April 1982 to July 1986

Scene 3 – Widening Horizons

n April ’82 we were lucky to get booked up at the Toc H in Berlin, taking Jules and Lucy with us. It was exciting going through the corridor, and me saluting the Russian soldiers. Apart from my trip with Dave Hudson, when he had done all the planning, driving and saluting, this was a first time for all of us. I was also able to contact a former member of Rats, now Lt Col Peter Bryant (Army Legal Services), who took us around East Berlin - unfortunately without Marj because of a complication of numbers in the car.

Driving through the corridor always had us all on edge, with very little talking. If we heard any funny noises in the car, we were to pull over and stop, but under no circumstances were we to get out and investigate - not even to change a wheel. The Military Police had patrols at regular intervals, and the next one would ‘sweep’ us up within forty minutes or so. You can imagine how, during the two-hour journey, we suspected that we heard funny noises all the time. Also, the speed was restricted to fifty kilometres per hour (that’s thirty miles an hour) and if you exceeded this, then the authorities would know and you would be fined for speeding - if you weren’t pulled in by the Ruskies (so we imagined). Therefore, driving through the corridor was quite an exercise in brain control

e saw the kids off to UK. They were now using the small airport near Münster, rather than Düsseldorf, as it was both cheaper and more convenient. More than once Marj and I would then be off in the caravan for a final few days - no further than the Mösel or Rhine - before facing up to the next term.

nce more it was into Rats’ festival play, this time The Beaux Stratagem. We were both part of the set construction and painting team, with me doing the billboards again. In addition, we were members of the cast, with small walk-on and crowd scene parts. As with all productions, a show demands all your energy and time and, together with the demands of both work and social events, is quite exhausting - as well as being exhilarating.

This show was no exception, and Rats walked off with the two trophies - one for the best presentation (no doubt about it, our period sets, costumes, wigs and lights were superb), as well as being the outright festival winners.

So the arguments rage to this day - should any one society have more than one trophy, or should they be shared? A difficult one; there's no doubt that the society that produces the best set, with hired costumes, is going to be in the frame for best production and perhaps winner. Maybe they should change the titles - or allow the adjudicator to say what the four trophies are for?

ince we had got married, Marj and I regularly checked the weekly Times Educational Supplement (Times Ed) for likely jobs. We both sub-conscientiously realised that, with my age particularly, the future lay in UK and not in Germany. Happy that we were to continue out here indefinitely, we kept an eye on UK trends. In addition, by applying for a job, one knew by default whether one was living up to the short-list criteria.

So, I was called to Ipswich for a job. Now, over the next three years I went for three specific jobs where I had made it absolutely clear that my main subject was wood, with technical drawing - already increasingly being called graphics - and subsidiary metal and plastics. On each occasion I could see that their staff short-fall was in the latter area; and on each occasion I actually pointed this out at the interview, bravely saying that I did not want to be appointed under any misunderstanding as to where I would fit in on the timetable. Moreover, on each occasion I know that it must have helped to eliminate me as a contender.

At Ipswich there were actually only two of us - the other two having been appointed to other jobs at the last minute. Yes, a short-list of only four as LEAs were increasingly cutting back on costs. It was over lunch that the deputy told me they’d had over a hundred applications for the post. Apparently, it is easy to whittle this down to about twenty It then becomes harder to reduce this to ten. The most difficult job is making a short-list out of the long list, and, naturally, they are furious when people drop out at the last minute. I told him of my fears regarding the job; I said “Look; I can see that you need a metal specialist, and it is specifically on my form that I am only subsid metal.”

At the interview, all candidates are usually asked “Would you accept the job, today, if we were to offer it to you?” My answer had to a hesitant “Well, yes, as long as the head realises that he is not gaining a metal specialist to replace the one he is losing.”

I am sure this line was a sure-fire eliminator, but remember I was on a good number in Rheindahlen and I did not exactly urgently need a job. I often wonder how I would have got on had I kept my mouth shut. I would have been unhappy, that’s for sure, and I may not have been able to deliver the goods. I was perfect for their dramatical requirement, and the involvement with all practical areas. However, it went to the other bloke (younger than me - but a metalworker!).

A few years later Marj and I went round Ipswich on a day trip from Woodford. We found it to be the arse-hole of the world, and were so glad that we had not finished up there. We thought the actual drive to Ipswich was the longest cul-de-sac we’d ever come across. So does the hand of fate determine our futures.

uring August ‘82 we went off in the caravan to southern Germany, the Garmish Partenkirshen area, with Jules and Lucy. It’s so beautiful and scenic - but so boring for two growing teenagers. It was now that Marj suggested the package holiday idea. Naturally, I was aghast at the thought, but she slowly talked me into it. The decisive factor was that it would be good for the kids, as they would meet up with plenty of others of similar age. So, I left it to Marj to pursue for the future.

e were next involved with Leif’s production for Rats of Breath Of Spring, working on the set construction and painting - and the billboards - as well as FOH. This was one of those low season, but highly regarded productions, with the C-in-C attending on the last night. As ever, the last night party with all the usual hangers-on, makes it a jolly time for all.

Every production with an audience required the attendance of two members of the garrison fire service. These two Germans would hang around in the wings, attired in their full uniform, and generally get in the way. They were always happy with a beer, but smoking was strictly forbidden - when they were in sight. I always remember the time when I had been to the front of house for something, and returned to the stage manager’s corner whilst the show was still in progress. All my stage crew were standing around quietly, not a whiff of tobacco from anywhere. That was strange I thought, until I espied the two firemen lolling in the wings. They eventually left to go and rest in the dressing rooms. The moment the stage door closed behind them, the fags were out, many having been cupped in hands. One member produced his smouldering cigar from his pocket, and another picked up his pipe from the table, its embers still glowing. The air was soon back to its normal thick pollution level.

I was the one who unintentionally solved the problem of the fire officers getting in our way, for once and for all. They had been bemoaning the fact that the next day Germany was playing some important game of football, and none of them wanted to do the theatre duty allocated - they had even drawn lots. “The men not very happy,” they told me. So, I said I had got a small black and white telly, and asked if that would do. Their faces lit up, and they assured me their colleagues would be delighted.

So the next night the firemen arrived, and I had set up the television in the most out-of-the-way place, behind the scenes, it was possible to be. They made their customary inspection of safety doors and the like, then settled down for the next three hours watching my little box. We kept them well supplied with beer, and everyone was happy.

From that moment on, a small television became an essential part of the stage manager’s equipment, regardless of whether there was any football to watch!

ome time ago, I had been in the company of Len Whittle and Bill Spencer, when they were talking about a Ladies’ Night. I asked them what it was all about, and why hadn’t I been invited. So I began to understand a little bit more about the Brotherhood, and in answer to Bill’s question “Are you interested?” I said “Yes!.” I also mentioned my supposed application with Jim Sollars some years previously, but that was with another lodge anyway, so was irrelevant. Subsequent enquiries by Bill showed that my application had never even been received, and I certainly had not been black balled.

