Stowe - J F Roxburgh, David Niven, Rev. Ernest Earle

In 1923 I became a pupil at Stowe at the beginning of its life as a Public School.  Unlike established Public Schools all the pupils were 13/14 years old.  In many ways it seemed more like a grown up Preparatory School.  There were a few older boys,  prefects imported from Lancing together with J F Roxburgh, our new Headmaster, who had been the Sixth Form master there.  They had graded us as best they could into the various Forms, and I was placed in Remove B.  David Niven was one of us and I remember him as an extrovert, very pleasant and with a gift for amusing everyone with his quick sketches of events going on outside the classroom windows, where there was always a lot of building taking place.  Our Form Master was the deputy headmaster, the Rev. Ernest Earle, a delightful man who, like J F Roxburgh, was a Latin scholar.  He had a great sense of humour, had no difficulty in keeping strict discipline and, as a result was a good teacher.  He must have been for I obtained a Credit in Latin in my final Certificate.  And Niven, for all his cunning and concealing his sketches was nicely brought down to earth when Mr Earle was asking each of us what subjects we wished to take in the final Certificate: “Niven, may I suggest you take Drawing?”  I believe Niven did so and obtained a Credit in it.  Our English lessons were taken by Mr Arnold – son of Arnold of Rugby I believe – who was often impressed by Niven’s gift for narrative – which was later to blossom into ‘The Moon’s a Balloon’ and others.

About J F Roxburgh – always known as ‘J F’ a much respected man who did so much for us all at Stowe.  My wife and I were at Stowe when he retired, and I remember the shock of the day he died.  It was then I realised how much we had all loved that man, and that everything which had gone well and smoothly in my life was due in no small measure to his influence during the four short years I was under it.  My younger son, who will be 50 in two months’ time, has just asked me what it was like to be 50.  I remembered JF’s final words when I left Stowe in 1927 “ People will tell you to remember your school days as the best in your life; this is utter tosh – the best years are always ahead.”

Early music interest

Several years before I was born a boy pianist about 8 years old gave a recital at the Malvern Assembly Rooms.  My father’s family heard him and were so impressed they invited him and his parents back home for tea – and so began a friendship which stretched far into the future.  That boy was Vernon Varner.  At that early age he already had a formidable piano technique and played many of Chopin’s Etudes.  His family were not well off and may father’s family helped them by taking Vernon on holidays abroad – a habit maintained long after I arrived on the scene.  I grew up amidst sound of music – especially Chopin – superbly played.  My father’s mother – my grandma – was also a talented self-taught musician with a gift for improvisation.  All my early years were spent listening to the best of music superbly played and, as I appeared to have an aptitude for the piano in any case, it became a large part of my life.  At 13 I remember hearing de Pachmann at the Assembly Rooms and loving his effortless runs in Chopin’s Impromptu in G flat.  Afterwards my father introduced me to him as a second Vernon Warner – that’s optimism for you!  - and Pachmann examining my hands. “They are no good; fingers too long”!  In my old age I would agree with him.  Pachmann and Edwin Fischer both had short-fingered hands and both possessed that ability to play whisper-quiet completely even runs up and down the keyboard which I have heard in no other pianists.  When I left Stowe at 17 I went to live at Kew and became a pupil of Vernon Warner and actually moved into his house there with him and his wife Paddy.  At 25 I gave my first public recital in Malvern and I remember playing Triana – that lovely and extremely difficult piece by Albeniz.  I was passionately fond of Chopin, which was natural as a pupil of Vernon Warner.  His Chopin was unique.  The only other artist in the running was Cortot whose memory and accuracy was not so good.  I remember a pupil complaining to Vernon about this and Vernon’s reply “I would rather hear Cortot playing wrong notes than most pianists’ right ones!”

