Well, he had refused to make any promise that he wouldn’t, hadn’t he?
‘It was a hot summer afternoon when I was seven, and my mother’s friend, the eminent educational psychologist, Dr Mary Smith, was staying with us. I didn’t much like her visits because she always seemed to be investigating my faults. But on this occasion she decided to sit me down in the garden, and, without telling me what she was doing, give me the Wellerman-Kreutz Intelligence Test, a method of measuring brain-power she valued more than any other. I was just glad to be out of earshot of the horrible bawling new baby. When we’d finished, she didn’t say anything to me, but went indoors into our kitchen and told my mother: “Marion, your Peter has just achieved an absolutely amazing score. The highest that I personally have encountered in a whole decade devoted to this form of IQ assessment.”’
Could, Pete wondered, a child of seven really have absorbed such adult language? Her words must have been repeated to him later. Also was it wise to reproduce the psychologist’s flutey, fervid voice? Some members of the audience were giggling nervously… ‘The Wellerman-Kreutz test had given me an IQ of well over 160. Ever since, she’s tested me regularly, and the only change has been upward. So here I am, a…’ But what did his staggering IQ total make him? A genius? Surely not. A genius meant a Leonardo, a Shakespeare, an Einstein, and he didn’t even want to be in their company.
No time left now for a more orthodox self-presentation. Later he learned that never in the programme’s history had Bob Thurlow, experienced radio host that he was, felt such disquiet about what might be coming next. But he kept his cool. ‘Quite some story, Peter! I don’t think anybody’s told anything like it on High Flyers. Well, listeners can judge this evening the accuracy of those tests. As for you, you’d better keep your fingers crossed; you’re up against some mighty strong contenders.’
Why, the guy sounds as if I ought not to win, thought Peter, mopping the sweat now positively oozing from his forehead. Thinks I’ve overstepped the mark or something! Well, I’ll show him!
During the first half of the programme he sensed that his visible public, a number of whom he knew personally, was against him. (About his huge invisible one it was best not to think.) Of his fellow contestants he had endeared himself only to Melanie Clarkson, who, with her long light-brown tresses, was the only one he himself had really taken to. During the rehearsal Melanie had surreptitiously whispered to him; ‘You’re going to be tonight’s Highest Flyer, I know it!’ The two were regularly to meet at a local coffee bar and at the town’s liveliest Saturday disco throughout the following fifteen months. Those were blissful moments when Pete stroked or ran his fingers through her soft hair.
‘General Knowledge:
‘Peter, which novelist wrote The Idiot and The Brothers Karamazov and what nationality was he?’’
‘Fyodor Dostoyevsky, and he was Russian.’
‘Peter, which way do Earth’s magnetic field lines go?’
‘From south to north.’
‘Peter, who was victorious at the Battle of Naseby in 1645?’
‘Cromwell’s Roundheads. Like in most Civil War battles.’
‘Peter, approximately how many cells are there in the human body?’
‘Approximately 50 million million.’
He gave his answers quickly but quietly, his manner belying the bombast of his self-introduction. Which he should never have made. Out there, in uncountable sitting rooms, kitchens and bedrooms of Britain people were doubtless preferring Linda and Robert to himself, despite his uniquely faultless performance. Why had he joked about skiving and day-dreaming? If he had given a different, more serious picture of himself, he wouldn’t have had to counterbalance it by informing the whole bloody country of his electrifying IQ. Pete was burdened by this persistent feeling that he was neither liked nor admired, and so was over-compensating desperately.
‘And for his special subject Peter Kempsey has chosen apples in Herefordshire. May I be so bold as to ask a personage of such high Intelligence Quotient as yours – why?’
Pete, detecting a sneer in Bob Thurlow’s manner, answered straight. ‘Because my native county has been famous for apples since way back. We produce what many say are the best cider apples in the world. And I love the sight of all the orchards round here, many by the banks of the river, especially at this time of year with the fruit ready for picking.’
