Out of the Frying Pan

Scenes from My Life

Keith Floyd

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers

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Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2001

Copyright © Keith Floyd 2000

The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780007122813

Ebook Edition © APRIL 2010 ISBN: 9780007375295

Version: 2014–08–29

FOR POPPY AND PATRICK

I hope you’ll understand some of this and therefore understand a bit of me

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Ferrets, Faggots and Fishing

Typewriters and Burgundy

Floyd on Parade – Almost

Strawberry Fields and Penny Lane

Bistros, Boots and Bentleys

Halcyon Days

Flirty and Freedom

Afloat on the Med.

Attention all Shipping

Draw Sword and Charge

Cameras, Fish and a Walk in the Garden

Food, Frying Pans and Fame

The Irish Period

The Leap Out of the Frying Pan

Keep Reading

About the Author

About the Publisher

Ferrets, Faggots and Fishing

The outside lavatory at 16 Silver Street smelt of urine and Harpic, dampness and earwigs. The green, gold, blue and red transfers which were meant to simulate stained glass were peeling. A rusty chain with a much-handled wooden handle hung from the hissing and leaking cistern. The copper pipe of the water supply was mildewed green. The shiny hardwood lavatory seat slid to one side if you sat on it and both it and the wooden cover on its old hinges would fall down when you tried to pee in it. From the outside lavatory were six steps that led into a small, walled yard. At the end of the yard, beyond the red sandstone wall with its purple and red weeds burgeoning defiantly from the simple mortar between the stones, beyond the smell of wet privet hedges dank with the slime of snails, and before a fertile garden of voluptuous plum trees, bleeding raspberry canes, blackcurrant bushes and runner beans, was my grandfather’s workshop.

My grandfather had a tin leg. Strapped across his shoulders by broad braces, over this thick brown trousers he wore a wide leather belt, and at precisely ten to one you would hear his huff, hiss, puff and his stomp as he clunk-clacked down the yard and down the six steps to the outside lavatory, the one o’clock news (previously, anxiously and obediently tuned in on the big, mahogany wireless that sat on a big brown sideboard by my grandmother) and his lunch.

He stomped down the steps and clumsily crashed into the kitchen, with its grey and white speckled gas range the colour of a heron and its brightly burning cast-iron burners. The kitchen units were cream-enamelled with red piping, a large copper boiler with a massive gas burner fed by a rubber tube issued the odours of washday. The steam from the boiling sheets billowed and entwined with the little jets of aromatic steam from the big aluminium pot which contained the beef stew and dumplings.

In the living room a Victorian mahogany table was laid with embroidered table mats and set with bone-handled knives and forks. Some of the little metal bands between the bone and the blade were loose. There was a large and softly chipped cut-glass salt cellar. There was a freshly cut loaf of burnt, crusty white bread from the Golden Hill Bakery. There was a weeping, golden yellow brick of salty farmhouse butter. There was a small, ten-year-old boy in a white shirt, tie, grey serge short trousers with a yellow and purple snake belt and sandals sitting, elbows off the table, waiting for his lunch which would have to be served and eaten in silence while his grandfather grumpily slurped his stew, as the announcer said, ‘This is the BBC Home Service…here is the one o’clock news.’

Sometimes my grandfather, noisily sucking Rennies, and smoking strong cigarettes always with a long drooping piece of ash on the end, which to my grandmother’s fury he would flick casually onto the carpet, would tell me stories of the First World War. He had lied about his age in order to join up, but he never communicated to me the horror of it, rather more the lighter moments like playing football with the Germans one Christmas, drinking wine on leave in France, which made them tiddly. Sometimes there were subtle allusions to farm girls. He said he knew nothing of the shell that blew off his leg until he woke up in a field hospital and wondered why he could feel a pain in a limb that was no longer there. He had given me a sort of illustrated boys’ Bumper Book of the First World War, which of course showed war in its glory and not in its shame and 1 could sometimes sit with him for hours as he explained the trench systems to me, how the artillery was placed and such like. Only once did he ever refer to his officers and generals in a mildly angry way when he quoted the title of Henry Williamson’s book (also author of Salar the Salmon and Tarka the Otter), Lions Led by Donkeys.