Vernon’s Beethoven was not good and he thought it essential that I should obtain a good training in the more classical side of music which he felt he couldn’t provide.  I was to go to Berlin and study at the Edwin Fischer School.  So off I went in 1935 for two years in Berlin.  My teacher was Conrad Hanon who often took over Fischer’s main class during his absence giving recitals.  Hanson’s first words to me were “Each week I want you to prepare a Bach Prelude and Fugue from the 48, a movement from a Beethoven Sonata and a Chopin Etude.”  This, I knew was impossible because I was almost dyslexic when it came to reading music.  My training under Vernon Warner had stressed towards the perfecting of each phrase in timing, tone, rhythm and touch backed up with many hours of finger exercises (Hanon and others) to strengthen finger mussels and finger independence.  Reading music fluency did not come into the category.  But later on when I found it embarrassing when I found I couldn’t accompany a singer in even a simple song, and I decided to remedy this failure I could not do so.  I am dyslexic as far as music reading goes.  I am not alone in this.  One of my friends in Berlin was Pablo Castellanos, a sixteen old boy who had come direct from 4 years at the Cortot school in Paris and, in my opinion was the best pianist in Fischer’s master class.  I had permission to attend this class and I remember Fischer asking Pablo to accompany another pupil in a Beethoven Concerto and Pablo’s “I’m sorry Herr Doctor I cannot read music” “Well you’d better learn” from Fischer.  With the result that Pablo and I spent hours together at a piano with volumes of piano duets trying to make sense of them, but with minimum result. With hindsight I think my time in Berlin was a mistake.  I never really understood or loved Beethoven and I can assure you Fischer never understood Chopin.  Maybe there is another aspect to these two years.

Start of World War II

My two years in Berlin convinced me that Germany was preparing for war.  I was billeted with a pleasant family who were very pro-Hitler and I saw a lot of the man at rallies.  The general attitude was summed up for me by the words of a Pub owner I met “We would like, with England, to rule the World.”  There was a certainly no animosity towards the English, but the feeling of “we are the master race” prevailed everywhere.  I tried to convey this to my parents in letters, but to no avail.

When I finally came back home, the first thing I did was to learn to fly.  My brother, Martyn who was just over a year younger than me, had already started to learn and was already flying solo.  I learnt rapidly and at no stage had any problems.   My years playing with model aircraft were paying off and I soloed after some five hours dual on a Gipsy Moth.  Flying, for me, held fewer problems that playing the piano!  Martyn and I joined the Civil Air Guard and obtained our flying at two and sixpence an hour.  We flew from Hanworth aerodrome until we had to move due to so many complaints of the noise.  We then moved to a small field with a shed in it called Gatwick and we were about to be kicked out of this one when Hitler solved the problem by declaring war (actually we did the declaring).

During these three years before war I earned a bit by teaching music, and I especially remember three young girls I taught at a house in Regents Park owned by an Admiral Blake.  The girls were about 8/10 years old and one of them used to enjoy her music lessons from the top of the upright piano onto which she would crawl.  These girls would now be around 80 and may well be alive.  There was a lot of road works going on outside and I was told that Mrs Simpson lived in one of the nearby flats and they were installing a private telephone line to Buckingham Palace.  So you see I was starting to move into the highest circles.  Many of Vernon Warner’s pupils were from titled families and as fast as he was cutting down his teaching I was, as fast, gaining pupils, finally becoming music teacher at Stocks in his place – but that was after the war.

In 1939 both Martyn and I joined the RAFVR and because we had both soloed we were made Sergeants at once but told we were not yet needed in view of our age.  When we were finally called up we were posted to Cardington to learn all about discipline, saluting, marching, fire-arms drill and how to write a report of any unusual activity. “Sir, I have the honour to report etc etc.”  Little did I expect that, but for fate stepping in I might had had to write “Sir, I have the honour to report I have shot the Adjutant”.  This was during the next stage in our RAF life.  We had moved on to Cambridge were we were trained as Link Trainer (visual) Instructors (they still only wanted younger pilots) and we were operating from the engineering Labs (opposite Leys School) There were five entrances to these Labs and as we had to provide our own guard we were given an extra Corporal and an army rifle with two rounds of ammunition.  We were obviously not going to get much sleep as the Germans were dropping spies all over East Anglia.  As the Senior chap in charge I decided to do something about this.  So I ransacked the Labs and came up with five trip switches operated by a length of black cotton across each entrance and connected to one of those panels with coloured lights and a buzzer.  We could now snooze in peace.  As I am a hopeless shot and my brother a good one.  I arranged for him to have the gun and I would have the powerful torch with I would point at the intruders and shout “Halt or I fire”.  My brother, now with the loaded gun to fire at the intruders feet at my command, and shoot to kill with the second shot should they fail to halt.  We got the call at 3.30am and all went as arranged until I have the order to fire as the four or so men continued to advance.  Then came my brother’s anguished cry “The bloody gun’s jammed”.  This was not uncommon.  I had kept my torch on the approaching men until they arrived at the guardroom door to reveal our adjutant in a state of semi-intoxication.  He was out on an inspection of all the guard posts. He was not amused and our rifle and rounds were immediately called in and we never got replacements.