He could almost hear the collective breaths of the audience changing into a different key, into a harmonious accompaniment to what turned out to be, again, a hundred per cent correct answers. His reply to Bob had brought him this approval because, with Britain’s entry into the European Economic Community so imminent (January 1), there was a fear in the region that local-grown apples might be undercut by French or Dutch fruit. And with his awareness of this benevolent shift in his favour, Pete’s own breathing became calmer, slower, lighter. In truth, as he supplied the facts that beaming, toupee’ed Bob Thurlow was eliciting from him, he knew he had never felt quite so glowingly well, so physically and mentally at one with himself, in all his sixteen years.
‘How long should cider apples be left to mature after being picked?’
‘One week.’
‘What is a “scratcher”?’
Funny, but as he was speaking, the Assembly Room grew hazy, and he was half- inside those orchards close to the Wye, like a youth in some old print, armed with the traditional long-hooked pole and shaking fruit gleaming with red ripeness down onto the grass below. It was apple time now, of course and, like many of his school friends, he helped at weekends with picking in the nearby Bulmer’s-owned orchards, for pocket money.
‘A scratcher,’ he was telling everybody with unalloyed, peaceful confidence, ‘is what the apples are tipped into after that week for maturing. It crushes ’em.’
‘What is the Foxwhelp?’
‘The favourite Herefordshire apple for cider-making.’
‘What apple is it said to have replaced in popularity?’
‘The Redstreak.’
‘Ladies and gentlemen, there is no doubt about tonight’s winner, no doubt who is the Highest Flyer to emerge after this evening in Leominster, in the county of Hereford-and-Worcester. Peter Kempsey will now go through to the regional heat in Birmingham. Let us give him a big hand, but before doing so it is surely my duty to express a hope that he doesn’t drink too much of his native country’s excellent cider by way of celebration tonight.’
What fun, what attention then followed! In so many papers – Hereford Times, Leominster Journal, Ledbury Reporter, even, from over two different borders, The Western Mail and The Shropshire Star – photos of Pete appeared, all of them showing him to advantage, even as glamorous, some illustrating not-always-accurate articles. The best of these (thought Pete) gave the impression of a not only remarkably intelligent but a decidedly interesting, even sexy guy. Unfortunately the subject of his IQ cropped up in them all, but he did have only himself to thank for that. Just in case readers didn’t know, journalists reminded them of Eugene Wellerman (born 1916) and Carl Kreutz (born 1917), American academics ‘grossly under-appreciated’ in the UK. Of course he got a hard time at school, but many there and in the town were impressed by such a public triumph – except, of course, for Jim and Marion Kempsey.
His parents were angry at him for ‘flagrant, in fact positively brazen betrayal’ of their trust, that is to say for telling the world about Auntie Mary’s regular ratings of his brain. For them High Flyers wasn’t ‘something that counted’ and scoring top marks in it was ‘a flash in the pan’. Here Pete was able to fight back. Did Dad know what ‘flash in the pan’ meant, what it derived from? Thought not. It was generally assumed to come from the California Gold Rush, when prospectors would see something shining in their pans which sadly was not gold. But actually the expression originated in warfare: in muskets holding gunpowder in small pans; this powder could, and did, flare up without an actual bullet being shot. ‘But in both cases the end is left open,
don’t you see?’ said Pete, ‘after all, after the flash, you might find a heap of gold or shoot your enemy to death. Never use a phrase, Dad, unless you know the history behind it.’
Dad, so often preoccupied and invariably irritated with his eldest boy, just said: ‘It’s a pity there’s got to be a semi-final in these shenanigans. I think we’ve all heard enough about high flying by now; I wonder if you’ve been thinking about anything else. But if there must be another round, we shall just have to grin and bear it, I suppose.’
‘Grin and bear it?’ Another cliché which could be explained away, but this time Pete didn’t bother. The fact was he was hurt by his parents’ attitude, and sometimes this hurt took the form of painful rashes on his skin.
