The Moon’s a Balloon

by David Niven

  Nessie was coming to see me the next day—a Saturday—and her train was due at Buckingham Station at midday. The Latin exam was scheduled from ten o’clock till eleventhirty, so I decided to get through this now useless and unprofitable period as quickly as possible, pedal down to the station and surprise her there instead of meeting her as planned near the Corinthian arch at twelve-thirty.

  It so happened that my Latin teacher was the supervisor of the candidates on that Saturday morning, which meant that it was he who would hand out the questions at the start, collect the answers at the end and in between, wander about the rows of desks making sure that there was no talking, or, perish the thought, any use of notes.

  He knew that I could easily pass the Latin exam but only I knew that it was now useless to try.

  The trick then was to complete the whole paper in half the time and be on my way to Buckingham Station. Archie Montgomery-Campbell was a good and outstanding friend who occupied the desk on my right during the whole week of exams. He was also an excellent Latin scholar, so I enlisted his help. The Latin paper was in two parts, prose and verse. It was agreed that I would quickly dispose of the prose while Archie coped first with the verse. Then, after making his fair copy, he would crumple up his first draft and drop it on the floor between the two desks. It was clearly understood between us that if anything went wrong, Archie would merely say that he had thrown away his first translation after he had made his fair copy and if somebody picked it up it was none of his business. The dirty work was to be done by me alone; he was to be blameless.

  It all went beautifully according to plan. I copied out Archie’s verse translation beneath my own effort at the prose, handed in my paper, and bicycled happily off in plenty of time to surprise Nessie.

  We spent a blissful day together, eating shrimp paste sandwiches and sausage rolls, drinking shady-gaff↓ and rolling around on the tartan rug.

  ≡ A mixture of beer and ginger beer.

  Nessie had begun to tell me a little more about herself and I listened adoringly that afternoon to her descriptions of her childhood in a Hoxton slum; six children in a tiny room, the three youngest in the bed, the others sleeping on the floor and all cowering away from the drunken Friday night battles between the parents.

  At fifteen she and her sister of a year older had run away. For a while, they found work as waitresses in dingy tea shops and restaurants in Battersea and Pimlico. A few months later they were engaged as hostesses in a sleazy ‘club’ in Wardour Street. Then the sister started taking drugs and one night told Nessie she was going North with a boy friend to avoid the police. Nessie didn’t miss her much and soon was employed by Mrs. Kate Meyrick at the 43 Club. She had to be on hand in evening dress as a ‘dancing partner’, making a fuss of ‘Ma’ Meyrick’s rather high class clientele and persuading them to buy champagne at exorbitant prices. She was not allowed to solicit on the premises—a rule that was strictly enforced because ‘Ma’ Meyrick’s establishment was often infiltrated by police officers in evening clothes, posing as the tipsy aftermath of regimental dinners or bachelor parties, but, in fact, contacts were easily enough made and Nessie soon built up the basis of an enthusiastic clientele.

  ‘I’m not an ‘ore wiv an ‘eart of bleedin gold, you know, dear, I’m out for everything I can get out of this game for another couple of years—then I’m going to marry some nice Yank or Canadian and fuck off abroad and ‘aye kids.

  ‘The only reasons I work the streets is that I’m on me own. I don’t ‘aye to sit in a Club all bleedin’ night talkin’ to a lot of drunks. When I git tired, I can go ‘ome and lock me fuckin’ door…I make much more money too, and the best bit, it’s not like bein’ one of those wotsits on the end of a phone. I can see wot I’m gettin’. If I don’t like the look of a bloke, I don’t ask ‘em up, see.’

