Wire Whiskers: Running from behind

By Michael Charles

How does an English farm boy from Kenya end up as a journalist in Australia, Rhodesia and Britain? And then a Presbyterian church minister in New South Wales and Western Australia, where he became the state moderator?

Michael Charles describes how his life dramatically chopped and changed as he discovered who he was and where he should go

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Charles
• Release date: Jun 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9780645595383

Michael Charles

Knowing God was a foundation that sustained Michael, the Kenya farm boy, from a young age. At boarding school, as a Pommie jackeroo in outback NSW and subsequent trials in marriage, news reporting and finally becoming an ordained clergyman.Praying to God, the Father, was an anchor which repeatedly gave strength to endure many trials. Michael - nicknamed "Wire Whiskers" when he tried to grow his first moustache - was not religious, but instinctively turned to the Almighty when there was nowhere else to go.Whiskers was born in Nakuru, Kenya, six weeks after his father had disappeared to serve his country in World War II. His genteel English mother was left to care for him on a remote cattle farm, surrounded by the Kipsigis, lions, leopards and Alsatian dogs.Being more inclined to be a writer than a farmer, stirred by his mother's creative talents, Whiskers sailed to the Land Downunder, alone, to discover for himself the path he should follow. Having experienced work on a sheep station, riding rough bush horses, he returned to Sydney and an uncertain future. Learning the hard way, he battled his way into a career as a newspaper reporter, starting on the Sydney Daily Telegraph.Sacked repeatedly as he developed the required skills, and marrying his red-headed shorthand teacher - his second wife and the daughter of a police inspector with convict ancestry.Together, Michael and his wife travelled overseas, working in Rhodesia for two years before heading for England where the ambitious young journo dreamed of landing a job in Fleet Street, an international icon of journalistic excellence and achievement. On the way, they visited Jerusalem, bumping into a group of Christian pilgrims, an experience which changed their lives radically. They become born again Christians and Whiskers finally left journalism, after three years of sub-editing in London. He was ordained as a Presbyterian minister in NSW, an unconventional preacher of the Gospel who didn't fit well with conservative traditions.Whiskers and his wife produced three sons, one of whom became a drug addict, dying or a heroin overdose. Faith in God continued to sustain them in their grief and sundry other trials.

Book preview

Wire Whiskers

Running from Behind

Michael Charles

Published with the assistance of Dragonfly Publishing Services, April 2023

All rights reserved by the author

This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission from the author. The author accepts all responsibility for the contents of this publication. References are contained for copyrights obtained where appropriate.

Enquiries should be made to the author, Michael Charles.

Text, letter Description automatically generated

ISBN (e): 978-

Why?

Riding rough horses on a sheep station was hardly the sort of preparation you would expect for a career in journalism, but it did leave Wire Whiskers with valuable life and work experience. Tenacity and resilience learned the hard way gave the young Pommie migrant strength to persevere against the odds when given a job as a D grade reporter on the Sydney Telegraph, for which he had no training.

Born in Kenya six weeks after his father went to Egypt to fight the Germans during World War II, his genteel English mother was left to care for him on a remote cattle farm. Surrounded by the Kipsigis, lions, leopards and Alsatian dogs.

Having survived five boarding schools in Kenya and England, he was sent to agricultural college but felt more inclined to pursue a career as a writer, stirred by his mother's creative instinct. A working holiday in Australia seemed like a good way to discover for himself the path he should follow, having no idea that his African home would soon be no more when he sailed from Mombasa alone in 1960.

Keeping a promise to his dad, he worked as a jackeroo in far west NSW before returning to Sydney and fighting his way into a career in newspaper journalism. In spite of repeated sackings, he gained wide reporting experience in different parts of the state before heading back overseas. Accompanied by a red headed wife, the daughter of a police inspector with convict ancestry.

An unplanned meeting with Christians in the Holy Land of Israel led to another radical change of direction in the life of Whiskers and his new bride. They became committed Christians. The twice married ex-jackeroo, ex-reporter studied theology for three years before becoming an unconventional Presbyterian minister in country NSW, then Western Australia where he became the state moderator. Being a clergyman was not a comfortable experience, nor did it prevent a son from becoming a heroin addict. Dying from an overdose.

As a former journo, it seemed natural to put together my own tale of triumph over adversity, part of Australia's bigger story. Something which gives a sense of identity, continuity and significance to those who follow. My children, their children and the generations to come. Contributing to our migrant nation's history and giving inspiration to live in a way that adds to the rich mosaic passed down by our forebears.

My aim has been to paint a true picture, of darkness as well as bright light. Finding my way through life the hard way. I have no doubt it makes for a far more convincing and persuasive tale than one which glosses over the realities of actual experience.

Woven into the story is an underlying spirit of hope in the midst of tribulation, of victory over life's trials, of light in the darkness. Repeatedly lifted up and encouraged when at the end of my tether by the most wonderful people on God's earth.

The greatest aim is to leave a record of a life lived with hope. About a nobody who became a somebody. A gift, hopefully to be received, treasured and passed on.

Who to thank

Various friends have encouraged me over the years to write this book, for which I'm grateful. Others have helped me with facts or timely advice, including Queensland independent publisher, Belinda Pollard and a lawyer at the Arts Law Center of Australia, Lee Elsdon. I was helped also by some 'beta readers' who patiently read the unpublished manuscript and gave valuable feedback, including retired book publishing rep., Kerry Menner, an Anglican minister's wife, Lorraine Seccombe, my dear English cousin, Val Ramsay and a Wild Weeds Press intern at Greenmount, Western Australia, Anaise Wynne.

I also appreciate the willingness of members of my own family, and others who are part of the story, for taking the time to read and comment on relevant passages.

Most of all, I want to thank my wonderful wife, Maureen, for her patience with a husband hiding in offices in front of computers for many, many long days.

