by Danny Baker
Wendy, not from the area, was unimpressed. ‘Blimey, Dan, where are we?’ she said. ‘Hope you’re not thinking of somewhere around here.’
I wasn’t, but we were heading in the direction of an old row of houses I dimly recalled alongside a tiny park right on the border where SE16, Rotherhithe, met SE8, Deptford. Leading my disbelieving, pregnant wife across the kind of shrubby, deserted, broken-bottle terrain that would have brought a location scout for The Bill to orgasm, we eventually emerged into civilization again via a small alley that ran behind the Rose of Kent pub.
‘What are those trees over there?’ she enquired hopefully.
Scawen Road, Deptford, looked like a mirage as we wandered into it that bright summer’s day. Built around the minuscule Deptford Park, it was the sort of pretty late-Victorian square that Mary Poppins might have been blown to directly after all her good work with the Banks family in the film. We didn’t speak much as we ambled past the proud bay windows set behind gates and privet hedges, but we both knew this was it. This was the perfect, hidden little Eden we had imagined. The houses looked inviting enough, but to be facing on to a park was almost too idyllic to be true.
‘Did you know this was here?’ she asked me eventually, and I think I said yes, but the truth is I hadn’t been in Deptford Park since I played a five-a-side football tournament there in 1968 when I was eleven. I now realized what an idiot I had been back then. Instead of loafing about on the grass between matches, sucking on frozen lemon ice-poles, I should have been busy leafleting all these beautiful homes asking if they were considering selling up in fifteen years’ time. As it was, there was not a single sign to suggest any resident had the slightest desire to move out of, what appeared to us, a glorious oasis. The consequence of our extended walks up and down the road was that now we just didn’t want to look anywhere else – but what to do?
A week later, the phone rang in our flat on the nineteenth floor. It was my sister, Sharon. Sharon worked in Lewisham Hospital and told me that earlier in the day she had been taking down details from an outpatient who gave their address as Scawen Road, Deptford, SE8.
‘I told them that was strange because you were going on about it last weekend, weren’t you? How lovely it is, how you wanted to live there.’
I said yes very quickly, hoping against hope that this coincidence wasn’t the entire conversation. It wasn’t.
‘Any rate, she said houses NEVER come up down there, but just by chance . . .’
‘Yes . . . yes . . .’ I urged her on with a dry mouth.
‘. . . she reckoned that one was going to come on the market. An old boy who’d lived down there for ever has passed away or something. She didn’t know who’s handling the sale, but I’ve got the number of the house from her. Do you want it?’
I wrote it down, stared at it and wondered what the hell to do next.
When Wendy came in that day I couldn’t wait to show her my piece of paper.
‘There’s a house. In that street. They’re selling it!’
‘Oh! Incredible!’ she beamed, then, just as I feared, got straight to the practical: ‘Who’s selling it?’
‘I don’t know,’ I admitted, as brightly as I could, but even so I could sense the air was being let out of the moment.
‘So what do we do now?’ my wife pressed.
Again, I said I didn’t know. It was beginning to sink in that simply having a bit of paper with the number 46 written on it would not be considered a firm offer by most vendors.
What we eventually decided to do was walk down there the following morning and put a note through the letter box asking whoever found it to give us a call. When we arrived at the address, we were thrilled to see it stood almost exactly in the middle of the terrace, virtually opposite the park gates. Opening the small metal gate and walking up the short black-and-white tiled path, I took our note and slipped it through the letter box.
We were just turning to go when we heard a voice from inside say, ‘Hello?’ Wendy and I looked at each other. We felt like we had been caught doing something wrong. What if my sister had made a mistake and this house wasn’t for sale? What were we thinking, bothering total strangers who had probably just bought a new sofa and bedroom suite and asking them to ‘give us a call’? Maybe we should just stick with the council rent book after all. A moment later a white-haired man of about eighty opened the door and said, ‘Can I help you?’
