Transcription of an MP3 Audio Diary, kept between Friday January 11th

and Saturday March 15th 2008. Part Ten.

Monday 25th February 2008

The captain welcomed me aboard when I went down for lunch, although I'd
arrived in my chambers at 0115hrs and had had early breakfast with the Chief
Engineer. But prior to that, the high point of my night, the 3rd Officer had met
me at the gangplank with: “Welcome Home!”. And it's true... coming back
aboard, into an ambience of... something I felt part of... it was a homecoming.

This is a note to myself to get the 'timing' of the last 24 hours correct, as the
journey home seems to have started to gallop away with itself...

Tuesday, 26th February 2008

Dog tired, late for breakfast. Fog again. From D Deck, Cape Town looks so
small! Formula 1 (Foreshore) is neatly framed between the supports of the fly-
over; I paid for my room there last night, but I didn't get a rebate for my
breakfast.
9am departure becomes midday, becomes 1400 – pilot comes aboard at 1300
and we cast off at 1340.
Table Mountain covered, so once again, no way to take 'classic' picture of Table
Bay plus backdrop. Everything is shrinking into the distance. We've passed
Robben Island and now it too is blurring into the background, as the sharply
defined top of the mist rises, like a fire-curtain on the stage of the old Coventry
Hippodrome.
Time to look forrader. Time to think forrader. Time to get right down to the
sharp end. 400 metres there and back and now the cargo manifest has
changed so much, there's almost the space to jog round the whole exterior
catwalk, but I think I'll have to keep ducking every few metres... more like
training for a boxing match, rather than a cross-country run.

Getting acquainted again: excellent gurka soup (Polish gherkins, carrots etc –
I've asked for recipe) and roast pork, spuds & carrots. The 2nd officer confirms
my suspicions from yesterday: the water temperature just off the coast, where
Grey Fox was parked, waiting to come into Duncan Dock, was 6°C.
Did my laundry and spun-dried half way, finished drying completely with my
smalls hung around my office, lounge and bedroom. They've replaced the TV
and Video player in my quarters... and added a DVD player and wide screen.
Very proudly they introduced me to 'my' Movie Center.
Finish unpacking and rearranging. Don't understand why I'm suffering hot and
cold flushes. Menopause?!? Shower repeatedly throughout the afternoon. At
least the weather is improving, the further we get away from the Cape.

Check presents etc are undamaged, then repack them to store in a drawer
'until Rotterdam'. After supper photographed 'sunset'!!! Ordered 6 Beck's
beers, 6 Cokes and a bottle of Captain Morgan. Watched Jeff Dunham (a very
un-PC ventriloquist) on MP4s from Stuart. Very funny. then wrote up a couple
of Sunday's recordings, plus Mon & Tues waffling.
Tomorrow all at sea.
Pool?
28th in Walvis Bay.
Wednesday, 27th February
Late yesterday evening, when we were well away from shore, the low, sharp-
edged cloud-base met a clear sky, mirroring the frontier of the two-
temperatured sea currents. Before I went down to my quarters, the cloud lifted
a little and I mentally prepared myself for days of uninterrupted sunshine. So,
of course, this morning it was overcast and threatening rain. To cheer us both
up, I've invited Captain Böckmann for a lobster lunch in Walvis Bay; let's hope
he's luckier this time than he was when we both planned to go to
Swakopmund...
On deck the blue rectangular MACS containers still predominate, but the
second-hand cars and lorries from the trip south have been replaced by pristine
white rotund 30,000-litre capsules containing cereals for the return trip to
Europe. I hope to find out what changes have taken place in the hold before
we dock in Walvis Bay tomorrow, although there seems to be a lot of activity
below decks and the Chief Engineer has already put off my first tour of the
engine room until after we have left Namibia, so perhaps I will have to wait a
little longer; there will be 12 days at sea between Walvis Bay and Vigo in
northern Spain...

My father has given me a copy of his autobiography AMON ('And Master Of

None') to proof-read and also to allow me to catch up with how he perceives his
life has developed. While accepting that it's his view of his life from his own
idiosyncratic point of view (and therefore I will not nit-pick and dare suggest
that he change 1950's, the 30's etc to 1950s & the 30s when they are non-
possessive), it's startlingly surprising how many similarities or parallels exist
between his story and my own; added to which there are the views, opinions
and/or memories of shared experiences during and just after the war...

