Inkerman Writers - Richard McElheran

They lived symmetrical lives but behind the cool façade lurked strong emotions….

Broken Symmetry

Sophia and Robert were angular people who lived symmetrical lives in an angular house. Their angles were acute and always minimalist, emotions calibrated and switched off at predetermined points, as if the plan for the relationship had passed through a computer-aided design programme and come out precisely manufactured. Comfort was in the strict containment the blue print provided.

They lived in House, a modernist wedge of equilateral triangle filled front and back by braces of interlocked aluminium, each forming smaller triangles - invisible cocoons of double glazed plate glass. The French slate pitched roof formed all that mattered of the side walls. House compared and contrasted itself with the rounded contours of the Sussex downland it wedged itself into, making less of the incongruity than its architect ’s fee entitled it to. Sophia and Robert saw House as an elegant expression of progressive modern taste, a world away from middle England. The principal attraction of the well to do corner of Sussex it was forced into was that it was not Surrey - a county of mock this and that and conformity searching for taste. Sussex provided elegant green trees, a tasteful vista and plentiful soft edged light to filter through the windows. Rather than permeate and add soul to House, it brought permissible views into a triangulated world.

Sophia and Robert were of the generic breed of adult, too old to have the rapacious and disordered desires of youth and not old enough to face the indignities of hormone replacement therapy or heart bypass surgery. Sophia was 5 ft 9 and slender to one decimal place of anorexia. She had an unusually pale complexion, contained grey eyes and shoulder length auburn hair. Robert was 5 ft 11 and elegantly cut, but not to the quick. His large dark brown eyes spoke only to those content to settle for the hope of hidden depths.

Robert was a partner in a well known firm of solicitors and Sophia an actuary employed by an accountant and management consultancy of international repute. Robert had told Sophia that, as they were professional people with independent means, it was advisable for them to enter into a prenuptial contract, which they did. Sophia brought her professional skills to bear and marked the likely date of Robert ’s death on her cerebral Year Planner for a certain year hence.

Sophia’s unusually narrow pelvis made it inadvisable for her to bear children and Robert could not father them due to the precautionary action he had taken prior to their marriage. Children were maximalist and ran contrary to fastidious calculation. Besides, careers suffered from children, and it was best to leave children to those who really wanted them and who could not keep their instincts under control.

So far as Sophia and Robert had passions, France and things French came very close to counting as such – pincered at the very top of their pyramid management structure of permissible pleasures. They were as content to travel there together or to explore the terrain alone when travelling ‘on business’. Sophia’s and Robert’s respect for French culture and its far from minimalist past ran an unperceived muck through the sensibilities they brought to bear in England. They could accept the self conscious decadence of Paris and the extravagance of French chateaux, whilst frivolous Brighton and the restrained splendour of the great English houses sent shivers up their spines. Sophia and Robert brought only the elegant side of France back to England. Robert would play Faure ’s piano music for himself and to Sophia, and good French wine was essential to their everyday living.

Sophia knew that Robert was leading a life beyond the prescribed parameters when she found that she required treatment for a communicable disease; Robert ’s affair with Paris evidently had bodily form. This was outside the acute angles which set the parameters of their relationship. It was into the obtuse, the wide none of my business. It was a breach of trust nonetheless, and trust was necessary to keep the symmetry of the relationship. Sophia and Robert concurred that parameters which were not agreed mutually would become wayward; the results uncoordinated, unconditional and destructive. Sophia had agreed to the blue print knowingly. However, the precise weighting of the influences which bear on humanity were so much a part of her professional life that she had become a realist of proven clinical excellence. Sophia had known that Robert would slip through his own strictures eventually, and he had done so at much the time Sophia ’s actuarial assessment of him indicated that he would falter.

Sophia decided that Robert’s actions must be treated as moved parameters rather than breaches of contract. In so angular and carefully calculated a relationship, a changed parameter by the one necessitated an equal and opposite shift by the other. To maintain symmetry, this had to be. Sophia started to play attention to Hugh, a thirty something management consultant who lived alone in a three-bedroomed semi-detached house in Guildford circa 1973, UPVC conservatory circa 1992 at the rear. Like Robert, Hugh could play the piano but, unlike him, he could not read music. Convulsive and propulsive boogie woogie were his thing and, as it transpired, Sophia ’s too.

Sophia never questioned Robert about his Parisian activities, nor whether he had the treatment she knew he needed. She told him that she was had a cyst and that sex was off the agenda for the time being. This was something of a relief for Robert because he had always found sex with women something of a trial. The no sex with the other arrangement continued quite amicably for some time; both parties drawing on their extra-marital affiliations to satisfy their desires. But, neither could deny that these alliances created a new symmetry which had little regard for the legitimate and carefully crafted relationship Robert and Sophia had worked so hard to contain.

Sitting in Hugh’s conservatory and with their new baby to her breast, Sophia relaxed and let her thoughts adjust as whimsy dictated. Perhaps her marriage had come apart because neither she nor Robert were able to sign up completely to the exactitude of their symmetrical relationship - turning with the sharp angles and back again when the agreed limits had been reached. She had been loosed from the constraints when she had discovered that love had much to commend it. Robert may have discovered the same, but the prospect of scandal had been too much for him to bear. The only way out for him was to break the symmetry completely, to obliterate it.

