Watson: My Life

by David Ruffle

  It was decided, by whom I was never quite sure, that I would be housed with the Griffiths’ family of whom I knew next to nothing. I suppose I was dimly aware of the existence of a Thomas Griffiths who attended the local school although without much distinction I believed. He was a little older than me with a sister who was exactly my age... to the day, almost to the hour! Her name was Lily. She was, what we called in those days a tomboy and maybe still do, I appear to be out of step with modern jargon. I know and would be the first to agree that language has to evolve with each passing generation, but some of the expressions leave me positively baffled and bemused. Perhaps there came a time in my life when I began to resist all change. Whether that was a sign that I had become entirely comfortable with my life or just that I had become set in my ways, I am not sure.

  And now I have lost my thread. Ah, yes. Lily. Lily Griffiths. A tomboy was the term; she took part in all the boys’ activities. A more skilled tree-climber than any of us, a deadly shot with a catapult and guaranteed to win any fist fight. But underneath it all there was a tender streak which betrayed her burgeoning femininity. She immediately became my best friend and in spite of her popularity with all her peers, I hoped I became something similar to her, if not an actual best friend then certainly one of her inner circle. I awarded her one of the highest accolades possible at that time; in my imagination, she became the fair Maid Marian. For those familiar with my chronicles of Sherlock Holmes, you could say for me she was THE woman or more properly THE girl. Not that there was any romance, we were far too young, unless it were the chivalrous, knightly love of yesteryear where the Lady Lily Griffiths would wear the colours of Sir John Watson thereby signalling the betrothal of them to each other.

  Such was my life then. A life of studying hard and also giving free rein to my imagination. It may seem to you the listener... I mean the reader, that life had suddenly become idyllic for me, but it isn’t really how it was, or indeed how it felt. I had lost my father, mother, grandfather, grandmother and my brother was alienated from me. To all intents and purposes, I had no family. My father’s parents were unknown to me, I had never met them nor received any communication from them. I did not know where they were or even if they were still alive. All I knew, or thought I knew, was that there had been a total estrangement between my father and his family. On whose fault, the blame lie I had no idea nor the reasons behind this exile. My brother, on the occasions he deigned to speak to me, developed many theories that largely relied on scandal and/or criminal deeds to explain it away. Most of these theories went over my young head, fortunately!

  At school, there was talk of scholarships, public schools and the like for me. The very idea of being sent away to public school appalled me. I had gleaned a little of life at such institutions through the books I had read, many of which seemed to be fixated on the merry and healthy life at schools such as Eton and Harrow where, if the stories were to be believed, the days were full of sunshine, cricket, rugger and all manner of jolly japes. I prided myself on the fact I had become a discerning reader and saw through these happy schooldays to the reality of discipline, a rigorous routine and homesickness. Did I consider the house I now lived in with the Griffiths’ family, home? Frankly, yes. They had been good enough to take me in when it would have been far simpler to look the other way and let someone else do their duty. I have to say they were in a better position than most, certainly financially, to take in, clothe and feed a lost waif. Josiah Griffiths was a doctor and ex-army surgeon who was looked on kindly by all who knew him as far as my young eyes could see.

  He conducted his surgery from home and I remember being fascinated by the streams of people who tramped through the house with their grimaces of pain often superseded by smiles of relief as they exited the house. I would often enter the hallowed grounds of his surgery at the end of the day to watch him clean up and put everything in its proper place ready to receive his first patient at nine o’ clock in the morning. The bookcase naturally held a fascination for me with their banks of leather and cloth-bound medical volumes. I was allowed occasionally to take a volume out and flick through its pages assuming the content did not contain anything that could be construed as inappropriate for my tender years.

