Oxford University

by Ed Nelson

  The Wing Commander was all business and I didn’t get a positive or negative feeling from our interaction. He also told me to get a full kit of uniforms. At that, he left before I could ask what a full kit consisted of or where I could obtain it.

  Mr. Norman recommended G.D. Golding. He called for me. It seems that a phone call from Buckingham Palace will get you special treatment. I was told to come right over.

  Taking another cab, I made it to the tailor in twenty minutes. I explained I was being seconded to the RAF as a Flying Officer and had been told to obtain a full kit. Little did I know, eventually it came to light that I was to buy a set of daily working uniforms.

  They spent a good hour taking all my measurements. I was asked how I was going to be paying. I would be paying on delivery but they would like to know my cheque would be honored upfront.

  They didn’t use those words but that was the message. I didn’t know you could dance around a subject like that. The guy was even better than the Mayor of LA and he was a professional at using a lot of words to say nothing.

  It would take a final fitting in a week and then it would all be available after that and they could arrange for it all to be delivered to The Meadows. I made an appointment for the following Saturday and left for the airport and flew home. It was quite a day.

  Chapter 28

  On Sunday Mum wanted to get Grand Mum out of the house so we took a drive out to the airport to check out my new planes. They both oohed and awed over my planes but immediately got into plans for redecorating my very plain looking office.

  I started to say something when Mum shook her head. Then I figured it out, she wanted Grand Mum involved in a project that would get her out and about which would be good for her health.

  To redeem myself from my almost faux pas I asked if a budget of a thousand pounds would be enough.

  Grand Mum replies, “Oh heavens yes, Olive and I can find things at the thrift shops this week.”

  Mum’s smile said everything.

  On Monday after school, I had a phone call in the evening from Flight Lieutenant Smyth. He wanted to know if I could come to his house as getting around was still a bother. Of course, I could. We set up a meeting for Tuesday evening after dinner.

  I swotted up on the ‘Officers Handbook,’ as I expected that to be the basis of my training. I was correct.

  Tuesday I knocked on the door of Flight Lieutenant Smyth’s house. It was answered by a pert young lady, his wife Pricilla. She led me to the kitchen of the small cottage. Bill was at the table and I was relieved to see a copy of the handbook in front of him.

  Pricilla excused herself while Bill and I got to know each other. He explained that he had been in a motorcar accident. The bonnet had collapsed like it was supposed to or he would have literally lost his head. However, the engine block did move back far enough to break his legs. He was in the middle of a year-long recovery.

  He was on duty at the time and was not judged at fault as the other driver was on the wrong side of the road and drunk. It was an American officer that was visiting the base so right now the Yanks didn’t rate very high with the Smyth’s.

  I had been using my Mayfair accent so he didn’t twig about me right away. When he asked about me I was open and honest, describing myself as a Queens Messenger who was being seconded to the RAF so I could legally fly.

  “You are licensed aren’t you?”

  “Yes, but under civilian rules, I have to be seventeen to carry passengers.”

  He stopped and literally stared at me for a moment.

  “You don’t look that young. I would have guessed nineteen or twenty.”

  “I am, and I have a shameful secret to share. I’m half a Yankee”

  I changed accents in the middle of the sentence. It was worth it seeing the confused look on his face. I guess it was the final clue for him.

  “Rick Jackson, would that be Sir Richard Jackson?”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  He half-shouted, “Pricilla get in here.”

  She quickly returned to the kitchen to see what the fuss was about.

  “Prue, this is Sir Richard Jackson the actor who saved the Queen.”

  “Oh my!”

  That led to a half-hour conversation on my career and attending Oxford. They were nice people and polite about it so it went well. Prue made us tea and we enjoyed our time. When I wound down it was time to go to work.

  Bill gave me a copy of the handbook and told me to start memorizing the first four chapters as there would be a quiz the next time we were together. That would be next Tuesday evening. I knew an order when I heard it, so I replied, “Yes Sir.”

  “Would you like to get the first four out of the way now? I bought a copy last week, and have been going through it.”

  “Let’s give it a try.

  He then opened a three-ring binder with pages of what I assumed were the exam questions. They were as he started to question me. There were also pictures of various uniforms and ranks which I had to identify.

  I even had to stand at attention and salute. He told me my salute was sloppy. I thought it was sharp and my face must have given me away as he started laughing.

  “All drill instructors tell you your first salutes are sloppy, welcome to the RAF.”

  “Rick I’m pleasantly surprised at where you are at. It is obvious how you got to this point in life. I was also supposed to do an estimate of your fitness. You look fine to me, do you work out at all.”

  I told him about my exercise routine and running regime and he about had a kitten.

  “You may be the fittest person in the RAF. Most of us are chair bound sods.”

  I told him I doubted that but I had to keep in shape for my movie roles and it had become a way of life for me.

  He went on to tell me that I had a good understanding of the basics required and to keep it up.

  As we were finishing up his wife came back and asked a question. When you come back next do you mind if I bring a few friends over to meet you, they won’t believe me otherwise?

