Moon Boots and Dinner Suits

by Jon Pertwee

  Carlotta’s languid sexuality, outward calm and aura of restfulness, made me, for the first time in my life, want to stay at home. She made the kitsch flat look almost beautiful with vases of flowers everywhere and single blooms in her hair. Carlotta sat mostly on the floor, sewing and making things, with her long black hair swinging in a single plait over her shoulder. Friends continued to drop in, but they were now of a somewhat different genre, no longer the frantic ones forever on the prowl, but those who liked to sit, eat and talk. It was my first introduction to peaceful domesticity, with the added advantage of tender instruction into the art of love.

  The British film business was at its peak around 1938-39 and there was then no stigma attached to an actor for being employed as an ‘extra’ or ‘crowd artist’. Stewart Granger, Michael Wilding, Richard Attenborough, Laurence Harvey had all been extras in their time. To work in the crowd meant a very early rise to enable one to catch the train down to Denham, or any one of the numerous studios in London’s environs, for a 7:30 call. I soon got used to the routine, however, and learned that 5:30 in the morning is often by far the best part of the day. After checking-in to the studio with the third assistant, it was off to the canteen for breakfast. It was there that I met John Churchill for the first time, and over the weeks learned from him all the tricks of the ‘extra’ trade.

  After his breakfast, John would check-in for the film for which he was sent down, then in the lavatory surreptitiously change into some other clothes that he had brought with him. Cloth-cap, raincoat, that sort of thing. Then putting on some spectacles he would check in with the third assistant of a completely different film as Harry Farnsbarns. Denham was so big, that it was possible to have several films on the floor at the same time. This done, he would escape from the lot through a hole he had previously made in the fence, jump on his hidden motorbike, and roar off to other studios in the area where he reported for duty with a different name and in a different guise in each.

  Armed now with several chitties, he returned to the Denham studio from where he had originally started, excusing his tardiness with the most inventive collection of excuses I have ever heard. Recurring attacks of dysentery, beriberi, and malaria were amongst his favourites. He could never have topped my favourite ‘sorry I’m late’ excuse from the late great Max Adrian, however. Max was always late and the Producer was getting very icy about it, saying that if it happened once more, he would reprimand him before the entire Company or even replace him. The next day Max was later than ever and everyone waited with bated breath for the inevitable excuse.

  ‘My dears, I’m terribly sorry I’m late,’ said Max, ‘but I just couldn’t stop crying!’ Everyone, the Producer included, was naturally far too embarrassed to ask anything further.

  But to return to Denham. Throughout the day John, having found some quiet place to hide, would read the papers and sleep, rising only for the natural functions, lunch and tea. ‘You see, old boy, to do well in this racket, your face must never become familiar. Once it does, once it becomes recognisable to the Assistant Directors, you’ll cease to get work. If you must appear in a scene, stay well back. You don’t want the Director saying, “What’s he doing there, we saw him yesterday,” do you? So keep out of sight and be seen as little as possible. Just remember a “nonentity” always gets plenty of work!’ And to think that I, determined to be noticed by the Director and his assistants alike, had been pushing myself to the front, in the expectation of being picked out for instant stardom.

  Once the day’s filming was through, the extras went to the third assistant, had their chitties signed, collected their money and went home. The salary was one pound, one shilling a day plus any overtime – more if you wore costume or dress clothes and still more if you wore your own dress clothes. I’ll always remember those pathetic advertisements placed in The Stage by out of work actors and actresses. Heavily abbreviated to save cost they ran: ‘Exp chtr Actrs own wrdrb sks mplmnt sprir rep coy rmnratn opn to ofr rply rgntly bx 1072’, viz – ‘Experienced character Actress, own wardrobe, seeks employment in superior Repertory Company, remuneration open to offer, reply urgently Box 1072.’

  But John Churchill couldn’t go home – not yet! He had the rounds of all the other studios to make, getting all his chits signed and collecting all the ensuing cash.

  How he got away with it I’ll never know, but he did, and made a great deal of money out of it into the bargain.