And that was it. I was to learn that freemasons did not approach people, but waited to be asked by innocent members of the public. This attitude is changing now. So in October ‘82 I joined the freemasons, something that I was to enjoy and not regret. One can always resign if one wants to, and people do. Years later I knew of one chap who resigned because he remarried, and his new wife did not want him to be involved with anything that she could not join. Another chap was expelled because he was sent to prison. Yes, it’s a normal, healthy society, increasingly open with the public. We just keep the meetings private, that’s all.

n the mess, it was decided that we have a No1 Mess Casino Night. A gang of volunteers, led by Bryn Beckett and Ian Farquahar, from Kent School, were to be the organisers. Actually, we had previously given this a try out, to great acclaim, but this was to be a big swish affair, with black tie, the lot. I was to formally invite the Garrison Commander; the PMCs of the Senior officers Mess and the RAF Mess, as well as the Commander Education and various other big wigs.

The night went off extremely well, and was very well organised. We had been despondent at the number of regrets we had received, ‘owing to a prior engagement’ but the Brigadier had enjoyed himself. It was only in the post-mortem the next day that the penny dropped. In Her Majesty’s Armed Forces, there are two crimes punishable by court martial and instant dismissal - those separate acts of either homosexuality or gambling! And I had invited, to perform in one act, if not the other, the Garrison Commander, who is in charge of discipline; the PMC of the Senior Officers’ Mess, who was the chief security officer for BAOR; and the PMC of the RAF Mess, who was the provost marshal for RAF Germany!

Nothing was heard of the incident, and we marvelled at their discretion in turning down our invitations. I mentioned all this to the Commander Education, who merely laughed and said we may as well be slaughtered for a sheep, as for a lamb.

t school, Danny Strike was heavily into a change from the usual Shakespeare. I suppose it could well have been an alternative set piece for the GCE English literature examinations. It was Stoppard’s Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead. I was the stage manager, although there were props more than sets; in fact, this was one of many plays where my cyclorama came into its own, with special lighting effects that suggested the time of day or month of the year. Danny was a great one for stylisation and improvisation.

The play had mixed audience reviews - because it’s that kind of a play. I know that Jim Lovegrove was not too happy. He felt that the play that was difficult to comprehend. You have to look at these things from his point of view. He always had a special guest list, with drinks in his study at the interval. Now when the school play was a Sue Shaxon blockbuster, with kids, costumes, scenery and songs, there was always plenty to talk about as one mingled with a glass of sherry in hand. Even Shakespeare was reasonably marketable, as for many it would evoke memories of their own days at school. However, Stoppard was in a world of his own, and the conversation at the interval was stilted, to say the least. In fact, no one knew what to talk about, as they just did not understand the show!

heard about it next day. We’d had a good night in the mess, with quite a few RAF officers present. They rather liked it, mixing with schoolies and civvies, and it was part of a good on-going mess friendship. And, of course, I’m not too naïve to realise that male ‘outsiders’ always regard single female teachers as a sure touch - just waiting for them. Much the same in college days, when an invite to the nurses home was regarded as a passport to the realisation of all fantasies.

Anyway, late at night a couple of ‘em, no doubt lost as well as drunk, were spotted urinating behind the dining room door. When approached by a barman they had said that they couldn’t find the loos. Now I’ve been in some situations myself, and I’ve been lost and confused more times than I could possibly remember. But you can’t tell me that a bloke bursting for a pee is incapable of finding some way of getting outside - be it garden, sandpit, playground or car park. The homing instinct is always there.

I was given a good description of the two offenders, and pressure was put on me to let the PMC of the RAF officers’ mess know about it. So I composed a long, detailed letter, and put it in the forces post box on the Sunday evening.

I arrived at school shortly after eight o’clock, and the telephone went almost immediately. It was the PMC of the RAF mess, a Group Captain. The same one who was the Provost Marshal of RAF Germany! He was not happy with the substance of my letter, although I had cleverly made it clear that there could be no question of a direct accusation. He asked for a description of the two, which I was able to give him. In fact, he came round to my way of thinking and accepted that in the mess that night it had been either our own members or the RAF chaps. He even went as far as to say he thought he recognised whom it was. I accepted his apology, saying that we didn’t really expect anything else but that we thought these two chaps - for their own sakes and future prospects - should be sorted out whilst they were still young enough to change their habits. That was the last I heard of the incident.

I never met this Group Captain, and when Marj and I later accepted a routine invitation for Cheese & Wine at the RAF mess, I thought this would be the moment. However, a member of the committee, who introduced the entertainments member, met us. Not once did the PMC come over to us and say hello. We were official guests, for God’s sake, representing No 1 Mess. My opinion of their PMC was not therefore very high.

ueens school now did a play, for the young ones, called The Importance Of Being Differant. Brian Tarbitt who was the head of the faculty of English at the school had written this play. It was based on a very clever usage of all words ending in ‘ant’ - important, hesitant, and so on. All the kids were dressed as creatures - species of ant, naturally, - and there was the usual song, mime and dance. A jolly little show - but with no photographic record I just cannot recall my own involvement, other than being stage manager. This, of course, keeps one busy enough just keeping the cast organised - and quiet - behind the scenes, let alone worrying about scenery, props, or curtain cues.

he mess happy hour, on a Friday afternoon, happened without me knowing much about it. Apparently, I had given the ‘go-ahead, sounds good to me’ signal, in some vague moment, and the next thing I knew, it was happening.

For a long time some of our chaps had been moaning, quite rightly, that they couldn’t repay the hospitality of other messes, particularly other ranks messes and also some of the foreign - or NATO - messes, like the Dutch and the Belgians. They had advanced the argument that if these chaps could have a happy hour of a Friday, at 5pm, after work, why couldn’t we? Why not, indeed. So we did, and it was a rip-roaring success from the day of its inception. At 5pm cars would arrive in the mess car park, and by five-past-the-magic-hour the bar would be full of all sorts of people chatting - and drinking - away. There weren’t many none drinkers there - Marj was a notable exception - and, yes, I did have letters of complaint! I countered by saying that the cost of these happy hours was met by the profits generated by the bar itself, and that they could do like my wife, namely enjoy the company and have a soft drink.

I never had any complaint followed through, once I had given my reply.

ats had selected Trelawney Of The Wells as their festival play for ’83. It had a large cast, but there was no part for me as I was regarded as being more useful backstage. However, just a day after Jan Bradley had given me the full cast list, for inclusion in the next newsletter, she was at our married quarter, looking very forlorn. A couple of the chaps had dropped out, because of ‘unexpected pressure of work’ and she was now stuck. She felt awful about this, now having to ask two backstage boys whom she hadn’t selected in the first place. However, we were quite happy to tag along.

Trelawney is now regarded as something of a period piece. Our production is remarkable only because I have it on colour video. A very keen amateur used a good enough video camera, but in those days, it was lacking some of the sophistication to which we have now become accustomed.