  “No problem. If anyone has a camera they are welcome to take pictures with me.”

  Sharon Wallace would be proud of me. I wondered how she was doing. As I had backed off from pictures for at least a while she had taken on several other clients.

  She was also working with Mr. Baxter on learning the agent trade. She had a real monster of a client to start with, my sister Mary was transitioning from Mr. Baxter to Sharon. I wonder if they would survive the experience. They were both strong-willed. Sharon was bigger, Mary was more stubborn.

  I made a mental note to be certain to bring publicity photos and said good evening.

  The next two days passed quickly between lectures and studying the RAF handbook. I could never think of the lectures as classes. They were too dry and no interaction between a student and the teacher.

  This worked well for me as I was used to it, it was how I had been learning for the last two years. I pitied those who were facing this the first time. Maybe that was why while I had to study none of it seemed impossible. Even calculus was not impossible, just improbable.

  I was getting calculus, painfully but I was getting it. Chuck Eric was very patient and kept coming up with new ways to explain things I didn’t understand. When I didn’t get what he was saying he would try another approach. As a teacher, he was fabulous, as a private tutor almost priceless. I say almost because I had to pay him ten pound’s cash every session. I bet the taxman was pleased.

  Thursday night came around and I had to face my reckoning with complete disclosure on my age and past. It took me a whole pint and most of the evening to tell my story. The guys kept interrupting with questions.

  Besides the movies and songs, I told them about my inventions. I ran down after a while because I felt like I was bragging. I mentioned this to Bill who reminded me if I did it, it wasn’t bragging.

  Most of their questions were about the girls in my life. They couldn’t understand wh
y I didn’t have Hollywood starlets hanging all over me. I explained that I had too many run in’s with gold diggers and girls who wanted to use my fame for their own purposes. This had made me twice shy.

  Tom Weston put it best.

  “Guys remember he is just a kid he has a lot to learn yet.”

  Yeah at nineteen he knew everything, but he was entirely correct I had a lot to learn. They all agreed that my problems were unique as they involved fame and fortune.

  Bill asked me, “Rick you come across as pretty level headed and aren’t full of yourself. Why is that?”

  “You haven’t met my parents. My father is a tough ex-Military Police Officer and Mum is just plain scary.”

  “Your Mum is scary?”

  “Ask MI6, they sit up and behave their selves when the Viscountess gets on them.”

  “Wow, she actually knows people in MI6?”

  “She was and probably still is a member.”

  “Tom Weston said, “I think I would behave myself if my Mum could kill people with her bare hands, though she has threatened to strangle me in my sleep several times.”

  We all laughed at that, all Mums made that threat.

  Steve asked, “Have you had any spy type training?”

  It took until closing time to relate my experience with the CIA in evading a tail, and the involvement of the KGB.

  Tom Weston asked if they should be afraid to be around me. I told them I was in hiding, that Oxford had me attending under another name. Unless the people at the next table were agents they were probably safe.

  Of course, they had to look over at the next table. The guys at that table either could have cared less about us or really knew their tradecraft.

  Questions arose about my movies and the different stunts. When I told them I did my own sword work Steve got excited. He was in the Oxford fencing club, would I like to attend with him and get some practice in. I told him I would be delighted. They met on Tuesday nights which I had clear so we made arrangements to meet at his club the following Tuesday.

  He asked the other guys if they wanted to attend but they passed.

  I didn’t get into archery, unarmed combat or the fact that I was a US Marshal. Being a Queens Messenger put me over the top with them, no sense in gilding the Lilly as Mum would say.

  The next morning I could tell I had drunk more beer than I ever had before. I didn’t have a hangover but I never peed so much in my life. I also drank about a gallon of water, well it seemed like it. I don’t think I like to drink, which is not a bad thing. I would have to learn to say no or nurse one all night long.

  Saturday morning I flew the plane in the Queen’s livery down to London, from there a cab to G. D. Goldings for my final fitting. They had me try on mess, dress, and daily wear and I don’t know what all. There were many shirts and pants, formal jackets, and oh my lions and tigers. Then all the shoes, socks, hats, ties and badges.

  It came out to over a thousand pounds which I paid in full. I had seen the pay rate for a Flight Officer. At less than ten thousand pounds a year there was no way they could afford it.

  I mentioned this to the man at Goldings, the head fitter or whatever they called him. I think Bandit Chief would be a good title.

  “Well Sir was very explicit in ordering a complete set of uniforms, normally we only have orders for one set of dress uniforms and several working sets from Flight Officers.”

  Ah, the English language is a wonderful thing. Yet the Wing Commander was very specific in telling me to order a complete set. Maybe he knew something I didn’t, not that it was hard to do.

  The cab was full of my purchases. There were so many clothes that I would have had a weight problem on the Cessna if I had five passengers on board.

  Of course, when I got home the clothes wouldn’t all fit in the Aston Martin. I had to pack in as much as I could and then make another trip. That was even with unpacking everything from the cartons and stacking them on the seats and in the small boot.

