Jennifer Juniper E-Book

Jenny Boyd

• Herausgeber: Sandstone Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 535

Beschreibung

'Compelling' The Times 'Wise and honest.' Daily Mail Jenny Boyd's extraordinary life is the stuff of movies and novels, a story of incredible people and places at a pivotal time in the 20th century. As an up-and-coming young model, Jenny found herself at the heart of Carnaby Street in London, immersed in the fashion and pop culture of the Swinging 60s. With boyfriend Mick Fleetwood, sister Pattie Boyd, George Harrison and the rest of the Beatles, she lived the London scene.

Leseprobe

Published in Great Britain in this edition by

Sandstone Press Ltd

PO Box 41

Muir of Ord

IV6 7YX

Scotland

www.sandstonepress.com

First published in 2020 by Urbane Publications Ltd.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

Copyright © Jenny Boyd, 2020

The moral right of Jenny Boyd to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

ISBNe 978-1-914518-14-0

Cover design by Raspberry Creative Type, Edinburgh, after the original by Larry Vigon

Cover portrait by Eric Swayne

FOR

WOLF & IZZY

COURAGE

STARTS

WITH

SHOWING

UP AND

LETTING

OURSELVES

BE SEEN

Brené Brown

CONTENTS

Introduction

Chapter One – 60s London

Chapter Two – Early Days

Chapter Three – San Francisco

Chapter Four – India

Chapter Five – Chelsea

Chapter Six – Benifolds

Chapter Seven – Los Angeles

Chapter Eight – Summer ‘76

Chapter Nine – Rumours Flying

Chapter Ten – Willow Cottage

Chapter Eleven – Back to School

Chapter Twelve – Purpose Found

INTRODUCTION

When George Harrison and my sister Pattie invited me to join them, along with the rest of the Beatles and their wives, on their trip to Maharishi’s ashram in India, I asked, "But how can I ever repay you?"

“Just be yourself,” George replied.

And that’s it. As I realized many years later, that’s all we ever have to do, just be ourselves.

This is my journey.

It is the story of people I spent time with and what I learned from being part of a unique time in history, when young people changed and shaped our culture forever. Having a certain look that reflected this new era was pure luck; it took me to places I might never have gone. In my thinking and feeling I epitomized what was going on in my generation. I lived and breathed this new world before I became aware of the dramatic shifts we were making.

From the age of sixteen I found myself in the center of the ‘Swinging 60s’ with all its innocence and wonder. Being a house model for up-and-coming young fashion designers Foale and Tuffin brought me into the heart of Carnaby Street, to witness the beginnings of what was to become the center of 60s fashion and pop culture in London.

I wore all the latest and innovative Foale and Tuffin designs for owners of boutiques and editors of glossy magazines; magazines I was later to find myself in once I became a photographic model, including newspapers, fashion catalogues and a couple of short films. I represented the look of that time as I cat-walked and had fashion photographs taken in New York, along with my sister and two other models, for the “Youthquake” movement. We were the first contingent of the huge “British Invasion” in fashion that was about to sweep across America.

I danced with my boyfriend, Mick Fleetwood, at all the latest clubs: The Ad Lib, Crazy Elephant, and The Scotch of St James, where we’d go with my sister Pattie and her boyfriend George Harrison and the rest of The Beatles.

I was enchanted by the spirit of our age. I breathed it in before I knew it was there, it became part of me, and I followed its call. I was a natural ‘Flower Child’ and all it represented; fairy-like and whimsical, and so it was no surprise to find myself inadvertently in San Francisco at the beginning of ‘Flower Power’ in 1967. I was deeply immersed in the counter culture and feel privileged to have been part of a generation that made such an impact on the world, from our outlook on life, to the sexual revolution, mind-opening drugs, metaphysics, and most of all, music. Musicians became the spokespeople of our time; they represented this new age and spoke for the masses.

I worked in The Beatles shop, Apple, the first of its kind, and was interviewed by journalists to describe what the shop represented. We were all idealists and believed we could change the world.

I went to India to study meditation with The Beatles and witnessed their creativity at work while writing songs later to appear on the White Album. I found myself in these pivotal places at a pivotal time in history, living my life without any awareness that one day we would look back at this time as an inspirational decade.

Although I was at the center of the spiritual bloom and innocence of the 60s, I was also part of the turmoil and decadence of the 70s and 80s. My marriage to Mick Fleetwood, founder member of Fleetwood Mac, brought me to the forefront of rock and roll, of fame, money, drugs and heartache. I struggled in the darkness searching for my own voice, before finding a light at the end of the tunnel. Aged 37, I went to college and studied psychology where I gained a better understanding and came to terms with my life and my actions. Having spent so much of my life in the company of many of the greatest musical legends, those who influenced our culture to this day, I finally found my own creative ability, my own sense of self and purpose. This is what I learned along the way.

1

SIXTIES LONDON

I remember vividly the first time I heard of The Beatles. It was a normal Saturday in November 1962 and I had recently turned 15. My friends had given me a lift home after a morning of walking around Wimbledon and listening to our favorite 45s in the local record shop. Just before I opened the door, Love Me Do came on the radio. That was it!

“Turn it up,” I shouted, my hand still resting on the door handle of the car.

It was a never-to-be forgotten moment; something new and completely different had just arrived. Everyone stopped what he or she was doing or saying, the music was turned up and we all stared at the radio. The sound of voices singing in harmony and the wail of a harmonica pinned me to my seat. A wave of happiness ran through my veins. Everything about this song, even the simple words, ignited my imagination.

“Who are they?” I asked.

“The Beatles,” someone answered. I smiled, enchanted with the idea of a group being named after an insect. Little did I know then that I was listening to a band of musicians who were to go down in history as defining the 60s. Nor could I have imagined that in just over a year, my sister would play a part in The Beatles film, A Hard Day’s Night, or that she would become George Harrison’s girlfriend.

