A Cock-Eyed Optimist: An intimate memoir of a gay film fan born in 1939 in South London

By Nigel Quiney

This unusually frank and honest memoir deals with the life of Nigel Quiney from his earliest memories of living through the blitz of London in WWII, to when he was twenty-one and boarded the Queen Elizabeth believing he was emigrating to the USA. His experiences there and travelling coast-to-coast are a fascinating read as he details how a young Englishman saw this country in 1960. In this book he details how he realised that he was gay at a very early age in London and how he came to terms with it, at the same time discovering what was then the underworld of London's gay life.

A fascinating read for anyone interested in this period of war and the difficult after-years for a young man knowing that he was different and ultimately discovering his gayness when the very mention of the subject was taboo, but acting upon it.

This is the first of four memoirs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookPartnership.com
• Release date: Sep 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781783015153

Book preview

book.

CHAPTER 1

BRIEF ENCOUNTER.

GB 1945

Starred: Celia Johnson, Trevor Howard.

The Blackfriars train picked up speed as it slowly pulled out of Herne Hill station carrying another load of commuters south, deep into the suburbs. It was early evening and dark with the beginnings of a rancid smog swirling around the moving train. Electric lights outside picked up the heavy moisture in the air producing an eerie glow as their dull illumination slid past the carriage window. Inside the train, commuters were swaying in unison as they reacted to every pitch, bump and roll. The air, thick with cigarette smoke, had deposited an even nicotine film on the light bulbs much reducing their illumination to an ochre incandescence. It was exactly like a scene from an early ‘fifties film noir and I felt sick with a growing sense of nausea.

I should not have eaten that sponge cake with the strong, ersatz, lemon-flavoured icing that the bookkeeper at my father’s office had pressed upon me. The train was slowing down as we approached Tulse Hill and I knew I could not last the extra station to Streatham. I began to sweat as I stepped down onto the platform.

Gulping for air, I staggered along with the departing crowd and searched the gloom for the lavatories. As I started to salivate I found the door marked ‘Gentlemen’ and lurched inside.

I was greeted by an overpowering smell of disinfectant and urine. To my left were dripping urinals, dank and stained and in front of me two lock-ups. With the necessary penny I slid the lock on the brass fitment on one of the green painted doors allowing me access to the privacy I desperately needed. I fell to my knees and was violently sick as the door slammed behind me.

It must have been several minutes before feeling a little better, I gingerly stood up and sank back to sit down onto the wooden lavatory seat. I then leant forward closing my eyes and cupped my forehead in both hands and waited for the nausea to pass. After a while and feeling somewhat recovered, I opened my eyes, straightened up and breathing deeply leant back against the cistern pipe.

I looked around my dimly lit cubicle and was surprised to find that the walls were covered in writing and crude drawings. I leant closer and focused on the graffiti. Goodness gracious me! I started to read. God almighty! I could not believe what I was reading. I quickly scanned the wall to my right and then to my left. This was not the work of just one hand. Messages, stories, requirements and demands and the majority of them by far were looking for men and as I read I remembered that I was in a gents’ loo and that the writers were men too. Men were lusting after men! At that moment I almost panicked and fled.

What had been my secret, my most deeply felt and hidden passion was there, scrawled all over this most public of gentlemen’s lavatories for ALL to read, see and ponder over. But surely outrage and disgust must be the re-action from all the hot-blooded males of my fantasies who innocently, needing a crap, had invested a penny for the privacy of emptying their bowels? However, outrage and disgust were not my reactions and I set about reading every notation with the greatest of interest. Time stood still as I devoured what was the most fascinating of writings yet to come my way. I think I had read all the offerings from the left-hand wall and on the door and about half of the right-hand wall when my eye was attracted by a movement about eighteen inches from the floor. A roll of white paper about two inches long was wiggling through a small hole in the steel wall, which separated the two cubicles. I jerked back into reality as I realised that my privacy had been invaded. My God! I have a neighbour who knows I am here! Jesus, I thought, how long have I been in this cubicle? Yet again I nearly fled but an overwhelming curiosity and desire overcame me and I pulled out the rolled scroll of lavatory paper, which I unfurled with shaking hands. It simply read, What likes? - How old? I jumped to my feet, guiltily pulling the chain as if to justify my very existence as an innocent in need of a crap, opened the green painted door scrawled with graffiti and rushed out of the stinking toilet

It was January 1954 - the end of a winter school holiday job at my father’s office. I was fifteen and I had discovered that I was not alone.

CHAPTER 2

FIRE OVER ENGLAND.

GB 1937

Starred: Vivian Leigh, Laurence Olivier, Flora Robson.

My first memories were when I was about four years old and the Second World War was deep into its destructive horror. We lived in a semi-detached house in Dulwich in South London, which boasted being architect-designed for the 1929 Ideal Home Exhibition. This annual event showed off the latest styles as well as introducing the newest domestic technology, usually from the U.S.A. Our house when new was considered a very modern and desirable residence with quite unusual features for the time. These included central heating, a planned space at the side of the house where a garage could be built with its own drive and gates onto the pavement. Also all the main rooms were wired for electricity at floor level to provide power for domestic appliances. The kitchen was similarly equipped and allowed us to have a family-sized refrigerator, which was a cream coloured art deco Kelvinator.

