by Christopher Jarman
Martin Winter entered the front door and closed it quietly behind him. He moved silently up the stairs to his small study and switched on the computer. After another boring day at the council offices he deserved a few minutes with his flight simulator. Sheila thought that he was just playing games, but it was more than that. He was entering into a whole world of flying. The accuracy was fantastic, the authenticity of the aircraft and the realistic scenery made the experience more than a game, it was Simulation with a capital S.
Martin had always wanted to be an airline pilot, but there was no likelihood of that from his family background. Now, for a mere £50 he had become a virtual British Airways captain. He was becoming well-known across the internet flight simming community as an expert on the program. It was more than a hobby, it was almost a way of life. And now he had discovered a brand new flight sim.
An anonymous email had asked if he was interested in trying out a simulator called ‘Ultimate Flight’; It had come to him last night very late and so he had downloaded the beta version but had not yet installed it. Now he was going to try it out.
The new program took ages to install and when finished it looked rather disappointing, not much different from the old Microsoft simulator that he had been using for several years. He selected the big jet in which he had once had a real flight. He also decided to start the new sim from the local airfield, Dunmore, which was only a five minute stroll from his house. Just then he heard Sheila’s voice calling him for supper.
‘ Come on Martin, I know you’re back. It’s curry tonight and it’s getting cold.’
An hour later, and Martin piloting a virtual Boeing 747, pushed forward the little throttle lever beside his plastic joystick . The sound from the loudspeakers was pretty authentic and as he took off he could even see his own house below him as part of the scenery on the flat screen which was certainly an improvement on the old simulator. This new one seemed more real. Even the weather matched the actual weather outside. He decided to fly to Rome airport where he and Sheila had been for their holiday last year. He set the compass course and sat back in his leather office chair for the two hour flight.
Coming in to land, the city looked brilliant and he could see the river Tiber and the Vatican City. He called for clearance into Fiumicino Airfield and descended. He used his experience to make sure there were no mistakes and he taxied to the gate and came to a careful stop. There was an option to pretend he was climbing down from the cockpit to walk around the aircraft so he clicked on the menu with the mouse and found himself looking at the Boeing from the outside. He gazed around him from the office chair and realised that he was no longer in his own room at home but he was truly in Rome walking on the hot tarmac of the airport!
‘Way hey!’ he thought, ‘I am dreaming. This is ridiculous!’ but it was true. He really was in Rome airport. The sky was blue above. It certainly was not his study ceiling. The temperature was hot and there was a faint breeze. He could hear the unmistakable sound of Italian traffic in the distance and he could smell a strong waft of that indefinable herbal scent of the Lazio region. ‘This is completely mad,’ he thought, ‘I am hallucinating.’ He pinched his left arm and it hurt. He wandered over towards the main terminal but there seemed to be an invisible barrier which stopped him from leaving the open outside space. After half an hour exploring in wonderment and disbelief; he realised that either he was in an amazingly realistic dream or that somehow he had been truly transported to Italy. Reluctantly he walked back to his Boeing 747 and climbed aboard. No-one had accosted him and the two airline workers he had spoken to had obviously neither seen or heard him. He knew that in real life he could never have started up a big jet, but now he was back in his familiar seat and by pressing Ctrl-E on the keyboard, the engines started and he taxied out to the duty runway.
He set course for home and arrived over Dunmore field in ten minutes, this time he used the extra fast forward speed setting. He landed and found himself as expected, in his own house in front of the computer. He went downstairs to tell Sheila. She was watching TV and realising that she would never believe him, he kept quiet.
The next evening he arrived home at his usual time to find two men waiting for him by the front door. They were very pleasant and both smiling.
“Mr Martin Winter?” asked one of them. “ My name is Brotherton and my colleague here is Davis. May we come in?”
“What do you want?” asked Martin.
“We are here about your new flight simulator.” said Brotherton.
An hour later, Martin sat in his office having heard a very detailed explanation from the two agents, as they described themselves. They had produced genuine-looking documents and also made him telephone a government number to check on them as well. He had no reason to doubt their authenticity, but nevertheless it was still hard to believe. If it had not been for the fact that they knew he had been to Rome, he would have dismissed them both as cranks. However, deep down, he knew they were no cranks. They were truly from some government secret agency. And now they wanted him to fly to Iran.
“We have a man out there.” said Davis, “and it is essential that we get him out by tomorrow. We need you to fly the simulator to Bandar Abbas airport on the coast of Hormuz.”
“But I can’t speak to anyone else on the ground; I tried it in Rome.” said Martin.
“The agent you are to pick up has a small gadget which is on the right frequency. He will see and hear you alright. Can you fly the Learjet in the sim?”
“I can fly any aircraft in the program.” Martin said firmly, “If I can help with this I will do it.”
“Good man!” said Brotherton and patted him on the shoulder. “ We have had our eye on you and your skills for some time, which is why you have been chosen to – er - volunteer for the job.”
At that moment Sheila opened the study door.
“Introduce me to your friends dear.” She sounded a bit frosty, having come back from Waitrose to find two strangers in the house . Martin said they were colleagues from work who were interested in his new computer program.
“Well for goodness sake offer them a cup of tea.”
The two mysterious men gravely accepted her hospitality and then made their farewells. They had briefed Martin thoroughly and expected him to touch down at Bandar Abbas at exactly four thirty pm Greenwich mean time, which would be eight o’clock in that part of Iran, just before dusk. The agent whose code-name was Gerald, would be waiting for the Learjet just outside the main terminal building. He could be recognized from wearing a long white scarf, but they also showed Martin a photograph. The man looked quite ordinary, dark-haired and unshaven.
The next day was Saturday. Martin was scared witless. By ten o’clock, his hands were shaking so badly that he could hardly make them switch on the computer. He had been completely convinced by Brotherton and Davis that the technology had been developed to work this magic, but they also told him that it was untried, and so far he was the only person to experiment with it. It was his international reputation as a flight simulator whizz that had drawn him to their attention. Before they left they had persuaded him to sign a copy of the official secrets act.
Eventually, Martin selected the Learjet and started it. He had placed it at Farnborough this time as instructed, because the department was to meet ‘Gerald’ there on his return, with a fast car and take him off to a safe house somewhere. The whole thing seemed like something out of Biggles or James Bond to Martin. He worked out the Lear’s course and speed to the Iranian destination with pedantic accuracy, just as he had a hundred times before in the old simulator. It would take about five and a half hours. He then took off and climbed to 30,000 feet. Thank goodness this was not a real journey, where he would have to worry about fuel and oxygen levels. It was still only a simulator during the travel part. He kept to the normal flight schedule as was his usual habit, to give his heart time to settle down and to think about his instructions. As he flew over Northern Greece, Turkey and Iraq, he realised that what he was seeing below was the real world. There must be some radio feed in from a satellite, because over Iraq towards Baghdad he could clearly see smoke from a large fire which would never have been visible in the old simulator. He looked away from the screen around his familiar room and was reassured that he was, at least, still safe at home so far.