Pattie had left home the year before and I missed her dreadfully. I had four other siblings, but she and I were the closest. Pattie now worked as an apprentice at the Elizabeth Arden beauty salon. This meant that she could afford to leave home and share a flat with one of her girlfriends. We were frequently in touch and I would visit her in Chelsea, or she would come home for Sunday lunch with her photographer boyfriend. It was while Pattie was working at Elizabeth Arden’s salon that a client had suggested she should get an agent and become a model. She sprung to fame after being seen on a television commercial, (directed by Richard Lester who was later to direct the Beatles film Hard Day’s Night) advertizing Smiths Crisps. “Smiths have crispness in the bag,” she said, her eyes wide open, and blonde bouffant shoulder length hair flicking up at the ends. Now that her modeling career was launched, she became increasingly busy, frequently appearing in magazines and catalogues.

One afternoon, I was in the sitting room at home, when I heard the phone ring. I could hear my mother’s voice in the kitchen and knew at once it must be Pattie. Her voice got higher and louder, finishing off with, “That’s so exciting, I’ll tell the others.” She appeared in the doorway, smiling. “Pattie’s been asked to audition for a small part in the Beatles film. And, not only that,” she said, looking at my younger sister, Paula, and me, her eyes glistening as she held her breath. “She’s got the part! She has to be a fan and dress up like a schoolgirl.”

Photographs of The Beatles filming appeared in every newspaper throughout the weeks that followed, including Pattie with a smile on her face, her long blonde hair and wearing a school uniform either on set during Hard Day’s Night or standing behind George’s chair with a comb in her hand. It was during this time she told me that George had asked her out. She was in a dilemma and didn’t know what to do, since she already had a boyfriend, but the pull was strong, and the feelings were mutual and so she and George began their love affair.

One afternoon, Pattie invited me to her flat after school so I could meet George. When I walked inside and saw him leaning against the wall beside the door, my first reaction was surprise - how small and slim he was! He was much smaller in person than the larger-than-life pictures I’d seen of him. I don’t know what I expected but he seemed so normal. I shook his slender hand and looked into his dark brown eyes and smiling familiar face, a face I knew so well yet had never met. I wanted to give him a hug, as though he were an old friend. Shaking hands seemed so unnaturally formal.

A few months later, after George had returned from The Beatles US tour, our sister brought her famous boyfriend home for a Sunday lunch. They arrived in George’s E-Type Jaguar, which he parked outside what looked like an empty suburban street. It was the most exciting thing that anyone on that street had seen on a Sunday, or any other day, as they peeked through their net curtains. My mother opened the glazed front door that led into a red brick, tiled, porch, and invited them into the sitting room. She had already put her favorite song onto the record player, My Boy Lollipop, having seen them sitting in the car outside. It was now blaring out to greet him.

And so our family met one of the four most popular men in the country. The couple sat next to each other, taking up very little space on the crushed strawberry-colored 50s sofa. I noticed how they held hands the whole time, and how George’s eyes stayed glued to Pattie.

George was easy to be with. It felt no different than any older sister bringing home her latest boyfriend to meet the family, except for bits of the conversation relating to The Beatles. It was hard to equate this person in our midst with the world-famous icon. He talked to us about Liverpool, about the film, and their recent trip to America which had been unexpectedly frightening. The police had failed to cope with, what had been dubbed as ‘Beatle Mania’, and at times had resorted to using fire hoses to hold back the unexpected crowds. Everyone, including the police, had been taken by surprise as fans climbed up drainpipes trying to break into their hotel rooms. Coping with this ‘Beatle Mania’ would become part of their world as their fame grew.

I showed George my acoustic guitar that afternoon and he taught me how to play the three basic chords needed for my favorite Buddy Holly songs. He must have noticed me squinting as I looked at my fingers holding down the strings and told me I should try wearing contact lenses.

“John wears them now,” he said, “and he’s as blind as a bat.”

I had to wait a year before I could buy contacts, but his thoughtful words stayed with me. I discovered, as I got to know him better, how caring George was, and he would share that side of himself with our family. To me he was always like a very kind older brother.

Without realizing it at the time and looking back on it now, 1964 was the year that changed my life and increasingly brought me into the beginning of what was soon to be known as the ‘Swinging 60s’.

The significance of Pattie and George’s relationship was not in the forefront of my mind; I was too involved with having crushes on the sixth form boys at school, feeling the excitement of youth and the beginnings of independence. I had become part of a group of friends who went to parties on Saturday evenings, sometimes linking up with the college boys nearby. If I missed my last train home, I often stayed the night with my friend Dale and her family in Notting Hill Gate. This seemed to happen quite frequently, and I began to feel accepted as part of her family.

I’d noticed Dale earlier in the year as I made my way hurriedly down the stairs from one class to the next. She had long, straight, blond hair with a fringe and was the first girl in the school to wear knee length, black leather boots made by a theatrical boot maker in Charing Cross Road, called Annello and Davide.

She looked like Honor Blackman in The Avengers, a weekly television series we all watched. This show exemplified the spirit of our time, wacky and eccentric, with Patrick Macnee playing the part of a tweed-suited, bowler-hatted, umbrella-sporting spy, in complete contrast to his judo-kicking co-star Honor Blackman known as the youthful, beautiful and confident Mrs. Gale. She dressed in the latest fashion, often clothed from head to foot in leather, including her black boots that were given the nickname, ‘kinky boots’.

I lusted after those boots. I loved the look, I thought they were the ultimate in everything that was cool, but I knew they came with a price that touched the stars. It was Dale who introduced me to a sixteen-year-old Mick Fleetwood, the very person who told me later that when he first spotted me had told himself I was the girl he would marry one day. It was very like Mick, having known him now for over fifty years, to recognize certain people who were destined to play a significant part in his life.

