大象传媒

I attended Brooklands, a war time day school near Oxshott, in 1944. I remember little of it except that we had to answer our names at 8.30 roll-call with the rigmarole 鈥淢ilk and Biscuit and Dinner Please.鈥� Milk was issued by the Ministry of Food in 1/3 pint bottles as part of the war effort to ensure that the bones of growing children were not weakened by Calcium deficiency.

The whole 鈥楳ilk and Biscuit鈥� routine was in fact part of the immensely beaureaucratic process of food rationing. The child鈥檚 rationbook had to be available for allocation of food at school. If 鈥楧inner鈥�, which actually meant 鈥楲unch鈥� was not recorded at roll-call, the day鈥檚 ration was not deducted. Some individuals, for whom sympathy flowed tangibly, answered with 鈥楳ilk and Biscuit and Dinner and Tea please鈥�, which meant that their mothers were involved in war work and couldn鈥檛 collect them from school until after factory hours.

I was mildly bullied at Brooklands. At break, a boy called Justin Wragsby often used his superior size and weight to charge around the playground and deliberately collide with smaller boys, spilling their milk, scattering their biscuits and sending them sprawling in the dust. Somehow the playground supervisor, usually a harrassed female teacher, never observed Justin鈥檚 charge and only arrived on the scene to administer a reprimand on behalf of the 鈥楽tarving Millions in Europe鈥� whose pathetic plight was exacerbated by careless little boys who wasted the milk that our Government was generous enough to lavish upon them. What I did not do was to snivel,

鈥� It鈥檚 not my fault; Justin Wragsby pushed me.鈥� I was already indocrtrinated with the 鈥楴o Sneaking鈥� rule that was an immutable tenet of a Typical English Gentleman鈥檚 early education. I did tell my Mother, and she, bless her heart, got hold of completely the wrong end of the stick. She imagined that the cause of the snivels, which accompanied my telling of any unfortunate tale, were due to the physical battering I had received from J. Wragsby. I was, in reality, upset by the unfairness of receiving a reprimand from the waspish Miss Frobisher, on behalf of the
starving millions, for being a stupid, careless little boy who didn鈥檛 no how to look after a precious one third of a pint of milk. What happened next is significant.

My Mother wrote to my father 鈥� I still have the letters in a battered attache case - who was at the time incarcerated near Frankfurt in something called a Dulag Luft. My father acknowledged the problem, but offered nothing by way of a solution to my Mother. (Bullying was a 鈥楳an thing鈥�.) He wrote from Prisoner of War Camp to Uncle Willoughby who called me to his study and gave me a man-to-man talk on how to confront bullies.

Lt.Col. Willoughby Hogg, Indian Army Retired, was in effect our landlord during the time that Air Commodore Ivelaw-Chapman was a prisoner of war. Early in 1944 we were living in an Air Ministry Hiring, a large, art deco, tiled dwelling in genteel Oxshott Woods. Here I learned to ride a bicycle on the disused hard tennis court in the garden. Grass tennis courts were almost universally turned into vegetable gardens as part of the 鈥楧ig for Victory鈥� campaign and hard court tennis was not a war time indulgence 鈥� 鈥淔ar too frivolous my Dear, don鈥檛 they know there鈥檚 a War on!鈥� However the unused gravelly surface made an excellent venue for apprentice bicycle riding, and Greenbanks, Sandy Drive, Oxshott, was a good and exciting place for an eight-year-old to live; especially when the night sky was lit up with air warfare over London and, best of all , when they fired off the anti-aircraft gun at the bottom of the garden. Wow what a bang that was!

Then Dad was shot down on a bombing raid over France. Nowadays, such a trauma would set in motion, counselling, welfare, alternative accomodation and all the care that a 鈥楥aring Society鈥� can theoretically conjure up. However, in 1944, the dreaded telegram was precurser to a dramatic reduction in pay and a none too polite request for the return to the Military of the service accomodation that Air Commodore Ivelaw-Chapman was occupying at the time of his death or capture. We were not at the time sure about which eventuality had befallen him. Farewell 鈥楪reenbanks鈥�; Hullo 鈥楬arlyn鈥�. Presumably this house, a stockbroker-belt, mock-tudor pile and the home of Willoughby and Esme Hogg was once owned by an unimaginative couple called Harold and Evelyn. They chose the ugly amalgam of their own Christian names for the house鈥檚 address. Willoughby was a retired Indian Army cavalryman, so stereotypical as to caracature himself. Probably in his early sixties but erect as a ramrod, he was clipped in hairstyle, speech and iron grey upturned moustache. I was 8 years old when I first met him but formed the immediate impression that here was a coiled spring, a man with huge inner tension who could never come to terms with the fact that he had wasted his fighting man鈥檚 useful years on the treadmill of British India, only to be put out to grass when the real fighting began. A portrait of Uncle Willoughby hung above the oak staircase. (At Harlyn there were pictures of Egypt bright on the wall and low leaded windows and indeed the six-o鈥檆lock news and lime-juice and gin. The whole place was so 鈥楯ohn Betjeman鈥� that Joan Hunter Dunn might have been conceived there.) In the portrait he was dressed in khaki drill uniform with First World War medals on his chest preceded by the ribbon of this country鈥檚 highest award for gallantry.

