Moon Boots and Dinner Suits

by Jon Pertwee

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Smith, sir’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Tidmarsh Minimus, sir.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Pertwee Minor, sir.’

  ‘Name?’ (This to a small freckle-faced redhead in the front row.)

  ‘– Er – Hornsby, sir!’

  A suppressed titter ran through the class – Mr Hornsby-Wright peering over his glasses at the scarlet boy before him, switched his gaze to the boy next to him, ‘And your name?’ he queried.

  ‘Er – Wright, sir!’

  The class erupted with laughter.

  ‘The cheek of those two, and on the first day of term, too, they’ll catch it.’ They most certainly did, and after a swift ‘whacking’, amid loud protestations and cries of ‘But it’s not fair, sir’ – the two young ‘comedians’ were again requested to give their names.

  ‘Hornsby, sir.’

  ‘Wright, sir – honestly.’

  The joke was – they were telling the truth!

  The only time I ever heard a bigger laugh in a classroom, was when the normally careful ‘Doughy’ Randolph announced, ‘I want to see Jon P. in my study immediately after lunch.’

  Apart from numerous run-ins with the school’s authoritarians, I also came in for a lot of bullying, that my Housemaster seemed unable, or unwilling, to control.

  There were two boys senior to me called ‘Smith’ and ‘Jones’, for want of better names. These kindly lads took it upon themselves to become my personal inquisitors. On the night before the last day of term when rules mostly went by the board, S and J would swiftly get to work. Strapping me into my bed with luggage straps, and knowing full well how much time and trouble I had spent in the carpentry shops making gifts for my family, they took each individual piece and smashed it before my eyes. To make sure I was having a really good time they then rubbed a liberal amount of boot-black into my hair.

  ‘That’s nothing Peewee,’ they said as they left, ‘you just wait until tomorrow.’ Bequeathing me a horrendous and intentionally sleepless night.

  On another memorable occasion, I was placed kicking, biting and spitting into a large ‘bumph’ (‘bum fodder’ for those who didn’t know) basket in the day room. The lid was closed and a pile of tuck-boxes placed on top to make escape impossible. I tried to hold out with courage but eventually I found the confined space and pitch-darkness overwhelming and all pretence of bravery left me. I cried and begged to be released, but this was food for the gods. Tears, cries, supplications, that’s what bullying was all about. That’s when you’re really getting somewhere – you cry and you beg some more – ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, go man, go, now you’re really turning us on.’

  It seemed I had no friends or if I had they were not brave enough to risk tackling Smith and Jones, for fear of suffering the same fate and ending up in the basket themselves.

  How long I was in that skip I shall never know, but it seemed like nine lifetimes. When I was eventually released I remember being unable to stand properly, as my confined position in the basket had given me cramp.

  As soon as I was in control of myself, and ignoring S and J’s threats of an awful fate if I ‘sneaked’, I hurried to the study of my Housemaster. I had been there once before, to receive a man-to-man talk on the dangers of masturbation, both mutual and personal, and a hint of the retribution (blindness perhaps?) that was likely to befall any perpetrator of this ‘disgusting habit’. It seems that my being seen emerging from a copse with another boy already branded as an active homosexual, was enough to have me labelled as being ‘tarred with the same brush’. The truth of this case of lack of moral turpitude, was that we had entered the copse for the sole purpose of:

  1. Eating a tin of bully-beef ;

  2. Sharing a small bottle of beer; and

  3. Smoking a ‘Woodbine’.

  ‘Ah, come in Pertwee, is there something I can do for you?’ There certainly was! He could stop me from being hung, drawn and quartered for a start! It all came rushing out, a torrent of words and accusations listing every wretched moment of those last few hours, but whatever succour I had expected, I was bitterly disappointed.

  ‘Yes, I see Pertwee, thank you!! Well, let me tell you that I know Smith and Jones’ fathers personally. They are both Old Boys and certainly wouldn’t tolerate their youngsters bullying. In my opinion you’re taking all this far too seriously, I’m sure you’ll find that it was all done in fun. Just normal high spirits at the end of term, eh? You really must develop a sense of humour in these matters. Try and see the funny side.’

  I realised from his tone that I was not getting through, and could expect no help from him.

  ‘Come,’ he said, rising from behind his desk, ‘we’ll go and have a talk to them, I think you’ll find both Smith and Jones will be perfectly reasonable.’