A long way from home

You don’t take the train from Sydney to Bourke unless you've got saltbush in your blood. Or you're on the run or lost. That is what people believed in 1961. Bourke was as far as you could go by train west from Sydney. After that there's nothin' but cattle, Abos,(i) grog and the bush. You can disappear for ever out there, mate, and the cops would be real lucky to find you!

These words echoed in my mind as I stepped onto the Western Mail at Sydney's Central Station and prepared for a long ride, wondering if I'd made a big mistake. A newly arrived migrant from Kenya, I had accepted a position as a jackeroo on a 40,000-acre sheep station near the town of Nyngan,(ii) about 200 kms short of Bourke in the far west of NSW.

It took the best part of a day to reach the outback town, chugging along behind a coal-fired engine. Heading west from the Blue Mountains, the atmosphere changed dramatically from coastal humidity to a crackling dryness. A long drought had burned the landscape to a pale yellow with daytime temperatures averaging nearly 40C in the shade.

As the train rocked and rattled on, we passed through a gradually changing landscape. From awe-inspiring mountains, to rolling hills, then undulating plains and finally an endless expanse. Flat as a billiard table, dotted with occasional eruptions of rock and columns of black or red dust, rising from the ground like giant exclamation marks.

Out there in January, you got used to being slowly cooked in the summer heat. Refrigerated air conditioning had yet to be introduced. Women and old folks, if they could afford it, would disappear for a month with their kids and take refuge in the sea breezes of the coast. It was little wonder that time was allowed at each station to jump off the train and buy whatever cool drink took your fancy. Beer flowed freely.

I had arrived in Australia little more than a month previously after a sea voyage from Mombasa, via the Seychelle Islands and Bombay. Aged 21 and speaking with a decidedly English plum in my mouth. Before leaving my home on a cattle farm in the highlands of Kenya’s Rift Valley, I told my father I would find a job on a sheep station as a boundary rider once I arrived in Australia. That was his condition for assisting me in paying for the sea passage. Being a jackeroo seemed a close enough approximation to what I had promised, not knowing that boundary riders were a thing of the past by the time I headed for the Land Down Under.

It was late afternoon when the Bourke train finally reached Nyngan. I found myself standing on the platform alone, with a sturdy tin trunk, two suitcases and some hand luggage. Not at all sure what to do next except that Roy Fisher, the sheep station 'boss', had told me to phone when I arrived.

The nearest public phone was at the Court House Hotel, several hundred yards up the street. Too far to lug my belongings without transport, so I left most of them at the station in the care of the station master while I went to announce my arrival.

The hotel was not hard to find, standing prominently next to the main road, a strip of dusty bitumen running through red dirt. Like a scene from a Wild West movie, I pushed through swinging bat-wing doors into the front bar. No one stirred as the newcomer hesitantly stepped in. Several men sitting next to large glasses of beer stared at me, silently and without expression, then looked away. Welcome to the Australian outback! They probably picked me as a 'new chum' in an instant.

When I phoned Colane Sheep Station, a gruff voice answered, Yeah!

It … it’s Michael … Michael Charles, I stammered. I’ve arrived at Nyngan.

Where are yer?

At the Court House Hotel.

Well, y’d beda stop there.

Oh! All right.

We’ll pick y’p in the mornin.

Uh … All right.

With that, the ‘boss’ hung up. I looked around at the dingy hotel where I was apparently to spend the night, its walls long overdue for a coat of paint and the lighting just sufficient to negotiate dark passages. Maybe it had something to do with power being generated on the premises. The bar was brighter, presumably because it was the most frequented area. As I was shown to an upstairs room, I again feared that coming to Nyngan may not have been such a good idea. Out in the dust. In the back of nowhere.

As the sun sank and I prepared to settle down for a night’s sleep, I began to notice the mosquitoes, swarming in through an unprotected window. As big as house flies and as aggressive as miniature kamikaze pilots zeroing in on their juicy target. After ten minutes of slapping, it was obvious sleep in such conditions would be impossible. I requested a mosquito net, having noticed a round hoop over the bed, placed there for that purpose presumably. In Africa, nets to ward off mozzies were accepted as a necessity, but not in the Australian bush apparently. Not at the Court House Hotel anyway.

The man in charge seemed nonplussed at my request. We don’t put nets in the rooms usually, but I’ll see if we have one somewhere. They did, to my great relief, allowing me to enjoy a much-needed night’s rest. It had been a challenging first day of a new life in the outback and I had no real idea of the challenges that lay ahead. But I was too tired to ponder. I slept like a log.

The next morning, I enjoyed a traditional bush breakfast of lamb chops, a fried egg, tomato and toast, washed down by a mug of tea. Then waited for Roy Fisher and his son, John, to pick me up. At around 10 o’clock a dust covered Landrover rattled by, parking about 100 metres further down the street next to the stock and station agents. Two burly men in elasticised boots climbed out, plonked battered Akubra’s on their heads and marched up to the hotel with a swagger of supreme confidence, as though they owned the town.

With a quick glance they sized up the ‘young fella’, wearing a brown checked beach shirt and town shoes, totally unsuited to life on a sheep station. They must have asked themselves, What’ve we got ‘ere?! Someone requiring a large amount of orientating and general instruction about the basics of life in the Aussie bush, it would seem. Let alone learning about sheep work.

G’day, where’s yer swag?

Most of it is at the station, the young Pommie replied.

Well, we'd bedder loadidup.

Without further comment, they drove me down to the station to pick up my luggage. Some other town business completed, we set off for Colane followed by a cloud of thick dust, sometimes black and sometimes red. I learned later that during dry seasons, heavy traffic would at times reduce the earth in low lying places to fine 'bulldust', like water into which a vehicle could sink without warning and become hopelessly bogged.

Not much was said as we drove, my eyes taking in the sights of a severely drought-stricken landscape, vast areas of bare earth separating belts of apparently indestructible gum trees. Bouncing along in the confined Landrover cab in the scorching summer heat, without the luxury of air conditioning, was a decidedly uncomfortable experience.

