[The next four
airletters were all sent together as parts I- IV. They were apparently all
written consecutively on the 14th April.]
Dear Mum, it’s taken me nearly ten minutes just to go this
far and I don’t seem to be having much success. [The airletter starts off typed, reverts to handwritten, then four lines
later reverts to typed.] I was trying to be clever and use the office
machine that is at present in the common room (instead of the C.R. machine
which chews up the paper!) but I can’t seem to get it to work for me somehow. [The airletter was apparently abandoned
till the next day, when it was continued at home on my own typewriter.]
Well, it’s the next day, and I’m doing this standing up
waiting for my breakfast to cook. Well, we’ve had a hectic and very lively but
also very enjoyable time since I last wrote to you. I don’t mean at the flat of
course ˗ I’ve seen John about twice in the last 10 days, and Julie less. I
quite honestly don’t know whether John still lives here or not! He said he was
coming back on Sat and I got some meat for Sunday dinner and tea, and he still
hasn’t arrived and I ate the lot! I don’t know if he has a job or what ˗ but as
long as he pays the rent I don’t suppose it really matters whether he lives
here or not.
Anyway, on the day I last wrote we were just beginning the
most wonderful spell of hot weather. We had 3 days of it before it became
overcast again tho it did remain hot. Everybody has suddenly dispensed with all
the paraphernalia of winter: coats, hats, scarves, gloves and so on, and looks alive again. Since the last weekend however the skies have returned to their
habitual grey, and umbrellas have been much in evidence, altho a lot of people
seem to have thought that (like myself) once you have thrown off your winter
coats it’s a shame to have to put them on again and so we haven’t bothered. In
spite of the rain and wind it seems to be staying mild so there may be hope
yet.
To recap on the week’s events, anyway. On Tuesday I had
arranged to go out to David and Teresa Jennings’ place: she was doing an
audition in the Stuyvesant semi-finalist (four prizes of scholarships to the
Opera Centre next year) and I was to go and do some coaching. [The only reference I can find to David is here;
it’s a very common name, of course. Teresa was actress Patricia
Hayes’ daughter but I don’t know what happened to her subsequently.
Both were at the LOC.] This was the first of the really brilliant days, and
I was sitting on our back patio when Teresa came to pick me up. I wasn’t
prepared for the weather however and was still garbed in warm winter woollies!
The Jennings were both wandering round in bare essentials at their home. A
French au pair girl and another who works down the road were also in their
garden, dressed as I was: in the past season’s apparel. The Jennings house is
just one of many semi-detached in South-East London, but it is terrifyingly
lived in, inside. The furniture and props [I
don’t know if I meant theatre props] cover so much space that you have to
wend your way through all sorts of articles to get anywhere. Rather
fascinating, however. And on the walls they have photographs and prints of a
variety of ages and these turn out to be Jennings’ respective ancestors dating
back to the 17th century. I must go to Somerset House one of these days and
track down some of my relatives.
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| Photo courtesy of Roger Perriss, flickr.com |
day at the audition ˗ but, thankfully, neither did a lot of the others; glad it wasn’t my coaching!) I went to Earls Court and met Hazel, who had suggested the previous night (after running into one of the many fairs that crowd London at Easter) that we go to
I don’t remember which of the next two we went on, but both
were singularly unpleasant. One had you in a bucket seat with your friend, and
as well as going round at some considerable speed, young blokes riding the
central merry-go-round pushed your personal bucket round at an operative moment
which sent you going round at a speed rather faster than sound I think. My neck
nearly broke in that one! Funnily enough Hazel liked that one ˗ heaven knows
why! She even wanted to go back on it!! [Some people don’t learn: a few years later my
wife, Celia, and I went to Battersea and got into a similar machine: we both
came off it feeling so dizzy that we walked drunkenly for quite some distance.]
The other revolting machine, also Hazel’s suggestion, was a circular
disc, called, inappropriately to my mind, the Satellite, in which you were sat in
one of a number of small joined seats, and then this thing went round and then
tilted! By some curious coincidence I again had Hazel on top of me, all the
way, and this put my shoulder out of joint completely I think! Actually, once I
got accustomed to the sheer torture of it, it was not too bad. We were both
getting brave by this time and decided to go in a thing called the Dive Bomber.