I shook hands and explained about the note and the old gentlemen asked us in. Once in the hallway it was clear that, despite the net curtains at the windows, the house was completely vacant. Our steps echoing across the floorboards, the three of us walked into the two front parlours that were separated by a large set of Victorian pine doors, currently folded back. In both rooms were open fires surrounded by grey carved marbling and large decorative tiles. It was clear this sturdy old place hadn’t changed in a hundred years; the atmosphere that enveloped us was one of overwhelming peace. The old fellow introduced himself as Mr Reynolds and began to explain why he was there. As he did, Wend and I touched hands as the extraordinary inevitably of things meant to be made itself abundantly clear.
‘This was Mum and Dad’s house,’ he began. ‘I was always going to have this place. At least, that was the plan. I didn’t know Dad would live to be a hundred and one and I’d be eighty before I got it! I live down at Worthing now and none of my lot want to live up in London, so we’re selling. Do you know Deptford at all?’
I told him I was born just a few streets away and he smiled broadly.
‘Well, that’s nice to know – and isn’t this funny,’ he went on. ‘I wasn’t even going to come up here today, but then I thought I should pop in and collect any mail and so forth that’s gathering behind the door. I’ve only let myself in ten minutes ago and I was just leaving again when I heard you at the letter box! I thought it might be the estate agent. I think the board goes up outside tomorrow.’
At this I started to panic slightly. ‘I’ll be honest, I’ve never bought a house before. I’m not sure what’s next.’
Mr Reynolds carried on smiling. ‘Well, I’ve never sold a house before, so we’ve got that in common too. I suppose I tell you the price and then you beat me down and we shake hands from there is the form!’
Wendy squeezed my hand even tighter. This was starting to become dreamlike.
‘How much is it?’ I managed to gasp. At that exact moment I had approximately ninety pounds in my bank account.
‘Don’t you want to look around?’ he said. I said we didn’t. This was it.
‘Well,’ he went on, ‘there’s three bedrooms upstairs. The big one looks right into the park. But there’s no bathroom and only really a scullery out there. Oh, and an outside how’s-your-father in the garden. I’m afraid Mum and Dad rather resisted modernization. There’s a few old gas lamps here and there too! Anyway, they have instructed me to ask for twenty-nine thousand.’
This meant absolutely nothing to me. All I could say was, ‘So . . . what’s that?’
He shrugged. ‘Well, I suppose that means I should accept twenty-eight!’
And I just said OK. And that was it. We bought the wonderful house off him there and then, less than ten minutes after turning into the street with our hopeful little note in my pocket. Exactly as had happened in the case of moving into Maydew House, against all odds, Wendy and I were home.
Walking around it with him afterwards, it seemed to us an enormous old place but absolutely calm and welcoming in every room we arrived at. There were curious old alcoves and wonderful aged but robust cupboards everywhere. The ceilings were moulded and edged with sculpting. As we walked, he told us that his mother had died at the age of ninety-nine and her husband, at one hundred and one, had followed just a few weeks later. They had been married for eighty-two years.
So now I feel I must address a question you are no doubt very keen to hear answered. How on earth, if I had less than one hundred pounds in the bank, was I going to give the fantastic
Mr Reynolds his twenty-eight grand? Well, as Wendy and I walked out into the charming little back garden of the premises and Mr Reynolds momentarily left our side, that was the very first thing my wife put to me.
‘Ne’mind about that,’ I said, putting my arm around her, reeling with giddiness at the thought of the coming years. ‘I’ll sort this out. It can’t be hard. It’s gonna be wonderful – you watch.’ And I wasn’t lying. I knew it was all going to be totally 100 per cent wonderful. As usual, I hadn’t the faintest idea of how it could actually happen. I just had total conviction that happen it would. And, of course, it did.