  We were both in A Yank At Oxford with Robert Taylor and Vivien Leigh, playing undergraduates, and as we were permanently on location, John, finding it virtually impossible to hide himself successfully did a complete volte-face and taught himself to play the bagpipes. And there’s no way of staying well back with them! In between each shot, the skirl o’ the pipes could be heard over the generator’s hum, and for those who liked it, a good time was had by all – all but the sound-man that is! No-one believed that he could have reached such proficiency in such a short space of time, but he did, and to the infuriation of all other competitors, went on to win the Pipe majors’ world bagpipe championship. The haunting sound of John Churchill’s laments were with us until he went off to join the Army in 1939.

  It was not until he joined the Commandos, however, that John became a real star, for amongst his other accomplishments, he was a champion toxophilite and taught his men the ancient art of bow-manship. His was the only Commando unit that went into action with sten guns and bows and arrows, which they later used to tremendous effect in raids on the French coast.

  It was in the famous raid on Vaagso in the Lofoten Islands off the coast of Norway that John had his finest hour. Commanding this epic raid he marched up and down the quay playing The Cock o’ the North on his pipes, under a hail of German bullets. Utterly undaunted and badly wounded he spurred his men on to achieve one of the most successful raids of the war. For this act of sheer bravado he was very highly decorated (the VC if I remember correctly) and was properly dubbed by the press and the PR department at the War Office ‘The Mad Major of Vaagso’.

  I’ve just remembered another example of his original thinking.

  ‘I’m only doing this sort of work, and leading this kind of life so that I don’t have to use my brain,’ he said. ‘That way, when the day comes that I really want to use it, it will be virgin fresh, and quite uncluttered by unnecessary flotsam and jetsam.’

  If there is any reader who can tell me what happened to John Churchill and his present whereabouts, if he has any, I would be very grateful.

  *

  In 1939 I worked in three other films, of whose content I remember little. There was Dinner At The Ritz, A Young Man’s Fancy (an unfortunate title) and The Four Just Men. It was in this film, playing the part of a young politician, that I spoke my first lines. My father, Roland, apart from writing the scenario, also played a tiny part. But when watching it on television earlier this year, I found to my dismay that I, with much the larger role, was not mentioned on the credits. Roland was consistently awful in the little he had to do, but looked distinguished. I, conversely, looked undistinguished and wasn’t at all bad. In fact I would’ve been much better if I had had the cutters on my side. But I must have pleased the Producer, Michael Balcon, for on watching me go through the scene he asked my father standing nearby who I was.

  ‘That is my son!’ replied Roland.

  I think that was the first time he had ever cheerfully acknowledged parenthood.

  The scene involved my haranguing a large crowd of worker ‘extras’ outside some factory gates. We had started on the scene fairly late in the afternoon and the Director was most anxious to get the shot in the can, and not have the expense of recalling the crowd for a further day. This was quite opposed to the wishes of my many friends among the ‘extras’, who were equally anxious that I should muff my lines and screw everything up to ensure that they were called for the following day. I was in a cleft stick! What to choose – popularity, or the chance of setting my foot on the ladder-of-stardom’s bo
ttom rung? I chose the latter, which later cost me every penny I had just earned on placatory pints of ale for my many aggrieved associates.

  *

  Theatre-going in those days often provided work for artists outside the theatres as well as in.

  To obtain a cheap ticket in the Pit or the Gallery before the war necessitated a long wait in a queue. This is where the many buskers came into their own. There were the Bowler Hatted Sand-Dancers (a la Wilson, Kepple and Betty); a jazz band called the Happy Wanderers, consisting of a heterogeneous collection of veteran musicians, dressed quite differently, but always wearing what appeared to be prison-officers’ caps; a black gentleman who recited nothing but Othello; a red-bearded gentleman, who by previous arrangement with the black gentleman, recited everything but Othello, and a lady with a club-foot who had a voice of such devastating power that later, when the air raids had started, she could, when requested by the Wardens, summon stragglers to the shelters by impersonating an air raid siren more penetrating than the original. There was also an elderly violin-player in funereal black with the long white hair of a Paderewski; and an assortment of bouncy entertainers in the ‘Cheeky Chappie’ mould. Each would arrive at a queue, wait patiently for his or her predecessor to do his or her ‘bit’, and go round with the hat for donations, leaving the pitch for the next diseuse, monologuist, minstrel, jongleur or contortionist.

