“A single rose can be my garden….A single friend, my world”.
Leo Buscaglia
I like this quote because it summarizes for me what is so important in life – you don’t need a lot of everything but just the quality and beauty of character in a sweet-smelling rose or a single friend can inspire you to great actions or thoughts, make you see the wider picture and give you the confidence and courage to face whatever problems lie ahead.
In the past, I thought it was I who made friends too easily, perhaps too naively, trusting too quickly. I have always had a good number of friends wherever I’ve lived and at many different stages of my life. I have been lucky and had some really good friendships in my life.
But in recent years I have been more cautious and put barriers up rather than opening the door, not allowing a friendship to bloom that may have been good for both parties. I have in the past tried strenuously to keep up friendship, or at least contact, with people who perhaps did not feel the same way about me. I am sure other people also have done the same thing with me. You have to make an effort to keep friends. I have now lost touch with many friends. Two of my really closest friends I lost prematurely due to their untimely and unhappy deaths. I miss them very much and miss their support, their advice and guidance, their inspiration and their sense of humour. I have not only moved away from my birth family and my first marriage in the UK but I have also moved away from the UK to a new life in Nepal. So it’s not surprising that I have lost touch with many of my former friends.
What is a friend? Someone who supports you, or someone you support? Or are you together like 2 sides of an arch, holding up the whole structure? Do you keep friends for long? How and why do you lose friends? Do you feel bad when you lose a friend?
I think a friend is someone you can talk to about personal matters without feeling constrained, someone you think will listen and understand and not judge you in any way. Someone who you can just chat with simply and easily, and perhaps offers you a little bit of sympathy if they think you need it. They also accept that whatever advice you offer THEM is sincere and meant well and is not at all a criticism, and if they think it’s good advice, they will act on it. A friend is someone who shares their life with you, has the same sense of humour as you and laughs with you at the stupidity of life.
It’s not easy to make friends. There has to be a certain breaking down of barriers and reserves, a certain compromise and trust of the unknown, when making a friend. There has to be a degree of effort to reach out, and once established, to maintain that relationship. There usually has to be a shared common interest in something, although not necessarily. This is mutual, on both sides, but at some point the 2 of you see something in the other that they like, admire and trust enough to develop into a friendship. When this happens, it is usually very hard to break up, even if circumstances change and you don’t see each other very often. It takes something very big to break up a good friendship, something like death, divorce, financial hardship, betrayal by third parties, or moving to another country (although even this latter doesn’t necessarily destroy a friendship, which can continue from a distance, deep down and latent, even if there is no contact for a long time. However, a move to another country obviously tests a friendship, and some people do find it an excuse to discontinue the friendship).
Yes, in a way you support a friend, morally, with encouragement and advice, but sometimes also in a practical way with financial help. This is a real test of friendship and leads to what I call the paradox of friendship. If you consider someone a friend, this also extends to the point of one of you sometimes having to ask the other for help with money. This could be for many reasons. In my experience, lending money to, or borrowing from, a friend runs a severe risk of losing that friend. It is a question of trust. From the borrower’s point of view, asking for money can cause embarrassment, and resentment that he/she is immediately obligated to the friend, that he/she is under pressure to pay back, that he/she will feel harassed if the friend starts asking for their money back. From the lender’s point of view, lending at a particular time can be awkward and inconvenient, if not actually putting them under more financial pressure than they were under already. The lender may not feel it necessary to put the lending arrangements into a written agreement, trusting that their friend will honour the verbal agreement (this used to be called a “gentlemen’s agreement” a long time ago), but the thought is always nagging them that they should have put it into writing. So, lending money to a friend puts a strain on the friendship from which the friendship may never recover. I have learnt that in effect, when you “lend” money to a friend, you should not expect to see it back, it should be regarded more as a grant, and therefore you should only lend what you can afford to lose. It is painful when you lose a friend over financial matters.
Of course, one can be deceived by someone who you thought was a good, “deep” friend. Fortunately this does not happen often, due to the natural reservations and instincts that restrain people from becoming friends in the first place, but sometimes you are surprised that someone would want to go to all the effort to become a friend only to deceive or even betray you later. It makes you think, have I done something wrong, or was I at fault somehow? But no, if you are honest and true to yourself, you can only think that someone had a different motive for making friends with YOU.
This leads me to the theme of people who have been influential in my life, not necessarily even a friend or someone whom I have known personally, but someone who has personally affected my life and philosophy by their own life, by their example, their courage and heroism, their deeds, their love and concern for me, their leadership and inspiration, and my admiration for them.
Kali. Kali is my new, young wife. She is of the Tharu caste of the Terai of southern Nepal, which is notable throughout Nepal for producing proud, dignified, uncomplicated, dutiful women, very good looking, often beautiful, and with a certain innate knowledge of their common ancestry of royal blood. Kali is a wonderful example. She walks with an unhurried saunter. She certainly is beautiful, with the Tharu small head, high cheek-bones, black hair, clearly- defined arched eyebrows and full lips. I met her in 2013 when I was staying at Hotel Parkside in Sauraha. She was working as a general maid, cleaner and cook. She and her 3 friends were assigned to clean my hotel room and they marched in in a single file, Kali at the back. I noticed her at that time as being rather good looking but she seemed very shy and her eyes were kept firmly on the ground. I was really surprised to find out after a short time that she liked the look of me and thought I was handsome (at that time, I was very happy to be back in Nepal and free to do as I wished, entirely self-sufficient – I looked happy and carefree, and this is partly what attracted Kali to me. But she also saw something else in me, that I had faced a lot of challenges in my life and had suffered loss, but was still cheerful. Whether she saw that I was lonely and in need of a wife, I cannot say, but at that point I was not feeling that way or thinking those thoughts).
I was surprised that Kali had the courage to communicate to her friends that she liked me enough to want to marry me. This surprised me because Kali was uneducated, but she had the courage to ask for what she really wanted. I was flattered that she was interested in me, a much older man, and this grew quickly into love for her, as I saw she was not concerned about the age difference, she only wanted (as we all want) happiness, and she indicated she would be happy to go wherever I had to go in the world. This confirmed to me her true feelings for me.
After we married in 2014 and started to live together, as always when 2 people get to know one another really well, little quirks appear. I soon learnt that Kali does have a temper, but that she did not like me displaying my temper in response. I have learnt to control my temper and anger through her influence. After some small squabbles, we always made up and I always knew deep down that she loved me and was loyal, and would do anything for me. This gave me the confidence, so important in a relationship, to behave responsibly but always know the boundaries beyond which one should not go.
The biggest differences between us are to do with money. I need to educate Kali in money matters, so that she learns to be self-sufficient and not dependent on me always for money. By this I mean, she has to learn how to use a bank debit card to withdraw money from an ATM. She does not yet understand that my money is her money – it is deeply ingrained into her that the man is the provider and the woman has the role of asking for the money she needs for domestic matters.
But her gentleness, her laughter, her courage and her loyalty have made a very deep impression on me, and have clearly influenced me to become a better person myself. My love for her grows stronger and my admiration for her is immense, for having the courage to take me on and give me her love, at an age when many people would be “written off” for companionship.
Mum and Dad (Nigel and Betty)
My Dad, Nigel George Harcourt Taylor, is next on the list of influential people. I regard both my parents as equally influential in my life, but I have realized as I get older that my father’s influence was much more pervasive than I thought in my younger days, when most young men disregard their father and all the advice and values that their father tries to impart to their son. This is more apparent to me now as I have grown to look physically so like my father, and other people also comment on the family likeness, and at times I feel as though I am actually thinking exactly as my father would have thought.
The biggest influence my Dad had on me can be summed up by the word: “integrity”. Integrity of action and behavior, thought, intellect and character. Integrity was very important to my father and was a characteristic he inherited from his father, who was an astute and successful businessman who was successful because he was honest. My Dad, although not close to his father, absorbed his working ethos and philosophy in life, and practised it himself, also successfully, in his father’s business of the grocery trade. Honesty and truth, and being a “man of your word”, Nigel believed was the key to success in life. He certainly was a man of his word, but also had great management skills which endeared him to his employees.
In today’s world, the values of honesty and truth are under relentless attack by world leaders and politicians, and even many top businessmen are prone to deceit. Even if these people are found out, society does not seem to punish them severely, undermining those values further. Honesty and integrity are seen as old fashioned values, a sign of weakness with which many people agree because they see that dishonesty, corruption and lack of scruples brings more rewards than honest work. People are confused because the boundaries of what is espoused as “right” and “wrong” are being moved, and there are fewer people who hold strong principles of truth, or who are courageous enough to stand out against the tide running in the opposite direction.
I can only remember one time that I told my father a lie, and when he found out his reaction was one of anger and disgust, but above all disappointment that I seemed to have deviated from his philosophy of integrity (that he had only taught me subconsciously, not directly). I can’t remember exactly what the lie was but it concerned whether or not I had made a certain enquiry by telephone, and I said “Yes” when in fact I had not. By this time I was married and living far away from home, but I will always remember his angry reaction on the phone. I cannot remember anything else I ever deceived my father about in my life. Mostly I have absorbed his sense of integrity, and feel comfortable with that.
My Dad was influential on my life in other ways. I always held him in great respect because he was a businessman, the Managing Director of his family business, responsible for managing the business profits and all the employees. He never brought me up to believe I would follow him in the family business, but rather left the decision of career choice up to me alone. I always thought that this was unfair on me, as my father didn’t realize how much of an influence his business life had on the domestic front and that most of my contemporaries at school were “going to go into their father’s business”. At the end of MY school life, there was no family business for me to go into, as he himself had benefited from! He had never had to think about a career choice, except possibly the Law as a fall-back if the family business option closed.
When I was a young boy my dad seemed rather severe and remote to me, but I now realize that he loved me very much as his first child and eldest son, and he was always concerned for my health and happiness. He only ever wanted the best for me and although he didn’t teach me directly, he always made sure that I got what I wanted or needed, or that I had the best care available. This was in matters such as nannies, toys, health and education (he was always concerned that I was not bright academically and always struggled at school, but with extra private coaching I just did enough to get into an English public school, which in my father’s opinion guaranteed me the best education for life).
I remember my father’s delight on hearing that I had passed the Common Entrance exam for his old school, Uppingham, and although I did not fully understand the implications of my “success”, I was just happy that I had pleased my father.
My mother and father loved each other very much and their demonstration of affection for each other created a happy home environment for us young children, and provided a very good example of matrimonial harmony. There were always my father’s friends coming to the house, as Mum and Dad loved to entertain and they were generous hosts – I like to think I also am a good host to my friends, when I get the opportunity.
I hope my Dad would be proud of how I have coped with severe setbacks and difficulties in my life, and how I have rebuilt my life, am happily married with a young daughter, and am content and fulfilled in the twilight of my life.
Above all, I hope he would be proud of the fact that I demonstrate his values of integrity and honesty in my interactions with people, that I am a “man of my word”, and that I have the courage to speak up if I see something that is wrong.
