ANIMALS

 

Parts of what is to come may have been read before in my previous 450 odd blogs. With “animals” it is almost inevitable.

As others have often said, and it applies to me, my relationship with animals is much the same as with children. When they are well trained and obedient they are a delight, but if  untrained they are pests. Fortunately, most of my contacts with animals come within the first category.

As the son of a farmer I was trained to shoot and snare animals for the pot and was adept at plucking, paunching and skinning as we probably all were in the family.

Dogs were an important part of our country life, not only as pets but as working animals.

The two dogs in my memory were Bunty, a Cairn, and Ben a Spaniel. 

Bunty was a ratter par excellence as she could chase down rats and shake them to death - and there were lots of rats on a free-range chicken farm. 

Bunty’s puppies were a lovely crowd of individuals, Big Ben being one of my favourites. But as nice as they were they did smell horribly. So I was both sorry and glad when homes were found for them as pedigree animals.

Ben, had a special relationship with my chicken-farmer father. When we or a customer wanted a fine chicken to roast, my father would select one and Ben would immobilise it by pressing it to the ground with his paw. This must have involved a close relationship with animals and in telepathy. 

Peggy the horse not only provided my sister June with a steed for cubbing, but was also a carthorse for the farm. She was docile and pleasant enough. When I rode her I almost invariably fell off. Riding was a serious matter. My devil-may-care attitude was not appreciated. Peggy just carried on.

In their season, pheasants would be hung in the larder by their two tail feathers. Then, when they were pretty high in decomposition they would fall to the floor. Not until they did so were they thought to be ready for the pot or oven. That was the way with them at that time, and they were considered to be a treat. 

It was much the same with Stilton cheese, which had to be kept free of maggots and was refreshed with Port. 

Step forward a few years to just after the start of WW2 when I was a refugee in America.

For a “puber” as the Dutch say, alone in a foreign country, a dog in this case, called Smudge, became a good friend. That’s what dogs excel at. I needed Smudge. 

Jump forward in time again.

When the war had ended and me being invalided out of the RAF as a pilot with TB, a wealthy uncle, leaving his Côtes d’Azure house in the hot season to stay in his cool house in Brittany, asked me to stay in the South of France to pay his staff (of two) and feed the dogs (two) and parrots (also two).  I accepted gladly, living for free and able to paint and draw as I pleased.  

One parrot was an Amazonian Green and of no great character - if any parrot could possibly lack character.  The other was an African Grey who was bursting with joie de vivre. His name was Gérard. I was to cut some of his primary feathers at one side to prevent him from flying away (he might fly but would spiral to earth). I was warned that he could become nasty when his feathers were cut. This was untrue as he and I were friends and I had no trouble from him when using the scissors on his wing feathers. 

Gérard and I had a great time in areal manoeuvres as I would swing him around and up and down much to the delight of both of us. BUT, Gérard hated women. When one appeared he would chase them around on foot. Women just had to run faster than Gérard. 

Of the two dogs to be fed, the poodle, Pistache, was a nice enough woman’s plaything, but the huge, white bull-bating and muscle dog, called Brute, who could have killed any one of us with a bite, was friendly and so lazy that he could not even be bothered to lift his leg to have a pee, but would just do it as he walked along.

I exercised him by throwing stones for him to chase and recover - a game that he loved. But that was something that uncle said: “ruined his mouth” and asked (told) me to leave.

I no longer had to pay the staff or feed the animals, but had made such good friends nearby (one with six poodles) that I had several offers of accommodation as I awaited the arrival of a friend to accompany me on a drive through France to Rome and then Venice before heading for home.

In thinking about it, I do seem to get on well with animals and they with me.

(On being kicked out I chose the house with six poodles.)

AEROPLANES

 

From my boyhood of being mad on aeroplanes and flight, through to now, wanting to avoid airports and flying, encompassed a life of enormous interest in flying through the air in both peace and war.

I look back nostalgically on incidents that have shaped this extreme interest. 

