Moon Boots and Dinner Suits

by Jon Pertwee

  ‘What on earth are you waffling on about?’ he asked. ‘I’ve never been back to the house to check on you once, you must’ve been dreaming.’

  That, we weren’t. Three people don’t dream exactly the same thing, at exactly the same time. I’ll never forget the cold tingle that passed through my body when he said this, but I can’t remember if the experience was ever repeated, before we returned once more to the unspooky Highleigh.

  *

  Sex is not a matter to be organised. I don’t know how it started, but around 1929 young lust was certainly churning away in our loins for a flowering young lady called Peggy Burnell. I think it was Roland who put into our three heads the idea that the search for perfect bliss ended at Peggy’s gate. So assignments were sought and rendezvous in secret bowers made, in the vain hope that the ‘trysts’ would be held in perfect privacy. But no, somehow the location of the assignations always leaked out and the longed for twosome inevitably turned out to be a hated foursome. So ‘la grande passion’ died away and was quickly replaced by competition as to who was to be regarded as the nicest and best-mannered of her three stalwart suitors. Michael, being the eldest, was odds on favourite, Coby next in seniority was evens and I, the youngest in age and experience of life, was 50 to 1 against. But despite dawn rises, when Coby and I would walk silently and without addressing a word to each other, to the ‘half-way-rock’ rendezvous situated on the road equidistant between our house and Peggy’s, the romance came to naught and the whole affair was declared a non-event. On thinking about this for the first time in fifty-five years, I am of the opinion that the probable cause of the romance’s failure was the fact that I was eleven and Peggy was twenty-three.

  *

  We had two local postmen down at Highleigh, one from Exebridge, a Mr Huxtable who delivered on foot, and another, ‘Pa’ Curtis from Oakford Bridge who delivered by bike. ‘Pa’ Curtis rode with immense pride a ‘Hercules Racer’, with bent handlebars. A most impractical machine for the job, but one he swore by: ‘’Ead down, arse up, that’s the way to get up those ’ills, me dear.’ ‘Pa’ possessed the longest eyebrows I’ve ever seen on a man, which, when he was at speed, flapped around his eyes alarmingly, making vision extremely difficult. He wore an ancient fore-and-aft postman’s hard hat and really looked the part. One day he took a terrible toss and landed up in hospital.

  ‘What on earth happened? we asked.

  ‘Well,’ opined a local, ‘It seems “Pa” was goin’ up Stoodleigh ’ill with ’ed down against the wind, when ’is foot slipped off ’is pedal, down further went ’is ’ed and as luck would ’ave it, ’is eyebrows caught in the front spokes of ’is bike, flippin’ ’im over the ’andlebars.’

  A folk tale no doubt – but it’s always left me with a wonderfully funny mental picture. ‘Pa’ lived to a very old age and I was glad to have been able to visit him before be cycled off to that ‘great Post Office in the Sky’.

  Mr Huxtable, our postman, was a man of astonishing stamina, his daily deliveries on foot covering many many miles. It was once calculated by a local ‘schoolie’ that in fifty years he had walked the equivalent of two and a half times round the world, and this in gum boots. ‘You can just imagine,’ said the schoolie, ‘the condition of his feet!!’ Mr Huxtable was, however, fortified somewhat by regular ‘stop offs’ at ‘locals’ along his route. Here, he would be invited inside to partake of a little refreshment, like a glass of scrumpy cider or two. Now this scrumpy was a killer and, bearing in mind the number of stop offs, and the subsequent intake, his resilience was startling. However, after tippling a few tastes and coming to the end of his round, there was one thing he simply would not do, and that was climb up our hill. He would stand by the gate at the bottom of the meadow rocking gently on his feet and look up, fighting for focus.

  Then with a heartfelt ‘Cor ’ell, I bain’t goin’ up there this time a’ day, let them young buggers collect ’em!’ he would hurl the letters over the gate into the mud and the sometimes mint-fresh cowpats. So there was yet another penny to be earned by the boy who collected these letters, and couldn’t care less about the cows’ stinking effluence upon them.