From the ground, and a distance, it looked as though you were completely
encased in a little elongated egg-shaped vehicle that did a flip in mid-air so
that you never went upside down.
PART II
After we’d paid our money we suddenly saw that the thing had
only a partial top of caging, and some of it was open to the air. It seemed
ominous when they strapped you into the cage, and bolted the door shut. It was
when we were in mid-air that we found that at a certain given stage of your
trip you weren’t actually upside-down, but that you looked at the earth from a
vertical position ˗ it was like being suspended in mid-air by nothing more than
a piece of leather strap. First we only did one flip to get us up top while they strapped in two
more unfortunates, and this sitting in mid-air discussing the future was the
worst part. Or so we thought ˗ when we started to go round in a seemingly quite
uncontrollable way, We then knew that the beginning was quite pleasant! I hadn’t
shut my eyes up until then on anything, but I did during that trip, and would
have screamed aloud if I’d thought it would do me any good. Thank God, nothing
in this world lasts, and even that nightmare came to an end, and Hazel and I
went off and had a couple of sherries each!! We were quite cheerful ˗ we’re
both the sort to laugh rather quickly about things like that, but we both shook
for about a half-hour afterwards. I feel sick at the thought of it now.
Anyway, we’d saved the Big Dipper up until the end, and
strangely enough this turned out to be quite mild in comparison. I wouldn’t
have minded going on it again in fact, but Hazel didn’t seem too keen! The worst
thing about it isn’t the sudden descent downhill after a slow climb (if you’re
brought up on cable cars, this sort of thing shouldn’t bother you) but when on one descent you suddenly go into
pitch blackness it’s amazing how it puts the wind up you. [The Maryhill Cable Car in Dunedin began its trip by suddenly dropping
over the edge a fairly steep hill; you could slide off the wooden seat if you
were little.] I think the most horrible kind of torture would be to throw
someone into sheer darkness without his being aware of what was in the
darkness. (The ghost trains at fun fairs spoil themselves by having too much [of the ride] in too much light. ) After
that we went home!
On Wednesday I went into the Centre as arranged to do some
work with one of the blokes who is doing a 20-minute program for some contest
(I think I’m accompanying him) later this month, and also to run over the music
that was to be done that night at a Policeman’s concert with Peter Lyon and Mary Masterton (she’s from NZ). It was
another hot muggy day, and none of the singers at the Stuyvesant were feeling
very happy ˗ one poor guy even fainted. Anyway I went up to Peter’s for tea.
Peter is one of the few London-born people in London, and talks 19 to the 12,
in a sort of overbearing way. Basically I reckon he’s a nice guy, but he’s got
a curious chip on his shoulder that puts other people’s backs up with
regularity. I discovered at his home that his father is exactly like him ˗ very
tactless ˗ and I think the best thing Peter could do is to go and live in a
flat somewhere. His father talks to him man to man, but somehow contrives to
show to others the he (dad) is the
boss and knows all....! Anyway, they
gave me steak for tea, so I can’t really complain. And Somerset cream on a very
nice apple pie. I’m glad to see some Londoners have taste buds. [Just when you think I’ve managed to overcome
my know-what-other-people-should-say-and-do attitude, I manage to undercut it
again, and it gets worse.] (If you could smell the stink of the stale and nasty
hot dogs they sell all over Central London, especially Piccadilly Circus, in
little open-air stands, you’d know what I mean.)
The concert went off reasonably well, although it was such a variety concert that we didn’t
seem to fit in somehow. Peter had to follow Jack Warner (74! ˗
the Dixon of Dock Green man, and also
a long-time entertainer), and a pop-group. Still, they paid us on the spot,
which is a change, and a fiver too for something like half-an-hour’s work.
The next day was Hazel’s birthday, and she, David Gorringe,
and I had planned to do something interesting to celebrate it. Originally we
were going to picnic in Epping Forest, but decided on Hampstead Heath instead ˗
although the weather had decided to change as well that day. I had to meet
David at Charing Cross, but he didn’t get my card about it until Thursday
morning, and missed the fast train by one minute ˗ he was home in Ashford, Kent.
