True Stories

By Michael Parker

Michael Parker was born and raised in Norfolk, the county that he continues
to call home. He was educated at Eton and Cambridge, where he took a
degree in agriculture (third class) in 1953. He is a keen naturalist and has
travelled extensively for photographing wildlife, shooting and fishing. He is
probably the only livin

• Language: English
• Publisher: Book Printing UK
• Release date: Jul 13, 2016
• ISBN: 9781911113553

Book preview

A Dream

A very left wing girl, 22-year-old university student, studying social economy, goes on an open day to a large country estate where the big house and garden are open for charity. The girl student goes with a preconceived notion that such private wealth should not exist, and that the estate should be State owned, and she is only using this visit to glean information which she can use in the left wing university magazine she edits. She approaches a young gardener to try to pump him for information, but he tells her to see the head gardener, over by the orangery.

So she approaches the head gardener, rather shabbily dressed, and he seems rather old. She thinks he should already be retired, and is probably only kept on as cheap labour, but he seems quite happy to talk to her whilst he continues to prune the roses, and so she pumps him for information. He tells her he has worked on the estate all his life, and whilst the wages are not all that good, there are quite a lot of perks that go with the job – he gets his board and lodging, and from time to time gets to sleep with the Lady of the House. The left wing student scribbles all this down, thinks there is no doubt about it, the aristocracy is totally amoral, the French Revolution was right – off with their heads.

The young left wing student continues her investigation, and comes upon the tea stall, where an old lady is serving the biscuits and tea. It turns out she is the Duchess. The student makes a note of this in her notebook, and with the comment Obviously just pretending to mix with the proletariat. But she wants to know about the old gardener, so she buys a cup of tea, and asks the Duchess how long the old gardener has been working there.

Oh, the Duke, she replies, all his life, long before I married him.

Surprise

As grand Spanish Marquesas go, the Marquesa de la Ronda was very grand, and very proud. She had become very concerned that her son appeared to be infatuated with a common girl, whom the Marquesa considered to be way below her son’s station. Perhaps in fact she was as much concerned about their family's social standing, if the son were to marry a commoner, as concerned for her son, but she was determined to nip in the bud such possible liaison.

The Marquesa asks the girl to come to see her, and is really rather put off by the elegance and attractiveness of this common girl.

She says to the girl, I believe you love my son, Juan, but you must realise that were he to marry you, it would ruin his life. He must marry into his own class. You and he are young and intensely romantic, but he could only be happy in his life if he were to marry into his own class and for your love of Juan you must give him up and just disappear out of his life.

The girl says that this is for her and Juan to decide, and in this day and age it is totally unrealistic for a mother to think that she is able to control whom her son shall marry.

The exchange becomes heated with the Marquesa saying that she, the girl, comes from a very humble background, and is fascinated by the wealth of the Marquesa’s family, and in fact, she is little more than a gold-digger.

The girl says to the Marquesa, Did your mother ever say to you that you must give up the man you love, and you will ruin his life if you were not to do so – did your mother ever say that to you?

The Marquesa is furious at the effrontery of the girl to question her. But, realising that she has overstepped the mark, and been so aggressive to the girl, and thinking that she must cool the scene and be polite, says to the girl, What on earth makes you think my mother ever said anything like that to me?

Because, says the girl, my father told me that you had told him your mother had said it to you.

Furious at such impertinence, the Marquesa then accuses the girl of suggesting that she, the Marquesa, would ever have had an affair with another man, let alone the girl’s father, and the girl is doing nothing more than attempting blackmail, and that she has a good mind to call the police and have the girl arrested for blackmail.

Perturbed, the girl says to the Marquesa, I have never told your son or anyone else that you and my father were lovers.

The Marquesa is dumbstruck, and caught completely off-guard. And the girl says, Well, you did give him up, have you ever given him another thought?

And the Marquesa replies, I will tell you honestly there has never been a day in my life when I have not thought about him.