One scene required me, sitting at the breakfast table, to throw pieces of bread into my mouth - I had to play up to my part of being an early twentieth century show-off! Now, whenever I have been in a bar and there are nuts on the counter, I have been one always to nibble away but never could I emulate those experts who could throw a nut in the air and catch it in their mouths. Now I was required to do just that. At rehearsals I had met with a modicum of success, but with three mandatory ‘throws’ - to fit in with the script, about me showing off again - the chances of even a direct hit on any one night were pretty slim. Well, it had to be the Saturday night, when the audience is usually more receptive (lunchtime sessions in the messes, of course) that I started my bad table manners, carefully listening to the script and taking aim on the first cue ‘there he goes again, showing off to the girls.’ I threw the bread in the air, half stood up to catch it, and scored a bullseye! Straight down my throat. The audience loved it, and a cheer went up, with a round of applause. The play continued with me readying myself for the second attempt. On cue, I leaned back in my chair, threw the crust into the air and - jackpot! - it went straight down the hatch! The large audience cheered and applauded - there were even a couple of catcalls. All eyes had been on me, without a doubt, and the script, dialogue and actions of other members of the cast were, at this point, of little consequence to the audience.

Unwittingly, I was committing the thespian’s cardinal sin - I was stealing the show. Unfortunately, I was required to throw the bread in the air just one more time. I just did not want to have to go through with it a third time. I simply knew my own limitations, and I knew that I would not catch it. I wanted to stop now, on a high, but when the cue line came, I had to perform - and missed. The moans and jeers from the audience were unmistakable. I know that some of them would think that I was deliberately playing the fool, not realising that I was working to a script. However, I must say that I enjoyed my moment of stardom, but I was glad when that scene was over. Fortunately, the cast did not hold it against me, and several were to say that they were riveted watching me, out of the corner of their eyes, to see if I would score yet a third time.

nother slight discipline problem in the mess. It so happened that Marj and I turned up at about ten thirty at night, having been to some function or other - indeed, it must have been something serious, because I was quite sober, not having had a drop. Anyway, there was Malcolm Brown, the living out member, rather drunk. He made a beeline for me, arms around me, what a wonderful PMC I was, the lot. Most embarrassing. In fact, it was just too much for me, envying his insobriety, and we managed to slink away, drinks unfinished (unheard of!) just to get away from him.

Sadly, things went downhill from there. Malcolm not only got worse but also resorted to verbal, then physical abuse, and finally violence. For reasons that no one could quite understand, he targeted a very mild visitor to the mess, one of HM Couriers who carried the diplomatic bags. He was quite well known to us, this courier, but he now found himself ducking to avoid Malcolm’s swinging arms. Eventually the members managed to turf Malcolm outside, and point him in the direction of his married quarter.

I was briefed early in the morning by Duncan Fraser, our school bursar, a well-known trencherman himself - but placid with it. He said “Let’s hope it all dies down quietly; at least, no-one was hurt. But I think some of the girls were a bit upset by his language.” Naturally, I hoped it would all die down quietly, as well. I liked Malcolm, although this physical side to his drunken state surprised me.

Well, the problem did not go away. I had three damned letters of complaint in my pigeonhole at school, before eight thirty in the morning. They were from the females (of course) who objected to the whole incident and wanted to know what action I was going to take. Shit. What do I do - tell Malcolm that he’s a naughty boy? I did not want to take the thing high up, and would like to keep it in-house, but these females out for scalps (probably including mine) had a point, and it had to be answered.

I telephoned Bob Quille, the senior member, and the Assistant Civil Secretary. He would be able to advise me. Well, it so happened that Malcolm was also in the civil secretariat, and he was in Bob Quille’s department, so Bob was his immediate superior officer (the one who writes his annual report). To top it all, Bob was the discipline officer for the whole of Civ Sec in BAOR and Berlin. Oh! hell - will it affect Malcolm’s future, which is just what I did not want.

I spoke to Bob for well over half an hour, during the lunch break. He was most sympathetic, and said that I had done right to contact him. Like me, he thought it should not get out of hand and be blown up out of all proportion, but some action was certainly necessary. I gave Bob my permission to tell Malcolm that it was I who had given him, Bob, the full details, and that I was on M’s side - up to a point.

Later that day, the verdict was reached. Malcolm would resign as living out member, he would not enter the portals of the mess for the next three months, and he would write a letter of apology to the three women who had complained, and a letter to me.

Malcolm did all this with good grace, and we remained on cordial terms, with no rancour. He was even later able to enjoy mess functions, with no repetition of this one-off incident. The matter closed there, and presumably, the females were happy with their letters of apology.

he three Rheindahlen societies decided to join up and try to repeat the success of the grand opening a year ago, when we had a music hall. This time they called it Mixed Spice, which was a ‘summer revue’ with some old and some contemporary singing numbers. Even Marj was coerced into singing, but I contented myself with helping FOH. (Come to think of it, they didn’t even ask me to sing)

This year, the Little Theatre now had a proper stage, and auditorium. So rather than sitting at tables all evening, we merely had a lengthy, extended interval, with a three-course meal and wine, in the lounge bar area. You have to try these things once, and it went down well enough. In fact, a few months later Marj and I were invited to one of the Möenchengladbach theatres for a similar kind of show-followed-by-supper-evening. It’s all good clean fun.

In fact, it was at our show that I, as the only society secretary the garrison could contact, opened up the little theatre particularly early so that the security boys, with sniffer dogs, could give the place the once over. I would take them around the Little Theatre, showing them all they wanted to see. No nook or cranny was left untouched. The VIP that night was to be Air Marshal Sir Paddy Hine, C-in-C RAF Germany; I had a brief chat with him, as he wanted to know what to do with his cigar when the order to enter the auditorium was given! Together we put it on an ashtray, and I showed him the hiding place to use - behind the price list on the bar. I was to see him find it at the interval; so I was pleased that no one had tidied up and thrown it away.

bout now, I suppose, I stood down as PMC for the second time, after a combined total of 3½ years in the office. I would proudly say to anyone who would listen, “That’s a world record!” I had been aware that Bob Quille was looking very thin, and was shattered when, that summer in England, Len and Jan Whittle said “It’s a shame about Bob, isn’t it?” What? Yes! he had cancer and had got only a short time to live. I was stunned, as he had seemed lively enough when we last spoke. I went to his funeral that Autumn.

It was Jim Luxon who took over from me, as PMC. He had been a living-in member for a while, awaiting the allocation of a married quarter, and I think he rather liked the glossy-image side of the job. Certainly he was horrified, the day after he was voted in, to discover the amount of paper work that the job entailed. As the director of the British Forces Broadcasting Service, North West Europe, he did not really want that sort of involvement. Anyway, he was a good figurehead, did not put a foot wrong, and gratefully handed over when his six months were up!

t was during the summer months that we finally ‘took the plunge’ and booked a package holiday, for ourselves, Julian, and Lucy, for two weeks in Greece. We went with Holiday Club International (HCI), to a resort a good couple of hours drive away from Athens. This was the type of holiday that Marj had talked me into last year.

It took two or three days for me to accept it as being a good holiday, for the children, and I even started to enjoy it myself. By the second week, I was joining in the club dances. It was an excellent holiday for us all, but particularly the youngsters who had fourteen days of non-stop involvement, action and friendship. We must do this again!

