School Years 1908 to 1917

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School Years 1908 to 1917

LONDON 1908

After leaving a kindergarten cum girls' school and before going to public school, I was sent to a weekly boarding school at Streatham, from Monday to Friday. This necessitated a bus to Victoria, change on to a tram, which with threepence for the cinema on Wednesday afternoon cost elevenpence, including return fares. This sum in coppers I collected every Monday morning from the corner of the mantelpiece in my parents' bedroom. When I went in that Monday morning, my Mother was dressing and, having collected the cash, kissed her goodbye and was having my school cap properly adjusted by her, when she screamed the name "Susie" and fell down in a dead faint. I bet I screamed too, but my sister's nurse came flying in and I was quieted and sent off to school.

It .must have been some years afterwards when my mother explained to me that it was at that precise moment at Brumel, outside Winnipeg, that her two sisters, named Susie and Winifred, were burnt alive in a Canadian Pacific Railway smash. My mother still has all that was recovered, their two gold wristlet watches.

LONDON 1911

Three very dissimilar occurrences on the same day caused an event I shall never forget. The first was that the powers that be had chosen it for the coronation of King George V and, as my father and mother then lived near the southern end of Albemarle Street, where it joins Piccadilly and overlooks St. James' Street we were all looking forward to viewing the procession from our gaily decorated balconies and father had invited many friends to a champagne celebration party. The second was that before the guests arrived, my father amused himself by explaining to me how to manipulate his newly installed telephone how to ask for a number and call for the fire brigade in case of emergency The third was that some idiot in Murray's, the publishers opposite us, had hoisted their Union Jack on a mast above the office upside down.

I claim to have been an intelligent youngster, albeit perhaps a trifle bumptious at that age. In any case, I marshalled those three facts in my mind and decided with a certain degree of logic that Murray's, having hoisted a signal of distress, were in need of help, so I made my first and only call to the fire brigade. I always enjoyed watching those lovely dapple grey horses pulling a fire engine, but this time there was no galloping, in fact squads of police had to be called to part the milling crowds, so that a fireman could lead the snorting horses to the front door of Murray's. What happened behind the scenes thereafter I, of course, do not know. All I remember is my father, the fire officer. a policeman and a police inspector holding an impromptu trial with me in the box, but with no defending counsel. That dear police inspector took the view that I was legally in the right, even if I was a born nuisance. The sentence was thereby reduced from six strokes to four on my backside with a shaving strap. As I lay over a chair to receive them, I was staring at our barometer. It always was a rotten barometer because it never pointed to anything else but "Stormy".

LONDON 1913

A very old friend of my father's, named Auld, owned the very exclusive gunshop at the bottom of St. James's Street and one day when he visited us, he brought with him a big revolver. This was only three days before the end of the holidays and I had to return to my public school. It was beautifully finished and, judging by prices of such articles on the programme ''Going for a Song'', it would now be worth over £500. It must have been an early prototype produced by his firm, because although it had six revolving chambers, it fired ball and appeared to be fired by a cocking hammer striking a cap, of which there was of course no trace. The important part of the story is that Mr. Auld thought I was a very nice little boy and that that revolver was all mine. He went to great pains to explain to my doting mother that it was a completely harmless toy for the boy to play with. I played with it for all the hours remaining to me, then oiled it, wrapped it in cotton wool and put it in my special treasure drawer, and went back to school. I do not suppose that we had got as far as Vauxhall out of Waterloo station before I was boasting to my friends about my new possession.

It remained the chief topic of conversation all during that term and I had to swear with my hand on the Bible that I would bring it back next term.

When I returned for the next holidays, I flew to that drawer and the revolver was gone. I searched everywhere for days literally, I accused my parental servants of stealing it, I could not eat and started to lose weight, until my mother just had to admit that she had given it away ''because it was dangerous''. Tears, ''Mr. Auld said'' and more tears, but eventually I calmed down. Then a still greater cloud darkened the holidays and the storm broke between Waterloo and Vauxhall , when I could not produce the revolver for the inspection of my friends. They christened me then and there "Ananias" and it stuck for three of my eight years at school. Mothers, beware.

London 1917

My father was a member of the National Sporting Club, where he used to take me occasionally to see boxing matches. Later, one of the famous bouts was between Carpentier and Beckett when father dropped his programme, which due to his girth, he took twenty seconds to find - and the fight was over. On this particular evening about 10.00 p.m. we came out to find there was an air raid progress, the guns were banging and we heard the explosion of bombs. Father debated what we should do. The club was closing. There were no taxis and the choice was between Covent Garden tube station and the official nearest shelter, which was the big modern offices and printing works of "John Bull" and they were the same distance from the club. Father plumped for John Bull, but I distinctly remember saying, "Let's try the tube, we shall get back quicker to Mother".

We were standing in the lift waiting to go down to the trains, when we heard an almighty bang. The next day we learned that John Bull offices had received a direct hit and that the heavy printing presses, which were on the top floors, went right through to the basement and the casualties were the greatest of any bomb that fell in London during the first world war. Father commented only that I had shown more intelligence than was my wont.