by John Clarke
‘No no,’ says the pool, and it explains that it mourns because when Narcissus bent over and looked into it, it could see itself reflected in his eyes.
Oscar Wilde’s two sons were brought up under the name Holland after the surname Wilde, previously illuminated by one of the greatest gifts in the history of the theatre, had become associated with what was called ‘gross indecency’. Both Cyril and Vyvyan Holland served as officers in the First World War. Cyril was killed by a sniper but Vyvyan survived and after the war he worked sometimes as a lawyer and sometimes as a writer and translator. In 1947 his second wife, Thelma, who was from Melbourne and who later became the queen’s beautician, was invited to Australia and New Zealand to give a series of lectures on fashion in nineteenth century Australia, and between 1948 and 1952 Vyvyan and Thelma Holland lived in Melbourne.
Among Vyvyan’s published works is Drink and Be Merry, which, although it is essentially a book about wine, contains a story about the remarkable skill level of the painters Braque and Derain.
The two young men shared a rather long studio and each operated at one end of the room. They developed the habit of throwing things to each other and once they’d reached Olympic standard at hurling and catching any article regardless of shape, they worked out how to throw a carafe full of water underarm the length of the room, spinning it backwards so that the water stayed in it. At the other end of the room the recipient would judge the rotation exactly and would catch the carafe by the neck as it arrived.
At the time it was common to be offered all sorts of wine in a restaurant, but it was difficult to get the waiter to bring water. One evening Derain dressed for dinner and entered the Cafe de Paris at the fashionable hour and ordered a meal and a carafe of water. A few minutes later, after Derain’s water had arrived, Braque entered and sat at a table about the distance from Derain’s as existed between their easels in the studio. Braque ordered his meal and then stood up and said, ‘This is monstrous. I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes and I’ve asked for a glass of water and what do I get? Nothing!’
Those assembled were further astonished when Derain stood up and said, ‘You want a carafe of water sir? Voila!’ and he spun the full carafe over the heads of diners to Braque, who caught it perfectly, slowly poured himself a glass of water and flung the carafe back over the heads to Derain.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, and both painters sat down as if nothing had happened.
Another admirable piece of spontaneous public theatre was established by the Australian cartoonist Paul Rigby in the late 1950s, through the formation of the Limp Falling Association. Members of the association would gather, often in venues where refreshments were available and would go limp and fall to the ground. This would happen in the middle of a room or along a wall or at a dinner table and in a couple of more orchestral instances, in a group of twenty down a full staircase. At a time when Australia has lost touch with its identity it is regrettable that not only has this tradition been lost but that there is not a Federal Minister of Limp Falling, charged with revitalising an important symbol of folkloric independence. It cannot be that the activity is too absurd. There are many federal ministers engaged in idiocy of a far greater magnitude than going limp and falling to the ground. In fact it might help if some of them made inquiries and joined the association.
Living in London for tax purposes in 1972, I read that Spike Milligan would be signing copies of his new book Adolf Hitler—My Part in his Downfall at Hatchards in Piccadilly. I’d never been to a book signing before but Spike was a hero of mine and I arrived early. I lurked near where he was obviously going to sit and by the time he arrived, a long queue spilled out into the street. For over an hour Spike signed books and he was brilliant. A man asked him if he’d please sign a book for his wife.
‘Certainly’, said Spike. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Elizabeth,’ said the man.
‘How many times have you been married?’ asked Spike.
‘Just once,’ said the man.
Spike dedicated the book to ‘Elizabeth the First’.
Once the shop had run out of Milligan books and Spike was having a cup of tea I eased a pile of books from a shelf behind me and quietly asked Spike to sign them. In the pile was a copy of every book he had written, plus several extra copies of Puckoon for friends. We could all practically recite the whole novel.
‘I’m afraid your problem is serious,’ said Spike.