We, my Uncle Ken, my grandmother, grandfather and I, eat the delicious stew as the grim events of the Korean War are placidly announced on the news. It is the first day of the summer holidays. My mother is at work in Fox’s Woollen Mills, my father is an electrician employed by the Electricity Board. My sister, Brenda, three years my senior, is washing up at the White Hart Hotel to earn money to buy a bicycle and a tennis racquet. At this time she is going through a period of religious fervour and attends Bible classes and frenetic Christian rallies organised by a trendy young doctor of medicine, who encouraged us to come to his Sunday Bible classes by offering lavish cream teas and lemonade. Later, his religion got the better of him and, in a moment of terminal madness, he blew out his brains with a twelve-bore shotgun.

But during the short time that my sister was obsessed by all things religious, she made my life hell by continually correcting or criticising any act or utterance that 1 made which, in her view, were ungodlike. She also made me clean her shoes. And when I dallied over the drying up, a compulsory Sunday lunchtime task, she would often put dried plates back in the water again so I had to dry them again. But because she was old enough to have a holiday job and was a member of the tennis club, with its attendant social life, I largely saw little of her and I was blissfully free to go up to the Wiveliscombe Reservoir and fish for trout. My Uncle Ken, the youngest of my uncles and very much the roguish black sheep of the family, helped my grandfather in his shoe repairing business. He played both rugby and cricket for Wiveliscombe, drank too much and was having an affair with an older, married woman. This caused the rest of the family, an extremely conservative bunch, a great deal of distress; to be ‘carrying on’ in that way in the 1950s was not acceptable. I, of course, at the time, was unaware of all this and Uncle Ken, who was probably only twenty-eight or so at the time, was the person who came closest to being a hero to me. He kept ferrets, and on snow-covered winter days we would tramp across fields with nets, a canvas bag with a Thermos flask and cheese sandwiches, and drive demented rabbits from their holes. With fingers blue with cold and numbed feet we would paunch the rabbits, make a slit in one of the rear legs and hang them, sometimes quite frozen, from the crossbar of our bicycles. Sometimes, on summer days, we would steal worn-out 78s from my grandfather’s ancient collection of dance music, and to the annoyance of everybody (but no one could control Uncle Ken), we would spin the records in the air like Frisbees and blast them to bits with Ken’s shotgun.

Some days I would sit on the edge of my grandfather’s workbench playing spaceships with the screw-down wheels of a red shoe-press while he, with a mouthful of nails, rhythmically resoled farmers’ boots. Outside in the yard was a rainwater butt and every so often the traveller from the tannery in Bristol would arrive with several large sheets of leather. This leather was cut into rectangles and left to soak in the rain butt. Every night, when my parents came home from work, we would have a cooked tea. Sometimes rissoles made from the remains of Sunday’s roast, sometimes fish and chips, sometimes a baked, soused herring. But very often it would be a lentil and ham soup with thick chunks of carrot and swede, or a green pea soup enriched with a pig’s trotter. Sometimes it was brawn and bread and pickled onions. Wednesday was always a make-do meal because groceries were only delivered once a week on Thursday, and often on Wednesday night my sister or I would be dispatched to the newsagent’s shop after it had shut with instructions to knock on the back door and borrow half a pound of butter until tomorrow.

Sometimes I would wait by Arnold and Hancock’s Brewery and look across the field to the wool factory and wait for my mother to walk the half-mile-long lane and ask her for a shilling so that I could go to the pictures. Sometimes she didn’t have a shilling to give me.