I applied again to become a pilot, but was turned down on the eyesight test (I have always had a weak left eye) so accepted a posting to the Oxford University Air Squadron as a visual Link Instructor.  Our CO was WCdr Edwards, a difficult man to get to know but kind to me when I contracted double-pneumonia.  He took me back to his own house during my recovery and later on asked me to fly him in his own Avian to Swindon where he had an appointment.  On landing back at Abingdon he asked me “Why aren’t you flying?”  I told him about my eyesight problem and he said “leave it to me”.  I then received a summons to appear at the Radcliffe hospital for a medical.  For the usual eye test I read the smallest line easily with my good eye and the doctor then turned his back walked away saying “now with the other eye”.  So I read it again with my good eye.  “Good, that’s all right” was his verdict and I passed.  A few days later I received a posting to Cambridge for a flying course.  I passed this easily and was recommended for an Instructors’ Course – also held at Cambridge Aerodrome.  Here I met the best pilot I have ever flown with – Peter May the aerodrome’s CO.  He could do with a Tiger Moth what was considered to be impossible – continuous rolls without losing height and dual too.  He showed me the trick and after I’d managed two of them successfully he said “Now go and practise it”.  Remember the Tiger Moth has no inverted fuel system so the petrol must be kept flowing when you are upside down.   A barrel roll is useless because a lot of height is lost on each revolution.  After considerable practice I once managed three rolls solo – never one dual!  But I loved aerobatics!  My next posting was to Booker as a fully qualified flying instructor and there I met my wife and life changed.  I remembered JF’s words on leaving Stowe “The best years of your life are always ahead”.  Here my brother Martyn and I had temporally lost track of each other because he decided to take up the option, which we had both been offered, of leaving the Air Force and he was now with the Air Transport Auxiliary and was soon to be flying Spitfires, Mosquitos and may other from factory to squadrons.  He was based at White Waltham, so we met frequently.  I had been recommended for a commission while I was at Cambridge which I managed to avoid because this would have meant another medical exam.  I would have failed this on eyesight and probably taken off flying – a thought I could not bear.  Better to get a good many hours in as an instructor plus a good report at the end of them before venturing down this hazardous lane again.  And so it was after a thousand hours of successful instructing I was again recommended for a Commission.  But there was a difference.  My CO W/Cdr George O’Donnell insisted in over-riding my objection.  So I faced another medical – and, of course – I failed it.  This apparently worried everyone and I was sent to a guru in the Eyesight world – a W/Cdr Livingsone, one of Morefields top surgeons.  He looked at my eyes and said “you have always had this poor  eye and have adapted completely to it you can see perfectly well – I pass you!.”  Back to Booker now with a new uniform and a weight off my shoulders.  The rest of the war was mainly uneventful.  On Sept 26 1942 I struck a drifting balloon cable a little north of Aylesbury.  I was on a cross-country exercise in a Magister N3971 with a pupil Corporal Gladman.  A fairly exciting few minutes followed.  The cable cut into the left wing close to the fuselage.  The balloon was not visible being in cloud 500 feet above us.  It soon appeared behind us and quite close.  The cable was streaming forwards over the wing a few inches from me.  Presently it reversed and started moving backwards and finally ran out and we were free.  From start to finish we had lost 1500 ft in height and were now at 1000 ft above ground.  I climbed up to cloud base and tested the flaps which are invisible from the cockpit and all seemed well.  I told Gladman to take over and complete the exercise – we were on the way to Sywell.  “Please Sir, do you think we could go back to Booker – I want to go to the lavatory” was his answer.  I agreed and told him to work out the reciprocal and go ahead.  A few moments later “Sir it is nothing to do with the accident”.  A good fellow!” 

Later on we lost the Lane End Telephone exchange to a V1 flying bomb and I remember the night my wife and I were in bed and we heard the familiar pop-pop-pop of an approaching V1.  The pops became fewer and then ceased followed by the swish of air as the wretched thing passed directly over our house.  And then merciful silence!  It had not exploded and was later recovered.