Bob Thurlow personally signed the letter to Mr Peter Kempsey of Leominster announcing the time and place of the semi-final – Pebble Mill Studios, Birmingham, Wednesday, April 12. His parents did not want Pete to go on his own, so they went with him, and of course his younger brothers, the Brats, came along too. It was a day when sun and shower followed each other rapidly and sweetly, so that all the blossoms in the small towns and countryside, cherry, almond, Japanese quince, shone in their whites and pinks, while newly fledged leaves shimmered in a variety of gentle greens. Not much of all this beauty was conspicuous in urban Birmingham. Inevitably Dad and Mum brought out their memories of the city before their war-time evacuation ahead of the bombs, and, considering that by a tragic coincidence, both lost their parents in these assaults (no Grans or Nans in Pete’s life!), they could surely be forgiven for doing so. Less forgivable was Dad’s having worriedly to go over last year’s triumph in Birmingham (at Saltley) for the striking miners masterminded by that dedicated troublemaker, Arthur Scargill. He was even moved to repeat their successful rallying cry of
‘Close the gates!’ as if involuntarily he were still impressed by it. What should an honourable liberal’s response to the situation be? Nonetheless this trip to the second city became a day to remember. Though they couldn’t bring themselves to articulate it, even Pete’s Mum and Dad felt a certain excitement before the event. And then, too, Oliver Merchant was there.
Earlier he’d insisted – ‘No, I mean it, Jim, and if you value my friendship, you will let me have my way!’ – on giving Pete money, and a not inconsiderable amount at that, expressly for him to buy new clothes for the show. ‘You deserve them,’ Ol told him, ‘so mind you choose not so much wisely as well.’ Catch that dreary couple, his parents, saying – or even thinking – such a delightful thing. So, in Hereford’s most trendy shop, Pete bought himself – well, not a lamé suit or a satin-quilted jacket, let alone a rhinestone-studded shirt – but some pretty good items which suited his own brand of dark good looks: bovver boots, flared jeans, a tie-dye shirt all manner of reds and greens and, naturally, a denim jacket.
Now why would Oliver Merchant do such a thing? There seemed no end to his anxiety to do the Kempseys kindnesses.
The Midlands Heat was, compared with the Leominster edition, both more enjoyable and more endorsing of Pete’s rapidly mounting high opinion of himself. His rivals came from every corner of the region, from Gainsborough in Lincolnshire, Alfreton in Derbyshire, Banbury in Oxfordshire, Thetford in Norfolk and Birmingham’s own Castle Bromwich. His special subject that evening was Toys Through the Ages. Massing facts on this topic was like walking through colourful booths at a fair, and finding that, whatever ball or gun you used, you could knock off its perch every coconut, every box of sweets, every piece of interesting bric-a-brac you saw. Toys – what information about their long history had he not enticed into his receptive head?: the wooden figures which performed antics as second millennium Egyptians tugged at the attached strings; the tops that delighted children in medieval France, and the kites, stilts, hoops and air balloons with which their sixteenth-century descendants amused themselves; the sinister little toy guillotine given to a later generation of French children by revolutionary-minded parents. And surely he’d have an opportunity to use toys-history names like ‘thaumatropes’ and ‘praxinoscopes’ from the technology-conscious nineteenth century.
The questions were tough, much more so than those asked him back in Leominster, and once or twice Pete hesitated, though less often than the others. But by the end of the evening he (nobody else!) was Midlands’ Highest Flyer – and by a clear head. Yet more congratulations, yet more press attention and promises of good things ahead, as well as a silver cup and a generous book-token. Ol Merchant was, ‘more chuffed than I’ve been by anything in many a long year.’ Dad said: ‘Perhaps we can allow real life to begin now. At last!’
After the Midlands victory came the London finals, on an unusually hot June Wednesday. Pete went up to this event alone. Special subject – Flags of the World. His first choice had been his favourite group, The Grateful Dead. He was so proud to be a ‘Deadhead’, Jerry García and Phil Lesh were such great intelligences, who openly rejoiced in their powers – rather like himself. But this year, on March 8, the Dead’s harmonica and organ player, Ron ‘Pig-pen’ McKernan had died of alcohol abuse. (Pete had worn a black tie for him.) Perhaps it was this scandal that made Bob Thurlow reject the group as a suitable topic for the programme. A pity, for in truth Pete hit upon Flags (which Bob at once enthusiastically accepted) almost arbitrarily; flags had never meant all that much to him. Not so surprising therefore that he blanked at two of Bob’s questions, though he scored first-equal in his general knowledge. Result – he came second, was the runner-up High Flyer, no conceivable form of disgrace or even disappointment, as everybody agreed. (But his title of Midlands Champion, 1972-1973 was his till the end of his life.) Bob Thurlow said in a personal talk with him that though the programme wouldn’t, of course, be visiting Leominster again, he’d find a way of having him on the show a fourth time.