Sophia had predicted the time of Robert’s death with disquieting accuracy, but she did not anticipate the cause. Her assessment had indicated that Robert ’s family’s propensity to heart disease and his stressful career would get the better of him, not suicide! She mused that the fire which killed Robert and destroyed House had left a fitting monument to their relationship, no more elegant angles, but tangled metal and ashes.

It’s supposed to be a happy time but behind the children’s smiles there are strong forces at work…

The Teddy Bears’ Picnic

‘OK then, just so long as you don’t expect me to be Bruno Bear again!’

Des Dailey, the Chair of Governors, put an end to one of those discussions which should have taken no more than five minutes. Everyone else dug their toes deeply into the soles of their shoes, each bracing him or her self to be credited as the ideal candidate for metamorphosing into Bruno Bear. Chris Shildon ’s toes were not quite so firmly fixed. As headteacher, he had a duty to take a lead of sorts - and he was far too nice to let things get really uncomfortable for anyone. With the diffident determination that was his trade mark, he broke the silence.

‘I suppose I could do it. The children would never guess its me. It might be quite fun really. ’

‘Haven’t you got enough to do Chris; only if you are sure?’

piped up the nice Parent Governor, who had no intention of becoming a bear herself.

‘Yes, only if you are sure!’ added the others, in near unison.

The deal was done, Chris was to be Bruno Bear and the Teddy Bear’s Picnic would go ahead. On 20th May, this 38 year old father of blond twins would be a three metre tall brown bear with a two and a half metre girth! It was inconceivable that the mini bus would not get a new big end, and the Mkumwe School for Aids Orphans new teaching materials.

Woodside Primary was mostly a happy school. Christopher John Shildon, B Mus. PGCE was an unlikely candidate to be a primary head teacher, but he was not to be underestimated. Although he was 5ft.10 or thereabouts, Chris was slight and fine boned. Indeed, he looked delicate and this impression was heightened by his sallow complexion and soft unassuming voice. Somehow though, he never got blown over or off course. Sensing the safety and benevolence of his presence, the children had taken to him instantly. As for his colleagues, after surprisingly few months, their ‘what have we here?’ apprehensions were stifled and they found themselves being drawn past grudging respect to real affection for him . Chris played the baroque oboe nearly as well as he could teach and he and his family were pivotal members of the local church.

Joy Baldwin was the Deputy Head and the antithesis of Chris. Although she shared in the mutual affection, she thought him too nice. He really took the living the Christian life bit to extremes! She was not unkind herself, but she liked definites. She was definite, albeit that her range of definitions was rather limited. She had never been really happy nor unhappy and her flights of fancy remained firmly earthbound. Physically, Joy was large-boned and robust. Her face changed colour with her emotions - on a continuum from pink to scarlet. Her family co-existed, and she did not know or understand how others could function differently.

The day of the picnic arrived! It was a week before the Whitsun half term holiday and the weather was unseasonably hot and muggy! The spinney by the side of the playing field was scourged of anything undesirable and the ground around the old oak at the centre had been cleared in readiness for the arrival of car rugs, bears and people. A treasure hunt had been laid and the nice Parent Governor and her fairly nice friends had ensured that a creditable amount of carefully prepared school faitery was ready to slide into place at 3.30. The parents ’ barbecue would be ready to combust a little later.

As Chris took his customary post-assembly stroll around the school, he mused that the event should really have been called ‘Income Generation R Us’. It certainly looked as though ticket sales would result in bums on grass. The coat pegs along the infants ’ corridor supported a bunting of carrier bags with teddies of all shapes and sizes residing in them. Those tall and clever enough peered out. The Juniors ’ corridor seemed at first to be less promising, but only because it was more discretely populated. The teddies there were lurking, bulges in the vaults of Nike or Addidas sports bags.

Back at his office, and after a very long telephone conversation with the Educational Welfare Officer about whether support could be given to the McFee family and if so what kind, Chris glanced out of his window to see Joy frogmarching Liam McFee and Tyler Woods across the playing field - in a manner that was just about legal. Chris dared not look at Joy ’s face; he knew that he would see the furies erupt soon enough - the dreadful deed would be declaimed! He just knew that Joy ’s count-down to demanding that Liam be excluded had reached zero.

Liam and Tyler delivered safely to Chris’ office and break begun, Joy thrust open the Staff Room door. She marched purposefully towards and swung heavily into one of the institutional orange Draylon covered easy chairs. Almost as soon as she had swung into it, she swung out again. The tea urn was some feet away, and tea did not get itself! She was sweating slightly, and had the slight aroma of one making good use of preparations designed to keep woman fresh until the end of the day. Her face seemed to be reddening to match the stale ginger of her hair; she was cross rather than tense. As with many teachers of a certain age, any vestiges of tension routinely dissipated through her fulsome frame, just in time for the Deputy Head in her to be back on form by the end of break. Tea was essential to this process however, fairly strong and with two sweeteners in it. Just carefully enough to avoid spilling the tea, Joy lunged back to her chair.

