THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ALMOST
NONAGENARIAN
I was that choirboy
BASIL GREEN
INDEX
Chapter 1. The Eighteen Nineties
Chapter 2. School Days
Chapter 3. The Years of Adolescence
Chapter 4. A New World
Chapter 5. I Go To War
Chapter 6. The 2nd Battle of Ypres
Chapter 7. The Battles for The Aubers Ridge
Chapter 8. On The Messines Ridge
Chapter 9. At The Caisse D’epergne, Bailleul
Chapter 10. Transferred
To Canadian Corps Headquarters
Chapter 11. From Soldier To Civilian
Chapter 12. Life In The Country
Chapter 13. A Momentous Decision
Chapter 14. What To Do Now
Chapter 15. The 2nd World War
Chapter 16. War Time In England
Chapter 17. Return To Peace
Chapter 18. In Retirement
Chapter 1
The Eighteen-nineties
The
1890’s!
Those born during this decade and who still survive have lived
through three wars, an industrial revolution and into
the age of space travel, electronic and nuclear technology, the pill
and the chip. It is not strange, therefore, that the way of life
and its values have completely changed. It is no part of this narrative
to enlarge on these changes, but rather to record the development
and experiences of one brought up in the Victorian age.
The contentment found in doing one’s ‘duty in that state
of life into which it has pleased God to call me’ has been
largely superseded by today’s obsession – speed and greed.
The ‘infernal’ combustion engine has taken the place
of the horse, which at least provided us with fertiliser for the
garden, free for the gathering, as against the pollution from a million
exhausts. Progress like everything has its price.
As the progeny of my parents, let me first introduce them. My father
Ernest Green married my Mother Margaret Baxter when he was 24 and
she 21. For the first ten years of their married life they lived
at ‘Neston’, Denman Road, described by the agents as
in a desirable residential area of Peckham. Its desirability has
long since waned, though ‘Neston’ still stands, despite
the ravages of war. It was a three-storied terraced house, of which
I have only the haziest recollection, except for a long narrow garden
at the back.
My parents were truly God-fearing and regularly attended church with
their growing family. Each day started and ended with family prayers,
in which our maid joined u. My mother was the dominant character
and Sundays in particular followed a rigid routine, School homework
had to be finished on Saturdays, while on Sundays between morning
and evening services we had little freedom to follow our own devices.
We were encouraged to either read ‘good’ books or commit
to memory the answers to the catechism, whether we understood them
or not. Naturally I resented, but suffered without protest. I must
add that far from being over strict, few children have been blessed
with more loving, unselfish and well-intentioned parents.
While my father had a great sense of humour, my dear mother had none.
Yet much was the fun that filled our lives and made us a happy, united
and contented family.
During the first ten years of their married life, my mother bore
six children, of which I was the second, having an older brother – John – and
four younger sisters. It was on the 9th of December 1892 that I arrived.
In those days it cost quite a lot to be born. A confinement lasted
the best part of a month, during which the midwife lived with the
family.
My father, an expert tea-taster, was the manager or a firm of
tea and coffee merchants and financially we were relatively
comfortable
and able to keep one and sometimes two servants.
Let me digress for a moment to consider briefly the dramatic changes
that have taken place in our social structure. In Victorian times
and well into the Edwardian era, the distinction between the classes
(I prefer to call them the privileged and the under-privileged)
was strongly defined. Education was largely responsible. Free state
education
was only available in the Board schools, then controlled by the
Board of Education. All other schools, private and public alike,
depended
on the fees charged and the condition of the schools foundation,
inevitably this created segregating barriers.
Today the comprehensive secondary schools embrace children of the
wealthy, the not so wealthy and the poor, throwing them all together,
thus largely eliminating the sense of ‘class’. It is
not inconceivable that a future prime minister could come from
such a school. And why not?
In my youth, for a country girl with a board school education,
domestic service offered about the only alternative to work in
a factory and
that often under sweated labour conditions. Although the wages
paid for domestic service were minimal – about 5/- per week – accommodation,
food and uniforms were provided. These were a cotton print dress,
cap and apron for the morning, changed for a black dress, white cap
and bibbed apron for the afternoon. They suggested subservience to
the ‘master’ and ‘mistress’. We children
were always addressed or referred to with the prefix ‘master’ or ‘miss’ before
our names. Thank goodness it gave us no sense of superiority.
Back to our narrative. I was nearly 5 years old when the aged Queen
Victoria celebrated her Diamond Jubilee – Sixty years a Queen!
It is probably my earliest vivid memory. It was a fine sunny day.
All the residents turned out to line the streets, gay with flags,
many three-cornered, festooned from tree to tree. I stood on the
pavement with my aunts outside the house of my Baxter grandparents – 163
Grove Lane, Camberwell. My patience was almost giving out when the
open carriage of the little old lady in black, with her escort of
Life Guards passed by and down Dog Kennel Hill on their way to the
Crystal Palace. I expected she would be wearing her crown, despite
the fact that it would have perched awkwardly on top of her widow’s
black bonnet. However, I waved to her and was sure her acknowledgement
was meant specially for me, rather than for my aunts, who more
decorously curtsied, as was appropriate for young ladies at that
time.
During my first seven or eight years I can recall no other important
event. Even the periodic arrival of my sisters has left no impression.