Thursday, 28th February

Last night I was so cold in bed that I took a second blanket from the spare bed
to put over my duvet. I've turned the air conditioning as 'off' as is possible, but
there's still a dribble of cold air creeping into my tomb. At breakfast, the
captain informs us that it's 15C outside... which is appreciably warmer than my
chambers ! The pilot for Walvis Bay is coming aboard around 10:15 so, as soon
as the captain has cleared it with the agents, I shall call Mrs Rachel Farmer's
Taxi and ask her to take us/me to the restaurant that specialises in sea food.
Then for some lobster (or crayfish, as it's called here). As far as I could see on
the overloaded plates in the Cape Town Fish Market restaurant, the lobsters are
more like the Mediterranean variety than the blue monsters we used to catch
during the war in Burghead.
Must dig out the story for Charles that I wrote years ago about catching and
boiling lobsters with the gillie in Burghead on the Findhorn during the war... and
my resulting nightmares. Charles also wrote about his memories of the same
period; probably with the same gillie and the same metal hook for irritating and
catching the lobsters. And then there's Charlie Sprague's lobster story...

This unexpected cold spell has given me the chance to read some more of
AMON and to listen to some of the early MP3 recordings I made, most of which
still have to be transcribed. There are over a hundred already...
There has been a change in Kristian since I left the Grey Fox, and not for the
better. After breakfast he spoke to me AND looked at me for the first time
since I came aboard again. He seems to be suffering with permanent
headaches, has visited a doctor in each of the ports of call and specialists in
Durban and Cape Town, where he became physically feeble after they took
blood samples. Thinking back to my own kids, I wonder if it could be 'growing
pains' something that I had thought was just a vague expression until David
(then later Hannah and Manoel) complained of specific aches and pains. I have
the impression, seeing Kristian standing beside the bos'n and the captain, that
he has grown visibly taller since the first time I saw him in Antwerp six weeks
ago.

Today's Russian pilot is a dead ringer for Pierre Richard, the French comic actor.
When I told him that, he was only too willing to pose for a photo or two, then,
complementary bottle of scotch in hand, he wished us a good day and danced
ashore !
I waited for the captain to deal with the necessary customs and immigration
paper-work, then borrowed his cell phone (mine displayed: “Emergency Calls
Only”) to call Mrs Rachel Farmer, the Walvis Bay Tourist Guide and Taxi Driver.
She took us to the 'Raft' restaurant on the pelican lagoon.
After a thorough study of the menu, we both decided against lobster and had
plates heaped high with tiger prawns... but it's the thought that counts.
The 'Raft' is built out over the water, the view around the lagoon enticing and
the pelicans and gambolling seals interesting conversation-pieces while you
wait for your food.
After our usual conversationless main course (on board, our conversations only
really begin when the serious business of eating has all but finished), we
moved on to dessert and coffee. The captain assured me that his 'Tiramisu'
was excellent and I had a delicious date & pine-nut steamed pudding & sauce
that I would swap for an English Christmas pudding or Christmas cake any
time. Really excellent.
Judging by the way the restaurant emptied while we were still eating our
dessert, the 'Raft' must be the local luncheon canteen for most of the
foreigners living in the area.
The 'Raft' restaurant also had another pleasant surprise: it stocked 'Hunter's
Extra Dry Cider', so I made use of its off-license service to take a couple of
dozen bottles back to the ship. Rachel picked us up for the return journey to
the container port and she and the captain have already agreed to 'do'
Swakopmund upon his return in about a month's time.

I went to my day-room to read and the next thing I knew, Darek woke me with
a phone call to come down to dinner. Everyone else had finished when I got
there and the captain smiled that, as we were leaving even earlier then
previously arranged, they wanted to make sure that I was still aboard and
hadn't slipped ashore to find some more cider ! We cast off just before 1900hrs
and set sail into an overcast mix of sea and sky; my sunset photograph tonight
was very strange...

Friday, 29th February

The sun is out ! Not exactly a clear blue sky, but clear enough to bode well for
the next day or two. The captain has agreed to have the pool filled for “mad
Englishmen” and the Chief Engineer has made an appointment with me for
1020hrs “after coffee break” to introduce me to the engine rooms. That gives
me a couple of hours to put a few captions under photographs and continue
with my MP3 selections...