It is interesting to note that it was only the houses built after the first world war that were wired for domestic appliances. Prior to this, electricity was provided for lights only and the power point would be placed in the ceiling or high up in the walls. Hence, one remembers from early films, where the location is in an Edwardian or Victorian house, the garlands of wires looped dangerously from the ceiling down to ground level to provide power for electric irons, fires, the radio or an electric kettle. Better-off households in properties from this era had to re-wire for domestic appliances.

Our road was wide and tree-lined, though somewhat non-descript, with playing fields for Oakfield school and our local preparatory abutting our little Ideal Home section. Opposite us a track led up a gentle hill to a few acres of allotments and from the top of these on a good day one could just see the old City of London. These allotments were a marvellous institution catering for people with smaller or no gardens of their own and encouraging food production as well as creative wonderments of horticulture. They were in great demand and there was always a waiting list. A rough track from our road led up to the allotments, running between more semis and one or two detached houses, but these had been built in the Edwardian era and lacked our modernity and amenities.

My father, Kenneth, but known to all his friends and family as Bo, was a partner in a modest firm of Paper Merchants in the City, but business had receded to a trickle due to the extreme difficulty in obtaining supplies. He had been too old for active service but was on call to the ARP - Air Raid Patrol - to help generally with bomb damage and the wounded or worse. My mother, Marion, was also a partner in the firm but was now tied to all the domestic problems of the day, a role that frustrated her enormously but over which she, like everyone else, had no control. I had one brother, Tony, who was four years older than me and then there was Harpo, our large, lazy white Persian cat.

My brother’s great mate Mucky lived around the corner. Mucky was a few months older than Tony and they spent many happy hours playing their war games in surrounding back gardens and the school’s sports grounds. There was something about Mucky, which reminded me of Dennis the Menace. He was not as tall as my brother and was stockier. He also had a slight squint. Years later it was Mucky who discovered and showed my brother how to make an effective bomb by dropping a lit firework of the banger variety into an old paint tin filled with water. There ensued a great bubbling, followed by a healthy explosion, which shot the water into the air and sent the tin flying. Great fun! Then Mucky wondered what the effect would be if the banger was dropped into the toilet bowl of our outside lavatory. Even greater fun until father found out and his slipper was shown the tender rounded curves of my brother’s bottom. Mucky was a very naughty boy indeed, but more of him later.

I, the baby, was left very much to myself and my earliest friends were Mrs. Yonksford and Mrs. Cronation. They lived with their two sons on the other side of the ‘U’ bend in our lavatory. The sons had no names and were only known to me as either Mrs. Yonksford’s lad or Mrs. Cronation’s lad. They were both quite a bit older than I and I think in their teens and were very good looking!

So, my first memory was in this setting, astride my six-foot tall father’s shoulders with my hands holding onto his forehead for support. It was dusk, high on the allotments and the all-clear had sounded the end of a long bombing raid. We were staring north towards the City of London. The skyline was red with a burning heat and the bombing raid had clearly hit its mark with devastating results. In a way it was beautiful, like great dramatic natural disasters can be, as in the case of a volcano. The power of it all was clear to see, and it was awe inspiring, but no doubt my father was wondering if he still had an office to go to.

Proud mother and grandparents with Tony deep in thought.

Father and I 1939

Mum, Tony and I at 236 in the snow 1940

A professional snap of Tony & I - 1940

CHAPTER 3

THE GOOD EARTH.

US 1937

Starred: Paul Muni, Luise Rainer.

It was not just my father’s business that had a problem with supplies. It seemed that everything was either impossible to get or rationed to a degree that is unimaginable today. I remember one day early one morning having walked to our local provision shop in Herne Hill when my mother almost in tears of frustration was given about four ounces of cheddar cheese, which was to last four people for a week! I remember her remonstrating with the assistant and asking him what on earth she was supposed to do with it to make it last. Poor man. It was not his fault, but then, poor mother too. That week the government had again reduced the allocation via the ministry of food, and using the coupons in our ration books, he had given her precisely what we were due. Every person in the land had a ration book, and without it you could not legitimately buy meat, eggs, fats, cheese, bacon, sugar, or tea. These items were all listed separately, using a point system, which allowed the ministry of food to allocate fairly, over the whole population whatever was available. We also had separate ration books for clothes, shoes and I think other items like knitting wool and fabrics. Petrol was just not available at all unless your job was special like being a doctor or an M.P., which specifically required its use.