I was first introduced to Mick through a sculpture Dale had made. I was sitting at my desk one afternoon in July, waiting for the English class to begin and idly watching the minute particles of dust lit up by the sun streaming in through the window. Feeling hot and while doodling in my notebook, I heard the door close with a bang followed by a scraping of the chair next to me. I knew it was Dale. She slapped her books on the desk, sat down, and then brought out of her bag a small figure made of thin copper wire. As the teacher began talking, she adjusted this piece of sculpture and sat it on the edge of her desk with its long legs dangling over the side.

“Who is it?” I whispered.

“It’s this boy called Mick, who’s gorgeous,” she replied. “He’s got long hair, long legs and plays in a group called The Cheynes.” As she spoke, she re-arranged the sculpture, still whispering about Mick, her head facing me, and her hand cupped over her mouth until a shout from the English teacher made us both jump.

“Will you two stop talking!” his voice bellowed out from across the room. “Or you’ll stay in after class and write an essay.”

I froze. The wrath of Mr. Steadman-Jones was not to be taken lightly. We both put our heads down and continued reading from Macbeth, but every now and then I stole a glance at Dale’s wire figurine, sitting silently beside me.

“Come with me and meet him,” Dale whispered as she bent down, pretending to look for something in her bag. “I’m going to his bedsit after school with some grapes. He’s got flu.”

Glimpsed from the doorway, my first impression of this young man, who would one day become my husband, was a rather blurred pale face poking up from under the bedclothes with big eyes and unkempt brown hair. I watched Dale stride over to this sorry sight, say a few words, put the grapes on his bedside table and then, as I walked back along the corridor, she said,

“He’s not feeling well. He’ll be at the Coffee Mill tomorrow, so he’ll see us then.”

I was later to find out that sixteen-year-old Mick Fleetwood was only six months older than me but had left school and his home in Salisbury the previous year filled with dreams of living in London and becoming a drummer. Every day he practiced drumming in the basement where he lived with his sister and her husband in Notting Hill Gate, just around the corner from the Coffee Mill and not far from my school. A young keyboard player living in the same mews, heard him one day and asked him to join his group called The Cheynes.

The Coffee Mill was situated on a bend in the road, very close to Portobello Market. This café had become our meeting place after school where we’d take over the upstairs room; a group of teenagers sitting at tables in a haze of cigarette smoke and drinking hot chocolate from glasses encased in metal frames. I loved the atmosphere – it was our place. I met Dale at the Coffee Mill on this particular Saturday afternoon, and that was where I first officially met Mick Fleetwood. He walked into the cafe with one of the band members, also his roommate, Roger.

They both wore what seemed to be a band uniform; black mohair trousers with a pink shirt and white collar and cuffs. Mick was tall, skinny, with brown shoulder length poker-straight hair, which was parted on the side and hid most of his pale narrow face. When he did sweep his curtain of hair aside the most enormous eyes looked directly at me, before taking another sip of his hot chocolate. He appeared very gentle, and softly spoken in comparison to Roger, who was swarthy looking with black frizzy hair. Dale and Roger did most of the talking while Mick and I sat quietly, like two little peas locked in the same silent pod.

The sound of a horn beeping outside interrupted their conversation. The boys stood up, and after Roger had left the cafe, and just before walking out the door Mick turned around to face Dale, saying,

“Why don’t you both come to Brentwood tonight? We’re playing a gig in the Town Hall and we can catch the train up. It’s not that far.”

“We’d love to,” Dale said, as she nudged my leg with her foot.

The Town Hall was completely empty. Its bare wooden floorboards were scuffed from people dancing and stained with spilt drinks and stubbed-out cigarettes. Chairs were lined up next to each other against the whitewashed walls, leaving the rest of the floor for the crowds to occupy.

After setting up his drums Mick leaped off the stage and sat between Dale and me. He spread his long spidery legs in front of him and then brought them back with his elbows resting on his knees. I felt his foot on top of mine but as I tried to move it, the pressure got stronger. I felt conflicted. I liked Mick, but my loyalty to Dale stopped me from allowing myself to enjoy the attention.

Rhythm and blues filled the Town Hall that night as Roger’s rasping voice belted out songs by Bo Diddley, Howlin’ Wolf, and Chuck Berry. These were the songs I’d listened to over the last year and loved them. It was the first live band I’d ever seen and having met the musicians before they went on stage added to the feeling of excitement. I noticed that every time I looked at Phil, the guitar player, he winked and smiled at me. His smiles continued throughout the show, over the crowds and smack bang into my sixteen-year old heart. It was my first introduction to the fickleness of flirting from the stage. It was also my introduction to the world of musicians.

A few weeks after that evening, much to my surprise, Dale and Roger came to visit me in hospital. I was under surveillance for a suspected appendicitis and was waiting to be given the all clear. Roger handed me some flowers, as I sat up in bed, and Dale brought a bunch of grapes. Little did I suspect Roger would ask me out a few days later, having had no idea that he felt anything for me and seeing him with Dale much of the time took me off guard.

Although I felt attracted to Mick, I ended up going out with Roger for almost a year. There was something that drew me to him; he was charismatic, dark and brooding. I was aware that he’d been adopted and had a tough and lonely childhood. Knowing this made me feel sad for him. Although I hadn’t had much in the way of parenting, I did at least have a family.

Whenever we spent an evening together, I always left before eleven o’clock to catch the train for the 45-minute journey back home, but not before being made to backcomb and blow-dry his hair ready for whatever party he was going to later that night. Sometimes, after saying goodbye I would bump into Mick, holding the banister as he climbed the narrow staircase to the room he shared with Roger. Our eyes would meet halfway down, hold each other’s gaze, and then, without a word we’d continue in opposite directions. I felt tongue-tied in his presence, my insides would flutter, and I longed to talk to him. During that time, I frequently saw Mick after school with Peter Bardens, the keyboard player, either in the Coffee Mill or the restaurant next door, his face usually hidden by his hair as he leaned over a plate of omelet and chips, but he rarely spoke to me.