  Watching Nessie while she talked, it seemed incredible that she could be leading this sort of existence—her very youth and yes, her very freshness were in complete contradiction to everything she was describing—‘A lot of blokes want to ‘ave me all to themselves…you know, set me up in a bleedin’ flat in Maida Vale with a maid an’ a fuckin’ puppy but when the time comes—I’ll set meself up. I’ve got to move out of Cork Street tho’, it’s gettin’ so fuckin’ noisy, dear, with that big ginger who’s moved in above. An army officer by all accounts. ‘E goes round the coffee stalls at Hyde Park Corner and picks up them corporals in their red tunics an’ all, then he brings ‘em ‘ome and dresses himself up as a fuckin’ bride, make-up, white satin, ‘igh ‘eels, a bleedin’ veil, orange blossom—the lot. Then ‘e chooses one of these blokes—‘e always ‘as about ‘arf a dozen of ‘em up there at the same time—and ‘e fuckin’ marries him! Goes through a sort of service, then, arm in arm wiv ‘is ‘usband, ‘e walks under a fuckin’ archway of swords ‘eld up by the other blokes. I’ve talked to a coupla soldiers—they’re not gingers, mark you, far from it, but they pick up a coupla quid apiece for the job and a fiver for the ‘usband.

  ‘E doesn’t lay an ‘and on any of them, just plays the Weddin’ March on ‘is Master’s Voice an’ shoots ‘is wad walking under them fuckin’ swords. But the noise, dear—Christ! I can’t stand it! Everythink is very military, ‘im being an ex-officer an’ all, and when it’s all over ‘e gets back into ‘is nice blue suit, sits down be’ind a table with a fuckin’ army blanket on it and they all form up like a bleedin’ Pay Parade. ‘Guardsman So-and-So.’

  ‘Sir!’ one pace forward march…crash! Forty shillings…SIR! about turn…crash! NEXT MAN…CRASH! SIR!! CRASH! CHRIST!…those fuckin’ army boots, dear. I’m going to ‘ave to move.’…She shook with delicious laughter.

  ‘Of course, I don’t get mixed up with no funny business myself…it’s just me and a bloke that’s all…No exhibitions, none of that stuff. Of course. I’m not saying I don’t occasionally pick up a little fancy money—watchin’

  ‘em sit in cakes sometimes an’ there’s this little Aussie millionaire; dear, about fifty, who gets about eight of us up to ‘is ‘otel, then we all strip down to the stockin’s and ‘igh ‘eels and ‘e takes off everything! Then he gives us each an ‘en pheasant’s tail feather to stuff up the arse—‘ell of a job keepin’ it in there it is because we ‘ave to walk round in a circle—then, would you believe it, dear, ‘e stands there in the middle with a cock pheasant’s feather up ‘is own arse and sprinkles corn on the fuckin’ carpet. Of course we ‘ave a terrible time not larfin’ but if we do larf, we don’t get paid and it’s a tenner each too…Well, there he stands, kind of crowin’ or whatever the ‘ell cock pheasants do, and we all ‘ave to kinda peck at the fuckin’ corn…it’s amazin’ really, he shoots off right there all by ‘isself in the middle of the circle. We never ‘ave to touch ‘im…pathetic really when you think.’

  When Nesste went back to London after these outings, I always felt terribly lonely. I loved walking about the fields and woods with her. I’ve never seen anyone get such real pleasure out of trees and flowers and birds and it gave me a feeling of importance to be able to point out different animals and to tell her about life in the country.

  Sadly, I waved her away at Buckingham station and pedalled up the, long avenue in time for evening chapel.

  The whole school attended chapel twice a day and, after the evening service, announcements of special importance were made by the Headmaster.’ In chapel about three weeks after Nessie’s visit, J.F. motioned the boys to remain in their places. An expectant murmur arose.

  ‘All over the country,’ J.F. began, ‘overworked examiners have been correcting several thousand papers sent in for this year’s School Certificate examinations.

  ‘Stowe is a new school and these same examiners have been looking at the papers sent in by us with special interest.

  ‘Boys who sit for a public examination are representing their schools in public and they, therefore, have a very great responsibility. Schools are judged by the boys who represent them.

  ‘It is, t
herefore, with grief and great disappointment that I have to tell you that two boys representing Stowe, in the School Certificate have been caught cheating. I shall question the two concerned this evening and I shall deal with them as I see fit.’

  Only when I saw Archie Montgomery-Campbell’s ashen face did the horrible truth sink in. As the school rose to leave the chapel, my legs turned to water.

  ∨ The Moon’s a Balloon ∧

  FOUR

  Ratings of the Royal Navy have always prided themselves on the fact that without any official signals being made, news and gossip passes between ships at anchor with a rapidity that makes African tribesmen blush over their tom-toms. The ratings themselves would have blushed that day: ten minutes after chapel, the whole school knew who were the two culprits. Perhaps like people being attacked by dogs or run away with on horses, Archie and I smelled of fear.