Most of our eggs were powdered and came in tins, as did milk. Combined together with water they made an ‘interesting’ omelette, made even more so using margarine for fat. This was commonly known as marge and was some by-product from whales about which I knew nothing, except that they were mammals like us. They were a sort of fish and lived in the sea. I was very perplexed and avoided marge whenever possible. But marge was a fat, rationed like everything else and requiring the same points as butter, suet, or lard. I expect you took what there was and put up and shut up. I may have disliked marge, but bread and scrape was delicious. Scrape was also known as dripping, which was the fat, blood and juices, which dropped to the bottom of the pan when cooking a joint of meat. Now much out of favour as being so high in cholesterol but no doubt however much was eaten, a lot was worked off by sheer physical exertion, which in these days we all seem to avoid. We also loved to eat marrow, which we would dig out from the centre of big beef bones. This would be served on toast after gently frying it and is almost one hundred percent saturated fat and pure cholesterol. Thank God mad cow disease was then unknown.

I was also very fond of Ministry of Health concentrated orange juice. This came in what looked like a very large old-fashioned medicine bottle with a cork top and I think came from the chemist. It was very thick and very strong and I just loved it. The companion bottle from the same source was so ghastly that I nearly always threw up after an offending spoonful. That was cod liver oil. Very yellow and very fishy, the taste of which lingered in the mouth for a long time. Mother tried mixing my much-loved juice with the oil, but to no avail. Even her protestations that Mrs. Yonksford’s lad and Mrs. Cronation’s lad both just loved cod liver oil did not help. I offered my share equally to them both but mother was having none of it. In the end, she won of course. No cod liver oil, no orange juice. She was adamant, but suggested that if I followed the oil by the delicious orange juice the latter would take away the revolting fishy after-taste. It sort of worked, especially after I perfected holding my nose during the taking and swallowing of the cod liver oil.

Sweets were almost unobtainable so they could not be used as a bribe and the only fruit that was available was according to the season or the output of one’s garden. For example many families grew apples, which could be stewed, baked, put into pies, onto tarts or whatever but by the end of the season everyone was sick and tired of anything made with apples. I have a very close friend who to this day still will not eat plums for just this reason. However we were lucky because we had an ancient but wonderfully prolific peach tree. The fruit-laden boughs were so heavy that my father had to prop them up with wooden staves to keep them from crashing down to the ground and breaking away from the rather pathetic trunk of the tree. We gorged off the fruit from these branches as did our neighbours and all remaining fruit was then carefully bottled and stored for the thin winter months. We never tired of our peaches and I was always so thankful that we had this great bearer of rather exotic fruit in our own garden when everyone else had apple trees. In 1960 my parents threw a twenty-first birthday party for me and we enjoyed a surprise dessert. Mother had saved the very last of our bottled peaches from the war years and they were still delicious.

Beyond the peach tree, a decorative round pond was set in an area of crazy paving and beyond that father grew cabbages, lettuce and tomatoes. Finally, at the bottom of the garden we grew gooseberries, blackberries, raspberries, black and red currants and I think a plum tree. In the corner nestled a small wooden potting shed filled with garden tools, canes and pots. This abutted the one where Mucky lived. The layout of the two gardens facilitated easy access between the two for Mucky and my brother to meet up without any use of either front door. All very convenient.

I was particularly fascinated by the round green cabbages, because they often seemed to be home for rather plump caterpillars of a worryingly similar colour. I would crouch down on all fours and watch them, as they happily munched their way through this vegetable, leaving behind little black faeces and a lot of lacy edges to the leaves. I could never be convinced that mother had washed away every single trace of caterpillar or their excrement and understandably, the result was my lack of enthusiasm for this vegetable. At meal times I would spend many minutes with my knife and fork carefully picking through the watery boiled leaves to be certain that no animal matter would be consumed by me.

I must also not forget the nightly ritual of preparing the porridge, for the following morning. Father always took charge of this and carefully mixed the oats with the water to ensure that there were no lumps. Heaven forbid lumpy porridge, which would bring instant screams of revolt from the young Quiney tinies and a total refusal to eat. Once the porridge preparation was complete, it was placed in a yellow enamel double saucepan, the lower pan of which was full of water. Overnight, it very slowly cooked on top of the coal-fired boiler.

Being an Ideal Home house, we sported downstairs central heating and a heated towel rail in the bathroom upstairs. This was most unusual for the times, although why bedrooms and lavatories were left out of the heating stakes, seems most bizarre to me looking back now. Taking down one’s trousers for a ‘big job’ in the depth of winter was not pleasant.

However, back to the nightly food preparation saga; after the porridge came the milk. A carefully measured amount of milk powder was whisked into water and hey presto! White water. This was our milk. So, our day started with porridge and milk. Sugar, being heavily rationed, was not allowed to embellish this cereal but we did use a sprinkling of salt. The end result was not bad at all and was probably very nutritious.

The Cullens with Tony and I and baby David

Me, Mucky and Tony in our wonderful peach tree

CHAPTER 4

GUNFIGHT AT THE OK CORRAL

US 1957

Starred: Kirk Douglas, Burt Lancaster.