‘Do you know what I caught Liam McFee and Tyler Woods up to, does anyone?’ It really beggars belief!’

‘What now?’ butted in Kathleen White, the Year 5 teacher and Joy’s side-kick. Joy took a deep breath.

‘They stole teddies brought in for the picnic, from the infants’ corridor! Then they went to the wood. Yes, to the wood! Somehow made nooses out of the bailer twine, that WAS holding up the sweet peas in the Mkumwe Appeal Garden. And, hanged them! ’

‘I suppose they think its funny’ added Kathleen to order.

‘I don’t care what they think; these jokers have got to learn! Its all very well being ten, but! I just know it, Chris won ’t exclude them. He’ll get their parents in, but NO he won’t say the e word.’

Joy was right, Chris was very reluctant to exclude the boys. It would just make things worse. Liam was not a bad lad, and he had a lot to seek attention about. Tyler just followed Liam and was still waiting to engage some brain cells to consider the possible consequences of his actions. As it was, Chris was demanding the boys ’ assistance with getting the teddies down from their old oak gallows. He felt almost ashamed of his feeling that the boys had shown sound taste when choosing which bears to do away with. There were four of them. The pair on the highest branch were quite small, one corset pink and the other putrid peppermint green. Both had My Little Love Bear emblazoned across their ghastly chests. Slightly lower down, there was a large vacant looking bear with long golden hair which looked as if it had been permed. And then, on the lowest branch and with the tightest noose was Mr Cuddles – the less said about him the better!

Just twenty minutes before, the boys had shinned up the oak with apparent ease; but now, the cocktail of being caught, a little guilt and a lot of sulking had somehow sapped them of the adrenalin necessary to repeat the act. In the end, it was down to Chris. The boys stared open-mouthed as their head teacher ascended heavenward. This weed of a teacher couldn ’t half climb trees - he was almost cool! Chris grabbed a Love Bear, which responded by announcing ‘ Hurg mi, lurv mi’ in its best Philippino English. Its mate responded identically. The boys rolled on the ground in uncontrollable hysterics, and Chris wasted no time in throwing the bears down to repeat their entreaties on impact with the squirming bodies. The other bears followed. Chris held on tight, very tight. He was as surprised as the boys at his ability to climb, but now he felt strange - strangely disengaged from the World, and his heart? It was beating furiously. Chris was not scared of heights - it was not that. But, he had to get down. His strength had to hold up. Chris being Chris, it did. He returned Liam and Tyler to class, and himself to his office. He had a glass of water, and felt distinctly unwell for the rest of the morning.

It was hot inside Bruno Bear and very uncomfortable. His previous occupants were evidently large bear-like people who had challenged the stretch of the Lycra inner suit. As Chris ’ build was more Bambi than bear, when he moved around, Bruno did not. It took quite an effort to get anywhere. Bruno ’s paw shook many hands, including those of his twins. They asked whether he had seen their father - Chris was mute, but Bruno nodded. Every infant who presented a hand had it shaken heartily. A few juniors shook hands too, including Liam and Tyler. Finally, Bruno put a paw gently on Chris ’ wife’s shoulder and swung round to pat Joy on the back with his other one, with well judged aim. Somehow, Bruno won a baby bear at the tombola!

From Chris’ self imposed hide, he could observe. He liked observing. He could not play, ‘Whose Teddy Am I?’ because each bear was already with his family. As with dogs, it seemed that teddies looked like their owners. The Love Bears belonged to Poppy Pollard – who was all pink and white with superfluous bows, a marsh mallow countenance. The permed bear belonged to Enigma Mussolini-Sanderson. She too had long wavy golden hair, and a look that told one nothing. Mr Cuddles was Julian ’s. Chris worried about Julian, and the affect of Julian’s mother on Julian. The Badcocks were there. They were a nice but slightly ‘rough’ family, who had nice but slightly rough bears. These were bashed about a bit and had very little hair, just like Stuart and Bradley.

Chris turned around and realised that he had entered the space appropriated by the Robertsons, a very neat family. Two, beautifully preened and very bear-like teddies were dressed identically in kilts and tartan waste-coats covering white dress shirts. Both had exquisitely embroidered sporrans. They sat side by side on a matching tartan rug. Plainly, they were far too well mannered to ask their hosts for anything to eat or to point out that they were showing their underwear. Bruno was standing behind the mother and two daughters, who were sitting cross-legged on another rug of a different Tartan - Chris hoped that it belonged to a clan on friendly terms with that of the teddies. Mrs Robertson, Catherine and Imogen were eating carrot sticks, which were being dipped into something yoghurty, very tidily. The Robertsons ’ neatness was not just on the surface. As the teddies had noticed, the backs of their jeans had failed to keep pace with their underwear, and each of the three showed a semi-circular smile of very clean white knickers, like celestial builders he thought.