Willoughby Hogg, regretfully too old to fight, demonstrated his patriotism by organising things. Home guard, air raid precautions, fire watching lectures (about phosphorus incendiaries et al.); all such activities were, in the military phrase of the day, 鈥楬is Pigeon鈥�. He also did jobs for the residents of Sandy Drive which they would normally have had 鈥楢 man in鈥� to do, only of course there were no 鈥榤en鈥� about due to the war. If a job needed doing, regardless of pre-war social banding Willoughby Hogg did it. He was a good plumber, emptied septic tanks, serviced motorcars, hand-mowed lawns (鈥楽orry no petrol. It鈥檚 the War you know鈥�) and unblocked drains. He was an enthusuastic ratter and once he earned my enormous admiration by catching a big grey rat with his bare hands. He administered the coup de grace by turning the animal upside down and whacking its skull on a handy outcrop in Esme Hogg鈥檚 immaculate rockery. On the rare occasions in my life when I have found it necessary to kill an animal, usually game fish or wounded birds, and once a kitten mortally damaged by the wheels of my car, I have employed the same technique. Australians and lunatics in Texas do it with rattle-snakes. I saw it first in war time Oxshott.

The Hoggs also felt that Harlyn should be part of the war effort and instantly offered several of the house鈥檚 impressive tally of accomodation to families such as ours who had suffered, due to hostilities, the abrupt loss of the breadwinner. We were unreservedly lent four rooms and referred to our status as 鈥楶aying Guests鈥�, though I don鈥檛 believe we ever paid anything. Also in residence at the house was Karena Tarentikova, the newly widowed wife of a Czech fighter pilot shot down over Europe. I was once invited to watch Karena breast-feeding her baby. This was a moment of minor significance for two reasons. Firstly because my Mother, and Esme Hogg imagined that at eight years old a boy couldn鈥檛 possibly be subject to any feelings of sexual interest by such an exhibition 鈥� and how wrong they were. Also Karena鈥檚 was the first fully developed breast that I had ever seen. The next belonged to a stranger who had been careless with the front curtain of a bathing hut at St Ives in 1947, and the third was revealed by Brigitte Bardot in 鈥楾he Wages of Fear鈥�, viewed with great interest at a cinema in Putney in 1953. After that such things became rather more familiar and I stopped counting.

I learnt about Gentlemanly behaviour at the Hoggs. Not just ritual things that were to become familiar in later years in the Officers鈥� Mess such as 鈥楨xcuse yourself before leaving the table,鈥� and 鈥楤eds must be properly made and shoes polished鈥�, 鈥楢iches must not be dropped and no gentleman whistles through his teeth鈥� but more serious social patterns about how a Gentleman should behave towards a Lady. It is not overstating the case to suggest that the men in my life, when I was 8 years old and living at Harlyn, hadn鈥檛 changed much in their attitude to women since Saint George fought the Dragon; an incident that was already indelibly impressed on my consciousness by the Pre - Raphaelite illustrations in the history books of the day. Men were noble, gallant, chivalrous, patriotic protectors of England. Their Ladies were the home makers; the mothers; the heir producers, the loyal supporters who stayed at home and, on occasions, wept. If this appears fanciful, consider for the moment the first forty years of the British twentieth century. God knows how many St Georges (British Gentlemen) had gone off to fight the Dragon of the day (Usually Germany) driven by a mixture of religious fervour, patriotism, duty, honour, and principle. In between the Great Wars there were Colonial Wars and 鈥楤alance of Power鈥� Wars; Imperial skirmishes and gunboat diplomacy and throughout this 40 year period of world upheaval the men believed they were fighting (Mens鈥� Business) to make our world a place where the little woman could bring up the children (Womens鈥� Business) in Peace and Security and where civilized British behaviour was the norm.

Also definitely Womens鈥� Business was the messy, uncivilized, painful and rather undignified process of conception and giving birth. It seems, as far as it was possible to generalise on these matters, that most bodily functions were best understood by the little woman. This was not done in any spirit of male superiority, but due solely to lack of understanding. The notion of a Gentleman of my father鈥檚 ilk being present at the birth of a child was simply inconceivable. However there were compensations. Because Motherhood was such a mystery I believe my Father and Willoughby Hogg and the rest of the Edwardian Gentlemen invested their wives with almost saintly virtue. Their women were seen as brave, delicate, tolerant, stoical, undefiled and undefilable. There was a degree of worship in many a Gentleman鈥檚 affection. For this reason some married women were over-protected from Life. Servants handled such things as cooking and cleaning and Ladies were not expected to understand anything of 鈥榖read-earning鈥� or money mangement. They never got their fair hands dirty in the garden or under the bonnet of the motor-car because if they became involved in such matters in stepped the Gentleman, purposefully rolling up his sleeves with the admonition, 鈥楬ere let me do that, my Dear鈥� The schooling and disciplining of children? Definitely a man thing.