We lived in a tumbledown cottage which adjoined my grandparents’ house. My father spent every spare moment renovating the house. Floorboards in the bedroom were tortured and twisted and sloped alarmingly. He painstakingly lifted all the floorboards and carefully placed wooden wedges on the old joists to level the floor. He built a bathroom and a kitchen and knocked windows into walls three feet thick.

My mother was able to buy remnants of pure wool cloth from the mill, and on her Singer sewing machine she would make school trousers for me and dresses for my sister. When I came home with my first fish none of us knew its species and I used my pocket money, earned by washing up and weeding the garden, to buy The Observer’s Book of Fishes. It was a firm fleshed, brilliantly coloured trout, which, because we knew no better, we filleted and deep fried in batter and ate with chips.

My father was a very mild, patient and precise, modest man, who awakened my interest in literature at a very early age by reading to me such classics as Treasure Island, A Tale of Two Cities and Robinson Crusoe. He had been a lay preacher in Birmingham and was studying what was called an HND in Electrical Engineering when the war put an end to that. He met my mother in Wiveliscombe whilst on a cycling holiday and thereafter he regularly cycled from Birmingham to Somerset to court her. He was incredibly capable. He could lay a concrete path, repair a clock or, as he did, build me a crystal radio, which I would listen to in my bedroom at nights, although in fact I didn’t have a bedroom. I slept, screened off by a heavy curtain, on the landing between my sister’s and my parents’ bedrooms.

In winter, once a week, my mother made faggots and peas. These are delicious balls of minced liver, lights and heart, flavoured with onion and sage, wrapped in fatty pigs’ caul and roasted in the oven. They are served with a rich gravy made from the stock in which the ingredients have been previously poached, and served with a mound of mushy peas. I have never forgotten when, some years later, I came home very late after a school rugby away game, one which we won, and elated, battered and starving, I was anticipating my steaming plate of faggots. Alas, Uncle Ken had unexpectedly turned up and was given my dinner and I had to make do with bacon sandwiches made from the offcuts of bacon that Murdoch’s the butchers sold for pennies a pound, mostly fat with thick rind. In fact, they were quite delicious, but they in no way compensated for the loss of my faggots! My parents’ philosophy was based on simple generosity and hospitality and visitors always came first, and although in those days the grocery order would only contain one pound of butter, it would be spread thick until it was gone and we would make do with dripping towards the end of the week rather than spread it thinly and meanly. (In 1993 my mother made me fifty portions of faggots and peas for my fiftieth birthday and I said, ‘Uncle Ken is not getting any of these!’)

Until I was ten I attended Wiveliscombe Primary School, where country dancing, singing and maypole dancing made up a strong part of the curriculum. I was a spotty, skinny kid and hated every second of those activities. I seemed to spend an awful lot of time fighting in the playground with a pair of really rough, tough kids who, because I didn’t have a strong Somerset accent, thought I was a bit of a snob and needed teaching a lesson. Luckily, I was a tough little bugger and seldom lost my fights. And apart from being ridiculed by the Headmaster for not knowing how long a jet liner took to travel to America the only other outstanding memory I have of my time at Wiwy School was when, in the milk break one autumn day, I placed a dozen shiny brown chestnuts on the potbellied stove in the corner of the classroom. I had spent the previous Sunday knocking them out of the trees by the reservoir with a stick with the intention of roasting them and eating them before class started again. Unfortunately I forgot, and halfway through a writing exercise, where only the scratching of nibs on paper disturbed the heavy silence, the chestnuts suddenly exploded like a burst of machine-gun fire. The teacher was panic-stricken. After she regained her composure and restored order after the pandemonium that my intended snack had caused, I, of course, spent the rest of the lesson with my hands on my head, standing in the corner. She was, of course, convinced that I had done it deliberately.

But on the whole, with the exception of a very slight incident when a couple of other lads and I somehow got caught shoplifting, nicking Mars bars from Mrs Vickery’s corner store, which resulted in a sound thrashing, a suspension of pocket money and no play for a week, I had a happy and trouble-free time.