Eventually, the Straights of Hormuz showed up ahead and Martin could clearly see the airfield at Bandar Abbas. He guessed it had been chosen because it was well away from the main inhabited part of Iran but also easy to find, being on the coast. He landed and taxied towards the terminal. He saw Gerald straightaway with his long white scarf and dark scowling features. He was standing away from the side of the building quite alone and motionless, evidently not wishing to draw attention to himself. Martin taxied up to park nearby and waited. He opened the cockpit canopy and waved. Gerald did not wave back but he reacted by nodding and smiling. He carried no luggage and walked at a calm pace towards the aircraft. There was a keyboard combination which opened the passenger door and let down some steps, so Martin used it and hoped that the man would spot the access.
He did so and in a few seconds Gerald was sitting in Martin’s spare seat by his side. Without speaking, Martin pushed the throttles and turned the aircraft around to taxi towards the runway. As he did so he pointed to the thermos of coffee and a plate of sandwiches that Sheila had left on his desk for him. He reckoned that wherever Gerald had been, it was unlikely that ham sandwiches and Columbian coffee had been on the menu. He was right and the agent tucked into the refreshments gratefully.
At that moment the thermos clattered to the floor and the sandwiches slid down after it. The Learjet stopped and the instrument panel faded from the screen. Gerald disappeared completely.
Sheila came to the study door.
“Darling,” she said “ I hope you don’t mind, but I had to turn off the electricity at the mains. The microwave was smoking and I didn’t know what else to do.”
As far as Martin knows Messrs Brotherton and Davis are still waiting with the fast car at Farnborough airfield.
“If they ring,” he said to Sheila, “Tell them I am out.”
THE END
Wednesday, 23 December 2009
Thursday, 10 December 2009
Sins of the Father
by Christopher Jarman
Jim Mansfield was the calmest murderer I have ever met in my ten years as a prison visitor. When our paths first crossed he had already spent five years of a life sentence for the horrific killing of a nine year old boy. He had eventually confessed freely to the murder during the trial. However, the story of his conviction was more complicated than that statement reveals.
Jim was 65 years old when he was sent to prison, but the crime had been committed some 20 years earlier. It was only resurrected as a cold case when the body of a nine year old boy was found in a pit at the bottom of the garden where Jim and his wife and daughter used to live. But the unusual thing about this case was that his daughter Debbie was the main witness for the prosecution.
I came across Jim during my routine visit to Winchester community prison. He was a civilised and well set-up man, he had been a retired local government officer with, until then, an unblemished record. He had requested a visit from me as he had heard that I played chess and he was keen to try his skill against someone new. He had eventually beaten everyone else on his landing and obviously hoped for a new challenge. He was confined to the high security wing and only occasionally allowed to mix with certain other prisoners, so the opportunities to play any sort of game were rare anyway.
As soon as we started to play I knew that we would get on well together. He had a nice sense of humour and was not only witty but well-informed. He was quite willing to talk about his crime and made it clear that he only received the punishment that he deserved. He seemed to have no regrets and accepted his situation with an unusually sanguine attitude.
“I thought I had got away with it for twenty years.” he told me with a wry little smile. “It never occurred to me that anyone would dig up that little chap’s body. But there it is, I don’t suppose anybody
else thought that developers would go for that particular piece of land. I was grassed up by a bulldozer.”
Jim laughed at his own little joke, and moved his bishop into a seriously threatening position.
He told me how detectives had found out where he and his wife had moved to, and came to question him straightaway about the discovery of the body.
“They seemed perfectly satisfied when I said I knew nothing about it. They just went away for a couple of months.” He sighed at the memory, “Then they came back and arrested me.”
I thought that perhaps he was going to tell me something about DNA or fingerprints or some other forensic evidence, but not at all.
“They are very thorough you know, these detectives, clever with it. What my wife and I didn’t know was that they eventually contacted Debbie, our daughter, and although she said she knew nothing about it, as she was only nine herself at the time, they were not convinced and took her to a psychiatrist or a hypnotist or someone, and they probed and probed into her memory and she eventually came up with the fact that she saw me hurt James (that was the boy’s name.) She was terribly upset of course, poor girl, but what could she do? James had been her best friend you see. He lived only a couple of doors away. It all came flooding back to her apparently and she was put on the witness stand and told the jury honestly what she had seen.”
“And what did she see?” I asked, because by this time I felt that we knew each other well enough for me to be frank in my curiosity.
“I hit him over the head with a brick.” Jim spoke in a most measured and calm way. Either he was a totally cold-blooded killer or he had a very tight control over his own emotions. He sat back in his chair and asked if I had a cigarette to spare.
“Was this in the garden then?” I asked.
“No, in the shed where he and Debbie used to play together.”
I thought it best to change the subject after that. But I could not get it out of my head how easily he spoke and how he seemed to have no conscience about his deed. He did not appear proud of the killing, but he was not ashamed either. I wondered whether the nine year old James had in some way deserved to die. Had he perhaps been blackmailing Jim Mansfield? Maybe the boy was over- sophisticated for his years and it was some ghastly lover’s tiff? I could not get the calmness of the fellow out of my mind. It was as if he was satisfied with the way things had turned out. Also, he had not given any motive for the killing. It was evident that the prosecution at the time made out that he had been sexually abusing the boy, but Jim never mentioned that side of things. I assumed that it was something that he had suppressed.
It was at least a month before I returned to the prison to see Mansfield. I had been on holiday to Spain in the meantime, and the sun and the swimming had driven all thoughts of prison visiting out of my mind. It is satisfying work in many ways, but it is also quite sordid in some respects and it was good to get away. Before I went in to see Jim Mansfield I asked to have a word with the prison governor Bob Dunscombe. After a few civilities when he asked me about my holiday and I enquired after his family, I asked my question.
“ Bob, as Mansfield is such a model prisoner and in for at least another 20 years, why hasn’t he qualified for an open prison or at least a more relaxed regime?”
“A good question and there are two reasons why he is still here. Firstly it was a heinous and awful crime which deserves the strongest punishment. Secondly, it is for his own protection. There have been threats made to him quite openly from other prisoners and we can protect him much more easily in this more secure environment. He has earned all the privileges that are available, work in the library, access to TV and so on, but that is as far as I am prepared to go. I am sure your visits are a good thing too.
I could see the governor’s point of view and I decided to leave it at that. I continued to visit Jim and we became quite close in some ways, as much as a free person can be with a prisoner anyway. Another year went by and I decided to visit Jim’s wife to see how she viewed the situation. He had asked me specifically not to contact the daughter Debbie as they had become estranged since the trial. He said he held no bitterness, but that Debbie was not prepared to speak to him again under any circumstances.
I arrived at Mrs Mansfied’s house which was only a mile or two outside Winchester. She greeted me civilly and told me that Jim had asked her to talk to me about anything I wanted. She seemed quite relieved to meet me and took me into the sitting room to wait while she made us a cup of tea.
I asked her if she had been surprised by the arrest and the revelations at the trial. I thought that by this time she would be used to that kind of question and I was right.
“I was astonished at the time.” she said, “They say that the wife is always the last to know. I had no idea that he had been hiding such a terrible secret for all those years.”
“Have you got used to the idea now?”
“I’ll never get used to it. It still seems right out of character for the man I married, but then I’m not the first to be fooled am I?”
“You still keep in touch then?”
“Oh yes we write every week, and I visit whenever I can. I’ve heard all about your chess games and how sympathetic you are.”
“Do you still see your daughter?”