My mother Barbara Elizabeth Williamson Taylor (nee Fenton) “Betty”.
Betty has been by far the most influential person in my life. She was my mother and I was her eldest child, and there was always a special bond between us. She was so delighted when I was born as her first baby, as that was fulfilling one of her greatest desires, and although my younger brother was born within 13 months of me, Betty always treated me as her eldest and that little bit extra special.
Betty’s influences on me are in my ability to make and keep friends, a warm compassionate nature, a love of the arts and family ancestry, making a family home and standing up for what I believe is right. Betty always encouraged me to go forward and face up to whatever lay ahead – she always wrote loving, warm letters of encouragement to me when I was facing real difficulties, she was always an optimist and passed this trait on to me. Betty was elegant, and loved fashion and clothes, although she never influenced me very much in that direction! She always made sure I was suitably dressed, even if I was more comfortable in rough clothes, because she felt appearances were so important. I thought when I was young that she spent too much time in brushing my hair, or dressing me, but I realize she just wanted me to look as good as I could.
Betty was a very determined person and fiercely protected her husband and her family. She always knew exactly what she wanted, and she pursued that until she got it. I have inherited that characteristic from her. Betty was a woman of good taste, and enjoyed choosing antique furniture, pictures and objects d’art (a lot of which she had inherited from her mother and grandparents) for her houses. Betty, like me, made friends rather too easily and was occasionally disappointed that some of them did not live up to expectations, but mainly she had many wonderful friends, many of whom she was in contact with for most of her life. Betty loved social occasions, like weddings, christenings, birthdays and cocktail parties, and she was an excellent hostess and support for her husband Nigel, who often had to entertain business friends and personal friends, especially in the earlier part of their 46- year marriage. Betty loved cooking and enjoyed good food, that was one of her main pleasures in life, and she brought me up to appreciate delicious food. We were spoilt as children with the wonderful recipes she cooked up for us, and in later life we also enjoyed her cooking around the family table, at Christmas, or just to celebrate family get-together’s at weekends.
One of the main influences Betty has had on me is the importance of keeping in touch, with friends and family, by writing or phoning. My life in Nepal precludes me from phoning my family and friends in the UK, but I do try to keep in touch by writing e-mails, although in recent years communication even by e-mail has become very rare. This has not been for lack of effort on my part but is just a symptom of the modern way of life, where people prefer to just chat or look briefly at Facebook, Twitter, Messenger, What’sApp, Snapchat, Instagram and all the other methods of social communication. In other words, if you don’t use these apps yourself, you are not going to get any other sort of communication from your friends and family.
Lenny Roberts Flanders
I have placed Lenny high up on my list of influential people in my life. I owe her so much. She literally saved me from sinking into a severe mental depression when I was at the lowest ebb of my life. Lenny is small, Scottish and with a mass of long curly yellow hair, which she sometimes braids into a pigtail or bunches up high on her head. Lenny is a psychologist, social worker/mental health worker and Advocate at The Leatherhead Clubhouse (now called The Mary Frances Trust Centre) in Leatherhead, Surrey. I happened to discover the Clubhouse just after I had returned in May 2010 from a very bad experience in Indonesia. I was staying at my sister’s cottage in Leatherhead. I was severely depressed and taking medication. I was walking around as though I was protected by a bubble which prevented me from interacting directly with people – although I could see things around me, there was no direct contact, if I tried to reach out and touch things, the bubble skin prevented me from touching, or even communicating properly. I was in the Citizens Advice Office one day when I saw a leaflet about the Clubhouse. It was only a short distance away from my sister’s cottage, so I decided to go round. I was met by the very sympathetic Manager, Sue Bond, who interviewed me and explained what the Clubhouse did, and what was expected of me. Sue told me that I could use all the facilities at the Clubhouse,that I could see Lenny who was an advocate who could act for me, and I was generally accepted in as a Member of the Clubhouse. I made an appointment to see Lenny, who worked at different hours and was very busy seeing other members of the Clubhouse.
Lenny being a trained psychologist, she quickly and carefully assessed me by listening to my story. She was very sympathetic, and I was struck by how directly she asked questions and how carefully she paid attention to my personal story. She made it clear that she could act for me in dealing with local authorities, on issues such as mental health, housing and landlords, finance and debt, hospitals or clinics, or the law courts themselves. Lenny provided very real reassurance that she could help me. In fact, I did one year later have occasion to go to court over an issue of some money owed to me, and Lenny came with me and provided great moral support to me at the court.
I also soon discovered that she liked literature and poetry, art and theatre, and that she herself had a difficult personal relationship with her partner, as well as dealing with a sick mother in Scotland. The fact that she was helping others while coping with difficulties at home impressed me considerably. These were things I shared in common with her and we developed a sort of bond. Lenny’s time was limited as she worked outside in the community, but she always gave me the time I needed whenever I booked an interview.
My engagement with and activities with The Clubhouse throughout the summer of 2010 slowly helped me to recover from the depths of hell. The clubhouse was open 3 days a week and I made use of it frequently. I could if I wanted: write e-mails, make phone calls, browse on the internet, talk to the staff, help with preparing or cooking meals or washing-up, cleaning the kitchen, just chat with other Members (who all had mental health issues of some sort), participate in expeditions to see a film, have a McDonalds lunch or a trip to the coast (Brighton), help in the Clubhouse allotment or do little gardening jobs around the club premises. Whenever I saw Lenny she was always cheerful, helpful and enquiring after my well-being. I told her my activities and how I was slowly recovering thanks to all the help I was receiving, but above all through the social mix I was getting at the Clubhouse.
Lenny was always interested in my activities and my plans for the future. She had a good collection of books, and I asked if I could borrow a biography of the poet Rupert Brooke.She encouraged me to write poetry: when I asked her “What is a poem?” she replied: “Anything you want it to be”. That answer was brilliant, as it put no pressure on one to conform to a particular image, and far from discouraging one to become a poet, it encouraged more creativity and output. In other words, Lenny was saying that I could be a poet. Feeling free, I did indeed write some poetry and prose with Lenny’s remark ringing in my ears, and I showed these to her from time to time – she never commented one way or the other, but the fact was that she had kept the little glimmer of hope and creativity alive. For that I will always be grateful.
Through my recovery due to the help of the Leatherhead Clubhouse, and Lenny in particular, I was able to get a part-time gardening job from August to December 2010, then I obtained a full time gardening job from January 2011. Unfortunately that only lasted 5 months due to a health problem. However, I knew I had made a significant recovery from my clinical depression, and I was strong enough to re-build my life and put my past difficulties behind me.
EGIL.
E. G. I. Lousada, (Eric) was an extremely influential person in my formative years. He was a Prep School master at my prep school, St Wilfrid’s in Seaford, on the Sussex coast, which I attended between the ages of 8 and 13 (1960 – 1965). These were very impressionable years. Eric taught English throughout the school, so he taught me at every stage of the school curriculum for 5 years. Eric was a remarkable man. He was short but well built, bald, of dark complexion, with a snub nose, wore horn-rimmed glasses and was already well into middle age by the time I joined the school at 8 years of age. He had a presence about him that immediately commanded respect and attention. He was of rather stern countenance at first sight, so that small boys had to be on their best behavior, but one soon realized that EGIL was a gentle man and “his bark was worse than his bite”.
He actually was quite shy and self-effacing, for instance when parents visited he often could not be found and was reluctant to talk about their children. However, in the classroom, and within the confines of the school, he had a huge influence.
He was a “master” at controlling his classes. He strode into the room and if there was some misbehavior he barked out commands in an authoritative voice, beginning “Er….(boys name)”. He soon had the class at full attention. He had a habit of carrying a small pointed wooden stick, rubbed shiny with age, under his arm, which represented a very effective potential threat. He called this his “Form Six Tickler”, by which he meant that it COULD be used to beat boys…but I never ever saw him use the stick for this purpose. He laid the stick down carefully on the front of his desk, so that it was always in sight, and sometimes he actually used it as a pointer on the blackboard, but it was never used to beat any boy. Years later I found out that this small stick was a precious memento of his earlier years, where it had been the main part of a sword stage prop, which he had used in performances of Shakespeare’s plays at the Regent’s Park Open Air Theatre.
Eric Lousada had a unique method of teaching English and spelling. For the smaller boys, he used reading aloud, rhythmic chanting, repetition, rote learning and above all, personal example – he picked a boy to stand up and read or recite prose or poetry and this method made one learn very quickly, by peer pressure, competition and reward. Eric used to reward good performance by marks, or verbal praise – he made you feel special if you had done well, because he picked you out as a “good” example to the other boys. If he thought the performance was not good, he applied the opposite, with a stern expression – sometimes sarcastic remarks, sometimes humorous, no marks, but always he pointed out where and why the boy had gone wrong.
Spelling and punctuation he taught also by rote and repetition, and for difficult words he often had little tricks or memnomics to register : for instance, “business” he drew on the blackboard a bus enclosed by a huge S, and said that it was a “bus- in –eS. These methods worked for me – I was not academic and found learning a bore, but EGIL made it different for me and English became my favourite subject. I still today enjoy reading and writing, and EGIL’s influence has stayed with me all my life.
When I was a little older, at age 11 or 12, Eric introduced the concept of writing a daily diary. He wanted us to write a little essay on what we had done during the day, or on any subject we liked, and the next day he would ask us to read it out in class. He marked in red pen and often highlighted good phrases or descriptions, or poor spelling or grammar, and put a little comment at the end – this also encouraged one for the next day. I still have the two St Wilfrid’s school exercise books containing my diaries from that time.
Eric really taught ethics, what was right and wrong, honesty and integrity, good standards and behavior; he would not stand for evasiveness or selling yourself too cheaply. He encouraged creativity, he urged me to produce the best performance I could, he helped develop my interests in literature and the arts by recommending books to read, he taught by repetition, humour and example, never by threats or coercion.
EGIL’s influence within the school extended far, although in a quiet, understated way. He knew exactly what his boundaries were, but where he was responsible, order and calm reigned.
Eric was in charge of the school library, which he introduced to the boys very early on. He arranged the books and the whole library system. This was how I was early on introduced to authors such as Enid Blyton (The Famous Five), Anthony Buckeridge (the Jennings schoolboy series), Agatha Christie, Kenneth Grahame, A.A. Milne, Robert Louis Stevenson, Charles Dickens, Rudyard Kipling, Rider Haggard, Conan Doyle, boys’ adventure stories, mysteries and exploration, Arthur Ramsome, Hugh Lofting (Dr Dolittle), John Buchan, Hammond Innes, Alastair McLean, Ian Fleming, war memoirs such as Douglas Bader’s Reach for the Sky, The Great Escape, Colditz etc etc.
Eric was the Cricket umpire for the smaller boys. The pitch was “over the road” in a hollow sloping dip. He supervised the safe crossing of the road, then we settled into a game of cricket (which I never really enjoyed). Eric would lean back on his shooting stick, smoking his pipe peacefully under a floppy sunhat, ordering the play and the next bowler’s over. He was calm, unhurried, unflappable.
