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schools. I remember I did a lot of jigsaw puzzles. Picadilly Circus. The Grand Canyon. Diamond Fucking Head. And I spun these fairy tales in m’head—that I was a pirate king or an Indian fighter. Someone brave and strong, with mates … Mostly, I remember silence. The wallpaper was blue.
    Hoag: You know, I’ve never met a celebrity who had a happy childhood.
    Scarr: Nobody has a happy childhood. We just happen to get asked about ours, is all.
    Hoag: Did you do well in school?
    Scarr: Not very. Missed too much. Wasn’t very bright either. (laughs) I showed no evidence of any talent of any kind as a boy. Except for m’ears. I can wiggle them. Very few people can.
    Hoag: You can wiggle? I can, too. All of the Hoag men can. Let’s see … (silence) Pretty decent. But can you wiggle one ear at a time?
    Scarr: Impossible. No one can.
    Hoag: I can.
    Scarr: Balls. (silence) You’re not really doing it.
    Hoag: I am, too.
    Scarr: Yes, well, as I said—I was not a good student. Somehow, I did manage to pass m’eleven-plus exams and move on up. We were living in Teddington then, I was sent to Hampton Grammar. Some pretty posh people sent their teenies there. A good crowd for young Tristam to meet on his road to becoming a professional man. Only, I fell in with the wrong crowd.
    Hoag: By the wrong crowd you mean Rory?
    Scarr: I do, mate.
    Hoag: Can you remember the first time you two met?
    Scarr: (laughs) It was in ’56. I was twelve. I knew of him, of course, because he got himself in so many scrapes. A blond bloke, with a big chest and unusually short legs. Self-conscious about that, he was. To the day he died he was sensitive about his height. He was a cockney, a hard nut—quick with his mouth and his fists. The other boys were afraid of him. He was already a bit of a ted. Wore these heavy black shoes and smoked ciggies and didn’t show up for classes. One day he comes up to me in the corridor and takes m’fountain pen out of m’shirt pocket and doesn’t give it back. I says, “Let’s have m’pen.” He says, “Piss off.” I says, “ You piss off.” He says, “You’re a skinny little cunt, aren’t you.” I says, “It’s m’mum’s pen—she’ll have m’hide if I lose it.” He says, “Then she’s a cunt as well.” The other lads are listening by now. I’m sort of on the spot, I am. If I let him keep the pen then I’ve got no bloody social standing from that day forward. So we had a proper punch-up.
    Hoag: Who won?
    Scarr: He did. Bloodied m’nose. Tore m’shirt.
    Hoag: But he gave you the pen back.
    Scarr: No, he kept the pen. But he did decide I was a mate. Next morning he says to me, “I’m gonna smoke me a fag in class today.” I says, “Go on.” He says, “Watch me.” And he did it—lit up a bleeding Woodbine right there in the middle of class. Teacher couldn’t fucking believe it. Got himself royally caned for that, Rory did. But he just didn’t care. They couldn’t teach him anything and they couldn’t hurt him. He figured as how he was smarter than all of them.
    Hoag: Was he?
    Scarr: Rory? He was just bloody contrary’s what he was. Different. Crazy. Still, I reckoned as how he was onto something.
    Hoag: What was it?
    Scarr: Being alive. (pause) His dad was a big, tough bloke. Had his own roofing business. He and Rory fought all the time. “Mr. Law” he called his dad, with a sneer. Quick with the belt, the old bugger was—especially after a few pints. Rory’s older brother, Bob, usually got it, only he was away in the RAF at that time, so Mr. Law went after Rory.
    Hoag: You and Rory became friends.
    Scarr: Mates, right off. There was this, I don’t know, righteous energy between us. We sparked off of each other. Did things together we’d not dream of doing on our own.
    Hoag: Such as?
    Scarr: Such as … Christ, what didn’t we do? Started trash fires inside of stores. Threw rocks at nuns and cripples. Ran in front of cars in the street to make ’em hit the brakes. One