  Poor Archie was the first to be summoned to the Headmaster’s study—he went off like Sydney Carton at the end of A Tale of Two Cities. A quarter of an hour later, I was located near the lavatories where I had been spending the interim.

  No smile on J.F.’s face this time, just a single terse question, ‘Have you anything to say for yourself?’

  For the lack of any flash of genius that might have saved me, I told him the truth—that I had failed the exam anyway and wanted to get out early. I also added that Archie was completely guiltless and stood to gain nothing by helping me.

  J.F. stared at me in silence for a long time, then he crossed the quiet, beautifully furnished room and stood looking out of the open french windows into the flower garden where he had first interviewed me. Cheating in a public examination is a heinous crime and it seemed inevitable that I would be expelled. I braced myself for the news as he turned towards me. ‘Montgomery-Campbell made a stupid mistake in helping you with your Latin translation and I have given him six strokes of the cane. Until you stood there and told me the truth, I had every intention of expelling you from the school. However, in spite of your very gross misbehaviour, I still have faith in you and I shall keep you at Stowe. Now, I propose to give you twelve strokes of the cane.’

  My joy at not being thrown out was quickly erased by the thought of my short-term prospect…Twelve! that was terrifying! J.F. was a powerfully built man and his beatings, though rare, were legendary.

  ‘Go next door into the Gothic Library. Lift your coat, bend over and hold on to the bookcase by the door. It will hurt you very much indeed. When it is over, and I expect you to make no noise, go through the door as quickly as you wish. When you feel like it, go back to your house.’

  The first three or four strokes hurt so much that the shock somehow cushioned the next three or four, but the last strokes of my punishment were unforgettable. I don’t believe I did make any noise, not because I was told to avoid doing so, or because I was brave or anything like that—it hurt so much. I just couldn’t get my breath.

  When the bombardment finally stopped, I flung open the door and shot out into the passage. Holding my behind and trumpeting like a rogue elephant, down the stone passage, past the boiler rooms I went, out into the summer evening and headed for the woods.

  After the pain subsided, the mortification set in. How was I going to face the other boys—a cheat? Obviously, my promised promotion to monitor would be cancelled and my remaining time at Stowe would be spent as an outcast. Eventually, about bedtime, I crept up to my dormitory. It was a large room that accommodated twenty-five boys. The usual pillow fights and shouting and larking about were in full swing. They died away to an embarrassed silence as I came in. I took off my clothes, watched by the entire room. My underpants stuck to me and reminded me of my physical pain. Carrying my pyjamas I slunk off to the bathroom next door. An ominous murmur followed my exit.

  In the bathroom mirror, I inspected the damage. It was heavy to say the least. Suddenly, Major Haworth’s cheery voice made me turn, ‘Pretty good shooting I’d call that…looks like a two-inch group.’ He was his usual smiling, kindly self. ‘When you’ve finished in here, get into bed. I’m going to read out a message the Headmaster has sent round the School…nothing to worry about.’

  When everyone was in bed and quiet, the Major stood by the dormitory door and read from a piece of paper.

  ‘I have interviewed the two boys connected with the School Certificate irregularities. Their explanations have been accepted by me and the boys have been punished. The incident is now closed and will not be referred to again by anyone.’

  ‘Good night, everybody,’ said the Major, and then with a wink at me—‘When that sort of thing happened to me I used to sleep on my stomach and have my breakfast off the mantelshelf.’

  In the darkness, the whispers started—‘How many did you get?’…’Did you blub’…’What sort of cane is it?’

  ‘Promise to show us in the morning’. All friendly whispers. In the darkness, I buried my face in my pillow.

  I determined there and then that, somehow, I would repay J.F. I never could, of course, but I became, I think, a good and responsible monitor the next term and, in due course, after squeaking past a mathematical barrier, I passed into the Royal Military College, Sandhurst, and became one of the first three Stowe boys to gain commissions in the Regular Army.

