Free Rock Me Gently by Judith Kelly

girl in a long sixties Judy Collins dress, with her blonde hair braided and wrapped around her head like a golden crown, stirred a pot of communal stew. Further on, I could make out the shapes of people seated and standing, and heard the sound of chattering voices, punctuated by explosions of laughter and underpinned by the strumming of an acoustic guitar.
    A bunch of people wearing brightly coloured T-shirts and shorts were having a barbecue. They all looked upsettingly young, no more than teenagers, though I knew that most must be in their early twenties. I felt my mouth jerk into a premature smile, as if practising, and made it stop. It might look funny to appear with a big smile already stuck on.
    I need not have worried because, just as we came upon the group, someone threw a cupful of something at the barbecue. Orange flames erupted with a whump. Everyone jumped back, yelling and hardly noticed as Cydney and I joined them.
    Cydney grinned and rested her hand on my shoulder.
    ‘This is Jude, my room-mate. She’s so British, she sounds like the Queen of England.’ Everybody laughed, and those sitting hopped to their feet. All extended hands to me.
    ‘Jude. Great to meet you. I’m Rick,’ smiled a sunburnt man with long blond hair. He was slim and long-necked, with big prominent lips. I smiled back, murmuring something inane.
    ‘Hi! My name is Mark,’ said a strikingly handsome Jim Morrison look-alike.
    ‘Paul,’ said a third, with a grip like a vice. He was about seventeen years old, with crazed brown eyes. A scarf was tied round his head and his reddish brown hair hung over it in strands. ‘Hey Jude! Let me guess which part of England you’re from,’ he said. ‘London. Right? Forget London, man. This is where it’s at.’
    I wondered what the Queen would say in such circumstances.
    ‘Wonderful,’ I kept saying. ‘How lovely.’
    Cydney pointed to a young man with a whiskery face and bright blue eyes, playing a guitar.
    ‘That’s Michael,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t speak much, he just plays music.’ Michael raised the arm of his guitar in acknowledgement. ‘And this is Mario,’ continued Cydney. ‘He’s from Uruguay and doesn’t speak English.’ Mario was heavy-set, his blond-flecked hair and beard accentuating cornflower blue eyes. He nodded at me without offering his hand.
    Two women drifted over to the group, their suntanned skin shining like caramel. They looked at me curiously.
    ‘Hi,’ said one. Her dark fringe fell into her deep brown eyes. ‘I’m Nadine, and this is Evelyn, she’s from England too.’
    ‘Oh jolly good! Whereabouts in England?’ I asked in my best English accent.
    ‘Southend,’ replied Evelyn. She had black waist-length hair and couldn’t have been more than eighteen.
    ‘Ah yes, Southend,’ I replied. ‘That bleak seaside town so beloved of fixed caravan sites and Punch and Judy at the end of the pier.’
    They all burst out laughing.
    ‘Far out!’ yelled Cydney.
    But Evelyn just looked at me with cold disgust and whispered something to her companion. Turning to me, she said, ‘Do you normally speak like that or is this for our benefit?’
    An undertone of hostility threaded through her voice. My stomach tightened. I forced a laugh from the back of my throat and turned my attention to the smoking barbecue. Forget it, forget it. But I felt outnumbered, as if they were all a different species.
    Everyone sat down cross-legged on the grass, staring at me as though I were an alien fallen from the sky. I suppose I was, in a sense. They began to ask me questions in their rolling American drawl. Why had I come to Israel? Was I some kinda dropout debutante? Were my parents very rich? Did they own a goddam country estate? Their attention was turned on me full force. I felt ambushed. Too much interest brought out every ounce of reserve I had, made me unable to think, to formulate answers, even to hear the questions. I stuttered replies, shook my head, finally just