(Incidentally I live in Kent too, altho we’re also part of Greater London.) So
David sent a message up over the wire to Charing Cross to say he’d be late, and
even his casual comments somehow went the distance too. They told me at C.C.
that it was suggested I go off and have a drink somewhere! [I don’t remember what form of communication this was, but it sounds
intriguing.] Actually I went to a cartoon theatre next door to the station,
and saw the same cartoon as I’d already hated at another cinema, and two very
old, but absolutely marvellous Tom and J’s, and half of a Batman episode! Then I picked Dave up, and after a detour to his
flat we went on to the Heath to meet Hazel and Kathy, one of here friends. I
don’t know what people think of my friends ˗ altho they always seem to get on
with them ˗ but Hazel seems to have the most curious lot of mates. Kathy is
very vague, and I’ll introduce you to some more later.
Well, we picnicked on the Heath beside one of the ponds and
had a lovely lunch of healthy foods: Russian salad, cold (or is it cole slaw),
apples, brown bread, lumps of cheese, coffee, tomatoes, etc. [Plainly I was unfamiliar with coleslaw at
this point.] Then we just played around (except Kathy, who wandered) like 3
kids ˗ ran, skipped, capered, found an old ball with a hole in it in a pond which provided a good deal of amusement because it had a life of its own, and
chased and played with other people’s dogs. Sounds madly irresponsible, doesn’t
it, but while we 3 can enjoy ourselves thoroughly, we wouldn’t hurt or annoy
others ˗ even if we might surprise them. [I
think most Londoners were, and still are, beyond surprise at what other people
get up to.]
PART III
PART III
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| Photo courtesy of Getty Images |
Where was I? I had to go out and get another airletter to
finish! Oh, yes. Kathy had to go early so as we were walking her back to the
station we met another Opera C student, (Alison?) and she invited us up to her
flat for some tea. So up we went and had a nice rest and coffee, and biscuits, and finally left. We still had some time to fill in so thought we’d go
somewhere else and finished up, after some discussion, in tubing to St Paul’s,
where we wandered around for some time before we went up into the dome. We
should have gone up earlier because it was shutting as we were half way up.
Anyway, we whispered in the Whispering Gallery while somebody tuned the organ
downstairs, and discovered just what a fabulous building it is. (Although
fairly obviously Wren had been to St Peter’s the week before!) The detail in the
place is as usual astonishing ˗ but we forget I suppose that detail like this
takes years to accumulate in a massive building, and it’s silly to say that
modern buildings of a similar nature are too plain etc.
Anyway, we did have time to go up outside the roof, though
not so high as we might, and the view is really rather fab. Although London is spoilt by having too many four-square
buildings. You really notice from that height.
Anyway, after this Hazel went off in a taxi, while David and
I wandered a bit more before we went back to his flat to collect my present for
H. I got her a kettle! She just didn’t have one ˗ always bought something else
instead, she said - and a card with ‘Don’t be discombobulated ˗ bless the day
you was created.' And then we went our way to her flat, where she, and I think
Kathy, had prepared a marvellous spread of biscuits with Russian salad, cole
slaw, etc!! No, it wasn’t quite that bad; I don’t really know what was on half the crackers. At the party were Lorna
Brindley and her boyfriend, Jim ˗ she’s a mezzo,he a tenor, and both should
go far. Lorna, and I think, Jim, is Scottish, and has a marvellous
down-to-earth approach to life, and a great sense of humour. [Lorna's 'Scottishness' seems incorrect, according to the link.]
Mike [Tither]
came, and 3 of Hazel’s friends: Derek and Fran, married: he sat in the corner
and played records that no one listened to all night, and Fran, though she
started out being with the crowd eventually receded into the background. The
third ‘friend’ (I suspect Hazel labels everyone she knows as a friend!) was
Graeme, an Aussie, a writer, and who is thoroughly bored with all those around
him. Seems to me he has problems ˗ especially if he’s a writer! The party went
into the two groups: these 3 and the rest. Jim left early in the evening, after
arranging to see me for some coaching on Monday, [handwritten] and the rest of this is being in a train so it may be
a bit obscure! Well, after we polished off supper and had drunk quite a bit of
wine ˗ I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t get drunk ˗ I either fall asleep, ie, get so tired I don’t want anymore, or else get happy to the
point that I don’t want anymore. There seems to be an inbuilt mechanism that
helps me to keep control. Not that I’ve tried
to get drunk, nor been at a party where it’s been routine to overdrink so
perhaps I’m being presumptuous. Anyway, Lorna, Hazel and I (David had gone back
to Ashford and Mike was talking) decided, just for a change, and to get some
air, to go for a walk, and liven up the first pub we came to. Well, the pub was
incapable of being livened up and they looked a bit askance at us that anyone
should think of going out and enjoying themselves.
