One Chance

by Paul Potts

  Occasionally, we used the car and drove further up the coast to Hayling Island, Worthing, and Brighton. We liked Hayling Island the most, as it had a sandy beach, so we could use our buckets and spades. Even the pebble beaches kept us occupied, though, as I learned to skim stones there. It was something I always found relaxing. The secret to a six- or sevenfold skim lies in the choice of stone. Not too big, not too small, with a reasonable density so it won’t be thrown off course by a wave. Then it’s all about the speed of your throw and the angle at which the stone hits the water.

  One of the highlights of Portsmouth in August was the Navy Days at the historic dockyard. They started out many years ago as a recruitment exercise for the Royal Navy—the modern equivalent of press-ganging! We always timed our holiday to coincide with the Navy Days weekend, because for a single entry price you could wander round most of the dockyard and go on board the ships. One of the major attractions was the aircraft carriers, and there were always long queues to see them. The only year when there weren’t real Navy Days was 1982, because this was the year of the Falklands War between the UK and Argentina over the sovereignty of the Falkland Islands. It was very poignant to see the badly damaged HMS Glamorgan in dry dock after it had been hit by an Exocet missile, where several crew members were killed and injured. There were regular parades by the sailors, and the day ended with the rousing sounds of the Royal Marines Band playing the “Last Post.”

  Those days of wandering round the dockyards stirred us, though, and John and I vowed that we would join the navy when we were old enough. When we got home, we joined TS Adventure, one of the Sea Cadet Corps in Bristol. I planned to be an artificer, or engineer; an aim doomed by my lack of ability in physics and mathematics, which were prerequisites for the job. John, though, was more successful and a number of years later he joined the navy as a cook. He ended up serving for around twenty years, seeing much of the world and also serving in dangerous times such as Operation Desert Storm.

  The Portsmouth holiday in 1982 doesn’t just stick in my mind because of the Falklands War. I was eleven, leaving Chester Park for the big bad world of secondary education. Primary school had left me feeling confused. I hadn’t known how to interact with the other children when I started, and upon leaving I felt like I knew even less about it.

  The thought of going to secondary school scared me witless. I didn’t see these new experiences as an opportunity but as a threat. Those six weeks of summer holiday in 1982 passed all too quickly, as I worried about being thrown into a new world I didn’t know how to deal with. The one thing that had helped me cope with my problems in primary school had been my love of music and singing. In secondary school, I was going to need that solace more than ever.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Singing

  I WILL ALWAYS remember the first time I experienced music properly. I was five years old, and was attending a service at our local church: All Saints, Fishponds on the northeastern side of Bristol. I was part of the congregation, standing up to sing a hymn, when I was suddenly taken by the sound of everyone singing together. It was such a beautiful, sweet sound that it took me out of myself. I was completely caught up in the moment. I’d heard music before, of course, but this was the first time I “got” it and realised just how special it was.

  I soon discovered that not only was music something magical, but also that I was naturally good at it. I had an innate ability to remember tunes in my head, something that is often described as learning music by ear. I could hear a tune in church and sing it back with little effort, and also play it on the piano. Right from the start, I realised music was going to be an important part of my life.

  When children at church reached the age of seven, they were expected to start Sunday school. I had been singing in the church choir for a year by this point, and I wanted to continue singing rather than go to Sunday school. I couldn’t do both, as they were scheduled at the same time. It took a little negotiation from my parents for me to be excused, but I got my wish. I was joined as a chorister by my brother John. Tony joined a different choir at St John’s Church by our school. Jane wasn’t interested in being in the choir, as she liked Sunday school. We were paid a small amount of money for weddings and normal services. It wasn’t much, but it did give us something to save up and spend at the fair on holiday.

  I wasn’t sure why music made me feel good; I just knew it did. Seeing that the vicar did lots of singing during the service, for a while I wanted to be one. It wasn’t because I had a calling; I thought it meant I would get to sing!