As we turned through the homestead gates, a great rattling of chains, wagging tails and a canine din greeted us as around 20 dogs emerged from their empty forty-four-gallon drum kennels to bark their heads off. Kelpies, Scottish collies, blue heelers, the odd white bull terrier (or 'pig dog') and some crossbred mongrels.

Someone in Sydney with experience of life in the bush had advised me to keep an eye on those station dogs. They can be savage. They won’t do anything to you when you first arrive, but when you leave ... that’s a different story. So, watch out! I had taken the advice to heart and here I was, confronted by the reality. What to do now, I wondered nervously. Then noticed that no one else was the least bit perturbed by the commotion. Most of the dogs were tied up anyway, so it felt safe to disembark. Nevertheless, I decided to keep a careful eye on them.

Mr Fisher took me to a dog kennel sized space at the end of a built-in back verandah and told me, There’s yer room. It was tiny, measuring about three paces long and one wide. Its sloped ceiling was too low to allow an adult to stand on one side, and its only window was little bigger than a milk crate. It was clear there was no other choice, so I did what I was told and lugged my few possessions into the room allocated.

The next day I was given an old, faded blue cotton hat and a pair of well-worn elasticised boots needed for work on a sheep station. I have no idea why I did not prepare myself better. The only excuse I can think of is that I had arrived in the country only a few weeks earlier and was not really sure what the jackerooing life consisted of, apart from riding horses. I had no one to ask for advice.

Having been fitted with some old work clothes, the new jackeroo was then taken for an introductory tour of the property, instructed to stand on the back tray of the Landrover and to open and close gates leading from one gigantic paddock to another. From that bouncing vantage point, I was shocked by the extreme desolation that confronted me. Never before had I beheld such badly parched country, stretching over the horizon. Between belts of timber were enormous flat sweeps which seemed like the surface of the moon. Just bare soil, with a light covering here and there of a grey leafed plant called saltbush. Thinly scattered sheep stood panting in whatever shade was available. What kept them alive in such conditions?

Apart from the drought, a powerful impression of space struck me. It took over half an hour to drive along winding tracks to the back boundary, about 16 kilometres from the homestead. As far as the eye could see the entire landscape, divided by clumps of timber, was an unchanging horizontal expanse. Each time we cleared a line of trees another vast, burned plain stretched away to more trees in the distance, shimmering in the heat. It was easy to understand how an inexperienced person could become hopelessly lost in such a place. To the untrained eye, there were no distinctive landmarks. Just an endless succession of trees and flat plains.

Gazing at this scene made me realise how far I had travelled from home. The contrast between this desert and the greenness of Kenya’s highlands, or the lush farmlands of England, could not have been more stark. I was stunned and dismayed. And felt very much alone.

(i) Aborigines

(ii) A Thematic History of Bogan Shire, Dr Terry Kass, Jan 2011, p92

Primed for trouble

Michael was a pretty insecure, confused young man when he arrived in Australia just before Christmas in 1960. In some ways, he was a disaster waiting to happen which was not surprising, considering his life experience which was a mixture of wonderful high points, but also long and painful lows.

It started on a definite high at the War Memorial Hospital in Nakuru, a town in Kenya's Rift Valley, close to Lake Nakuru with its huge flocks of flamingos. A more idyllic location would have been hard to find for Norah Charles, wife of an English farmer, to give birth to their first son. The fact that Michael's father was not present was of no concern to him at that point, wrapped in his mother's loving arms. The darkness of war which had forced Daddy to disappear six weeks earlier, called to active military service just before Britain and France formally declared war on Germany,(i) would have no discernible impact on his son for some years.

He was taken to an isolated highlands farm to be showered with affection by Mummy and some black house servants. They and a pack of big Alsatian(ii) dogs were his family. In the absence of Bwana Mkubwa (Big Master), they were more than ready to support Memsaab (Mummy) in the care of Bwana Kidogo (Little Master), who felt totally happy and secure. The date of his birth on Friday, October 13, may have been a worry to the superstitious, but seemed to bring no ill at all to the wartime son.

My early life at Koyet, a farm set in the rolling hills of Sotik, home of the constantly laughing, singing Kipsigis people, could only be described as blissful. It was an experience which left a mental deposit to inspire and sustain in the trials and pain of later years. Refreshed every time I hear the sound of Africans singing and making music in their unique fashion. Or cattle bellowing. Or the gentle blowing of wind through trees in the early morning, a daily occurrence at the Koyet homestead, surrounded as it was by the forest my father had planted. The cooing of wild doves in Australia still produces a cerebral echo, though no sound is ever quite the same as that of African doves, which still abound at Koyet.

Then there was the deep throated bark of our highly intelligent and affectionate Alsatians. In later years I could not recall ever being afraid of those large animals, in stark contrast to the terror many farm workers experienced when the dogs enthusiastically rushed at them as a pack, jumping, wagging and barking at full volume, though never biting unless threatened.

Pic

The most intelligent of them all was a gentle-natured bitch with a floppy ear, called Diana (L). She bit the leg of a gardener once when he approached her kennel, waving a panga (machete). Diana had a fresh litter of puppies to protect.

Pic

On the front lawn at Koyet

An early memory of my mother is of someone who was always running. She ran while walking. While Daddy was away, Mummy had to manage the farm as well as look after a house, garden ... and her son. It was an extremely steep learning curve for the daughter of a British army officer, brought up in the genteel life of comfortable upper middleclass England, attending the opera, going on picnics, studying shorthand and typing. She was also a gifted pianist, singer and artist.

Pic

Kipsigis hunter holding a lion's head outside the Koyet dairy

Marriage had transplanted her to the Kenya bush where she had to fend for herself, still wearing the skirts and dresses of English country gardens, but with a sensible broad brimmed straw hat perched atop. Somehow, she adjusted to the isolation from other Europeans. To marauding lions attacking the cattle about once a week. To leopards, which sometimes would visit the homestead in the dead of night, attracted by the smell of dogs (a leopard delicacy).