Turning to his side, Chris saw the four McFee children and Mrs McFee. As always, the children were well dressed and clean, but no teddies? One child was eating crisps, another was throwing crisps at the Robertsons ’ backs, a third was picking up and eating the crisps thrown, and the fourth was trying to take crisps from whichever of his siblings looked the most vulnerable at a given moment. Chris felt sorry for Mrs McFee, a good looking woman, probably no more than 30, but so tired. Despite her skilfully applied make-up, Chris could see a large and fairly fresh bruise under her left eye.

Des Dailey was holding forth on making barbecues work, the Prime Minister, the Local Education Authority, Rugby League, canned lager and French cars. He was doing this in the midst of black smoke. Then he saw Joy marching purposefully towards him, and snapped -

‘Yes, there will be chicken wings, sausages and even vegetarian sausages – eventually!’

Joy was in purposeful mode, talking over everyone and taking absolutely no notice.

‘How many men does it take to make a barbecue? I’ll tell you! One to light it, one to burn the food and SIX to stand around being useless. Move over you lot! Where ’s the foil? Where’s the chicken wings? No you can’t forget the vegetarians. The Piecebridges’ are, and the Cohens’ can’t eat that!’

Chris had become very hot and uncomfortable, but he was enjoying this scene. The discomfort was worth it to see Joy put Des Dailey so firmly in his place. What was more, the food would be edible and was likely to arrive this side of midnight. Chris looked forward to sampling the full works once Bruno was back in his box.

At last it was time for Chris to hand out the prizes. He could not announce them himself if he were to avoid blowing his cover. He moved slowly towards Des Dailey, who had swapped the barbecue for a private and very meaningful conversation with the nice Parent Governor. He slapped him on the back, put his paw on Des ’ shoulder, and marched him to the prize giving spot under the oak. Des concurred, silent and open mouthed. The physical effort required for Chris to do this was huge, but he was enjoying not being himself very much now. Des mustered his bluster and made quite a witty speech, appropriate through being totally predictable in content. Bruno shook a few more hands, and to Chris ’ embarrassment had to award first and second prize for the treasure hunt to his twins - he hoped that the little children at least had not guessed who Bruno really was. Standing within the canopied clutch of the oak, that had so nearly caused him to falter only a few hours previously, added to Chris ’ sense of unease. His heart seemed to be beating faster and faster. He mustered the strength to present the prize for the best dressed bear jointly to Catherine and Imogen pp Mrs Robertson for their Scottish pair.

Des cleared his throat.

‘And finally, in this jar, I have the names of the people who guessed correctly who is inside Bruno. As bear ’s paws are not very good at picking up small pieces of paper, I shall do this for him. Is that OK Bruno?

The bear nodded.

‘So then, the winner is err Liam McFee!’

Amidst the pain in his chest that was rapidly overwhelming him, Chris saw the delighted face of a boy who never won anything.

The bear held out his paw to Liam, swayed and fell to the ground, bringing his unwitting assassin down with him. Chris was dead and, as Liam hugged at the now empty bear, he received the additional prize of a life-long burden.

PART B: COMMENTARY

I really did attend a Teddy Bears’ Picnic at the Infant School my daughter used to attend. The headteacher dressed up as a bear, the Chair of Governors was blustering around the barbecue, and there was a very neat family unwittingly showing their underwear. Thankfully, the Head is still alive! In some ways, he is quite like Chris though. This school ’s Deputy Head was the starting for Joy Baldwin, Joy having a greatly exaggerated version of her personality. She does not look like Joy. I saw Joy ’s physical match a few months ago marching out of the ladies’ toilet at The Sage, with such determination that the foyer seemed to clear in front of her. So, Joy is an amalgam and the more formidable for that.

I had initially wondered whether to make the story a variant on Browning’s Pied Piper, with the bear leading the children away to an uncertain fete. I had thought also about whether abuse of some form might come into it. I am glad that I decided not to make things too sinister however, albeit that I hope the story gains from having its sad though not totally unexpected twist at the end. I hope too that it gains from being about sympathetic characters; no-one is really bad, nor would they have the slightest intention that Chris or anyone else should come to harm. I hoped that the sad ending would be more poignant for that. I not think that the slightly understated sort of humour which comes most easily to me would sit easily within a real horror story.

Chris and Joy became vivid characters for me and I was helped greatly in making them us such by deciding their history and characteristics by using the template suggested at 5.2, and living with them and adding to their biography over a couple of weeks. The Course Book gave me to think about how the characters would react in different circumstances and to consider the over-all effect of being with and near them. For example, although it was obvious that tree climbing would not be something Chris went in for every day, the mental determination which got him through most things would enable him to succeed, albeit at a physical cost.

I toyed with the idea of Chris telling the story in the first person, but decided not to as he was going to die at the end and it would have been hard to make it clear to the reader that he was dead. I thought also that using the first person would prevent there being an accurate picture of Chris emerging. He probably did not see himself as being out of the ordinary in any way and he would have had a more kindly view of Joy and Des Dailey than would be true to life or interesting. Given this, I felt that the story had to be told in the omniscient third person, albeit with Chris being allowed some scope for stream of consciousness.