“Not as often as we used to, things became a bit strained after the trial, but we are getting together a bit more often now. She never married and her job takes her abroad quite a lot. She is in the travel business you know.”
As a matter of fact Jim had already related details of his daughter’s good job with some pride. It was obvious that he had forgiven her actions as a witness against him some time ago, and although she never contacted him again, he still asked for news of her from his wife.
Then one day out of the blue, I had a phone call from the governor.
“Bob Dunscombe here,” he said, “Can you come and see me today? It’s rather urgent?”
I was only checking emails and ordering some garden tool on the web, so I got away at once and arrived within half an hour in the governor’s office. He shook hands and motioned me to a seat.
“It’s bad news I’m afraid.” he said, “Jim Mansfield’s daughter Debbie has been killed in a plane crash. She was on her way home from Majorca and they crashed into the sea. There were no survivors. I wondered if you could be the one to break it to Jim?”
I was flattered to be trusted with the task, but extremely worried about the outcome. I thought that this might possibly be the last straw for Mansfield. Would his usual composure be shattered by this tragic event. It was obvious that he still loved his daughter in spite of the past.
I went into the empty recreation room where Jim had been brought to meet me. This was not normal procedure in itself, and so he looked puzzled when we shook hands.
“Jim,” I said “There is no easy way to tell you this, but I an sorry to say that Debbie is dead. She was killed in a plane crash coming back to London from Majorca where she had been working for her company.”
Jim sat down and looked straight at me. His first words were unusual “Are you certain? Is it really true, can you prove it?”
I said I could only repeat what I had been told but had no reason to think it was not true.
He seemed to relax somehow and grow smaller. It was as if all the resistance to adversity had suddenly gone out of him. He actually smiled and I thought I detected something like relief in his voice.
“Well that’s that, it’s over.” he said.
“What do you mean?” I asked him. I leaned forward and offered him a cigarette which he took gratefully and lit with a match.
“I mean, I didn’t do it.” he said. “Debbie killed that poor lad because she was jealous of the fact that I liked him too, he was the son we never had. She didn’t mean to go that far of course. I found her in hysterics over his body you see. Then when she calmed down I carefully coached her to believe that it was me that did it. I didn’t want her life to be ruined from such a stupid act. I made her promise not to tell anyone and then I buried the boy and we both tried to forget all about it. Years later when it came to the trial and that hypnotist, they extracted the big lie out of her not the truth you see.”
I believed him, but the parole board never did. He is still in prison to this day.
END
by Christopher Jarman
Jim Mansfield was the calmest murderer I have ever met in my ten years as a prison visitor. When our paths first crossed he had already spent five years of a life sentence for the horrific killing of a nine year old boy. He had eventually confessed freely to the murder during the trial. However, the story of his conviction was more complicated than that statement reveals.
Jim was 65 years old when he was sent to prison, but the crime had been committed some 20 years earlier. It was only resurrected as a cold case when the body of a nine year old boy was found in a pit at the bottom of the garden where Jim and his wife and daughter used to live. But the unusual thing about this case was that his daughter Debbie was the main witness for the prosecution.
I came across Jim during my routine visit to Winchester community prison. He was a civilised and well set-up man, he had been a retired local government officer with, until then, an unblemished record. He had requested a visit from me as he had heard that I played chess and he was keen to try his skill against someone new. He had eventually beaten everyone else on his landing and obviously hoped for a new challenge. He was confined to the high security wing and only occasionally allowed to mix with certain other prisoners, so the opportunities to play any sort of game were rare anyway.
As soon as we started to play I knew that we would get on well together. He had a nice sense of humour and was not only witty but well-informed. He was quite willing to talk about his crime and made it clear that he only received the punishment that he deserved. He seemed to have no regrets and accepted his situation with an unusually sanguine attitude.
“I thought I had got away with it for twenty years.” he told me with a wry little smile. “It never occurred to me that anyone would dig up that little chap’s body. But there it is, I don’t suppose anybody
else thought that developers would go for that particular piece of land. I was grassed up by a bulldozer.”
Jim laughed at his own little joke, and moved his bishop into a seriously threatening position.
He told me how detectives had found out where he and his wife had moved to, and came to question him straightaway about the discovery of the body.
“They seemed perfectly satisfied when I said I knew nothing about it. They just went away for a couple of months.” He sighed at the memory, “Then they came back and arrested me.”
I thought that perhaps he was going to tell me something about DNA or fingerprints or some other forensic evidence, but not at all.
“They are very thorough you know, these detectives, clever with it. What my wife and I didn’t know was that they eventually contacted Debbie, our daughter, and although she said she knew nothing about it, as she was only nine herself at the time, they were not convinced and took her to a psychiatrist or a hypnotist or someone, and they probed and probed into her memory and she eventually came up with the fact that she saw me hurt James (that was the boy’s name.) She was terribly upset of course, poor girl, but what could she do? James had been her best friend you see. He lived only a couple of doors away. It all came flooding back to her apparently and she was put on the witness stand and told the jury honestly what she had seen.”
“And what did she see?” I asked, because by this time I felt that we knew each other well enough for me to be frank in my curiosity.
“I hit him over the head with a brick.” Jim spoke in a most measured and calm way. Either he was a totally cold-blooded killer or he had a very tight control over his own emotions. He sat back in his chair and asked if I had a cigarette to spare.
“Was this in the garden then?” I asked.
“No, in the shed where he and Debbie used to play together.”
I thought it best to change the subject after that. But I could not get it out of my head how easily he spoke and how he seemed to have no conscience about his deed. He did not appear proud of the killing, but he was not ashamed either. I wondered whether the nine year old James had in some way deserved to die. Had he perhaps been blackmailing Jim Mansfield? Maybe the boy was over- sophisticated for his years and it was some ghastly lover’s tiff? I could not get the calmness of the fellow out of my mind. It was as if he was satisfied with the way things had turned out. Also, he had not given any motive for the killing. It was evident that the prosecution at the time made out that he had been sexually abusing the boy, but Jim never mentioned that side of things. I assumed that it was something that he had suppressed.
It was at least a month before I returned to the prison to see Mansfield. I had been on holiday to Spain in the meantime, and the sun and the swimming had driven all thoughts of prison visiting out of my mind. It is satisfying work in many ways, but it is also quite sordid in some respects and it was good to get away. Before I went in to see Jim Mansfield I asked to have a word with the prison governor Bob Dunscombe. After a few civilities when he asked me about my holiday and I enquired after his family, I asked my question.
“ Bob, as Mansfield is such a model prisoner and in for at least another 20 years, why hasn’t he qualified for an open prison or at least a more relaxed regime?”
“A good question and there are two reasons why he is still here. Firstly it was a heinous and awful crime which deserves the strongest punishment. Secondly, it is for his own protection. There have been threats made to him quite openly from other prisoners and we can protect him much more easily in this more secure environment. He has earned all the privileges that are available, work in the library, access to TV and so on, but that is as far as I am prepared to go. I am sure your visits are a good thing too.
I could see the governor’s point of view and I decided to leave it at that. I continued to visit Jim and we became quite close in some ways, as much as a free person can be with a prisoner anyway. Another year went by and I decided to visit Jim’s wife to see how she viewed the situation. He had asked me specifically not to contact the daughter Debbie as they had become estranged since the trial. He said he held no bitterness, but that Debbie was not prepared to speak to him again under any circumstances.