I do not recall life before school, at the very early age of three. I was a founder member of the kindergarten class at ‘Oakfield’ preparatory school, which was owned and run by David Livingston and his wife Kathleen. Their son Mark who was slightly younger than I, was the only other member of the kindergarten or nursery school, which was housed, along with the older boys, in a big detached Victorian villa, with steps leading up to a covered porch supported by impressive tall columns. There was a small garden at the front with large rhododendron bushes to the right hand side of the path, leading to the steps. The back garden had been partly cleared and concreted over to create a play area. In those days there were many such small private schools, unhindered by government rules and regulations. Parents were often very involved too

My brother Tony and cousin Mucky also attended and it was their responsibility to ensure my safety to and from school, which was a ten to fifteen minute walk from our house towards West Dulwich railway station. They also took me home for lunch. The school was not very big, sporting about seventy pupils of both sexes and apart from the tiny kindergarten, the classes averaged between eighteen and twenty.

The Livingstons were friends of my parents and they represented a rather glamorous couple, both physically and intellectually. He was a big bear of a man, good looking and tall with a strong face framed by a thick beard. She was blonde and pretty and beneath her healthy complexion was a determined, strong woman of considerable character. Everyone loved this blessed and golden couple and they were highly respected as teachers in the area.

My next strong memory was in 1944 and I was five years old. We had survived the many bombing raids on London but now the Nazis launched their latest technology in the form of the V1s, which were nicknamed doodlebugs. These unmanned flying bombs were propeller-driven at the rear and on a clear day were easily visible as they chugged across the skies. The sound of them was unforgettable and as long as you could hear them and they were not directly overhead, you were not in immediate danger. However, once the engine stopped and silence reigned, they dropped from the sky and exploded onto whatever they hit. They were terrifying.

Early on at the start of the war, my father had a special bomb shelter built, positioned at the back of our garage and alongside the terrace at the back of our house. It was a brick room covered in re-inforced concrete and had a small door at the side leading onto the terrace which ran the whole length of the back of the house, abutting the sitting room and further along to the kitchen. At the kitchen-end of the terrace was an outside lavatory.

It was dark, late one summer evening and the whole family was huddled in the bomb shelter after the siren had alerted us from our beds. I needed to go to the lavatory and had run to the one opposite the kitchen. I had done my business and was on my way back to the shelter when a doodlebug fell from the skies and exploded onto a house over the road, just up our street. Terrified, I ran to the bomb shelter and into my mother’s open arms. That bomb decimated the house over the road and killed the entire family. Nothing special! Nothing new! Just another bomb.

It was not only food that was rationed. Everything was, or simply not available at all, except on the black market. I learned many years later from friends who lived in the country during the war years that for them eggs, butter, milk, cheese and meat were not in short supply as far as they could remember. I can therefore only suppose that the system somehow was not monitored and some supplies by-passed normal distribution methods and ended up for sale on the black market. But my father was not going to stoop to breaking the law. He was a very principled man and buying on the black market was not on. However, it is always possible that because he did not drink in pubs he was not offered black market goods to turn down. Alternatively, this supply of goods usually sold by spivs at a hefty premium without the usual necessary points from a ration book were not available in suburban Dulwich. Films made at that time would show a spiv offering his goodies, with a nod and a wink to possible customers but the locale was usually fashionable Chelsea or the naughty West End. I find it interesting to remember that mother had always hankered after an elegant house in Chelsea!

We had a car but no petrol. The car was stored in our garage with the wheels removed and the axles supported by blocks. I suppose this was done to preserve the life of the tyres. What food we had, we grew ourselves or was strictly according to the ration books. Clothing was hand-me-down, if you were the youngest and therefore smallest in the family. I had all my brother’s cast-offs but he in turn had those from his friend, Mucky. Heavily-worn, knitted garments were carefully unpicked and re-knitted. Fabric was re-cycled as required. Shades of Scarlet O’Hara in ‘Gone with the Wind’ turning her brocade curtains into ball gowns was de rigeur, except there were no balls to go to. Nothing was wasted, and I mean nothing. My father turned pieces of wood and odd bits of iron into toys. I remember so well a wooden painted machine gun he had painstakingly made for my brother. It had a ratchet against a springy slither of wood, and when turned, the kak-kak noise was most convincing. This toy exists today, some fifty years later but my father has long since died.

CHAPTER 5

HOW GREEN WAS MY VALLEY.

US 1941

Starred: Maureen O’Hara, Roddy McDowell, Walter Pidgeon and my old friend, Jimmy Monks.

Just before the war, my father discussed with my mother the idea of buying a second home somewhere in the country, not too far from London. This would make an ideal holiday home for all of us. My brother was already three years old and mother was pregnant with me. The South Coast of England seemed ideal, as it was only an hour-and-a-half away by car and also conveniently serviced by train. The hunt started.

Mother would have liked an old cottage in the South Downs, but my father was wary of old buildings, fearing endless repairs. He also wanted his comforts in the form of central heating and with doors and windows that fitted their frames, eliminating drafts. He was always suspicious of the quaint, historical house, however charming and attractive its appearance.