  The first Christmas I was there Dr Griffiths presented me with a model skeleton, unfortunately not life-size, with a full array of working organs which could be extricated and returned to their skeletal home. For a few weeks, afterwards I was questioned as to the names of bodily parts and organs and where they belonged in the body. This only stopped when Dr Griffiths realised he was no longer going to trip me up with his questioning. In a novel, this would be the eureka moment when the hero decides in an instant that this is now his vocation. Well... this is no novel... I am no hero and there was no eureka moment accompanied by lightning strikes, thunderbolts or heavenly choirs! The very notion of doctoring had no appeal for me whatsoever. If anything, I was more taken with the life of a soldier, patrolling the limits of the British Empire putting down colonial revolutions, fighting manfully against the beastly natives.

  If I had known then of the true horrors of war I would have perhaps been happier as a provincial clock maker whose only worry would be whether his clocks would chime. At fourteen, my brother ran away from the house he lived in with the supervisor’s family. It was said in the town that not being particularly enamoured of Henry, the family would have been more than happy to never clap eyes on him again, but for the small matter of their daughter absconding with him! The hue and cry did not exactly reach fever pitch for they were found a day later in a barn on the outskirts of the town; cold, wet, bedraggled and you would think ashamed, but not my brother, oh no. I cannot speak for the girl. In fact, her name eludes me. Retribution was not as severe as it could have been although Henry’s somewhat comfortable existence came to a swift end. The workhouse became his new home and his shifts at the mill, longer and harder. I visited him, but I was turned away.

  In spite of our fractious relationship I was bitterly upset by this latest snub and our rift grew wider still. To all intents and purposes, I had no family. I may have repeated myself there, there is no way for me to check what I have already said and while my long-term memory functions well, not so my short-term. Much as I appreciated Josiah and Irene Griffiths taking me into their home I did not and would not think of them as family in spite of the kindness they had shown to me. The future was a closed book to me for I had no idea what direction it would take me in. The only certain thing was that my education would continue in one form or another. I was ahead of the rest of the school in English, comprehension, history and all the sciences. I had a hunger for learning coupled with a most inquisitive nature. The immediate concern as I approached my twelfth birthday was exactly where my further education would take place. The local education board was pressing for my enrolment into Newcastle grammar school as a boarder and as my legal guardian it would be down to Josiah Griffiths to make the final decision. However, things were about to change dramatically.

  1 By 1902 the last tannery in Hexham had closed its doors.

  2 Richard the First, of England.

  3 Oliver Cromwell, Lord Protector insisted his portrait be painted ‘warts and all’.

  Cylinder 2

  An early morning visitor altered my way of life completely. He announced himself as James Watson, my uncle. An uncle I had never seen nor even heard of. Odd the things you remember, but I can still almost taste his cologne. It laid heavy in the air and seemed to both precede and follow him with every step he took. He took a cursory look at me before retiring to Josiah Griffith’s study. I stood outside the door, straining to catch anything of the conversation within. Lily came to join me and she suggested the panelling in the dining room might yield more in the way of eavesdropping fruit. That was not the case. We were not in the dark for long however.

  The study door was opened, and my uncle invited me insi
de. Lily took a step towards the door, but her father ordered her away in no uncertain terms. Poor Lily. She did suffer so well. My fate, which was how I saw it, was settled in minutes. It had been decided with of course no consultation with me that I was now to live with my Uncle James. This man was a stranger; I didn’t even know where he lived yet within minutes I was to be packing my bags and leaving what had become my home to begin a new life elsewhere without even knowing where that elsewhere was.

  My newly acquired uncle informed me that my brother would not be accompanying us. He has made his decisions in life already he told me and he should be left to go his own way. He did, however, allow me to visit the workhouse where Henry still lived to enable me to say my goodbye. It was the most perfunctory of farewells, my brother displaying no emotion at my going and change in circumstances. Although we had never really bonded as siblings even when young I did wonder how this antipathy had arisen, for my part I would have been glad, and had been in the past, to offer the olive branch, but my efforts were rejected many times over.