  Even at an early stage, I gained a reputation for singing loudly. I sang tunefully, but always at full volume. This wasn’t from being disobedient or wanting to show off, but simply because I enjoyed it. I was so loud that if I was in the congregation at a different church, I’d often turn heads as people could hear me from the very front of even a pretty large building.

  One Sunday at home, I decided to experiment with some matches and paper. I think it was more about curiosity than anything else. I set the paper alight in a drawer in the bedroom I shared with my two brothers, and the smell and smoke made its way downstairs. Predictably I was caught and told by Dad to pray to God for forgiveness at church that evening. I was offered a choice of punishments: either I could miss a whole week’s activities, namely Boys’ Brigade, Cub Scouts, and choir practice; or miss the Cub Scouts camping trip to Exmoor a few months later. I really wanted to go camping, so I chose the week of missed activity instead.

  That evening at evensong, I dutifully prayed for forgiveness as told to by Dad. To his surprise, I came home full of joy.

  “Well,” I said to my parents, “God forgave me!”

  Dad looked startled. “What makes you say that?” he asked.

  “We got a pay rise this evening!”

  One thing I wanted from an early age was the opportunity to sing solo. I remember watching the BBC show Jim’ll Fix It as an eight-year-old, and seeing a boy treble who had written to ask to sing in St. Paul’s Cathedral. I was green with envy. I wanted to sing solo, and I dreamed of doing so in a huge church like St. Paul’s. I didn’t enjoy watching someone else doing it when it could—and should—have been me.

  I eventually got my chance in a much smaller venue. A small choir made up of pupils was formed at my primary school, the majority of whom were girls. The choir only really performed publicly once a year at the school’s carol service at St. John’s Church, which was next to the school. In December 1978, I was asked to sing the first verse of “Once in Royal David’s City” without accompaniment. This both excited and filled me with fear. It was a huge moment for me, and I still remember my legs feeling like jelly as I was singing, nerves being something that would always be with me.

  Nineteen eighty was a key year in my vocal development. We had noticed in the local newspaper, the Bristol Evening Post, that one of the central Bristol churches—the great Georgian church, Christ Church with St. Ewen—was auditioning for boy choristers. It seemed too good an opportunity to miss, and I decided to audition.

  The audition itself was a quiet affair in front of the organist and choirmaster, Brian Bussell and his deputy, David Moon. Mr. Bussell was a man with a jolly disposition and a fairly even temperament. But standing in the church in front of the panel, initially he looked domineering. Middle aged and almost bald, he was friendly, but you knew he was in charge.

  My audition was successful, and I was selected to join the choir and be paid £200 a year plus bus fare expenses. I was thrilled. Christ Church wasn’t large, but it had a long choral tradition supported by a benefactor who had left a large amount of money in her will, which paid for the choristers’ annual fees.

  At my first service in the choir, the whole of my family was present, including John, Jane, and Tony. John was heard singing by one of the church wardens and was subsequently invited to join. I was a little put out that I’d had to audition, but I was happy to be there, especially as I started getting solos.

 
New boys were always taken to All Saints Church in the parish for a fairly mild initiation. The church was said to be haunted by a monk who died defending the building’s treasures at the time of Henry VIII’s dissolution of the monasteries in Britain. We all had to stand up against a door while a few boys stood round the corner making shrieking noises, pretending to be the ghost.

  My older brother and I had good fun in the choir and made friends. One particular Thursday there was a storm under way. Having arrived early, John was running round with a few of the others, and he turned and said, “If I have ever told a lie, may God strike me down!” At that moment there was a huge flash of lightning and a rumble of thunder immediately after. He was petrified, but I laughed my head off.