I wrote the first draft of the story a fortnight before looking at it again. I am glad I did this because it enabled me to cut or tighten up parts that had seemed like good ideas at the time, but which looked less promising in retrospect.

Counting Sheep

One sheep, two sheep, Wensleydale cheese sheep

Near sleep, where’s sheep, inconsequential breed sheep

Black sheep, tear sheet, bitter beer sleep

Crack sheep, she’ll be alright, worry about daughter at the club sleep.

Ram raid, man made, a depressed March Hare, in need of a high. Sleep

Three bags full sleep, master, dame, and little lamb down the lane sheep

Wool over eyes sheep, close my eyes ‘til dawn bleat sleep

Never mind, why sheep - oh for deep sleep.

Turn sleep, burn sheep, seeing the solicitor next morning sleep

Slow wave mutton, REM sheep, fluttering eyes for them sleep

Penned sheep, condemned sleep, searched for paschal lamb sheep.

Shout it out from the sleeple, the Lamb of God for the people!

World of Ship

Very small ship in a shake-up-a-storm paper weight – an executive toy

For those young enough to think it wonderful.

My daughter stares in

Table holding elbows and elbows holding chin

Chin anchoring eyes on very small ship.

A shaft of winter sun shines through the ship’s turquoise pool

And defines Ruth’s acquiescent face.

Her thoughts range on an ever moving current

In, over and around the world of ship.

Ruth is not on board, but a free spirit

Moving at will between her imagined world

and the comfort of what she does not have to imagine.

Ruth’s thoughts are not of foam, salt and other clichés yet to be learned.

She is poised for magic

allowing the real world sun to mark out the world of ship

A miniature allurement amidst turquoise water and bubble spume

waves.

A Voyage with my Father

Extracts from A Memoir – Work in Progress

Preface

Sir John Mortimer’s father was a blind barrister and, as many readers will know, he wrote a play which charted their loving and complex relationship entitled A Voyage Around My Father. My memoir bears some similarities to Sir John ’s play in as much as it is about a remarkable man with poor eyesight who had a special relationship with his son, albeit that it concentrates on the formative experiences of my childhood.

Although my father and I were both what the politically-correct now term ‘visually impaired’, we were ‘dimmos’ to him, and would deserve this term if we failed to make the poorness of our sight a very peripheral part of our being. There was a good deal of insight which could come of using our outsight as intelligently as we could. Like my father, I was born blind but could see quite a lot by the time I was two and a bit. He was a man on a loving mission, doing everything within his power to teach me to see with perception and love the wondrous aspects of seeing. Perhaps most of all, he taught me to appreciate the ways and moods of light.

I went through a perfectly normal right of passage which, as this memoir aims to show, was far from normal in some ways. As in most father-son relationships, we passed through Daddy to Dad and, at the first hint of hormones doing their thing in me, he did not have to try too hard to be acutely embarrassing. He was as fond of my sisters as he was me, and did his utmost to make this clear to them. Inevitably, as I get older, the story becomes increasingly about me and my reactions, but they were reactions he planted and nurtured. Even so, we embarked jointly; a voyage of reciprocated love and enjoyment. We did understand each other in a wonderful way which will always defy description. My title had to be A Voyage With My Father.

My father was born in and deeply attached to York, a grammar school boy who gained an Oxford degree in English. He was obviously a clever and determined man, but knowing this tells one little of what made him tick. He was kind and sensitive to those who needed help and support, but impatient with others who ‘had it in them’ who failed to get ‘it’ out and use it (after all, my grandmother had once threatened him with a life of polishing Smarties at Rowntree ’s if he did not pull his finger out). He was greatly liked, much more than he ever realised, I suspect.

Although my father’s business was words, his life was taken up with seeing. This was seeing beyond the code sent to his brain through his optic nerve. He saw with perception. It was seeing that had practical use, seeing that bread a strong appreciation of the aesthetic. He loved architecture, the unfathomable qualities of light and the way they changed from time to time and place to place. If he had been able to see properly, he might have become an architect himself. As it was, he channelled a lot of energy into photography. When retired, he became an Associate of The Royal Photographic Society, very fine black and white hand prints of church interiors being his particular speciality. (I too am a competent photographer, and I may just try for an ARPS myself when I am retired!).

Unfairly perhaps, my mother does not come into this story very much (in her different way, she is as remarkable a woman as my father was a remarkable man and deserves to have a memoir about her role in the family recorded in equally loving terms.) But, this story is about my relationship with Dad from when I was just two in 1962, through the time of the family ’s move from Norwich to Newcastle in 1967, to our forced departure from Newcastle to London in 1971.

1. Terracotta

I turned my memory on, or rather I turned on the memories I thought it fitting to remember. I was standing red-slippered on white sheets neatly folded at the foot of a hospital cot bed. It was 1962, I was just two - and about to go home. I really could see now. I could not see when I was a baby, and I knew enough to remember nothing consciously of the other operations that brought me my sight. The dreams that transmitted the anaesthetists ’ masked green forms into malevolence, hell bent on suffocating me, were quite enough to carry.