While The Beatles were on tour, Pattie had temporarily moved into Whaddon House, a flat in Knightsbridge where George and Ringo had set up residence. I would often visit her after school and we’d spend evenings together, sitting on a plush sofa in front of a glass coffee table, drinking scotch and coke, smoking Gitanes, often unfiltered, and listening to music turned up to full volume. The Beatles had bought or were given all the latest LPs and 45s while in the States, singles by Mary Wells, The Supremes, Marvin Gaye, Smokey Robinson, and other Motown records. I loved listening to these records, they were so different to anything I’d heard in England and made me want to dance.

The flat was luxurious. Thick onyx ashtrays were everywhere with a gold Dunhill lighter nearby, guitars leaned against the wall, looking beautiful but untouchable. I met Paul McCartney’s girlfriend, Jane Asher there one Saturday morning. It was a hot day and I remember her wearing what I thought was a very cool-looking cotton dress made out of Liberty Print. I didn’t have the money to buy clothes at that time but even so I was curious to know more about the latest fashions. I asked her who the designer was. “Foale and Tuffin,” she said. We didn’t have very much more to say to each other after that. She seemed quiet and slightly withdrawn and I was just Pattie’s younger sister. The name Foale and Tuffin stood out to me as I remembered seeing a photograph of my sister in a magazine wearing a very stylish raincoat made by the same designers.

The first thing I noticed when Pattie introduced me to Cathy McGowan was that she was wearing the same dress. Cathy McGowan was a young woman who hosted the popular Ready Steady Go television show where all the latest groups of that time played live in front of a room full of dancing teenagers. She had long brown hair with a fringe that hid most of her eyes. We’d been invited to the television show one Friday afternoon and chatted to her backstage while she put on her make-up alongside her friend Sandie Shaw, whose song Always Something There To Remind Me had recently become a hit. The dressing room was filled with excitement, the smell of powder, lively chatter, and bright lights. Singer, Dusty Springfield, sat with us. Her make-up glistened and sparkled, looking as though it could be scraped off with a knife.

Once the show started, I went out to where the audience was waiting, my ‘Dancer’ badge pinned to my dress, and danced with about twenty-five other teenagers, our heads bobbing up and down in time to the music. Television cameras were wheeled across the floor, missing us by inches, while each singer or group performed under the bright lights. At the end of the show Cathy told me I could come again any time, and so after school I would make my way to the loo in Notting Hill Gate tube station, change out of anything resembling a school uniform, and then catch the Central Line to Holborn wearing my trendiest clothes. I was in heaven! It didn’t matter to me whether we were being televised or not, being able to watch my favorite performers and dance to their music was quite enough on its own. Over the weeks, I was to see Eric Burdon and the Animals, The Zombies, Dave Clark Five, Peter and Gordon, Dusty Springfield, and many others.

There were positive and negative implications to having a Beatle as my sister’s boyfriend. Each time I left the Ready Steady Go studio, I came across a large group of young girls outside the door. They would wait for hours, in hopes of catching someone, no matter who, that knew The Beatles. Waving their books, they would crowd round me, calling my name, and asking for an autograph. Signing autographs for fans was the positive part of being associated with The Beatles, but then there were those who harassed me because they hated them, like some of the girls at my school. Dale and I came across a group of Mods walking along the pavement towards us in their signature style clothing, leather coats and shortly cropped hair, with cigarette smoke billowing out of their nostrils. As they came closer, one of them gave me a strong push with her leather-clad arm and shoved me into the road as they shouted in unison, “Beatle Lover,” followed by peals of laughter. “Sister’s got a new boyfriend.” This sort of behavior had become part of my world, although usually not as violently. Other girls at school had whispered and pointed in my direction.

The Mods were a sub-culture that focused on music and fashion. Unlike their rivals, the Rockers, the Mods dressed in smart tailor-made suits and listened to rhythm and blues. They liked groups such as The Who, The Small Faces, and The Kinks. What they didn’t like were The Beatles.

Around this time, Pattie and George moved to a bungalow in Esher, not far out of London. One evening after supper, while the three of us were sitting around a little table in the kitchen, George introduced me to a few puffs of a joint. It was early days of pot smoking for us, and that night was innocent and giggly. While we sat there chatting, I was aware of them looking at me, waiting for a reaction but I didn’t feel anything. Then George reached over and picked up a wooden cat or cow that sat on the red-tiled windowsill and held it in front of me, bouncing it up and down and speaking in a funny voice trying to make me laugh.

I must have been a slow starter as far as feeling the effects of pot, but that was to change pretty soon. For me, the consequence of smoking pot became far more heady, my brain would go into overdrive as one thought after another scrambled for attention, desperately seeking the meaning of life. Even though I didn’t get high with them that evening, I loved being with Pattie and George, they were so gentle, so generous and kind, but most of all they were my first steadying influence in what had been a disruptive upbringing.

I still lived at home but without any thought of what I wanted to be as I continued my day-to-day treks to school. The idea of going to college was never discussed, the closest thing to any conversation regarding my future was my mother suggesting I learn to type, the thought of which I dismissed straight away. I wanted to do something that inspired me like my English class, but I didn’t know what that could be.

The Cheynes had disbanded and Roger and Mick both, independently, looked for house painting jobs while waiting for a new group to join. Instead of his smart mohair suit, Roger now sauntered around Notting Hill with work clothes, showing off his new trade with specks of colored paint all over his face and in his black wiry hair.

It wasn’t until many years after my relationship with Roger that I came to the realization that each relationship can be a gift. Often at the time it might not feel like that, but there is something to be learned, some outcome, either physical or emotional, that comes of this meeting. And so, it was that Roger played a crucial part in me securing my first job, my introduction to the world of modeling and ultimately everything that represented the swinging sixties.

He got the job of redecorating Foale and Tuffin’s new showroom in Carnaby Street and while he was there, they told him that they were looking for a house model. He suggested me. It had never occurred to me to become a model, but as arranged, I went with him a few days later to meet Sally Tuffin and Marion Foale. I was still very shy and had never been to any kind of interview before but made my way along Carnaby Street and into their showroom.

