Life with in-laws was getting pretty terrible as well. We were staying with Joan’s parents and the inevitable frictions began eating away. It was pretty obvious that they thought that our lifestyle sucked. It all came to a head one day when I was hammering away at the typewriter, finishing off yet one more men’s adventure to keep us in funds. Joan and Todd were out so I had some quiet and peace of mind. Despite our Mexican year I was still an inexperienced freelancer—and not the world’s best researcher to boot. I would gather all my scraps of notes together and mumble over them while I sorted them into some kind of order. When they were clear in my head—along with the fictional-fact outline—I would slip paper into the mill and begin to type like crazy. I could usually get the first draft done in a day. Once it was completed, I could then rewrite and polish. But at this point in time if I were interrupted, while getting the copy from head to paper, I would lose the whole thing. Everything would come crashing down from my brain and that would be that. A day’s work shot. Start again in the morning and hope for the best. I was in full two-fingered flow when the door opened.
The door never opens while I am at the typewriter. Joan knew that—the children imbibed that knowledge with the first air they breathed. Still the door opened, my fingers froze, my jaw gaped wide. My mother-in-law looked in and said: “Harry, since you are not doing anything, would you go to the store for me?”
What a storehouse of content, meaning, and attitude in that single sentence. How neatly it summed up the nonwriter’s attitude toward the writer’s craft. This sentence was so perfect—of its kind—that I have passed it on to many other writers. Years later it was quoted back to me; now part of the Apocrypha of our trade.
It was the end. We had to leave. And science fiction would save us. SF fans had been holding conventions on and off since the 1930s. In 1939 the first so-called World Convention, or Worldcon, took place in New York City. Apparently the science fiction world, up until 1957, had consisted of the United States, with the generous addition of Canada the last few years. But in this landmark year the Worldcon was going to live up to its name. It was going to be held in London, England. Outside of North America for the first time.
An old friend, Dave Kyle, longtime fan and one-time publisher of Gnome Press, was organizing a fan flight. At this time the only way to cross the Atlantic by plane, with any kind of reasonable fare, was by charter. Sign up enough fans and a fan flight would be possible. Dave managed to do just that. I sent him our names and payment, something like two hundred dollars round trip for two, and the baby went for free. With great enthusiasm we began to pack. Proving once again to our parents that we were certifiable.
The Anglia went into storage. My typewriter, a Corona office standard, was bolted into a war surplus army footlocker, padded about with blankets, pillows, clothes, and books, and shipped to England by sea. We said good-bye once again to parents and friends and headed for Idlewild Airport.
This might be a good place to stop and ask the question—what was running through our minds at this time? Probably the same thoughts that had got us out of New York the first time around. Nothing had changed in the year that we had been away. To stay there meant returning to the same situation that we had worked so hard to leave. But we had done it, we had fought our way out of the city and to Mexico where we had lived and prospered. Lived quite well, thank you very much. If it had been done once it could be done again.
We had no idea of what we would find in England. But at least they spoke English there. And the fan flight did contain a round-trip ticket if it was all too awful. So what had we to lose? Well, a good deal, as our parents so kindly pointed out. Rational—to us—arguments did not prevail. They believed this was madness heaped on madness. In the end, all we could do was simply shrug our shoulders, take on the burden of guilt, and turn away yet again. Buoyed up by what we thought was still-reasonable logic and adequate explanation.
That it seemed like a good idea at the time.
8
With great excitement we headed for Idlewild Airport (JFK now) and Forest Hills, one of the suburbs in Queens, where I had grown up and had attended Forest Hills High School. This side trip was necessitated by the fact that the tiny, by today’s standards, Super Continental, the four-engine, triple-tailed wonder we were flying on, could just about manage to cross the Atlantic with a full load of maybe twenty-five passengers, with minimal luggage. But it couldn’t lift the weight of the food to feed them. So before takeoff we were bused to a restaurant in Forest Hills, where we dined there among the mock-Tudor buildings, then back to the airport. There was a heat wave, close to one hundred degrees, and we sighed with relief when the plane’s doors closed and we buzzed down the runway and heaved ourselves into the sky.