Leaning against the cold metal of the prow of my cot, I was sailing through a ward of variegated grey and pale green unreality. The cot was one of the darker greys in this panoply of the institutional, darker than the walls and lighter than the floor. It was all tubular steel, arched at both ends and held up by vertical rods filling every other inch of space. It was circa 1948 or thereabouts - school of ‘institutional utility’, made from a kit of common parts. The arched front could equally well have been used as the radiator grill of an ambulance or fire engine, or one of the neat front gates marking the way to 1950s reconstruction perhaps. As it turned out, my support was the Infant 1-3 Years Safety Cot variant. A jam sandwich acted as an effective buffer between my rather small hand and the unwelcoming cold smoothness of the metal. I felt the same cloying, doing some damage, must free myself sensation I would come to associate with bare hands on very cold metal. For now though, I was just sticky, and was cementing a life-long aversion to stickiness.

The window was of the workhouse variety, tall, sashed and rather high up. I could see quite a lot more than I knew there was to see, and I was intent on looking through to a new world which might be more welcoming. This quest was reason enough to stand up and look around, anchored via my sandwich. Doing this allowed me to see a lot of up and down, and a bit of side to side. Laid down, I had only seen a very small part of up.

It was late April or early May, and about 4 o’clock in the afternoon. I did not know that on the other side of the building the sun would have been shining on the just and unjust - and just my parents coming to fetch me. All I could see was the pervading blueness of a northerly sky, pushing its way into the ward and adding chill to the grey green. But, the clouds were nice. They were startling silver, round and enticing - an intoxicating introduction to the Norfolk skyscape.

Looking down a little, like all self respecting small boys, I did not see trees swaying gently in the wind. I saw an ambulance! Its front was all 1950s rounded contours and it looked as though it had been pushed through an animal jelly mould. It was vanilla blancmange and had a neat red cross on the side. I would soon discover that it had looked very much like an ice cream van, but one with black windows I could not see into. It was another world out there, and I was not sure what would happen next.

My second first memory started an hour or two later at my parents’ house, our home. Perhaps the ice cream van ambulance had brought me there? It was late afternoon now, and I was nestled with my mother and father in the westerly facing sitting room. The sun must have sunk behind the trees, leaving the room suffused with a warm and gentle light. Just then, everything was warm and gentle. My parents loved me and each other, and they were glad to have their son back from that ‘unwelcoming and damaging hospital that did not understand children’. I sat on my father’s lap, looked up and noticed that high above the many books, the alcoves on either side of the fire place were painted a very nice colour.

‘Wass that colour Daddy?’

‘It’s terracotta. It’s a sort of red with some yellow and brown mixed with it.’

I liked the Terracotta, and I loved being with my father. I sensed instinctively that he must have had a terracotta experience a long time ago, perhaps when he too really knew he was seeing for the first time. He would soon take me on many trips to look at things and take them in. We would explore Norwich or the villages nearby every Sunday afternoon for several years to come. I knew what the Cathedral cloisters were for aged three, and the difference between Norman and Gothic architecture when four. I loved my father, not just being with him.

2. Arcadia Forestalled

‘Could I see the blue coach bus in the window please?’ I asked.

The shop assistant went to fetch the toy. My father sniffed and shuffled as he always did when embarrassed or uneasy and dieing to say something he thought it better to repress.

‘Aren’t you rather old to call it a coach bus?’ he announced in a matter of fact sort of way, the way I was old enough to understand was a front to all sorts of complex emotions. Indeed, I was old enough to understand this because I was old enough to know I was rather like him.

‘Yes’ I replied. ‘I don’t want the man to confuse it with a coach and horses.’

The spell was broken, and an era which had been moving past reality for some time, slipped finally into fond memory. Growing up was heartless. Daddy had long been Dad and it was reasonable enough to expect me to grow up, but had he forgotten about white coach buses with orange windows in the roof, so much more enticing than the standard Norwich red bus? His medium-sized boy collected toy buses now, but when I was four, the thrill of boarding the white coach bus to Blickling Hall was the most wonderful thing in the world, just me and Daddy.

My preference was for the older model with the sliding door behind the front wheel and the reassuring taxi-like clatter of the diesel engine in the cab. I loved the gaudy light throbbing through the orange windows in the roof, turning my skin kipper colour and the shadows of passing trees causing my complexion to dapple every now and then as if under water. The countryside between Norwich and Blickling was rather flat and boring, so I saw no need to look side to side. Orange and up was the way! My father preferred the newer bus with faun windows in the roof, but respected my preference for orange. As for my liking for the hand opened sliding door, he could not go along with me. The new folding ones were much safer, and he explained why - with fairly guarded reference to one of the cases he had heard as Deputy Corona.

Blickling was a welcoming sort of place before The National Trust had become precious and their shops a refuge for the embroidered lavender scented classes. In those days, there were no proper shops and the entrance desk sold post cards and guides - and that was it! There was a caf é which could provide sandwiches, tea cakes, tea, coffee, club biscuits and ice cream, and that might have been it.