I arrived at Mrs Mansfied’s house which was only a mile or two outside Winchester. She greeted me civilly and told me that Jim had asked her to talk to me about anything I wanted. She seemed quite relieved to meet me and took me into the sitting room to wait while she made us a cup of tea.
I asked her if she had been surprised by the arrest and the revelations at the trial. I thought that by this time she would be used to that kind of question and I was right.
“I was astonished at the time.” she said, “They say that the wife is always the last to know. I had no idea that he had been hiding such a terrible secret for all those years.”
“Have you got used to the idea now?”
“I’ll never get used to it. It still seems right out of character for the man I married, but then I’m not the first to be fooled am I?”
“You still keep in touch then?”
“Oh yes we write every week, and I visit whenever I can. I’ve heard all about your chess games and how sympathetic you are.”
“Do you still see your daughter?”
“Not as often as we used to, things became a bit strained after the trial, but we are getting together a bit more often now. She never married and her job takes her abroad quite a lot. She is in the travel business you know.”
As a matter of fact Jim had already related details of his daughter’s good job with some pride. It was obvious that he had forgiven her actions as a witness against him some time ago, and although she never contacted him again, he still asked for news of her from his wife.
Then one day out of the blue, I had a phone call from the governor.
“Bob Dunscombe here,” he said, “Can you come and see me today? It’s rather urgent?”
I was only checking emails and ordering some garden tool on the web, so I got away at once and arrived within half an hour in the governor’s office. He shook hands and motioned me to a seat.
“It’s bad news I’m afraid.” he said, “Jim Mansfield’s daughter Debbie has been killed in a plane crash. She was on her way home from Majorca and they crashed into the sea. There were no survivors. I wondered if you could be the one to break it to Jim?”
I was flattered to be trusted with the task, but extremely worried about the outcome. I thought that this might possibly be the last straw for Mansfield. Would his usual composure be shattered by this tragic event. It was obvious that he still loved his daughter in spite of the past.
I went into the empty recreation room where Jim had been brought to meet me. This was not normal procedure in itself, and so he looked puzzled when we shook hands.
“Jim,” I said “There is no easy way to tell you this, but I an sorry to say that Debbie is dead. She was killed in a plane crash coming back to London from Majorca where she had been working for her company.”
Jim sat down and looked straight at me. His first words were unusual “Are you certain? Is it really true, can you prove it?”
I said I could only repeat what I had been told but had no reason to think it was not true.
He seemed to relax somehow and grow smaller. It was as if all the resistance to adversity had suddenly gone out of him. He actually smiled and I thought I detected something like relief in his voice.
“Well that’s that, it’s over.” he said.
“What do you mean?” I asked him. I leaned forward and offered him a cigarette which he took gratefully and lit with a match.
“I mean, I didn’t do it.” he said. “Debbie killed that poor lad because she was jealous of the fact that I liked him too, he was the son we never had. She didn’t mean to go that far of course. I found her in hysterics over his body you see. Then when she calmed down I carefully coached her to believe that it was me that did it. I didn’t want her life to be ruined from such a stupid act. I made her promise not to tell anyone and then I buried the boy and we both tried to forget all about it. Years later when it came to the trial and that hypnotist, they extracted the big lie out of her not the truth you see.”
I believed him, but the parole board never did. He is still in prison to this day.
END
Thursday, 3 December 2009
Jottings 3
Work
‘What do you do then?’ is the most common way for people to introduce themselves in England. You are supposed to answer with a brief description of your job, but in the most abstract terms you can employ. A straightforward reply stating ‘I am a butcher’ will almost completely destroy your standing in any room of Anglo-Saxons. The required response would be something on the lines of ‘I am in the retail food business.’ That is quite acceptable.
If your interlocutor wishes to push it further and you finally agree that you work in the meat market and occasionally carve up the odd chop for a customer that is fine. But to call a spade a spade in the area of employment at first acquaintance is still something of a taboo.
I was once at a party and asked by a future in-law what my brother did for a living. I said he was a welder. This answer being so direct was not understood, and so I was asked to explain what sort of business that meant he was in, was it some kind of financial term or involved foreign travel perhaps? ‘No’ I replied, ‘He welds metal together in a factory.’ There was a puzzled pause and then a relieved expression came over the face of my companion who was a keen golfer. ‘Ah’ he said ‘You mean he is an artisan?’
As a primary school teacher for some years, I began by telling people just that. I found that nine out of ten folk who asked me what I did, would then say something like ‘How very interesting; oh I just see someone over there I must speak to.’ Later, I began to answer the question about my job, by saying that I was ‘In education.’ This was excellent. I got into some fascinating conversations, and most parents would ask my advice about grammar school selection or some such tedious subject. Subsequently, I found it more convenient to say that I ran a sex shop and the tiresome requests for advice pursued altogether another path.
I remember asking a young man at a village hall ‘do’ what he did for a living, and I was both impressed and intrigued to discover that he was a ‘commodity broker’. By careful questioning and eliciting some exact descriptions of how he actually spent his day, I then worked out that he was in fact, a wholesale grocer. I certainly gave him full marks for that one.
It is just possible to get away with saying ‘I am a doctor’ but the post-war trend for higher degrees of all kinds, will sometimes encourage the rude reply ‘Doctor of what?’ This will be from a person who needs to feel superior to someone with a qualification. Most medical doctors these days keep fairly quiet about their jobs at first, on the grounds that the National Health Service belongs to all and should you admit to being on its staff, you will be expected to give a consultation there and then in your hostess’s sitting room. A friend of mine in the Royal Navy, who was a doctor, when asked any medical question while off duty, soon put a stop to this practice by insisting that the incipient patient remove his trousers immediately. Vets have of course, rocketed in social standing through the advent of television, and have possibly the highest social cachet in the land at the moment. Some medical practitioners are actually cashing in on this, and will describe themselves as vets at parties rather than as GPs. Thus in one bound they regain their lost status and avoid the problem of instant consultations as well.
If you admit to being a lawyer you run the risk that your questioner may be from another branch of the law. A barrister can hardly bring herself to speak to a solicitor, but may well be completely cowed by meeting a high court judge. Policemen almost always have to say that they are building contractors or that they manage a garden centre.
‘What do you do then?’ is the most common way for people to introduce themselves in England. You are supposed to answer with a brief description of your job, but in the most abstract terms you can employ. A straightforward reply stating ‘I am a butcher’ will almost completely destroy your standing in any room of Anglo-Saxons. The required response would be something on the lines of ‘I am in the retail food business.’ That is quite acceptable.
If your interlocutor wishes to push it further and you finally agree that you work in the meat market and occasionally carve up the odd chop for a customer that is fine. But to call a spade a spade in the area of employment at first acquaintance is still something of a taboo.
I was once at a party and asked by a future in-law what my brother did for a living. I said he was a welder. This answer being so direct was not understood, and so I was asked to explain what sort of business that meant he was in, was it some kind of financial term or involved foreign travel perhaps? ‘No’ I replied, ‘He welds metal together in a factory.’ There was a puzzled pause and then a relieved expression came over the face of my companion who was a keen golfer. ‘Ah’ he said ‘You mean he is an artisan?’