The trip to the bowels of the ship was very interesting and also quite
entertaining. Probably like most Chief Engineers, ours talks lovingly about 'his'
engines, calling them 'he' and 'him' and telling me about their personal little
foibles. But do all Chief Engineers give such a consummate performance of an
Absent-Minded Professor, that you start to look around for the cameras and the
rest of his cast ? Bumbling dialogue (or monologue) against the background
engine noise has to be listened to, to be believed ! But he somehow got the
information across. All of the cylinders, filters, heat exchangers etc were
“spetzial”, which was probably a bit of an exaggeration, but the obvious
difference between what I looked at today and what I remember from the pride
of Italian naval ships nearly 40 years ago (when I taught English to the Italian
'Marina Militare') was very impressive. And today there were so few people
taking care of everything.
There are 2 (and in most cases 3) sets of everything, with each stand-by ready
to flip into action at a few moments notice. Yet in spite of all the technology,
there are always old-fashioned manual cut-ins & cut-outs, which all of the crew
smile at, but which every A/B has to master.
The Chief showed me the vacuum system for the toilets that I had so unhappily
blocked during my first days aboard, and the system that produces 20,000
litres of fresh water a day from sea water. I took photos, but I fear they will
come out like a publicity brochure for Sulzer or Alfa Laval, because everything
is so clean and rarely was it possible to include a human being in the shot; the
Chief and I ended up being mannequins for each other.
I was surprised how much I understood of his explanation of the state-of-the-art
machines and the stunning improvements that have been made over the past
20-30 years and that are now taken for granted.

But, like a forgotten cubby-hole in a refurbished mansion, there was one little
timeless place of wonderment. This was the oiler's workshop; obviously a very
personal domain. Even though I see his wife now on an almost daily basis,
she's either alone or talking to the cook; I doubt if she's been down to her
husband's hidey-hole very often.
Her husband seems to have reserved his husbandry for his workshop: the
heavy door almost reducing the pounding sound to tolerable proportions, his
work-benches are laid out as delicately and thoroughly as a table for an
inventive gourmet meal. Vices and trays hold components large and small,
each giving the impression that he left them that way just a moment ago. Not
that we saw much of the man himself: as the chief engineer and I came in
through one door, he left, shyly smiling, by the other.
After the chief had explained the varied tasks that the oiler had to perform, we
left by the second door, the oiler slipping back through the first door into the
home that he has created over the past 10 years aboard. A benevolent Golem.

The only other piece of 'personal feel' that I came across was on the chief
engineer's desk, where a baby teddy bear sits on top of and protects the
Emergency Stop button...
The rest of the chief engineer's own office is computer-driven, or rather
computer-analysed, computer-corrected (wherever possible) and, wherever not,
computer-alarmed to warn his crew they are about to get their hands dirty.
One computer has, not graphic representations of every machine, but plan and
elevation of every sequence of machines, every pipe & cylinder and every
catwalk, every room, with the position of each working sailor shown, each
fitter, turner and oiler -and even temporary objects, like me VIPing the place-
each of us colour-coded !
On the way up to lunch I saw that the pool had been filled, so that takes care of
an hour or two this afternoon.
Today's lunch was one of the meals that I especially enjoyed on the trip south:
boiled beef and 3 veg. with horseradish sauce, followed by fruit salad and
caramel ice cream.

When will I learn to keep my big mouth closed ?

After lunch, I thought an hour of Jeff Dunham (American ventriloquist) would be
good for digestion. It was an act I hadn't seen before and I was in the right
mood for a non-PC giggle. Then I put on my beachwear and gathered my
beach-ware (as I don't have to do battle with my 2 Germans for the chaise-
longue) and trotted down to B Deck. To find that the pool had been emptied !
Either that, or Kristian had been unable to tighten the stopcock sufficiently. So
no swim today. I had to make do with a deck chair on D Deck and the 2nd Ian
Rankin/DI Rebus novel ('The Naming of the Dead') that I'd brought from home...
At dinner, the captain told me that the sea-water had been dirty each time
they'd filled the pool, so they flushed out the system in preparation for
tomorrow. Must be kind to Kristian the next time I see him; not his fault at all.
I have obviously got back into the physical swing of things: the 56 steps down
from D Deck to the officers' mess, then the 84 steps from there up to the
bridge are once more taken in my stride...

After I buy a €20 phone card from the captain and make my calls to South
Africa and Switzerland, it'll be a quiet evening in chambers listening to the
Eddie Izzard and Peter Sellers CDs I bought in Cape Town...

Saturday, 1st March 2008

I would make a lousy weather forecaster ! Far from unremitting sunshine, it's
fairly bucketing down.
As the sea is cleaner this morning, the pool has been kindly filled with sea-
water at 20+°C... which is now being cooled down by the rainwater !