Yet the little daily incidents live in my memory. The ‘magic’of
the street lamp-lighter with his long pole, which brought to life
dim pools of yellow light, as he zigzagged across the street from
lamp post to lamp post. Before the advent of electricity, the streets
were lighted with naked half-moon gas jets. Of the by-pass I knew
nothing, hence the ‘magic’ to me of the lamp-lighters
pole.
The cheerful ringing of the muffin and crumpet man’s bell is
something not heard today. But it conjures up in my mind the delectable
taste of hot-buttered crumpets for tea on a chilly winter’s
evening. No less intriguing was the ease with which the muffin
man balanced on his head the green baize covered board on which
he carried
his wares.
In the front path to the house was a heavy circular metal cover,
concealing the entrance to a chute into the cellar. It was only
opened up when the coalman ‘s dray arrived to replenish our coal stocks,
usually two or three tons at a time. Remember that coal, in those
days, cost about £1 per ton and a shilling tip to the coalman
was adequate. I would sit half concealed behind the curtain in
the front room, with instructions to count accurately the sacks
(20 to
the ton) as they emptied them down the chute. I liked the responsibility.
Before the tram lines were laid, the only public transport were
the horse drawn buses and, for those who could afford it, the hansom
cab, a two wheeled cabriolet, with the driver mounted behind and
the reins passing over the roof. Of course there were the trains,
but we only travelled on them once a year when we went for our
annual
holiday.
During these early years, just when, I am not clear, my grandmother
Green came to live with us, more or less permanently until her
death at the age of 93 in 1916. My grandfather had died when my
father
was only 8 years old and trouble rose over the family estate. The
result was that my grandmother and her young family of four children
were left, not as her solicitor assured her ‘comfortably off’,
but in quite poor circumstances. WE children were told, though what
truth there was I cannot say, that my fathers ‘wicked’ uncles
were responsible. Two of them certainly prospered to become aldermen
of the City of London.
While I never went to school until I was 8 years of age, our education
in no way suffered. My mother taught us older ones, insisting on
regular lessons and stressing the importance of accurate spelling
and good handwriting. It was my grandmother though who taught us
to read – and to read with understanding.
Incidentally I still have the original of a letter, written in
1839 by my grandfather Baxter, then ten years old, to his elder
brother
Henry. It is in perfect copperplate, quite amazing for one so young.
Today, I regret, it would be considered a waste of time. Beautiful
calligraphy is not now included in school curriculum. Other subjects
take priority.
Chapter 2
SCHOOL DAYS
By 1900 the time had arrived to make a move. Great was our excitement
at the prospect of new surroundings within walking distance of the
open country. Actually the move was one of little more than three
to Tulse Hill, but close by was Brockwell Park, with which I associate
many happy hours of my childhood.
Our new address was 22A Romola Rd., Tulse Hill. How the number acquired
an ‘A’ I have no idea for ours was the only house in
the road with that distinction. It was larger than our first house
and comfortably accommodated the family of nine, as well as two maids.
The nursery was on the top floor and quite unique, for its walls
were covered, not with traditional wallpaper, but with hundreds of
pictures cut out from the pages of the Illustrated London News and
other magazines, which had been collected over the years. There was
no uniformity of shape or size. The jigsaw just grew week by week
until the last blank space was filled. By moving furniture around
from time to time, new vistas of delight were revealed. One was never
bored by looking at epic incidents from the Boer war, palaces and
stately homes and all the odd patches filled with cartoons from Punch
or portraits of the famous. I have often wondered whether any of
our friends have copied the idea.
Once settled in, I was considered ready for school. My brother John
had already spent a few terms at a dame’s school in Peckham,
from which he profited little. He soon showed his exceptional capacity
for mathematics when he and I entered Lancaster College. It was a
private school of some 150 boys and had acquired its somewhat grandiose
title merely by being situated in Lancaster road, about ten minutes
from home.
It was in form 2 that I started – a tribute to my mothers teaching.
On my first day I found myself seated between two boys, one named
King and the other Prince. They treated me, the new kid, with regal
indifference. It is sad to recall that both, were killed in the First
World War – King in Flanders and Prince with the R.F.C. in
Italy.
Throughout the seven years I spent at Lancaster College I did not
shine academically, while my brother John’s reports were glowing
with praise, mine in comparison must of depressed my parents greatly.
The fees they paid were not entirely unproductive, for the school
dramatics and athletic activities absorbed my energies. I had joined
the Church choir when I was about 9 and enjoyed the advantages of
excellent choir and voice training. When it came to casting the Gilbert
and Sullivan Operas, I usually got a leading role. Shakespeare loomed
largely in our English Literature and many plays were given performances.
I remember playing parts in Coriolanus, Henry V and Henry VIII. Even
today Wolsey’s famous speech “Farewell! A long farewell
to all my greatness……” lives vividly in my memory.
One year we attempted, in French, an act from Moliere’s ‘Le
Medecine Malgre Lui’, being a farce, the audience was more
amused by our antics than impressed by our schoolboy French, this
despite the efforts of our French master, who, presumably, was not
ungratified by the result.
The school hall not having adequate stage facilities, our productions
were put on at the Public Hall, West Norwood which, in those days
was well equipped. The lighting, however, until its conversion to
electricity, consisted of a row of naked gas burners for footlights
and a similar arrangement above for the battens. The heat played
havoc with any make-up, which was, therefore, used sparingly. But
we put up with it.