As a primary school teacher for some years, I began by telling people just that. I found that nine out of ten folk who asked me what I did, would then say something like ‘How very interesting; oh I just see someone over there I must speak to.’ Later, I began to answer the question about my job, by saying that I was ‘In education.’ This was excellent. I got into some fascinating conversations, and most parents would ask my advice about grammar school selection or some such tedious subject. Subsequently, I found it more convenient to say that I ran a sex shop and the tiresome requests for advice pursued altogether another path.
I remember asking a young man at a village hall ‘do’ what he did for a living, and I was both impressed and intrigued to discover that he was a ‘commodity broker’. By careful questioning and eliciting some exact descriptions of how he actually spent his day, I then worked out that he was in fact, a wholesale grocer. I certainly gave him full marks for that one.
It is just possible to get away with saying ‘I am a doctor’ but the post-war trend for higher degrees of all kinds, will sometimes encourage the rude reply ‘Doctor of what?’ This will be from a person who needs to feel superior to someone with a qualification. Most medical doctors these days keep fairly quiet about their jobs at first, on the grounds that the National Health Service belongs to all and should you admit to being on its staff, you will be expected to give a consultation there and then in your hostess’s sitting room. A friend of mine in the Royal Navy, who was a doctor, when asked any medical question while off duty, soon put a stop to this practice by insisting that the incipient patient remove his trousers immediately. Vets have of course, rocketed in social standing through the advent of television, and have possibly the highest social cachet in the land at the moment. Some medical practitioners are actually cashing in on this, and will describe themselves as vets at parties rather than as GPs. Thus in one bound they regain their lost status and avoid the problem of instant consultations as well.
If you admit to being a lawyer you run the risk that your questioner may be from another branch of the law. A barrister can hardly bring herself to speak to a solicitor, but may well be completely cowed by meeting a high court judge. Policemen almost always have to say that they are building contractors or that they manage a garden centre.
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
Jottings 2
Class
The class hierarchies in England are as complicated as any Indian caste system or set of Japanese customs. Admittedly they are subtle, which is why they are so interesting. It is just that most people are loath to admit their existence. If you are one of the favoured today, is has become fashionable to deny that there are any longer the old class differences in the United Kingdom. ‘Jack’s as good as his master’ is whispered cynically in private clubs and behind the most expensive front doors across the land. The very phrase gives away the attitudes of the speaker in one short sentence. The one who utters the sentiment, in no way believes himself to be ‘Jack’. In more public places the lips are pursed forwards, shoulders shrugged and ‘It’s a democracy now.’ is the cry.
If you are unfortunate enough to slot into a less privileged stratum, you will hear almost the same sentiments expressed; but they are muttered in a futile hope that it might be true, never with any conviction. ‘Well, we’re all the same now aren’t we?’ or ‘Who do they think they are?’ The social panic, which grips all levels of our society, is the terror of being accused of snobbery, whether inverted or convoluted. It is this intense fear of admitting anything openly, which inhibits the discussion of social status in England.
Scotland and Wales of course, may well be different.
In England there will always be some reason that can be found for looking down on another person.
‘She was wearing a nylon overall’ one woman will say of another, and that is enough to elicit encouraging nods of mutual superiority from her audience. A man is unlikely to comment aloud on another man’s appearance, but he will note privately and silently that the dreadful fellow was wearing white socks and that will be remembered and counted against him for ever.
If you think that this does not still go on, then try to visit planet earth sometime!
Hair has been a constant source of the most wonderful social divisions for many years, possibly for centuries. This is a minefield for men rather than women, because women of all classes have been able to experiment with their hair. Men in England have never been so fortunate. Almost any departure from the demob haircut since 1945 has incurred the wrath or discomfort of somebody. The sporting of a teddy boy DA or of hippy long hair, Jamaican dreadlocks or the shaven hard man type, has never given any advantage to the wearer in this society.
It has long been a truism that any extreme departure, either towards abundance, or embracing a minimalist mode, from the norm of short back and sides, has resulted in immediate forfeiture of social status. In England, the veritable home of inverted snobbery, where this loss of social standing is often the very reason for adopting weird styles, it can be reasonably assumed that a powerful political statement is the cause. The subsequent addition of nose, eyebrow and earrings with piercings of every kind will need a potent aggressive stance to regain any sort of status. Such unattractive fashions are used to fight against social norms altogether. There are so many insidious prejudices against short hair, long hair, tattoos and body piercing, that anyone taking on these affectations has to survive a mighty battle with the world, which sees them as losers and will inevitably treat them as such.
But these examples are on the extreme edge of society’s fashions. The curious and fascinating thing about England comes from the more subtle manifestations of social differences.
Accent is very important still in the UK. There are many people who object to Indian call centres not because the speakers are foreign but because they have accents which they find difficult to understand. Even though it may be argued that, today, a public school or BBC accent gets you nowhere, 'received pronunciation', as it is called, still can work wonders. As a speaker with such an accent I found myself being ushered to the front of a queue in a country post office recently by locals, who muttered, 'let the gentleman through'. I was not in a hurry but on hearing my voice the group clearly decided I had some kind of precedence.
I find that people react in various ways to my voice depending on their own prejudices. Policemen usually let me off a parking ticket as soon as I speak. Proper parking attendants will never do that. As soon as I open my mouth I am clearly 'one of the idle rich' and get booked accordingly.
The class hierarchies in England are as complicated as any Indian caste system or set of Japanese customs. Admittedly they are subtle, which is why they are so interesting. It is just that most people are loath to admit their existence. If you are one of the favoured today, is has become fashionable to deny that there are any longer the old class differences in the United Kingdom. ‘Jack’s as good as his master’ is whispered cynically in private clubs and behind the most expensive front doors across the land. The very phrase gives away the attitudes of the speaker in one short sentence. The one who utters the sentiment, in no way believes himself to be ‘Jack’. In more public places the lips are pursed forwards, shoulders shrugged and ‘It’s a democracy now.’ is the cry.
If you are unfortunate enough to slot into a less privileged stratum, you will hear almost the same sentiments expressed; but they are muttered in a futile hope that it might be true, never with any conviction. ‘Well, we’re all the same now aren’t we?’ or ‘Who do they think they are?’ The social panic, which grips all levels of our society, is the terror of being accused of snobbery, whether inverted or convoluted. It is this intense fear of admitting anything openly, which inhibits the discussion of social status in England.
Scotland and Wales of course, may well be different.
In England there will always be some reason that can be found for looking down on another person.
‘She was wearing a nylon overall’ one woman will say of another, and that is enough to elicit encouraging nods of mutual superiority from her audience. A man is unlikely to comment aloud on another man’s appearance, but he will note privately and silently that the dreadful fellow was wearing white socks and that will be remembered and counted against him for ever.
If you think that this does not still go on, then try to visit planet earth sometime!
Hair has been a constant source of the most wonderful social divisions for many years, possibly for centuries. This is a minefield for men rather than women, because women of all classes have been able to experiment with their hair. Men in England have never been so fortunate. Almost any departure from the demob haircut since 1945 has incurred the wrath or discomfort of somebody. The sporting of a teddy boy DA or of hippy long hair, Jamaican dreadlocks or the shaven hard man type, has never given any advantage to the wearer in this society.