The absence of electricity, or a refrigerator was an added challenge. She and other scattered white women in similar circumstances would encourage each other, using a crackling phone system and driving over bumpy dirt roads to make occasional visits. Otherwise, it was her, the dogs, the Kipsigis and Michael. To communicate with the ‘native’ farm workers, she had to learn Swahili in a hurry—up country ‘kitchen Swahili'.

Mummy was the centre of my life for the first few years. A black haired, vivacious, loving and fun person who was always there. One early memory was of her sitting by my bed one night when I was sick, cooling my feverish brow with a wet flannel. Then Daddy came home. The father I did not know had been discharged after more than three years of military service.(iii) Someone who constantly paced about with a stern expression and a pipe permanently clenched in his mouth, constantly giving orders to the black people or talking to Mummy with a frown. Someone to keep clear of!

James Charles enlisted in the Kenya Regiment at the outbreak of World War II and was later given the rank of Major in the East Africa Pioneer Corps, in charge of a company of black infantrymen seconded from the Kings African Rifles. They were sent to Egypt where they found themselves supporting the British Army in the desert in its effort to slow the advance of Nazi Germany’s army, led by Field Marshall Erwin Rommel.

It was a long and arduous task. The Kenya farmer and his heroic troops lived in dugouts much of the time, eating food mixed with sand, which caused chronic stomach problems. ‘Gypo tummy’ they called it. Later they were shipped to Palestine where they remained until the end of the war.

Pic

Major Charles (R) and his company were commended for a most valuable contribution(iv) towards the war effort, among other things building roads, guarding medical facilities, even salvaging abandoned trucks and a whole train on one occasion.

Occasionally Major Charles was given leave during which he would travel home to the farm in Kenya for a very brief reunion with Norah … and their shy, blue eyed, blonde haired little boy who had no idea who the unexpected visitor was. The visits were so brief that father and son had no opportunity to develop a relationship. For much of his visits, my father rushed about talking to farm workers. He frightened me. I was left with a vague memory of this man placing his lips on my mother’s on the front verandah steps before he disappeared again.

Not long after his final return, something else happened. Daddy drove us to Nakuru where Mummy was left at the hospital. When we visited her the next morning, there lying beside her were two wriggling babies. Your brother and sister. I was nonplussed.

Each day’s boyish adventures had not allowed much time to wonder why my mother’s tummy was growing so big. She was there, that’s all that mattered. Now, without warning, Edward and Elizabeth had appeared. Twins, born 12 minutes apart. Back home at Koyet, I watched curiously as they lay on either side of their mother, each firmly attached to a generous breast. Things were never the same after that.

I still felt totally secure in my mother’s love, though she had far less time to give to me. I was never sure about Daddy, however. When he stopped marching about, he would be listening intently to a crackling wireless, puffing his pipe. Or sleeping in his armchair. Many years later Mummy explained that Daddy was desperately trying to get the farm back on its feet after his long forced absence, which kept him constantly preoccupied and worried.

Pic I learned not to interrupt him when he was listening to the BBC news or test cricket. But every now and then, he would show a strikingly different side of his personality, mostly in the evenings when he had stopped work. In a more relaxed frame of mind, he would play with his children and laugh (R). The twins would sit on his knees. But not me. I was too old for that, apparently, and it probably would have felt a bit awkward for both of us.

He and his first born never did develop a close father-son relationship, though we did grow very slowly to appreciate each other. It was not only the war that was to blame, but also my father's reserved personality, reinforced by a stiff Victorian English upbringing, largely by nannies, before he was sent to boarding school. Punctuated by pre-arranged socialising sessions with his ‘pater’ and ‘mater’, when James and his brother and two sisters would be ushered into the presence of their parents with instructions to be on their best drawing room behaviour. Ironically, I noticed during my teens on family holidays in England, that while my ancient Granny Charles enjoyed playing card games, she was a decidedly grumpy loser, a trait that Daddy definitely did not reflect in the gracious way he accepted losing card games with his own children.

A significant benefit of getting to know our wider family was a growing appreciation of family history, explaining why my parents named their son Michael James Paton to identify his English pedigree and history. Paton was an ancient family name and the maiden name of my father's great grandmother.

As I grew up, I accepted that being British and belonging to such an old family were the greatest privileges possible. My father’s family was said to go back to William the Conqueror, with a Scottish connection preceding Robert the Bruce, while my mother came from an ancient Irish line listed in Debrett's Peerage. Comprehending details of the ancient family trees would remain a complete mystery to the Kenya settler’s son for many many years. In the meantime, I had a lot of growing up to do.

While my parents busied themselves on the farm, I was cared for each day not by a nanny but by Kipkoski, a Kipsigis man assigned to look after Bwana Kidogo. It was an education, learning all sorts of interesting things about the environment from an indigenous tribesman. Insects, which abounded. Birds and wild animals. What native plants you could eat and what not to. In the enormous garden at Koyet, covering several acres, was an expansive orchard where I spent many hours with Kipkoski, and later on with female minders called ayahs, learning to climb like a monkey and become a connoisseur of oranges, tangerines, guavas, loquats, avocadoes, grenadillas (passion fruit) and various berries.

One of the most useful things Kipkoski taught me was how to throw stones, an art which I honed, proving very useful in later years. For practice, we would try to hit mousebirds as they plundered the orchard’s fruit. A good name for the small grey birds with long tails which looked like airborne mice, flying around in great flocks. There was always something interesting to do in the garden, apart from which there was the surrounding forest. A small boy’s adventure playground.

As the twins entered early childhood, Kipkoski was transferred to ‘cook/houseboy’ duties and a succession of Kipsigis ayahs took over minding the three children. A daily routine was to go for leisurely rambles along farm roads with those ever-laughing women to explore the wondrous natural environment. Grasshoppers, swarming everywhere in the lush grasslands, were always a great source of amusement, as well as a myriad of butterflies, bees and birds. And sometimes a fleeting glimpse of a wild buck.