  I was not prepared to risk their reasonability and excused myself from occupying his time any further. Somehow I managed to disappear sufficiently deep into the woodwork to avoid any further repetitions of Smith and Jones’ ‘fun’ - for that term! But there was always the next, and the next.

  *

  ‘Boys must have labels on their bicycles,’ said the Captain of House. ‘You know the rules, Pertwee, and you know the penalty for breaking them. Get changed and into the quad for a “sixer”.’

  I had, only two days before, attached a brand new label to my bike, knowing full well that there was a blitz on. The fact that it was now gone, leaving only the string, could mean but one thing. It had been removed, and by whom it was not hard to guess. Smith and Jones were riding again. This I attempted to explain to my accuser but he quickly informed me that if I continued trying to place the blame elsewhere, I’d receive a double dose. The unjust punishment duly delivered, I went immediately to the bicycle shed to attach yet another I label to my handlebars. The jesters S and J were there, lolling about, and watched me carefully as I tied the label on.

  Several hours later I was stopped on my way to the lav by a bellow from the House Captain. ‘Pertwee, you still haven’t put a label on your bicycle! For defying me, I am going to give you another “sixer”!’

  The complete injustice of it all was too much and I went berserk. I told my tormentor that if he came within an inch of me, I’d kill him and grabbed for a six-inch-long spiked pipe-cleaner, disguised as a fountain pen, that I had been carrying around as ‘protection’. Whipping off the top, I looked down in dismay to find that the spike of my stiletto had been sawn completely through and all I was threatening the boy with was a pen-top. Smith and Jones were no fools and observant to boot. But there must’ve been a look in my eye that told the prefect this time he’d gone too far, and if he pushed me any further I was likely to go over the edge.

  So he faded away, mumbling something about seeing the Housemaster. A lot of help he’d receive there. Although, if really lucky, he might have got a talk on the perils of venereal disease and how to avoid the contracting of same.

  Shortly after this incident my father was called to the phone, told that I was ‘impossible’ and would he come and take me away. Rather than have the stigma of expulsion, I was to be ‘superannuated’, which means exactly the same thing.

  *

  And so, in this summary fashion my Sherborne education came to an end, and from my point of view not before time. But no reference to one’s public school schooldays would be complete without referring to the ‘School Song’, those moving and martial compositions which have to do with playing the game, keeping a straight bat, being British, and breathing vengeance on the foreign foe. It’s been said that to have a really good time at an Old Boys’ reunion, you need to have had at least six ‘floreat Salopias’ before the dinner starts, so for those of you who have never had a School Song of your own, let me bequeath you this one. It’s new so it can be used with impunity, without some ‘beastly rotter’ accusing you of pinching it from his school. The chorus is in Latin, naturally, but I won’t insult you by translating it. It is to be su
ng to the tune of Vivat Rex Edwardus Sextus with straight face and no giggling.

  Toe to toe with your comrade on the playing field of life.

  With a hand to lend, to a fallen friend, when he’s tackled in the strife.

  Seize the ball of hope from the fly-half as it comes from the scrum of care,

  Once it’s in your clutch make a sprint for touch, let him hinder you who dares.

  Then with your head held high,

  Bravely sing, as you score life’s try . . .

  All together now. In omnia!!

  Omne crede diem tibi diluxisse supremum,

  Grata super veniet quae non superabitur hora.

  Me pinguem et nitidum bene curata cute vises

  Cum ridere voles epicure de grege porcum.

  Just before I ‘left’ Sherborne for good, I walked and talked with my father, trying to make him understand. His mood was one of sympathy, but I don’t think he or my brothers ever really believed in the ‘Dotheboy’s Hall’-Dickensian manner in which sections of one of England’s most illustrious schools were allowed to be run.

  It was during this talk that I felt closer to my Dad than ever before. For the first time we seemed to be communicating and listening to each other, and I was certainly listening when he mentioned a ‘co-educational school’ as a possible follow-up to Sherborne. The idea of being educated with girls as well as boys made my heart sing. ‘Now that,’ I thought, ‘really would complete my education,’ and so it did. There and then, we plumped for Frensham Heights, near Farnham in Surrey.