Even so, I found Greece a bit primitive, and the family were fed up with me using that well-worn cliché ‘…. And this is supposed to be the cradle of civilisation! …’

e were back in time to help Rats with their first full-length production in the little theatre, The Noble Spaniard. We helped FOH, and the show was quite a happy little affair - small audiences of around one hundred maximum. But even small shows still involve the same amount of work, onstage with scenery, the bar and kiosk with supplies, and so on. The only small thing about such a show is its venue.

n the Times Educational Supplement I saw a nice little job for me - as head of the technology faculty - at Eton College, Windsor, Berkshire. Well, I sent off for the application form, together with a job description. The latter was most intriguing, and I eventually gave a copy to our director of education (he was one of my referees, anyway, together with the brigadier education, and my headmaster). In fact, I thought that my strong field of referees would outweigh the shortcomings of my application, but I heard no more about the job.

he next school production was Twelfth Night with me as stage manager yet again; this time I had two fifth form boys as ASM’s, that gave them some responsibility. Danny Strike was the producer for this, and asked me if we could put something on the stage floor so that we could paint it. The stage floor was of beautifully polished wooden parquet, but it did not lend itself to the right scenic atmosphere as it reflected like a mirror.

I assured Danny that there was no problem, and instructed Her Dahlems to lay large sheets of hardboard all over the stage for this purpose. He had asked me if he should nail them down, and I had said that he could not, as he would damage the flooring. Anyway, he came back to me and said that the hardboard was in place but that it curled at the corners, and it was generally rather buckled anyway. In exasperation, I said that he could gently locate any raised bits with small tacks, but no more than absolutely necessary.

One of my faculty colleagues came up to me, at the end of that morning’s break time, and told me that Geoff Bailey, the deputy head, was apoplectic. He had seen Herr Dahlems, with his trademark hammer in his hand, merrily banging nails through the hardboard, and into the stage floor. This early warning gave me a little bit of time to think of an answer, when the time came, which it did very shortly after. Geoff had calmed down a bit, but was still furious (why the hell he should have been is still beyond my comprehension). Anyway, I did not have to justify amateur theatricals as Geoff was very sympathetic, being an accomplished musician himself. It was all a question of how the stage would be restored to its former sheen and glory. I told him that I felt a few small tacks were not the end of the world, but he said that I was underestimating both the number and size of the tacks that Herr Dahlems was using. I could believe this. Herr Dahlems was renowned for his thuggery when it came to basic carpentry, and I can well imagine him having given the whole thing away by bashing hell out of the hardboard and drawing everyones’ attention to his activity.

Anyway, Twelfth Night went down well, with a clever use of my false cyclorama for silhouettes of trees and characters, and the stage floor had been brilliantly painted as flag stones by Paul Reece. I never heard another thing about that damned stage floor, and the hardboard sheets were never removed. At the end of the production my two ASM’s loved spending an hour painting it a neutral grey, and so it remained until it was next painted for theatrical effect.

Of course, the original parquet flooring was most impressive, and ideally should have been covered with a proper stage cloth; I remain at peace knowing that when they can afford one, the floor underneath will be as good as new, having been well protected all these years!

he Rats pantomime was going to be Jack & The Beanstalk and I was one of Leif’s trusted group to read his script weeks before he finalised it. I did this very conscientiously and wrote copious notes with suggestions. He always considered them and indeed adopted many of my ideas. For example, he was going to have as the audience song “You put left your left arm out, your left arm in, your left arm out and you shake it all about….” It was Marj who drew my attention to the total impracticality of such a song. Not only was it a danger to the audience with fists flying in all directions (just imagine the childrens’ matinée!) but what would they do with their feet when the song came to that bit? I could also see the difficulty of getting one half of the theatre competing against the other half. In due course, I was able to let Leif hear my old tape of “Oh! I do like a dumpling in my stewdle oodle ooh!” He liked that, particularly the audience participation, and agreed with our recommendation, changing the song.

However, I was having other reservations about this pantomime - about taking a major part in it at all. In this case as the dame - Jack’s mother. Two years previously, when it was last Rats’ turn, I had been Widow Twanky, two years before that I was Queen Coke and before that, Buttons. I honestly felt that I ought to quit whilst at a peak (if ever I was) rather than to ‘feel’ the critics saying “Oh! not him again!”

The trouble was how do I put this across to a producer. I must put my doubts to him and at the same time not appear to be too presumptive. I therefore planned my strategy and telephoned Leif. I told him all the foregoing, and said that I would, of course, do it if he was satisfied there was no-one else, but that I felt it would be good for the society to show that it did not have to rely on one person. In addition, it would encourage others to come forward in the future; knowing that no member had a monopoly on any type of role. I assured Leif that I would be available for any lesser part, and would certainly help behind the scenes in any capacity.

As I made the call there was silence at the other end - the first time I had known Leif lost for words. I assured him that I was not abandoning the society, and would be his number one fan and trusty at all times. None-the-less I felt that I had knocked the wind out of Leif’s sails; he had obviously been planning his potential cast with me as the dame.

That night we held auditions and I, along with many others, read all sorts of different parts (including the dame). Leif naturally gave no indication of how he was going to appoint his cast, as he was having another couple of auditions anyway, and I never mentioned my earlier telephone call either to him or anyone else. We had this confidentiality; neither I, he, nor the two or three others involved with reading the script ever let on what we had said or recommended.

The part of the dame was finally offered to a very talented actor in the society - his first reaction was “But what about Dave….?” He was assured that I was more than happy with the (slightly) lesser part of Pat the Cowman. This in fact was a great role, having the panto cow as my friend and ally. I was also the dame’s ‘gofer’ so I spent just about as much time on the stage as I would have done as the dame.

One of the show-stoppers was at the start of Act II when we two, plus the two rent collectors, appeared through the stage trap door, which was cleverly disguised as the top of the beanstalk. We then had a very catchy yodelling song, which had the audience clapping their hands, and stamping their feet to the rhythm. We always had a couple of encores, and it became a final reprise for the panto at the end of the show.

I was happy with my initial decision not to stand as the dame, and I think everyone else thought that the cast was well appointed.

n March 1984 my mother finally passed away, after some months of illness. I returned for her funeral. Then just a couple of months later, in May, father also died after a wasting sickness.

In the mess, Ernst, the barman, said, “It’s best that way, Dave that they go together.”

We all harbour many happy memories of times past, and of childhood, and I think that is the most fitting tribute.

ack in Rheindahlen, Rats were in full swing for their festival entry, G B Shaw’s Heartbreak House. I was billed as ASM for this, and Marj was on the sweet kiosk, as well as having helped slosh some paint onto the set.

The producer was Brigadier Bernard Fullerton - a legend for brusqueness in his own lifetime. As the father of actress and sometime Bond movie star, Fiona Fullerton, he certainly wore his rank at all times. Here I was fortunate; as a civilian teacher, and as the secretary of the society, I had ready access to him and we were on first name terms. In fact, it says quite something about the man, when a Lt Colonel in the British Army has to ask me to approach him and find out whether they could call him by his first name, or did it always have to be Sir!