It has long been a truism that any extreme departure, either towards abundance, or embracing a minimalist mode, from the norm of short back and sides, has resulted in immediate forfeiture of social status. In England, the veritable home of inverted snobbery, where this loss of social standing is often the very reason for adopting weird styles, it can be reasonably assumed that a powerful political statement is the cause. The subsequent addition of nose, eyebrow and earrings with piercings of every kind will need a potent aggressive stance to regain any sort of status. Such unattractive fashions are used to fight against social norms altogether. There are so many insidious prejudices against short hair, long hair, tattoos and body piercing, that anyone taking on these affectations has to survive a mighty battle with the world, which sees them as losers and will inevitably treat them as such.
But these examples are on the extreme edge of society’s fashions. The curious and fascinating thing about England comes from the more subtle manifestations of social differences.
Accent is very important still in the UK. There are many people who object to Indian call centres not because the speakers are foreign but because they have accents which they find difficult to understand. Even though it may be argued that, today, a public school or BBC accent gets you nowhere, 'received pronunciation', as it is called, still can work wonders. As a speaker with such an accent I found myself being ushered to the front of a queue in a country post office recently by locals, who muttered, 'let the gentleman through'. I was not in a hurry but on hearing my voice the group clearly decided I had some kind of precedence.
I find that people react in various ways to my voice depending on their own prejudices. Policemen usually let me off a parking ticket as soon as I speak. Proper parking attendants will never do that. As soon as I open my mouth I am clearly 'one of the idle rich' and get booked accordingly.
Monday, 30 November 2009
Jottings
Happiness
Happiness is a strange concept. We all claim to feel it from time to time, but it seems to mean different things to each one of us. All sorts of people have tried to define it, from the prophets of old religions through to the writers of the constitution of the United States. Where does happiness begin, and where does it end? Do we even know when we are happy?
Many ideas can be helped in their definitions or their understanding by looking at their opposites. We usually know when we are unhappy. Some people would claim to be unhappy all the time; perhaps they are. Maybe those people are depressed, but we have seen depressed people become quite happy, even if only for a few minutes. It is a complicated business.
It is certainly difficult to tell if another creature is happy. We can listen to a cat purring and by a slight anthropomorphic inference say that the cat is happy. But we have no real way of knowing. In just the same way, we may look across a room at a young married couple laughing in the first throes of matrimony and say ‘Look how happy they are.’ Human beings are complex creatures, and the assumption that two people chuckling together means happiness is, well, laughable. They each might conceivably be flirting with the notion of murdering the other.
Is it possible to tell if we ourselves are happy, however we might define it? Looking back on a life, is it realistic to pick out times when, if memory serves us, we were truly happy? The answer is probably a definite maybe!
Is happiness dependent to a certain extent upon both consciousness and intelligence? This is not referring to high intelligence but to a degree of awareness higher than say, an invertebrate, a snail or an insect? In common parlance, we will regularly impute happiness to our pets, to animals kept in zoos and to certain of our own unfortunate fellow human beings who, having limited abilities, are nevertheless unable to look after themselves. It is usual to reassure ourselves by saying ‘Well she is very happy where she is.’ It is important to our own sense of what is fitting, that those for whom we are in some sense responsible, are deemed to be happy. Parents checking on their children in school, often say that they don’t mind too much about their academic progress ‘As long as they are happy.’ They may not always mean it, but they want the world to believe it. It is deemed anti-social in our western culture, to place almost anything else, except perhaps health, above happiness. Happiness therefore, is an extremely important concept in our collective minds; and while happiness itself may have universal approval, and is even sought after amongst mankind, its relative value varies from East to West and from North to South on our planet.
When does happiness begin? The tiny newborn has no cause to be miserable under normal circumstances. Obviously, if born in a ditch and abandoned by a fleeing mother, out of her head on some illegal substance, the chances are that the screaming infant will feel a little let down. However, as a rule, all the baby requires is food warmth, and security. These provide life and contentment. It is doubtful whether ‘happiness’, however it may be characterised, is within the consciousness of such a young being. As the child matures over days and weeks and begins to associate its mother with the provision of these goodies, a relationship with another person will develop. Signs of pleasure are evident when baby senses mother approaching and feeding. It rather looks as if pleasure, at least, is to be associated at an early stage in a person’s life, with the love of another. Of course, pleasure should not be confused with happiness. Such confusion is what has lead to the pursuit of pleasure, and to the consequent destruction of happiness as a result, in many peoples’ lives.
Nevertheless the idea of happiness, and its existence as a goal, must start somewhere. Children are often said to be ‘happy’ and are frequently asked if they are happy and will reply dutifully ‘Yes’. This may not mean that they are, but merely that they have learned that it is the required answer. In the same way a child may be asked the more open ended question ‘How are you feeling now?’ and may reply ‘I am happy.’ The reasons for such a reply may be manifold even with a quite young person. They may mean ‘Go away I am busy playing.’ or it may just be a learned reflex response like saying ‘Bye bye’ and waving a tiny hand when leaving their house.
It is even possible for youngsters to be made so miserable so often, that they have never learned what it is to be happy. When we consider the cases of two year olds who have been beaten, starved, stood in boiling water and burnt with cigarettes, it is easy to infer that they will never have learnt what it is to be happy. Such victims may well grow to believe the evil above all evils, that to be in severe pain and hated is what ‘happiness’ means.
So it is at least arguable that happiness has to be learned, and that we may not begin our lives with the idea of happiness already established in our minds. Clearly the lesser experiences of pleasure and pain are with us from the start. They are evidently present in quite simple animals. It has even been argued that these sensations are present in plants. But happiness is different. It is conceivable for humans to be happy while in severe pain, and also to be happy without necessarily seeking pleasurable activities. Of course, it is possible to take pleasure both by inflicting and receiving pain. However, it is doubtful whether, what most people would call true happiness, results from either of those experiences. Nevertheless, it is something to reflect on, and such considerations even help to further our notions of what defines both happiness and pleasure and where they differ from one another.
Many people describe their own states of happiness in ways, which shows that they nearly always occur unexpectedly. A person may be weeding the garden or cooking, and find themselves humming a tune. Then gradually it occurs to them that they are feeling happy. Conversely, people have also reported how they have set out deliberately to cheer themselves up, to try and be a little bit happier and it has failed. A conscious effort to be happy is not always successful. Again in retrospect, people sometimes say that they remember an occasion in the past, and looking back, they realise how happy they were then; although perhaps did not realise it at the time. Of course, this is only anecdotal evidence. It serves only perhaps to suggest lines of enquiry rather than to provide evidence.
Happiness is a strange concept. We all claim to feel it from time to time, but it seems to mean different things to each one of us. All sorts of people have tried to define it, from the prophets of old religions through to the writers of the constitution of the United States. Where does happiness begin, and where does it end? Do we even know when we are happy?
Many ideas can be helped in their definitions or their understanding by looking at their opposites. We usually know when we are unhappy. Some people would claim to be unhappy all the time; perhaps they are. Maybe those people are depressed, but we have seen depressed people become quite happy, even if only for a few minutes. It is a complicated business.