In later years, I would spend a lot of time collecting butterflies, catching them in a net, identifying them, pinning them onto cards. Collecting birds’ eggs was another hobby, in pursuit of which Bwana Kidogo was allowed to roam far and wide across the farm's mixed savannah and bushland, searching for nests, often perched in the most precarious positions in the tops of trees. Those hidden in the tops of thorny, flat-topped acacias were the hardest to reach, but being scratched was a price I was happy to pay. Being infected by jiggers, little grubs which hatch under the skin of dirty feet and itch like crazy, was a discomfort I was also willing to tolerate since it allowed me to walk barefoot like the natives. It was an idyllic life. And the sun shone every day, thanks to Kenya's Mediterranean climate.

But something was missing. While living on a farm in the Sotik highlands taught me heaps, it was not enough. Like all conscientious parents, mine were concerned that I should receive a ‘proper education’, befitting children of upper middleclass British families. Mummy made a start with reading and writing, introducing her firstborn to the ABC and reading books, a game I enjoyed. However, with no one to look to for guidance or resources, she became increasingly worried that I would be disadvantaged if she persisted in trying to educate me at home.

One major disadvantage which also concerned Mummy and Daddy was the lack of opportunity for their son to socialise with other white children, especially boys. They tried various things to provide for this need, taking any opportunity to meet with other European families in the district, such as birthday celebrations when all the young would be invited to join in games, food and general hijinks. Enormous efforts were made to arrange gymkhanas, horse riding being popular in the Kenya bush.

Such social occasions were a frightening ordeal for me. Quite confident on the farm, my natural shyness got the better of me at these district gatherings. I would stand on the edge of the crowd, watching as the other children revelled in fun and frolics. One part of me wanted to join in and the other simply wanted to run away. On the farm, I was enthusiastic about learning to ride a horse, but at the district gymkhana I would freeze, refusing to leave the stables no matter how much Mummy encouraged me to join in.

Another idea was to invite boys of a similar age to come and stay at Koyet. I would be in a familiar environment, giving me more confidence to play with the young visitor. Sadly, this did not work. Suitable young boys seemed hard to find. Those who came seemed determined to get me into trouble, breaking things, starting fires, swearing. The last straw was a boy who persuaded me to take off my shorts in the garden so that we could compare genitals. Watchful Mummy discovered us in the act!

I was blissfully unaware when Mummy and Daddy eventually made a hard decision, to send me away to boarding school, the nearest being about 150 kms away … at Nakuru. My mother woke me earlier than usual, one morning, having explained she was going to take me on a journey back to the Rift Valley town. We were going to see some nice people who would teach me to read and write. Other children would be there with whom I could play games and have lots of fun. For many days  before this, I had watched Mummy making new clothes for me. Khaki shorts and cotton shirts. I had no idea why. But I felt perfectly secure. I trusted my mother completely.

Breakfast that day was very early, but other than that, it was the usual routine. Cereal, eggs and toast with marmalade on Koyet’s sunlit, eastward facing front verandah, overlooking a panoramic view of forest, savannah grasslands and distant hills. Shortly afterwards mother and son climbed aboard the Ford V8 coupe. It was a familiar experience, bouncing up the farm track and along the dirt road to Chemagel, Sotik’s main business and social centre. That’s where the white settlers, the wasungu, always went to shop.

At the centre of Chemagel’s main street was a large treasure trove of a store run by the family of an Indian, Lalaji Nanabhai Singh. That was where white farmers and their families mainly went to buy food, apart from meat for which they had to cross the road to a Somali butcher. Lalaji was really an everything store where you could find wheelbarrows, kitchen pots, wool and cloth for making clothes, buttons, thread, toys and ice-cream. If your car or other vehicle needed repairs, there was a ramshackle garage run by a Sikh family who could fix most mechanical problems. There was also a post office and the district police station, while on the outskirts of town was the ‘Sotik Club’, centre of the white settler community’s social life.

Eventually, the European settlers built a tiny brick church a few kilometres from the town, named St Francis, with a roof of wooden shingles. Its overall appearance resembled a small English countryside church, fitting perfectly with Britain’s idea in those days of spreading civilisation by colonising ‘darkest Africa’ and any other place inhabited by ignorant, illiterate ‘natives’. They would obviously benefit from the presence of British settlers, with their superior culture and beliefs. There was never a question, of course, about who would be in charge. Senior police officers were always white, as were government administrators such as Mummy’s cousin, Dick Gethin, a district commissioner stationed at the nearby town of Kisii.

But Chemagel was not the end of our adventure. Mummy was taking me on a much longer journey, winding through the hills past Kericho, Lumbwa, Londiani, and finally to Nakuru, a much bigger town with tar roads, double storey buildings and hotels. A daunting place to a little farm boy. So many people and cars. The people didn’t always look friendly, like they were at Koyet. Often, they didn’t even look at you, or speak. What are we doing here, I asked. Wondering which hotel we would be staying at. And when we would go home.

We didn’t go to a hotel. And I didn’t go home. Instead, we continued through the town and up a long driveway, lined with pepper trees, at the end of which was the biggest building I had ever seen. Nakuru School. An impressive white edifice at the top of a hill, looking out over the plains. We drove past the broad steps of an imposing front entrance and stopped near a small gate at the far end of the building.

I sensed that something strange and unpleasant might be happening when Mummy took me by the hand, leading me through an opening in the hedge and up a garden path to a door, opened by a grey-haired woman who did not smile or talk to me.

The strange woman led us into a room where Mummy spoke to her for about a minute, before telling me she was going to leave. I screamed as she began walking towards the door. Before I could run after her, the grey-haired stranger caught me in a tight bear hug. I yelled desperately for several minutes while she held me, speaking words I did not hear. I was not listening. My only desire was to run. I was five. Being abandoned. It was the beginning of a 14-year ordeal, growing up away from home.