Well I asked Bernard, who immediately wanted to know who had asked me to approach him. However, I was ready for this, and I countered that it was me who thought it a bit strange that some members chose to be formal with him. I would like to think that they could all follow the example of my several pupils in the society, who loved calling me by my first name on club nights, and in the theatre, but knew exactly how to address me when in school.

That did the trick, and he said “Of course they can call me by my first name.” So I spread the word and, gingerly at first, one then another started to use his first name. It worked well, and eventually Bernard himself could be ordered around - in the theatre - by his subordinates. And why not, because the chairman of the society, also a Brigadier, did exactly as he was told.

In fact, Brigadier Stuart Lee, Commander Education, was very approachable and I was one of the few who had direct access to him. Stuart had been a national service sergeant instructor, two or three years ahead of me. He then went on to university, and after gaining his degree, re-joined the corps – now as an officer. So there you are! It’s easy for some! He was later to become a Major General, the Director of Army Education.

His secretary soon got to know my voice, and would put me through at any time. In fact, on one occasion, she said to me, “He has got Colonel Welton and Major Etherington in with him, at the moment. Should I interrupt them, do you think?” I was able to assure her that these two officers were Rats ‘trustees’, and that my information would be helpful to their discussions. I was renowned in the society for being the only one who could telephone either of the two brigadiers, and speak to them immediately, without the usual ‘Hold the line please and I’ll see if he’s available.’ (This of course is the usual euphemism for ‘I’ll see if he really wants to speak to you.’)

My complete triumph was one lunch-time when, by arrangement, their staff car arrived in the drive at school - pennant flying, badge of rank on the front and rear - and two brigadiers on the back seat. They were going home to lunch, but came via my school to pass on to me some notes, to be included in the monthly newsletter. Their unofficial visit caused a few eyes to pop, I can tell you.

had an interview at Burgess Hill in West Sussex. This looked exciting, not least because it was only ten or fifteen miles from our flat in Rustington and would therefore suit us just fine. I was looking forward to this one and, on paper, it looked like it was just the job for me.

On arrival at the school, which was nice and clean and looked inviting, I was met by the outgoing head of department. Ancient. Disillusioned. No vitality. His room was the metalwork room - my heart sank - and he showed me a hovercraft-type thing he was building with the boys. “You’ll be able to finish this,” he said, “If you get the job; but I don’t know how you’ll get the engine to work - it’s knackered.”

That was it. I may just as well have left the school straight away. In fact, the many references during the rest of the day to this hovercraft, and the hope that the successful candidate would see it launched, was most unsettling for all the candidates. I was in the wrong place, for the wrong job. As ever, I made my reservations known, and as ever I was assured that the timetable could accommodate the wishes of the incoming teacher. But I know that to be balls; no head wants the pain of re-doing a timetable, and giving himself problems.

I didn’t get the job, and I often wonder whether the successful candidate ever got that thing launched. To be fair to the school, they gave each candidate a post-mortem on their interviews; I had the headmaster, in privacy, who went over my performance. He said that I was the most relaxed candidate, obviously not at all nervous, but a little too anecdotal. I was grateful for his comments, and was sorry not to have got a job in West Sussex.

n the August of ‘84, we went on another package holiday with HCI, this time to Majorca and the northeast of the island, at Cala Mesquida. It was fantastic, and we all loved it. I would encourage all families, if they can afford it, to go on this kind of holiday. It helps when the weather is so kind, of course.

built and painted a nice set for Leif’s next Rats production of Once A Rake. I also took the liberty of writing to the co-authors, Harold Brooke and Kay Bannerman. Their reply was included in the programme, and I think Leif was quietly delighted. He arranged for us all to sign a programme, which I then sent on to them together with some of Leif’s photographs. I passed the authors’ profuse thanks to everyone in my next newsletter.

e had one hell of a good thrash at the RAF Officers’ Mess October Fest, with Len and me not being able to control the amount of Jegermeister one could down in an evening. Moreover, this wicked schnapps was meant to be only a starter. I finished lying in the road, with my white raincoat on, saying to Marj that I wanted to be a white line. The next day I bemoaned the fact that it was all because we had not paced ourselves very well. Because of this, we formed the No1 Mess Pacing Sub-Committee. There were various stupid qualifications for membership, the main one of which was that you had to have the ability to blame someone else for your downfall. I think the only useful thing we did was to keep ourselves amused with correspondence blaming others for our weaknesses. It must have been around now that I, as the President of this quango, was christened (Lord) Hunt of Heineken.

had for some time now been doing the billboards for Rats. These are large, framed boards which hang over the balcony of the garrison theatre, and advertise our forthcoming production. We generally put them up when we move into the theatre - a good two weeks before the show. This means that everyone in HQ BAOR and NATO sees the boards, and knows what’s going on next. Now we decided to increase our advertising by painting a large, twenty or thirty feet long banner, which hangs across Queens Avenue. Needless to say, it was my job to paint the banner; funnily enough, although I have photographs of all my billboards, we never bothered to take one of the banners - I suppose because they are not particularly photogenic.

eif produced Goodnight Mrs Puffin in the little theatre, and Marj and I helped FOH and general dogsbodying around the place. Whereas we all liked the cosyness of the little theatre, we put in as much effort as for the main garrison theatre, but only received a quarter of the return - because of the physical limitations. It therefore became something of a bone of contention as some people wanted the bigger, glitzier venue - particularly if they were involved - whilst others felt that the smaller venue would encourage new, and younger, talent. The arguments still rage.

t had been arranged for some months that the Art & CDT Course would be held at Queens school. It took place over a weekend and one school day and, inevitably, I was involved non-stop with materials, machinery, equipment and so on. In fact, when the advisers had arrived - I knew one of them from a previous visit - I met up with them in the mess bar and the first question they asked me was “What’s this meeting for, tomorrow morning (a Saturday), with your head?” I explained that it was at my request, before they went on a two-week tour of duty up-country, to arrange for everything they would need for the course - including rooms, lecture theatre and so on. I said that I wanted to produce a full timetable so that everyone at the school would know what was going on, and particularly to avoid clashes of venue.

My thicko colleague, Dave Williams, had declared a few days before the course started “It’s going to be a complete waste of time, you know.” I couldn’t be bothered to answer him but, fortunately, the deputy head was present and took him to task. He asked him how he knew it was going to be a waste, and so on. That silenced the stroppy little runt. Of course, he was right in that it was a complete waste of time - for him - but most of us benefited from the contact and liaison with others.