My first real contact with aircraft was with an Avro utor biplane. For my part I already knew the principals of flying pretty well from my book, the Pictorial Flying Course, written by W.H. Johns, the author of Biggles Books. But actually climbing into the spare cockpit of this Alan Cobham’s Flying Circus aircraft to fly over the Solent and doing a loop-the-loop (7/6 all in) sent me on my way.

The next landmark, when I was seven in 1932, was a flight over London in a Klemm  Bat from Croydon Aerodrome (London’s main grass field airport at that time).

Kingsford Smith, a pioneer Australian aviator, was due to take me, my brother Ni and sister June on this flight, but the tail skid on his plane broke, as did the wooden replacement. So, with the boy’s caps worn back to front, the roar of the partly exposed engine up front, and hanging on to the sides of the cockpit for grim death, gave an idea how Germans felt when flying in this type of aeroplane that was secretly used for training Nazi Luftwaffe pilots in Germany at that time.

Then came the Second World War when I returned from America to join the RAF, 

to be told to wait in Civvy Street until pilot training was available. 

I took the job of a prop-swinger. This involved starting up the engines by swinging the props  of Tiger Moths for students to reach their first solo stage. 

The authorities at RAF Theale, having learned of my being a would-be RAF pilot allowed me to fly as passenger, and sometimes pilot, on weather flips. These involved flying up wind to forecast the weather, there being no meteorology at the time. 

This experience did me well when I was eventually back in the RAF as a trainee pilotMy first (the greatest day in my pilot’s life) was flying solo from a farmer’s grass meadow at RAF Shellingford (a few sheds, Tiger Moths and Nissan huts). 

Now, stationed in America’s Oklahoma, I completed my flying training in Cornells and Harvards to become qualified to fly Hurricanes or Spitfires. 

Fortunately, the war had ended in Europe and I was grounded and returned to England to become a Photographic Intelligence Officer. 

From a drawing trip around the world I returned home from the American continent in a “Whispering Giant”, a Bristol Britannia prop jet, as I was then nearly out of money and to fly across the Atlantic in the emerging new Boeing 707 jet was too costly. 

When automatic landing was invented, I flew to Paris in a Trident aircraft, landing in dense  fog at Le Bourget’s Paris airfield. From my own flying experiences, this seemed quite magical and a brilliant advance. 

But my fondest memories of those post-war days was flying to France in a Bristol Wayfarer. This involved motoring to Lydd, a greenfield in Kent, where handlers would drive three cars into the jaws of this bulky, twin engined, workhorse of an airoplane, take our seats next to the pilot and then trundle over the Channel’s waves to the Le Touquet airfield in France. This was old-fashioned flying at its charming best.

It was a wonderful way of reaching Europe and, I suppose, the last of those days of flying unsophisticated propeller aircraft in civil aviation. 

SOME FAMOUS PEOPLE

I am not one to hob-knob with the famous. The notorious and infamous are the kind of people that I avoid. Yet I have come across people that I admired - some by chance and some blood relations.

With many of these people I was too young or too shy to ask questions for interesting answers.

***

I must have met Kingsford Smith because he came to stay with us in the country, flew my mother around the skies from Farnborough Aerodrome and (he was Australian) delivered the Christmas mail from Sydney to Croydon Aerodrome in the record time (17 days in 1931) with my uncle aboard his Avro 10, Trimotor, Southern Star as flight engineer/navigator.

A postage stamp to commemorate the event and the crowds waiting at Croydon to greet them for press coverage, certainly made it a great event. 

In the days of unreliable engines and aircraft, and when navigation was “by the seat of your pants”, Kingsford Smith spent his life breaking records for distance and difficulty in a most exceptional way and this combined with a great appetite for women and booze.

But famous he really was throughout the blossoming of endeavours in the sky.

I wonder if he even noticed me (aged 7) with my brother Nigel and sister June due to be flown by him above and around London in his aircraft which had just broken its skid at Croydon. Another pilot in a Clemm Bat was given the job to give us a “joyride” instead. 

But I knew him - and famous he was as a highly skilled pilot and brave.