Eric was the Master of St Wilfrid’s Two, the dormitory house for the older boys of the school (from age 11-13). He used to call us awake at about 7.00am (shouting “Morning All…All Up!” at the foot of the main stairs). We filed into the bathrooms to clean our teeth and step into the rather cold shower, in which one did not want to stay too long – Eric again supervised the file, clicking his thumb and fingers together when the next boy should take his turn in the shower. I also remember feeling privileged when in my last term at St Wilfrid’s, Eric invited me into his study on the ground floor of SW2 to view his private toy theatre. This was his hobby, and he showed me how the miniature props and actors were moved across the little stage, colorfully painted.
A major achievement for Eric were his productions of the School Play every Autumn Term. He decided which (usually Shakespeare) play was to be performed, and he auditioned for the actors. These were a tradition and very popular, although they did cause some stress and distraction for the other members of the school who weren’t involved. I remember Eric auditioning me for a girl’s part in a comedy but I was not suitable, too self-conscious and inhibited to be an actor. Eric saw something “good” about me and therefore I tended to do better in his classes than any other teachers’.
A smaller but nevertheless important part of “education” according to Eric was the concept of a Mock Debate. This was organized once a year, in the Autumn term, and Eric had a friend (or maybe he was an Old Boy) who was an actual Queen’s Counsel who came down to St Wilfrid’s to adjudicate the debate. This QC was young, tall and handsome and his arrival caused some excitement in the school. The debate was an introduction to the boys of the concept of democracy, free speech, intellectual argument and ethics. Many boys made stirring speeches For and Against the Motion and the whole event was treated very seriously and responsibly, and the results were sometimes surprising. I presume Eric thought up the Motion to be debated – anyway, they were sometimes humorous, sometimes serious.
Eric’s other influences on me can be summarized by: his love of classical music, which he played on gramophone records in the school library to the youngest boys during a set period of quiet – I did not enjoy the music at that age but realize Eric was trying to stimulate an intellectual interest for later in life.
At the beginning of term he met the small boys at Victoria Station in London, to put them safely on the train down to Seaford, and accompanied them. I think he also did the same at the end of term.
Even after we left the school, Eric was instrumental in keeping the Old Boys in touch, through his enthusiastic editorship of the Old Boys Magazine and his organization of the Annual Old Boys Dinner at the Café Royal in Piccadilly, London. He used to write persuasive, complimentary letters of invitation to the old boys, and asking them for their news, which appeared in the OB Magazine if EGIL thought the news was worthy! Both of these functions kept the Old Boys in touch for many years afterwards.
Many years later I discovered he had personally paid for the education of a boy at the school, contemporary with me.
Eric was a remarkable man, a fine teacher whose influence on many boys’ lives, for over 50 years, must have been enormous. He certainly was a huge influence on me.
Robert Back. Mr Back was a teacher of Art at St Wilfrid’s, and he was part-time. I much enjoyed his teaching, and especially when he took a few of us out into the countryside in his battered old Mini Traveller to sketch “plein air”. How he fitted all the easels, stools and sketching equipment into that tiny car remains a mystery. This was not only an escape from school, but also a really instructive time, where Robert used to point out how to compose a picture, what to highlight, and what were mistakes. We went to farm yards, downland scenes, fields and rivers. The countryside around Seaford was very scenic.
We took the sketches back to school and started to paint (only with poster paints or pen and ink washes), and some of my work was admired by family and friends. I remember being very excited when, in my last term, I was informed that one of my pictures had taken second place in a local competition, and the prize was a set of poster paints. The picture was of a pheasant in a field of corn.
Robert was a short man,stockily-built and with a magnificent pair of bushy eyebrows. He was very patient and had a good manner with the boys – I don’t ever remember him becoming angry, on the contrary I remember his flashing smile and good-natured character. He also, like Eric Lousada, was an unassuming man, but I discovered many years later that he had had quite a history and an interesting war record. He was Australian by birth but had come to England to study art just before the start of the Second World War. He specialized in naval and marine pictures, and the Docks area of East London. He joined the Navy at the outbreak of war. His talent was recognized and he sold some of his paintings to fellow servicemen and officers during the War. After the War he settled down in Seaford and earned a living by teaching at local private schools, including St Wilfrid’s, as well as continuing his professional work of marine painting. Over the years he developed a reputation as one of Britain’s foremost marine painters, with a reputation for historical accuracy in rigging and details. His work is now in many collections and galleries around the world and it fetches high prices when it comes on the market.
Robert Back influenced me by his enthusiastic encouragement of my art, his quiet, unassuming nature and his own example. He made a clear impression on me at a young age and I have never forgotten him.
Messrs Neville Day, Kevin White, Roger Hayes, John Norbury, David Burston.
These men were all teachers at St Wilfrid’s, and I have mentioned them because they all made a positive impression on me at a young age.
Neville Day was a hearty, cheerful man in his early forties when I started at the school. He was one of the few teachers to be married and living in a house in the town – he had a son a bit younger than me, also at St Wilfrid’s. Neville taught French and Latin and he also was in charge of athletics, football, gymnastics, swimming and “wide games” for the younger boys. I remember he led a party of boys (including me) to Twickenham Rugby ground to watch an international. This was my first visit to Twickenham and I was very impressionable. On my return, I described the mass of colour of the spectators “hitting” me as I entered the stadium – Neville remarked that that was a detail he would not have noticed and that it indicated that I had an artistic eye!
He was a very pleasant and well-mannered man, I only once saw him get angry and lose his temper. He inspected the younger boys for personal hygiene by standing at the bottom of the main stairs and as the boys came down, they had to show him their clean hands and brushed teeth. Neville often cracked a joke and seemed one of the more sympathetic teachers to those younger boys who were feeling a bit homesick. I particularly remember he was in charge of the school assembly on the evening of November 22nd, 1963 when the news was announced of the assassination of President Kennedy – at the time, it was just announced that he “had been shot”, it was not known if the President had died. That was confirmed a little later when I went over to my dormitory at St Wilfrid’s 2 and asked the matron – she looked sadly at me and said “Yes”.
John Norbury was a bachelor in his early forties, distinctive especially to a young boy because he had a black eye-patch. I am not certain how he lost the eye. John was also a pleasant man who taught French – I don’t think he ever taught me directly but he influenced me by his demeanour, his love of games, his checked sports-jacket with leather elbow patches, and his smile. John lived in the masters’ house built in the grounds of the school, overlooking the main cricket pitch. This was a house for the bachelor masters.
Roger Hayes (RLH) came to St Wilfrid’s about 2 years after I started. He had been Headmaster of another prep school in Seaford which had fallen on hard times and had to close. He taught me History and Geography, both subjects I enjoyed, and he was the main rugby coach, so I developed a good relationship with Roger. He was in his late forties or early fifties, married with a family. He had a quiet, almost placid, nature, never hurried, but most effective as a teacher. He would teach, and then query closely with his pupils whether they had really understood what he taught. This method sorted out the pretenders and cheats, or those who just had not paid attention, with whom he had little time. The ones who demonstrated that they had absorbed what he taught he praised in front of the others – this method was good at raising personal standards all around.
Roger had many stories and anecdotes about his wartime experiences on the Russian convoys, which went into the Arctic Ocean. The steel of the ship was so cold that if you touched the steel with your bare flesh, it ripped the skin off your hands.
Another anecdote he told was of a (friend?) British prisoner of war who was being led away by a German soldier, and the British POW turned round sharply and bit the nose of the German hard and managed to escape. These stories enthralled us young boys.
Kevin White (SKW) was one of the younger teachers when I joined St Wilfrid’s. He must have been around 27 or 28. Kevin was tall and had a fresh face, and his youthful appearance was enhanced by his ownership of a Triumph sports car (a TR2 if I remember rightly) and a young black Labrador (called “Ray-me” after the song Doe’s a Deer from Rogers and Hammerstein’s film “The Sound of Music”). Kevin was the Music master and Choir Master, also he was in charge of the First and Second Eleven Cricket teams, and main master in charge of the First Eleven for football. He often wore a white cricket sweater off duty. Kevin taught French. As he was a bachelor and more often seen around the school in off duty mode, he was more known to many of the boys, especially those who were either musical or sporting. Kevin was energetic and enthusiastic about all he did, so it was not surprising that he had a considerable influence on me – we young boys tended to view sporty and athletic masters as heroes and looked up to them as paragons. But he had a sharp tongue which he used to devastating effect sometimes. I remember being pleased to be asked to wash his sports car, as if it were a certain privilege to be “chosen”. I also remember his cheering me from the touchline at a rugby match when I made a particularly spectacular tackle on an opponent! I only think I disappointed him by not being musical or having a good enough voice to be in the choir.
The last of the teachers at St Wilfrid’s who really had an influence on me was David Burston. He was youngish, in his early thirties and joined the school in my second year. He was tall, sturdily- built, with blue eyes and a good head of golden wheat-coloured hair. Being a bachelor, he lived in the master’s house in the grounds, with Norbury and White and maybe one or two others. David taught Maths, which was my least-liked subject and with which I struggled throughout my school career. David had a sharper manner about him than the other teachers, and I was always a little fearful of him, but he was fundamentally kind and well-meaning and always had the best interests of his boys at heart. Where he particularly influenced me was in the Boy Scouts, of which he was Chief Scoutmaster – the 14th Seaford (St Wilfrid’s) Boy Scout Troop. I remember being excited to receive the Scout Uniform and accoutrements such as scarf, metal Scout badge, leather toggle and a Scout knife in a leather scabbard! David was an enthusiastic and earnest Scoutmaster, and expected the boys to come up to the strict ethical standards of the Founder of the Boy Scout Movement, Robert Baden-Powell. A small piece of land was acquired adjacent to the main cricket pitch and the hedge knocked through, so that we had an area for scout assembly, making a camp-fire and learning how to tie knots and other rope-work attached to several trees. David led us once or twice a week, if I remember it was on a Wednesday evening in the summer term. I remember the feeling of relief at learning the Scout Promise (“I promise on my honour to do my duty, to God and the Queen – to help other people at all times– and to obey the Scout Law”) and other rites necessary to be accepted into the Troop – these were recited around a ring of fellow scouts in front of the Scoutmaster, and to pass was the same feeling as learning you had been chosen to play in the First Fifteen Rugby team for the school, a great feeling of acceptance.
We all enjoyed the games, the patrol competitions, the work towards gaining a Scout badge, a camp fire, cooking “twist” (the plain flour dough twisted on a stick and charred over the fire, that little boys love to cook and eat) and having a singsong. Occasionally the games got a little out of hand, and I remember one boy was tied up to a tree with a thick rope and was rescued by a furious Burston, who admonished us all severely. In my very last term at the school, I was really looking forward to the Scout annual camp, which was scheduled for the first week or 10 days of the summer holidays, in a field in the nearby picturesque village of Alfriston. We got to the site and pitched our tents, but during the first night there was a torrential rain storm, and the fields and lanes became impossible with mud. The decision was taken to abandon camp on the first day, so to my bitter disappointment I never got to experience a scout camp! This experience seemed to presage many circumstances in my life where I joined a club or an organization, only for some event to occur very soon afterwards which meant I could not continue with the activity and had a very short involvement.
