Many Lives by Stephanie Beacham Page B

world. There were a lot of us, we were the post-war babies, and we were well educated. We could study whatever we wanted and get a grant for anything. You’d ask a friend what they were studying and they’d tell you Egyptology at Balliol or Theoretical Physics at Imperial. We wanted to learn. We wanted to know. We were changing the world.
    The mores and hypocritical suburban attitudes that had underpinned our parents’ lives were being challenged. We were bored by that suburban outlook. We wanted more. We wanted better. But we weren’t prepared to have more war. The anti-Vietnam movement was huge. My American friends at RADA were either saying they were gay, attempting to get ulcers by eating toothpaste or going to Canada to avoid the draft. We all knew that Vietnam was a useless war and that the West had no right to be there. We were agents of love and we were absolute – and, mirroring the lack of compassion shown to returning GIs in the US, not particularly respectful of people who had fought in the Second World War.
The Commune
    Soon after my rooftop experience I saw a note on the RADA noticeboard:
    ACTRESS WANTED IN COMMUNE…
PHONE THIS NUMBER…
    I did, and became one of eight people living together in a planned and conscious model of communal living. Unlike our parents, we weren’t interested in getting married and settling into a predetermined order. People like R D Laing were saying that the nuclear family was a source of neurosis and dysfunction. We wanted to explore alternatives to the norm; different kinds of ‘family’.
    True communal living is about a lot more than simply sharing a house with other people. It takes work and effort. It demands structure, principles and rules. We wanted to be able to live in a family in which people didn’t take each other for granted or disrespect one another. Learning not to be selfish, to be able to listen to others and share, took thought and practice. As members of a commune we had to be ready to put in the time to make it work. We were.
    It wasn’t that easy. If you’re hung up about what you think is yours, and only yours, it’s going to be a challenge. It was also about sharing your skills and labour and contributing to household maintenance; the mundane and routine and the fun and interesting. I learned so much from the people I was living with.
    Our commune consisted of a sculptor and a silk-screen printing artist, both students at the Royal Academy of Arts, three architects studying at the Royal Institute of Architecture, Annie,who worked in publishing, and Judy, who partnered up with one of the architects and gave us Yossarian Yggdrasil, a gorgeous baby boy known as Yggy. There was also a cat, a hamster, and me.
    Even the make-up of the commune’s members was consciously worked out in order to try to create a balance of personalities and professions. Sharing our skills and professional expertise, debating philosophy and ideology, we created a rich and rewarding habitat in which to live and grow.
    Communal living is a mini-society. If it’s going to work, there’s no room for ego. Unlike the hierarchical model of the family, with dad – or mum – at the top, followed by the older siblings and on down, the commune’s field is level: no one’s boss. Everything was done by consensus. You needed to make lots of compromises. Everything we did was discussed at length. We’d have long philosophical debates about the domestic rules of the house. Should we wash up before or after we’d eaten? If you were going to turn on the oven to bake a potato, should you let everyone else know so they’d have the chance to cook something as well, so the commune could save on fuel bills?
    Middle-class children developing a new set of life values, we were making up the rules as we went along. We had a large noticeboard, which we called The Interpolation Board, where we jotted down anything we had