We met in his bedroom. Yes, I know that’s a bit weird, but it was 1964 and I was eighteen. I was good friends with Chris, who was going out with Richard, who Rob was in a flat share with. A room share in a flat in fact.
It was in Hedgegate Court in Notting Hill Gate. Chris and I went round to see Richard and several of us all piled into his bedroom. Rob was sitting crossed leg on his bed, playing his guitar. He continued to serenade us all for quite some time. I sat on the floor, propped up against the wall. I thought he was pretty cool.
These were all posh boys, ex public school, and despite his ability to perform, Rob was extremely introverted. He told me he’d been depressed until recently and for 6 months had barely got out of bed. I was totally amazed and fascinated by this.
We became inseparable and made ourselves a makeshift double bed in the cupboard under the stairs. We made plans to travel around Europe, hitchhiking and busking and Rob started to teach me some basic chords, but I can’t sing in tune and, let’s just say, this isn’t one of my strengths. His mother stepped in anyway and made him a ward of court, to put a stop to our travels. She said to me, you don’t want to end up pregnant in some awful place.
So, instead we moved to Brighton, why I’m not sure, and I got pregnant there. She refused permission for us to marry, so we waited until Rob turned 21, by which time I was 7 months pregnant. We went on to have two children and separated in 1972.
Babs Kirby 