I prepared a document summarising the course, and was able to issue it as all the course members - some forty colleagues - were leaving. I also send a copy to HQ SCS. I received a nice letter of thanks from the Senior Adviser. I had not been creeping, merely doing something that I felt I could do fairly well, and also lining my nest against the day I would need some help when the time came for me to leave Germany. It would do no harm having a couple of advisers, from different LEA’s, on my side. (In fact, I didn’t need the advisers to set me up, but Martin Baker in Berlin was offered a nice little number when his time came to move on).

he mess had celebrated Christmas in its own unique way for some three years now. I always remember the first time, which was an almost impromptu gathering in the bar. The piano was wheeled in from the lounge, and we had free mince pies and glühwein (a hot punch-type concoction). The carols we sang heartily from hymn sheets that someone had produced. It was a very sincere gathering, and even Ralph Lucock (a cadaverous MI5 chap who emerged from his room only for meals) was seen in the corner of the bar (Wow! - Ralph Lucock was seen in the bar!).

The following year it was decided, against my wishes, to move the mess carol service into the lounge, and to have a properly prepared ‘order of service.’ There were to be a few soloists from the garrison church doing a turn, with mess members reading Christmas stories. Plus all the favourite carols, with mince pies to follow. I was aghast. It was one thing to bring Christmas to the mess bar, which looked very festive during the month of December, but to drag the bar members into the lounge - well, er, the bar members wouldn’t like it.

I was mollified by a couple of things. First, it would all be over by mid-evening and, secondly, I was asked to give one of the readings in truly sonorous PMC-style. So it came to pass, despite my misgivings and, I have to confess, it was a tremendous success and was repeated each year thereafter. I was embarrassed the first time to receive a couple of letters of thanks for an inspiring evening. I duly passed these on.

The No 1 Mess carols became an event of great envy in other messes. Numbers had to be restricted. We had our two Holy Representatives, in Father Bill Boyd and Rev Norman Daniels, and everyone seemed to dress up smartly, Indeed, the performers (soloists and readers) were all in DJs. The evening finished with the usual mince pies and wine, with a happy hour declared by the PMC to follow. Great days, now a distant memory.

plea was put out for other societies to assist Ariel with their pantomime Sinbad The Sailor. It was being produced by Wing Commander Noel James, whom I had known previously. Our chairman asked for volunteers, and Marj and I said we would help FOH - which we did for the ten-performance run. January ’85 was particularly cold, and I was behind the bar, in dinner suit and bow tie, but incongruously wearing my bright blue moon boots (hidden from public view). Marj was similarly protected. We saw parts of their panto, which had some good features but, I don’t care what anybody says, the old traditional shows are the best. The story line of Sinbad just did not seem to work.

A word of thanks, or an after-show letter, goes a long way. We had slaved in freezing conditions for ten days - and they were short staffed, and needed us, let’s face it - but not one word of appreciation ever came our way. We had for some time felt that Ariel were losing their way, and for us this proved it. Apart from a handful of excellent old-timers, they seemed to be drifting, and little things like this do not enhance their reputation.

or some time, the question of a World Flat Earth Society had exercised our minds, in the mess bar. I even wrote to the Flat Earth Society, London, asking for details. After some three or four weeks my envelope and letter were returned by the post office, with the words ‘not known.’ I then wrote to the Daily Telegraph asking them if it still existed, and I have their letter dated 11^th February 1985, “ …. The Flat Earth Society did exist, but no longer does. …”

Talk of ties, badges, going public etc. then became a reality, and finally I advertised - on the mess notice board - ‘(The) Inaugural Meeting of the World Flat earth Society.’ The day arrived and all half dozen of us loony living-out members duly assembled in the mess bar, as we did on an almost daily basis.

After very little discussion we made each other officers of this new society, with myself as world president; Bill Spencer as the world RAF representative; Father Bill Boyd as the World Spiritual member. Then we had a social member. A chap who was down from Berlin became the world perimeter member (he had argued with us about where the world ended, and whether one dropped off). Bunny, a favourite dog, who came into the bar with his master, was given an extra cube of ice, and was made the world canine member. I still have the minutes of this extraordinary gathering. One can say that all this kept us out of trouble, although sceptics might argue that we should not really be allowed to roam unleashed.

must just tell you about a wonderful incident regarding ‘rank’ and ‘name-dropping’. This major arrived at Rats, and started to help behind the scenes. He therefore came under ‘my wing’ straight away, as I was at the time wearing both hats, those of society secretary and stage manager for the next production. Fairly early on, I came to the conclusion that he had joined Rats not to pursue his thespian interests, but merely to make contact with senior ranks. Anyway, during the course of the evening, he had become rather aggressive in his attitude to teachers, whom he regarded as parasites. He hated the fact that I had the same field rank as he did. I had heard all of his arguments before – many times. I did not respond.

On cue, the first of our two brigadiers arrived. I was to discover that the major recognised both, but had not actually met either of them. On each occasion he stood smartly to attention, although we were in civvies, and greeted the brigadier with “Good evening, sir!” I then came into my own, with “Oh! Stuart! May I introduce Major so-and-so. He is a new member who is joining us.” They would then shake hands, and polite small talk would take place. They would then turn to me, ignoring the major, and start to discuss serious business. First names between us, of course, with the major holding the deferential line.

And so the major dropped his rank, and from that moment on he treated both Marj and myself with some respect. We were obviously high up, and well known in the society, and words of criticism against our civilian station would not go down well – even the major had enough intelligence to realise that. We never heard another word against teachers again.

In our small strasse, there were majors, civilians, and a retired lieutenant colonel. The latter was our next door neighbour, and my stock rose high the day the brigadier’s staff car was parked outside my house. Bernard Fullerton had come to discuss an article for the next Rats newsletter. I made a point of going to his car, to see him off. I loved it seeing the twitching curtains. My neighbour knew Bernard, and could not refrain from asking me, at the earliest opportunity, what the visit was about. I just love name-dropping, when it helps me to even the score.

t was time for a little theatre production, and we helped with the two-play bill called Double Yolk. We were FOH plus spare stagehands when needed. This was a February production, and was regarded as one of our low-season plays. We were also, at this time of year, starting rehearsals for the festival play. The little theatre was a good idea. I’m sure many an amateur society would love such premises.

he director of the Soldiers, Sailors, and Airmans’ Families Association, SSAFA, had asked the school if they would like to set a competition for their pupils to design a suitable poster to do with the Ethiopian clothing appeal. This task came my way, and I was asked to judge them in order of merit so that one could be put into print. All this was done, as part of the teaching programme of course, and it was gratifying for us all to see the winning entry displayed all around the garrison. A nice, gushing letter of thanks from the director of SSAFA came my way. Good for the c.v. perhaps, but I never put such things to any use.

nice job was advertised in Southampton. Just right for me, and close enough to Rustington to consider some kind of commuting, at least to start with. The school wanted a head of faculty of design, which was a new post. They were all at it now! There were just three of us for the interview, a young lad who knew he wouldn’t get the job but the adviser had told him to get some interview experience, and an older chap with verbal diarrhoea. The latter talked incessantly about his garden and livestock, and what time he got up in the morning, and more significantly, what time he left school in the afternoon to get home and tend to the flock. What a wanker - yet he got the job.