They finally found what was advertised as The East Dean Downlands Estate. This was a substantial development to the north of the main Eastbourne to Brighton road. To the south of this road was the charming old village of East Dean, offering a couple of shops, a few cottages, a tiny old school, a pub and its adorable Norman church. One-and-a-half miles further south, following the valley, was Birling Gap, which sported a very attractive beach and was ideal for picnics and swimming. It was also set in a stunningly beautiful position with sheer, white chalk cliffs, rising and falling on both sides. To the east the cliffs rose dramatically, culminating in the splendid dizzying heights of Beachy Head, before falling away to the charming seaside town of Eastbourne. To the west, towards Newhaven and onward to Brighton, were seven gentle rolling hills which nature had sliced straight down to the sea. These brilliant white cliffs were called the Seven Sisters.

The area had a history for smuggling, which added to its unique charm and we later discovered Parson Derby’s cave, just a bit along the beach from Birling Gap. At the back of the cave was a man-made tunnel cut through the chalk leading to Birling Manor over half-a-mile inland. It is said that centuries earlier Parson Derby lived in the manor and was a pillar of rural clerical society and at the same time organised a highly profitable distribution of cognac and other luxurious wicked things, normally heavily taxed by the government of the day.

All the surrounding countryside was rolling downland with pockets of woodland, a rookery and an occasional farm or smallholding. A paradise. And Eastbourne was only three miles away.

The East Dean Downlands Estate was the brainchild of an architect named Arnatt. His vision was of parkland of superior homes, each one individually designed to reflect the particular plot with land allotted to it. The plots would vary in size from one third of an acre upwards, allowing for houses of many different sizes and shapes. However, he sought a degree of continuity of style, being Sussex red brick with diamond and rectangular paned, leaded-light windows. Shades of the architect Lutyens. Arnatt was also very aware of landscaping and his varied plots were often planted with a variety of trees and hedges. The estate started on the high ground north of Friston and followed the contours down the hill to the valley of East Dean. In this valley he had created a substantial lozenge-shaped, manicured grass area surrounded by a road which was to be kept totally free from building and would be for all to use in perpetuity. The cost of upkeep to be shared by all. This was known as The Greensward and over the ensuing decades would, eventually be surrounded by houses but in 1939 there were only about eight built, scattered around its perimeter.

When my parents discovered East Dean, the necessary compromise between their tastes was happily reached and the decision to purchase was made. They named their choice ‘Albourne’. The house was at the northern end of the greensward and looked down the valley to the sea, which was clearly visible from the upstairs windows on a clear day. It was, of course, in Sussex red brick style with leaded diamond pane windows for the three bedrooms and small oblong leaded pane glass for the French windows facing the front garden. It also had a built-in garage with a door at the back leading into the kitchen. The house was surrounded by lawns and bordered by a newly planted lonicera hedge. The kitchen even sported a built in, stainless steel sink unit. A most unusual feature for those days.

A great fascination for me in this house, as I grew up there, was that all the rooms including the bathroom had a bell-push fitted flush to the wall. When pressed, a bell sounded in the kitchen. Above the kitchen door was a small glass fronted box within which were six arrows each representing an individual room. When the bell rang the swaying arrow indicated in which room the button had been pressed. All very well and good, but our kitchen was only a reasonably sized affair with no servants’ quarters attached. It was purely a practical place in which to cook, wash-up, do some washing or attend to the coal boiler which provided hot water and yes, central heating to the ground-floor rooms and the bathroom but, of course, not the lavatory. There was no room for a servant to live there, so the bell summoning help would either fall on deaf ears or those of my mother or father, both of whom would rather have not been in the kitchen at all. For a young boy, this modern technology was irresistible but nearly drove my parents crazy.

The house was on a corner site on the sward facing a spur lane, which petered out into a dirt track ending up at an ancient, walled smallholding. I think this was known as either Peak Dean farm or Peak Dean manor. It had a high barn on the left side, which at the rear joined two, small-connected houses facing a front courtyard. All of this, coupled with its back garden, was surrounded by an ancient flint wall. This wonderful property was mentioned in the Domesday Book, but more later, for within these walls lived a boy of exactly my own age. I loved him with all my heart until I was sixteen when I stopped having my holidays at Albourne.

Albourne 1939

Albourne from Deanside

Mum with Morris – 1939

Peak Dean Manor

CHAPTER 6

ADAM’ S RIB.

US 1949

Starred: Katherine Hepburn, Spencer Tracy.

Having come to a decision to purchase Albourne, my father proceeded with the details and much to the astonishment and disapproval of his solicitors, insisted that the house should be registered in my mother’s name only. The solicitor strongly advised against such an action, commenting that she could run off and do whatever she liked and the property would still remain hers. God only knows what his wife must have been like, or indeed his marriage. However, father was not to be influenced and Albourne duly became my mother’s house. This certainly was very unusual behaviour for the times, but then my father was an unusual man in many respects.