  *

  When we had grown out of Shadow, or rather when Shadow had grown out of us, Dad bought us an Exmoor pony. ‘The perfect mount for this kind of country,’ he assured us.

  If you went to Bampton Fair in the early 30s, the pick of a bunch of wild Exmoor ponies could be bought for the sum of five shillings.

  ‘But how do you get it home?’ one would ask.

  ‘Now you’m bought ’er I doan’t give a bugger’ ow ye gets ’er ’ome,’ would be the reply. ‘. . . Er – ’ang on though, young maister – ’ave ye got a car or a cart wi’ ye?’

  ‘Yes, sir, a car.’

  ‘Well you could try puttin’ an ’alter round ’er neck and towin’ ’er ’ome.’

  And so back home one would have to go, at nought speed, in low gear, with a wild, prancing, kicking, ‘bucking-bronco’ zig-zagging its way through the narrow lanes. Once there, it would have to be broken – before its new owner was, that is, for Exmoors are the most cussed and independent of all ponies.

  Trained, however, they are the most marvellous ride. Maggie, for that was her name, had tremendous stamina and always finished well up front when we went hunting, much to the annoyance of the principal huntsman, Percy Yandle, who, with his farmer brothers Ernest and Jack ran ‘The Devon and Somerset Staghounds’. Percy must have been the only huntsman in the world who would gallop full tilt right through the middle of his pack, shouting fit to bust, ‘Out the way you buggers, get out my fuckin’ way.’ Maggie was usually in his way too, causing many a tongue-lashed encounter. She also caught a few from me, as she delighted in the habit of galloping full speed down any precipitous gradient, and only coming to a halt when a few inches from the oncoming hedge or wall. This despite my lying right back on the beast’s rump, feet and stirrups up parallel, sawing her bit frantically from side to side, and emitting vain cries of ‘Whoa! Whoa back! there you ruddy idiot.’ If only my four letter word vocabulary had existed then.

  Among many notable members of the Hunt was the Master of Hounds himself, a retired Colonel who, having lost an arm during the war, permitted his groom, Toskett, to strap him permanently into the saddle, thus making the whole outing somewhat foolhardy!

  Throughout the Hunt, the most difficult undertaking was the passing of the Colonel’s water. Rather than be unstrapped and have to dismount, he allowed the faithful Toskett to unbutton his fly, take out his Private, and point it to whichever side afforded the most concealment. This chore the Colonel could not do himself, as being one-armed, he chose to control his horse, rather than the stream of his urine. One day in full cry, the Colonel was taken short for the second time, so veering off into a convenient clump, he bade Toskett do the necessary. Fly-flap unbuttoned, the willing groom plunged his hand into the dark recess to grasp his master’s person, but this time something was wrong. His hand went first this side of the trouser, and then that, until the by now bursting Colonel cried out, ‘Come on, man! What are you fiddlin’ about down there for? Get on with it for God’s sake!’

  The wretched Toskett, looking apprehensively up into his master’s suffused face, stammered, ‘I’m very sorry, Colonel, but I can’t find it!’

  ‘Can’t find it?’ roared the Colonel, ‘can’t find it? Good God, man! You had it last!’

  Those who have read my brother Michael’s autobiography Name Dropping might remember that he included this very same story. He also said that he had just read the identical anecdote in Out of My Mind, written by his good friend Monja Danischewsky, who attributed it to General Carton De Wiart VC, who also had one eye and one arm.

  Humorously, Michael says that from this, the reader can draw one of two conclusions.

  1. That one of them is a liar.

  2. That both of them are liars.

  My own drawn conclusions, having heard the story personally attributed l
ocally from my father over the dinner table, are three!

  1. That one of them is a liar.

  2. That both of them are liars.

  3. That all three of them are liars!

  *

  Life at Highleigh was not over happy for me, as being the youngest brother I was the odd man out. For example, Mike and Coby were old enough and responsible enough to be gun owners and were the proud possessors of ‘Diana’ air rifles. Armed with their weapons they would go ‘pinging’ for rabbits. Under sufferance I would be allowed to go with them, not as a hunter but as a ‘watcher-man’. This was as boring a bit of casting as my son Sean’s best friend’s sister Hjordis who was always cast as a lorry.