In the field of athletics, I held my own. During my last term at
school I half-cleared the prize table at our annual sports day at
the Crystal Palace. But by the rule that no competitor could keep
more than three prizes, I reluctantly had to return no less than
four, which were then given to the runners up. However, I was proud
to hold the Senior Sports Cup for that year.
Returning to the school curriculum, I was not a success with the ‘maths’ master – Buggy
Root we called him. His method of teaching was far to boring for
me and I made little effort to master even elementary Algebra. Euclid
I absorbed much more readily. I probably had a reasoning mind, to
which the proving of a theorem appealed and brought satisfaction.
I passed over ‘Pons Assinorum’ (the donkeys bridge) with
little difficulty. On one occasion I was called into a senior classroom
to demonstrate its simplicity. I must mention our German Master.
He was a real character. To us he was known as ‘Scarface’ on
account of the scar he proudly carried on his cheek, which he attributed
to duelling during his college days. Doctor Ederheimer had a ready
wit, which often became obvious in his unusual way of teaching. He
would demonstrate German Syntax in a way that caused fits of laughter,
but it sunk in. The merriment he quickly quelled by assuming the
role of a Prussian officer – goosestep and all. But we all
liked him and he tolerated us.
The headmaster – Mr. Osman Thomas specialised in the classics
and R.E. Although he walloped me twice, I am grateful to him for
having given me an elementary knowledge of Latin.
The head was a strict disciplinarian, but only used the cane with
good reason. He believed it more effective to make the punishment
fit the crime. As an example, I well remember an occasion when a
senior boy – a six footer – was caught in an act of gross
indecency with two juniors, details of which rapidly spread round
the school. At the end of assembly the next morning, the culprit
was called on to the platform before the whole school and given a
short sharp lecture, doubtless intended for us as well. He then suffered
the indignity of having two buckets of cold water thrown over him.
He presented a pitiful sight as he was dismissed to the showers to
dry off. We rather enjoyed the incident. What happened to the two
small boys we never learned.
It was while at school that one evening we had a visit from a professional
conjuror – the first I had ever seen. On that evening was born
a secret resolve that one day I should become a ‘Magician’.
It was being in the limelight rather than curiosity that influenced
me. The platform was cluttered with many pieces of gaudy apparatus
and most of the tricks were mechanical, requiring little real dexterity.
It was not until some years later, when I joined the Magic Circle
that I realised the possibilities of sleight-of-hand and the use
of cunning misdirection.
I confess that my ambition was largely fed on self-esteem. Ready
submission to others was not a strong part of my nature. I enjoyed
leading rather than following and so I found authority irksome. In
some I must have been a bit of a rebel in the family.
I was still a schoolboy when I was taken to the Egyptian Hall in
Regent Street, now long since demolished, but then leased to Maskelyne
and Cooke, the fore runners of Maskelyne and Devant, who for years
ran their all-magic show next to the old Queen’s Hall in Langham
Place, bombed in World War II. It was at the Egyptian Hall that I
first witnessed real magical illusions, which completely baffled
me, for I had not then heard of ‘Pepper’s Ghost’.
I saw also the first moving picture to be shown in this country.
It was only a short scene, devoid of any plot – just a busy
London Street with its horse-drawn buses, handsome cabs and pedestrians
going about their business. They all moved jerkily, but it was a
great advance on the magic lantern.
As this narrative proceeds, it will show what effect ‘magic’ has
played in my life and how it probably contributed to my coming through
World War I unscathed.
I was about nine years old when photography first interested me.
My first camera I bought for 3d in a toyshop. It was no more than
a pin-hole camera-obscura. It, however, produced a faint image in
negative on a piece of glass the size of a postage stamp. I quickly
discarded it and started to save furiously for a real camera – a
5/- box Brownie! This gave me much pleasure and satisfaction over
several years. It was not until I was sixteen that I was able to
buy a ½ - plate stand camera, fitted with a Thorne-Pickard
shutter and ball release. This camera I embodied as the objective
section of an enlarger I made with the addition of a 8 ½” condenser,
picked up at a jumble sale for about £1. I was now equipped
to do serious photography and converted the cupboard in our nursery
into a darkroom.
Having a strong creative instinct, it was not natural that pictorial
photography should be my inspiration. On the South Downs at the junction
of the road to Jevington and the Seaford-Eastbourne Road there stood
a derelict but picturesque old windmill, with parts of the sail structure
missing. I found a suitable viewpoint from which the stark silhouette
against a dramatic evening sky made a good composition, save for
an intruding telegraph pole, which, by retouching, I converted into
an acceptable clump of trees which, as I thought, pulled the composition
together. It probably did, but the judges thought otherwise and rejected
it for exhibition at the London Salon. My creative instinct had evidently
overstepped the acceptable limit.
Music! I loved singing in the choir. I loved good church music. I
still do. The choir had a large repertoire of anthems. A few of the
best were composed by our choirmaster/organist. A feature of the
services, remarked upon by visitors, was the rendering of the psalms.
They were sung, not to the more melodic Anglican chants, but antiphonally
in unison to the twelve Gregorian modes. Plainsong does not appeal
to everyone and was originally intended to be sung unaccompanied.
Our organist was a master at improvisation and, in accompanying the
psalms, emphasised the meaning of the words, whereas the repetitive
Anglican chants, in many churches, fail to do. It added a new beauty
without becoming too obvious.