  During these various and varied entertainments, a familiar West End figure was frequently to be seen strutting purposefully past the waiting queues. In appearance, he resembled nothing so much as ‘Struwwel-Peter’, with his unkempt shoulder length hair flowing behind him as he walked, his furled umbrella’s ferrule rapping a regular tattoo on the pavement.

  What the purpose of this routine promenade was remained a mystery for many years, until one day a jealous street-artiste of little worth let the cat out of the bag. All London’s buskers, it seemed, were under the control of a ‘union’, and this union was administrated by one man, ‘Struwwel-Peter’. Every pitch was allocated by him, with the buskers working in whatever order and duration he designated. To make sure that his members were adhering strictly to union rules, and would not forget to pay their weekly ‘dues’, he strode the pavements several times a day, to let them know that ‘Big Brother’ was watching, and that they had better toe the party line or else.

  I was queuing at the ‘New’ for the great Olivier-Gielgud season, when the little old white-haired violinist arrived at the curbside.

  ‘My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,’ he said with quavering voice, and judging the quality of the audience well. ‘Today I should like to play for you, the Bruch Violin Concerto, thank you!’ and with that, the sweet old man proceeded to play the great work with surprising style and soul. Half-way through, there suddenly appeared at the curb one of the ‘Cheeky’ ones who, against all ‘union rules’, and only a few feet away from the old violinist, took from his pocket a piccolo and started to play very piercingly The Sailors’ Hornpipe. So the old violinist upped his volume a touch. With the piccoloist promptly following suit, the battle of wills and notes was on, the contest continuing unabated until the saintly looking old violinist could stand no more. Removing the violin slowly from under his chin, he turned to the offending flautist and said with remarkable clarity, for all the ‘Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen’ to hear, ‘Fuck off, you piss-hole!’

  The piccolo player was so taken aback that he pocketed his piccolo and scarpered. To shouts of approbation and a shower of coins, the old gentleman was prevailed upon to continue his piece without fear of further interruption. Though I do not doubt that at the next buskers’ union meeting, the General Secretary Mr S. Peter issued the piccolo player with a temporary suspension for not abiding rigidly by union rules.

  *

  Let us pause here for a brief résumé of my life’s successes to date. ‘Superannuated’ from Aldro and Sherborne; ‘asked to leave’ RADA; fired from Jersey Rep; nearly ditto at Cambridge and downgraded in To Kill a Cat. Not bad for starters was it? But success in commercial radio had just about tipped the scales back in my favour and no longer was poor Maurice Lambert getting the same reaction when putting me up for a job. ‘Him? You must be joking.’

  War clouds had been gathering, and it looked as if, having just turned the corner, I was likely to be pushed back round it again.

  It was bad luck for Michael too; he had just had an enormous critical hit with his first West End play Death On The Table in which he collaborated with Dr Guy Beauchamp, the renowned osteopath. Michael, the youngest playwright ever to have a play presented in the West End, had also recently signed a very good film-writing contract with Michael Balcon at Ealing and having just recently married was badly hit when war inevitably broke out.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Then the soldier Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honour sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation.’

  I was paying a rare visit to my mother’s cottage, Blewbury Mill in Oxfordshire, when she called me to the radio to hear Mr Neville Chamberlain’s chilling declaration of war. I had had nightmares over the years, involving the trenches, the hand to hand fighting, the bayonets and the rats. Joining the Army therefore, was definitely out, and even though Michael had pre-empted the declaration by joining the Territorials with his brother-in-law, I would not be moved in my resolve. The Air Force? No, that must also be a non-starter; the thought of being trapped in a burning aircraft terrified me. How anybody found the courage to do what the last war fliers did is beyond my comprehension. Especially the bomber pilots, who, night after night, hour after hour, allowed themselves to be shot at from above and below, awaiting philosophically, by the law of averages alone, a fearful end.