  I hated being the ‘watcher-man’ almost as much as I hated being ‘Stinkers’ the butler, another of my regular roles. So for a few years I swallowed my pride and steadfastly saved up for my ‘Diana’ fowling piece.

  The great day came when, proudly armed, I presented myself to the two senior sportsmen. Waving my gun above my head I informed them that I had at last obtained the required permission from Dad, and that I was now ready for the ‘beat’ of Ramsbottom Wood. Imagine my disappointment, therefore, when they said ‘“Pinging”? but we don’t go “pinging” any more.’ Shooting rhinos and bears on one’s own turned out to be a rather lonely sport.

  There was a time in my life when I would shoot and kill any creature that moved, like the pot-valiant Spanish huntsmen who go out with hounds, shot guns, shooting bags and all the paraphernalia of the chase, to blast into oblivion anything the size of a sparrow. Served at table the consumer of one would be presented with more lead than flesh.

  It was very much in this frame of mind, that one lonely day I was sitting, my back to a tree, contemplating nothing, when a young bird, just now fallen from its nest, hopped unsuspectingly towards me. To alleviate boredom, I had been aimlessly thrashing at the grass with a long thin switch. Imagining I was a hooded inquisitor perhaps? A charioteer? So when the poor bird came within striking distance, without hesitation I brought the stick down. I caught it only a glancing blow and it hobbled off; with myself in full cry slashing and cutting at the wretched fledgling until, with a final twitch of its tiny body, it lay dead. For what reason I had done this dreadful thing was, and still is, a complete mystery. I sat squatting on my haunches and stared at the now lifeless little bird, stirring it anxiously with my stick in the vain hope that it was not dead. When the realisation that it was indeed no longer living hit me, I emitted a low keening moan, and with a gasping and heaving of my chest, burst into uncontrollable sobs. I do not remember how long I stayed and wept, but some considerable time elapsed before I had got sufficient control of myself to stir from that place. When I did, it was to make a small grave, with a headstone, on which I scratched ‘Here lies a killed bird. RIP.’ I have never before told anyone of this episode for it has always filled me with a fearful sense of shame. Perhaps this confession will act as a palliative. We learn. But at what cost!

  *

  As a chronic sufferer from vertigo, it always surprises me that as a boy I spent so much time up trees and cliffs, so when ‘Whymper’ Coby observed that the local ‘Matterhorn’ quarry had not as yet been scaled, the challenge did not long remain uncontested.

  The day of the attempt on the north face soon arrived, and after a cursory hand shake and wishes of good luck, the ascent commenced. Up and up the stone quarry we went, hand and toe, until eventually, after some forty-five minutes of hard nerve-jangling climbing, I managed to reach the lip of the summit. Coby was some twelve feet behind me when he started to slip very slowly backwards. The angle at the top was less vertical and he was lying on the loose shale at about fifty degrees. But no matter how hard he tried to stop his inexorable fall by digging fingers and boots into the pebbly earth, his gradual slide down was not to be averted and if I did not think of something quickly he would almost certainly plunge to his death. Rope? None. A belt? Too short – what could I find that would take his weight? An urgent forage produced a broken bough. This proved to be useless as on bending, it snapped in two. Meanwhile, Coby was slipping further and further towards the drop.

  A branch from a dead tree was the only thing left of the required length, so lying face down, I gingerly handed Coby the end of the rotten limb, and telling him to hang on tight, started to draw him slowly upwards. Anything more than a gentle continuous pull and it would have disintegrated . . . Inch by inch he wriggled his way up those last few feet, never looking back but just keeping his eyes fixed on mine as we silently entreated each other to make no mistakes. Thank God we didn’t, and in a few minutes he was over the top and looking down at the two hundred foot drop that would have made his a very short life.

  Moral: – in an emergency, don’t bend dead branches - just pull on them, v-e-r-y g-i-n-g-e-r-l-y.