We headed for Gander, Newfoundland. Not only couldn’t our tiny craft carry enough food for the passengers—it couldn’t manage to carry enough fuel to get across the Atlantic nonstop from New York. We landed, sweat still damp on our clothes, and stumbled through the freezing air to the terminal. After refueling we were loaded back aboard and our transoceanic voyage began. No food, of course, just candy and soft drinks—but this was an adventure.
Todd slept, but I don’t think anyone else on the plane did. We all knew each other, all science fiction fans, carrying the plane high on wings of excitement. Some of the fen joined a quiz to see who was the most knowledgeable about the true history of science fiction. The finalists were Sam Moskowitz and Ozzie Train. They hammered at each other mercilessly.
“Who painted the cover of the January 1935 issue of Amazing Stories?”
“Frank R. Paul. Now—who wrote the cover story in the first issue of Air Wonder Stories?”
We were young and the world was young in those days. Eventually we slept a bit and awoke to the good news that because of a strong tailwind we had overflown Shannon Airport in Ireland and were going directly into London North Airport. First we dropped down from the blue sky into the blindingly thick clouds. After this our plane passed through a layer of clear air—then ever downward into more clouds. As we dropped lower and the sky grew ever darker, our spirits darkened as well. We knew that England had a rainy reputation—but this was ridiculous. I counted seven ever-darker cloud layers until a leaden and damp landscape finally swam into view below us. We came in low over a road and, horrified, I saw a gloved and goggled motorcyclist who was dressed all in leather, complete with a sheepskin jacket. New York City and the Labor Day heat wave were far behind us. But not Forest Hills, it seemed, for the suburban homes we passed over appeared to be mock-Tudor as well. Or real Tudor? We would soon find out.
Customs made us welcome in a very suspicious way. The reception of foreign visitors seemed to be dependent upon the way they were dressed. This was our first thrilling encounter with the British social system. Young Robert Silverberg, nattily attired in suit, shirt, and tie, along with his fashionably dressed wife, Barbara, was greeted warmly and they each received a three-month visa in their passports.
Our little family group was not so lucky. Was I that scruffy? Or was it the presence of an infant that drew instant suspicion? Perhaps they thought we were American peasants trying to immigrate. They were quite thorough—actually inspecting the contents of my wallet to see if I had enough money to support my indigent dependents. Passports were expensive in those days so we were all on one passport, joined in a single family photo. I have it before me now. I am dark-haired but already balding. Joan is tanned and gorgeous; Todd goggle-eyed and startled. Next to the photo is a rubber-stamped visa that reads:
PERMITTED TO LAND ON CONDITION THAT THE HOLDER DOES NOT REMAIN IN THE UNITED KINGDOM LONGER THAN.….….….…..
On the dotted line ONE MONTH has been written in. To drive the gracious reception home the further message appeared below:
AND DOES NOT ENTER ANY EMPLOYMENT PAID OR UNPAID
We were exhausted by this time and looked forward to some rest. But not before food! We had had nothing to eat on the plane so we perked up
greatly when we were all ushered into an elegant dining hall, courtesy of the airline. This was it! No American greasy spoon here. We had left the colonies and were now in the bosom of culinary civilization. Tables covered in white linen, silver cutlery stretching out not only on both sides of our plates but above them as well. And the waiters … They could have been ambassadors, or symphony conductors, in their black tailcoats.
And the food—what civilized old-world joys lay ahead for us! Trundled in on little wagons, hidden under rounded silver domes, served by skilled and cheerful servitors. Our plates were filled and we tucked in. It was unbelievably terrible. Cafeteria steam-table food at its absolute worst. Chunks of stringy, greasy, cold chicken. Poisonously green peas with the texture of bullets. Globs of overcooked and watery cabbage. Three kinds of potatoes; all indigestible. We ate in silence. Telling ourselves that the meal must contain sustenance and calories because all the Brits we had seen so far were alive. Well, almost all, if you excluded the zombie-faced customs officers.