In their wisdom, my parents took a dramatic decision on my higher education. A decision which later I was, unjustly as it turned out, to criticise and complain bitterly about.

My sister Brenda was a very bright child and passed her eleven-plus with ease and gained a scholarship to Bishop Fox’s Grammar School in Taunton. However, for some months before I was due to sit my eleven-plus, I had been very ill with some mysterious stomach upset, and for weeks the only food I was allowed to eat, something which I love now but hated then, was natural Bulgarian yoghurt. My parents thought my chances of passing the eleven-plus were slim, if not nonexistent, so they arranged for me to sit the Common Entrance exam at Wellington School, a small, independent, public school. Happily, I passed and was given an assisted place, although this did mean my mother and father both taking on part-time jobs over and above their regular employment to earn enough money to pay the fees.

Hitherto, I had been fairly popular with my peer group, but from the first day when I stood at the bus stop in my thick, short-trousered grey suit, grey socks, black shoes, pale blue cap, school tie and satchel, my standing with the lads changed dramatically and terminally. My first day at school was a nightmare of mixed emotions. I had not previously encountered middle-class boys, I had no understanding of the difference between day boys and boarders, but above all, the fact that I had to wear chunky, moulded-soled Tuff shoes, whereas the other lads all had highly polished Oxford shoes, made an impression upon me which influences me to this day. I have to have the best shoes I can possibly afford.

I can recall nothing of the first couple of terms. The pressure of education and the variety of subjects, especially Chemistry, Physics, Maths and Latin, left me hopelessly bewildered. But then I settled down and I can say, with my hand on my heart, that I proceeded to enjoy the next five and a half years. For me, schooldays truly were the happiest time of my life. The Reverend Lancaster, known behind his back as Burt, quickly realised that Form 4b in general and Floyd, K., in particular had absolutely no interest in or intention of learning Latin. I was gazing thoughtfully out of the window across the cricket square, dreaming about the weekend when I could go fishing again, when suddenly a metre ruler slapped onto my desk in front of me with a resounding ‘thwack’. I jumped, startled from my reverie. ‘Floyd,’ he said, ‘I’d have more success teaching the school cricket roller.’ However, he was a kind and humorous man, and our Latin lessons became quite good fun because he did the decent thing and gave up teaching us Latin and turned our lessons into mock trials, public debates or a general knowledge quiz.

My favourite subjects by far and away were English, taught to us by a brilliant man called Joe Storre, who we thought was great as he had suede chukka boots and a suede waistcoat, and History under the direction of ‘the Don’. Both these teachers could impart information with an ease which was genuinely pleasurable. In these subjects, along with French and Art, I excelled, but for the rest I was a total dunce.

I joined the CCF and thoroughly enjoyed playing soldiers once a week, hated cricket and liked going to daily chapel. But the winter term was best because we played rugby twice a week, and although I never achieved any great success, I have a passion for the game to this day, and from the comfort of my armchair in front of the television set I am an expert on selection, tactics, and everything there is to know about rugby.

In six school Somerset summer holidays, it never rained and for six years the eight or nine weeks of freedom were positively magic.

The key to the joy of the long holidays was financial independence because my father insisted that once I was fourteen I should take on a holiday job. Although I had to contribute £3 10s a week to the family fund, it still left me the amazing sum of just over four pounds a week to spend on fishing tackle, an alloy-framed racing bike and the essential just-released rock and roll records.

It was easy to get a summer holiday job: our family was well thought of in the village. Before she married my grandfather, my grandmother had been in service with the local gentry and because of our parents’ insistence upon politeness, helpfulness and sense of duty, we had no problem finding ourselves work of various sorts.