It is certainly difficult to tell if another creature is happy. We can listen to a cat purring and by a slight anthropomorphic inference say that the cat is happy. But we have no real way of knowing. In just the same way, we may look across a room at a young married couple laughing in the first throes of matrimony and say ‘Look how happy they are.’ Human beings are complex creatures, and the assumption that two people chuckling together means happiness is, well, laughable. They each might conceivably be flirting with the notion of murdering the other.
Is it possible to tell if we ourselves are happy, however we might define it? Looking back on a life, is it realistic to pick out times when, if memory serves us, we were truly happy? The answer is probably a definite maybe!
Is happiness dependent to a certain extent upon both consciousness and intelligence? This is not referring to high intelligence but to a degree of awareness higher than say, an invertebrate, a snail or an insect? In common parlance, we will regularly impute happiness to our pets, to animals kept in zoos and to certain of our own unfortunate fellow human beings who, having limited abilities, are nevertheless unable to look after themselves. It is usual to reassure ourselves by saying ‘Well she is very happy where she is.’ It is important to our own sense of what is fitting, that those for whom we are in some sense responsible, are deemed to be happy. Parents checking on their children in school, often say that they don’t mind too much about their academic progress ‘As long as they are happy.’ They may not always mean it, but they want the world to believe it. It is deemed anti-social in our western culture, to place almost anything else, except perhaps health, above happiness. Happiness therefore, is an extremely important concept in our collective minds; and while happiness itself may have universal approval, and is even sought after amongst mankind, its relative value varies from East to West and from North to South on our planet.
When does happiness begin? The tiny newborn has no cause to be miserable under normal circumstances. Obviously, if born in a ditch and abandoned by a fleeing mother, out of her head on some illegal substance, the chances are that the screaming infant will feel a little let down. However, as a rule, all the baby requires is food warmth, and security. These provide life and contentment. It is doubtful whether ‘happiness’, however it may be characterised, is within the consciousness of such a young being. As the child matures over days and weeks and begins to associate its mother with the provision of these goodies, a relationship with another person will develop. Signs of pleasure are evident when baby senses mother approaching and feeding. It rather looks as if pleasure, at least, is to be associated at an early stage in a person’s life, with the love of another. Of course, pleasure should not be confused with happiness. Such confusion is what has lead to the pursuit of pleasure, and to the consequent destruction of happiness as a result, in many peoples’ lives.
Nevertheless the idea of happiness, and its existence as a goal, must start somewhere. Children are often said to be ‘happy’ and are frequently asked if they are happy and will reply dutifully ‘Yes’. This may not mean that they are, but merely that they have learned that it is the required answer. In the same way a child may be asked the more open ended question ‘How are you feeling now?’ and may reply ‘I am happy.’ The reasons for such a reply may be manifold even with a quite young person. They may mean ‘Go away I am busy playing.’ or it may just be a learned reflex response like saying ‘Bye bye’ and waving a tiny hand when leaving their house.
It is even possible for youngsters to be made so miserable so often, that they have never learned what it is to be happy. When we consider the cases of two year olds who have been beaten, starved, stood in boiling water and burnt with cigarettes, it is easy to infer that they will never have learnt what it is to be happy. Such victims may well grow to believe the evil above all evils, that to be in severe pain and hated is what ‘happiness’ means.
So it is at least arguable that happiness has to be learned, and that we may not begin our lives with the idea of happiness already established in our minds. Clearly the lesser experiences of pleasure and pain are with us from the start. They are evidently present in quite simple animals. It has even been argued that these sensations are present in plants. But happiness is different. It is conceivable for humans to be happy while in severe pain, and also to be happy without necessarily seeking pleasurable activities. Of course, it is possible to take pleasure both by inflicting and receiving pain. However, it is doubtful whether, what most people would call true happiness, results from either of those experiences. Nevertheless, it is something to reflect on, and such considerations even help to further our notions of what defines both happiness and pleasure and where they differ from one another.
Many people describe their own states of happiness in ways, which shows that they nearly always occur unexpectedly. A person may be weeding the garden or cooking, and find themselves humming a tune. Then gradually it occurs to them that they are feeling happy. Conversely, people have also reported how they have set out deliberately to cheer themselves up, to try and be a little bit happier and it has failed. A conscious effort to be happy is not always successful. Again in retrospect, people sometimes say that they remember an occasion in the past, and looking back, they realise how happy they were then; although perhaps did not realise it at the time. Of course, this is only anecdotal evidence. It serves only perhaps to suggest lines of enquiry rather than to provide evidence.
Short Story 'Windfall'
'It was sometime in June 1945.’ The Admiral was expansive, 'I was a very young lieutenant then, just been appointed on the staff of Vice Admiral Willoughby-Smythe, I thought I was the bees knees don't you know! Ha ha! I had to wear all this gold braid over my shoulder and because we were in Germany I had a huge Mercedes and a little German driver, great days, great days.'
Admiral Sir John Parker stopped and took a swig of tea from a vast mug with a naval crown on it. Susan and I were sitting in the glass-covered extension of the bungalow on Hayling Island to which the Admiral and Lady Parker had retired some years earlier. Lady Parker had busied about bringing tea and home-made cakes, delicious coffee kuchen, all served on the best china. Only the Admiral had his big mug, we drank from fine Dresden cups.
As a new reporter on the South Hampshire Gazette I had been sent to interview Admiral Parker about the so-called 'Windfall Yachts' which the allies had seized as reparation from the German Navy after World War Two, Susan was the only photographer who was free and so came with me.
'So tell us about the yachts sir' I said. 'Why were they called windfalls?'
'They weren't originally, we just bagged them. Some diplomatic fellow in the war office called them the windfall yachts later on, it sounds better than stolen eh? Mind you, we were entitled to take them no doubt about that. I was there right at the beginning. I went over to Germany with the express idea to grab one for myself. We knew about them you see. The Kriegsmarine had a fleet of them built in the1930s for their naval chaps to race. They were beautiful boats, all wooden, some up to 85 feet long, they mostly cruised in the Baltic of course.'
'Did you bag one yourself then sir?' I asked.
'Put that pen and paper away young man and you might find out.' Admiral Parker suddenly showed his seniority and I shrank back in the comfortable armchair.
'Actually, I wangled my way onto Willoughby-Smythe's staff. I had served as a sub-lieutenant in the Med. on convoys for two years, I was single and at that time all my shipmates wanted a posting home to the UK. I heard that the Admiral was going to the big naval base at Kiel in Germany and I knew the yachts were based there, so I asked to be taken on his staff. I was accepted straightaway and got a pierhead jump to the fatherland! As soon as I could manage it, I was driven down to the dockyard, which was in a dreadful state by the way, and found the corner where the yachts were kept. It was deserted. Everyone to do with the German Navy had run away. It was early days, I think I was probably the first RN officer to visit the yards. There were these beautiful boats all in perfect condition gently rocking away rafted up on the edge of the docks, not a soul in sight. I climbed down onto the nearest, she was called Valhalla as I recall, with the maker's name on a brass plate Rasmussen und Abeking. The panelling inside was superb, a 60 foot Bermuda rigged thoroughbred racer. As a small boy I had sailed a lot with my father you see. We had done the Round the Island race each year since I was old enough to hold a rope. We had a seven tonner at home designed especially for my father by Jack Giles. We were a sailing family, and of course leisure sailing was banned after 1939. Some of us tried racing those heavy naval whalers during a few quiet moments in Gib or Malta during the war but it was not a lot of fun I can tell you when one had been used to a decent yacht.’