The new book Adolf Hitler—My Part in His Downfall had actually been released a couple of weeks earlier and I’d already read it. Among a great many delights, the book contains examples of early humour and writing Spike was developing with a friend named Harry Edgington. They’d been in the same regiment and had gone through the war together. As Spike signed the books, I thought I’d ask.
‘What happened to Harry Edgington?’
Spike stopped writing and looked up. ‘Where are you from?’ he asked.
‘I’m from New Zealand,’ I said.
‘Whereabouts in New Zealand are you from?’ he asked.
‘Wellington,’ I said.
‘Whereabouts in Wellington?’ he asked.
‘Wadestown,’ I said.
‘Harry lives not far from you,’ he said and he wrote Harry’s address in the front of the book. ‘Go and see Harry when you get back to New Zealand. Tell him you met me and get him to make you a cup of tea. Harry is my greatest friend. He’s been a rock in my life.’
When I returned to Wellington I didn’t have the nerve to go and see Harry but I was in a production of the Spike Milligan/John Antrobus play The Bedsitting Room in Wellington and after the opening night I was leaving the building when I heard my name in a deep brown English voice. And there was Harry, still looking very like the army photograph in Spike’s book. He told me to keep going as a performer. I thanked him and told him about meeting Spike and he said, ‘Spike comes to Wellington from time to time. No one knows he’s here. We just talk and laugh and drink and play music. Come around.’
This time I did go. Harry was a photo-engraver for a newspaper and he started work in the middle of the night, so I’d never seen him before these meetings. But his wife Peggy I recognised immediately. We’d often travelled on the same bus when I was at school.
These nights with the pair of them were unique and one year they did ‘An Evening With…’ concert to raise money for Downstage Theatre. It was not only a fabulous night with the population of Wellington swinging from the rafters, it was full of the private fun the two of them had always had together. Harry sat at the piano. He didn’t play it. He just sat at it. He sometimes looked as if he was about to play it, but he never did. Spike was so funny he sometimes had to stop to allow people to breathe properly and when he got spontaneous applause he turned and gestured to Harry, who stood with great dignity at the piano, accepted the applause, bowed and sat back down again. It was like watching excess and restraint dancing together. And maybe Spike’s gesture was a truth told generously and maybe Harry’s silence was his tribute to his friend.
When I was first appearing on television I’d sometimes get a message from Harry. The more there was a fuss about what I’d done (‘Who is this long-haired lout?’, ‘How dare the NZBC make fun of the government’), the more certain it was that I’d get a message from Harry.
‘Good on you,’ Harry would say. ‘Keep going.’
I stayed in touch with Harry until he died in 1993. I still think of him often. He was a very kind man and he co-wrote some of the early Goon Shows. The origin of ‘The Ying Tong Song’ was a discussion between Milligan and Secombe about how to pronounce Harry’s surname. ‘It’s not Edgerton. It’s EdgYINGton.’
Peggy Edgington still thrives at ninety-six.
It used to amaze me that Spike Milligan was my parents’ age and had been in the Second World War. In my childhood head he existed independently of the conventions of time or place and it wasn’t until I was about ten that I realised The Goon Show had been wr
itten, and that he did all that too. And it was decades before I realised The Goon Show is essentially a Second World War show. ‘How on earth did we win?’ Spike used to say. In the show Britain is an outmoded steam-driven shambles hobbled by class and bureaucracy and populated by mountebanks like Grytpype-Thynne and idiots like Eccles and Bluebottle, with a few like Major Bloodnok who fall neatly into both categories. Ned Seagoon is a sort of boy scout, keen but frequently being blown up (as Spike was in Italy) by the incompetence of the system he is fighting to defend. Neurosis and an escape inside the language led Milligan to the laughter he needed but the effort nearly killed him.
In the front of the Adolf Hitler book is the single line, ‘After Puckoon I swore I’d never write another book. This is it.’ This reaches back to Lewis Carroll, who died in 1898, which can’t have happened, since he wasn’t Lewis Carroll.