  It was with a heavy heart I boarded a train heading south, away from all I had ever known. This parting was sweetened somewhat by Lily’s large, beaming smile as she waved from the platform. Would I ever see her again? The beginning of my journey south was interminable made even more so by my uncle’s failure to communicate with me in any meaningful way. Once we had changed trains at Carlisle station, he settled back in his seat to sleep. Irene Griffiths had packed two sandwiches for me plus some homemade currant biscuits. I devoured those speedily and tiring of the scenery, I fished a book out of my bag, but soon the dwindling daylight made it well-nigh impossible to see the print and I too gave in to sleep.

  I knew nothing more until I awoke with a raging thirst as we entered Euston station. The signs meant nothing to me at that time, but I was aware of the vastness of the station which was impossibly busy even at that late time of day. ‘London’ said my uncle. ‘Yes, I know,’ I replied, not caring whether or not my answer seemed rude or disrespectful. I was determined to show I was not some country bumpkin, but an intelligent, well-read child. But of course, he knew that, it’s why he had taken me away as I was to learn very shortly.

  I had not thought of that journey to London for many, many years. Odd how the emotions I feel now are exactly how I felt then. Telling my story like this plunges me back into my past so it becomes something tangible. I almost feel twelve again, but the question is... would I want to be? Idle, useless thoughts. My life has been what it was and is for better and for worse. It is unchanging and unchangeable. But still I can’t help dwelling on what might have been at various points in my life, it is no doubt a symptom of old age that the past is all there is to look forward to.

  But once more, I digress, but I am sure that Mr Huntley will be severe with his editing. I was familiar with London with the limited familiarity that reading can give one, but the sudden shock of finding myself in such a city, teeming with life, was a shock to my system. The noise hit me first before we had even left the station; my ears were assaulted in every imaginable way. The hissing of steam from the engines, the shouts and whistles of the porters, the clatter of trolleys laden with luggage rolling across the concourse. It was new, even frightening, but also tremendously exciting. And tiring. I was so tired, I remember it well. I could barely clamber into the cab that my uncle hailed and once inside promptly fell asleep in spite of the deep sleep I had succumbed to in the train.

  When I awoke, I was being led into the darkness of an imposing looking villa. My memory is playing me false of course for I only knew how imposing it looked on closer scrutiny in the light of the following day. I was handed over to the care of a housekeeper introduced to me as Mrs Chinneck who proceeded to take this sleepy boy in hand and before too much time had elapsed I found myself in the most comfortable bed I had ever seen or experienced. It will come as no surprise to anyone who has ever known me that I surrendered to the arms of Morpheus once more. Which is what I must do now. I dreamt of my twelve-year-old self last night, yet with subtle differences; for instance, a young Sherlock Holmes was my new neighbour and the villa had somehow become 221b Baker Street. Mrs Chinneck had taken the place of dear Mrs Hudson and was urging me to eat my breakfast before venturing out to fight crime. ‘It’s the same advice I give to all growing boys,’ she was saying. I pointed out that Holmes was not eating his breakfast and was told in no uncertain terms that ‘good boys don’t tell tales.’ Then Lily walked in and announced that ‘the game was afoot.’ Who can fathom the workings of the human mind? Who can gauge how dreams are formed?

  The truth was that Mrs Chinneck had no need of urging me to eat that first breakfast for it was a meal to set before a king. Of my uncle, there was no sign. ‘Gone out for his constitutional,’ I was told. I was so full of questions that I scarcely knew where to begin and was not best pleased that the majority of those questions would remain unanswered for a while at least. I did learn that I was now in Forest Hill in the southeast of London. The villa lay in Manor Mount, a fairly short street with many such fine villas. The house still stands now and looks just as grand. Three years ago, I was intrigued to read that Dieter Bonhoeffer the well-known German dissident was living in the house while he took up residence as the pastor of the German Lutheran church in Sydenham.