In the middle of the room stood two young pattern cutters bending over a large table. They looked up and smiled as I walked towards the sofa. Marion and Sally were in their mid-twenties, both with Vidal Sassoon haircuts; and both very friendly. As soon as we sat down they said, “You would definitely be a size six, and we’ve never made anything so small.” I answered questions about my availability and about myself, feeling horribly self-conscious each time I looked at Roger, sitting on a chair opposite me, rolling his eyes at my every word. Later, he made fun of the way I’d conducted the interview, told me that I didn’t speak loud enough or had given confusing answers. And so I didn’t think for a minute I had the job, and made my way back to school ready to continue my education with the thought of one day becoming a journalist.

Those plans came to an abrupt halt the following evening when Marion Foale called to offer me the job. She told me I would be expected to model their latest designs in their showroom for the fashion editors from Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, Queen, Elle, and other glossy magazines. I would also be expected to help in the office when they didn’t need me to model and to serve customers in the boutique they were soon to open. I would be paid £5 a week after tax. I was thrilled! Without a moment’s hesitation, I took the job. I left school at the end of the week without even discussing this new turn of events with my mother. She was too busy looking after my unruly younger sister and my two brothers to take any notice of what I did. The following Monday, I caught the train to Carnaby Street and arrived at the Foale and Tuffin office at 9am ready to see where this might lead.

I had never heard of Carnaby Street up until that time, and nor had many others, except for the fashion-conscious Mods who swarmed around the flamboyant, brightly colored but affordable clothes inside a men’s boutique called John Stephen or another newly opened clothes shop, Lord John. Carnaby Street was just starting to come alive and into its own; its run-down buildings and cheap rents soon to give way to trendy shops and bars. There was no way of guessing that within a very short time it would become the epicenter of men’s fashion and would define the swinging 60s, attracting not only teenagers but also pop stars such as Jimi Hendrix, The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, and the Kinks. It was an exciting place to be.

I walked through the door of the old brick building and up the narrow rickety staircase to the Foale and Tuffin office in Marlborough Court. It was smaller than I’d expected. I was greeted by a friendly face sitting behind a large desk surrounded by a stack of papers, but it wasn’t long before Sally and Marion arrived, full of smiles and bustling with energy. They whisked me across the road to their showroom where they immediately set to work, sifting through the black satin dresses and mustard-colored trouser suits, pulling out their designs one after another and telling me to try them on. At the end of the session I tried on a double-breasted pillar-box red trouser suit with silver buttons on the jacket. It fit me perfectly. It was as though I’d suddenly found myself, as if these trousers and jacket had been made just for me. Their clothes felt free and comfortable and the relief of knowing I would never have to wear the restrictive suspender belt and stockings my mother had encouraged as she tried to prepare me for life as a young woman, filled me with joy.

“You’re tiny,” Sally and Marion said, almost in unison, “much smaller than our last model.” They both looked at me in the red trouser suit. “It’s yours,” they said.

That was the beginning to not only my first job, but also to having a wardrobe filled with clothes that many young women would have given anything to own. Everything I wore were samples made to fit me. Sally and Marion were the hippest designers in London. They were the first designers to make sharply tailored trouser suits for women; everything they created was for the young and epitomized the Sixties. I was fortunate to have them as my first employers. They knew how to get the best out of people and made everyone who worked for them feel like part of the family. Being one of six children, I had never experienced such individual attention. These two highly respected designers saw something in me that enabled me to live up to their expectations. Their encouragement helped me build my confidence as I began showing their collection, walking up and down the showroom in front of one fashion editor after another, a photographer or buyers for boutiques and department stores. The atmosphere was always friendly and relaxed.

Marit Allen was editor of Vogue magazine. She was a gentle, smiling woman, softly spoken and great friends with Sally and Marion. She always looked very smart with short hair and thin wire-framed glasses on the end of her nose.

“I would like to use Jenny in a photographic session for Brides magazine. She’s perfect,” she said, not long after we’d met. This was to be my first taste of photographic modeling. When I look at that photograph now, I see a young woman standing straight, no poses, wearing a full-length empire line dress, hands down loosely beside her body, silver daisies perched on top of her head, long hair and with a coy smile looking straight into the camera. Most of the photographers I began working with were fun, young, upbeat and encouraging, with a clever knack of putting me at my ease. Although I continued to work for Foale and Tuffin for another year or so, because I was asked to do more photographic jobs, they suggested I get an agent.

“You look just like Pattie,” photographers, agents or editors would often say. “You could almost be twins.”

I was flattered in some ways, knowing how pretty Pattie was and I was used to being compared to her, even as a child. When I appeared in newspaper articles or magazines modeling the latest fashion, it was inevitable that the description would refer to me as Pattie’s younger sister, or a little later, as sister-in-law to Beatle, George Harrison. We became known as the ‘Boyd Sisters’. Even so, we approached modeling from different perspectives; Pattie was more strategic, more pragmatic, whereas I tended to be more happy-go-lucky in my outlook. Although I wasn’t a trained model, like so many girls were, I started to create my own style, my own unique way of expression.

Sally and Marion came into the office one day with exciting news. An American called Paul Young had seen their clothes and wanted a collection made to launch Youthquake, his company in the States. As well as Foale and Tuffin and Mary Quant, he had asked a few other up-and-coming designers who were also transforming British fashion in the 60s, including Mick’s sister, Sally Jesse, designer of soft leather handbags with clear Perspex handles, and a new shoe designer called Moya Bowler, who’s black snakeskin ankle boots I now owned after paying a week’s wages. This event was to be called ‘The British Fashion Invasion’. Pattie and I were chosen to wear Foale and Tuffin designs, and two other women were chosen to model the Mary Quant collection. The first step towards this venture was for the four models to go out to New York and begin the publicity campaign.

This was to be the first time of doing a catwalk in front of so many people, and the first time of doing photographic modeling with Pattie, neither of which fazed me. I was excited to be chosen as part of the team, but mostly I went along with whatever was asked of me, believing it to be part of my job.