Double Whammy

The conceited and self-satisfied businessman had made a pile, and at the age of fifty-five was already a multi-millionaire. He is particularly satisfied because not only does he have a wife who is very supportive to his business and looks after the home well, he also has a family and, a matter of particular satisfaction, a very passionate mistress.

He has his wife for home and comfort – his mistress for sex. Whilst he lives in a mansion in the country in East Anglia, he has to spend some time every week in London, and he has purchased a flat in Eaton Square, in which in some style he has set up his mistress.

Returning to London after an enjoyable weekend at his country mansion, where he has hosted a weekend shooting party including, which gave him particular satisfaction, a junior Royal – it is doubly satisfying to think that his peers will realise he has moved up the social scale.

Entering the flat, he shouts out a welcome to his mistress, but there is no reply. He walks into the sitting room, and there sees an envelope for him on the Sheraton card table.

Surprised, he tears open the envelope, and to his horror there is a note from his mistress – the note says that whilst she has enormously enjoyed the sex she has had with him, she has met a man who will give her love and security – she is sure he will understand – she has left the lover’s nest to live with this man.

The businessman goes into the kitchen, and makes himself a cup of coffee, and sits down to think the matter over. But in his business life he is accustomed to the odd reverse so he is soon over the shock and thinks, Oh, well, it’s all been damned good fun, I’ll soon find another mistress.

He goes to the important meeting scheduled for that afternoon, but it goes badly. The contract to build a supply base for the Nigerian Army has been aborted, pending an investigation by the Serious Fraud Office into alleged bribery by a member of the consortium bidding for the contract.

Far from having a satisfactory, profitable meeting, signing the contract, he is detained after the meeting for over three hours answering questions posed by officers of the Serious Fraud Office who have gate-crashed the meeting – he is not personally involved but over one year’s costly work into preparing the tenders has been wasted, and as a result his company could soon be short of work.

He calls the chauffeur, settles into the Bentley, for the two-and-a-half hour drive home, and is at least comforted by the thought that when he gets home, there will be a good dinner waiting for him and a bottle of Margaux ’95, decanted and at a perfect temperature. And, while not quite as exciting as a romp in bed with his mistress, a discussion with his wife about her and the family’s day.

He goes into the house, shouts a welcome to his wife, but there is no reply. He moves into the sitting room and there on the David Linley writing table is an envelope with his name on it.

He tears the envelope open and there’s a message from his wife, and it says, We’ve had a happy marriage, we’ve shared love and comfort, I have no complaints, but there is something missing in our life. I’ve found it – sex – sex with a super lover that’s too good to miss. I’m so sorry, I still love you but I’m leaving you, to enjoy sex with my lover – try to forgive me and I do hope some day you, too, will discover the joy of sex.

Eton College Swimming Test

As a new boy for the Lent half 1945, I learned that if one could not swim you were a non-nant, and not allowed to go onto the Thames River, but by passing the swimming test you would become a nant.

Obviously, if one were to become a wet bob (that is to say a boy who chooses to row, rather than play cricket during the summer half) it would be essential to become a nant.

As I intended to be a dry bob, playing cricket, it would not be essential for me, but as I might wish to have recreational use of the river, it would be necessary, (Eton has a lot of slang, using the word half instead of term, for the three annual terms, summer, winter and Lent, dating back to the time when the school year was just two terms, each of about half a year).

The test date was set for about the last week in the Lent half, and to take place at Cuckoo Weir, the school bathing place, a side stream of the Thames.

The day arrived and it was lightly snowing, but at Eton, once a project had been set for a day, it took place regardless of the weather. The boys arrived on the bank and stripped off ready for the fray.

A number of older boys also arrived on the bank to watch and laugh at the unfortunate victims.

A barge was anchored at right angles to the bank, and the test involved entry into the water head first, swimming around the barge, and climbing back onto it.