  During the few ensuing weeks left to me at Sherborne, I managed to stay out of trouble. Then followed a short holiday until I joined my new school, where at last I discovered scholastic happiness.

  It was one day as I was savouring the friendliness and companionship of Frensham Heights that I reflected on the misery I had suffered at Sherborne at the hands of Smith and Jones, and decided to send them a ‘frightener’ letter or two; letters such as ‘Vengeance will be mine, saith The Lord,’ and signed ‘The Black Hand’.

  But the old saying ‘out of sight, out of mind’ seems, in my case, to have applied, for the importance of the Black Hand’s vengeance faded remarkably quickly in competition with the close proximity of nubile young ladies. I thought no more about S and J until years later in 1940 when, as a very fit Ordinary Seaman in His Majesty’s Royal Navy, I entered the bar of the Café Royal in Regent Street, in the company of three other Jolly-Jacks. This was a favourite haunt of mine, for even as a humble Bluejacket I was always made to feel welcome by Trevor the barman. Sitting at the bar and glancing to left and right to see if any of my old theatre friends were there, I noticed a sallow looking soldier sitting plumply and dejectedly in the corner. His face seemed vaguely familiar and I was fighting to put a name to it when it hit me like a thunderbolt. It was Smith, of Smith and Jones, and he’d walked right into the lions’ den.

  Putting down my drink, I walked slowly across to the man that I hated so much.

  ‘Hello Smith,’ I said jauntily, ‘remember me?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ he replied, with evident disinterest. ‘Should I?’

  ‘You certainly should, but that’s of no consequence. The important thing is, I’ve got something for you.’

  ‘Oh, what?’ he asked with more regard.

  ‘This,’ I answered and with that I hauled off and hit him such a beauty, that he left his bar stool at an angle of forty-five degrees and hardly touched the ground before hitting the opposite wall. My fury, bottled up inside me all those years, exploded, and if the combined forces of Trevor and my mates had not pulled me off him, I might still be in the nick for manslaughter.

  Before sending the devastated Smith on his painful way, I gave him a message.

  ‘If you see your friend Jones, tell him that if he ever comes into my line of vision, exactly the same thing will happen to him. Understand?’

  He understood, all right. I had made sure of that.

  Lightning, they say, never strikes in the same place twice; Well it did, for on my very next long-weekend leave in London, I was walking up Piccadilly on my way to Trevor’s bar when I saw across the road, having his shoes cleaned by the Redcoat Shoeshine Man, an A/C plonk with a face of strangely knowable mien. Squinting to pull it better into focus, I stopped still – and paused for recollection. Then, with a bellow you could’ve heard in Harrow-on-the-Hill, I shouted, Jesus Christ, it’s Jones!!’ and with that I was off across the road after him, hotly pursued by my three self-same mates, crying ‘Oh shit, not again?’

  By this time the terrified Jones had got the message and was away down the alley, scattering all before him in an endeavour to get away from what seemed like four deadly assassins. Half-way down Lower Regent Street, we could tell that here was a quarry in no physical condition even to run for a bus, so settling down to a nice steady jog I said, ‘It’s all right lads, relax, there’ll be no fisticuffs this time, I promise you.’

  ‘What’re you going to do then?’ they asked.

  ‘Run the bastard down,’ I answered.

  And so we ran him across the Mall, and around St James Park calling out ‘Remember, Jones, what happened to Smith, is going to happen to you.’

  Just by Caxton Hall he collapsed on to the pavement, crying, ‘Don’t hurt me, please don’t hurt me.’

  ‘Come along, me old mate,’ I said, any idea of further vengeance completely gone from my mind. ‘You just sit here and have a nice rest. You’ve just had a bit too much to drink, that’s all,’ and sitting him on a nearby bench, normally occupied by winos, we went contentedly on our way.

  ‘Did you see that, Nellie?’ said an elderly passer-by to her companion. ‘It’s what I’ve always said, there’s no-one as kind and thoughtful as “Jack” when he’s ashore.’