An Englishman called Terry met us at the airport in New York, full of smiles and enthusiasm. The noise, the heat, and the humidity hit me as he herded us towards a waiting limo. While sinking into the soft black leather seats, feeling the cool bursts of air-conditioning and listening to the latest Motown songs on the car radio I had my first glimpse of New York and my memorable journey to Manhattan.

Photographs for American Vogue were taken of us that evening as we danced hour after hour under the bright lights at one of Manhattan’s new celebrity nightclubs called Arthur. Sybil Burton, ex-wife of actor Richard Burton and founder of the nightclub, had named it Arthur in honour of a George Harrison quip in The Beatles film, A Hard Day’s Night. When asked the name of his hairstyle he had replied, “Arthur”. We danced the night away in our wide satin black and white zigzag print trousers, mini skirts and dresses, everything we wore designed to be youthful and fun, I’m sure we were seen by many people in the audience as outrageous and daring.

Apart from being seen at Arthur’s most evenings wearing our trendy clothes and being photographed by the press, there was not quite the same enthusiasm in more conventional places such as the Algonquin Hotel where we were staying. It was my first morning in Manhattan and after my wake-up call from Terry I was told we were to meet downstairs for breakfast, before going off to the Youthquake office on Broadway. I stood with him and Pattie as well as the two sophisticated Mary Quant models while we waited for a table, but as soon as the maître di saw me in my red trouser suit he looked at Terry and then pointed at me.

“She can’t come in here wearing trousers,” he said. “It’s not allowed.”

I felt myself go scarlet. I was incensed and horribly embarrassed as Terry tried to sooth my fragile ego in front of the others, telling me to go upstairs and put on a dress. This was 1965 and I was seventeen, but it was indicative of how conservative people still were at that time. The Algonquin was one of the oldest New York City hotels and it had been home to a gathering of literary writers and artists in the 20s known as the Algonquin Round Table. For ten years writers, critics, and actors would meet there for lunch every day, establishing a reputation across America for being very creative and witty. And yet, the very place that housed them was now throwing me out for wearing trousers.

The Youthquake office was right in the heart of the garment industry, 1400 Broadway. One by one, we met Paul Young and his partners in their office. It was still very much a man’s world in the fashion business, and I had been used to working mostly for women since leaving school. I stood in front of these three, large, middle-aged men, as they sat behind a desk talking and laughing amongst themselves while every so often glancing my way and looking me up and down. I felt uneasy. It disturbed me to see them acting as if they were a bunch of overgrown kids in starched white shirts and ties, playing at being businessmen. I suddenly felt trivialized by them, made to look small and insignificant, and I could feel myself getting tearful as I closed their door after the meeting, a mixture of disgust and exhaustion. “Don’t take it to heart,” Pattie told me later. “Treat it as a game.”

Pattie and I had photographs taken for Seventeen Magazine, both in our Foale and Tuffin clothes and long, blond hair. Each day of the first week was filled with either modeling or going back for yet more fittings at 1400 Broadway, a place that became increasingly chaotic and disorganized as the days went by.

We were under the spotlight from early in the morning until late at night; either being photographed for magazines and newspapers, dancing at Arthur’s, or showing up for dinners and receptions. Throughout our stay in New York City, we represented the British Invasion, the new era of fashion. We were the messengers of what was to come.

Vidal Sassoon also played a large part in representing the British Invasion and was there at the same time as us. We were all invited to his opening party to celebrate his first salon in New York, which was an historic moment. He had changed the world of hair and become one of the major players in fashion at that time, creating a style that complimented the new designs and epitomized what became known as the ‘Swinging Sixties’.

After an intense few days, Pattie and I were invited to spend the weekend at a house in the Hamptons where Paul Young had friends who were curious to meet us. Cocktails were served throughout the day as more and more guests arrived, obviously summoned to look at and talk to the young English dollybirds. By the end of our stay I felt as if we’d arrived from another planet. They did everything except poke us to see if we were real.

Finally, after our week of publicity and fittings, Sally and Marion arrived for the big day. It was to be their first fashion show to this large an audience and in America. As I walked along the four-foot-high platform in front of a hall full of people, including the press, fashion editors, and merchandisers I realized that a layer of shimmering, white, silk cloth had been draped over the catwalk since our rehearsal. Keeping my balance in heels was a feat in itself, let alone without my glasses. I couldn’t make out where the platform ended and where the drop to the white carpet began. Even so, with the help of the loud thumping music I pulled it off but vowed never again to do a traditional catwalk.

I was in the company of models who had completed numerous catwalks and knew exactly how to do the exaggerated walk; twisting and gliding along the platform, feet moving on an invisible straight line, hands on hips, and all the time smiling confidently. But for someone who was inherently shy, walking along a slippery platform with the disadvantage of being near-sighted, in front of hundreds of people was a nerve-wracking experience. I was younger, inexperienced, and had jumped in at the deep end. It was my baptism of fire.

From then on, whenever I went to catwalk auditions, much to the annoyance of other models who had spent a small fortune on training to walk professionally, I just danced. I would get the job. This became my identity. I couldn’t be compared to Pattie or my brother-in-law. I had found my passion, my own self-expression.

When I left New York carrying a blonde-haired doll I’d been given at one of the press interviews and wearing a pair of white Courreges-style calf-length boots, I felt that getting through the challenges of this trip had given me more self-confidence. So much so that when I arrived back in England and saw Roger, I knew instantly the relationship had changed, he had lost his hold on me.

A short time later, as I sat in the new Foale and Tuffin shop, putting records on the turntable and serving customers, I looked out of the window and to my surprise, there was Mick standing on the pavement, looking up at the Foale and Tuffin sign above the shop. His hair had been cut in the same Vidal Sassoon shape that was so fashionable and for the first time I could see his face. He stood with a couple of friends, looking very stylish in a long white cardigan and black flares. I walked outside and was introduced to members of the new group he’d recently joined, The Bo Street Runners. As the others waved goodbye and drifted off, Mick followed me into the shop.