It was the same old story. I just could not face full-time metalwork, which is what they wanted, and I had to tell them of my reservation. I could see how I would have fitted in with the other heads of department, who all had a chat with me, as I understood their anxieties at being a member of a new faculty. After the interview, the adviser said to me that there were very few jobs now going at my scale of appointment. He said there had been only two in the whole of Hampshire in the last year, and probably my only chance would be in London. I thanked him for this, and ruefully wonder how the headmaster felt when the talents and interests of his new appointee became apparent. I wonder how many of them say ‘I wish now I’d appointed that other candidate.’

Still yet again, Marj and I visited Southampton (a year or two later) on a day trip, and yet again felt that the area to which we had aspired had little to offer us. In fact, Southampton is one of those places that you go to once - usually because you have to - and then you never go there again. We didn’t like it. - it had no character. We were glad we did not finish up there (when we had, by then, got something better) but at the time we were, of course, disappointed.

was stage manager for Leif’s next Rats festival entry, in April 1985, The Gioconda Smile. We spent a lot of time on that set, which had in Act II a prison cell complete with roof - it looked very realistic and creepy, with heavy stone walls and shadows. The Fullertons starred in this, and were very good to their stage manager; there is no doubt I have them on my side.

It is a feature of all shows that, on the last night we have an on-stage party, with speeches and presentations. These were always good fun, as far as I was concerned, with plenty of nibbles and booze. Invariably, either in my capacity as stage manager or as secretary of the society, I would say a few words about the producer and then make the presentation, on behalf of the company. Leif loved these moments when he was stage centre. We all knew he would go on and on, and so everyone would look for a seat and make themselves comfortable - although it might be close to midnight. Leif would then go through the programme (and his own notes) and say something nice about every single member of the company, a highly dangerous exercise for fear of missing even one person, but he always managed it. The evening ended with a plea for helpers at eight o’clock in the morning, to strike the set and clear the stage.

This latter was a great effort, but I always made it when I was stage manager, mainly because I was the one who had to draw the key from the garrison guard room. Other times, and particularly towards the end of my days in Rheindahlen, I would relax a little, and reach the theatre by mid morning. I have to hand it to Leif and say that he never missed one session, and was always amongst the first to arrive.

n August ‘85 we again went to Majorca, to our favourite place of the day, Cala Mesquida, but this time with only Lucy. Julian had reached the age when he had more important things to do. Again, we were not disappointed with our choice of venue; Lucy always made friends easily, whilst Marj and I spent many a time walking through the small woods to nearby Cala Ratjada. We enjoyed the evening entertainments, which went on until midnight, with the usual disco until the early hours. It was always a relaxing time for us.

t school, we started to prepare for a big drama extravaganza, namely Bugsy Malone. The big feature of the show was the splurge guns. I must have made dozens of them. They had a canister of the splurge stuff fixed where the trigger would be. The kids loved playing with them, so we had to control their use to rehearsals only. There was a danger of running out of the splurge, so we had to order a new crate of the stuff from Naafi. The cast used to love being members of the splurge squad, detailed to clear up the mess on the stage and in the hall. This was a feature of Danny Strike productions - use the auditorium; take the cast amongst the audience, row by row if necessary.

t was early in September 1985 that I had my notice to quit BAOR. My time was up, after what would be twenty-two years unbroken service. I waited until I had all members of the faculty of design together, on the following Monday morning for a timetabled meeting. A couple had asked if they could be excused, but I said “No! I’ve got something important that I want to say to everyone, at the same time.”

There had been no time for speculation, although there was an anticipatory hush as we started. - there were nine of us. I told them the news, emphasising that I would not be ‘boat happy’ until the last school day in July next year. I also said that I would be looking for jobs, and would keep them informed. They were all shocked, as the news hadn’t leaked out and they were not expecting it. I must have seemed like a permanent fixture, and one could not contemplate my removal. However, big changes were afoot, with Queens school amalgamating with nearby Kent school. Over the coming months many heads of faculty would be applying for their own jobs, with the unlucky one being offered a head of year post, or something similar. In my case, it would have meant that I would have been against my opposite number from Kent school, for the job of head of faculty of design, in what was to be called Windsor school. Anyway, I was to leave, and so he kept his job.

Rheindahlen is a great goldfish bowl, and I had wanted to nip any rumours before they even started. So by telling the members of my faculty the facts, and letting them see the letter, was one way. I told them that if they hear any falsehoods - like ‘He’s been asked to leave,’ or ’He’s been sacked,’ or ‘He’s been told not to re-apply,’ then they now know otherwise. They can merely say that my number is up, and that I am at the end of my tour (with the grace and favour one-year’s extension). I had done seven tours, and I had no chip on my shoulder.

It was gratifying to receive a lot of sympathy, from colleagues in both schools. Some were even suggesting that I should complain, and make an appeal. But I knew that this was it - the end had come. Now to start looking for a job back home.

he next Rats low-season production was Arnold Ridley’s The Ghost Train. The author became well known to millions of television viewers as Private Godfrey in Dad’s Army. I was ASM for this show, as well as being FOH and, would you believe it, I actually had a cast part as well; I can’t remember a thing about this latter, but it entailed a brief walk-on cameo with a couple of throw-away words like ‘move along there’. In effect, I was a crowd scene. I do remember that I painted the banner for it, initially in ghostly-type writing. However, as I had done this during one Saturday afternoon, after a lunchtime session, it looked ghastly - rather than ghostly - and the next day I repainted it in a more conventional style.

was now stage manager at school for the next Shakespeare punishment, Measure For Measure. The producer was somewhat untried, and I had little to do with him other than for the basic set and large props. The show, as with many such school productions, relies heavily on costume, and the cast knowing their words. The interpretation and delivery of the latter is of course the very essence of successful Shakespeare. A bit beyond me, I’m afraid.

eif had been working on his script for the Rats’ 85/86 pantomime Cinderella. Knowing that I had been Buttons some years previously, and at my request, he put me in the cast as one of the Ugly Sisters. I was paired with Keith Harding, a tall angular type from PSA, so visually we looked ridiculous, which is what we wanted. Marj spent some weeks knitting a sock for Keith to pull off his feet, when trying on the slipper. This sock was some thirty feet long, and we employed several courtiers to pull it off.

I found it increasingly difficult to work with Keith. He even used to pinch my lines, or my little mannerisms. Why are lanky people so dozy? His voice became increasingly loud, so that he was able to shout me out, and I felt quite uninspired in his presence. I was able to pour my heart out to Leif at the after show party. Without hesitation Leif, who never speaks ill of anyone, said that Keith had not got my experience, so he had to play on his own limited talents for all its worth. Yes, Leif had sensed my reticence but kindly said that I had been essential for the continuity of the parts - without me, reining-in Keith’s excesses he felt that things could have got out of hand.

hortly after the panto finished I announced in a newsletter that it was time for a volunteer to come forward and take over as secretary of Rats. A captain in the army was duly forthcoming, of his own volition, and no doubt with an eye on his future promotion. He was aghast when I gave him the numerous cardboard boxes full of archives. He had assumed that, as I only ever walked around with a clip file making notes, that was it. I had a nice letter from Brigadier Stuart Lee giving Marj and myself honorary membership of the society, in recognition of all that we had done over the years.

he small, low-season play for Rats was produced by a major, and was called Same Time Next Year. Marj and I helped on the set and also helped FOH - in the usual offices, Marj on sweeties, and washing up, me on the bar and swilling down (work that out for yourself).

he final Rats epic, was to be produced by an army captain - Howard Eaton, a member of the security services – and was called The Roses Of Eyam. I had been on the committee, many months previously, when Howard pleaded for the go-ahead for this, our festival entry. We had not been all that enthusiastic because of the numbers of people he wanted in the cast, exactly sixty of them, all in period costume. However, two things swayed the day. First, he was so enthusiastic and said that he had loads of friends who would fill the many non-speaking parts. Secondly, there was no other producer on the horizon with a play. Take it or leave it.

