“If you’ll remember, you told me I had to something about out families,” David said. “It took a bit of doing, but my Mum has invited you to tea tomorrow.”
“Oh, how fab. But how much convincing did it take?”
“Not much. She was willing. It was Dad who objected. But I’m sure he’ll go along with it.”
“You couldn’t have done anything that would please me more. Do you think she’ll like me?”
“She’ll adore you. We’d better hop it, we’ve kept them waiting long enough.” David helped her up. She clung to his arm as they walked to the folk club to meet Belle and Tom.
When they got inside, David looked around quickly. The place had always been a Mod hangout and, he noted, it still was. Little checked tables, with benches, were lined up in straight rows, so close it seemed a wonder anyone could squeeze through. People were pushing through the door behind them.
“Look,” she said,. “Over there, see them?”
They picked their way between benches and people, and sat down. Conversation was impossible. The room was bedlam—noise, people laughing and talking, benches scraping, and on top of it, the singer.
—from The Mods, a Lancer Photo Novel, 1967. Novel by Sandra Lawrence, photos by Ken Williams “of Galaxy International.”