We hadn’t seen each other for a few months, and by this time, he and Roger had moved into separate flats. I felt very happy to see him. His gentle ways were like cool running water compared to the dark brooding quality of Roger.

He stayed with me for the rest of the afternoon while I served customers. Little did I know then how pivotal this reconnection was to be; it was the beginning of a long and at times painful journey we were destined to embark on together. Ever since I met Mick, I’d always had a sense of something familiar about him, either we recognized parts of ourselves within each other or it was because we’d come from similar backgrounds and had similar temperaments. He had, like me, been brought up in other parts of the world and his father, a Wing Commander, had also flown planes, just as my father had. We were both also cripplingly shy with each other. No matter how strong and innocent our love was, we never knew how to voice it when the going got tough.

Now, though we had my New York trip to talk about, a lot of the time we sat in silence. I didn’t mind, I liked him being close by and breathed in the coolness of his presence. I stood up periodically as people came into the shop but after a while Mick stood up. “I have to meet the others,” he said, his hands dug deeply into the pockets of his cardigan. “We’re playing tonight.” And off he went. I didn’t know when I’d next see him, but I did know he knew how to find me now. A few days later, unexpectedly, he came in again. This time, he sat in the shop until it was time to close.

Sometimes it is the first kiss one remembers that seals the new relationship, or maybe one doesn’t remember what happened when, but for me, what sticks in my memory is the first time Mick held my hand. We were in Notting Hill Gate about to cross the road when he did something that felt perfectly natural, without looking at me he held his hand out behind his back. I remember putting my hand in his for the first time, feeling the gentle contact of our skin together as we crossed the road and on to our destination.

Mick shared a large flat in Finchley with Pete, his friend and keyboard player from The Cheynes who was now playing with Them, a Belfast band led by the dynamic singer, Van Morrison. The flat had one enormous room where everyone congregated, a small bedroom big enough for two single beds at one end and a kitchen and bathroom at the other. There were always people coming and going, smoking dope or going out to score. Music played continuously.

One evening, Mick and I walked into the flat and for the first time we were alone. After putting on some records, he sat on a chair opposite me and began rolling a joint. Bobby Bland’s voice came blaring out of the speaker: Further on up the road, he sang, rich and soulful. I remember wishing we could dance around the room together - it would have stopped me feeling so shy, but instead I inhaled deeply on the joint he offered me and sat in silence.

Silence was often the expected response to getting stoned and listening to music, but we were still new to each other as a couple, and I found it agonizing. Finally, Mick broke through our wall.

“I’ve been asked to go on a three-month tour of Europe,” he said, his voice barely audible, his eyes holding mine. “A singer in France, Johnny Hallyday, has asked me to join his band.” He took another drag of the joint.

I dug deep inside, looking for my voice, feeling almost paralyzed. Our relationship was so new, so fragile, and anything could happen. He might find someone else.

“Are you going to go?” I whispered.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I haven’t decided.”

I Put a Spell on You, Nina Simone began singing; it made me want to cry. I wanted to be held in Mick’s arms and plead with him not to go. But I couldn’t find the words and felt as though I was stuck to the sofa. The more stoned we became the more deafening the silence between us, even through the music.

Fortunately, at that moment, the front door opened and in walked Peter Bardens with Van Morrison behind him. Van the Man we would call him, because he was The Man. He had a commanding presence and was respected by fellow musicians. His recent hit, Here Comes the Night, showed what a powerful voice and deliverance he had.

Mick sat down beside me and held my hand, giving it a squeeze, while the two men dragged a couple of chairs closer around the coffee table and began rolling a joint. This was the second or third of many evenings I spent with Mick in that flat, with the loud music and people coming and going throughout the night. We would sleep in one of the single beds in the bedroom, either with Peter in the bed next to us, or with Peter and his latest girlfriend. There was no privacy, but somehow, because we were young, it didn’t seem to matter.

I would usually arrive at Foale and Tuffin’s boutique exhausted, having had very little sleep after spending the night at the flat. No one went to bed before dawn and not long afterwards I would wake up, get dressed, step over sleeping bodies slumped around the big room and make my way off to work.

One afternoon, while I was sitting in the shop, Mick rang. “Listen to this,” he said, in a quiet voice. I loved listening to his voice; it was gentle, always softly spoken. What followed was a drum solo that didn’t end! I hung on as long as I could so as not to hurt his feelings, put the phone down, served a customer, got back to the phone and he was still playing. He was obviously stoned and had lost himself in his own musical world.

Another phone call I received in the shop, much to my surprise, was from Gary Walker, one of the Walker Brothers. They were three Californian boys who’d become famous over the last year through their hit record, Make it Easy on Yourself.

“Is this Jenny?” he asked.

“Yes.” I replied.

And then he said, “Because you look so much like Pattie, and I look just like George, would you go out with me?”

I had to resist my impulse to laugh and told him sweetly that I already had a boyfriend.

Pattie and I continued to work together on a few photographic shoots. We’d sit side by side in the dressing room, start putting on our makeup and chatting to each other in front of a large mirror surrounded by naked light bulbs. We liked working together and instinctively knew where the other was about to move, placing our arms, legs or head in whatever direction the photographer asked. One of these shoots was for a spread in Vogue, photographed by David Bailey. I had seen him many times before on Saturday mornings in Hennekeys, the very popular pub on Portobello Road, often frequented by models, photographers, and musicians. During this session, Pattie whispered to me that George had asked her to marry him. She had a dreamy expression when the pictures of her as Mrs. Pattie Harrison were published in Vogue three months later.

Mick and I went to some of the exclusive clubs in London with Pattie and George, usually The Scotch of St. James or The Ad Lib. They were exciting places to be at that time, filled with pop stars, actors, fashion designers, old aristocracy, models; everyone that was part of this young, hip, Swinging London scene. Now we were all smoking dope, it seemed to create a bond between everyone, a sense of camaraderie and mutual respect and a breaking down of social barriers. How you looked, how you dressed, and the music you liked, spoke volumes.