After the sun came out again, today's other high-spot was lifeboat drill.
Following the printed instructions beside my life-jacket, I filled my multiple
pockets with what I perceived to be essentials: cholesterol-management pills
for 2 weeks, aspirin, painkillers including Colchicine against a gout attack (!), 2
Swiss army knives, a torch, chewing gum, 2 packets of spelt biscuits with
thyme & sea salt. Round my neck I hung 2 pairs of cheapo-but-robust reading
and distance glasses (leaving my lovely Vietnamese progressives in the cabin)
and one of these two MP3 recorders that I've brought with me. Together with
my life-jacket and hard hat I took a full bottle of water for general use down to
the 32-seater.
I made my own way down to the lifeboat, joining the rest of the crew in waiting
for the 'boss' i.e. the first mate who would explain to us (in Polish) what exactly
was expected of us. It was very quiet, with little or no conversation; we were
rather like strangers standing at a bus stop. Then Darek arrived in a state of
panic. He'd been up to collect me from my chambers... and I wasn't there.
And he couldn't abandon ship without me, his special responsibility. He'd even
wasted more time looking for a spare hard hat, because, wherever he thought I
had hidden, I obviously was not prepared to escape from a sinking ship.
The smell inside the lifeboat suggested that the non-existent ship's cats had
gone forth and multiplied and then come home for a comforting pee... My eyes
were watering and didn't need a second bidding when I was invited to be the
first one to regain the fresh air.
When the crew had dispersed, I stripped off my clothes -remembering to
empty the pockets- and threw them into the washing machine. Then I had a
shower and brushed my teeth, before I felt clean enough to dive into the pool.

Supper was a Wiener Schnitzel (or a 'Milanese', depending on which part of

Austrian-dominated Europe you prepared your breaded veal) with four different
salads, followed by fresh fruit salad and ice cream. The captain had to hurry up
to the bridge for a phone call to his wife, so our conversation was quite short
and I was able to spend some quality time on deck contemplating the cloud
formations, before I put new batteries into the camera for my March 1st
sunsets...

Tonight, we put the clocks back an hour, the same time as back home in l'il ol'
Swizzerlnd.

Sunday, 2nd March

Straight into the pool after breakfast. I lay and floated for about half an hour.
Only then was I aware that someone had left the plug out again – the water
was barely up to my midriff.

While I was standing in the middle of the swimming pool in mild frustration, the
2nd officer came down the outside stairway, wearing trunks and carrying a
towel. When he saw the 'state of play' he froze on the stairway, leaning slightly
towards me: the kind of film still that calls for a caption in a tabloid
competition. Then he turned and RAN up to the next deck, disappearing from
view as the bulkhead door slammed behind him. I don't think I had moved
since I first caught sight of him.
A short pause, then he reappeared at the doorway at the same time as the 3rd
officer came out onto the wing of the bridge. After a shouted conversation
between them, the 2nd mate came down to lean over the rail of the pool.
He had called the bridge on the intercom to point out that the pool was almost
empty. But, as he was not on duty, he had to ask the OIC to have the pool
filled...
The 3rd mate came down from the bridge with Kristian and, after asking me to
come out of the water for safety's sake, they refilled the pool, made sure that
the stop-cock was properly tightened, wished us a pleasant morning's swim
and left us in peace.
We both seemed to have the same attitude to swimming today: short, sharp
bursts of activity, then drying off at leisure, poaching our feet in our own
rapidly evaporating puddles on the burning deck.
Which gave me a chance to find out what made him tick...
Of all the officers I've seen working on the bridge and in the chart-room, he
seems to be the most conscientious. Captain B obviously trusts his
navigational skills more than those of the other officers...
I've often caught him reading manuals and text books, so I asked him when he
expected to get his Master's Ticket.
When he said that he didn't, I presumed that it might be because of his age.
Not a bit of it...
He said that there was little possibility of a Master's Ticket without becoming a
First Mate/First Officer. So far, that seemed to be pretty clear. But:
“There is no way that I would wish to become a First Officer”.
“Why not?”
“For Polish crew, First Officers are looked as part of the management, but
captains and owners thinks of First Mates as being one of crew. A 2nd or 3rd
Mate is still one of the boys... you do things together with the other crew
members, but First Officers are in the middle... respected, sometimes, but not
never really trusted... Everybodies think you make part of the other side... of
the opposites (is that right?)... somebody's enemy, nobody's real friend on
board...”.
By now, the deck was blisteringly hot and we were scooping handfuls of water
out of the pool to try and cool down a corner large enough to stand on.
Kristian came down 3 or 4 times (to try and hear what we were talking about?)
but the 2nd Mate simply stopped talking whenever K was in earshot and stared
at him until he moved away.
One final session, swimming underwater and listening to the amplified ship's
noises, then it was time to go and shower off and go down for lunch.