Blickling is Jacobean; mellow Norfolk red brick framed by collars of warm stone. Principally, I remember large and four square leaded windows, benignly imposing inside and out. I do not remember any real detail of the interior, other than that there was much dark panelling punctuated by the contrast of detail obscuring light pouring through the windows. There were lots and lots and lots of leather-clad books. The Library - which may or may not have been part of the long gallery I know now the house is famous for - was the last thing one came to before the great outdoors and ice cream. My father loved this room and, as he respected and loved books too, he had a good look at them. In retrospect, I doubt whether his poor sight would have enabled him to read many of the spines, but it was the room, its proportions and the proportions that it had handed down as history which enthused him. He may have been trying to teach me that ‘boring books’ had their place, he liked them and so might I one day, but for now he was content to see that I was catching hold of the comforting sense of the special which permeated the house. Not until this had been established would ice cream, the sun dial and the lupine-edged brick paths leading to the summer house be at my disposal.

I loved the brick tiled half light of the café and its comforting well boiled tea cake-egg and cress-stale tobacco smell. My parents did not smoke, so the tobacco was an interesting novelty, otherwise provided by Grandpa only. My ice cream came in a round metal dish with a short stem, which put the contents properly on display at first floor level. An orangey brown wafer was always hammered into the top. I did not like it much, but it ’s role was essential. How else was I to know that I was about to consume a special treat!

I have not been to Blickling since 1966 and my father is dead, but I have and still use his wonderful Rollieflex camera which always came with us – it was bought in 1961 with the £100 damages he solicited when he broke his finger riding his bike into an opening car door! As I look down on its ground glass focusing screen, I see a flattened and exactly proportioned view of the world, just like the old masters must have done when using a camera obscurer. Had Blickling been in France, or even southern England, the mellow ochre and reds of the brick building and set brick paths - soothed by greenery and the lilacs and purples of lupines and corn flower, all mobile in the breeze - would have given an impressionist a full canvas. As it was, the discerning Norfolk light, crystal clear but never harsh, added a fastidious yet care free reality to this balmy infusion. It was a long way from a dream. While my father composed all this into a people-less Vermeer, I would run around the sun dial and in and out of the summer house, a four year old frolicking in this Norfolk version of Arcadia. My father was as much a part of this magic as I was. He was quietly knowing of it, and letting it take its course on me.

Back at the toy shop, it was clear. Arcadia was no longer somewhere one could visit by magical bus. Indeed, it would be several years before my father would explain the idea of it to me - as a surprisingly receptive teenager following him around the National Gallery, almost voluntarily. For now though, innocence was no longer there for the taking, not lost but distressingly far away.

3. An Italian Journey

It will be the family’s first holiday abroad. It is 1971 and I am 11. My sisters Alison and Catherine are 8 and 5 respectively and my parents are 40ish, but are borrowing each other ’s years to feel 80. They really need an expensive holiday they shouldn’t afford; it is the end of a difficult year. We will be going to Pessaro - somewhere near the underside of Italy ’s knee, by the Adriatic Sea. There will be days by the sea, and we shall go to museums and cities and things, all with lots of real blue sky. It has to be wonderful, a fabulous journey.

Anticipation

It is a grey Newcastle winter that seeps into us and our old stone house. I am bursting to fly in the aeroplane. The plane will be a BAC 1:11. My Observer ’s Book of Aircraft tells me all about it. It is unusual because we enter the fuselage at the rear by a folding staircase, like going up its bottom between streamlined buttocks. I gaze every day at the picture of this strange aeroplane in the brochure, and wonder at the blue sky behind the photograph of the hotel. Imagining the holiday provides a welcome break from thinking about an unwelcome family move from Newcastle, which I am told will come as surely as Easter. My parents mustn ’t find out, but some of the holiday brochure will stay in Newcastle. Chewing gum has stuck it to the night storage heater in my bedroom, and the gum has gone all hard now that it has cooled.

Getting There

We are the only family to use the Tour Operator’s coach to Manchester Airport, and we have been forgotten. An old and rather small vehicle grumbles out of the depot, and it has an old and rather small driver grumbling behind its wheel. We are now on board and the coach grudges along, daring the driver to take it to Manchester. Just out of sight of the depot, it grinds to a halt. I am too young to start ulcers and almost too old to cry, so I can ’t do either. I must bite my lip and hope for the best!

We’re at the airport and haven’t missed the plane; its been delayed – phew!!

Up into the plane’s anus, and away. My turn by the window is as we cross the Alps. They are the first real mountains I have ever seen, and the setting sun is gleaming peaches and cream over the snowy peaks. In comparison with this, even Hadrian ’s Wall is very dull.

The Next Day

The sky really is as deep a blue as in the brochure, but much better – inky blue, no turquoise. The hotel is modern, simple and elegant. The lobby and restaurant have cool faun marble floors which seem to reflect, soften and contort the dapples of clear light from outside. This modern architecture is just wonderful.