Howard got the go-ahead and the result was spectacular. Marj and I helped with the decor, and I have to say that some of the cutout silhouettes against the cyclorama were superb. In addition, we both had a small part, and it is interesting to see the programme, which features the photograph - postage stamp size - of every member of the cast, showing their position on the family tree. Most die off, from the plague, and I was able to spend an hour and a half at No 1 mess bar every evening, before Marj came to pick me up for the final curtain call. Bless her. She herself had changed, and was working the FOH sweet kiosk. It was one hell of a show, and full marks to Howard for doing it - here’s a guy who put his arms and his feet where his mouth is.

This show brought home something else to me. I was no longer secretary of the society. I had not been for a couple of months now - and, for the first time in twelve years, I was seeing people whom I did not know. In the past, I had been the one that every new arrival either met first, or was introduced to straight away. I knew every member of the Rhine Army Theatre Society, and they all knew me. Now, we had all these newcomers whom Howard had found, and I didn’t know any of them and, even more hurtful, they did not know me. I was a bum, of no consequence. They were even beginning to take over on club nights. My time was up - come on Marj, let’s go.

t seems amazing now, but during that final summer term in Rheindahlen neither of us had a job to go back to and yet we weren’t the least bit worried about it. We were both in senior posts, and had therefore been (unsuccessfully) looking for similar jobs; nothing less would do - at this stage. Of course, our strength lay in the fact that there were no unemployed teachers around, and we were confident that we would both get an ordinary classroom job, at the top of the basic scale, without any difficulty. So, we felt financially secure. In fact, our ‘Plan A’ was to return in July and merely send our cv’s to the education department, where-ever that is in West Sussex, and wait for the offers to come pouring in.

It was because of this lackadaisical approach that we then started to think about our area of operation, and the distance we could travel each day. I still remembered the comment from the adviser in Southampton, that London was the only place where I would pick up a scale post at my level. London? Could we afford it? The plan then started to evolve that, if I managed to get a job there, I could merely live in digs and travel home at weekends; we even considered daily travel - as many do. But London? - really!

You must remember that during the early 80’s, the GLC was in full operation, as well as ILEA, both ‘a thorn in Maggie’s flesh,’ and political correctness was the order of the day. Educational advertisements, for posts in London, therefore became essential staff-room reading throughout Britain, every Friday morning, just to see what outrageous job descriptions there were. Things like “Sexual orientation, political leaning, physical disability, lack of proper qualification and experience are of no importance and in fact more extreme applications are particularly welcomed.” The London Borough of Brent was a particular hotbed, and not unnaturally, there were always many vacancies as incumbents managed to get away to jobs elsewhere. I actually sent off for a job description, but couldn’t bring myself to fill in the form. But it gave us a good laugh.

o I came across an advert for a job in Walthamstow, London, E17. I sent off for further details, saying that I had seen their advert and that I was on a Scale 4 post and was naturally looking for something similar. The forms came back, together with the usual job description, and eventually I decided to do nothing about it, particularly as they had made no mention of Scale 4 posts, the highest being for a Scale 3.

A few days later I had a telephone call in my office at school. “Is that Mr Hunt? - Oh!, er, this is the education department at Walthamstow. We haven’t received your application yet, and we wondered whether it had got lost. You are still interested in a post, aren’t you?”

So I explained about the Scale 4 bit. “Oh! don’t worry about that; no problem there at all. Do you think you could come for an interview next Monday? What time would you like? And could you send off the application form today so that we get it by the end of the week?”

So that was it. I managed to take most of the day off school, and filled the form in - as neatly as I could, but still feeling ‘this can’t be true’ and ‘it sounds as though the job’s mine’ and ‘do I really want to go there?’ By the time Marj arrived home from work, I had already booked my crossing for the Sunday. We were both a little bit excited, particularly at the prospect of a continuance of my career, on Scale 4, rather than a sudden and drastic drop.

The rest is now history. A friendly interview with the CDT adviser and the deputy chief education officer, and the post was mine. Because of the re-organisation going on in Waltham Forest, even the headmaster wasn’t allowed to see me, until I had been appointed! That must be something of a first!

I was able to ask about accommodation - it had been mentioned in the blurb - and was assured that I could get a council flat for eleven months. Just the breathing space we wanted. In fact, I learned later that I could also have got Marj a promise of employment, on the spot, but at the time I did not want to push my luck too far.

The signal reached Rheindahlen on Monday afternoon, and by Tuesday morning everyone knew. It was announced in the staff rooms of both Queens school and Kent school, and in the latter a cheer and round of applause went up – from many of the boozers who had known me over the years. For the next few days, Marj and I were congratulated wherever we went. Martin Baker was to say to me, when I saw him before the end of term, “You always wanted to be near to London, now you’ve done it.”

e stayed with Bill and Barbara Spencer for the last couple of weeks in Germany. They had their own place in a nearby German village. It was a lovely house. Our alternative would have been the Visitors’ Mess, living out of a suitcase.

My time at school was not happy, my technical colleagues not showing any great interest or initiative in the department. I could not wait for the end of term. A telling moment, on my last morning, made up for all my disappointments over recent years, within the faculty. I went to say a private farewell to my female colleagues upstairs, each in her own room, tidying up. I had known them all for many years. To each, I gave my thanks, emphasising the personal support I had received from them, in the face of much criticism from my technical colleagues. Each lady colleague, and there were four of them, said how they had observed the complete lack of interest and co-operation from the ‘downstairs mob’, and how they had seen me struggling on, against the odds. They also each said, and there had been no liaison between them, that they did not know what would happen in September when my three technical colleagues were on their own. “They think they can do the job better than you,” said Sybil, “Well, they will now have a chance to prove it. And somehow, I don’t think they will.”

ven No 1 Mess was lacking character. In fact, it was on our last Sunday that Marj and I were in the bar at twelve noon. For so many years that had been the magic time when everyone would arrive. The boozers for a lunchtime session, the quiet ones to read the Sunday papers, the families for their Sunday lunch. Noise, chatting, jokes, friendships.

But now, it was empty. Not until after one o’clock did anyone turn up. The wheel had turned full circle. It would be impossible to bring back ‘the good old days.’ I could hear the echoes of laughter, talking and singing - but all from yesteryear. Now it was all gone.

arj and I both said, “It’s time we left.”