One summer I had three jobs. At half past six in the morning I would sweep the pavement in front of the newsagent’s shop, put out the placards, unpack boxes and clean the shop until half past eight. Then I would walk the few yards home for breakfast before going round to the Bear Inn for another hour and a half to sweep the cellar, clean ashtrays and bottle up. Then, as the pub opened I was, of course, being underage, obliged to leave. I would walk across the square to the Red Lion Hotel where, during mornings and at lunchtime, I prepared vegetables or washed lettuces, scrubbed pots and plucked chickens and ducks. In the afternoons I weeded the vegetable garden, mowed lawns and generally tidied up.

After tea I would be on my bike with a Thermos flask and some sandwiches to the reservoir or river to fish until dusk. I didn’t work on Sundays, but there were family chores to do – depending on the time of year, picking watercress from the stream for Sunday sandwiches or getting up at dawn in the soft autumn mists to gather mushrooms or spend prickly hours picking blackberries for my mother’s jam or elderberries for my father’s homemade drinks, highly alcoholic and quite lethal. These were drunk only at Christmas.

During the harvest I would join my Uncle Ken, who in exchange for shooting and hunting rights, was obliged to help out a farmer friend every autumn. We would stook corn as the tractor, towing its binder, inexorably moved into the final square of corn in the centre of the field. When that square was no more than twenty yards across the fun began. We would stand back in a circle, clutching sticks, around the square like slips round an anxious batsman. Then we boys were sent in to drive out the rabbits and hares that had taken refuge there.

Some days I might get one or two, possibly three rabbits, one of which would go into one of my mother’s great rabbit stews; the other two Ken would sell to the butcher for five shillings and give me one and six. Happy days! Another bonus of working on the farm was that I was occasionally allowed to drive the Ferguson T20 tractor, with the corn from the harvest on board. Sadly, one day, disaster struck when I misjudged both the gradient and the angle of turn on the ramp to the granary and capsized six tons of corn, twisted the towing hitch and narrowly escaped serious injury. Anticipating a massive bollocking, I waited for help from the farmer, Mr Hawkins. All he said was: ‘Not drive tractor again, Keith!’

I didn’t enjoy milking time too much either. One cow, called Bessie, regularly kicked me from the milking pen into the cow shit draining trench that ran along the edge of the milking parlour. However, there were sublime rewards when, every time Mrs Hawkins made thick, crusty clotted cream, she gave me a jam jar full to take home. Oh yes, there was one other appalling incident when I misunderstood my instructions to weed the border in front of the verandaed farmhouse and destroyed climbing plants that had been there for decades. Amazing I wasn’t sacked, merely given the job of de-beaking hundreds of wretched battery chickens with a pair of electric shears. I didn’t encounter such an unpleasant scene until years later I watched Hong Kong market traders plucking live hens.

At the time I thought all these activities, the mushroom gathering, the odd jobs and so on, were great fun and all part of a country childhood, but of course, there was in fact a genuine financial necessity for such produce as could be gathered for free, and such cash as you earned odd jobbing went into the family purse. Once a year there was great money to be earned, from a week’s potato picking, ten or twelve of us in line behind the tractors; more important to my parents, though, was the bonus of a hundredweight of spuds.

My great boyhood chum was a farmer’s son called Linn Ransey. He too worked on the farm during the holidays, but all of our free time was spent at the riverbank. As farmers they were comfortably off and it was always a great moment when I was invited to stay for lunch or tea in the big farmhouse kitchen with the big scrubbed kitchen table. Stuffed fish, caught by Mr Ransey, an expert angler who also made our fishing rods for us, were hung on the walls. If I was asked to stay for tea, we would invariably have a game of cricket or rounders, and I did everything I could to delay the four-mile journey home, and for fear of being scolded for being late, I used to pick bunches of wild flowers, hoping to appease my anxious mother on my return.