The script agency which typed and submitted scripts for broadcast at that time was Associated London Scripts, one of whose founders was Ted Kavanagh from Auckland, who wrote ITMA. One of the other writers said Spike’s scripts were unique. ‘No one else would write the following.’ He said by way of example: ‘Ned Seagoon is trying to explain the law of gravity to Eccles. “Look, I’ll show you,” says Seagoon. “You jump up in the air. Go on.” Eccles jumps in the air. “Now,” says Ned, “you came back down again. Why?”
“Because I live here,” says Eccles.’
One day at Associated Scripts Spike came out of the toilets into the large room full of typists and said, ‘Who put the tea leaves in the toilet?’
No one owned up and Spike repeated the question. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Someone must have done it. The toilet was full of tea leaves. Who put the tea leaves in the toilet?’
Eventually a timid hand crept slowly into the air. Spike turned slowly to the young woman in question and the room became very quiet.
‘You’re going on a long journey,’ he said. ‘And you’re going to meet a tall, dark stranger.’
The other day I suggested that my granddaughter come and help me wash the car. She’s four and a half and likes nothing more than helping other adults with important matters of this kind. We discussed how best to do it, I made a few suggestions which were accepted in broad outline and off we went. I designated a cloth for her use alone. (This turned out to be a very good idea, for those of you trying this at home.)
Once we got going it was obvious that she saw her role as the officer with particular responsibility for door handles. She came to me and announced that the door handles were filthy and I saw that she was very busy indeed, so while the rest of the vehicle was being washed, the door handles were being cleaned to within an inch of their lives. When both she and the car had been thoroughly washed, I explained that the next stage of the operation was to have a cup of tea. She announced, however, that there was still important work required on the door handles, so while I went to empty the bucket and put things away, she toiled nobly on.
After we’d both come inside, I looked out the window and saw that she’d draped her cloth over one of the vehicle’s side mirrors. I’d been stressing the need to clean up properly after finishing a job so I said, feigning a casual interest, ‘Claudia, what did you do with your cloth after I took the bucket of water away and you were still working?’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I couldn’t find you so I folded the cloth and left it on one of the antlers.’
While sorting things out in my office I came across the programme for a concert, in 1989, for Weary Dunlop, the doctor who was the senior Australian officer on the Burma–Thailand railway.
Among the performers at the concert that night was Bill Griffiths, an Englishman who was captured by the Japanese in Indonesia in 1942. Bill was blinded and lost both hands after being forced by the Japanese to clear minefields. When they were moved north to Changi, the prisoners who were very ill or handicapped and would slow things down were lined up to be executed. Bill was heavily bandaged and not very mobile. He was ordered to stand up on the hospital verandah and he became aware that the hospital doctor was approaching fast and telling the Japanese guards not to touch his patient. The doctor was Weary Dunlop. He put himself between Bill and the guard’s bayonet and he said quietly to the guard, ‘This man is my patient. We have worked very hard to save his life. If you kill him, that bayonet will have to go through me first. Go and get your senior officer.’ The senior officer needed doctors more than he needed a problem and Bill spent the rest of the war in Changi. His wounds healed and when he returned to England he went back to the firm where he used to drive a truck, got an office job and ended up running one of biggest trucking companies in England.
He flew to Australia for the celebration of Weary’s life and at the concert (military bands, show tunes of the period, etc.) Bill provided the outstanding moment of the night. He was walked out on to the stage by his wife, he stood alone at the microphone and he sang without accompaniment a song called ‘Two Little Boys’.
‘Did you think I would leave you dying, when there’s room on my horse for two,’ et cetera. Bill was a wonderful singer and the performance was slow and the concert hall was full and as the song continued, a lot of very strong men developed quite bad colds.