He was the last child in the large Victorian Quiney family who were steel merchants, having their business premises on the river Thames on the Isle of Dogs. He, like my mother, was born close to Dulwich and they met at the Dulwich Tennis club.

Because most of his brothers were well established in the family business and being the youngest, he decided upon a career in another merchant trade and in 1918, on being de-mobilised from the army joined forces with Reginald Ridley to form Ridley, Quiney & Co. They were to be paper merchants specialising in selling wrapping papers and over the years became well-established stockholders of tissues, Greaseproofs and brown Kraft grades. Their offices were also on the river Thames but in the City of London at Queenhithe, an ancient dock used mainly for off-loading teas, spices and fur pelts.

My father married late at the age of nearly thirty-four and indeed, my mother too was older than most women when she took the plunge. My aunt Muriel observed in 2002 that my father was then well established and had the reserves to buy a family house and afford many of the luxuries around at that time. Mother was a glamorous twenty-six year old who had fallen in love with life at an early age and was looking for more than just a husband and family. After studying at Kensington secretarial college she got a job in the City of London with The Anglo-South American bank. It was rather unusual in those days for educated young ladies to desire work, but mother was a theatre and cinema addict and had set her sights higher than housewifery in suburban South London. She had had hopes of being an actress and had appeared in many amateur dramatic productions, but I suppose she either was simply not good enough or lacked the determination and necessary ambition. I have no doubt too that her father would not have been thrilled with a daughter on the stage as a professional actress. He was something of a relic from the Victorian era and probably thought that actresses were little more than expensive prostitutes. It is also quite possible that mother actually just came to the conclusion that she wanted a husband, babies and a lovely life without complications. However, she greatly enjoyed acting roles in several productions which were put on at the Stoll theatre in the West End of London and which were considered rather good. Her great friend Dick Lydall directed many of these plays.

Mother had many boyfriends before meeting my father and it would appear that she rather favoured dark-haired men or Latins. She always claimed that it was seeing Rudolph Valentino in ‘The Sheikh’ that sparked off her own sexual desires. In any event this was her memory. I know because I was with her in California after my father’s demise and we were attending the annual commemoration of the death of Rudolph Valentino at the Hollywood Memorial Park where Valentino is buried. A TV crew were standing by waiting to see if there were any celebrities attending. For many years a mysterious lady dressed totally and elegantly in black was always there. Nobody knew who she was and her face was always covered in a black veil. There was much conjecture every year as to whether she had been a silent screen star or was actually a man in drag. However, she never spoke and always grandly swept aside the camera crews before entering her limo to speed away into the unknown. We had seen her there on a previous trip.

This year, sadly, the lady in black was not attending and there was a singular lack of visible celebrity, so as we left the small chapel and walked into the bright heat of a clear California day we were surprised to be stopped by a TV reporter and his crew wanting to know why mother was there. I slipped out of the picture so that I could also film her with my own movie camera and mother in her very British accent frankly explained, staring deeply into the camera lens that it was Valentino that had awakened her sexual desire as a teenager. She was only a couple of years off seventy at the time and she was so amusing and stylish that this interview was telecast all over LA every half-an-hour on the local TV news. She was certainly a star for a day.

Of course, it is always possible that the situation had gone to her head and she had made the whole thing up on the spur of the moment. There was sometimes a naughty side to her character, which she could not resist for good effect.

However, I believe what she said. After her death, when sorting through her carefully kept papers, we came across a letter on printed notepaper from Paramount studios in Hollywood, U.S.A. dated 1927. It was from Rudolph Valentino thanking mother for her letter of support over his fight with the studio. Also enclosed was a glossy photograph signed by him. She had seen Rudolph Valentino on stage in London that year at the Leicester Square theatre performing in ‘Monsieur Beaucaire’ after his studio had suspended his contract.

Well, mother did not marry any of her dark-haired or Latin gentlemen, though she dated many both in London and on holiday abroad. She did speak of a Spanish prince whom she had met at the casino at Deauville and talked to me about their passionate affair. I did not quite like to ask her how intimate her affair was but clearly they danced up a steamy storm together and there is no doubt that her love of Spanish music stemmed from this romance.

Perhaps it was all a fantasy, or was it that the reality just did not quite match up to the fantasy? Anyway, mother married her fair-haired beau instead. But there was an interesting proviso. He insisted that she gave up her amateur dramatic performances. What a strange demand to have made. Was she such an embarrassment up there on the stage enjoying the limelight, or was father jealous that her exposure might attract competition? Who knows, but I suspect that he somehow could not bear to share her. He clearly adored her and was perhaps surprised that he had won her. In a way this is strange for he was tall and considered to be a handsome man but I do not think my father had any vanity in him and was, I suspect, inexperienced. Maybe he sensed her attraction to dark handsome men and suffered some insecurity but, finally, I think mother understood all this and did not fight his request. She had had experience with dark handsome heroes and probably felt that this was the price of reality and old fantasy was recognised for exactly what it was. After all, how long can a girl wait?

Well, mother’s instincts were right and two years later Tony was born. Four years later came I, closely followed by World War Two.

