Although he enjoyed the feeble little plays and debates, he hated and feared the gym class and the afternoon games. The boys played hockey in winter, and Alan later claimed that it was the necessity of avoiding the ball that had taught him to run fast. He did enjoy being linesman, judging precisely where the ball had crossed the line. In an end-of-term sing-song, the following couplet described him:
Turing’s fond of the football field
For geometric problems the touch-lines yield
Later another verse had him ‘watching the daisies grow’ during hockey, an image which inspired his mother to a whimsical pencil sketch. And although intended as a joke against his dreamy passivity, there might have been a truth in the observation. For something new had happened.
At the end of 1922, some unknown benefactor had given him a book, called Natural Wonders Every Child Should Know.8 Alan told his mother later that this book had opened his eyes to science. Indeed, it must have been the first time that he became conscious that such a kind of knowledge as ‘science’ existed. But more than that, it opened the book of life. If anything at all can be said to have influenced him, it was this book which, like so many new things, came from the United States.
The book had first appeared in 1912 and its author, Edwin Tenney Brewster, had described it as
… the first attempt to set before young readers some knowledge of certain loosely related but very modern topics, commonly grouped together under the name, General Physiology. It is, in short, an attempt to lead children of eight or ten, first to ask and then to answer, the question: What have I in common with other living things, and how do I differ from them? Incidentally, in addition, I have attempted to provide a foundation on which a perplexed but serious-minded parent can himself base an answer to several puzzling questions which all children ask – most especially to that most difficult of them all: By what process of becoming did I myself finally appear in this world?
In other words, it was about sex and science, starting off with ‘How the Chicken got inside the Egg’, rambling through ‘Some Other Sorts of Eggs’ until arriving at ‘What Little Boys and Girls are Made Of’. Brewster quoted ‘the old nursery rhyme’ and said that:
It has this much truth in it, that little boys and little girls are far from being alike, and it isn’t worth while trying to make either one over into the other.
The precise nature of this difference was not revealed, and only after a skilful diversion on to the subject of the eggs of starfish and sea-urchins did Brewster eventually arrive back at the human body:
So we are not built like a cement or a wooden house, but like a brick one. We are made of little living bricks. When we grow it is because these living bricks divide into half bricks, and then grow into whole ones again. But how they find out when and where to grow fast, and when and where to grow slowly, and when and where not to grow at all, is precisely what nobody has yet made the smallest beginning at finding out.
The process of biological growth was the principal scientific theme of E.T. Brewster’s book. Yet science had no explanations, only descriptions. In fact on 1 October 1911, when Alan Turing’s ‘living bricks’ were first dividing and redividing, Professor D’Arcy Thompson was telling the British Association that ‘the ultimate problems of biology are as inscrutable as of old.’
But equally inscrutable, Natural Wonders conspicuously failed to describe where the first cell in the human process came from, only dropping the elusive hint that ‘the egg itself arose by the splitting of still another cell which, of course, was part of the parent’s body.’ The secret was left for the ‘perplexed but serious-minded parent’ to explain. Mrs Turing’s way of dealing with the thorny topic was, in fact, highly consonant with Brewster’s, for John at least was the recipient at Hazelhurst of a special letter starting with the birds and the bees, and ending with instructions ‘not to go off the rails’. Presumably Alan was informed in the same way.
In other ways, however, Natural Wonders was indeed ‘very modern’, and certainly no little ‘nature book’. It conveyed the idea that there had to be a reason for the way things were, and that the reason came not from God but from science. Long passages explained why little boys liked throwing things and little girls liked babies, and derived from the pattern of the living world the ideal of a Daddy to go out to work at the office and a Mama to stay at home. This picture of respectable American life was rather remote from the training of the sons of Indian civil servants, but more relevant to Alan was a picture of the brain:
Do you see now why you have to go to school five hours a day, and sit on a hard seat studying still harder lessons, when you would much rather sneak off and go in swimming? It is so that you may build up these thinking spots in your brains. … We begin young, while the brain is still growing. With years and years of work and study, we slowly form the thinking spots over our left ears, which we are to use the rest of our days. When we are grown up, we can no more form new thinking places. …
So even school was justified by science. The old world of divine authority was reduced to a vague allusion in which Brewster, having described evolution, said that ‘why it all happens or what it is all for’ was precisely ‘one of those things that no fellah can find out.’ Brewster’s living things were unequivocally machines:
For, of course, the body is a machine. It is a vastly complex machine, many, many times more complicated than any machine ever made with hands; but still after all a machine. It has been likened to a steam engine. But that was before we knew as much about the way it works as we know now. It really is a gas engine; like the engine of an automobile, a motor boat, or a flying machine.
Human beings were ‘more intelligent’ than the other animals, but were not accorded a mention of ‘soul’. The process of cellular division and differentiation was something no one had yet begun to understand – but there was no suggestion that it required the interference of angels. So if Alan was indeed ‘watching the daisies grow’, he could have been thinking that while it looked as though the daisy knew what to do, it really depended upon a system of cells working like a machine. And what about himself? How did he know what to do? There was plenty to dream about while the hockey ball whizzed past.