The beak (Eton slang for master) was Mr. Musgrave, a real stickler for discipline, and who stood on the barge dressed in full school uniform for a beak, that is to say tails, gown and with the mortar board, including tassels, on his head.

He called the victims one by one onto the barge to take their test. We were called in alphabetical order, and the first boy, Able Abelson, stood on the barge, but when ordered to dive in, he very sensibly took fright and returned to his clothes on the bank, amidst the jeers of the onlookers who shouted, Funk.

When my turn came, I didn’t have the courage to be a funk and in spite of the cold, dived in, and, although a poor swimmer, passed my test.

So did the next victim. The next after him, a boy called Sorensen, when told to dive in, did a dreadful bellyflop, which would probably have caused him to fail, but then did not resurface. Thirty seconds went by, then forty-five, then a minute, and still no sign of Sorensen.

The situation was beginning to look ugly, and when after one and half minutes there was still no sign of Sorensen, Mr. Musgrave jumped in still dressed in his uniform. He dragged Sorensen from under the boat, where apparently, in panic, he had come up after his dive.

Obviously he was extremely cold, so he was taken to the school sanatorium for a check-up and to be brought back to health. He was kept there for a couple of days but then returned to the school apparently none the worse for his experience.

Most of the other beaks thought the situation hysterically funny, but not Musgrave, who thought the boy had done this trick on purpose and that he should be expelled, or at least birched (the worst punishment that could be inflicted at Eton, apart from being expelled. It is now no longer allowed, but back then involved being bent over a desk in upper school, and being beaten on the bare bottom by the headmaster).

But the headmaster would not allow any punishment, as it was only conjecture that this had been a trick, and the important thing for the school was that no tragedy had occurred, and the matter should be hushed up to prevent the press obtaining the story, and savaging Eton for the inhumanity of carrying out such a test when it was snowing.

It was some months later, when I became of friend of Sorensen – we were both keen birdwatchers and naturalists – that I discovered his father was in the diplomatic service, based in Finland, and that he spent his holidays at their holiday chalet on a lake a few miles west of Helsinki. He had been swimming like a fish since a young age, and was accustomed to having a dip in the lake, after a hole had been cut through the ice, followed by a roll in the snow prior to being cooked in the sauna. (He explained to me that the hole must be cut through the ice where the water is only about waist deep, as otherwise you would never be able to get out. There had been several incidents where people had drowned or at least died of hypothermia as a result of not being able to escape from their ice hole).

He thought his trick the funniest ever, causing the beak Musgrave to dive in dressed in all his finery. Musgrave never forgave him and was always on the lookout as to how to punish him. Musgrave gave him more than one Georgic (writing out five hundred lines of Latin verse) or other similar time-wasting punishment, including, as punishment, on one occasion drawing a map of the coast of China on an A3 sheet of paper. Unfortunately for Sorensen, Musgrave found that he had worked into the coast of China the words fuck you. Another Georgic.

After school I lost contact with Sorensen, but I heard some years later that he had been killed whilst photographing polar bears in the Arctic Circle.

The House Party Cricket Match

Each year, Sir Comely Knockdown, squire of the parish of Bath-in-Bendish, arranged a cricket match against his friend, squire of the neighbouring estate, Bath-in-the-Strait, Sir Biggin Fizz. And his wife Lady Pretty duly organised a jolly house party of his friends from school and university days.

Sir Comely was now fifty-five years old and eccentric, although his friends would say quite bonkers. At the pre-lunch drinks party he proposed a toast to his guests and to a sporting game, but at which time he realised that he had forgotten to arrange the match with Sir Biggin. And so he had to make an urgent call to his neighbour in the hope that he would be able to muster up a team.

That took quite some time and so the lunch party was a lengthy affair, and which caused considerable damage to the house cellar. But then Sir Biggin called to say that he had assembled a team, some of whom might be rather over-the-top for this house party match, but others who would not qualify for a girls' school team, so that would equal out the chances.

The host explained that he would put himself in to bat first, so he’d soon be out, and then able to take a siesta.