Mum & Dad’s Wedding

CHAPTER 7

FROM HERE TO ETERNITY.

US 1953

Starred: Ernest Borgnine, Montgomery Clift, Deborah Kerr, Burt Lancaster, Donna Reed, Frank Sinatra.

Having become attuned to the sound, appearance and behaviour of the doodlebugs in 1944, it came like a thunderbolt from the sky when the Germans then launched their jet-propelled rocket bombs later that year. There was no warning. You did not see them, and if you did hear them, you had probably had it!

Enough was enough. We had survived the blitz and regular bombing raids. We could put up with the doodlebugs which ponderously moved across the sky until their engines stopped but these V2 rockets which suddenly appeared from nowhere and exploded before you even knew it was coming, scared the hell out of everyone and the reaction was prompt. Oakfield School offered an alternative country location from London and parents were offered their choice. It was all decided with astonishing speed; the country school would be run by Kathleen Livingston, leaving her husband David to look after the original in Dulwich for those whose parents did not wish their children to go. So in January 1945, Tony and I were evacuated from London.

For me the ensuing experience was my first taste of real horror. The war was a perfectly normal everyday thing as far as I was concerned, as were hardships, shortages and rationing. This was the only life I knew and I was a very happy and contented little boy of six years of age, who was very secure in the love and affection bestowed upon him from every quarter. The absolutely last thing I would have wanted was to be taken away from my parents and home, no matter what the danger. But this is exactly what happened.

What a pathetic sight we must have been, that day on Liverpool Street station. We children were all so pale and thin and in the main wearing overlarge clothes handed down by mothers, from siblings and relatives. Not sure of exactly what was going on, I held firmly onto my mother’s hand and clutched my much worn and over-loved pale-blue teddy close to my chest. Children and grown-ups jostled each other, trying to avoid the porters pulling overloaded trolleys piled high with suitcases and large parcels tied with string as we walked along the platform past the waiting train looking for our carriage. Steam hissed through the clouds of belching sulphurous smoke as though a warning of things to come when I panicked and dropped poor teddy, who fell through the smoke and between the platform and the train and onto the railway tracks. It was as though I had dropped my own baby as my wail of horror rose above the general din on that terrible platform that fateful day.

Subconsciously, I must have known or even smelt my expulsion from the warmth of the family nest. Did I hurl teddy between the wheels of the train and the hard shiny steel of the rails as a cri de coeur, an agonised cry for attention to stop the impending nightmare? Maybe, but it did not change the ensuing course of events.

A kindly and sympathetic porter heard my cry and must have seen what happened and stepped forward to explain to my parents. He then crouched down by the edge of the platform and swung his legs by the side of the train until he was standing on the aggregate between the wooden sleepers. Carefully, he lowered himself until he was almost out of our view, as he scrabbled about under the train and then hesitantly and slowly he re-appeared until he was standing upright again and there in his outstretched hand was teddy. What a hero. A veritable champion.

We soon found our compartment and Tony and I and some other assorted older boys, accompanied by Kathleen Livingston from Oakfield School, were ushered into the train. By now, I was clutching teddy as though glued to my side and then we were off.

Slowly the great steel coal-burning monster hauled carriage-loads of vulnerable evacuees out of Liverpool Street Station and gathered speed for the perceived safety of rural Norfolk.

Me as rabbit - Midsummer Night’s Dream

CHAPTER 8

THE WOMEN.

US 1939

Starred: Mary Boland, Joan Crawford, Joan Fontaine, Paulette Goddard, Rosalind Russell, Norma Shearer.

As the train chugged through the countryside that day, it began to dawn on me that the unthinkable was happening. We were being sent away from our family and home. I do not remember if my parents talked to me about what was going to happen. Probably not. I was only six years old and anyway how could I have understood? I would have screamed up a storm, so my guess is that my ten-year-old brother got the explanation and poor little chap, got the job of trying to explain and look after his very much younger brother. When you are ten years old, a younger brother of six is like comparing an eighteen year old to a twelve year old. What a bother, and what an embarrassment and what an annoying and unwanted responsibility. But I have to say looking back now, what else could my parents have done?

I do not remember the details of our journey except that we arrived in Norwich, changed trains and chugged back down the line and finally arrived at Eccles Hall somewhere in Norfolk. A beautiful two-storey sixteenth-century dower house facing east, behind which was Snetterton air force base housing the American 96 bomber group.

Not all the boys and girls were evacuated to Eccles Hall. Mucky, for example, stayed on in London for some reason. In all though, about seven or eight small boys shared the junior dormitory and about twenty in the senior one. I was separated from my brother due to his four years of seniority.