  Once breakfast was over I went back to my room to dress. The clothes I had worn on my journey to London were gone, but in the wardrobe and chest of drawers I found a complete set of clothes; shirts, collars, ties, Norfolk jackets, shoes, boots, suits. I selected items at random and raced back down the stairs. My uncle had now returned and he took me into his study. The room was lined with books although all of them looked pristine. I was prepared to wager that the vast majority of them remained unread. This appeared to be a collection for show, to impress rather than a library to be explored for hidden gems. The previously quiet, non-communicative man now opened up to me. He had taken it upon himself to play a hand, a guiding hand in my education and upbringing after he had heard several glowing reports about my appetite for learning. I heard more about our family history going back several generations. Sibling rivalries and falling-outs had blighted the generations of the Watson family it seemed. My uncle too had been rescued shall we say, by an uncle of his own and through careful nurturing had risen to be a success in the world. He was, he explained, a city merchant who traded in stocks, shares and commodities. He was the head of his own small company and presided over a staff of five. Imports, exports, all was grist to his mill. He had no son of his own to leave his business to and after my education was complete the inference was that I would become the new lynchpin.

  However, much I was in the dark still about my future career, I did not see myself as a city man in any shape or form. It all sounded deadly dull to me. I was twelve though and had little or no choice in the proceedings. A school had been selected for me of course and it was a famous one although unknown to me at the time. It was St Paul’s, one of the nine great public schools in the country, founded in 1509. The prospect hardly thrilled me even though the announcement was tempered by the fact I was not to be a boarder; I would be travelling each day during term to Cheapside where the school was situated. I did have a week’s grace before that fateful first day of term arrived, plenty of time to explore my new surroundings. Left to my own devices I walked endlessly throughout Forest Hill, Lewisham and venturing as far as Blackheath.

  Although there were elements of the countryside and the rural still visible, much of the area I came to know was built-up with much expansion to be seen. Was I lonely? Yes, but I had imagination which made up for any lack of friendship and certainly helped me cope with my new life. Perhaps I only think of myself as being lonely with the benefit of hindsight.

  I was fascinated by London even if I was only getting to know its south-eastern suburbs. The villages of the area, for that is what they still were, were rapidly being linked together. New roads being b
uilt, whole streets rising from nowhere, commerce encroaching where once there were farms. I was overwhelmed by the noise, the smells that marked out all these building sites. The ground was being swallowed whole by a demanding population. In spite of the numerous pairs of boots and shoes that filled the bottom of my wardrobe it was decreed that none were suitable for the approaching visit to church so feeling rather grown-up I was despatched to Campion’s shoe shop on the High Street with a sum of money that Mrs Chinneck pressed into my palm with a set of vague instructions as to what pair would be suitable for such occasions. The aroma of leather was overpowering and has never left me. I swear I can smell it still. The staff took pity on this poor boy and were very patient. Eventually, I walked out of the door clutching a pair of highly-polished black shoes. I was not so much pleased at that as the fact I had money left over and Mrs Chinneck was very clear that should be there any money left over then it was mine to spend as I wished. The exact sum I cannot recall, but I do recall it meant I could buy a slim book which was a concise, but very informative history of the British army and a map of the world to hang on my wall. The few pennies I had left over after those purchases were handed over the counter at the confectioners in return for a bag of humbugs.

  My family would be best described as God-fearing folk rather than church-attending folk. The same was true of Josiah Griffiths and his family, but James Watson was of a different ilk altogether as was witnessed by our evening Bible readings. Attendance was compulsory and the ‘family’ was also required to be present at St Bartholomew’s Church on Westwood Hill[4] twice on a Sunday. At eight o’ clock every Sunday morning my uncle, Mrs Chinneck and I would depart the house in our Sunday best, clamber into my uncle’s carriage and arrive at the church at eight-thirty on the dot. My uncle was a most punctual man and woe betide if either of us kept him waiting. At ten o’clock we would begin the return journey. Four hours later we would begin the same routine. It is little wonder I held religious services in such low regard in later life; there was no attempt by my uncle to teach faith in any tangible way. For him it was enough to attend church and to read the Bible daily.