The next time Mummy drove me up to that small gate, at the end of a half term day's outing, my stomach quaked. Knowing what was about to happen, I jumped from the car and began to sprint. Mummy caught me after a few yards, having anticipated my attempted escape. She told me decades later that she cried all the way home after leaving me at the school those first two times. It was a comfort to know how much she cared but at the time, as a little boy, I only knew I was being dumped in a hostile place.

I simply felt trapped and my only thoughts, from day to day, were about surviving. Innocent looking, lightly built, blue eyed and blonde haired, I was an easy target for bullies in that government school with its 400 pupils. Tough little Afrikaners who knew how to fight delighted in tormenting me. Knocking me to the ground, sitting on me and rubbing my face in the dirt.

You do whatever you can to protect yourself, especially when there is no one to help you, so I used the best skill I had. Throwing stones. I started carrying some in my pocket on the playground and whenever those Afrikaners approached, I would let fly with all my strength. They got the message, especially when I hit one of them. He limped for a week!

My education at Nakuru School did not impress Mummy and Daddy, especially the bad language I was learning. So I was transferred after two years to a small private school at Gilgil, also on the edge of the Rift Valley. Called Pembroke House, or PH. It was a ‘prep school’ for primary age boys from better class families, governed with fair but military discipline by a Christian man who ran the place like a sergeant major, with a ready use of the cane. The headmaster’s name was Mr Hazard, mostly shortened to ‘Hazard’. A name with obvious connotations!

It was not long before I began to discover what kind of hazard I was dealing with. On my first day at PH, another boy capsized my wind-up motorboat in the school yacht pond. You bloody fool, I shouted … and was marched off to the headmaster’s office. Hazard did not cane me but gave a stern warning. I soon learned not to take what he said lightly.

PH was a school with a rigorous attitude to learning the three Rs, as well as Latin, French, geography, history and the Bible. Lack of effort or discipline during classes and homework time were simply not tolerated. Any deviations or slackness quickly led to visiting the headmaster’s office, at the end of a dark passage, with a light gleaming brightly above the door. Green for ‘enter’ and red for ‘busy’. It was always ‘busy’ when someone was in trouble. You would enter on green and green it would remain … until you were found guilty of some misdemeanour. At that point, Hazard would swivel his chair without a word, but with a stern expression we all grew to recognise and fear. He would move a switch on the wall behind him from green to red. Next to the switch lived a cane. As Hazard flicked the switch, the miscreant would watch with a sinking feeling, bowels churning.

If you were in big trouble, he would pick up the cane before turning back and announcing your sentence. Corporal punishments would vary from up to four ‘cuts’ on upturned palms to between two and six on the bottom. An added peril with the palms treatment was that Hazard was a very poor shot, frequently missing the target altogether and landing instead on your wrist veins. With experience, I learned to pull my palms back in anticipation. The headmaster noticed me doing this on one occasion. What’s wrong with you, he quietly remonstrated. It doesn’t hurt. With that, he gave himself the same punishment on one of his own hands.

Hazard never made boys pull down their trousers when caning their bottoms and showed a remarkably sportsmanlike attitude whenever a boy took the initiative beforehand of tucking a magazine inside his shorts to reduce the pain. He simply ignored the resulting loud popping noise. I was never game to try that trick!

At times, for reasons not always explained, the headmaster would use a repertoire of other disciplinary measures. To encourage greater effort and concentration in school classes, dreamers like myself were often given ‘NS cards’, with a square for each class. The teacher would mark the square with one of a number of letters: VG stood for very good, S for satisfactory, F - fair (not good) and the dreaded NS - non-satisfactory. At the end of each class, the pupil receiving such discipline was required to ask the teacher to mark his card with an appropriate letter and the teacher’s signature. Once a week, the boy concerned then had to report to Mr Hazard with his duly marked card. Several weeks with no NS scores and enough S marks and the card treatment would be terminated, but whenever the card contained an NS, well … Caning to be expected.

After several terms of this card treatment - scoring NS all too often and being regularly caned - another boy showed me how he had learned to forge teachers' signatures, giving himself S scores for each class. Desperate circumstances require desperate measures, so I began to practise the art. Soon I was using the self-scoring scheme with complete success … until a teacher asked for my NS card. Not amused to find his signature already appearing in the box. Six of the best was the painful consequence.

Hazard was no ogre, however. While his sergeant major like manner and rigorous insistence on discipline struck fear into the hearts of all boys, he would every now and then unexpectedly demonstrate real compassion. On one occasion, when I was on the red carpet for yet another misdemeanour, he made me stand next to him as he quietly and gently explained the importance of a good education, and the consequences of not taking school more seriously. Like a concerned father or uncle. Surprised and relieved at being spoken to in such a kind way, I blubbered. Tears poured down my face. My nose dribbled. I never forgot.

Hazard also had a wonderfully mischievous sense of humour, generally in the form of practical jokes, often accompanied by a twinkle in his eyes and a fleeting smirk. A famous example was the unexpected fire drill early one morning. Teachers came to our dormitories, calling Fire! Everybody out. It was five o’clock, an hour before the normal getting up time. We all groaned. Then someone laughed and called out, It’s April the first! Chuckles all round and we went back to sleep. Five minutes later teachers came again, this time insisting, Everybody up. Come on. Now! Sleepily, the entire school stumbled outside into the cold morning air to receive a lecture from a straight-faced Mr Hazard about obeying instructions at all times. No comment made about the date, but a sneaking suspicion remained.

A far more serious danger during my time at PH was caused by the Mau Mau uprising, involving members of Kenya's Kikuyu tribe. People were being shot and butchered. Though the school was about 130 kilometers from the main danger area around Kenya’s capital city, Nairobi, it was still too close for comfort. An electric fence was erected around the central part of the school, a secure stone building that housed the main dining room. The dining room was turned into a dormitory and dormitories were converted into classrooms.

Every night black African police guards patrolled the premises. There was a sense of real threat as we climbed into our beds each night, but the guards were trusted not to harm us. They came from a different tribe to the Kikuyu with whom there had never been a close relationship. Apart from being comforted by the fence and the guards, a striking nightly conviction that God was standing next to me gave a real sense of security. Unable to actually see God, I had a distinctly tangible feeling that the Almighty was within touching distance all around my bed, protecting me from all harm. I slept soundly.