‘You have to go to a building society, or a bank, and ask them for a mortgage and then they see how much money they’ll lend you to buy a house, once you’ve found the right one.’ This was my sister explaining to me, patiently, later that day what I now needed to do. ‘But they don’t just dish them out,’ she went on, sensing I wasn’t grasping the overall gravity of what is for many people A Big Step. ‘Don’t be like Dad, who thinks you can give a bank manager a drink then ignore any other payments.’
Apparently, he really did this once. Needing a grand in a hurry, whether for a family wedding or a certainty in the Cheltenham Gold Cup, a friend of his had recommended that Spud open a bank account for the first time in his life and then, after securing a loan, ‘just knock ’em for it’.
This made exciting sense to Dad, who had no fear whatsoever of any subsequent bailiffs’ visits or county court judgements against him. During the interview he was granted with the branch manager at Barclays, Dad apparently interpreted what the official outlined as interest due on a one-thousand-pound loan as a coded message to bung him a ‘drink’. I understand their final exchanges went like this:
Spud: ‘So if you give me the grand, what are you, y’know, like YOU, looking for on top?’
Manager: ‘You mean the interest?’
Spud: ‘Interest – call it what you like.’
‘Well, I’m not sure, but let’s say eighty pounds . . .’
Spud: ‘Eighty quid, eh? All right, say I can lay me hands on eighty quid this afternoon – I slip you that, then we say no more about the other bit.’
Manager: ‘Other bit?’
Spud: ‘The grand. We can just drop that out then, eh?’
My mum told me that Spud arrived home furious, tearing off the tie he had donned especially for the meeting, shouting, ‘Fucking waste of time! Different breed, that mob – he didn’t seem to know what I was talking about!’
I too had never had a single meaningful conversation with anyone in the banking business. The huge cheques that I was paid by LWT went into a joint account that Wendy and I had opened with the minimum of fuss and contact a year previously. All I did was thoroughly knock out what was deposited via a series of cheque books that seemed to require constant replenishing. For the house money we set up an appointment at the nearest building society to where we lived and went in literally hoping for the best. Even before we had sat down it went well.
‘Oh, I wondered if it was you!’ said the chap, clearly thrilled that Danny Baker Off The Telly was here for a chat. ‘We love your programme in our house. I was watching that thing you did with Kenneth Williams last week. Oh, he’s funny, isn’t he? I would LOVE to meet Kenneth Williams – what’s he like?’
Well, I ask you. On another day I might have been allocated some sour old gherkin who never watched TV and kept a special tin of fleas to put in the ears of presumptuous oiks who didn’t show due respect. Instead I had chanced upon the financial sphere’s equivalent of a stage-door Johnny. Immediately truncating Williams’ name to Ken for added familiarity, I confirmed what a true waspish genius he was, who, despite his reputation, actually loved meeting all sorts of people. In fact, now that I think of it, next time Ken was on the show, why didn’t my new chum from the building society come along for a few drinks and lots of laughs in the green room?
The mortgage man lit up with delight. ‘Are you serious?’ he said. ‘God, I’d LOVE to do that.’
Ladies and gentlemen. Let me say I entirely understand if the bumptious good fortune that has been continuously heaped upon my life is starting to make you feel a bit sick. Even when we got off the subject of Kenneth Williams and on to the matter in hand, my new friend acted as though we were just nattering on the back seat of a charabanc to Margate. When he asked what amount of mortgage I required, I misunderstood what this meant, and said, ‘Twenty-eight thousand pounds’ – the price of the house.
Without undue surprise he clarified for me. ‘So you want a 100 per cent mortgage?’ This was said in a tone signifying such a trifling request was just about the very least he could do for me.
I was a little fuzzy as to what a ‘100 per cent mortgage’ might betoken, so I just yelled at him, ‘Yes, that’s it – 100 per cent! Or 200 per cent if you like!’ It was as though we were now partners in an up-and-coming new double act.