***

My aunt (one of my father’s sisters) married into the Smithers dynasty. They were a Stockbroking family and it was thought that they funded my uncle Walla (Sir Waldron Smithers) to be an MP to keep him out of the family business. His inclinations were more sporting. 

This uncle Walla was an MP in the days when Members of Parliament really did care for the people of all classes who had put them in power. He was much loved by everyone. 

One off from being the “Father of the House” uncle Walla asked more questions than any other MP, and because he passed through legislation for cab drivers to be enclosed as they drove their taxis around London, he never had to pay a fare as he was so popular with them. There’s fame for you. 

I knew him well. He was incredibly strong and loved to fight me (ne of the two “vile jellies” in Macbeth, being my brother and me). Of course he won - that was until I discovered his Achilles Heel, and that was his ears. If I was able to grab an ear and twist it I had the measure of him.

***

I must have known my grandfather. It was said he came from farming stock which lead to him becoming a doctor and surgeon. He married my grandmother, a formidable woman who promoted his career as his eyesight began to fail. Because of this he gave up surgery for anaesthetics, a branch of medicine that was considered to be of minor importance at the time.

But he was a promotor of that profession, writing the five volumes of the bible of anaesthetics “Anaesthetics and their Administration”. 

He was world famous, travelling the globe dispensing his knowledge and skills and making his name. 

King Edward the VII was about to the crowned king, but fell ill and needed surgery - and an anaesthetist.

Treated almost as a servant by the surgeon who most reluctantly allowed grandfather to see the patient before surgery to acquaint himself with the medical situation, he conducted his skills so well that the King bestowed upon him a Knighthood. 

Anaesthetics now became a legitimate and recognised part of medical care. He was the first anaesthetist to be Knighted, establishing its importance.

I call that as being famous, though few outside medicine may have known about it.

***

Having designed and part-built a one bedroomed studio house in the Berkshire Downs, I struggled to get back into the use of paint on canvas after a year-long circumnavigation of the globe drawing whatever interested me. 

My book, “Harbours, Girls and a Slumbering World” about this voyage was to be published later (ISBN 0953017 4 9).

But despite using collages to see things from my mind rather than eye, I vegetated and put on weight. It was time to move on - literally and mentally. 

A local estate agent told me that it was not possible to sell a one bedroom house in that part of the country. He was wrong. 

Replying to my advertisement in the Daily Telegraph, a Francis Bacon telephoned and asked to see the house. 

At that moment I saw my house and its simplicity as background material for a Bacon painting. He bought it immediately he saw it. 

We got on very well together as he also did with my lovely old cottager neighbour where runner beans grew on covered trenches of excrement.

I had built into the house several ideas like a central column that concealed all pipes and drains so that they were invisible, an air duct to control the amount of air needed at the fire place to make the fire work well, and a false chimney built parallel and alongside the real chimney that would take in cold air from the outside and heat it by close proximity, by heat transfer, from the real one. This delivered fresh warmed air to the house’s one bedroom above.

There was also an under-heated kitchen floor and an under-heated studio floor paved with discarded marble washstand tops from people ridding themselves of washstands in favour of real plumbing through pipes which was becoming popular after the war.

Francis, now in residence, wanted to know more about these ideas, so invited me to come back a couple of times and even invited me to stay as a friend. But I did not feel like staying with Francis and his boyfriend George, who reclined on the soft surfaces I had designed where he combed his greasy hair. 

Francis and I had much to talk about including the aforesaid ideas and of the value of chance in painting and that homosexuals were certainly not living in a twilight world.

When Francis sold up when George died, he returned to his Reece Mews home in London

There, and on the street should we meet, he would always cross the road to talk with me.

But I was not one of his drinking coterie and our friendship must have been refreshing to him as I sought nothing from our relationship.

World famous as he was, he was also just a very nice person. Others, I am sure, must have seen him quite differently. 

***

Back in about early 2000 a man moved into a place in our street and was outside when we fell into conversation. 

He turned out to be a journalist with a column in a motoring magazine. His name was James May, known, presumably, only by the readers of that magazine. No great fame there.  But times have changed. Over the ensuing 25 odd years he and his partner, Sarah, have been our friends and we regularly exchange 6 o’clock drinks in our homes. 