It was about now that I became aware that my new life at Wellington School was hugely different from my life at home, and I am ashamed to say, I went through a phase of being embarrassed by my parents’ modest means and lifestyle. Now well and truly into long trousers, other boys were sporting worsted blazers and finely woven flannels while I was having to make do with the standard serge blazer and thick grey trousers. Also I was growing dissatisfied, not to say resentful, that I never quite managed any of the school trips abroad. This growing resentment came to a head in my last term at school (I was to leave at sixteen, to my great disappointment – I wasn’t considered bright enough to justify the continuation of increasing school fees) when, without consulting my father, I ordered a fine double-breasted blazer, a fine pair of flannels and some Oxford-toed shoes from the school shop.

I think my parents were a little disheartened when they read my final school report and analysed my four meagre O levels, but they were both furious and frightened when they opened the final school bill. My sartorial shopping expedition put the family finances under extreme pressure. I had, it turned out, as my ashen-faced father told me, spent more money on clothes in one hour than he earned in over a month. Not a happy start for an unemployed school leaver about to foray into grown-up life.

Nearly forty years later I still have the same problem with tailors, shoemakers and shirt shops! I can’t resist shopping.

During my last couple of terms at Wellington my father was made redundant in Taunton and was offered relocation to either Newton Abbot in Devon or Bristol. Although I think they would have preferred to stay in Somerset they elected to go to Bristol, where they thought both Brenda and I would have much better career prospects. Thanks to my father’s industriousness and careful management he was able to obtain a mortgage to buy a council house in Sea Mills from the Bristol Corporation. It was a great leap forward for my parents to own their own house. I, unfortunately, was devastated, for the most appallingly wrong reasons of social status. Despite their best efforts to be fair and tolerant my relationship with my parents deteriorated for the next three or four years and were amongst the worst in my life.

I was angry and frustrated because the aspirations instilled in me at Wellington were at loggerheads with post-school reality. I needed a job quickly as I had to repay the money for the dreaded blazer. My parents, ever cautious, tried to persuade me to take a clerk’s job with the Bristol Corporation or the Electricity Board or the GPO, the sort of dull, meaningless job from which you could never be sacked, and end up with a silver watch and a modest pension. I spent two desperately unhappy months filing plans in the Bristol Corporation’s Department of Architecture for the princely sum of £4 7s 8d per week.

At the same time, at just sixteen, I discovered the alluring demimonde of a Clifton coffee bar – at that time in Bristol there were one or two very basic Indian restaurants, one or two appallingly basic Chinese restaurants, the aforementioned coffee bars and omelette bars. For the grown up and affluent there were restaurants just emerging such as the steak bars, started by the Berni Brothers. Bistros, brasseries, wine bars and so forth were still nonexistent, and as for pubs, which I as a spotty, skinny youth of sixteen was unable to enter, they served no food beyond crisps, pickled eggs and a pork pie. So my evenings were spent sipping a cold glass cup of frothy coffee whilst listening to the jazz and blues played on a record player, marvelling at the sophisticated university students and what I took to be painters, writers and artists discussing continental films that were shown at the Tatler Cinema, as they puffed on Gauloises and Gitanes. I was so young and they seemed so old. I could not see a way to cross the bridge that seemed to span the wide gap between me and them.

I had somehow acquired a Vespa motor scooter and for some odd reason I had been persuaded to join a youth club favoured by the middle-class kids from the houses on the private estates that ringed my council estate. These kids all had driving licences and borrowed their fathers’ cars on Saturday nights. I was a fish out of water both socially and intellectually (I regarded myself as intellectually superior and socially inferior) so I left.

Looking back on my life, I think I have been really quite a loner, and although the tabloid press has almost convinced even me that I am some kind of hell-raising party animal, or the hail-fellow-well-met in the bar, I have a fear of crowds and even now, at the age of well over fifty, am sometimes too shy to walk alone into a public place.