Staffing was meagre. Kathleen Livingston was head mistress and also taught English. Miss Westall taught mathematics. She had been the original founder and owner of Oakfield School but had sold to David Livingston and had come out of retirement to help. Miss Wimbolt taught art, and something else which I can no longer remember. She was an extraordinary character. She only wore men’s dark, tailored double-breasted suits with all the accessories. Black brogues, shirt, with turn-back cuffs held together with plain gold cufflinks, and a silk tie. Her dark hair was cut short, and was worn with a side parting and to complete the picture she wore a monocle. She terrified me, not only because she looked like no other woman I had ever seen, but also because I thought she resembled Hitler. Lawks-a-mercy!

Miss Cayley taught us nature studies and mainly looked after we six-year-olds. She was frail-looking, fluffy and kind. I think! In truth I find it hard to picture her, so it must have been so. The villains are always easier to remember.

Which brings me to Florrie Johnson our matron and cook. A tall straight-backed woman of monstrous proportions. She had a big head with course mid-brown, lack-lustre hair pulled back into a heavy bun, small eyes and thick lips. She did not wear make-up. From her double chin down, she just grew and grew. Her shoulders were not that wide, but beneath grew mammoth breasts and from then on she appeared straight all the way down to the hem of her white matron’s cotton coat. Her sturdy thick legs were clad in brown woollen stockings and supported by sensible white nurse’s shoes. She had two children. A boy of about my age named Martin and his older sister Christine. Martin was blonde, slim and very pretty with a real peaches-and-cream complexion. Christine was blonde, fat and spotty.

Lastly came Ivy. She was Florrie Johnson’s little helper, and lived very much in the big woman’s shadow doing, I suspect, all the unpleasant jobs that were heaped upon her, for she was a poor mousy soul.

CHAPTER 9

THE LETTER.

US 1940

Starred: Bette Davis, Paul Muni, Gale Sondergaard.

In the weeks preceding our evacuation, mother had lovingly put together a separate tuck box each for Tony and I. How she had gathered this collection of sweets, fruit, biscuits and cake for us I do not know. I am sure it meant that she and my father went without for weeks. She had also managed to provide some paper and coloured pencils which, along with our tuck boxes and suitcases containing our other few possessions stood along-side us as we waited together with the other pupils outside the imposing front of Eccles Hall.

We were segregated into sexes and then the boys were split up according to their age groups with Mrs Johnson taking charge. She explained that there would be no eating-matter of any description allowed in the dormitories and we were to hand over to her our tuck boxes for safekeeping. Then we were taken off in our groups to the relevant dormitory to unpack and settle in.

Of course, we never did see our tuck-boxes again. The explanation given was that all pupils’ tuck would be pooled and handed out in even proportions favouring nobody. Well, that did not happen. Mrs. Johnson, acting as custodian of the goodies, gave, I strongly suspect, two for every one sweet in favour of her family and in particular her children. We also got the least interesting and most ordinary from what was available. No wonder that Christine was so fat and spotty!

Tony and I felt thoroughly cheated, as did the other pupils. The subterfuge was so obvious and we all schemed that should further tuck come our way we would find places to hide it and not hand it over to Mrs Johnson.

Every Sunday we attended Eccles church, which was situated at the end of a lane just a short distance from our school. Close by the grounds at the back of Eccles Hall was Snetterton air force base, which was currently being used by the American 96th Bomber Command. Every so often we would see a GI dressed so snazzily in their air-force gear and looking so handsome and strong it felt that they had come from another world. If they spotted us they would always welcome us with a cheery wave and a smile. They almost became god-like in our eyes.

I remember well one morning after we had said our prayers in Eccles Church, sung hymns and fidgeted through the sermon, that upon leaving, a deeply touching event took place. As our straggly line of children walked down the lane back towards Eccles Hall we were suddenly aware of little piles of chocolate bars, sweets and packets of chewing gum lying in on our path. The American GI’s had left them there for us, knowing that they would be enormous treats. Of course as soon as we realised that these goodies were meant for us, we scattered like hungry chickens at feeding time, to grab as much as possible. Those GI’s were so kind, it was as though they realised how home sick we were, but of course they too shared our feelings. It is heart wrenching to realise that some of them were only eighteen years old and thousands of miles from home. But over the whole time I was at Eccles, those GI’s were so kind and generous, but always in an anonymous way. They were never around for the thanks and gratitude. However, Mrs Johnson of course spoilt the event. As soon as calm was restored she ordered that all the goodies were to be handed in for redistribution at a later date. We all knew what that meant!

At the rear of Eccles Hall an additional wing had been built in the nineteenth century. This was to be used for the older boys dormitory, and would be where my brother would sleep, but I do not think I ever went inside. My little gaggle of six and seven year olds was housed in a big bedroom at the rear of the original building and my bed immediately faced the door. Outside this door was a landing, with a passage running straight ahead, to the left of which was a big bathroom and at the very end, the lavatory. So began our stay at Eccles Hall.

I was incredibly homesick.

Our lessons in the junior section were simple but not unpleasant. Mostly, they were nature studies with illustrations and names of birds, animals and flowers. There was much to see within the grounds of Eccles Hall and particularly fascinating were the flock of peacocks, which nested there. Every so often their screeching reminded us of their presence. Being January it was extremely cold and there was not a lot