Today I often regret that I did not apply myself to the piano with
the same enthusiasm as I did to choral music. A cousin of my mother
(Aunt Ella to us) kindly offered to give us music lessons. For some
years I gave up Wednesday afternoons (half holidays at school) to
walking the 2 ½ miles via Brixton to Clapham. There, for a
boring hour, I was made to run through endless scales and then to
plug away at a book called ‘Czerny’s Exercises’.
I never want to see them again. It did, however, give me a grasp
of musical notation. Surely I was a rebellious pupil under a not
very understanding teacher. It was not until our choirmaster took
us choirboys to the Albert Hall to hear the ‘Messiah’ that
my ears were opened and my understanding stimulated. Handel’s
Oratorios, the ‘Passions’ of Bach and Elgar’s ‘Dream
of Gerontius’ give me more pleasure than the Symphonies and
Concertos. Jacqueline du Pre’s rendering of Elgar’s Celle
Concerto has, in more recent years, brought much pleasure and understanding.
What a tragedy that this gifted musician and her cello are, through
disease now parted!
Schooldays have been called ‘the happiest days of ones life’.
For a few this may be true. In retrospect, I would describe mine
as ‘the most care-free days of my life’ – free
from responsibility – free from decision-making – free
from the urges of adolescence.
There were little prospects of my ever matriculating and so it was
that at Christmas 1907 I left school, having just turned 15. I doubt
whether my deficiency in scholastic honours has had any effect on
my subsequent wanderings. School textbooks obviously have their place,
but the experiences of life, of travel in a wider world become the
ultimate master of ones fortune – the creator of one’s
destiny.
Chapter 3
THE YEARS OF ADOLESCENCE
In
the seven years between 1908 and 1914 I fell in love; I emigrated;
I went
to war – and so passed into manhood. These profound
experiences, while cementing my love and duty to my family completely
changed my attitude to life.
Falling in love, for me, was neither love at first sight nor a consuming
passion. My early advances met with a negative response and I had
to change my tactics.
Florence Ethel Powell, her parents and five younger brothers came
from Stoke on Trent and lived quite near to us. Her father’s
business – he was the agent to a firm of Pottery merchants – made
it necessary to have an office in London.
One Sunday they all arrived at Church, filling a complete pew. I
could see them from my position in the choir and frequently my eyes
wandered their way. After disrobing I would hurry round to the front
of the Church, hoping to find them amongst the throng of worshippers.
Everyone seemed to know everyone else, but I made little progress
till fortune favoured me when Bernard, the eldest boy was admitted
into the choir. As head boy, it was my job to initiate him into our
ways. We soon became chummy and, as our ways home followed the same
route, I found out all I wanted to know.
Having to cope, at fourteen, with five brothers, the daughter’s
attitude to boys was easy and uncomplicated. Gradually my friendship
with Bernard gave me access to their home and one Saturday I was
allowed to take him and the second boy, Eric, up to London to a matinee
at Maskyline and Devants. From then onwards my friendship with the
family grew closer.
Let me digress for a moment. Seaford! The very name conjures up so
many of my happiest childhood memories. For as early as I can remember,
it was Seaford we went for our annual holiday. We always stayed in
an isolated flint-built cottage, which lay back from the road with
a paddock in front. I remember so well the square closed porch, which
had a sliding door into the house. This, to our young imagination
was a lift and of course I was the lift attendant. The hinterland
and the walk over the cliffs to Cuckmere Haven were as attractive
as the heavily groined shingle-beach. One year my mother and I collected
well over 100 wild flowers, including three varieties of orchid.
We finally identified them all.
High and Over, with its extensive views over Alfriston and the Seven
Sisters was a popular picnic spot.
I have let the chronology of my story get out of hand, so let me
now return to the end of my schooldays. For a few months I entered
my father’s firm – Cassell & Co., Tea and Coffee
merchants of 80 Fenchurch St., E.C.
It was an old corner building with the warehouse, roasting, blending
and packing departments on the street level and offices above. One
entered by a flight of dingy stairs into an outer office, which probably
had not changed in the last fifty years. Along one wall was a high
desk to accommodate two or three clerks, who presumably preferred
standing to climbing on to the high wooden stools, devoid of upholstery.
Ina corner stood a vertical press to provide copies of important
letters and documents. There being no type-writers, all letters were
written in longhand with special copying ink and then interleaved
into a book of semi-transparent thin paper, through which a facsimile
of the originals could be read after passing through the press. Copying
and indexing the letters was one of the jobs that occupied me between
tea-making and keeping the coal fires burning.
The atmosphere was almost Dickensian. One could almost feel Bob Cratchit,
standing at the desk, working at his ledgers with mittens on his
hands and the coal grate empty.
During my short stay with Cassell & Co. the Sidney Street Siege
took place. Sidney Street was a turning off Whitechapel High St.
about a quarter of a mile from Aldgate Pump, where Fenchurch Street
and Leaden hall Street converged. News that a ‘war’ was
raging in the East and travelled fast and during my lunch break I
joined the throng converging on the ‘battlefield’. Apparently
three armed desperados had barricaded themselves in a house in Sidney
Street and refused to surrender to the police. All roads giving access
to the house were cordoned off. Through the lines of police, one
could see the house and get an occasional glimpse of a rifle, projected
from a first-floor window. High-ranking police, amongst the Home
Secretary (Winston Churchill in his top hat) took shelter in doorways
and directed the strategy. Making little progress, the Home Secretary
sanctioned the use of troops to storm the building. The police opened
up the cordon as a platoon of armed soldiers from near by barracks
arrived and passed through. After briefing, they scattered, under
covering fire, to their strategic positions. By now the crowd of
onlookers were pushed back into Whitechapel High St. and so denied
an eye-witness’s view of what followed. I returned an hour
late to the office and got ticked off. Later I learned from the evening
papers that two of the desperados had been killed and the third was
smoked out and captured.