There was an awful time when I was fourteen or so, back in Wiveliscombe, and I was invited to a fancy dress party to celebrate some boy’s birthday. I was mortified when I discovered that I was the only one in fancy dress. I left the party in tears of embarrassment, roundly ridiculed by the others, and have had difficulty attending parties ever since. And the youth club experience had a profound effect on me too, with the result that I have a completely prejudiced and irrational scorn for golf clubs, darts teams, yacht clubs, Rotary clubs or committees; and even though I thoroughly enjoyed occasionally playing club rugby in Bristol – and we would always rush down after our game to the memorial ground to catch the last fifteen minutes of another Bristol victory – and, sure the few pints in the clubhouse were great, once the singing started I lived in fear of being called upon to perform. Worse still was the appalling way we behaved in the Indian restaurant later. The lads would go to the lavatory and escape through the window without paying, leaving the more timid of us protesting our innocence and insisting on paying only our own share.

After a while I washed up a couple of evenings a week in the coffee bar for ten bob a night and later I spent another two nights serving coffee and cleaning tables. In a few months I was hanging out with the students and the gap between my aspirations and my home life was further exaggerated. I wasn’t old enough to have the house key and after several nights of my parents waiting up for me, they had, as my father said, ‘to draw a line’. If I wasn’t home before they locked the door, I would have to sleep in the garden shed.

My sister was also living at home. I think she had a job demonstrating cooking appliances in an Electricity Board showroom. I seldom saw her. She, as in Wiveliscombe, had joined tennis clubs and other worthy associations and to my mind was appallingly middle class. Our paths very, very seldom crossed. Handsome young men with MGs or souped-up Minis vied to take her to dances and balls. I think she thoroughly enjoyed this time, I was desperate to leave home.

Sometimes I was ashamed at the anxiety I was causing my parents and my father, who was such a fair and balanced man, doing everything in his power to discuss my adolescent problems, but I found I was unable to communicate with him. Later, when we became the closest of friends, he explained the hurt I had caused them and reminded me that while perhaps I didn’t know what I was doing, neither did he. ‘When you were sixteen,’ he said, ‘it was the first time I had been father to a sixteen-year-old boy, and I had no experience to draw on.’

Although my Bristol life in the coffee bars and folk clubs was good and the conversation was of Jack Kerouac and Woody Guthrie, I strangely still had a hankering for my boyhood time in Wiveliscombe, playing French cricket in the back yard with my handicapped Aunt Eva, or sitting with my grandfather, turning over the pages of a book called The Great War in Pictures while he, to the fury of my grandmother, flicked the ash from his chainsmoked cigarettes straight onto the lino, or eating boiled pigs’ trotters with salt and vinegar in front of the fire on winter Saturday nights.

Sometimes my grandfather, a rather clumsy man, would take a sudden interest in cooking and he spent days bubbling vast cauldrons of tomato sauce. At other times he would gather snails from the privet hedge in the dank back garden and roast them on a shovel in the fire. I suppose he must have known how to clean them because we never suffered from any ill effects.

I missed fishing, and I missed my Auntie Joyce, who once saved me from bleeding to death when I, running and sliding down the highly polished passage that led from our kitchen to the front door, put my arm through the window in the door, gashing my upper arm wide open. She heard my cries of panic, picked me up, and in bare feet ran down the street and frantically hammered on the doctor’s door. She, like my Uncle Ken, was young compared to my mother and my other uncles and so on Sunday afternoon walks she would sing folk songs, with a slightly risque rearrangement of the words.

Some years later she was found dead in a snowdrift on a hill where once she had taken me tobogganing. It was her only exit from a private hell that, until too late, no one had been aware of.

Then there was my one and only thespian performance, when somehow, after the nightmare of the fancy dress party, I agreed to be Mowgli in the Scout and Cub group’s annual jamboree in the Town Hall. My mother sewed me a loincloth of rabbit skin and my father improvised me a dagger from one of my grandfather’s leather-cutting knives. Painted from head to toe in cocoa and water I stood on the stage and said, defiantly, ‘I am Mowgli.’ To this day I cannot remember if I completed the performance or ran backstage.