Full, if not fed, we forgot our travails in the warm welcome of British fandom. They were there in great numbers, as cheerful and as excited as we were, turned out before dawn to bid us welcome. Ted Carnell, editor of New Worlds, with whom I had corresponded, led the pack. They had provided a transport of delight—a red, double-decker London omnibus. Fatigue forgotten, we reveled in the joys of conversation with our peers. Fanac—fan activity—at its finest. We trundled majestically through the green fields, to a London familiar to us all from countless films and novels. To Queensway and the Kings Court Hotel, site of the convention and our home for this magical weekend.
It was an interesting hotel. It had apparently been made by knocking holes in the walls to connect a number of ancient and adjoining buildings. The corridors rose up and down as one passed from building to building. Our room had a double bed, a window, a sink, and a curious metal construction in one corner. This proved to be a shower of sorts. Old-world charm—and we were charmed. After some of the fleapits we had stayed in in Mexico this was indeed a form of luxury.
Not to all. Next day a tearful Dave Kyle wanted to know if we were leaving too? Why on earth should we? Apparently most of the other Americans found the accommodation too primitive. Obviously none of them had ever been to Mexico. Eventually the rebellion was put down and they stayed. Probably because a few scouts had looked at the other accommodation in the neighborhood.
We all retired early, Joan and Todd instantly asleep. I was too excited to sleep so I dressed quietly and went down to the bar off the lobby. A real English pub—I had a real Scotch whisky and some real English ice. (Two melting slivers served out of a fake pineapple ice tub, along with the advice from a florid customer that ice would freeze my tum.)
None of the American fen seemed to be present, and I didn’t recognize any of our hosts. Yes, there was one. Wasn’t that the chairman of the con himself, a budding author named John Brunner? I introduced myself—why not?—we were all one big family united in fandom.
Two countries separated by a common language and culture. Apparently I was being pretty gauche on British terms, pushing in like this and introducing myself. With a great effort John extended his hand and, with even greater effort, on the third try, turned to me and said howdjado. Let the joy commence.
All conventions blur in the memory and this one is no exception. I do remember, at the so-called banquet, the convention president, John Wyndham, proposed the loyal toast to Her Majesty the Queen. Just like in a historical novel, spoiled only by those few fen of republican leaning who did not stand up and join in, yet another social discovery.
I had my first pint in my first pub and that was good. Passing through the hotel dining room while on my way to bed, sometime after midnight, I was astonished to see that not only had the breakfast tables been laid—but every bowl had been filled with cornflakes. What efficiency.
Brian Aldiss and I first met at the Worldcon in 1957. Neither of us has any memory of it, but I know we did meet. I only really got to know him when we later corresponded and met up at various English Eastercons.
The rain stopped, the sun came out briefly, the rain started again. Since we were in London we took the opportunity to see a bit of it. Only when we had left the security of the hotel did we begin to appreciate what the war had done to Britain.
Wasn’t it General Westmoreland who wanted to bomb Vietnam back to the Stone Age? As we walked through the smoggy, sooty streets it looked as though Hitler’s mob had bombed London at least back to the Middle Ages. Almost every row of buildings had gaps in them, blackened openings like missing teeth. Great wooden beams and heavy bolts held up the remaining buildings on each side. The center of London, around St. Paul’s Cathedral, was nothing but a series of bomb sites. Almost twelve years had passed since VE Day and an impoverished Britain still bore the scars of war. I realized how lucky we had been in the mainland United States to have avoided the destructive forces of modern warfare. If anything the war had dragged the States out of the Depression and had built a booming production economy. Not so in Britain. The few cars on the streets were prewar antiques. Rationing was still on, as we quickly discovered. We had to sign on with National Health since orange juice and vitamins for the baby were by prescription only.
But the convention was almost over and we had no idea of what we would do next. Once again our money was running out and we had to make plans. One of them was to try and sell the return flight part of our tickets. Unhappily, there were no takers.