  *

  It was in 1935, at the age of sixteen that I entered Frensham Heights which was under the Headmastership of one of the great educationalists of his time, Mr Paul Roberts. One of the originators of Bedales, he was a rotund, bald, genial man with a pronounced stutter and an abundance of charm. The school, a vast Victorian mansion, was an ancient pile of great importance, the previous owner having been an industrialist of note. Its main building, towering behind an imposing drive and a hundred acres of beautifully laid out parkland, housed, fed and slept us; its stables, with their half-opened doors, were our class-rooms. Above, in converted lofts, were the weaving looms, pottery wheels and kilns. There were also carpenters’ shops, engineering workshops, green-houses, and a printing press. Thus we were not only taught in healthy, beautiful surroundings, but also to be very independent. The girls wove the material for curtains, cushions and bedcovers, and turned cups, plates, and mugs on the pottery wheels. The boys turned wooden plates on the lathes, and made the most original and comfortable armchairs out of four large pieces of wood and four small pegs.

  We cultivated flowers and vegetables, learned how to repair and put back together our ancient tractor and Ford pick-up, and later on during my wonderfully happy sojourn there, I was helped and encouraged to dig out and build an open air theatre from the side of a hill, overlooking a small wood. It’s still there, just – I saw it through the weeds only three years past.

  In that same theatre, we put on amongst ourselves two stage productions of near professional standard. One was Twelth Night, and the other – an extraordinary choice for a school play – Lady Precious Stream, the traditionally presented Chinese play that had had such enormous success in the West End of London.

  They say asking an actor how he feels about critics is like asking a cow how she feels about flies! In my case, I have over the years been remarkably well-served by critics, and of such, this notice in the local paper was my first.

  ‘The role of the “Wei”, the Tiger General, knowing nothing and saying much, was filled by J. Pertwee in a very noteworthy fashion. His features were made to look, indeed, like “Nothing on Earth”. He was a masterpiece of grotesqueness and his characte
r was in keeping. The General had an impersonator here, who made the most of any situation and amused the audience immensely. J. Pertwee proved a “real live wire” throughout, and gave an out-standing performance.’

  I was inordinately proud of that notice, and bought up the village shop’s entire stock of the issue to impress my many friends and relations, although in truth I could have well done without the ‘real live wire’ acclamation!

  For the first time in my life I really began to learn. Not because I had to, but because I wanted to. The teachers were interesting and knowledgeable of their subjects, and the curriculum was intelligent, allowing a student to work several one hour study periods consecutively, thus enabling him to complete the ‘peak’ set him by his tutor. In most other schools work periods of three quarters of an hour were the norm. A quarter of an hour to settle down, a quarter of an hour doing as little work as possible, and a quarter of an hour keeping one’s eye firmly on the clock ready to pack up ‘instanter’ at the sound of its first ‘ding’. In summer, we swam in a large open-air pool and there was nothing in the rule book about wearing costumes. Mr Roberts left that up to the discretion of the pupils. The junior school, of course, couldn’t be bothered with such encumbrances, and leaped naked into the pool with freedom and joy, splashing and playing without embarrassment. Whereas in the main, the senior boys and girls chose their moments to swim naked with care and decorum. Naturally, as with all sex-conscious teenagers, a certain amount of surreptitious peeking went on from behind the laurel bushes, but once properly ‘glimmed’, the excitement of his or her nudity soon palled. ‘Long live the bikini,’ say I. But there was one young lady of eighteen, with a body you could only describe as bountiful. She was more aware of her body than any woman I’ve met before or since. She stood on the diving board in classic pose – one hand scooping her hair from the nape wildly on to the top of her head, the other hand flat on her golden hip, for she always displayed a perfect, even tan. Her head was back, her mouth half open, her back arched, her superb breasts held high. If she hadn’t been so naturally beautiful, one would have had to laugh at her inimitable hokum. Paul Roberts approached her in mid-display one balmy evening and said, ‘M-my dear B-B-B-ettina, don’t th-th-th-ink f-f-for one mo-mo-moment that I am objecting to your s-s-s-plendid n-n-nudity or your irrrrrrevocable r-r-r-right to d-d-d-display it, but I d-d-d-on’t want you to th-th-th-think you will quickly c-c-c-con-vert the w-w-world to n-n-n-akedness.’ But it was thanks to Bettina’s healthy attitude to sex that I became less inhibited over such matters. There was a Minstrels’ Gallery over the ballroom and when the Saturday night dances were on below, I and a girlfriend would repair to the Gallery, lock ourselves in, and to the shouts of joy from below, add our own, vociferously. The element of proximity, discovery and danger added fuel to the flame.