I am being splatted up with sun cream and half listening to a lecture about heat, exposure to the sun and the need to have a boring rest in the middle of the day. Yes I have got cream all over the towel which will need to last us much longer than today. Why are you building resentment in me towards my disgustingly co-ordinated and neat sister Mum? I didn ’t ask for the comparison!

At Whitley Bay, one just needs to dig a hole in the sand a few inches or so to find water. It ’s a bit different here though. Three feet down and I have reached water, of a sort. It is not very nice water and my father, who is not usually bothered, suggests that I go and wash my feet and hands in the sea – very thoroughly! Digging is off the agenda, but ice creams are on. Fragola, that ’s Strawberry, for Ali and Tuti Fruti for Cathy, but something rather wonderful called Zabaglione for me. Mum says she thinks that it has eggs in it.

Salt Marsh, Ravenna, Rain And More Sewerage

We are crossing a salt marsh in a coach with lots of windows and curtains in it, designed for sun and good views. All I can see is swirling rain and salt marsh. I am being told what hard work was really like in salt mines, but it all looks remarkably like the flat countryside around Granny ’s in York to me. Dad is trying a new tack, about the wonderful mosaics in Ravenna and how old it all is.

Now that I am there, I am not disappointed. This Church is only a bit younger than the Romans and its windows are not glass, but a sort of stone called alabaster. They don ’t let in much light and its pouring outside still, but the mosaics are a 1971 word for ‘cool’.

Our family’s bladders know nothing of martyrdom and we are busting, from the smallest to the largest. At last! This caf é has a lavatory. We go in one at time. Ali, dainty and full of sensitivity to and sensibilities about hygiene, Ali emerges -

“Errrrr”, and an appalled green look.

Cathy marches in, and out again much quicker than hand washing allows for, with half her expressive little nose turned up

“I, see!”

My turn now. Yuck. Yes, I get it! Out I come, how does the Flanders and Swan song go? Oh yes –

“The English, the English, the English are best.”

Mum and Dad seem amused, and are hushing me up very half heartedly. Dad says that his children ’s first exposure to real foreign plumbing says a lot about our different personalities.

Urbino In The Sky With…

Dad says that Urbino has a palace, where Duke Federico Montysomething lived and it has two towers and a very famous art gallery inside it – where there is a famous picture of some lady who is on the front of the book, and another of Jesus being beaten up by the Roman soldiers. Its all in the renaissance – a nice word, but what is it? Urbino is at the peak of a cardinal’s hat of a hill with ramparts. We are going up the hill on a curly wurly road and I want to look down at the vineyards and wonderful things Dad is suggesting I should look at, but I feel ill. All I can see is the arm my head is pressed against - think its mine but it might be Dad ’s.

Somehow, I have managed not to throw up, even after the coach stopped. Mum and Dad are saying that I have done really well, I think. Before we head into Duke Monty ’s palace, I am waiting on this curb side, elbow on knee, chin in the crook of my arm. Mum is in the shop behind me negotiating with a chemist, in German – she will not start an evening class in this language for another three years! Mum has just given me a slice of pizza and some fizzy water to help me down the pill the chemist gave her. Erk, I ’m terrible at swallowing pills.

I float in vague proximity to the World, in a waking dream. I am somewhere between the stone flags and the vaulted ceiling of Monty ’s Palace, noticing the pictures as if they were exhibits in the most illustriously deceased ghost train in the World. There ’s that renaissance woman again. See you again on the front of Dad’s book! He says your called Della Francesca, or something like that. I seem to be in the coach now, and its whirling around and down the hill and can scarcely contain me. Half a chance and I ’ll be out of the window, making my own aerial exploration of vineyards. I feel fine!

For some reason, Mum says that I shall not be having any more of those pills. Dad is looking at her accusingly –

“Yes John, I did tell that chemist he is only 11. Yes I think I did. Well you try next time then! ”

Venice, Thunder and Inga

Inga is our guide on this trip, and she comes from Sweden. She is blonde and beautiful, but I ’m only 11 and still think girls a bit soppy, what’s happening! We follow Inga, golf umbrella aloft, across the causeway to the old City, and then to St. Mark ’s Square. This really is the most beautiful place I have ever seen – and I love it. This light, it is so clear but not harsh. I have always understood beautiful places to be old places full of fancy things, but in Venice, beauty is all about space and light; it is only complicated when being complicated makes things nicer.

We have just had a ride in a gondola and seen fancy red glass blown. Mum and Dad bought some wonderful huge wine glasses from here, covered in gold. I can ’t wait to try them – and make Dad’s hand slip with the wine.

We are now in St Mark’s Square again, the sky is getting darker and darker and the air is searching for a palm to press on before the riot begins. The caf é band finish Puppet On A String much faster than it should go, and are running towards us and all the other people under these massive arches! Flash and crash, Ali is crying. Cathy is holding the edge of her skirt with one hand and the thumb of the other is in her mouth, like she always does when she ’s a bit worried. The sky is almost black, apart from a patch of grey green light towards the sea. The rain makes a tremendous scrunchy noise and the stone flags of the square shine like a blue whale ’s back. The Bell Tower over there fell down in 1903 and was rebuilt. Hope they did a good job!