After lunch I no longer had the pool to myself. Being Sunday afternoon, some
of the crew were making the most of their 'weekend' after coming off watch at
midday. The kindest thing I could do was leave them to it and retire to my little
corner table on the opposite side of D Deck from my cabin.
But while the crew deserve their relaxation, it's particularly hot this afternoon
and I hope there'll be a moment when I can get back into the water. Otherwise
I shall just have to trail in and out of the shower in my chambers.

Which is what I did...

Monday, 3rd March

The Chief came down from his 0400-0800 watch for a late breakfast; the
captain and I were just sitting quietly without talking. The Chief said that the
sea-water temperature had been 27C all night (with a knowing smile for my
benefit) and that we'd passed the Golden Isle on her way south... and that her
cargo had not looked very stable. Golden Isle has been chartered by MACS and
is on the reverse course to ours: 133 degrees, as opposed to our 317 degrees.
It seems that MACS is the only company using this route at the moment, all the
other ships either hugging the coast or making for Ascension or St Helena.
After leaving Walvis Bay, we stay on 317 for 8 days, without variation...
although in actual fact, we are on 321 at the moment, to compensate for the
effects of a current pushing us away from the eastern land mass. Then, on a
line between Cabo Verde Islands and Cap Vert in Senegal, we finally change
course to make for the Canary Islands.

Captain Böckmann on the future of cargo and container shipping:

“It's a question of diminuendoing returns” (sic, sic, sic, but I love it!) “The new
container ships being built most by the Chinese are more than 350 metres
long. I told you I could sail Grey Fox with a skeleton crew, but need at least 20
to do maintenance and repairs. She is 192m long. How many more crew you
think you need for every extra 10 metres of length? There are already a lack of
officers and it will get worser”.
He believes that these massive container ships are being commissioned & built
for and by people who have only a theoretical knowledge of life (and death) at
sea... There's a need for quality training, elitist training, but the problem in
Germany is that this may be seen as a throwback to the Nazi era. Then his
monologue mysteriously filters down to his daughter Kristin and her precocious
ability in reading and writing...

I remember very little about the trip back to the UK on the Llangibby Castle in
1948, except that it seemed to be over in no time; I suppose my head was too
full of everything that had happened in those few months in Cape Town. Things
that had changed my life completely and would then throw me back into the
same Coventry-setting that I'd left the previous February; where nothing had
changed, yet everything was slightly different, viewed through a prism, people
standing beside themselves, each version a slightly different hue... and cry...
In my little 9yr-old world, I got the message as soon as I set foot on 'home'
ground: I had said good-bye to my world, to my childhood sweetheart, to my
teachers at Folly Lane Primary School, a school that had nurtured both my
parents, a school that had escaped or been reborn from the blitz, a school that
was there for all eternity.
Now the buildings were the same, most of the teachers were the same, my
childhood sweetheart Maggie Riley was almost the same... but the school was
now called Gosford Park... not for the first time and certainly not for the last, I
doubted my own existence.

Time on the Grey Fox has started to accelerate away from itself. Even though
we 'gained' an hour the other night, that was small compensation for days of
hours which get shorter by the minute. If I just lay back and enjoy the few
remaining days of good weather, the trip will be as short as a squeezed
concertina. So I'll try and stay in limbo, use AMON, 'The Anecdotal Memoirs of
Charles Worrod' plus the days we spent together in February 2008 to tease out
those thoughts and memories that I have tried to compress into nothingness
for so long... some of them quite possibly from that boat trip 60 years ago.

Tuesday, 4th March

For the first time, I found breakfast really frustrating ! The sea-water is still
27°C and I had planned to have a morning of lazing around, in and out of the
water as much as I want while I have the pool to myself, before the morning
watch come off duty and have a much-earned splash about, and before the
deck gets too hot to walk barefoot...
Captain Böckmann didn't have anything particular he wanted to discuss or hold
forth about; he simply wanted to sit... so we sat together from 07:30 until
09:35, long tracts of silence being broken by the odd piece of chit-chat. He
tried to resurrect one or two of his pet hobby-horses, but you could tell his
heart wasn't in it. He simply wanted to sit in silence. In company. So we sat...
Some sits and thinks and some just sits...

He harked back to yesterday's conversation about German education:

standardised education v elitist education, and the opportunities that should
open up to his 6yr-old daughter.

We agreed to differ about doping at the Olympics... Eugenics, anyone?