All this I watched and perhaps partially understood. So when my Father disappeared out of my life it seemed quite natural that another man should step in and take over those duties that were ordained to be done by males. So I was not surprised when I was clipped round the ear by Willoughby Hogg for collecting unfired blank .303 cartridges in Oxshott woods and bringing them back to Harlyn where I extracted the gunpowder and attempted to set fire to it in Uncle鈥檚 tool shed. What I learned from that incident was that I need fear no ear-boxings from Mum (Not woman鈥檚 business.) I also learned that young gentlemen stood pain, however inflicted, with tearless stoicism. (鈥楪ood boy, I鈥檒l tell your father you took it like a man鈥�) And he did. I still have the letter; Harlyn to Dulag Luft IV, 1944.)

鈥淣ow what鈥檚 all this about bullyin鈥�?鈥� asked Uncle Willoughby. I was silent, forseeing trouble. 鈥淣othing to worry about. Talking to me isn鈥檛 鈥榮neakin鈥�.鈥� So I told the story of the Justin Wragsby charge round the Brooklands School playground, the spilt milk and the sour faced unsympathetic Miss Frobisher who accused me personally of adding to the misery of the starving millions in Europe.

鈥淒on鈥檛 worry about the woman,鈥� said the Colonel, 鈥渨hat we鈥檝e got to do is to square up to this Wragsby fella.鈥�

Break-time the next morning found me on the dusty playground at Brooklands nervously sucking my milk through a straw that always seemed to kink and restrict the flow. There was hop-scotch and ragging, French cricket, giggling, skipping and Miss Frobisher with whistle of office hung around her neck on a brightly coloured ribbon. An aircraft flew overhead, probably hunting the 鈥楧oodlebugs鈥�. Was it a 鈥楾empest鈥� or a 鈥楾yphoon鈥�? I didn鈥檛 look up. I was watching J Wragsby. He had given me a twisted-lip grin of recognition and even now was positioning himself for a charge, like a fast bowler at the end of a very long run.

鈥淵ou must use his speed to knock him over,鈥� Uncle Willoughby had advised. 鈥淒on鈥檛 just stand there waiting to be hit.鈥� Useless to to whine that Justin was bigger than me. 鈥淯se his weight to your advantage; just drop your shoulder and hit him on the run. You may go down, but he鈥檒l go down harder.鈥�

Justin Wragsby was running now, or rather galloping and slapping his own bum with one hand like a cowboy urging on his horse. I positioned myself, subconsciously calculating collision courses and deflection angles and when the time was ripe I ran. The collision was violent enough for the school doctor to examine me carefully afterwards, suspecting a broken collar-bone. Justin Wragsby, winded like a burst tyre lay whimpering for several minutes before Miss Frobisher helped him to his feet dusted him off and sent him home for the day.

Herr Hitler and the War took a hand in events the next day. I received, after the 鈥楳ilk and Biscuit and Dinner鈥� assembly, a summons to the Headmistress鈥檚 study to face a charge 鈥� (little me!!) 鈥� of boisterous behaviour in the playground. The Wragsby parents had probably complained. I will never know what was in prospect; detention, a hundred lines or even expulsion, because as I waited tremulously outside the Head鈥檚 study door, a 鈥楧oodlebug鈥� impacted at the bottom of the mercifully empty playground. Every window in the school was blown out and ceilings collapsed in a blizzard of plaster dust. The criss-cross sticky tape on the panes of glass minimised injuries. A few boys bled enough for ambulances to be called. 鈥楲ucky chaps鈥�, I thought. There was nothing like a minor injury to attract the sympathy and attention that we all sought. Miss Frobisher was hysterically useless and the Head immediately took charge. My interview and punishment were happily forgotten in the melee. Before Brooklands could be repaired, I and my sister were evacuated to Cheltenham where we were safely out of 鈥楧oodlebug鈥� Alley. I never went back. There was a final school report though, and when Uncle Willoughby Hogg - in loco parentis still 鈥� read me the bit about 鈥榟as been boisterous in the playground鈥�, I believe the old Colonel winked at me. Bless him. Since those days I have never bullied anyone or anything, but, more interestingly, I have never been bullied either. Could the wise old Willoughby have been anticipating by more than fifty years the behavioural anti-mugging classes so popular nowadays in the USA? 鈥業f you don鈥檛 want to be attacked, you must look as if you don鈥檛 expect it.鈥�

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