My wages, while with Cassell & Co. were eight shillings per week
and a season-ticket from Herne Hill to St. Paul’s, leaving
me with four miles to walk each day.
My father, I imagined, took me into his business to break me in gently
from school life to the bigger world in the city. There was no intention
of limiting my experience by staying on indefinitely. So when Harold
Dougharty (my mother’s cousin) who was the actuary to a London
Life Insurance Company, heard of a vacancy in an insurance company
in Chancery Lane, he gave me an introduction to one of the directors.
I was interviewed and taken on (heaven only knows why).
The offices of the Law Guarantee Trust and Accident Society were
very posh, with uniformed commissionaires. As I was able to write
well enough, I was put in the policy writing department – one
of three, with a salary of £6 per month.
Within six months or so, they were taken over by the Guardian Assurance
Company and we all moved down to No. 1 The Minories – an extension
of Throgmorton Street. As I now knew something about the intricacies
of insurance, I found myself in the Re-insurance Department. This
suited me much better and gave me more responsibility. I spent much
of my time visiting other companies securing re-insurance cover to
spread the load on large policies. It was here that I made an effort
to justify the confidence placed in me.
I must now introduce the Wheatley family who lived in Sidcup. The
parents were my Uncle Percy and Aunt Emmy (my fathers sister). They
had four sons. The youngest, Havelock, was eleven months my junior,
Guy a year older, while Frank and Ronald were a few years older than
my brother John. Uncle Percy, an ex-Merchant Navy Officer, was a
most distinguished character and passed his good looks on to his
four sons. In their early youth they were ‘ruled’ by
their mother, who possessed a strong but vacillating personality.
As children we got to know each other very well and were more like
brothers and sisters than cousins.
To spend a week or so at Sidcup was always a delight for me, though
the devilments we got up to are better left unrecorded. Guy was a
most lovable character and when he stayed with us he used to play
up to our mutual grandmother calling her by the most endearing terms
as if she were his sweetheart. May be it was just buffoonery, but
from big-hearted Guy, it was from the warmth within his heart. He
was only 22 when he gave his life at Hill 60 in the Ypres Salient.
The only record of his unknown grave being ‘Pte. J.G. Wheatley’ carved
on the Menin Gate, Ypres.
In 1909 the three older boys emigrated to Canada and soon established
themselves, Ronald as an accounted in Winnipeg, Frank as a Veterinary
Surgeon in Fort Qu’Appelle, Saskatchewan. Havelock was then
only 15 and too young.
Early in 1910 Uncle Percy and my father talked things over and decided,
if agreeable to me, to send Havelock and me off to Canada. Prospects
in the New World were far better than in the Old Country. Such a
possibility had never entered my head. To cross the Atlantic Ocean
and penetrate some 1500 miles further into the unknown was a decision
few would have taken lightly. It involved complete disruption not
only of my awakening love, but of all that was familiar.
When my father broached the proposition to me, my response, however,
was immediate. I only saw a golden future opening up and the complete
unshackled freedom of judgement and action. For the next week or
so I read all I could about Canada. I studied its maps and the brochures
published by the Canadian Pacific Railway. At night I dreamed of
real cowboys and Indians, of Canada’s limitless and hedgeless
prairies of golden wheat, extending from Manitoba, through Saskatchewan
and Alberta to the foothills of the Rockies.
The industrial cities of Southern Quebec conjured up no romantic
pictures. For me it was the wide open spaces of the West.
In my ignorance I planned to get a Horse and Buggy, load up my photographic
equipment and stores and travel from farm to farm, maybe twenty or
more miles apart, photographing all that I saw and hoped to make
a living by selling prints.
I was only 17 and the spirit of adventure was strong. How little
did I realise the difference between idealism and realism! But I
was to learn.
It was at a dance for young people that I decided to tell my sweetheart,
quite unemotionally, that I was shortly off to Canada. I now believe
that Bernard must have already told her, for her encouraging response
to what I said was just a pressure of the hand. I needed no more.
The dance was at one of the big houses on Denmark Hill, opposite
the entrances to the house where John Ruskin once lived. Two large
reception rooms opened up through an archway to make a good dancing
area. The carpets had been removed revealing a polished parquet floor.
Dances in those days would doubtless be regarded by the youth of
today as starchy affairs. Indeed they were not! True a certain decorum
was observed. Unattended girls were accompanied by a chaperone and
boys wore white cotton gloves, presumably to prevent them coming
in contact with female flesh. Everyone was provided with a dance
programme and pencil, with spaces to fill in ones partners name.
There was usually a scramble foe the Half-way Supper Dance and the
Final Waltz, when the lights were dimmed. The usual dances were the
Waltz, Polka, Valeta, Barn dance, Lancers and Sir Roger de Coverly.
They were far more graceful and innocent than the (I hesitate to
describe them) sensuous choreography performed by many Pop-Groups
and the congested audiences of ‘Top of the Pops’ Allow
me to be old-fashioned. I got diverted. Forgive me!