Two
Enter Mephistopheles
Christmas 1973 was gravely overshadowed by New Year 1974. People talked of little else but the social and economic troubles ahead, they did not feel festive. Oliver Merchant even reported a (mild) slump in demand for Sunbeam Press’s greetings cards.
A Sunbeam Press card that Pete himself received was from Bob Thurlow. His mother was looking over his shoulder as he read: ‘Hope you are in good spirits despite all the gloom. You should be, because I’ve persuaded the powers-that-be to agree to a special High Flyers for those six highest-scoring regional winners who fell short of the final accolade. The programme wouldn’t be right without your contribution, Peter, and I hereby invite you to participate on my show on January 31, 1974.’
‘Well, you must do the polite thing, Peter, and send Mr Thurlow a card back?’ Mum breathed her injunction down Pete’s neck so its syllables tickled him. Pete raised his head to confront his mother, bathed in the morning sunshine coming through the red-and-green stained glass of the front door. ‘And why wouldn’t I?’
‘Saying No always requires diplomacy,’ Mum said, with a sudden, hard smile, ‘when you refuse an offer of this kind…’ she might have been dictating notes on hygiene to her Fifth Form girls ‘…you must sound at once firmly unambiguous and appreciative.’
‘But I don’t want to say No,’ Pete objected vainly. Sometimes Pete could identify only too easily with poor ‘Pig-pen’ from the Dead, and a dullness, a heaviness, a lethargy could fill him for many hours, both at school and in his spare time. This made him unlike the Brats, especially Julian the leader, who filled every waking hour with activity, music and merriment.
On his father’s desk, Pete discovered more Sunbeam Christmas cards, and from these chose one featuring Brueghel’s ‘Hunters in the Snow’. A wonderful picture (why hadn’t he taken it in before?); cold and silence, peace and threat rose up from it. Above its human and animal figures, a dark bird, crow or buzzard, ominous and downwards poised, was intent on its own sombre business. Inside this card Pete wrote, in a hand more careful than usual: ‘Dear Bob, Hope you like this fine picture, an old favourite of mine – and thanks for yours
. Am delighted to accept your offer of a place on January 31 High Flyers. Best wishes, Pete Kemspey.’
He felt not a flicker of guilt when he announced just before tea. ‘By the way, Mum, I did as you said and sent Mr Thurlow a card. Found one on Dad’s desk. Made the midday post too.’
But his mother was reminding herself of some point in the libretto of the Gilbert-and-Sullivan opera with which she was involved, before turning to the Brats’ tea and their favourite hot buttered scones. She merely nodded acknowledgement, as if what Pete had just referred to was of no importance to her. Through the long years afterwards Pete would see so clearly that uninterested expression on her pretty, symmetrical, tension-ridden face. He wanted to forgive her for it, across the gulf of time and tragedy, but the very sharpness of the image always prevented him.
In Leominster the Lugg Valley Players’ production of The Mikado dominated the run-up to Christmas. The last of its four performances was on Saturday December 22. Pete went to this by himself, as Dad and the Brats, who went the night before, were at a Civic Society’s Children’s Party.
The whole country needed cheering up. Prime Minister Edward Heath had failed to resolve disputes with the miners, and now declared a National State of Emergency: five days’ worth of electricity consumption up to December 30, and in the New Year, if need be, a three-day week. The very phrase, obsessively reiterated, sent people’s minds (and tongues) agitatedly back to the War and the black-out. When his parents had come to Leominster as young Brummy evacuees, limits on light and heat and food supplies had been the norm. Now, in this era of prosperity, these had returned, and even television, that contemporary solace, was shutting down at 10.30.
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