An awareness of God had been instilled in me from an early age, first through Bible stories read to me by my mother, then by a Scripture teacher at Nakuru school. She not only taught me about Jesus but left an impression of a warm hearted, caring person. A contrast to the other mostly uncaring, severe adults in that place. Then there was the straight-faced Hazard, supported by his constantly smiling wife who gave me the nickname Champion Charlie.

Once a week, Hazard would teach Bible stories in the assembly hall to the entire school (of about 80 boys). You could have heard a pin drop throughout those hour-long classes. It was a testimony to his ability to rigorously maintain discipline and also to bring the Scriptures alive, inspired by his personal Christian faith. The record in the Book of Exodus of Israel’s struggles in the wilderness, and spiritual lessons learned, was an important building block for my own faith in later life.

But there was much more to life at PH than rigorous discipline and study. All boys were required to be involved in cricket and soccer, and various other activities were offered to those who were interested. Everything from horse riding, to looking after homing pigeons, growing vegetables, learning woodwork and metalwork, keeping small pets such as mice and cage birds, learning to shoot at a small rifle range and hunting with the school’s pack of beagles in the surrounding savannah. I took part in the hunting until I lost a whip and dropped out in case I was found responsible and punished, yet again. My white mice were a bit of an embarrassment. They escaped and became feral, wandering embarrassingly around the assembly hall floor in the evenings during school ‘prep’ time.

Hazard definitely believed that boys should have fun, along with hard work. Guy Fawkes Night was always something to look forward to, with the lighting of a huge bonfire which we built each year over many weeks, usually impregnated with rockets from a nearby military base. I still have a sharp mental image of those rockets zooming far up into the night sky.

After a shaky start, life went increasingly smoothly at PH. My class marks improved. I was set free from the NS card treatment and managed to keep out of Hazard’s study. But then I experienced another unexpected disruption. Halfway through a school year and before taking my final primary school exams, I was transferred to a Catholic high school in Nairobi without any explanation for the need to be moved so suddenly.

I was totally bored at the new school where I found myself being taught stuff I had learned a year previously. My friends at PH felt I had deserted them, but I also felt abandoned ... again. It was a lonely experience. Most other children at the new school, with their established friendships, were not interested in getting to know the shy new boy from the bush, so I found myself hanging around with whoever else did not fit in.

Two of them would have got me into big trouble if I hadn’t come down with a bad attack of measles. While they broke into the school tuckshop and stole the takings, I was delirious in the school sanatorium. A perfect alibi! In later years, I realised God was protecting me, though it did not feel like it at the time. After committing their crime, my friends bolted, climbing on a train bound for Mombasa. They were arrested en route and expelled from the school.

Once more, my parents got the feeling they had made a mistake. Not only was I suffering at this school, but the Mau Mau rebellion was still in full swing in Kenya's capital city. People were being shot dead in broad daylight in the streets of Nairobi. So, another hard decision was made, to send me to boarding school in England. By this time, aged 13, I had grown very accustomed to trouble, so I accepted the decision without argument.

Living in England with relatives during school holidays and attending one of Britain’s most expensive and exclusive private boys’ schools was an uncomfortable, unsettling experience to say the least. Again, the transfer happened in the middle of the year. By the time I arrived at Cranleigh School, in Surrey, I was a complete mess academically. Having completed a written test to assess the level of my ability and understanding, I was placed in the school's lowest class. With the dunces.

For the next four years, school holidays were spent with my mother's brother, Uncle Bill Gethin, a British army colonel. He and his wife, Aunt Nancy, did their level best to make me feel part of the family. And my cousins, Tony and Trish, treated me like a brother. Treat this like your second home, Aunt Nancy told me. I think Tony appreciated having a willing backyard cricketing mate during school holidays. But nothing could replace Koyet. I was always the visitor, clumsily struggling to fit in with the ways of polite English society.

Realising there was nothing I could do to change my circumstances, I tried to fit in with the routines of my new proxy family. Helping to wash up after a meal. Keeping my room tidy … well, reasonably. I believe I did quite well most of the time, but my colonial DNA seemed to come against me in some situations, no matter how hard I tried. Such as mastering English drawing room etiquette when entertaining guests. An obstacle course of rules of behaviour which the awkward boy from Africa tried to practise, but not with any confidence or skill. Over and over, I kept putting my clumsy foot in it, to my great embarrassment and that of my new English family.

There was a hideous moment one evening when an attractive young girl came to dinner and I horribly botched the courtesy of offering our guest a drink. Teenage hormones set me up for the debacle. Being attracted to the girl and realising my more polished older cousin, Tony, was similarly inclined, I was determined not to be outdone. Before anyone else had time to move, I quickly went to offer the damsel a drink of water … knocking the full jugful into her lap! A horrified silence followed, but the girl won full marks for her gracious reaction. Leaving the table without any fuss or complaint to deal with her soggy discomfort. That only made my embarrassment worse. All eyes were on the clumsy young oaf. Shocked and dumfounded, I could do no more than mumble an apology … and long inwardly to disappear ... forever.

Boarding school life and drawing room etiquette were forms of torture I simply learned to endure. Against the odds, I gradually discovered how to be a survivor. Many years later, I came to recognise some benefits from such painful boyhood experiences, including a growing confidence in relating to others of my own age. During the long English summer holidays when I returned to Kenya, I no longer stood on the sidelines at social gatherings. At the Sotik Pony Club gymkhana, I shared a tent with several other boys for a week and won several ribbons on our experienced old pony, Greylass, a whizz at bending races and other pony club exercises. Visits to the homes of neighbouring farmers were no longer such daunting social experiences either.