About now my family, with one exception all went down with measles – I
was the last to contract it. Should I be clear to catch the boat?
In a bare two weeks the Empress of Britain (25,000 tons) was due
to sail from Liverpool and we had booked twp second-class passages
on her. I just made it with a day or two to spare. Those tickets
cost £10 each! Today a phone call a phone call to Heathrow
and in less than a day one is in Toronto – but not for £10.
Both our parents were at Euston to see us off. In cash we had £15
each in golden sovereigns, carried in belts around our waists for
safety. The farewells and final waves were soon over and as the train
pulled slowly away, we were launched on our great adventures.
Chapter 4
A NEW WORLD
On
a chilly evening, in April 1910, R.M.S., The Empress of Britain,
carrying his Majesty’s
Mails and a full compliment of passengers and crew, glided from
the dockside at Liverpool, steamed down the
Mersey into the Irish Sea and the Atlantic beyond. Flights of sea-gulls
circled and hovered around the stern, ready to pounce on the tasty
morsels, which were discharged with the kitchen waste. Once clear
of coastal traffic the voyage was uneventful. Shuffleboard and deck
quoits were popular, whenever the weather permitted, but she was
not to kind. It got noticeably colder as we approached Newfoundland
Bank. On the starboard side we could discern half-a-dozen icebergs
emerging out of the mist. They were at least two miles away and,
being pre-Titanic days, aroused interest without apprehension.
During the winter months, the St. Laurence River is not navigable
to Quebec and Montreal on account of ice and ours was probably the
last voyage that spring to terminate at St. John, New Brunswick.
The first landfall sighted was the rugged coast of Nova Scotia and
we docked at the capital – Halifax – for a few hours,
before proceeding the further 300 miles into the Bay of Fundy, where
we first set foot on Canadian soil at St. John N.B. Here was the
Atlantic terminal of the Transcontinental Canadian Pacific Railway,
which was to carry us a further fifteen hundred miles west to Winnipeg.
It seemed all very strange, so different to the England we had left
far behind us – the England we knew and loved so well.
After the comparative luxury of a two-berth cabin and freedom to
move around a great ship and enjoy its amenities, the confinement
for two and half days in a train, crowded with steerage passenger
emigrants from many parts of Europe, including a number of Doukhobors
from Russia, fleeing from persecution, came as a bit of a let-down.
We found some consolation from watching the ever-changing scenery
as we passed from agricultural New Brunswick into the vast province
of Quebec – very largely French-Canadian in speech and in their
way of living. Entering Ontario, the scenery became much more dramatic.
The railway skirted the North shore of Lake Superior – some
350 miles long and 200 miles wide. At times the train appeared to
be travelling on a ledge hewn out of the solid rock, towering above
it on one side and dropping sheer on the other.
Night was falling as we passed Manitoba and as dawn broke we arrived
on the outskirts of the vast prairie lands, extending across three
provinces to the foothills of the Rocky Mountains – a further
thousand miles West.
By midday we pulled slowly into the covered depot in the heart of
the city of Winnipeg. This was to be my home for four years, so let
me try to leave some impression of its rapid transformation from
merely a trading post on the Red River to becoming the metropolis
of the West. I can only write of it as I found it in 1910. Today
it would be unrecognisable. As the capital of Manitoba, it housed
the provincial Parliament, the Law Courts, a University campus, the
grain exchange and one department store (Timothy Eatons Ltd). There
were two theatres and two music halls, numerous Billiard Parlours
and the inevitable Saloons. Along its four principal streets ran
an antiquated electric tramway with open sides. An annual was the
Rodeo, staged on the University Campus. For a week the city was invaded
by cowboys from Alberta with their horses and steers. It was not
unusual to see native dressed Indians and their Squaws in town for
a visit from their Reserve, north of the city.
The streets showed little uniformity. Modern brick and stone buildings
jostled with old wooden buildings, some in the North End of Winnipeg
being little more than shacks that had outlived their time.
Winnipeg,
halfway across Canada, lies at the confluence of the Red River
and the Assiniboine River. The Red River is some 250 yards
wide as it passes through the city. It rises in Minnesota, U.S.A.
and flows on to the Hudson Bay via the Nelson River. In the winter
the rivers freeze solid and ice-cutting machines provide the city
with ice during the summer months.
The
winter freeze-up lasts from mid-November till early April. Several
inches of frozen snow cover the roads and all wheeled traffic
is
replaced or converted into sleighs. Somehow the tramlines are
kept virtually free. Once of the beaten tracks, snowshoes are essential,
to avoid being engulfed in snowdrifts. Fortunately we arrived
at
the end of the freeze-up. The roads were rivers of slush and
the rivers beginning again to be navigable.
My
cousin Ronald was at the depot (the station) to meet us. Very glad
we were to see him, though we must have presented very unkempt
appearances. He took us along to his house, which he shared
with four or five other young men, and employed a housekeeper.
Hot
baths and changes of clothes soon made us more presentable.
That evening
we held a ‘conference’ to decide our immediate
future. Havelock had already decided to push on further West
to join his
brother Guy in the ‘Mounties’, and the next day
moved on to Regina. Ronald, being already established doing
accountancy
for several small firms, showed little interest in taking up
my ‘horse
and buggy’ proposal seriously. As events proved, this
was wise. One of his housemates had a connection with the Canadian
Fire Insce.