I cannot end this description of influential teachers at my prep school without mentioning the joint headmasters, Randle Darwall-Smith and John Moon (Moono). They personally did not greatly influence me, except in terms of physical punishment by beatings, but of course, as they were the Heads, they set up the system and chose their staff, so they were ultimately responsible for the ethos, atmosphere and discipline in the school, not to mention the boys’ physical, mental and spiritual welfare.
I had known from my father that he had sent me to St Wilfrid’s because his sister Jo had known Randle at Oxford University in the late 1930’s. Maybe, even, Jo had been one of Randle’s girl-friends. He certainly was striking, and attractive to women as an undergraduate – tall, willowy, with sandy wispy hair and a pale freckled face with blue eyes. He had been a top cricketer in his University life, good with both ball and bat. My Uncle Tony, Nigel’s elder brother, had sent his 3 sons also to St Wilfrid’s as a result of this connection, so I was continuing a family tradition.
Randle’s lovely wife Margaret told me many years later that Randle and Johnny Moon had met at University and had wanted to become school masters. Johnny Moon was the son of a Doctor who co-incidentally practiced in the Taylor family home town of Broadstairs, but I am not sure if THIS connection had any part in my going to Seaford, although I do remember my parents discussing Broadstairs with Johnny when they visited the school. Johnny was a large, very well-built man, solid, with a florid complexion that made him appear as if he had permanently high blood pressure. He was a hearty and charming man, and usually was the “front-man” Head who greeted the parents on visiting days, as Randle was actually quite shy and retiring. Randle did not teach me any subject but Johnny Moon taught me Latin, which I found a struggle.
Randle and Johnny, having graduated from University, had heard about a prep school for sale on the south coast, and went down to take a look. However, war was imminent, and not only did the school have to evacuate to Wales because of the fear of bombing, but Randle and Johnny were about to be called up. The owner of St Wilfrid’s promised them that once the war was over and they had all survived, they could buy the school from him. Randle and Johnny had been given the money to buy the school by their parents, half each, and they made a sort of pact that they would pursue their dream once the way was over. After military service, they met up again in 1945 and realized their dream.
They were joint Headmasters. They had identically-sized studies on the private wing on the first floor of St Wilfrid’s One. As you approached the top of the blue-carpeted stairs that led down to the main hallway of the school, you were faced with two immaculate white-painted paneled doors, each with an attractive facetted crystal-glass door knob. There were no name signs on the doors – you just knew which was which.To the left was Johnny Moon’s, to the right was Randle’s. I had to go to each at various times, for “six of the best” for some misdemeanor, mostly for “ragging” (I had been described by Johnny Moon in a school report once as a “tiresome little ragger”, which upset my parents, although I was not made aware of that until much later on). I was once or twice cheeky to a teacher. In those days corporal punishment was accepted, and both Randle and Moono were more disappointed than angry to have to administer the beatings, by back of a hairbrush or flat length of wood (not a cane which would have cut the flesh). Although painful for a few hours, I can honestly say the beatings were always fair.
I learnt about Christian values through the school chapel, which was considered a very important part of school life and education. Every day the boys took part in singing hymns and reading the lesson. Kevin White was in charge of the music and the choir, and the standards were very high considering the age of the boys. Both Heads took turns in leading the prayers and delivering a little sermon. Once a year in the Christmas term there was a service for giving some possession you valued to other children, less well-off, in the town. I remember we had to take the possession up to the altar and the Heads scrutinized whatever it was to ensure that it was “worthy” and not some cheap little plastic toy. They would be things like die-cast metal Dinky toys, Corgi toys, cars, tanks, soldiers or unmade Airfix model aircraft. I learnt about sacrifice and giving and generosity through these services.
I learnt more about these two men many years later, from Margaret, Randle’s widow and second wife. Margaret said that Johnny was hopeless at management and organisation (which surprised me). I thought they were a good team. Johnny’s efficient and brisk sister Audrey was very influential on the domestic side, employing the cooks and maids and matrons, and she was married to the school’s Bursar, Major Lepper, whose job was to collect all the money and “disburse” it accordingly. In my time the school was very well run.
In the late seventies and early eighties, the economic climate in Britain changed considerably. Not many people could afford to pay the fees for a full boarding school system. As Randle and Johnny wanted to retire, they sought a new owner for the school. But the new owner, according to Margaret Darwall-Smith, made a mess of the business, and the staff were unsettled and unhappy. Eventually, after about 2 years, with the school’s fortunes on the ebb, Johnny and Randle bought back the school and closed it down, selling the entire site for housing. The school closed in 1982. Margaret told me she could not drive past the site for many years afterwards.
Randle and Johnny however remained very good friends, and when in their old age they found themselves together in an old people’s home, they were to be seen every day in their wicker armchairs, covered in rugs, chatting and laughing and reminiscing. They had good reason to be satisfied with their very worthwhile and influential lives.
Warwick Metcalfe
In retrospect, I believe Warwick Metcalfe was the only teacher who truly influenced me at my next school, the public school Uppingham. I don’t know why they are called “public” schools as they are anything but public, they are for privileged private fee-paying children of the wealthier classes of the land. Actually, I feel the public schools perpetuate the class system in England, which has been so damaging for so many centuries, but the system is so ingrained that it has become impossible to remove it under the present system of government, like Royalty itself. It would be felt as an intolerant attack on freedom and rights, if the public school system was forced to dissolve.
Warwick was the head of the Art School at Uppingham. He was of middle height and slightly built, probably in his early forties when I came under his influence in the late 1960’s. He had a loud and cultured voice, almost an aristocratic drawl. He was mild mannered, with a lovely, catching laugh and smile, and he was naturally good with teenaged children. What really influenced me was his energy and drive, his encouragement of art from dubious students, and his ability to point out creative opportunities. He loved to show students good examples of drawing and architecture – he was a trained architect himself, influenced by (if not actually a student of) the great architect Sir Basil Spence, who was the designer of the new modern Coventry Cathedral to replace the bombed-out shell. Warwick himself designed the new school chapel at Uppingham, opened in the early 1960’s, as well as many smaller domestic projects and landscaping around the town of Uppingham.
Warwick taught art in the Old School Room at Uppingham. This was literally the original, stone built Tudor building that had held the Grammar School founded by Archdeacon Robert Johnson in 1584. This attractive slate-roofed building lies in the shadow of the town church and one approaches the Old School Room through the gravestones and sycamore trees of the churchyard. The south wall of the schoolroom bends outwards in an alarming bulge, but it has been stabilized by steel beams and tie- rods. As one enters the building, one sees it is a huge studio, with white walls and floods of light let in through large roof-lights. Here are the easels, the frames, the benches, the stools and boxes all expected in a studio. To the left is a small office, which was Warwick’s office. He kept on his desk a small wooden carving of a South Seas mask, which he always delighted in pointing out had the eyes drilled right through the piece so that in the right light it looked as though the eyes were projecting beams of light. This detail was typical of Warwick, he loved pointing out artistic scenes and possibilities for creativity, not just in painting but in sculpture, drawing, photography and print. I found the Art School a haven from the stresses of academic and boarding-school life in the rest of the school, and whenever Warwick was there I felt free and happy (something that was quite rare for me during the five years I spent at Uppingham 1965-1970). I did not produce much art myself but I absorbed much that would later stand me in good stead, and in Warwick I found a guiding light, a comfort and a reassurance.
I will continue the art theme here with 2 people who also considerably influenced my life, although many years after I left Uppingham. These are:
Carole Vincent and Kim Lim. I never met or knew personally Kim Lim but I came across her through a Radio 4 interview in about 1986, when I was living in Cornwall. She was a renowned sculptor in stone, and I wanted to do the same at that time, even though my circumstances were difficult.
There was something about her voice that attracted me to her and I wrote to her for some advice. I received an encouraging letter back together with some photos of her work. This led me to try to get some tuition in sculpting, and I then came across Carole Vincent, a sculptor and artist who lived at Boscastle on the north coast of Cornwall. Carole was the archetypal artist. She usually dressed in dungarees and sweater. She had a weather-beaten but kindly face, and always seemed to have a cigarette in her mouth. Her little cottage was mostly a studio, higgledy-piggledy, contiguous with her kitchen. She gave art lessons to local people, although I actually lived a fair distance away, in Fowey on the south coast, and at the time it was not easy for me to get the time to attend her classes.
I enjoyed my art lessons, and Carole was a fair critic and good teacher. I remember one exercise where we had to paint an apple, and she said that she “liked” my apple, which I thought was high praise. Unfortunately, my personal circumstances changed, and after only nine months I no longer had the time to participate in art lessons. Carole used to send Christmas cards with a color photo of all the art and sculpture she had produced in the previous year. I moved away from Cornwall in 1991 and with a young family I settled down in Bedford and never pursued my interest in stone carving or art. That is something I now want to address.
The Reverend Father Richard Strannack, Biscovey.
Before I leave Cornwall I must mention Father Richard. He was the parish priest of St Mary’s Biscovey, our local church in Cornwall from 1986-1991. He was also a family man, being married to his lovely wife Penny and with young children of his own. Father Richard gave me a lot of spiritual support during this time which was a difficult period in my life: I had had to sell my little retail jeweller’s shop in Fowey, and I was struggling to find another job in Cornwall, which was a poor place for commercial activity. I had to take jobs “up country” which meant I was travelling back and forth long distances to see my young family, which had grown with the addition of my son Andrew born in January of 1987. Richard was extremely sympathetic and concerned for the welfare of our family. We attended church every Sunday, and Richard’s sermons were always so pertinent and memorable. Although I had been brought up as a Christian in a predominantly Protestant Christian land, my faith had wavered on and off throughout my life, but Richard somehow restored my faith and belief in God, and I became more involved in the church’s work in Biscovey. I was elected to the Parochial Church Council and helped with maintenance of the Victorian building. However, family life was under considerable pressure due to my inability to obtain a local job, and both my wife and I were having to think of re-training in our careers and moving away from Cornwall. This meant unfortunately my time involved with St Mary’s was short, but I will never forget Father Richard’s kindness, quiet words of encouragement and concern. He was a man of God and a wonderful example of a Christian man.
My Aunt Jo, Winifred Joan Morley (WJM) was the younger of my father’s 2 elder sisters.
Jo was a school teacher and therefore it came naturally to her to try to teach me about life. I was slow academically as a young boy but Jo was infinitely patient. She seemed to be especially fond of me, of all her many nephews and nieces, although she treated us all the same. Her character could have been described as “bossy”, but that would have been unkind. She was direct and had a formidable intellect but she was never overbearing, only anxious to get her point across, and she always adapted her approach to the level of intelligence of whoever she was corresponding with.
