little world begun to disintegrate? When for each of us in turn recognition, or promotion, or whatever, had its inevitable effects. And what was there to do then but go our separate ways towards the top of whichever ladder?

Since Andy and I are climbing the same ladder, in harness, we are still together. But how long was it since I saw Bill? Along with success came demands on your time and the first thing to go was your social life. Not to mention your sleep!

Martin stifled a yawn as Moira entered wearing one of her smart city suits, pecked his cheek and left, returning him full circle to her remark while she made the coffee. Gone are the days was right! And now here he was, alone in a kitchen that looked like an illustration in a glossy magazine – if you didn’t notice the dirty dishes.

He had better stack them in the dishwasher and go get some shut-eye, or before he knew it Andy would be on the phone snarling, ‘Where the hell are you? We decided to take a short break, not half a day!’

For Andy, composing music came easier than writing the lyrics did to Martin. Martin’s experience was that nothing in this life came easy! Marriage included.

Chapter Seven

After his father’s discharge from hospital, the strain to which Howard was subjected was such that at times he thought he would surely break.

Though he was capable of running the business alone, Harry continued to send for him in order to issue instructions. Nor did Harry ever fail to raise the subject of little Ben.