Co. and it seemed obvious, with my experience in the insurance
world in London, to apply for a job there. An interview was
arranged with
the Managing Director – Conrad Riley – and what
an unconventional interview it was! He was naturally interested
in my previous insurance
experience, then he suddenly surprised me by asking ‘Tell
me’,
can you converse with the deaf? I had used the sign language
in getting flexibility in my fingers and was reasonably fluent.
I took a chance
ad said ‘oh, yes’. He may have accepted my assurance
but called in the Chief Accountant, who was stone deaf. I was
told to ask him whether he was still looking for an assistant.
My fingers
flashed the question, to which the accountant (I forget his
name) smiled his approval and grunted ‘no’. A most
unconventional interview, but I got the job to start immediately
with, to me, the
incredible salary of $100 per month. I later learned that Con
Riley had stroked a Canadian Eight to victory at Henley some
years previously.
I was to meet him again in France during World War I.
I
soon found ‘digs’ at $30 per month for board and lodging.
It was in a three-storied building in Kennedy Street, opposite the
Law Courts. There were about eight of us living there, with a buxom,
but motherly, landlady. I was certainly the youngest, but soon made
friends. With a net of $70 a month for myself, I felt quite affluent
and soon saved up enough to buy myself a Cello for $115 and arranged
to have lessons. I was determined to master it and devoted at least
two hours a day practising. Fortunately my room was on the top floor
and there were no complaints at the horrible noises the early days
produced. As the lessons were eating into my income, I decided to
advertise to provide magical shows for children’s parties and
Masonic functions. Apparently I was the only ‘magician’ in
Winnipeg, and engagements came in slowly but steadily. Eventually
I was booked to entertain the Officers’ Mess of the
Lord Strathcoma Horse. The press reported favourably and
my clientele expanded.
With
complete freedom from petty restraints, I was free to think and
act on my own, but it brought responsibility as
well.
The
Canadian Fire Insurance Company was located right in the centre
of the city and occupied two floors of a modern
building
next to
the Grain Exchange – always a hive of industry. I soon settled
down in my new job and became the ‘interpreter’ for
my boss. We mutually arranged a sort of deaf and dumb
shorthand so that
we could converse as readily as normal folk. On one occasion
the boss was called as a witness in a traffic offence.
As the intermediary
between counsel and witness, I received $5 and the morning
off.
I
well remember the day when two strangers walked into
the office and asked to speak to me. My first reaction
was whether
they
were plain clothed policemen, but my conscience was
clear of any criminal
activities. I had no need to worry. In fact they were
talent spotters for the Winnipeg players. References
in the press
had led them
to me. I was very English and the right age to play
Philip Clandon in
Shaw’s ‘You never can tell’. ‘How would you
like to attend an audition for our next production?’ they enquired.
I told them I had no stage experience apart from school dramatics. ‘We
don’t want you to act. Just be yourself’ I
was told. What an audition involved, I had no idea.
But I turned up with five
others and was told I had got the part.
After
a weeks run at the Winnipeg Repository Theatre, the city of Winnipeg
decided to sponsor the company
in the
National Drama Festival
for the Earl Grey Trophy at the Russell Theatre,
Montreal. At this festival, six cities in Canada could each send
in one
company.
After playing one-night stands en route, we were
fluent
and confident. We reached the finals and won the
trophy, which
drew an invitation
to a reception at Government House. The next day
two shining limousines
arrived at our hotel. The Governor-General, H.R.H.
The Duke of Connaught
with the Duchess and their daughter Princess Patricia
received us most charmingly and we chatted informally
over cocktails
etc. To
me, Princess Patricia then about my age, was a most
beautiful lady. She smiled as we shook hands – I was captivated and almost
wished she was not a Princess. In the spring a young man’s
fancy lightly turns. How true! But I got over it
quite soon and my heart returned to my real love
in England.
On
returning to Winnipeg, the papers gave us a full page with photographs
and my boss did not regret
the two weeks’ leave he had reluctantly
given me.
A
notable event for me was the meeting with an Austrian magician – The
Great Malini. He was billed to appear at the Alexandria Hotel for
one night, but the tickets cost $10 each. Malini had a reputation
for holding an audience spell-bound without using any apparatus,
save what he could borrow from the audience. I call him the great
deliverer, for as I learned later he had never been in Austria and
was in fact an American from Ohio. He spoke in broken English, with
a European accent, and earned a good living by deceiving the public
with his performances with a pack of cards. His act appealed to me
as ideal magic, the kind I hoped to acquire. So, without hesitation,
I brought a front row ticket. Some two hundred of Winnipeg’s
Smart Set packed the lounge, when Malini appeared
on the dais. His performance was remarkable for
its audacity and subtle misdirection.
It was impossible, even for me, to detect any
sleight of hand. His dexterity was that of a
master. After the performance he retired
with his manager to their suite in the hotel.
With colossal nerve and not much hope, I took
a sheet of the hotel writing paper and
wrote a short note, as one magician to another,
(I was 18 and he about 50), asking whether he
would meet me. This I sent up by a waiter.
In a few minutes he returned and asked me to
follow him. Malini must have been surprised that
his guest was so young, but after expressing
my admiration of his performance he realised
that I was genuinely interested in magic, and
asked me to demonstrate, with a pack of
cards, a few of the standard sleights. From which
he saw I had mastered the rudiments. Although
offering no explanation as to his methods
(I hardly expected he would), he gave me a brilliant
exposition on the use of magic, claiming it represented
95% of the modus operandi.