We had made lots of new British friends, and we sought their advice. Joan had been talking to Myrtle, a femfan she had grown friendly with, who lived in a nearby suburb called Bromley, Kent. It sounded nice, a quick commuter train trip to London, and Myrtle assured us it would be a lot cheaper than central London, and it was. We found a residential hotel named Smith’s not five minutes’ walk from Bromley North station. We could have two rooms, bath down the hall, with three meals a day for the three of us for twelve guineas a week. (No guinea existed, we were to find out. A guinea is, or was, one pound and one shilling, written £1-1-0. All hotel rooms at this time were priced in guineas, as well as books and expensive clothing.) The pound then was worth $2.80, so our all-in room and board came to about thirty-five dollars a week. Not too bad, we thought. This was before we tasted the food.
Now I hate to carp on what might seem only a cultural difference, but this was a true and strong reaction. It should be noted that I am not fond either of my native American meat-and-potatoes-and-three-vegetable meal either. I loathed the army chow and I didn’t really appreciate food until I went to Mexico, or later Italy, France, and Denmark. During my years in England I have had wonderful British meals. It is just that the average postwar British meal was—let us face it—pretty dismal. Things have improved of late but in 1957, with rationing still on, there was not much variety. We were beginning to realize what a battering the country had taken during the war and afterward.
Smith’s Hotel represented the absolute worst in British cooking, possibly because the chef, the owner’s son, had learned to cook in the British Army, or perhaps because the rates were so cheap. In any case I found it so terrible that I couldn’t eat it at all. Before we left, a few months later, I had lost twenty pounds. Joan, who likes potatoes, managed to put on a few pounds. I have a photograph, taken for a police residence permit at the time, where we look like Hungarian war refugees; me hollow-faced and gaunt, Joan plump-faced under a headscarf.
We weren’t the only ones put off by the food. A young naval officer stationed nearby and living temporarily at the hotel would bug his eyes each night at the food going by and order canned spaghetti instead. The ancient retirees, who were the main residents, ate the food with, if not pleasure, a degree of indifference. Perhaps they really liked oxtail soup, made from powdered concentrate, seven times a week.
Still, we had reached safe harbor of sorts. We had gone onto the panel of a local doctor in order to get the needed prescriptions for orange
juice and vitamins for Todd. The footlocker from New York had finally arrived so I unbolted the typewriter and set it up. I was forbidden to do any work, paid or unpaid, by the stamp in my passport. Maybe writing fiction wouldn’t count, particularly if they didn’t know about it. Fed up with hack writing, I was now doing short SF stories, but they took some time to sell and the money to hand was almost gone. Could I write anything locally that would top up our funds while we waited for transatlantic checks? I suppose I would be breaking the letter of the law—but feeding my family, if that’s what it could be called—came first.
Through Ted Carnell, editor of New Worlds, I met a number of artists. Brian Lewis was a fine artist who had painted many covers for Ted, and we soon became friends. This was when I first realized that SF was truly international—in many ways an extended global family. I was beginning to feel that coming to Europe had really been a good idea, but could I earn a living here?
I looked in the comics scene, always a good fallback. At the convention I had met Sydney Jordan, who was then drawing a newspaper comic strip called Jeff Hawke. We had talked a bit and he liked the idea of some transatlantic SF input. So I wrote some scripts for him. Through Syd I met more of the London comics people, in particular Andy Vincent, editor of a comic book line for Fleetway who was a nice guy who became a good friend. We began a working relationship that would last for years. Also working for Fleetway at that time was a lean and clean-shaven Mike Moorcock. He was a subeditor then, his successful writing career yet to come. I opened a bank account at Lloyds Bank in Bromley and they deposited my sterling checks with pleasure. Interestingly enough, I still have the same account some fifty-plus years later.
While all this was going on I was doing my best to help a friend of a friend: Hans Stefan Santesson, an editor I had worked with in New York, who was very active in a number of charities. One of these was for Indian seaman; subcontinent, not American. Before we left for England he had asked me to talk to Massoud Chowdry, who was having problems with American immigration. Massoud wanted to immigrate to the States to join his family there, but was having immense trouble with the bureaucrats. I did what I could to give him a hand. I even made an appointment to meet with the consulate officer who had been sitting on his application for some years.
Harry Harrison! Harry Harrison! Page 12