Besides watching the daisies, Alan liked inventing things. On 11 February 1923 he wrote:9
Dear Mother and Daddy,
I have got a lovely cinema kind of thing Micheal* sills gave it to me and you can draw new films for it and I am making a copy of it for you for an easter present I am sending it in another envelope if you want any more films for it write for them there are 16 pictures in each but I worked out that I could draw ‘The boy stood at the tea table’ you know the Rhyme made up from casabianca I was 2nd this week again. Matron sends her love GB said that as I wrote so thick I was to get some new nibs from T. Wells and I am writing with them now there is a lecture tomorrow Wainwright was next to bottom this week this is my patent ink
There was nothing about science, inventions, or the modern world in the Common Entrance examination – the public school admission test, which was the raison d’être of schools like Hazelhurst. Casabianca was nearer the mark. In the American Natural Wonders everything had to have a reason. But the British system was building different ‘thinking spots’ – the virtue of Casabianca, the boy on the burning deck, was that he carried out his instructions literally, losing his life in the process.
The masters did their best to discourage Alan’s irrelevant interest in science, but could not stop his inventions – in particular, machines to help him in the writing problems that still plagued him:
April 1 (fool’s day)
Guess what I am writing with. It is an invention of my own it is a fountain pen like this:—[crude diagram] you see to fill it scweeze E [‘squishy end of fountain pen filler’] and let go and the ink is sucked up and it is full. I have arranged it so that when I press a little of the ink comes down but it keeps on getting clogged.
I wonder if John has seen Joan o
f Arc’s Statue yet coz it is in Rouen. Last monday we had scouts ν cubs it was rather exiting there was no weeks order this week I hope John likes Rouen I don’t feel much like writing much today sorry. Matron says John sent something.
This provoked another couplet, about a fountain pen that ‘leaked enough for four’. Another letter in July, written in green ink which was (predictably) forbidden, described an exceedingly crude idea for a typewriter.
John’s stay in Rouen was part of a general alteration in the Turing family arrangements. Before going to Marlborough, he had told his father that he would like a change from the Wards, and this was agreed. The parents found a Hertfordshire vicarage to be their home as from the summer of 1923. Meanwhile, at Easter, John had parted from his brother for the first time, going to stay with a Mme Godier in Rouen. This went quite well, and in the summer Alan (‘simply longing to go there’) went with him to imbibe the culture and civilisation of France for a few weeks. Alan made a great impression on the petit-bourgeoise Mme Godier. It was ‘comme il est charmant’ when he had been persuaded to wash behind the ears, and a telling-off for John if he had not. John loathed Mme Godier, and her fawning on Alan came as a relief, enabling him to slip off to the cinema. Both Turing boys, in fact, were singularly good-looking, with a subtle, vulnerable appeal; John rather the sharper, and Alan dreamier. The stay was not a great success. John had refused to take his bicycle this time because of the prospect of navigating wobbly Alan through the cobbled Rouen streets. So they were marooned listlessly in the maison Godier, or were obliged to take long walks. ‘Il marche comme un escargot,’ declared Mme Godier of Alan, an observation which fitted Alan’s snail-like progress along the gutter, but also the Turing family’s picture of itself – that of the slow Turings, the gloomy Turings, always fighting on the losing side, and coming in last if not least.
Much happier was the new home in Hertfordshire, to which the boys went for the rest of the summer. It was the Georgian red-brick rectory at Watton-at-Stone, seat of the old Archdeacon Rollo Meyer, a charming and mellow man whose environment was that of the rose-bed and the tennis court, rather than the well-scrubbed, brisk discipline of the Wards. John and Alan both responded with joy, John to girls on the tennis court (he being fifteen and decidedly interested), Alan to being left alone, allowed to cycle in the woods and make his own mess as he pleased as long as he met minimum standards in the house. Alan’s standing also went up in Mrs Meyer’s eyes when a gypsy fortune teller at the church fête said that he would be a genius.
The Meyers’ guardianship was shortlived, for Mr Turing suddenly decided to resign from the Indian Civil Service. He was angry at his rival, a certain Campbell who had come out with him in 1896 and had obtained a lower grade in the entrance examination, being promoted to be Chief Secretary to the Madras Government. So he abandoned his own chances of further advancement, and Alan’s parents never returned as Sir Julius and Lady Turing,* though they had the more tangible benefit of a £1000 per annum pension.
It was not a return to England, for Alan’s father adopted a new role as tax exile. The Inland Revenue allowed him to escape the income tax if he spent only six weeks in the United Kingdom each year, so the Turings installed themselves in the French resort of Dinard, opposite St Malo on the Brittany coast. Henceforward the boys were to travel to France for Christmas and Easter vacations, while the parents would come to England for the summer.
Technically, Mr Turing did not resign until 12 July 1926, and in the meantime he was on leave, the development of Madras somehow continuing without him. But he lost no time in establishing a new sense of economy. Mrs Turing had to submit accounts detailing the housekeeping expenses to the centime. Holidays in St Moritz and Scotland were declared henceforth out of the question.