She had firm convictions, she was courageous in speaking up about inequity, or corruption or bad practice, and like my father (and HER father) she acted with the utmost integrity.
Jo influenced me in many ways. She opened my eyes to so many things. She taught English and loved literature and the arts in general, so she read, or recommended or lent me many books suitable for literate children. This included Kenneth Grahame’s “Wind in the Willows”, A.A. Milne’s “Winnie the Pooh” books, Tolkien’s “The Hobbit” and “Lord of the Rings” trilogy, and “Gone with the Wind” by Margaret Mitchell, books which had influenced her in her youth.
Jo pointed out the funny side of things, or quoted memorable phrases, which may have escaped my attention otherwise. She took me to galleries or the occasional film or theatre in London, and taught me how to be a critic, constructively, by pointing out the good and bad qualities in any piece of artwork.
Jo loved to travel, and she thought it would be educational for me to come on one or two holidays with her. She also took other members of the family to various destinations. She took me once as a child to a summer camp near Guildford with her pupils from an East London school, where she rescued me from being thrown into a swimming pool by a mob of unruly children. In 1966 she took me to Greece with her youngest son Robin. This latter was a wonderful time, visiting Athens and the Peloponnese, the islands of Rhodes and Crete, exploring the ancient Greek ruins and culture, wandering around the museums or market places, eating lamb kebabs grilled on the beach, drinking retzina or rough red wine in little cafes and even going to the midnight mass at the Easter service in a Greek Orthodox church. This all filled my eyes with wonder at the age of 14.
Jo was an inveterate and bold traveler and went to many interesting, if not dangerous, places around the world. She camped, hiked, trekked or went by camel, train or bus – she never liked hotels or any bit of luxury. She showed me her photos and told me her wonderful stories – I must have absorbed this, because I still have the same yearnings to travel to this day. She often travelled alone, although she made friends with members of her party or local guides. She went to places such as Arabia, Egypt, Iran, central Asia, Japan, China, Tibet, the Himalayas, Afghanistan, India, as well as some countries in South America, and many European countries.
Jo was a Christian and attended her local church, St Barnabas, in Dulwich Village every Sunday. She encouraged me to do the same and I went with her, out of politeness, not necessarily because I was a committed Christian. In fact Jo and I used to discuss religion a lot when I stayed with her. Jo had me to stay many times and looked after me, particularly in the 1970’s before I got married, in my somewhat difficult early career in London.
She was always so hospitable, a wonderful cook, generous, thought-provoking and kind. I have so much reason to be grateful for the education she gave me, the care and love she showed me. I hope she will not be disappointed at how I have ended up.
Margot Hopkinson (nee Margaret Roper Taylor) was the elder of my father Nigel’s two older sisters. I really first got to know her as a young boy aged 8 at my prep school of St Wilfrid’s in Seaford, as Margot lived about 15 miles along the coast in Eastbourne, in a large Victorian house in the centre of the town. My parents used to take me and my brother out once or twice a term and we usually went to visit Margot and her husband Amyas, who was a school master at Eastbourne College. Margot was a cheerful, rather stout woman, looking very like her father, high cheekbones, piercing blue eyes and a loud voice. She had suffered from polio in her teens which made her walk with a heavy limp, and she used a stick to lean on. She was always bright and cheerful, most hospitable (as were all the Taylor family) and let us children run around the house and play with all the toys (Margot had 4 children herself – Martin, Jonathan, Joanna and Dick; – Martin and Jonathan were several years older than me).
Margot wrote letters to a very wide circle of friends and family, as a way to compensate for her lack of mobility. She wrote letters every day, so that at least one letter a week came to my parents, and later, when I had left school, she wrote very often to me, throughout her life. These letters were full of cheerful news, family gossip, encouragement of my various endeavours or plans – she was always optimistic and cheerful. I can say that Margot’s influence on me was always positive and well-meaning – I usually wrote back to her, and after she died her son Martin wrote a note of thanks to me to say that Margot always appreciated my correspondence, “as few other people bothered to write to her”.
In all truth, it was not that much of a burden for me to write letters, as I had been brought up to write letters as a small and homesick schoolboy at St Wilfrid’s. Letters from parents were always supposed to be answered, and my mother preserved some of my early efforts, with questionable spelling and spidery writing, but innocent little remarks. It was always considered good etiquette if letters were answered, which is why I was a conscientious respondent with Margot and Jo. As I grew older, letter writing itself was not a problem but to find the time to write them was – at Uppingham, I had time in my study, but later in my life, letter writing became more sporadic. However, I developed a formula – “Thanks for writing to me – acknowledge a specific point that shows you have read their letter – brief description about how you are and what you have been doing – any wider comment about the family in general, and an amusing incident or perhaps a remark on politics or social affairs that shows you have been following the news”.
But now, writing or receiving a handwritten letter is a very rare event.
I learned about poetry through Margot – she wrote some lovely poignant poems that inspired me in later years. I also learnt more about the family history from Margot as she had a different view of her own father, Jimmy Taylor, to my father, who had not been close. This was not my father’s fault, it was just a question of the circumstances at the time.
Margot was Jimmy’s favourite child, and he took her on many visits to the family business when she was in her late teens or early twenty’s (in the 1930’s). Margot gave me much more of an insight into Jimmy’s character than my father was able to give.
In the last five years of both Nigel’s and Margot’s life (they both died in the same year, 1997) I was able to give them some results of my research further back into Taylor family history, and this pleased them both. It also gave me a bond, maybe, to reconcile certain differences with my father before he died, for which I am grateful.
June Lees-Spalding was my godmother and another person who greatly influenced me. She had been one of my mother’s best friends at school. June was married to an officer in the Royal Navy, and when I was a small boy my mother took us to visit June and her family near Southampton. I remember seeing, or even boarding, the huge Cunard liner the Queen Elizabeth, in Southampton Docks, and viewing the ship as she sailed into the docks from The Solent. June was tall and had a thick mass of curled dark brown hair. She was elegant and refined, and spoke with a cultured accent. She took her God-parenting duties very seriously, writing Christmas and birthday cards to me every year, which almost always included a bank note or a cheque. As I grew older, married and had children, and life became more complicated, June became a confidante for me through her letters of encouragement, always being interested and concerned about my life and my plans, and the welfare of my family. She had a wonderful sense of humour, a dry British irony and view of the quirkiness of life, that I greatly appreciated and shared. I was able to take my young family to see her at her lovely house near Winchester, which were memorable occasions, but as life went on and her husband died, I tried to visit her on my own once a year. She was always most kind and generous and hospitable, sending me off with loads of apples gathered from her orchard, and she was interested in and concerned for me right to the end of her life. She was a practising Christian lady and a passionate Conservative.
Joanne Routen (Nanny Routen)
I have written about my beloved Nanny elsewhere, but I will include her in this essay. Joanne, or Nanny as I still call her, was my first Nanny and probably the best and most influential. She came to our house at Pinewood Lodge, Seaview Road, Broadstairs in Kent in about spring or summer 1953, just after my younger brother Richard had been born. I was then about 15 months old. My mother needed help with 2 children and advertised for a nanny. Joanne answered and sent a photo of herself, newly qualified and in her smart crisply-starched nurse’s uniform. Mum was suitably impressed and took on Joanne. She was only about 20 or 21 years old. We were her first children in her first job. I remember she had a lovely beautiful fresh face with clear complexion, she had a lovely smile and spoke in a quiet manner. She obviously adored us 2 little boys. Only a very young child can know the intimate care that is given by a nurse or nanny – the closeness, the care and concern, the dressing, and comforting and quiet whispering in the ear when needed. Joanne provided all this and her love, which stays with me to this day.
Joanne contracted poliomyelitis suddenly in the summer of 1955. She was rushed to hospital and her job with us was abruptly curtailed. Joanne was sadly paralysed as a result of this disease, which is highly infectious and can be caught by bathing in seawater. My parents were terrified that Richard and I could have caught it, and there were apparently an anxious few months of waiting to see if it would affect us. This was devastating to Joanne and her family, understandably a huge tragedy for such a young and vibrant woman. I was too small to understand what was going on, but I do remember being lifted up by my mother to peer through the round window of the ward at the Royal Seabathing Hospital in Margate, where Joanne was recuperating, and she bravely smiled and waved at me through the glass, only a few meters away. How she must have felt when we left, I cannot begin to imagine. Even in later life, Nanny wrote me letters and birthday cards, and occasionally came to see us as we grew up. She was always interested in my life and cared for me long after I had grown up. That special bond between us never broke. I was particularly influenced by how she cared for others despite her own difficulties, which were not just physical. This was largely due to her strong Christian faith – she was a Baptist, and also the influence of her father Charles, who was a most saintly man and (I believe) a lay Baptist minister. Joanne died in 1986, only in her mid fifties.
I only really got to know Joanne’s father Charles Routen ten years after she died, after we had come back from Cornwall to live in Bedfordshire. He was still living in Eastry in Kent where he had lived all his life. He was a small man, in his eighties then but still sprightly and with an amazing zest for life. His only son had emigrated to New Zealand many years before and his wife had died also many years previously, but Charles kept himself busy with his involvement in his Baptist church and his lay ministry, particularly to young people. He wrote me many lovely letters, despite failing eyesight, which were always cheerful and optimistic, always interested in my young family and my life, and just a witness to his quiet, firm belief in God. I was fortunate to have known him in the last few years of his life, and he gave me an oil portrait of Joanne painted when she had just left hospital in about 1956/57. This was a treasured possession of mine, until I had to leave the UK in 2013. I decided to donate this portrait to the Walmer Baptist Church which Joanne had attended so regularly. The Minister there was delighted to receive this painting, as he had known Joanne, and I believe the painting is hanging in the Church hall.
Adam Scott. I now want to mention some people who influenced my life in my working life, after I left school and who were not necessarily my personal friends. Adam Scott was a most interesting young man and I got to know him because I shared a bedroom with him in the autumn of 1971 and early 1972, in the Vicarage at Hoxton Square, Shoreditch, East London. This was the home of the vicar of Shoreditch, Richard Thompson and his wife Elizabeth, who had rented bedrooms in their large Victorian vicarage to young men who were just beginning their working lives or studies in London. At that time, I regarded myself as a practicing Christian and had been introduced to Richard Thompson by some friends I had made early on, when I started my job at the publishers Hodder and Stoughton in September 1970. I was a trainee with Hodder and Stoughton, and at that time I was spending some months in each of their departments, including their religious department. As far as my domestic arrangements were concerned, I was living as if in a large family home with Richard and his wife, who provided bed and breakfast to several other young men, including Adam Scott. Adam was tall, lean and with a large nose and rather sharp facial features accentuated by his horn rimmed spectacles. He was not unlike a young Peter Ustinov to look at and he had similar attributes. He was what could have been described as a genius or polymath. He had not long left (Oxford) University. His job was as a Patent Officer investigator with the Patent Office, examining patents for their worthiness. But he was also a lay minister, training for ordination in the Church of England, he was a part-time officer in the Territorial Army, and he also had time to play the oboe, a difficult wind instrument. He had a rather superior or self satisfied demeanour, as if he knew how brilliant he was, but this was not in any way to detract from his sharp intellectual abilities. He was quite intimidating at first to me, who was not intellectual at all, and who struggled to keep up with more academic subjects, but I feel I more than held my own in normal social conversation and politeness. Adam influenced me by his intellectual questioning of certain attitudes or beliefs, and his own Christian convictions to which I was not nearly as committed, although I was trying to live a “Christian” life. The only problem was that at that time, I was a naïve 19 or 20 year old and I was not really enjoying my job or living in London. I was seriously questioning what I should do in life, and I had no-one to talk to except Adam, who was so firmly convinced of his own destiny in life. I really was in need of careers advice. I somehow discovered a private careers advisory service in Marylebone, which was a big mistake. Instead of personal counseling and advice, I was given a standardized, computerised psychometric test, which was fed into a processor. The stark results showed on a graph – the personality traits suggested that I would be suitable as a “Teacher”. I was not thrilled with this idea and instead decided to apply for a Short Service Commission in the army. This too was a mistake, as I was fundamentally not cut out to be an officer or leader of men.