You might think that with international fame from Top Gear and Grand Tour to diverse programmes on such as history and mechanics that we locals might be plagued by crowds of  screaming fans or bespeckled professors of history. But no, James, happily, is still the same man as that journalist who moved in just up the road all those years ago.

May he continue to be both famous, modest and our friend.

MEDICAL PROGRESS IN BRIEF

 

I don’t think we needed much medical attention as a family when I was young, but I may not remember many incidents.

All right, Nigel and I were circumcised, which was not uncommon at the time. The reason for it being done was, we boys thought, because our father, who fought in Mesopotamia (Iraq)  in the First World War, was disturbed by sand up his foreskin when fighting in sandy desert conditions. I wonder now if there was any truth in that.

My father running over my foot in the car I do remember, but the family diagnosis was that no bones had be broken. Were there any X-ray at that time? 

I was exactly 0 years old when doctor Daley delivered me on the 5th February 1925 at our house, Sawyers Lands,  Silchester.

Doctor Daley made his medicines in his garden shed. He never charged my family for his services as when he was at Cambridge with my grandfather he got into some kind of trouble (we don’t know what) and grandfather had helped him out. 

Iodine was put on to all cuts and grazes and stung like mad. Dock leaves were rubbed on to nettle rashes and butter applied to burns - something we do today with magical effect, but you have to be quick. 

School came and went. The war came and went. 

It was during that war (probably in 1944) that I crashed an aeroplane (a Cornell) and knocked two instruments out of the control panel in front of me with my head. I asked the ambulance driver who drove me to the airfield hospital just what had happened. He had no idea that I wanted to know what country I was in and had I possibly been run over by a bus. 

But I came around with no medicine needed and was soon flying again, having demonstrated my “bravery” to the Commanding Officer.

Than, the war over, I was about to be demobbed and wanted an X-ray as my girlfriend at the time told me that she had coughed up some blood.  So I told the medic that I, too, had coughed up blood. In front of a row of RAF officers (I had become one too) I was solemnly told that the minuscule X-ray taken had indicated that I did, in fact, have TB of the lung. 

The girlfriend was clear of it.

As there was no cure for the disease then.  I was invalided out of the RAF, given a 20% pension and spent time in a famous country clinic and told to rest.

I had not had much schooling, but was accepted as a medical student at St Thomas’s Hospital if I passed certain exams. So I spent some of my  post war time in the RAF as a Photographic Intelligence Officer studying at the same for the exam, and passing into medical school at St Thomas’s. 

But having missed out on education generally because of my service in the war I had to work long into the nights on medical matters, not resting enough, and so started to spit blood once again. As doctors were forbidden to practise should they have TB, I had to abandon a career in medicine. 

The nearest the medical world had as a rest cure was an artificial pneumothorax. This consisted of a hollow needle pushed between the ribs allowing atmospheric pressure air to fill a created space between lung and ribs, thus resting the lung. 

Because of absorption, this gap had to be topped up with air, initially weekly and latterly  fortnightly for 7 years. 

This was inconvenient if travelling abroad when it was often difficult to find a doctor who knew about it and had the right equipment at hand. 

I remember that at the American Hospital in Paris lying on an operating table surrounded by white-coated medics as this simple procedure was put into effect.

And not long after, I found a doctor Xalabadar at a house in a Barcelona back street who did have the equipment. This was a long thick needle with a dial fixed to one end that looked like a dial from my car’s instrument panel. Having ascertained that I had flown in the RAF during the war he refused to take payment. 

Later, it was discovered that I had prostate cancer. As treatment I chose radiotherapy which was pretty gruesome and horrid for Margreet. 

Part of the treatment was to pass urine through a tube to a bag strapped to my leg. When this became full and heavy I had to more or less undress and turn on a tap to empty it. So I had a zip fastener sewn in to my trouser leg, so that when I needed to discharge liquid in public I could unzip, turn on the tap and, next to a rose bed perhaps, admire the blossoms as the liquid took its course into the surrounding earth.