An inspector had come aboard in Walvis Bay. He'd complained that the Grey
Fox name on the lifeboat was painted in the wrong place “...because” as Capt B
points out: “ when we are sinking, there will be so many lifeboats from other
ships, that we might not know which one we are...”

Grandma Worrod had a particular friend called Mrs Whetton. Charles'

childhood memory of Mrs Whetton is of a very fat lady with a beautiful
contralto voice accompanied at the piano by his mother, my grandmother. My
memory of her, 25yrs later is of an enormously fat lady who was my saviour; in
those years of wartime food and sweet rationing, Mrs Whetton could be
counted on to greet me at her front door with a small tin of Nestle's condensed
milk – note the lack of acute accent, as Nestlé was simply 'Nessles' in those
days, leading directly, no doubt, to their first milky competitors: Fussels.
Mrs Whetton was a regular visitor to 32, Glencoe Rd, but I don't remember ever
having heard her sing. And I never heard Grandma Worrod play the piano...
never saw a piano... didn't even know she could play... music, such as it was,
came from my maternal grandparents' house...
Granddad Horton, an LMS railway porter, had an extraordinary hobby: he hand-
made high quality violins. After his death, some of them sold for 'proper'
money, but I don't believe he ever earned anything, apart from an infinite
supply of patience - something that did not at all marry with his incredibly short
fuse in most situations. He obviously impressed Charles, because one of my
father's stock stories is from the time when he was courting my mother. It was
a Saturday afternoon and granddad was french-varnishing a violin that had
taken him most of the winter to complete when the young couple came home
for the ritual Saturday afternoon tea of toasted pikelets. But before tea,
because it was just before 5.30pm and time for Sports Report and the all-
important reading of the Football Results, granddad put down the violin,
opened the lid of the radio console and switched on in time for the valves to
warm up. Then, football pools coupon & pencil in hand, he went back to sit in
his chair by the window. Charles expresses very well his terror as my
grandfather sat on his creation. But instead of the explosion that he expected,
Charles remembers him picking up the splintered violin, saying something
utterly banal and defusing, like “Oh dear......”.

After we came back from South Africa, we stayed with Grandma & Granddad
Horton, in Terry Rd, but I spent as much time as I could with my 'best friend',
Grandma Worrod. I helped her make elderberry wine from the fruit off the tree
in her back garden, she let me beat her at 'snap'. I used to thump away with
the dolly in the washtub and turn the mangle trying not to break the bone and
mother-of-pearl buttons... she improved dramatically at 'draughts' as I learned
the strategies, soon being able to play me on equal terms. I used to squat
behind my grandfather's chair using a magnetised comb to make his few
remaining hairs stand up from his bald pate, she alternated severe grand-
motherly frowns with barely contained giggles and eyes running with tears of
laughter, both of us complicit in how far 'Charlie' played before he became
(officially) aware and had to decide how to deal with each of us.
I had a friend further up Glencoe Road who was in my class at Gosford Park
(he'd been there at Folly Lane as well, as had virtually everyone in my class;
after all, I'd only been away a few months). Michael Hudson was usually close
to the top of the class in exams, so it was quite a surprise when he did badly in
his 11+ and ended up at one of the newfangled 'comprehensive' schools. My
childhood sweetheart Margaret 'Maggie' Riley went to the same
comprehensive, but from choice; she wanted to learn secretarial skills, leave
school as soon as possible, and get a job to help support her mother...
When I started back at Folly Lane/Gosford Park, I arrived just in time for the
casting of the Christmas play, which was along the lines of 'Sleeping Beauty'. I
remember Michael Hudson was the King and then the teacher said “Margaret
will be the Princess”. A chance to be forgiven by my childhood sweetheart for
having gone away ! A chance to kiss my Princess with the teacher's blessing !
Not just 'on the night', but during rehearsals as well ! Of course I would have to
be her Prince Charming; “Miss ! Miss ! Please Miss, choose me... Please !
Bags I the Prince ! Miss... “
And I got it ! The part. And the kiss.
Except...
The teacher meant Margaret Watts, not Margaret Riley ! My Margaret (Riley)
was more mature and she would play the Queen...
I'd got nothing against Margaret Watts, except that she wasn't Margaret Riley.
And I'd sworn undying love to Maggie Riley at the Saturday Morning Gaumont
British (GB) Club just days before I went to South Africa:
“We come along on Saturday morning,
Greeting everybody with a smile.
We come along on Saturday morning,
Knowing that it's well worth while.
As members of the GB Club
We all intend to be
Good citizens when we grow up
And champions of the free...”