  Summer holiday at Bembridge followed immediately after ten days of Officers’ Training Corps camp on Salisbury Plain. It was at one such camp that I first smelled success in front of an audience. Several hundred boys from many different schools were attending the camp concert in a huge circus tent. Someone had told Major Haworth that as Stowe was a new school, it would be a good thing if we were part of the programme and he had asked me to do something about it.

  There was at that time in England a monologuist named Milton Hayes. I had one of his records at school and had memorised some of his stuff for the benefit of my friends. I must now belatedly apologise to Milton Hayes for stealing from his material, which is what in part I did, adding topical touches of my own to fit the situation at the camp.

  His monologue was a take-off of a half-witted politician electioneering. I made mine a half-witted General, inspecting the camp. On the night of the concert, I sat outside the tent, waiting for my turn to go on. The boys were a rowdy audience and the noise from inside was deafening. There were a lot of boos. I experienced, for the first time, that delicious terror that has never left me—stage fright, and with rubbery knees, dry lips and sweating palms, I fought against the urge to dash madly away, grow a beard and emigrate to the Seychelles. At last I was called and I heard the Master of Ceremonies announce—‘Niven of Stowe’.

  Miserably, I mounted the steps on to the stage, wearing the baggy General’s uniform which Major Haworth had concocted for me. In my eye was a monocle and on my upper lip, a huge grey moustache.

  Scattered applause and some laughter greeted my appearance.

  The M.C. put up his hand—‘Major General Sir Useless Eunuch!’ More laughter.

  I gulped and prayed that the stage would open and swallow me up. Hundreds of boys in khaki filled the benches. The first three rows were occupied by officers in red Mess kit. I screwed my monocle into my eye and gazed at the officers…

  ‘Sergeant-Major, why is it that these members of the band have no instruments?’ I asked. A roar of delighted laughter filled the tent and suddenly, it was easy. Then lapsing into pilfered Milton Hayes—‘What we must do with this camp, Sergeant-Major, is find out where we stand, then get behind ourselves and push ourselves forward. We must get right down to the very roots, right down to rock bottom, then bring the whole thing up into one common pool…and looking around here at Salisbury Plain—and how very plain it looks—we should keep the ships at sea…the harbours will be much cleaner for one thing…’ and so on for about ten minutes.

  Milton Hayes and I were a riotous success that night and the harpoon of craving success as a performer was planted deep inside me.

  Sailing entered my life about, this time. My mother bought Grizel
and me a twenty-five-year-old 14ft sailing dinghy for, £12. She was called Merlin and is still being sailed by children at Bembridge.

  I became a good ‘hand’ and the pinnacle of my sailing career came late while I was still at Sandhurst and was chosen as a member of Great Britain’s International Crew in the Cumberland Cup, a race for $-metre yachts, during Ryde Week. With Sir Ralph Gore, the famous helmsman, in command, we in Severn easily defeated the French challenger L’Etoile in a best of three final.

  First, however, Brian Franks and I formed the Bembridge Sailing Dinghy Club for children between twelve and eighteen. I was the first Secretary, Brian the first Captain. At the end of the first year, the Club showed a profit of, £21, 2s, 6d. which Brian and I transferred into liqueur brandy. We were both found next morning, face down in some nettles. When you are a senior boy in an English Public School, you perhaps reach the pinnacle of your self-importance. Given hitherto undreamed of responsibilities and privileges, often receiving the acclaim, even the adulation of your juniors and sometimes served by Tags’,↓ it is very easy to get carried away.

  ≡ American friends are often appalled by this description of younger boys who clean the rooms and run messages for their seniors…they need not be…it is not an abbreviation of faggot.

  The Royal Military College, Sandhurst, soon took care of that…it is never pleasant to be treated like mud but Sandhurst, at least,’ did it with style and no malice aforethought: it just came naturally.

  We were called ‘Gentlemen Cadets’. The officers and noncommissioned officer instructors were the pick of the whole British Army and the drill instructors were exclusively, the pick of the Brigade of Guards. Knowing you were due to become an officer in eighteen months’ time, the N.C.O.’s could call you anything they liked provided they prefaced it with a ‘Mr. So-and-So, Sir.’

  There were about one thousand cadets at Sandhurst divided into Seniors, Intermediates and Juniors. The course was eighteen months so one spent six months in each category.