After four years at Cranleigh, my chequered school career came to an end. The adults in my life had decided I was not cut out for further academic studies, in spite of a distinct improvement in my results during the previous year or so. In my mid-teens, it had dawned on me that childhood was coming to an end, that school was my preparation for life as a grown up. It was serious. I began to take books home on school holidays, climbing into an attic to read biology and history, and swat up on French grammar. Aunt Nancy was seriously worried. What's come over the boy? Is he having a nervous breakdown?!

Teachers at Cranleigh School were genuinely amazed at my progress during my final year. The young dreamer had even passed his O level exams in biology and physics-with-chemistry. I managed to pass the latter by practising thoroughly a few important practical formulae, such as measuring electrical currents using a gadget called The Wheatstone Bridge. This made up for a poor performance in theoretical questions where the maths had a habit of escaping my comprehension. I would like to have gone on to study at A level, in preparation for university, but it was not to be. The wisdom of school and parents was that I should pursue a more practical path. So where to now? I could only wait and see.

Not having any other plan, I went along with my father’s idea that I should complete some agricultural training with a view to helping him run the farm at Sotik. The first step was to work for a year on a farm in Sussex, starting the following January. In midwinter. A requirement was to provide your own transport, so Uncle Bill bought me a 125cc BSA two-stroke motorbike.

Without any discussion or instruction about riding a motorcycle, he simply presented it to me one day. I nervously climbed aboard, kicked the machine to life and frog-jumped a few yards before it conked out. My uncle then explained something about clutches. Quite useful information! A few minutes later, I began to get the hang of it and set off along several country lanes … until I came to a farm where cows began crossing the road without warning. A car in front of me stopped suddenly. Sliding through farmyard slop, rider and machine crashed into the car boot. It was not the last time I fell off that bike, either through inexperience or through riding too fast for the conditions. Miraculously, I survived with no more than bruises.

Each morning on the Sussex farm began with a ride on the back of a tractor, in freezing conditions, to a barn full of steers where my first job was to clean ice out of feed bins with my bare hands. It would take two hours before I started to feel any warmth. The 70-year-old cattleman I was assisting had been doing it for so long he felt no cold. And when it came to moving electric fences, he insisted on doing it without switching off the power. C’mon … what’s wrong with yer? he would complain gruffly when I baulked at taking hold of the wires. Power jolting up my arms.

Other jobs on that farm were equally challenging: wading through sloppy cattle dung and mud in the barns, flinging dung onto paddocks from the backs of trailers, or hoeing sugar beet on a piece work basis. Each labourer would be paid for the actual number of sugar beet rows hoed, an inducement to really put your back into it no matter how much pain was caused by the constant stooping. After more than a week, I was sure my back would stay bent forever.

In spring and summer, the work became much more enjoyable, watching the landscape transform from its bare winter drabness to an explosion of green leaves and blossoms amid the joyful chorus of English birdlife. Working in the sunshine at harvest time was not hard to take. Nevertheless, I had an increasing awareness that I was in the wrong place. While standing on the back of a seed drill, making sure the seed and fertiliser flowed properly, I gazed over the fields and asked myself, What the hell am I doing here? Quite certain now that farming was not what I wanted to do.

It was another lonely experience. At night, after working all day on the farm, I would go home to my room in a widow’s cottage where I and another young farm student were billeted. Each weekend the other young man went home on his 125cc Vespa scooter, leaving me with no one to socialise with and nothing to do except listen to the radio. There was no TV. The farm pay was just enough to cover food and rent, while a small allowance from parents was only enough for other basic needs—clothes, toiletries and the odd outing to a movie. Sometimes I would ride my machine to visit relatives, but they were so far away that it was an all-day effort on the ‘Beezer’. In winter weather, face and fingers would be frozen to the marrow.

It was only by the grace of God that the motorbike was not my undoing. Just released from the restrictions of boarding school, I could not resist the urge to ride my machine as fast as I could on my way to and from work along winding country roads. Each morning, I would race the other farm student on his Vespa. One obstacle during morning and afternoon rush hours was a huge crowd of workers, on foot or bicycle, making their way to or from a nearby factory. It was fun weaving in and out of the crowd at maximum speed, remarkably without any serious injury to them or ourselves.

On one occasion during a snowstorm, while travelling too fast and unable to see more than a few meters, I came up behind two men cycling home together in the middle of the road. Unable to stop or change direction, I simply kept straight ahead and somehow managed to pass between the cyclists without touching either of them. As I glanced at my rear vision mirror, I could see them sprawled on the snow. I kept going!

Many a spill took place as my impatience and yen for speed caused me to take corners too fast and ignore road conditions. Remarkably, machine and rider suffered only minor damage. However, the same good fortune did not favour another young man who took my place when my year on the farm came to an end. Riding a small motorcycle of the same make and size along the same country roads, he apparently had not spotted a danger at one corner, a treacherously slippery manhole cover. One morning when he was running late, he took the corner too close, skidding off the manhole cover over a fence and into a stone wall. Breaking his back.

I had mixed feelings at the end of my year in Sussex, as I prepared for the next step in my formal education, a 12-month course at the Moulton Agricultural Institute in Northamptonshire. A place where young men and women were trained for various practical farming careers and where I found myself studying harder than I had ever done. The opposite sex!

Never before had I been so motivated. Apart from school holidays, my years of puberty and adolescence had all been in the monastic confines of boys’ boarding schools, followed by the Sussex farm. But now, without any guidance from anyone except other boys and girlie magazines, the hormonal floodgates had been thrown open. The young stallion found himself penned up day by day with an entire herd of eligible fillies. And the inevitable happened.

That year flashed by, punctuated at first by a series of dalliances with female college students and then by exploratory ventures into Northampton’s female community. Night after night, in the last few months, I would visit my current lady friend in town, creeping back into the locked college in the wee hours. Shinning up a drainpipe, shimmying along a gutter and sliding through my bedroom window.

One day, on an impulse, I made the mistake of trading in my 125cc motorbike for a much older but more powerful 250cc BSA four stroke model, pleased that the salesman agreed to a straight swap. Nothing more