Adam tried to help me as best as he could with my thoughts, but as a young impatient man myself, I thought I knew what I was doing. What really should have happened in retrospect was that I should have gone off travelling the world, so that I could have matured and taken a considered time to reflect on my career choice. But all the pressure on me at the time was to conform to my father’s and society’s expectations and “get a job” and not “waste my time travelling around.” I had gone straight from a closed world boarding school into a closed world in London, and I should have broken out of that and experienced some freedom. I had all my life ahead of me and there really should have been no pressure or hurry to make up my mind. However, Adam was a kindly man and helped me at the time with encouragement and sympathy, and I remember one weekend he kindly took me to his parents’ house to give me a nice break from London and relax. I did subsequently apply to join the army but mercifully I failed the Regular Commissions Board test.
Tim Staples. Tim Staples was a fellow student at Teacher Training college at the College of the Venerable Bede, Durham University. I met Tim in my first week or so in late September 1972. After failing to get into the Army, I had reverted to the suggestion of becoming a Teacher and also in my mind I justified my decision with the thought that “I had missed out on becoming a student” when I had first left school. In fact, in those days, with my poor‘ A’ level results (C grade in English, E grade in Geography, O level grade in History) there had been no question of me going to any University and the idea of yet more study after school appalled me. However, skip 2 years and I find myself in a daughter college of Durham University, beginning a 3 year course of Teacher training which would have led to a Certificate in Education (Cert.Ed) qualification.
Tim was a large man in every way – physically large, large in thought and generosity and vision. He was absolutely convinced of the surety of his career choice, which is what impressed me so much – I was so unsure and uncertain, and he was so sure and certain he was doing the right thing! “No If’s, But’s or Maybe’s – just Yes or No!”. And you always knew where you stood with him.
He opened my eyes, and those of his students, to so many good things in life – country walks, real ale and pub food, The English Lake District, Scotland and Edinburgh, the Surrey Hills Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, his love of The Gambia in Africa and African music, above all his commitment to and love of his profession of teaching. At his funeral, which was packed, almost all his young pupils expressed their grief at the passing of this hugely influential man at so early an age (43). He shared his life so enthusiastically and generously with others. I wrote in an Appreciation of his life that I was fortunate to have known such a man, and that “if I can be half as good a friend to others, as he was to me, I will have achieved something in my life”. I still miss him enormously, for teaching me what a true friend is.
Ted and Mary Staples. On meeting Tim’s parents, I knew where a lot of his attitudes and inspiration in life came from. Ted was a salesman for Grants of St James’s, in the wine and spirits trade, and his wife Mary was a primary school teacher. They both had a most generous and hospitable nature, welcoming me and many others into their house, memorable especially at the time of the annual Abinger Fair in June. Ted had been instrumental in setting up this Fair after the War, and by the 70’s it had become a well-known event attracting many hundreds of families to the medieval-style fair and stalls. Ted was the Master of Ceremonies, dressed in hessian and with a pheasant’s feather in his green felt hat, keeping everyone on their toes by regular announcements through the microphone. Tim was in charge of the beer stall, and I helped him in this on several occasions, suitably attired in sacking and medieval peasant’s costume. After the fair ended, we carried on drinking at the nearby pub, aptly named The Abinger Hatch, and then, even later into the evening, back at the Staples’ house. I will never forget these fun times and the hospitality of Ted, Mary and Tim Staples.
Paul Everitt was, apart from Tim, my closest friend. I first met him in the mid 1970’s, when I joined a group based in London called the InterVarsity Club, or IVC. This was a social group of ex-university students who wanted to do various activities in their spare time. The group I was interested in was called Churches and Castles, and they went off at weekends to various delightful places throughout England or Wales, staying in comfortable hostelries and viewing interesting historic churches and castles in the locality. Paul Everitt was a member of this group, and we quickly became friends. Paul was a small and slightly- built man when I first knew him. He was very knowledgeable, even scholarly, about the historic churches and buildings we were to see, and pointed out interesting features to me. Paul appeared to be quite shy when I first met him, but when he was surrounded by his friends he became the centre of attention, cracking jokes and becoming a most entertaining host. Paul loved good food and a beer or two. He was quietly intellectual, and a moderate Liberal party member (now Lib Dems). I much enjoyed discussing the politics of the day with him.
Paul was a bit of a social snob and aspired to the higher classes. He was always in awe of, and greatly respected, titled people of the landed or aristocratic classes, of whom he came into contact with both professionally and privately.
His job was in University Administration, but like me he had a difficult career path, always moving from one job to another and falling out with his bosses. He yearned to be a barrister and attempted to change profession in mid-career, but didn’t quite have the resources, intellectual and financial, to pass the Bar Exams, although he tried twice. His disappointment in that field, together with a very brief and unsuitable marriage to a girl from Sardinia, led to a slow decline in his fortunes, and in his last years he became a sad and lonely figure. It was my saddest moment, and a huge shock, to hear from his sister in the summer of 2006 that he had taken his own life at the age of 58, by jumping under a train.
Paul was a good friend to me and I miss him enormously.
Fred Bingham was my boss in the Silver Department of the up-market luxury-goods store named Garrards, at that time located in Regent Street in London’s West End. I was a trainee in the silver department, having joined Garrards in September 1977. Fred was aged about 40. He had loads of charisma. He spoke with a clear, classless accent, loud and well modulated. He had a great smile which showed off his flashing white teeth, and a loud laugh. He was direct, he never prevaricated, he was clear in his orders and instructions, was never pompous or arrogant, but above all, from a trainee’s point of view, he was extremely knowledgeable about his subject and was an excellent teacher. I was captivated by Fred. Several times I travelled with him to bank vaults or customers’ houses, in order to value silver for insurance. He was always polite and extremely well-mannered, always patient with me, and always made sure that he explained every step of the valuation process. Fred inspired loyalty and was the sort of leader who could take you anywhere; he inferred that if you stuck with him, you would be all right and you would yourself progress.
The only problem for me was the pitiful salary. Garrards were notoriously mean payers, especially to their trainees. I was an older trainee, having joined at the age of 25, but my salary of 2,500 GBP was not enough for living in London. It was clear that I would have to wait for several years for any promotion and salary rise. I therefore began to look for another job in the retail jewellery trade. Fred understood my frustration, and he must have seen other potentially good employees leave for the same reason. I went for one job interview with a slightly down-market multiple jewellery chain, and was offered a job at a higher salary. I told Fred about this in a confidential interview. I remember him saying, without bitterness, “OK, if you point a gun at my head, make sure you have a bullet in it”. In other words, he was subtly saying to me that a job offer with this company was one thing, but would it lead anywhere, and was it really worth it for the sake of five hundred pounds a year extra? I took his hint, but a few months later I had a different kind of job offer, which really held out good long- term prospects, and this time Fred did not stand in my way. He was sorry to see me go, I think, unlike most of my managers.
Fred Bingham was one of the best managers I ever had in my changeable career, and I only realized how rare that was in later years.
John Radford was an employee at my next company after leaving Garrards. This was a shop in the West End of London just off Bond Street, the centre of the high-end retail jewellery trade in London. John had been a Director for many years of the previous old-established company on the same site, and when it was bought out by the new owner, John agreed to stay on as a senior Consultant, really filling his last few years before retiring. His retirement was imminent when I joined the company in September of 1979.
John was of the old school. He had come from a working-class background and had worked his way up the hard way. He had had many years of dealing with the upper classes and their foibles. It took some time to get to know John as he at first seemed a bit of a curmudgeon, keeping himself to himself, but gradually he thawed towards me and revealed a complex and interesting character. He had silver hair, was above average height but bent his head forward when walking so he seemed to have a slight stoop. He smoked a cigarette in his break time. He was extremely knowledgeable about jewellery and antique silver. He had a dry sense of humour which he occasionally revealed to the rest of the staff. He told many stories of the people he had served over the years, his career having begun in the 1930’s.
He was actually quite fond of me and would have taken me under his wing, except that I was now aged 27 or 28 and John was wary that I had been taken on to be trained to take over his place when he finally retired.
John influenced me by his work ethic, his integrity, his sense of humour and by the fact that he had struggled all his life to achieve a place in society, to come from a humble background and by sheer hard work get to be a Director of a famous “establishment” company, on friendly terms with the upper classes and ‘stars’ and celebrities of the land.
John kept in touch with me for many years, writing warm letters and Christmas cards, after I left the company and started my own little business in Cornwall. I was grateful for his friendship.
Dave Tabbit was a work colleague of mine at The Papworth Trust in Cambridgeshire. I first met him just after I started my new job as an Employment Advisor at Papworth in May 2001. My first impression was that he was a bit of a joker, with a rather fatuous grin, but I soon realized the first impression was mistaken. Dave became a good friend of mine because he was fundamentally a decent fellow who wanted to help others, but who wouldn’t put up with stupid management and was prepared to say so. He also faced several domestic problems, not least of which was his own health, he had a poor heart which necessitated a heart valve replacement at The Papworth Hospital, which is a world-renowned hospital for heart surgery. He had aged parents to look after and he was in search of a wife.
Dave influenced me by his ability to face and overcome problems, both at work and at home. He gradually and systematically sorted out his domestic problems. He became a “colleague in arms” against problems of unsympathetic management at The Papworth Trust, and we together had the courage to point this out. Dave had a wonderful sense of humour, and came up with jokes and witty remarks that were very entertaining, which endeared me to him. Dave was unflappable under pressure (probably because he had to be calm for his heart), and he offered me his friendship and sympathy at a very difficult time for me personally. I kept in touch with Dave for many years until I finally left the UK in 2014 for a new life in Nepal.
The following people were influential in my life outside of, and beyond, my working career.