  As I drove home on the second trip I saw a Panda car beside the road. One of the officers waved at me. It’s nice to be recognized in a favorable fashion, especially by the police. Of course, it was the car that was recognized. How do they know it wasn’t stolen?

  At home, Mum and Grand Mum had to see all my new clothes. I even had to put on the Mess Dress uniform. It was really neat looking. The jacket I liked best was a double-breasted out of uniform, jacket. Go figure, there is even a uniform for being out of uniform.

  It was a nice looking dark blue like my blazers but as I said double-breasted. The buttons looked like they could be real gold. I know I paid enough for them to be real.

  Tuesday came around fast enough. I showed up at the fencing salle a little early. There were two club instructors there. I introduced myself and when they asked I told them what training I had. They were most interested in what was taught in Hollywood vs the real world.

  I told them I had worked very little with fencing epees that most of my work had been with broadswords, rapiers or dueling sabers. They didn’t use broadswords at all and did little with rapiers but used the saber a lot.

  About this time other people started showing up. I had been talked into a demonstration bout with the saber first thing. They were outfitting me with one of their fencing outfits, masks and all. I thought this was effete as we didn’t use them in Hollywood. We couldn’t use them on the screen so we didn’t bother off-screen either.

  I was introduced to the best saber man in the club. They told me it would be safest for me if there was someone who knew what they were doing involved with the bout.

  I felt insulted by that but chose to act as though they had my safety in mind.

  We went to the main matt and everyone closed in around us. No leaving the matt. What if I decided to jump up on a table as we did in Hollywood? Steve Stewart was there. I noticed he was talking to a lot of people and writing something in a notebook.

  We saluted each other with our sabers and it was on. We both were a little tentative but then I saw an opening and took it. His sword went flying. Someone said best two out of three. So we went at it again.

  This time I didn’t mess around I went high as though I was going to slash him, and then used a kick from the other side to knock him down. He was enraged.

  One of the instructors told me, “That’s not fair, old boy. In a real match, you would be disqualified.”

  “In a real match, he would be dead. I wasn’t taught a stylized showpiece I was taught how to kill.”

  “You fight to the death in those movies?”

  “The movies are choreographed to the ninth degree they are like a ballroom dance. I’m talking about the training I received off the set.”

  “How did you do with that crowd?”

  “I fought Basil Rathbone to a draw.”

  This wasn’t quite true but they didn’t have to know that, Mr. Rathbone said I was good and with additional experience fight with the best of them.

  “Well, you have to play by our rules here.”

  “Okay, when I come back I will.”

  Not that I will if the guy I fought was their best there was nothing here for me.

  Steve came over with a great smile on his face.

  “I made over a hundred quid betting on you.”

  “That was a lot to risk.”

  “Not really you described your training last week and I know what the all-Oxford champion can do so it was easy money for me.”

  “He’s the champion?”

  “Yes if you follow the rules, you yanks don’t seem to have any.”

  I shook my head and left. Thus my Oxford sword fighting career ended. They didn’t play rough enough for me. I think I will call the people at the Tower of London to arrange some real training.

  Chapter 29

  One thing I hadn’t taken care of was finding a place to get some golf practice in. I had asked around at the pub and was told the Huntercombe was the nicest course around. It had a high world ra
nking. It was located about fifteen minutes from The Meadows at Nuffield, Henley-on-Thames.

  I rang them up and talked to the golf pro. It is a public course but will only allow visitors with a known handicap. I identified myself and was told I would be very welcome to use the driving range and practice green but still wanted to see my handicap card.

  Maybe he didn’t believe that I was carrying a two-under handicap.

  I drove over Monday morning. Yes, I cut some lectures. When I identified myself by showing my handicap card and diplomatic passport I was made very welcome. I knew that this passport was good for something.

  I explained that I need to keep up with my game as I was playing in the US Open in June. When he heard that he picked up a magazine he had been reading. I didn’t know that Golf Digest had included me in an article along with a pretty good picture of me driving.

  Well, I could have had the keys to the course, if they had any.

  Since I didn’t have any clubs with me I was offered a loaner set. I took them up on that for today but ordered a set of my favorite clubs with the extended shafts. Then there was all the other gear from balls to shoes and all else.

  The Pro Mr. Simpson told me that if I applied for a membership there was a one hundred percent chance I would be accepted. I was going to be in the area and this was the closest course so I filled out the paperwork right then.

  This took me a good hour. From there the Pro showed me the practice green and driving range. I think he was excited to have me there.

  I spent an hour practice putting. I hadn’t completely lost my edge but it was a little rusty. From there it was to the driving range. I didn’t push it, starting with the short irons and working my way up to the woods. By the time I was to the driver I had loosened up so let a couple of swings rip. By the time the roll was finished, I think one of them passed the four hundred yard sign.

  Unbeknown to be at the time I was being watched by a gentleman. He introduced himself as the Coach of the Oxford University Golf Club. He asked if by any chance I was attending Oxford.