This I can now endorse from my own experience.
The 5% dexterity is purely technique. This one
can acquire and then forget when performing.
I had spent a most illuminating hour, from which
I profited a great deal and hoped that my thanks
for his encouragement was adequate.
Summer
in the Middle West can be a glorious experience or a nightmare
from mosquitos. The tramway to
the South extended
a half-mile
or so beyond the semi built-up area to a bend
in the Red River
and
the Baseball field. It was here, at the weekends
that a mixed party often
went for canoeing, camping and swimming and
very good times we had.
I
remember also an evening on an old rear-paddled steamer, which
made trips to Lake Winnipeg,
some thirty miles
to the North,
returning about midnight. We danced on deck
the two-step and other popular
dances of the day, when Alexander’s
Ragtime Band, was the rage.
The
Red River was not the only place where
one could swim. In addition to the Public
Baths, Winnipeg possessed
a fine
Y.M.C.A.
with a
well-equipped swimming pool. There was
just time
during our lunch break to slip
along, have a quick swim, a sandwich and
back to the office. With the temperature
in the
80’s, two or three of us would often
spend our lunch hour at the Y.M. pool.
It was there I learned I was a better diver
than swimmer. The high board held no terrors
and I
enjoyed jack-knifing of the springboard.
Like
many teenagers I found my life almost to full. Fortunately during
the summer
time there
were only
occasional magical
engagements and
so I was able to keep up cello practice.
I
did not forsake my childhood attachment to the Church and was warmly
welcomed
at All Saints
Church – a large wooden building, with
later brick built hall and committee rooms. It was only half a mile
from my digs along Broadway. I was invited to join the choir, but
its standard did not attract me. Instead I formed a boys’ club,
which grew to some thirty youngsters between 11 and 16 years. I interested
two other ‘leaders’ and
we were able to run classes in First
Aid, woodcarving, Drama and swimming
with plenty of games and
outdoor activities.
By
late 1913 I had been studying for three years and was introduced
to an
amateur
trio of piano,
violin and viola,
who were looking
for a cellist to form a quartet.
We specialised in Chamber music in preference
to the more popular light music and
soon
built up a
small repertoire. We gave a few performances
in church halls,
but principally
for our own edification. Later we
were absorbed into the Winnipeg Symphony
Orchestra, an
amateur body
of about forty
players.
This
meant we
had to extend very much our limited
repertoire. I was one (the junior
one) of three cellists but much enjoyed
the short time I was able to play
with them.
The
war clouds were beginning to over-shadow Europe, though in Canada
they meant
very little to the
average man in
the street.
Two years
previously I had joined the Militia,
similar to the Territorials in
England.
Winnipeg
had three
battalions – 90th Winnipeg Rifles,
100th Winnipeg Grenadiers and a Canadian Scottish Battalion. I enlisted
in the Grenadiers, probably because I had two friends in it and their
ceremonial uniform – scarlet tunic with gold facings and bearskin
busby – had an obvious appeal.
Our drill hall was equipped with
a .22 rifle range and there we
learned our basic training. The
annual camp lasted two weeks and
was held some thirty miles west
of Winnipeg. All three battalions,
forming a brigade marched there
in two and a half days, bivouacking
two nights en route.
The
camp had a fine shooting range up to 1000 yards and there we spent
much
of our
time.
My tent was
adjacent to the open-air
officers’ mess
kitchens. I envied them their
roast beef and baked potatoes
by comparison to the mess tin
of stew dished out to the other
ranks. At times it
was pretty rough going, but we
returned to Winnipeg all the
fitter and had acquired the soldiers
prerogative to grouse.
Returning
from the 1913 camp, I arrived back to find my seat
at
the office
already occupied
and
a message
to report
to
the Managing
Director.
He greeted me more warmly than
I had expected and immediately
allayed
any
hovering apprehensions
I may have had.
During the past month
or so, he told me, a new company
had been formed – The Canadian
Hail Insurance Company Limited – and
I was offered the appointment
of accountant at double my
previous salary. The company
had offices in the same building
and with virtually the same
board. Loss or damage
to crops by hail was a serious
factor to the western farmer
and could easily produce ruin.
In Alberta the risk was particularly
heavy and
premiums were as high as 15%
per acre. The company grew
rapidly and by the end of the
first year the results were
highly satisfactory.
After
over four years away from England I was yearning
to see
my family and
loved one
again
and planned
a month’s leave in which
to decide my future, for as yet I was not formally engaged. Accordingly,
by the end of July I had got my month’s leave and booked my
passage from Montreal.
August 4th arrived! England
was at War! The Canadian
Government had,
of course,
been
fully in touch
with impending events,
but to the
civilian it had been all
so far
away and scarcely influenced
his thinking.
But the
staggering
news that filled the
papers the next
day completely changed our
lives, as we learned Canada,
having
pledged her
full
support to
the Motherland,
was also at war
and that a fighting
force was to be formed and
sent overseas. The only regular
troops
in Canada
at the outbreak
of the
war were The
Lord Strathcona Horse, who
were maintained for ceremonial
service
to the Governor-General.
The militia were not committed
to
service overseas.
On
August 5th recruiting depots were opened up from
coast to
coast and
the response
was immediate.
Despite
my plan