  As choristers we were well treated by the church. In addition to the income that covered our expenses and also helped pay for singing lessons, we had regular trips. We also had an annual meal out just before Christmas. This was a rare event indeed for me. We usually went to the Berni Inn on Broad Street, which was a huge treat. We were allowed anything we wanted on the menu, and as it was a steakhouse and not something our family could ordinarily afford, I was nervous about ordering anything expensive. Seeing my discomfort, Mr. Bussell told me to go for it. I ended up having (as did every other choir boy) a three-course meal of breaded mushrooms, rump steak, and ice cream for afters. We were given liqueur coffees at the end (minus the liqueur, of course), and felt thoroughly spoilt.

  Christmas was one of my favourite times of the year at Christ Church. The smallness of the church meant the smell of incense filled it quickly. Carols by candlelight meant that the soft light shimmered from our white surplices and made our blue cassocks contrast with the stark whiteness of the walls.

  I enjoyed singing the descants and being allowed to sing high and loud without getting into trouble for it. My favourite descant of them all was the one for “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing” because it was fairly long and pretty high.

  The most special service of all was midnight mass on Christmas Eve. It wasn’t just because this service was held so late at night and in the centre of Bristol, very close to the main clubbing area. (This resulted in plenty of drunks walking in; most of them harmless, happy drunks who overenthusiastically joined in the carols.) There was always a special atmosphere in the church on Christmas Eve. The smell of incense was particularly pungent, but it was balanced with the smell and light of the candles and the soft tones of the priest singing the responses. It was the only time of the year when the priest encouraged everyone to shake hands and wish each other “Happy Christmas.” In this service, we would have all the best carols with all the best descants.

  My other favourite time of year was around Easter. Passion-tide, the approach to Good Friday and Easter, was always very poignant. On Maundy Thursday, the day before Good Friday, the candles were extinguished and the altar stripped. It made things very eerie and made me feel quite alone. In contrast, Good Friday was a busy singing day at the church, so it was always one of my favourites.

  On alternate years, we would perform John Stainer’s Crucifixion and Theodore Dubois’s Seven Last Words of Christ. Each had its own attraction. Stainer’s work was fairly typical Victorian English music, with rousing choruses and a few good solos for the adults (alas, nothing for the boy trebles), whereas Dubois’s work, which I preferred, was more emotional.

  I enjoyed my time at Christ Church. I more or less got on with the other boys in the choir, which felt like a dream come true. This helped reassure me that my voice was my friend. It was only when I was singing that I felt I had no enemies, so I embraced it. The only problem was that I’d get so caught up in the music that I forgot about the rest of the choir. It didn’t matter how many there were, be it the twenty-five others at Christ Church (including adult singers) or a massed choir at Bristol’s Colston Hall. I could always be heard.

  This would often get me into trouble with our choirmaster, Mr. Bussell. Sometimes I would come into the church for evensong and find myself summoned to Mr. Bussell in the organ loft. I’d have to spend the whole of evensong sitting in a chair by the huge historic organ. While it was fascinating to watch Mr. Bussell playing Widor’s Toccata at the end of the service, I much preferred singing back on the ground level. I was told to listen to the choir without me to hear how united it was. I would try to contain myself, but would find myself back up in the organ loft every six weeks or so, being given exactly the same lesson.

  Mr. Bussell was a jovial man with a good heart, though he wasn’t afraid of showing his displeasure. You could sometimes tell his mood by what he played as the recessional voluntary as we returned to the choir vestry. If it was Widor’s Toccata (one of my favourites), then it usually meant he was in a good mood. If it was J. S. Bach’s Toccata (which always sounded like something from a horror movie), then we knew we were in line for a telling-off.

  Mr. Bussell very rarely raised his voice, but you always knew when he was unhappy. When he got really cross, he’d use a tactic that was effective to the nth degree: he would threaten us with the prospect of introducing girls into the choir. We were bright enough to know what this would mean. There was only space for fifteen or sixteen boys at most in the front pew of the choir stalls. Having girls in the choir meant redundancy for some of us, so it was a very effective threat indeed.