Now I have a pacemaker for heart failure and a host of pills for God knows what. 

Reminiscing about the advancement of medicine now, as I can just see what I am doing adequately, hear what’s going on, just walk a mile or so a day, do some shopping, execute my bi-weekly cooking, and still enjoy life as I down countless pills and drink plenty of red  wine, all in the company of my lovely wife Margreet, who possibly takes even more pills than I do. 

The world of medicine has advanced immeasurably since I was born. And I am deeply grateful for it having done so. 

SCULPTURE

Making sculpture has always been an important aspect of my life. Just when it became so I cannot recall, but it was of importance to me as an adjunct to my painting - to make my points stronger in another medium than in paint. To satisfy my natural feelings for creating three dimensional shapes became yet another artistic outlet. 

One of my earliest sculptures was when villa-sitting in the South of France, I came by a large piece of olive wood. Because of the knotty way an old olive tree grows, it is hard to find a piece for a sculpture of any size.

Anyhow, I turned this lump into a sort of angel within a shell. I have it to this day, mainly because no-one has bought it but also to enjoy its lovely warm golden colour.

Another odd piece came about when my ex-wife returned from Russia with one of those tourist’s bears. I took an instant dislike to it (it was rather Black Foresty) and without much forethought, turned it into a figure that turned out to be half polar bear and half penguin. Now, pale in wood with no grain, it awaits a future - probably the fireplace. 

In the late 1960s I depicted my father’s First World War part in it as a Hampshire Regiment Officer taking part in the skirmishes and battles against the Turks in Mesopotamia (Iraq) in an effort to relieve our encircled army at a place called Kut on the Tigris river.

My sculptural part in depicting that siege was to put myself in the minds of the beleaguered soldiers with their feelings of isolation, loneliness, home-sickness and despair.

To while away the time in extreme weather conditions I imagined them recovering pieces of wood from the Tigris river water and, with bayonets and penknives whittling them into shapes relating to their military position.

There were 9 pieces that I exhibited in a one-man show of paintings and sculpture at the Qantas Gallery, Bond Street, London, as “The Nine Logs from the Tigris”.  Several were sold, one to a well known art critic.

Just before, or after, I cast in lead a metamorphosis of the human lot. These started as shapeless folds to represent female organs and eventually developing from male shapes into animal/dinosaur figures. I must have exhibited them (or some of them), as I recall a psychiatrist buying one to put on his desk as a starting point for mental diagnosis. 

The lead for these castings (from a lined wooden mould) came from local dockland sources (possibly church roofs) with the lead capsules then used to cover the necks of wine bottles to prevent drinking glasses from being chipped when wine was poured into them.

Several of the castings decorate our house and garden, one so large and heavy that I say to people that if they are able to lift one of them with one hand, they can have it as a gift. No-one could, or would be able to. 

A little after this time I found myself in the Cambridgeshire countryside with three mighty elm trees in the garden that had died from Dutch elm disease. 

These I marked off with white paint into potential sculptural pieces.

When the trees were felled the pieces chosen were put beneath a row of Scott’s pine trees to season. 

The finished pieces represent the people and animals who in ancient times walked the Icknield Way (nearby). Some have been sold individually over the years, others adorn our drawing room.

Two entwined fighting dogs are in The Netherlands, a pig is at Yale in America, others in households, like Sidney pig, which has ears like Sidney Opera House.

We retain 4 pieces, the most popular being a horse almost 6 foot long upon which children love to ride when not used as a perch for us or guests. It is much sought after but Margreet won’t sell it - and I agree.

Two of the elm sculptures have returned to nature. One of which was two lovers in our London garden which became the home of mice before rotting away and was discarded in bits. 

The other, a huge mule that a country gallery left on a concrete plinth in a field, before being   moved to woodland were it was enjoyed by insects and woodpeckers and crumbled to dust. 

When I moved from the country to London I had to leave behind an unfinished 7 foot mother and child and a very large and beautiful iron-age boat, formed mostly with an adze, that was more sculptural than practical. There was something mystical and magical about it. 

Since when I have produced no sculptures, no longer having the strength or the tools to do it.