  *

  My father, being an inveterate gambler, decided when I was about ten that during the summer holidays we should return to the land of our forefathers, and whilst he was playing chemin de fer in the casino, we should try to pick up our grass roots.

  So we lived in various houses in Dieppe, Veules-les-Roses and best of all, the Auberge du Clôs Normande at Martin Eglise. There we learnt to speak reasonable French and enjoy good food and wine because Madame Démarquais, la Patronne, was above all else a cook of quality. I went back to the Auberge two years ago with my family and the half-century had passed it by without even rippling its surface. The bedrooms smelling of beeswax were still uncarpeted, the plumbing complained but still didn’t function, the mattresses sagged, the beds creaked and there in the corner behind a tattered curtain was the chipped enamel bidet on its portable stand. Evidently Madame had no intention of allowing it to go anywhere. In the yard on the wall outside the dining room there was fixed the same old china water tank, with its cemented-in basin beneath, and a hand towel hanging on its original nail. Time certainly stood still in Martin Eglise, but Madame was prompted to observe that in her considered opinion, I had changed a little. It was here in 1929 that Dad started playing ‘Pooh-Sticks’. For the uninitiated, the players had to find a stick, leaf cork, tin or whatever, mark it with a mast of colour for identification, and drop it, at a given signal, over the edge of a bridge into the fast flowing stream beneath. Rushing to the opposite side of the bridge to ascertain their positions, the contestants would then run along the banks of the river that coursed through the village, shouting gleefully at successful navigation and cat-calling disasters, such as sinking, going aground, or being caught up in whirling eddies. At the end of the village was another little bridge, where participants jostled and shoved each other for the best position to see the finish and acclaim the winner. Dad, being an artist, would have none of the tin and twig type of boat. It was beautifully carved corks with orange-stick masts and lavatory-paper sails for him, and for perfect balance a fifty-centime copper keel was slotted into the bottom of the hull.

  ‘There, you see how true she runs, me hearties?’ cried Dad, RN.

  We had to agree, for he was right. So from that moment on it was ‘all hands to make and mend’. You’ve never seen such a collection of well designed and original craft that were entered for the next big race. (My wife Ingeborg when playing ‘Pooh-Sticks’ last year produced a tin with both ends cut out. ‘It will go much faster, because the water will rush in and out so quickly,’ she explained excitedly. She was bitterly disappointed when her beautiful shiny boat sank like a stone.)

  ‘Monsieur Pertwee?’ It was the Mayor Fernand Deglas who had approached. ‘Regarding the question of your boat races.’

  ‘Oh, I do hope we haven’t been disturbing you,’ said my father. ‘My friends and children are inclined to be a little over-boisterous and noisy.’

  ‘Au contraire, mon cher Monsieur Pertwee, the Committee have approached me, to approach you, to issue a ‘Challenge des Bateaux’, le village de Martin Eglise contre la famille Pertwee. You will accept?’

  We accepted all right, and through
out that summer holiday the Pertwees and the villagers of Martin Eglise were locked in battle at the weekly Sunday regattas. The time and skill that went into the making of those minuscule craft was astonishing and the ‘needle’ atmosphere intense.

  I shall never forget the sight of all those wildly gesticulating figures, charging down the river banks, shouting their instructions to unmanned toy boats in English and French patois. The French exhortations frequently bordering on the hysterical, but that was understandable for being gamblers by nature, it was imperative to have a little flutter of a few francs on the results of each race, ‘just to make it interesting’.

  When I was strolling along the river bank on my last visit, in 1975, two small gamin boys came leaping and shouting along the path towards us. A quick look into the stream soon found what I had expected, two cork boats were rushing in and out of the eddies on their way to the finishing posts by the lower bridge.

  ‘Qu’est-ce que vous faites?’ I cried. ‘Qu’est-ce que c’est le nom de votre jeu?’

  ‘Le boat-race anglais, le boat-race anglais,’ they replied breathlessly as they tore by.

  Fifty years jumped in one second as my returning shout of ‘Vive le Pooh-Sticks’ echoed joyfully through the summer’s eve.