The music was loud and lights were low, listening to the soulful heart-rendering sound of Otis Redding singing Dock of the Bay, or dancing to Stevie Wonder, whatever they played, which was mostly Motown or R&B, was an integral part of the atmosphere created in the clubs. I would grab Mick’s hand every time I was moved to dance, lead him onto the dance floor and get lost in the music. Mick was a wonderful dancer and I loved dancing with him. How history repeats itself, it was everything my mother had said about my father; she thought him very handsome, but most of all she loved the way he danced.

The Flamingo was another nightclub which Mick and I would often go to, but this one was situated in Soho: renowned for its many strip joints, sex shops, seedy massage parlors, great music, and clubs. There was a strong smell of disinfectant mingled with wafts of weed as soon as we walked down the stairs into the basement. Groups usually started playing late in the evening and on weekends would continue throughout the night until 6am. Georgie Fame and the Blue Flames was the house band. John Mayall and his Bluesbreakers were regulars (with a young Eric Clapton on guitar) as well as all the up-and-coming groups from the UK and America. A large proportion of the audience was made up of American serviceman from the airbases and west Indians. Musicians were part of the audience as well as fans, gangsters, pimps and prostitutes.

Mick wanted me to come down with him when he played the all-nighters at the Flamingo. This time, his group had Pete Bardens back on keyboards, a base player, and a blues guitarist from the East End, with mutton-chop sideburns and short hair, called Peter Green. A few months later, Rod Stewart and Beryl Marsden joined them as lead vocalists. Beryl was a British R&B and pop singer from Liverpool; she had performed and toured with The Beatles and played at the Star Club in Germany. She was a powerful vocalist and when she sang with Rod, together the energy generated between them was electrifying. They called themselves The Shotgun Express and sang mostly rhythm and blues.

There were about five or six rows of cinema seats in front of the small stage, so most of the space behind was set aside for dancing. As I sat in the audience one night, watching Mick on stage, a young woman came up to me.

“Is your name Jenny Boyd?” she said in between songs, speaking in an American accent.

I nodded.

“I saw your picture in the paper this evening. I thought I recognized you.”

She pulled down a seat and sat next to me, leaning closer to my ear once the band started playing.

“It was an article about what you liked to wear. It was cute.” She had also seen me in 16 Magazine, an American magazine that ran an article alongside my picture, about me being Pattie Boyd’s sister, who was girlfriend of Beatle George Harrison. I knew about this article they had also printed my address for American teenagers to write to me. Because of this, I received a sack full of mail, asking all kinds of questions about George and Pattie. Although it was exciting to see all these letters with their American stamps arriving on the mat, and though many of them were complimentary towards me, I knew their main objective was to make contact with a Beatle.

The band stopped for a break and the lights went on, lighting up the shabby seats and rubbish littered around the black dance floor. Judy carried on talking. She had just arrived in England a few weeks earlier from Sacramento, California. It was her first trip to England, and she had been told about the Flamingo as a good place to listen to blues. I wasn’t used to strangers coming up to me and chatting at length so I didn’t know what to make of Judy until she told me she had met Pete Bardens at the Flamingo manager’s office earlier that week and was now going out with him. We didn’t know then, but this chance meeting with Judy was the beginning of a friendship that was to last for fifty years. I saw more of Judy over the next couple of weeks. She suggested one day that we share a flat together and told me she’d seen one in Notting Hill. And so I left home; my first step into the big wide world.

This flat became a place where Mick and members of the band would come over after playing a local gig to smoke pot, listen to music, or have a beer. Rod brought with him a record by Sam Cooke one evening, singing, ‘A Change is Gonna Come.’ He put it on the record player and while Mick listened to the drums Rod memorized the words.

I was now modeling full time, dragging my heavy portfolio around London filled with photographs to show photographers, going on shoots, or interviews for magazines, catalogues and television commercials. I usually did my own make-up once I got to the studio, black liquid eyeliner and false eyelashes when I remembered to bring them, with mascara. I didn’t wear red lipstick as my mother had always worn, it seemed to me to represent her generation, not mine, and so I put pan stick on my lips, a pale matte foundation by Max Factor.

Modeling took me everywhere - I had photographs taken at The Cavern where the Prime Minister, Harold Wilson, had been invited to officially open the club. The walls were painted black, lights beamed on stage while they took the photographs, and people bustled around the hall, getting ready for the opening scheduled for later that evening. I danced in Amsterdam, Brussels, Rome, and different parts of England showing the latest 60s fashion in unusual settings, train platforms and streets, all to live music or records blasting out of speakers. In these moments I felt carefree, like a child, feeling part of the vibrancy, excitement, and aliveness of what it felt like to be in my generation. It was a time of wonder, innocence and creativity.

I felt very comfortable when I was asked to be part of any film that encompassed this same youthful spirit. It started with our visit to New York for Youthquake which was followed up by a promotional film a couple of months later. Mick and his friend, John Dominic, the lead singer from the Bo Street Runners, appeared in the film with us. Three other models and I were dressed in Foale and Tuffin, and Mary Quant clothes, and together, along with the boys, we ran around London in front of trendy shops, jumping in and out of red phone booths, driving in a Mini Moke, dancing at The Ad Lib, having our hair brushed by Vidal Sassoon, and doing anything else that represented a ‘Young London’, interspersed with footage of ‘Beatlemania’. I also starred in a short film about the 60s that was shown in Cannes, called, The Reflections of Love. It was filmed against a backdrop of Swinging London and was directed by Joe Massot who two years later directed Wonderwall, a film featuring a soundtrack by George Harrison. I was asked to appear in one of the I Love Lucy television episodes called, Lucy Goes to London. We ran around all the 60s London landmarks along with three other models and the 60s group, The Dave Clark Five.