In many ways his premature retirement was a disaster. Both sons felt it was a mistake. Alan was to imitate in a particularly droll manner the huffy comments that his father would pass on ‘XYZ Campbell’, and his brother later wrote:10
I doubt if I should have found my father an easy superior or subordinate for by all accounts he cared nothing for the hierarchy nor his own future in the Indian Civil Service and spoke his mind regardless of the consequences. One example will suffice. For a while he acted as principal private secretary to mild Lord Willingdon in the Madras Presidency and when a difference of opinion developed between them my father remarked ‘After all you are not the Government of India’. Such thumping, suicidal indiscretion one can but admire from a safe distance.
This particular incident was always held against Mr Turing by his wife, the more so as she was particularly in awe of Lady Willingdon. The truth perhaps was that despite all the endless talk of duty, the qualities required in a district officer were very different from those of rule-book-keeping and deference to rank. Governing millions of people spread over an area equal to that of Wales called for an independent judgment and force of personality which were less welcome in the more courtly circles of metropolitan Madras. They were certainly little needed in his retirement, in which the busy intrigue of India assumed a retrospective appeal. His remaining years were dogged by a sense of loss, disillusion, and an intense boredom which fishing and bridge parties could never alleviate. He was aggravated by the fact that his younger wife found the return to Europe an opportunity to emerge from the constricting mental atmosphere of Dublin and Coonoor. For he had little regard for her more intellectual ambitions, combined as they were with a rather nervous, fussy domesticity; while she suffered from his obsessive penny-pinching and sense of being betrayed. They were both emotionally demanding, but neither met the other’s demands, and they came to communicate in little but planning the garden.
One result of the new arrangement was that Alan now saw some point to learning French, and it became Alan’s favourite school subject. But he also liked it as a sort of code, in which he naively wrote a postcard to his mother about ‘la revolution’ at Hazelhurst that Mr Darlington was not supposed to be able to read. (The joke was on their Breton maid at Dinard, who often spoke of a socialist revolution being imminent.)
But it was science that entranced him, as his parents discovered when they arrived back to find him clutching Natural Wonders. Their reaction was not entirely negative. Mrs Turing’s grandfather’s second cousin, George Johnstone Stoney (1826-1911), had been a famous Irish scientist whom she had once met as a girl in Dublin. He was best known as the inventor of the word ‘electron’ which he coined in 1894 before the atomicity of electric charge had been established. Mrs Turing was very proud of having a Fellow of the Royal Society in her family, for ranks and titles made a great impression upon her. She would also show Alan the picture of Pasteur on the French postage stamps, which suggested the prospect of Alan as a benefactor of humanity. Perhaps she recalled that doctor missionary in Kashmir, all those years ago! – but there was also the simple fact that although she herself pressed her ideas into a suitably ladylike form, she still represented the Stoneys who had married applied science to the expanding empire. Alan’s father, however, could well have pointed out that a scientist could expect no more than £500 a year, even in the Civil Service.
But he also helped Alan in his own way, for when back at school in May 1924 Alan wrote:
… You (Daddy) were telling me about surveying in the train, I have found out or rather read how they find out the heights of trees, widths of rivers, valley’s etc. by a combination of both I found out how they find heights of mountains without climbing them.
Alan had also read about how to draw a geographical section, and had added this accomplishment to ‘family tree, chess, maps etc. (gennerally my own amusements)’. In the summer of 1924 the family stayed for a time at Oxford – a nostalgic exercise on Mr Turing’s part – and then in September they holidayed at a boarding house in North Wales. The parents stayed on awhile when Alan went back by himself to Hazelhurst (‘I tipped the porter all right and the taxi too … I did not tip the Frant chap but that was not expected of me. Was it?’)
where he made his own maps of the Snowdonia mountains. (‘Will you compare my map with the Ordnance one and send it back.’)
Maps were an old interest: family trees he also liked, and the particularly awkward Turing genealogy, with its leaps of the baronetcy from bough to bough and its enormous Victorian families, exercised his ingenuity. Chess was the most social of his activities:
There was not going to be any Chess Tournament because Mr Darlington had not seen many people playing but he said that if I asked everyone who could play and made a list of everyone who had played this term we would have it. I managed to get enough people so we are having it.
He also found the work in class lb to be ‘much more interesting’. But all this paled before chemistry. Alan had always liked recipes, strange brews, and patent inks, and had tried clay-firing in the wood when staying with the Meyers. The idea of chemical processes would not have been strange to him. And in the summer holidays at Oxford, his parents had allowed him to play with a box of chemicals for the first time.
Natural Wonders did not have much to say about chemistry, except in terms of poisons. A strong defence of Temperance, not to say Prohibition, flowed from Brewster’s scientific pen:
The life of any creature, man, animal or plant, is one long fight against being poisoned. The poisons get us in all sorts of ways … like alcohol, ether, chloroform, the various alkaloids, such as strychnin and atropin and cocain, which we use as medicines, and nicotin, which is the alkaloid of tobacco, the poisons of many toadstools, caffein which we get in tea and coffee. …
Alan Turing: The Enigma The Centenary Edition Page 5