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Steam

Steam has always fascinated me although it would be more correct to say it was the reciprocal steam engine where the appeal lay, for the steam turbine held no interest.  My younger days were spent at Berwyn, North Malvern, within 500 yards of the granite quarry there and many times a week a steam traction-engine would pass our gate with its empty trailer on the way back to the quarry works after unloading its contents at Malvern Link railway station a mile away below us.  They took another route on the way down.  I have never lost this fascination and at Stowe School I built several model boats powered by Stuart Turner steam engines.  I tested these at a small lake next to the British Worthies monument which was quite near the main building and convenient.  When I bought, and moved, to Colliers Corner in 1951 there was a rusting wreck of a Foden Steam wagon laying a a piece of wasteland only a few yards from the house.  But Fodens did not interest me then.  One day, at a Steam Fair I met Chris Edmonds – a real steam fanatic – and the interest in steam returned with force.  Chris found me an Aveling and Porter Steam Roller in good condition for, I think, not much over £100, and I bought it.  Chris had a Fowler Steam Roller of similar size and he would drive it over to Lane End and leave it overnight on that piece of green common in the village.  I was persuaded to organise the re-surfacing of the School Road in the middle of the village which was in a shocking state with potholes everywhere and, although this road was ‘unclaimed’, the Council offered the help of their workmen in laying the tarmac at no cost if I would pay for the stuff.  We made headlines in the national press with our MP – John Hall – officially opening the new road when we had finished it.

Bill Connor – Casandra of the Daily Mirror – asked me to let him have a go at driving my roller and he arrived complete with photographers for the event.  Later he arranged for lunch at the Blue Flag, a couple of miles away, and wished to drive me there on my Aveling.  Now, steering a steam roller is not easy!  It is about as far as you can get from ‘direct’.  Bill was only saved from ditching us by my rapid use of the reverse gear which, on a steam engine, can be instantly applied.  I got on well with Bill. WE both had almost encyclopaedic knowledge of motorcycles and we used to try and catch each other out on the subject.  Steam rollers paid no road tax in those days and I did various jobs for friends – rolling the car park at The Chequers, Fingest, or pulling up a tree with the winch and also rolling Booker airfield (we tested it for maximum speed on the runway – close on 20 mph) and  a  long run to the steam rally at Chesham.  On the road there never seems to be any vehicle ahead – looking behind things were rather different! 
When I became too busy to have the time to enjoy it I sold the Aveling to a Mrs Vickers and so another chapter in my crazy life was over.  But it was fun and all my children and my wife enjoyed it too.  As I was finishing these notes my elder son, recently retired from being a Training Captain with BA, on reaching their age limit of 55, has just asked me if I am going to write about the fun we all had with Gokarts – or Karts as they were later called.  I might do so, but at the moment I think I have said enough for one long lifetime and anything more must wait for my next lifetime on this planet.  Then, of course, I may have totally different interests – none in steam, none in cars, perhaps none in flying but I hope plenty in music with a special addendum – that my final years are not hampered by deafness the next time round.

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Cars

My father would talk at length about his motorcars.  His first was a tiller-steered Lanchester and when his next one came with a steering wheel he was far from pleased.  “It lacks the extreme accuracy of the tiller” he would reminisce.  Father taught me to drive as soon as I could reach the pedals on our T-Ford.  I would be about 9 years old (in 1918) and he would prop me up beside him, ready to put his pipe between my lips whenever we came to a village.  I can never remember not getting away with this and so became a reasonable driver at an absurdly tender age.  Little did I realise that I was about to experience the art of teaching – something that was to play such a large part of my life later on.  My father, who was a dentist had Dyson Perrins , of Worcester Sauce and Worcester China Works, as a patient.  One of the China Works’ artists was a Mr Watmough who also came to my father for some dental treatment.  Mr Watmough had a Rover two-cylinder car which he couldn’t manage properly and my father directed him to me for some lessons in the limited space of our drive at Berwyn.  All father’s cars were open ones with canvas hood and side screens until he was about 80 when he bought his first saloon – a black Austin 10 – and in which he was arrested for car theft.  He had pulled in at a local tobacconist for his pipe tobacco and another black Austin 10 had pulled in behind him.  When he came out he got into the wrong car and had reached the centre of Great Malvern, half a mile away, when they stopped him  The days of individual keys for ignition and doors were far in the future. Also almost all Austin 10s were black.  This was interesting because the policeman who arrested him knew him well and in the end he escaped being locked up – but only just.
Every year father took me to the Shelsley Walsh Hill climb.  The owner of the land was a patent of his and we had permission to drive up the famous hill whenever we wished.  I have driven it in a Fiat 17/50.  When I left Stowe at 17 I developed a passion for motorcycles.  I had bought a Francis-Barnett 147cc from the lab-boy there and I remember the thrill of riding it home from Malvern Link station – an uphill mile or so.  I would have ridden it from Stowe but for JF Roxburgh’s correct refusal permitting me doing so.
There was no driving test in those days and I spent much time in trying to improve the bike’s performance.  The ignition was by flywheel magneto – the backplate fixed by a metal strap.  Remove this and the backplate could be adjusted to give perhaps just that little more advanced ignition setting which might result in obtaining just a slightly higher speed when flat out.  The result can be spectacular.  It must be remembered that a 2-stroke engine will run in either direction – it is only a matter of ignition setting.  Church Street, Great Malvern is a steep incline terminating into the Terrace abruptly.  There was usually a policeman at this point and he had stopped me there to await a gap in the Terrace traffic.  My engine had coughed a bit as I brought it to rest – but it continued to run.  When the policeman beckoned me on I gave him a ‘thank you’ smile and proceeded rapidly backwards.  My riding skill was not up to this and I finished in a sprawl at his feet.
In 1928 I went to Kew to study piano with Vernon Warner and my Francis-Barnett went with me.  But I now coveted a 172cc super-sports TT James in a shop in Richmond at £32.50 and when I was offered a good price for the F-B I bought it.  Here was my ideal motorcycle.  I joined the British Two-Stroke Club, entered their trials, advanced from beginner to expert and thoroughly enjoyed myself.
My next mode of transport was Morgan three-wheeler.  This had a V-twin Blackburn side-valve engine and cost me £24.  Mr Morgan and his family were patents of my father and when I lost one pf the front wheels on this three-wheeler at night-time on a straight road near Pershore Mr Morgan personally opened the works next day (a Sunday) obtained a new wheel and axle and helped me fit it.  Later on I bought the first F1 Morgan (with Ford 8 engine) but it was not a success. The extra weight of the water-cooled engine was too much for the front suspension struts and they would give way and  wheel would splay out.  Mr Morgan’s reason for not fitting a detachable rear wheel was ‘have you ever had a puncture in it?’  I admitted I never had.  He continued “punctures are caused by front wheels kicking up nails etc, which become caught by the rear wheels directly behind them.  There is no rear wheel behind in a Morgan”.  Demand, however, won and a new rear suspension with detachable rear wheel was adopted – but only in the last year before the new Morgan 4-4 came out and the three-wheeler production finished.