  So, apart from being a conscientious objector (which needed the greatest courage of all), what was there left but the Navy? Nothing! The trouble here was the question of my seasickness. Over the last few years, on our way to France, I had regularly joined the Dover-to-Calais passengers as they tossed, heaved and retched their way across that violent channel. The groans, moans and smell of those Tourist Class lounges will remain in my memory forever.

  But, and it is a big but, ships were clean, food was regular, action when it took place, was at a distance, and therefore death, either dealt or received, was impersonal, not forgetting the best reason that ‘all the nice girls love a sailor’. I took a little longer to join up than Uncle Guy would’ve wished, but the threat of receiving a ‘white feather’ disappeared as soon as he saw me in my full seaman’s rig.

  Of course, before the Navy would have me, I, like everyone else, had to undergo a strict and very thorough medical examination. It is when one has a service medical that one realises that there is no medical practitioner in whatever field you care to choose, that can compare in skill and knowledge with serving Medical Officers. Go to any civilian doctor, or even specialist, for a check-up and what happens? You are given blood tests, eye tests, electro-cardiograms, X-rays and God knows what! The serving Medical Officer scorns such devices. He can tell everything there is to know about your medical history, physical condition and mental ability by two very simple tests. These are known in medical circles as ‘The Cough’ and ‘The Sample’.

  They’re both embarrassing, as those of you who have undergone them will know. In case anyone hasn’t, let me describe them briefly. First the Sample. Here, you are given a small test tube – one and a half fluid ounces capacity approx – told to retire behind a curtain and return with your sample in the tube. It is at this point that people are divided into two distinct categories. Category A, those who cannot produce a sample at all and Category B, those who can start, but, having started, cannot stop. I began as a member of Category A, and was getting rather worried when suddenly, and entirely without warning, I transferred sharply into Category B. However, I duly produced my test tube – plus a few spares – and was given my second test. The Cough. For this you are attired in nothing whatsoever, except a sligh
t blush, and stand facing the MO, who then places a couple of icy fingers on a very intimate part of your person and says ‘Cough!’ A rather unnecessary request because in that position, there isn’t much else you can do but cough. And that one small cough tells the keen mind of the MO if you’ve got flat feet, hardened arteries, galloping consumption or dandruff and if you haven’t – bang! You’re in the Navy, me old shipmate.

  For my part, I was not ‘bearded’, but a clean shaven sailor, and soon full to the brim with strange oaths. At least they were strange to me then. Now you can hear them almost daily on children’s television. Sailors are a rum lot. In general conversation their language is not by any means out of the top drawer, and the use of the number one four-letter-word is a must. In fact, it is almost mandatory to insert it between every word of more than one syllable, e.g. – ‘Yer, abso-fuckin-lutely.’

  By the same token, the epithet should also be liberally dispersed between words, such as ‘Hey Peewee! Oo’s this George fuckin’ Bernard fuckin’ Shaw then?’

  But in mixed company, or within hearing of the female sex, I seldom heard a sailor use a naughty word. They had the remarkable ability of switching from a conversation festooned in ‘fucks’ to language more in keeping with a cleric’s tea-party.

  So, had you been passing Portsmouth Barracks in late 1939 you would have seen the transformation of a raglan tweed-overcoated, flat-capped civilian Pertwee being turned into Very Ordinary Seaman Pertwee PJX178358, a tough, ruthless, cold blooded war machine.

  Having changed from the raglan tweed into the sailor’s serge, I was paraded on the barrack square, with the rest of our rag, tag and bobtail lot, for inspection by our CO, Commodore ‘Hooky’ Walker, so named for the piratical brass hook he had in place of his right hand.