When Bill was interviewed in England about his long association with Weary he said, ‘Weary saved my life. He’s one of my greatest friends. I speak to him every day. He comes and sits in my den here and we talk. He sits over there in that chair. That’s Weary’s chair. It’s no use saying that Weary lives in Melbourne and can’t possibly be here with me. I’m blind. I can’t see that he’s not here.’
I was invited to participate in a discussion about the 1916 Easter Uprising in Dublin. I was there to talk about Kathleen Fox, who painted the scene as it was happening and was a relative of my grandmother, but most of the other speakers were proper historians with actual qualifications and real knowledge. I felt like a pullet at an exotic bird festival and in order to work out an approach I asked the speaker sitting next to me what she’d be talking about. She was a professor of Irish History and a flicker of concern darted across her face.
‘I’ll be talking about the Proclamation,’ she said.
‘That’ll be interesting’ said the pullet. ‘I was reading the Proclamation the other day. It’s pretty remarkable.’ The Proclamation is the document which framed the rebel cause and a public reading of the proclamation marked the beginning of the rebellion.
‘Yes,’ conceded the professor, ‘although there are some difficulties.’
‘Really?’ said the pullet, to whom life seemed simple.
‘For example,’ continued the professor, ‘Patrick Pearce famously read the Proclamation out on the post office steps.’
‘That’s right,’ I said.
‘The post office in Dublin doesn’t have any steps,’ said the professor.
Letters from the School
MEMO TO ALL STUDENTS FROM THE HEAD
I don’t know how many times I have to say this. The playground equipment is there for exercise and for fun. But, as I have repeatedly said, care must be taken or serious injuries will result. This sort of thing, for example, is simply not on. Hanging off the bars with nothing between you and the ground is an accident waiting to happen.
I’ve spoken to Laurie Keete about his irresponsible actions in this instance and he has accepted that, if something had gone wrong, he might have broken his neck.
Matron is particularly concerned that she might not have the resources if someone sustains a major injury. She has only one part-time assistant two days a week.
For goodness’ sake. Grow up. Enjoy yourselves by all means but try to stop short of idiocy.
Dear Mr and Mrs Keete,
I have had occasion recently to talk to Laurie about irresponsible behaviour in the playground. He may have mentioned this. It was in relation to hanging upside down on the bars, a dangerous practice and one which is strictly forbidden. Laurie made the point, in our refreshingly honest discussion, th
at he is a talented all-round sportsman and can perform tricks which, were others to attempt them, would lead to serious trouble. This is precisely the point. If others tried to imitate Laurie, I shudder to think what might happen. Laurie must be conscious of his important role as a leader in encouraging others to operate within their limits.
On another matter, it has since been drawn to my attention by one of the senior teachers that Laurie has been dyeing his hair blue. I wonder if there is some reason for this. He has not received permission from anyone here. There were some hijinks at the school swimming sports on Friday and we do turn a blind eye to some larrikin tendencies in regard to the displaying of house colours, especially in relation to support for the relay teams. It is now Tuesday, however, and Laurie’s hair is still a very vivid blue. In fact, his appearance is rather peculiar. At his age, of course, they think this sort of thing is clever, but unless he actually wants to look like a rainbow I suggest he present himself more in line with regulations 4–12 in the school handbook.
Thank you.
Louden Clearmessage
Deputy Head
St Expensives
Dear Parent or Guardian,
I regret that some slight concerns have emerged in relation to aspects of Book Club. Many of you will be aware of this important initiative, begun in response to declining levels of literacy and very well supported by the English staff. A reading programme has been worked out, featuring works designed to stimulate young minds and to encourage an interest in ideas. Despite the best efforts of organisers, however, Book Club is often regarded as just an excuse to fool around, a problem which the facing image demonstrates very clearly.
Many of these students have obviously not read the book. There is inattention. There is chatter. There is complete disregard for the nature and purpose of the exercise. No benefit can accrue from this programme unless students seize the opportunity presented to them. This is not a time for immaturity, for lack of interest, or for wasting everyone’s time.