I'd even given her half a silver sixpence on a string to wear around her neck.
Granddad Horton had helped me cut the coin in two and drill small holes in
each piece. And sand down the rough edges. And I'd given that to Maggie
Riley. Not Margaret Watts.

But Margaret Watts HAD taught me a poem before I went to South Africa. I
recited it to Miss Hollis and she wasn't very pleased...

“Little fly upon the wall

Ain't you got no clothes at all?
No hat ? No coat ? No shimmy-shirty ?
Oh, cor blimey, ain't you dirty !?!”

But I was still prepared to kiss her (Margaret Watts, that is), when the prince
had to wake her up.

Instead...

Something happened. I swear I had nothing to do with it, but the casting went
through a sea change! The two Margarets must have changed parts, because I
found myself looking down at 'my' Maggie waiting to be awoken with a magic
kiss...
(27/04/09 Margaret Watts became a nurse, is now retired and lives in
Warwick. We've recently made contact via Friends Reunited. This is what
Margaret Coggins née Watts wrote a couple of months ago about that
Christmas end of term show at Gosford Park when we were 9yr-olds:
Hello Roger.
I am glad that you are living well and still enjoy working.
I do remember when you played Prince Charming to Margaret Riley's Sleeping
Beauty. I was the fairy godmother. The consternation it caused when you had
to kiss her to awaken her. The class was very noisy about that. Knowing your
feelings as far as she was concerned, I am certain you enjoyed the rehearsals
and performances!!! Were we in Mr Batt's class for that can you remember?

Mr Batt?? Miss Hollis?? It wasn't 'Diddy' Thomas. And it certainly wasn't Miss
Garlick, because she was the Head mistress!
In another mail, Margaret told me (reminded me?) that she had come to see
Macbeth at the Mermaid Theatre in London in 1964. And she came back the
following night, a Sunday, to see our special one-off production of Pirandello's
'Lazarus'. Margaret Coggins'/Watts' name is on several 'Friends Reunited'
groups and we overlap at primary school and The Umbrella Club. I wonder if
she realises where her little fly led me ?)

The following year's play was completely different: 'Whitewashing the Fence'
taken from a Mark Twain story. I had my nose put out of joint when the teacher
cast Roy Harritey as Tom Sawyer and I was even more pissed off when I didn't
make it into the 'gang' either. For some godforsaken reason, the teacher,
'Diddy' Thomas, wanted an all-male cast (shades of something probably seen
at the Royal Bloody Shakespeare Memorial Theatre in Stratford-upon-Avon).
And I was cast as Aunt Polly – Eddie Izzard eat your heart out !
Of course, when I'd got over the initial shock (and shame! Goalkeepers didn't
usually dress up like pantomime dames), I threw myself into the production and
soon started to enjoy it.
The end of term concert came around and I also had to sing one of the
soprano solos in the 23rd Psalm.
After 'Whitewashing the Fence'.
With no time to change.
The 23rd Psalm in Drag.
But the show must go on, so...
...after Michael Hudson had sung his solo verse, I removed my Aunt Polly wig
and (amid the imagined gasps of the audience: “It's a boy!”) my solo and
descant were surely followed by goodness and mercy for the rest of my days...

My soccer bowl was brimming over, as I found myself in goal for Coventry Boys
Juniors, making friends with Pete Clark in the process. Pete was a thalidomide
baby with one arm finishing in a couple of tiny fingers at the elbow. After we
both won scholarships to Bablake, Pete's other arm would throw a cricket ball,
make him a very competent batsman and support my body throughout our
swimming and life-saving medals. Soccer was our special sport, but Bablake
was a rugger school.
My natural ability to be able to tackle well at rugger had certainly saved me
from being beaten up too often at S.A.C.S. in Cape Town, my friendship with the
Reingold cousins being a much-needed lifeline. But I was not at all sure I
wanted to give up the round ball for the oval one, scholarship or no scholarship.
Although I gave my all during House Matches, I never really improved at rugby
after everyone else started to grow and rapidly left me behind; even breaking
Jack Pilbin's nose was an accident, rather than an act of aggression. And Pete's
various prostheses were not much use for catching or passing the ball. But the
linked story does have a conclusion. Years later, in the winter before 'O' levels,
there were two photographs in the 'Pink' edition of the Coventry Evening
Telegraph. One of Pete Clark successfully 'nutmegging' a wing half, his empty
sleeve flapping in the breeze; the other of me diving and flipping the ball round
the post (one of my last games as goalkeeper, because I had finally found my
real position at old-style left half). The following week Pete and I were both
added to the 2nd XV rugger teams. But, of course, we never played.