At one point, almost with embarrassment, he did enquire if I had brought along any contracts I could show him as a security. Trying to hide my distaste that he had sadly introduced so unworthy a note to our hitherto sparkling tête-a-tête, I told him I would post him something later that, though it only covered the next few months, was simply the latest in a blizzard of such cast-iron documents that would undoubtedly keep piling up as the years went by. He said he didn’t doubt that and swiftly moved on to ask who was going to be on the show this week. This was extremely decent of him because the truth was I had no real clue as to whether LWT would keep paying me beyond that coming July. I mean, the show was doing well and I presumed they would have me back, but even I suspected building societies don’t just dish out houses to people simply because a chap likes to look on the Sunny Side.
Anyway, never was a 100 per cent mortgage more happily dispensed and – despite a flurry of phone calls from the estate agents, who were livid we had, albeit unconsciously, short-circuited their system – 46 Scawen Road was very swiftly all ours, lock, stock and outside how’s-your-father.
About a year later, old Mr Reynolds called by to see how we were doing. He seemed to rejoice in finding the place alive with noise and babies again.
‘Did those people that I approached to sell this house bother you?’ he asked. I told him they had, at one point even telling Wendy and I angrily that we shouldn’t ‘get our hopes up just yet’.
‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘they called me too. Said they had a long list of people who were promised first dibs on anything in this street – including a barrister and some high-ups over at Goldsmith College! Already had ’em lined up to view. Insisted I could get up to five grand more if I reneged on you. I let them speak, and then quietly told them, “My new friends are a young local couple, they are having a baby, I like them very much and we have agreed a price – goodbye.” Then I put the phone down. Furious, they were, absolutely furious.’ And he chuckled and sipped his tea.
They Might Be Giants
Bonnie Rae Alice Baker was born in Guy’s Hospital – right at the heart of Davey the Dwarf’s beat – not long before three in the afternoon on Halloween 1983 – a Monday. I was present at the birth, of course, dressed up in the required theatre greens like Jack Klugman in an episode of Quincy. Handed my daughter for the first time, I naturally felt obliged to say a few words and I managed a teary, ‘Hello, mate’ – an introduction that I have found to be the mot juste whenever I am first introduced to my children.
The Six O’Clock Show ran on like a bullet train through the majority of that decade, hundreds of shows with just about every major British star spending at least one of those happy hours with us; plus a handful of truly global stars too. I had actually met Mel Brooks before, when I was at the NME and had become fed up with talking to rock’n’rollers. Though we had only spent half a day together in 1981, I had every reason to think he would remember me when he came on to the show several years later. When we had first been introduced at Claridge’s Hotel, he spun round in exaggerated shock – or at
least what I supposed was exaggerated shock.
‘Wow! You’re kidding! YOU’RE Danny Baker?!’ he boomed, now gripping my arms as if I were a long-lost son. ‘Seriously, DANNY BAKER – that’s you?’ Notorious for being ‘always on’ I figured this was a bit of explosive business he routinely employed just to get a laugh from all the raw chumps a little over-awed to be in his company.
‘I cannot tell you how THRILLED I am to meet you!’ he chuckled, looking genuinely excited I had walked into his life. ‘Danny Baker! Do you have any idea why this is such a blast for me right now?’
I momentarily thought that he might have really enjoyed my recent NME cover story on the Village People, but surely the chances of that were remote.
‘OK, come and sit down. This is amazing to me.’ And arm around my shoulder, Mel Brooks, who I’d hoped I would catch in a good mood, marched me into the hotel’s ultra-fancy restaurant. We sat down and he pointed straight at my face.
‘The very first thing I ever wrote for TV wasn’t a hit, but I loved it. Do you know what that was?’
I knew he’d created the spoof spy series Get Smart quite early in his career and it was one of my favourite American shows as a youngster. But Get Smart had been a hit, so I just shook my head.
‘It was called Inside Danny Baker! Aired in 1963. It was about a dentist and everyone hated it, nobody picked it up, never been seen. And do you know why I chose the name Danny Baker, Danny Baker?’