The teams duly met on the field of battle, with one umpire chosen from each village, and the coin was tossed. Sir Comely won the toss and chose that his side would bat first, thereby anticipating an early siesta. He took up his position at the crease, stared menacingly at the assembled fielders, and called on the bowler to commence battle. The bowler was the fast bowler for the Hampshire Hogs, with a reputation for being one of the fastest bowlers of all time, but extremely inaccurate.

The bowler took his run, almost disappearing in the distance and then hurtled to the wicket and delivered a missile at amazing speed, which without touching down, just narrowly missed the batsman’s head.

The umpire shouted, NO BALL. Sir Comely swung round, knocked down his wicket, and started to walk away from the pitch. The umpire called him back saying that he could not be out on a no ball.

Sir Comely shouted back, I’m bloody well going out, whether you give me out or not. I’m damned if I’ll face another ball like that. And with that he walked off the pitch.

The match ended in a tie, a most unlikely event and the first time it had happened, with each side being all out for forty-seven runs. But it was agreed by all that had Sir C remained at his wicket he would probably have scored at least one run, so that morally, if not actually, his team had won.

A Bridge Tournament On TV

The scene is an international bridge tournament, on TV with the appropriate commentary. The hands are dealt and South picks up his hand – the camera zooms into the hand – it may be seen that the hand has a count of zero (a Yarborough).

South ponders for a while and then bids four no Trumps. The commentator, in the quiet conspiratorial voice used by them for such tournaments says, South is playing the Lomax McCluskey convention, indicating to his partner that he has a Yarborough.

The camera pans to West and shows his hand. West has a very strong hand with a count of twenty-six. West ponders for a while and then says, No bid.

The commentator in his conspiratorial voice says, That is the classic defence to the Lomax McCluskey convention – with such a strong hand he is biding his time waiting to put in a devastating double.

Pan to North. Commentator: The whole match could depend on North’s response.

North jumps up, throws his cards on the table, kicks the table over, and says in a loud voice, I don’t play that bloody fool convention anyhow, and walks out.

The tournament is abandoned.

A Visit To The Pub

I had spent the last three weeks on a small sailing yacht, with two of my old friends, leaving from Plymouth and exploring the Isles of Scilly. The twenty-five foot Bermudan sloop proved not to be the best method of transport between Penzance and St. Mary’s, in a Force 6 north-westerly, but in spite of the traumatic crossing we reached St. Mary’s safely, and spent the next two weeks exploring the enchanting islands.

We had the bad luck to again hit a strong wind, this time from the south-east on our return trip to the mainland. It was already quite late on the Saturday evening by the time we had tied up to the mooring, stowed the sails, and put the yacht into shipshape, Bristol fashion, as it was to be left for several weeks before we were again going to be able to take her out on a voyage.

Regrettably, my two friends had to take a train back to London that evening, so I found myself alone in the resort, but as it was early in the spring and before the holiday season was underway, there was no problem in finding a hotel room for the night.

There was a discotheque in the hotel, and, feeling randy after three weeks with only male company, I decided that after a good dinner – probably the first well-cooked dinner for three weeks - I would try my luck at the disco.

It was already well after ten o’clock by the time I went down to the disco, but I was surprised to find that, although there were quite a few attractive girls already there, I was the only man.

The girls had obviously become fed up sitting around waiting for male partners, since several of the girls were dancing together, and which, seeing them twisting and trailing and billowing their skirts, certainly excited my libido. In other words I became rather excited.

As I was standing at one end of the bar, there was a particularly attractive redhead sitting on a bar stool at the other end of the bar, eyeing me continuously, and looking at the bulge in my trousers which already was declaring my masculinity. Obviously I was meant to ask her to dance and obviously I was going to, and so the first move was to offer a drink.

No problem about that, except that she ordered a champagne cocktail which was going to set me back a lot more than I had bargained for. But at least she looked as though she would