The war came and went.  I had married and we had started a family.  We were always struggling a bit for lack of money and I remember little about the various cars I owned.  All furniture was bought a auction sales but the time came when we needed something bigger to carry a growing family.  I reckoned we could afford £100 – but there was nothing I could find.  And then in Motor Sport of all journals I saw “Rolls-Royce Phantom 1 for sale with estate–type body used for caravan towing Price £75. Skegness Caravan co.”
I was a member of the RAC and knew the chief engineer Mr Hudlass well (via my Verdik Petrol Economizer) and I arranged to get an engineer’s report on this Rolls for £5.  This read so well that I sent them a cheque and the car became mine.  Car collection collected it and so began several years of interesting motoring.  I wanted Father to drive it before he was stopped driving by his insurance company which had a fixed age limit of 90.  This places the year as late 1950s.  He had never driven a Rolls-Royce and he loved it.  He lit his inevitable pipe and settled himself comfortably behind the wheel and sailed blissfully over the crossroad near Frieth without looking left or right and convinced me that his insurance company had a point and it was time to stop and not spoil a long clean driving licence during the remaining almost ten years he was to have.  The picture of the Rolls with Snowdon in the background was taken during a holiday in Wales. We were exploring at the top of the Llanberis Pass along the Pyg track.  I do not recommend it, except on a suitable motorcycle.  I cannot remember why I sold the Rolls.  The purchaser Col Stephens, repeated the original Lands End to John O Grotes trip of the Silver Ghost for historic reasons which was  written up in the motoring press and he equipped it with ‘everything including the kitchen sink’ and I occasionally met it at motoring events.  I had always had a longing to own an Alfa-Romeo Spider.  A holiday in Rome with my wife in 1981 (flown there by our son William who was by then an airline captain with BA) gave me the chance to see plenty of them and a determination to own one.  With the help of a London Alfa dealer this soon became possible and we had may happy trips and holidays with it.  There was only one snag.  I was getting older and found it hard to cope without power-assisted steering.  Above 10mph OK but parking in ever-smaller car parks was becoming too difficult and it had to go.  It was bought my the Headmistress of Wycombe Abbey girls' school who years later is still enjoying it.  But I miss its presence in my garage, even if only just to look at.  For some reason the Alfa-Romeo Owner’s Club made me a life member so I continue to receive their newsletter which I love to see.  My last Driving Licence expired in Nov 2004 but I had already stopped by then, and so my driving life terminated, like my father’s, in being accident free and without an insurance claim.

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