(Pub-going, in the suburbs, is a ritual, not a pleasure, or a night out.)
Anyway, after we played the jukebox, it was nearly closing
time. There was an absurd barmaid in this place ˗ she was about 40, and
remarkably plain (and seemed to think plain, too, if you follow) but she had a pink bow tied onto a bun!! Aagh! [Hard to know why this impressed itself on my
brain, but who knows the vagaries of a young man’s mind.]
We went back to the party where things were still meandering
along, and by this time I’d been invited to stay the night again (Lorna was [staying] anyway) and since we three were
feeling tired, and the others apparently were not, we were in a bit of a spot.
We were, however, in such a cheerful condition that we set about removing all
the furniture from the living room as a hint that the people should go. We
didn’t have enough courage to shift the chair that Fran was sitting on, and
anyway our plan didn’t seem to get through to these
PART IV
folk. No doubt their thinking isn’t, or wasn’t, quite as
illogical as ours. Finally after much yawning and general carrying-on, they
left, and I settled down very quickly on that revolting camp stretcher, tho
once again I was too tired to care.
Next morning Jim came round and cooked breakfast! He’s an
ex-chef apparently, and made a great mixed dish of sausages, fried bread,
toast, fried eggs and something else ˗ was it tomatoes? I was still feeling
energetic enough to have already done all the party dishes before he arrived, and all his dishes after breakfast. So I felt that perhaps I wasn’t entirely useless
around the place.
Meanwhile I wanted to get seats for Megs Jenkins and LindsayCampbell for Saturday night’s performance of Fledermaus, and so had to go into the Centre. Hazel, during some part
of the Schicchi season, had left her
valuable papers in the safe at the Centre, including her cheque-book, and asked
me to pick it up for her. So later, I met her in Charing Cross station, in the
midst of a crowd waiting for delayed trains, at rush hour (!) ˗ C.C. is the
smallest station, fortunately ˗ and we then went and had a meal at one of the
1000 Italian restaurants round London, and went to the NFT to see an old (1936)
Hitchcock called Sabotage. A very
curious and slightly sick film. The next day I went out to Holland Park to do
some coaching with Marjorie
McMichael [also] ˗ an ex-Opera Centre girl, and
got 30/- for my trouble. I’m going there again now, though I shouldn’t imagine
that I’ll be there as long this time as before. After my previous time,
Marjorie and I went and had a meal at an Indian restaurant; the first time I’d
ever done so. I had something called Malay Meat which consisted of meat (lumps
of beef I think cooked with pineapple and other odds and ends, and served with
an enormous plate of rice, some of which I had to leave. [I don’t remember this meal, but I do
remember one at another Indian restaurant ˗ near Hampton Court, I think ˗ when I
must have ordered a meal that was very spicy, and thought I was going to die.]
On Sat night I took my slip to the Wells to collect tickets
and they informed me that they didn’t give out complementaries on Saturdays. I
was rather upset because it meant telling Megs and Lindsay that they couldn’t
go, but they took it reasonably well. Mike and I went to a set of eight plays on
the subject of marriage (after missing the first one because we had to wait
longer than expected in a Pizza Bar ˗ the pizza was nice all the same). The
actors (4 of them) were generally rather better than the plays. [I think this would have been ‘Mixed Doubles’.]
On Sunday Kevin and I went to an Italian film about Oedipus
Rex, which was very good. Filmed in Morocco with lovely photography all harsh
with the vibrant colours; and the acting and direction was on a vibrant level
too, which left you a bit worn out. [I
think this was the Pasolini version made in 1967.] Yesterday
I went into the Centre and coached, working with Moira
Paterson in the morning on a group of songs she’s doing for Scottish BBC. It’s
amazing how much different a song becomes when you get the singers, by suggestion and
assistance, to open their eyes to its possibilities. One song that seemed very
dull became very exciting and it pleases me as much as them when they get it
working properly. Last night Mike, Mickey (a girl friend of his) and I went to Tosca ˗ a Zefferelli production. It was fabulous and tremendously
exciting.
Love Mike.