Down the years, I kept an eye and an ear open for Margaret Riley... not too
intrusively when I was at Bablake (although I would often find myself cycling
along her back entry in Hollis Rd), but when I started to lose touch with my
roots again, I wrote to her from RADA. No reply. And no immediate way of
making contact again, because I was no longer welcome at home in Coventry...

When I left Courtaulds and went to the Royal Academy, my mother would not
have me in the house again... ever... for life... well, what turned out to be
several months, anyway ! She said it was because I had ceased to respect my
step-father, but only now, reading my father's memoirs, has the penny finally
dropped. I knew Wynne, Charles' second wife, had been a dancer, that my
father was involved in music production in Nairobi. What I didn't know was the
extent to which the whole of his side of the family – Charles, Wynne, Alaric and
Jenetta – were involved in amateur & semi-professional theatre and show-biz
PR. As became clear near the end of her life, my mother knew a damn sight
more about the doings of my father and his family than she ever told me. But I
was in the dark. My life in the theatre had come about because the dozen or
so local amateur shows that I did each year were just not enough...

When my step-father prevailed upon my mother and I was allowed to 'visit',

one of my first trips outside the house was down to Hollis Rd to see Margaret.
Her mother was there, but Maggie was out. So I went back to London,
sweetheart-less, but more or less accepted back into the family.
Trips to Coventry were sometimes frequent, sometimes few and far between,
but 131 Hollis Rd remained a constant. While Margaret herself had become an
enigma. Sometimes she seemed pleased to see me, sometimes almost
indifferent, other times wildly glad and demonstrative, and at others closed and
aloof. But I kept coming back...
From some of my trips around the world...
From Rome in 1969 when I was contemplating marriage and wanted to talk to
her about it... and later from Florence after I had been divorced...
When I carry a torch, I really carry a torch, but I finally got the message that
'Margaret wasn't in' even when she was... and I stopped my erstwhile
pilgrimages to the house that looked up the road to the gates of Folly
Lane/Gosford Park. But every so often I have heard an echo; the last thing I
heard was that she had retired from the Coventry City Libraries and was going
to start something new. With someone. A man. I think.
(01/05/09. I found the word/acronym (as it was in capitals) ALES in the
middle of my transcriptions which I must have written as some kind of
memory-jogger on 4th March, but I didn't record anything that could have
been a reference and now I haven't a clue why I wrote it.)

Relationships with women have always been important and delineating. But as
in most things, I am an 'either/or' person. I appreciate appropriateness, believe
in bilateral symmetry, comprehend compromise, even teach it to CEOs of
multinationals, but when it comes down to it, I'm an either/or person. Yes or
no, good or bad, love or... indifference. Intellectually I know that the world is
made up of a variety of greys, but at a gut level I expect things to be black or
white, I'm still the non-group-joiner 'ban-the-bomb'er I used to be (knowing that
out there there is, or will be, someone stupid enough or vindictive enough to
push the button), still the little boy who expects grown-ups to be knights in
shining armour. Knights and damsels.
Either I am absurdly, blindly (and boringly ?) monogamous, or feel free to take
whatever I fancy as fair game and game fare. Either/or. Neither of which is
totally real.
I don't think I was ever taught to trust or respect women. I've spent a long
time trying to learn to, but I think the Jesuits and Eric Berne are right: we learn
our life scripts long before we go to primary school. Snakes can slough off their
skins when they become too tight and restrictive; I think most human beings
find that much more difficult to do.

We 'crossed the line' during dinner, at 17:56, over 500 N miles south of Liberia.
Capt. B talked about taxes and how the big boys make an honest living by
committing what would be criminal acts if you or I were to try it. We both seem
to be of the opinion that the individual should be allowed to profit a little more
from his or her labours, but that companies should have all of the loopholes
closed and that government should keep their fingers out of the pie...
It's the Champions' League tonight, but I doubt if the Poles will think to invite
me to watch their satellite TV.
I think I'll go and film the sunset !
Tonight we will put our clocks back another hour. Not because of the equator,
not to conform to any country's official time (Vigo, our next port of call is one
hour behind South Africa, the same as the rest of Europe except for Portugal
and the UK), but simply to ensure that our Ordinary and Able Bodied seamen
have enough hours of daylight to keep up with maintenance and repair. It's a
temporary arrangement and we'll lose an hour sometime after Friday's
barbecue to get back onto Vigo time.