Sir John took a large swig from his mug and put it carelessly down on a delicate little side table. Lady Parker moved swiftly and silently lifted the mug and slid a cork place mat under it.
'Anyway, I carried on down the raft and had a look at about twenty of the Kriegsmarines finest and was most impressed. Then in one of the larger boats, I was just about to get off and make my way back to the car, when I heard a cough from below. I went down and discovered a ragged teenage lad about fourteen or fifteen years old, who had obviously been living on board for some time. There was a bunk and some empty tins. He was absolutely terrified. Thought I was going to eat him I expect. I told him it was OK in my poor German and he looked relieved and spoke in quite reasonable English saying his parents were dead and he had been hiding in the boat for a couple of weeks. He said his name was Eric. I assured him that he could stay on board as long as he told anyone who came that he was looking after them for me. I would pay him in food and cigarettes. He seemed very pleased with this idea and I called him my cabin boy.'
'The next day I got the Admiral's secretary to type up an official looking document on Admiralty headed notepaper saying that these yachts now belonged to Vice-Admiral Willoughby-Smythe, and that Herr Eric Drecher was legally in charge of them on behalf of the Royal Navy and I signed it Lieutenant John Parker RN Staff Officer. I told the Admiral what I had done and was commended for initiative. I am pretty sure he then forgot all about it.
My cabin boy was very co-operative and soon became quite expert at turning any curious visitors away by showing the note I had given him to anyone who tried to come near the yachts. I got him to list all the names and contents of the vessels, but to leave out the name of the boat he was living in. This was a beautifully made 50 footer called Rheinhilde which I had my eye on you see.'
At this point Admiral Parker grabbed his tea mug drained it and and laughed aloud. Susan lifted up her camera evidently to take a photograph of the old boy in a good mood, she disliked yachts and boats intensely and was far more interested in the people involved. But the Admiral waved her down and said, 'Later dear lady, later.' Being called 'Dear lady' was another of Susan's nightmares, along with anything that floated on the sea. So she was not too pleased, but continued to listen out of politeness, being a well-brought-up Hampshire girl.
Sir John continued, 'We had a marvellous time after the war in that part of Germany. The RAF had bombed the daylights out of the place and the people were living like rats in the cellars and what was left of buildings. They had precious little food, and cigarettes were the only currency for most people because they had no money. Most Germans who were fit and able enough, were only too anxious to work for the occupying forces. So we had servants, cooks, drivers, handymen, anyone we wanted. Eric was in clover on board the Rheinhilde because once we had taken over the dockyard it was a safe spot and I was bringing him plenty of decent grub from the mess and all the cigarettes he needed. He didn't smoke, but started to make the yacht more and more comfortable using the packets of cigs as currency. I told him I was intending to take the Rheinhilde back to England for myself and he entered into the spirit of the thing with gusto. He made a huge list of all the yachts and all of their contents ,which was considerable, and took about three months, but he made quite sure that our yacht, as we now started to call it, was never listed or mentioned. I got him also to look out for any useful equipment in the other boats such as binoculars, charts, navigation instruments and so on, and to stow them all away in the Rheinhilde. One day Eric, who was no fool, suggested that it might be a good idea actually to change the name of our yacht to an English one, and that he could arrange it himself. I agreed, and decided to call it 'Solent Lass'. He made a very good job of erasing the German name and re-painting it with the new one.'
At this point I felt obliged to ask, from the security of my deeply comfortable armchair, if he didn't think this was cheating in some way?
'I suppose you might ask that from the point of view of the 21st century with 20/20 hindsight young man. But do you have any idea how Germany had completely departed from all civilised values? In 1945 we had discovered Belsen and all the other horrific camps. We were reeling from the London attacks by the V1s and V2s. Many English towns and cities had been flattened. Their bloody U-boats had sunk thousands of tons of civilian shipping. With the Americans and the Russians we had fought across France and Poland to find Hitler and all his talk of the thousand year Reich, and we felt that we had to punish them, and by God we did, and it felt good. No it wasn't cheating. We all believed that Germany owed us everything. Frankly, I thought that I, at least, was owed a decent yacht for my troubles!'
'So what happened next sir?'
'The British Control Commission stepped in. Some smarmy Smart-Alec from the Foreign Office arrived at the Kiel dockyards and told us we had to hand over the yachts to the Admiralty, and that they would be shared out between the three services as prizes. Of course I agreed, and volunteered myself to take responsibility. To show him how keen I was, I gave him a copy of the list young Eric had made of all the appropriate vessels and he was mightily impressed. I remembered him inviting me to a cocktail party at the main Control Office, silly bugger.'
Sir John laughed aloud again, and asked Lady Parker if it was too early for a proper drink. 'What about a horse's neck old girl? ' he called, and his wife produced four brandy and ginger ales as if by magic and we all settled down with our glasses.
The Admiral went on,
'Later, in 1945 some naval officers and a few enthusiastic ratings were asked to volunteer to sail the yachts back to Portsmouth and so the bulk of the boats left Kiel, but Solent Lass stayed, as it was not listed anywhere, and people just assumed it was mine. Very few of the officials who were responsible for the windfall yachts had any real knowledge of yacht design or anything else for that matter. I used to go down at weekends and take her out. Eric became pretty competent as crew and we had some excellent times cruising around the Baltic until it got too cold to manage it. That winter was terrible. In fact the yacht got frozen into the dock for about five weeks and we had to cover the auxiliary engine up with naval issue blankets and old tarpaulins to stop it from damage. It was the spring of 1946 before I was able to think about sailing her home to Hayling Island. By this time Eric had become as much a part of Solent Lass as the mast or sails. I asked if he would like to accompany me to England and he was eager to do so. I had become quite fond of the boy and thought maybe I could adopt him or at least get my family to send him to an English college or something. He had no papers and was not at all keen to do anything officially, so I agreed to take him as crew and say no more. Things were still very lax after the war with displaced persons and refugees of all kinds arriving in every European country. If someone was pretty fit, spoke English and clearly was too young to have been a soldier, few questions were asked.'
'I was due for a couple of months leave by then and so I prepared to sail the yacht home. We got in enough provisions and I obtained the correct Admiralty charts quite easily. After leaving my quarters early one morning we slipped our warps in the dockyard and quietly sailed out of Kiel harbour as we had on many weekends before, and set course for the channel. In two day we were tucked up cosily in Cowes boatyard, as it was then, and no-one ever questioned my ownership of the best boat I ever had.'
'You mean no-one ever asked how you got to own such a posh yacht?' asked Susan .
'Never, I sailed it for twenty years until I sold it to pay off my mortgage. That was a truly sad day.' Sir John sighed and took a sip of his brandy in its fine cut glass tumbler.
'What happened to the cabin boy?' persisted Susan, have you got a photograph?
'I married her' said the Admiral with a twinkle, 'Ask Lady Erica herself, she'll pose for you I am sure.'
END
Saturday, 28 November 2009
In the beginning
Today I start my blog. I have no idea what I am likely to write but I have been inspired by young Jessica Watson's very good blog of her round the world sailing adventure.I enjoy sailing and have owned several modest yachts. now I sail only in flotillas or bareboat anywhere warm.
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