Brian Davis is an interesting man I met late in my life. We became good friends through a shared interest in the rescue and preservation of an old industrial railway steam engine from a redeveloped site in Leatherhead, Surrey, where I was living after my return from Indonesia in 2010. In September of that year I read an article in the local press about the “discovery” of this abandoned steam engine, a Hawthorne Leslie 0-0-0 saddletank, by some local steam railway enthusiasts, who had banded together to form a society, and had bought the engine for One Pound from the local Council. The threat by the council of scrapping the engine had motivated the rush to buy the engine for only one pound, as long as the new Society removed the engine from the site as soon as possible.
It was discovered under a mass of overgrown buddleia branches on a small plinth at the edge of what had once been a large outdoor swimming pool owned by the council. The site was being cleared for redevelopment.
I went down to the site, as it was very close to my flat, and took some photos of the engine. I soon found out the contact name of the Chairman of the new Society, who was Brian Davis, and wrote to enquire about joining. He wrote back, and we soon met at the site where Brian and several other people were working on inspecting the engine. I found out a lot more information and eventually joined the society.
Brian is a tall, burly man with blue eyes in a round, pale face. He is a very friendly and generous man. He had lived in Fetcham most of his life, and had many friends in the area. He was well-known for being an avid model railway collector, and had built a wonderful layout housed in a large shed in his back garden. He always liked to show off this model railway set to friends and visitors and let them control the engines themselves. He was an expert on railway steam engines. The opportunity to buy a REAL steam locomotive and restore it back to life was exciting for Brian, and I too caught this excitement.
Our Hawthorne Leslie 3837 was moved from Leatherhead to the Lavender Line in March 2011, the Lavender Line being a private railway at Isfield in East Sussex, about 50 miles from Leatherhead. For the next 2 years, I was able to go down occasionally at weekends to work on the engine, which involved cleaning and cosmetic painting, and the building of access steps and railings. These weekends (Sundays) were always fun and enjoyable and I made several friends through my involvement. Brian was sympathetic to my situation and we became good friends, he often drove me down to Isfield, cracking dirty jokes and explaining his long-term plans for the restoration and use of “our” engine.
Brian really proved what a good friend he was to me, by offering to have me to stay at his home for a month in September 2013, after I had returned from Nepal due to a family crisis. Earlier that year I had given up my flat in Leatherhead and travelled out to Nepal, where my future seemed to lie. But after 3 months I had to return to the UK to deal with a family crisis. Brian and his lovely wife Hazel put me up for a month, offering board and lodging. I really got to know Brian well during this time. He was most kind, generous and hospitable to me. He was sensitive to criticism but stubborn, determined and single-minded so far as his railway ideas were concerned. He was a man of action, despite indifferent health.
I hope I was able to reciprocate his friendship both during that time and later, when he needed support over the management of his Society. By 2017 our Society had to vacate the Lavender Line for various reasons. Eventually, after a frantic year of searching and negotiations, our Society (Brian) found a new long-term home for the engine at the Epping and Ongar Railway, and it was transported there in April 2018, where hopefully one day it will be restored to working order.
Colin Carpenter is a friend I made in the 1990’s when I was living in Bedford. Colin was the leader of a group of volunteers who went out into the countryside at weekends, to gather wild seeds from trees and bushes which were then propagated and planted out in a nursery. The aim was to supply trees and bushes to cover a new Forest being created in the Vale of Marston, in the Gault Clay area of Bedfordshire, which had been the source of clay for making bricks over many centuries. The landscape was pockmarked with clay pits and it was also a huge landfill site for waste and rubbish from London and the South East of England, so a new forest was helping to cover up these scars and make a pleasant place for recreation such as walking, cycling, fishing and nature exploration.
Colin is a very personable man, welcoming me into his group and explaining what was needed. I much enjoyed collecting the seeds in autumn and trying to propagate them at home. Colin taught me how to treat the seeds to make them germinate, how to propagate in a warm environment, then plant out in a nursery, where after a few years, they would be re-planted out in the wild. These skills would stand me in good stead later on, when I was travelling and volunteering in Nepal and Indonesia.
Colin is a quiet, unassuming man, just enjoying his job and leading others to appreciate tree planting in the open countryside, appreciating the beauty of woodlands, fields and hedgerows. I learnt about gardening skills such as composting, mulching, watering, pruning and grafting while I was involved with Colin’s group.
Tara Dahal is a friend I have made only in the last 4years since I have lived in Nepal. Tara is the Head Gardener at the Garden of Dreams near the centre of Kathmandu. This is a beautiful oasis of flowers, trees, shrubs, sculpture gardens, ponds, paths, walkways, canopies and white-painted architecture that has been restored from a ruinous state in the 1990’s. It is a little bit of peace and fresh air in the middle of the bustling, dusty city.
Tara is in charge of the gardeners and maintenance staff, but he is only paid the same as the ordinary staff. He works hard to keep the garden looking lovely, but he is not rewarded financially nor is he recognized for his work by his boss, who is a government officer who knows nothing at all about gardening or maintenance or management. When Tara has pointed out the inequity of his employment, the boss just shrugs his shoulders and says there is nothing he can do.
Tara is a wonderful example of a man who works hard under difficult conditions, who suffers from a boss who he dislikes but cannot easily escape from. He continues to work to the same high standards despite these difficulties, because he loves his work – he enjoys planting shrubs and flowers, attending to all the problems in the garden to enhance the enjoyment of thousands of visitors every month. His principles of honesty and integrity and hard work will not be compromised by the circumstances of his employment.
I have found Tara to be a gentle man, a man who listens and is in interested in my own family and my own life. He has offered me his concern and sympathy when I have had difficulties and problems. I have also helped him in some small ways financially. He has struggled to earn enough money to support his sick wife, and to educate his son. He has had to make many sacrifices in his life. But he still remains calm, friendly and extraordinarily forgiving of his employers. I have learnt a lot from Tara. If I was in his position, I don’t think I would have had the patience to remain working in those conditions, and would have left a long time ago – but would it have helped me? That was always my problem in my own career.
I now will mention three world statesmen who have influenced my life, and who I wish to mention at the end of this article. The men are John Fitzgerald Kennedy, 35thPresident of the USA 1961 – 1963, Nelson Mandela, President of the Republic of South Africa 1994 – 1999, and Sir Edward Heath, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom 1970-1974.
John F. Kennedy (Jack) was of course charismatic and loved by millions of his own countrymen. He was assassinated when I was only 11 years of age and I was not fully aware then of how great a man he was and how great his loss was to the world, although I registered the shock and grief of his death at the time. His life and presidency have been written about countless times. I want to say the things about JFK that I admired most and learned about later in my life.
I remember my father saying to me once that “Kennedy was loved by the Americans”. That struck me as significant, coming from my father, who never exaggerated. I thought it was a very significant remark because politicians are not generally “loved” by their people, but as I grew older I realized that the youthful JFK had caught a mood, and set an example by his courage, and represented values that identified him with millions of his countrymen.
In the 1970’s and 80’s I read more about Kennedy’s life and death, and watched various documentaries and snippets of his life. But it was not until 1998 that I really appreciated his life – this was when I accompanied my mother Betty on a holiday to New England, and we visited the Kennedy Museum in Boston, Massachusetts. There, we saw personal mementoes, photos and above all, video and audio clips of his speeches. These had a profound influence on me, because I had not before fully appreciated his charisma, his courage and determination in the face of the threat of nuclear war with the Soviet Union, nor his charm and ease in his private (but nevertheless very public) life. The tragedy of his assassination seemed all the more poignant to me after this visit.
Reading JFK’s Inauguration Speech now, I get the impression that JFK anticipated his own death (sacrifice) by the courage and leadership he was fully intending to show the world. He was flinging down a challenge, to many nations, and many potential enemies, that he represented American values of freedom, democracy and openness that were not to be trifled with, and if necessary, he was prepared to press the nuclear button in defence of these values, but that in saying so, he hoped that this would never be necessary.
After Betty’s and my visit to the Kennedy Museum I understood more of where he had come from and what drove him on. He came from class and privilege and wealth. He had an ambitious and influential father. He seemed to have known that the Presidency was his destiny. He loved being President. But as a Senator for Massachusetts in the 1950’s, he had fought against the Mafia (the Mob) and Trade Union bosses. He had fought against jealousy, pettiness, corruption and thuggery. And as President, he was faced with the most awful decision anyone could possibly have had – whether to press the nuclear button to stop the Soviets deploying missiles on Cuban soil. His courage during that tense 13 days in October 1962 must surely be worthy of the utmost admiration. His inauguration speech was literally ringing in his ears.
Other aspects of Kennedy’s character that influenced me were his love of his beautiful wife, Jackie, and their young family, his very obvious happiness when holidaying with them, sailing off the New England and Maine coast, playing with his young son John Jr in the Oval Office of the White House, being with his large extended family at the Kennedy compound at Hyannis Port, Massachusetts. I liked his sense of humour, his glamour and charisma, his excitement about announcing the plans by NASA to land a man on the Moon before the end of the 1960’s.
Finally, he was courageous about his chronic back pain, on which he had had surgery and which at times incapacitated him, but he never let that pain show through and it never stopped him carrying out his duties.
Nelson Mandela also was a world statesman of immense moral stature. He was imprisoned in South Africa in 1963, the same year of Kennedy’s assassination, and was not released until 1990, 27 years later. I only really became aware of his importance during the mid 1980’s, when there were demonstrations in London and around the world calling for his release, and the apartheid regime of South Africa were perpetrating ever harsher actions against protesting black South Africans. I gradually picked up more information about Mandela’s life by reading the papers and listening to the news. But again, I only fully appreciated his enormous significance and his absolute moral supremacy when he was filmed on release from prison in early 1990. His autobiography was called “The Long Walk to Freedom”, and the film of his walking the 200 meters from the prison gates to the outside world will always stay in my memory – a slightly stooped, grey-haired, thin figure, walking painfully slowly but looking up enquiringly and expectantly, and each step he took he grew taller and his moral authority was overwhelming. One could almost see the apartheid regime crumbling into dust as he walked the road.
I caught the excitement of that time and subsequently followed his life and political career closely. I read his amazing, beautifully-written autobiography. I kept newspaper clippings. After he ceased to be President I wrote to his office and requested a signed photograph – I did receive a nice one back with the caveat that the signature was a stamp, as Mandela was too tired to sign any more autographs. But I still have that photo and it will one day be framed and placed on my study wall.
In the millennium year 2000, he paid a visit to my then home town of Bedford, to unveil a memorial to Father Trevor Huddleston, an Anglican priest who had been born in Bedford and spent most of his life in South Africa, helping the poor black population in Soweto, where he had met Mandela. Mandela wanted to honour Huddleston’s memory, so, typically, he came to Bedford. I desperately wanted to see him, but had to go to work in Milton Keynes, so I missed the only opportunity I ever had of seeing Mandela personally. I needless to say followed the TV coverage, and gathered the local newspaper clippings. Mandela didn’t disappoint, dancing on stage with some youthful people in a characteristically colorful shirt with tribal markings. He was such a charismatic figure, smiling, joking, but delivering a serious speech about Huddleston and his campaigns against the apartheid regime.