I missed my friends the Ranseys, not least Mrs Ransey, who, like my own mother, was one of nature’s intuitive cooks with a real, fundamental knowledge, love and respect for food.

Sometimes, on my Vespa 125, I whizzed down the A3 8 like a mad wasp, flat out at 45 miles an hour, to Wiveliscombe for the day, but it wasn’t the same. Then I thought it had changed; now I know that I had. I was staying out later and later listening to blues, folk songs, monologues and poetry readings. The rows at home, no longer squalls, were now developing storm status and one day, with just a small duffel bag, I set off for work as normal, and instead of taking the bus to College Green, my place of employment, I caught another to the A4 and hitchhiked to London. I survived, somehow, in late-night coffee bars, railway stations and parks for three days and three awful nights before I was arrested for loitering, or possibly vagrancy, at four o’clock one morning somewhere close to Bow Street Police Station. I was tired, hungry and, worse still, I had failed. Contact was made with my parents, who assured me my safe return was more important than anything and there would be no retribution. As bad as this was, it proved to be a watershed in our relationship.

I had decided I wanted to be a newspaper reporter and my parents, in a complete reversal of their crushingly modest ambitions for me, agreed I could have a go at it. I had no idea how you set about being a journalist but I had read a book called Headlines All My Life by a Fleet Street editor called Arthur Christiansen. He was, as Editor of the Daily Express, probably one of the greatest editors of this century. (He had also had a bit part in the film The Day the Earth Caught Fire.) I did not know that the accepted route into journalism was by joining a weekly newspaper as a copy boy. I, with a head full of Evelyn Waugh, Hemingway, James Thurber, Simon Raven, Somerset Maugham, Scott Fitzgerald, Robert Graves and Jack Kerouac, boldly wrote to the Editor of the Bristol Evening Post and asked for a job. Despite my parents’ new attitude, they warned me not to be disappointed after aiming so high. I knew from films and novels that reporters wore bow ties, trench coats and trilby hats, so scraping together all my available resources, selling my fishing tackle and even my Chuck Berry and Elvis Presley LPs, I went to the nearest gentlemen’s outfitters and bought the aforementioned clothes for my interview with the Editor of the Bristol Evening Post.

Can you imagine it? A seventeen-year-old with a shiny, acned face, dressed in such a way. I sat in the outer office while the secretary announced my presence. She returned after a few seconds and said, ‘When the green light flashes, knock and go in.’ A big, round-faced, smiling man with short cropped hair sat behind the desk, his fingers propped together forming a pyramid between his elbows and his chin. On his neat desk there was a Penguin edition of The Trial of Lady Chatterley. He wore a dark, well-cut suit, a white shirt and a bow tie. A bow tie! So they did wear bow ties. I was wearing a bow tie. He looked at me askance, not patronisingly, but he seemed to stare right through me. ‘Do sit down,’ he said. He rearranged his fingers to clutch the lapels of his jacket and leant back in his chair. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘I’ve brought you some essays I wrote at school,’ I said. ‘We don’t write essays on newspapers,’ he said, reaching to take them from my trembling hand. I told him about my school days. I told him of my dissatisfaction of being a filing clerk in the Architects’ Department. I told him about the books I had read and lied, successfully, about one or two I hadn’t. All of a sudden, the interview, or perhaps the confessional, was over.

He ushered me into the outer office and I realised for the first time how tall he was. There was no conclusion, and I stood, awkwardly, wondering how to leave. I suddenly decided to say, ‘Well, will you give me a job or not?’ He looked down at me, and his breath smelt strange. Later I was to know it was garlic. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘as a matter of fact I will. My secretary will take the necessary details and you will report to the News Editor a week on Monday at 8.30 a.m. His name is Farnsworth: he will probably eat you alive, but don’t worry.’ Before I could utter a word he disappeared into his office. It was going to turn out to be the single most important day of my life. Not that I would know that for another twenty-four years.

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