  Despite spending a considerable amount of time banished to the organ loft, I got on well with Mr. Bussell. He was usually funny and pleasant, and towards the end of my time with the choir, he told me that I was one of the best choristers he had ever had the pleasure of working with. For me this was very high praise indeed, and made me feel very happy.

  The money I earned from being in the choir paid for me to have singing and piano lessons. My teacher Miss Wilcox taught in her home in the Soundwell area of Kingswood, an affluent area on the edge of Bristol. I had to get a bus to and from lessons twice a week. She had many talented pupils, some of whom I remained friends with years later. Miss Wilcox was advanced in years and had a reputation for having a bad temper. She was so scary that she filled even her pupils’ parents with fear. She was in her eighties and spoke with very authoritarian tones. She didn’t suffer fools gladly, and though largely immobile in her seat, could certainly move her arms very well.

  One Monday evening, for example, I had left late after my singing lesson and there was a risk of missing the bus. Fortunately, that was running late, too, and I ran to the bus stop just in time to catch it. I was getting on the bus when I was grabbed by the father of one of the other pupils, Chris Gammon.

  “Come on,” said Mr. Gammon. “I’ve got to give you a lift home.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I replied. “The bus is here now, and you only live round the corner.”

  “Oi!” the bus driver shouted. “Are you getting on or not?”

  “He’s not,” said Mr. Gammon, pulling me back onto the street. “Miss Wilcox,” he explained, as the bus drove away, “told me I had to drive you home.”

  His face was as white as a sheet: he was petrified.

  This wasn’t a rare emotion in Miss Wilcox’s presence; she was mistress of all she purveyed.

  Miss Wilcox was a hard taskmaster. My singing was far better than my piano playing, and I was always a little lazy with my piano practising. It generally showed when Miss Wilcox asked me to play the pieces she had given me to practise. She would get more and more frustrated with me, and wasn’t afraid of showing it. I tried to make excuses, saying that our piano at home was out of tune. Rather than just accepting that, Miss Wilcox sent her piano tuner to our house to test our piano.

  Miss Wilcox had another tactic, too. She decided that corporal punishment would make me perform better. After several weeks of playing badly and not really making progress, she picked up a garden cane and started rapping my fingers with it whenever I made a mistake. The more mistakes I made, the harder she hit me. I can see now that having sent a piano tuner at her own expense to look at my piano meant she was very pass
ionate about music and wanted to ensure that we played as well as we could. Unfortunately, her plan had the opposite effect: the caning on the fingers was too much for me and made me give up studying the piano. I didn’t tell my parents about the caning. I just told them I didn’t want to play any longer. I felt that if I told the truth, I would just get into trouble for not practising. I cut my losses, as I knew I would never be a great pianist.

  I can say one thing: I am very happy that Miss Wilcox didn’t use the same tactics to correct my mistakes in singing! I did practise more and made fewer errors, but my singing was always more natural, and at times completely effortless. If I hadn’t been doing well, I know she would have told me. My younger brother, Tony, was put off from having lessons with her, as she constantly told him off for sounding like he was chewing gum while he was singing. Miss Wilcox certainly didn’t hold back!

  My first crush was on one of Miss Wilcox’s pupils. Her name was Angela Huggins, and she was everything a pre-pubescent boy wanted in a girl: tall (which I most definitely wasn’t), pretty with wavy curls of blonde hair, and she lived in a fairly well-to-do area. I tried to sing like her, which got her to giggle at me.

  What was to end any hope of a relationship with Angela (apart from her being a few years older than me) was my pretending we had got engaged (at my tender age of ten, this would have been a little extreme). Alex, my friend at school, and I went off for the day without telling our parents where we were going.

  Alex had told his mum we were going to meet up with Angela, when in fact we did nothing of the sort. We were away from home much longer than I had told my mum. Worried, Mum phoned Angela’s mum to find out where we were, and our cover was blown. I was too embarrassed to even speak to Angela after that.