Nelson Mandela seemed to become even more influential on the world stage after his presidency ended in 1999. He was sought out by many world leaders, celebrities and ordinary members of the public alike – he treated them all the same, with courtesy, warmth, humour and seriousness. People were amazed at his capacity to forgive his white captors – but we all learned from Mandela that bitterness only destroys one’s own character, not that of your opponent. We all learned that despite the most trying times, when darkness and despair and defeat seem all enveloping, the inner spirit can never be crushed, even the tiniest spark of hope and self-belief can keep one going through adversity. If you are convinced of your moral position, that your cause is just, and you have a good conscience, that will enable you to survive. We also learnt that you can live an active and very fulfilled life in the twilight of your years; Mandela gave out happiness and hope and joy to so many people, and in turn seemed to be energized by that. He died at the ripe old age of 95, surrounded by his large family and closest friends.
The Rt. Hon. Sir Edward Heath, KG, MBE (“Teddy” or “Ted” Heath).
Teddy Heath was a personal friend of my father and my father’s family, especially his sister Jo Morley, who had been a contemporary of Ted at Oxford University in the late 1930’s. I had been brought up from a very early age to understand that Teddy Heath was an important politician, but a personal friend of the Taylor family in Broadstairs – it was clear that politics were not discussed with Teddy, and that on the occasions when the family saw him, he was among friends and relaxed, enjoying the respite from politics in the invigorating sea air of Broadstairs.
Teddy achieved his ambition of becoming an MP in 1950. I was born in 1952. As he rose through the Conservative party, my father wrote him letters of congratulation every time he was promoted, to which Teddy always replied courteously. I only saw the letters Teddy wrote many years later, as my mother carefully kept anything Teddy wrote, including his personal Christmas cards, often containing a friendly enquiry after the family. In the early 1950’s Teddy was a guest at cocktail and dinner parties given by my parents, and his “thank you” letters reveal how much he really enjoyed these occasions, with my parents’ generous hospitality combined with an interesting mix of intellectual discussion with my father’s friends and family.
As Teddy rose higher in political life, these social occasions tailed off as he was so busy and spent most of his time in London. However, the family always saw him every Christmas in Broadstairs, conducting the Carol Concert at Bohemia Hall and then on Christmas Eve he led a party of singers up the drive of my grandmother’s house, “The Banks”, to sing Christmas carols in plainsong by the light of candles in ancient lanterns. This took place in the dimmed hallway of the house, the family all gathered around while the taller male singers spread themselves towards the rear of the hall.
The hall was literally “decked with holly” and green foliage, and there was a Christmas crib in the corner, always lovingly arranged by Aunt Jo every year. Teddy always conducted vigorously and the favourites were always sung most beautifully and poignantly, as he always demanded perfection!
It was a magical time for us children. Afterwards, a silver tray loaded with sherry glasses was handed round to the singers by a child, while Teddy was invited into the lounge, by the fireside, to meet the senior members of the Taylor family, chatting briefly over a glass of whisky about local personalities known to Teddy, and probably about the family grocery business, Vye and Son, with which Teddy was very familiar. “The Banks” was among the first of the larger family houses that Teddy’s party visited on Christmas Eve, probably because we were comprised of so many younger children who couldn’t stay up too late. Teddy wrote in his autobiography that his carollers went the rounds of the larger family houses in Broadstairs and the North Foreland, collecting donations, and ended up at the Kingsgate Castle Hotel at midnight for a buffet and champagne party, which went on late, and then they all retired to their homes after an exhausting evening.
This annual tradition lasted all through my childhood and teenage years, only ending when my grandmother Madge Taylor died in early 1971. By that time, I was aged 18 and I had moved to a job in London. So this family tradition and my life in Broadstairs all came to an end at the same time.
Teddy Heath had become Prime Minister in June 1970, and was no longer able to personally conduct the singers at the family houses; however he always personally conducted the Town Carol Concert every year for many more years, whatever his political circumstances. On Christmas Eve 1970, my father on a whim took me down to the Broadstairs Sailing Club in York Street, just up from the small harbor. He had a feeling that Teddy would be there. He was correct. We were having a drink at the bar at nearly 10.00 o’clock when suddenly, in walked Teddy Heath. My father had guessed correctly that that was where Teddy would want to be on his return from the USA. I remember Teddy saying, very matter-of-factly, “I’ve just returned from seeing President Nixon in America”. We were all suitably impressed. I don’t remember what else we talked about, but I was so glad that my father had lived long enough in Broadstairs to see Teddy become Prime Minister, after their long friendship and all those previous Christmas occasions, and had been able to celebrate a drink with him in his home town. I remember I asked my father if I could photocopy the letter of thanks from Teddy he had received on No 10 Downing Street notepaper, after my father had typically written to congratulate Teddy on this achievement. My dad gave me the original letter but was very anxious that I should take care of it, which of course I did. My dad was quietly proud that his friend of many years had become Prime Minister.
From 1970 onwards, of course I followed Mr Heath’s Premiership with great interest and hope, particularly regarding the UK’s admission to the European Union in 1973, which I saw as vitally important to the success of our country.
However, to my great dismay I had to watch as his government almost immediately faced many difficulties, which seemed to pile up inexorably. Soon the Conservatives were in trouble. These difficulties can be listed as: Economic, inflation, rapidly rising unemployment, reflation (pumping more money into the economy through pensions and tax cuts, but this only led to a cycle of more inflation), “The Troubles” in Northern Ireland, and above all, trades union disputes, particularly the dockworkers and the National Union of Mineworkers, which called the miners out on strike twice. The second time the miners struck, in early 1974, the power stations were operating on half output and Ted (as he now called himself) had to call for a three-day working week. This seemed to cap a whole dismal state of affairs. I personally think Ted was badly advised at this time, but one has to realize just how lonely a position being Prime Minister is, and what a weight of responsibility lay on his (admittedly broad) shoulders.
Ted felt he had no choice but to call an election, on the basis of “Who governs Britain?”. Sadly, his faith in the intelligence of the electorate was misplaced, and the result was not a clear-cut victory for the Conservatives but a hung parliament. The Labour Party had 4 more seats despite the Conservatives having the most votes. After the break-down of talks with Jeremy Thorpe, the leader of the Liberal Party, to see if a coalition could be formed, Ted resigned and the cunning and calculating Harold Wilson, Ted’s long-standing sparring partner, became Prime Minister for the second time.
Ted’s Premiership lasted just over three and a half years. I felt shock and grief in the result, and instinctively I knew that this result would change politics and society in Britain for the worse. I had been a great believer in what Heath stood for, his compassionate conservatism, his monetary policies, his centrist and consensual approach to problems, his approach to and enthusiasm for the European Union, his honesty and above all his integrity in all he did had so impressed me. I could not believe how such an intelligent politician, a man of the people, who had not come from the wealthy and elitist backgrounds of all previous Conservative leaders, could have been so badly let down by the people of Britain. Also, of course it is true that he faced a whole raft of difficulties that accumulated very quickly and at the same time, almost unprecedented for a Prime Minister – this was just sheer bad luck or misfortune, but Ted I believe consistently handled these with competence, honesty and integrity.
I thought that politics in the UK would never be the same again, because integrity and honesty would only be seen as weak and lead to defeat, and politicians above all else want to win. I was devastated and very sad, not to mention disillusioned and disgusted.
At that time and for the rest of their lives my parents kept in touch with Ted, primarily through exchange of Christmas cards, but occasionally personal meetings. In December 1980 Ted visited our family house in Salisbury, where he had come to introduce a musical event in the Cathedral. My mother had heard about his intended visit and wrote to invite him to drinks before the concert. He accepted and duly came, where we as a family welcomed him in to our warm firelit lounge for some champagne, and he and my parents chatted amicably about mutual friends, as of old times.
Teddy invited my parents to his 80th birthday party in London, in 1996, which was a grand celebration with many friends and political personalities attending. My dad related the whole event to me with great interest. My dad died the following year at the age of 76. Teddy wrote a very nice letter to my mother expressing his condolences and appreciation of my father’s friendship for so many years.
Later still, Ted invited my mother to his house in Salisbury, “Arundells”, for lunch. As it happened my mother had a good friend who was a neighbor of Ted’s, so they discussed that friendship in common, although my mother later admitted to me that she was slightly nervous about conversing with Ted. My mother had excellent social skills and was never at a loss for words – she always made people feel at ease and chatted easily and freely, but even she found it hard to deal with Ted. She asked him a question about why he hadn’t settled in retirement in the Precinct at Canterbury Cathedral, rather than Salisbury – Ted was stumped for an answer!
In later years as he grew older, I also wrote him some personal, friendly letters of appreciation, about his accomplishments and about the European Union, or to mention my family, or to say how much I enjoyed reading his autobiography “The Course of My Life”, published in 1998. Ted unfailingly wrote back kindly, and once even offered an open invitation to join him for Sunday lunch, a kind offer which sadly I was unable to take up.
There have been many books, articles and appreciations written about Ted Heath. Many have been critical of his perceived lack of warmth, his brusqueness and abruptness, his silence, his rudeness, or “bitterness” towards his successor Margaret Thatcher, and many other “faults”. I can only say I never ever saw this from a personal, private point of view. He was always polite, courteously mannered, full of humor. He actually was quite shy, and this may have been mistaken for aloofness, coldness or rudeness. He didn’t like small talk but he was always interested in what someone had to say. Ted was aware in his own lifetime of these criticisms. He would have just shrugged his broad shoulders, turned his head slightly and say, with a faint smile and raised eyebrows, (to himself or his critics or privately to his close friends) “My achievements, my style of politics and the actual facts of my life speak for themselves. My works will live on, I made a significant contribution to the better prosperity of the UK, I was Prime Minister for nearly 4 years and a world statesman representing the country I loved abroad, I was a musician and a fine yachtsman. I fought for my country at war. I set an example for integrity in politics. Yes, I may have been naïve, but I did the best I could in the circumstances. Look at my achievements. I was a Man. What have you achieved?”
Teddy Heath died at Salisbury in July 2005, a few days after his 89th birthday. His death was the main item on that evening’s news. The papers were full of tributes from across the globe. Margaret Thatcher paid a remarkable tribute which said: “Ted Heath was a political giant. He was also, in every sense, the first modern Conservative leader – by his humble background, his grammar school education and by the fact of his democratic election. As Prime Minister, he was confronted by the enormous problems of post-war Britain. If those problems eventually defeated him, he had shown in the 1970 manifesto how they, in turn, would eventually be defeated. For that, and much else besides, we are all in his debt.”
I attended his Memorial Service in Westminster Abbey in November 2005, where Lord Douglas Hurd gave a magnificent eulogy. I wrote to Lord Hurd asking for a copy of this eulogy, which he kindly supplied. I said to Lord Hurd that after Ted’s death, we all as a nation felt slightly guilty about what happened to Heath (politically) and that we all had let him down. Douglas Hurd wrote back: “I agree with every word you wrote”.
C. Tim Taylor 2018