16,99 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: The Robson Press
- Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014
For twenty-seven years Charlotte Green was one of the most iconic newsreaders on Radio 4. Her rich, velvety voice was a staple on the radio and a treat for millions of listeners. Charlotte joined the BBC in 1978 and became one of the regular readers on the Today programme, where her voice proved to be a reassuring constant in the midst of momentous occasions and terrible tragedies alike - her bulletins have covered everything from the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989 to the 7/7 London bombings in 2005. After leaving Radio 4 in 2013, Charlotte joined Classic FM, where she now presents an arts and culture programme, Charlotte Green's Culture Club. In this highly entertaining and touching autobiography, Charlotte tells the story of the woman behind the voice, with all the endearing qualities that have delighted her listeners for years and gained her various prestigious accolades. The News is Read is a must-have for anyone wanting to spend a few hours in the company of this warm, charming and wonderfully modest woman whose writing is as engaging as her voice.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Ähnliche
For my parents, Ruth and Geoffrey, in memoriam, and for my sister, Rachel
‘While thou livest keep a good tongue in thy head’
– THE TEMPEST, ACT III, SCENE II
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
THE LAST DAY
18 JANUARY 2013: my final day in the BBC newsroom after twenty-seven years as a newsreader and continuity announcer on Radio 4. And thirty-four years in total at this often infuriating but always lovable institution. In other words, a BBC ‘lifer’.
When I woke up that morning and opened the curtains, snow had fallen during the night enveloping everything and bestowing a strange, muffled calm on the neighbourhood. The garden looked beautiful under its pristine covering; a squirrel scuttled up the large fir tree at the back of the house. I worried momentarily that my friends wouldn’t be able to make it into London that evening to help me celebrate, but a series of texts reassured me. ‘Nothing’s going to stop us getting in’; ‘we’ll be there – it’s only snow’. My friends are intrepid and inventive so I knew that the prospect of good food and wine, as well as fun and laughter, would entice them in, whatever the weather.
I trudged to the station through the snow, now rapidly turning to a filthy brown slush – I had no difficulty getting in to Oxford Circus. It felt slightly odd, but at the same time uplifting, knowing that this would be the last time I did this journey as a commuter. The feeling of doing everything for the last time recurred throughout the day like a musical leitmotif – last 11 a.m. summary, last appearance on WATO (The World at One), last afternoon briefing meeting and last 6 p.m. bulletin. There was a small element of sadness, but primarily I felt excited about the future and the myriad possibilities that it held.
My hopes of keeping a low profile throughout the day came to nothing when David Sillito, the BBC arts correspondent, came up to my desk in the newsroom and politely asked if he could interview me for the one o’clock TV news bulletin. I’m fundamentally quite shy – in spite of my feeling of ease and confidence at the microphone, I don’t feel comfortable in front of a camera, so was very reluctant to agree. David, however, was silkily persistent – and looking back now, I’m very glad that he was. He put together a lovely piece, which paid tribute to my career at the BBC. I felt a great deal of pride that TV was honouring someone so steeped in radio. The night before, Newsnight had broadcast their own appreciation, which was affectionate and jokey. I also read out their end credits, which had been especially written for me. I was introduced by Kirsty Wark as Radio 4 royalty, who for some bizarre reason had been allowed to hang up her crown. A deliberate note of scepticism was introduced in the credits – a radio veteran jokily scoffing at the professional capabilities of a television production team. I began by reading out ‘Newsnight was presented by Kirsty Wark – well, she’s blanked me in the canteen before now!’, and ended by saying incredulously ‘Newsnight! I was booked to do Holby City. I’d never have come on if there’d been the slightest suggestion I’d end up on (beep to obscure rude word) Newsnight.’ By this point my voice was dripping with vitriol and I was relishing the opportunity to camp it up a bit. Incidentally, I was delighted when just over a year later, Kirsty Wark was a guest on my Culture Club programme on Classic FM. She came in to discuss her debut novel, The Legacy of Elizabeth Pringle, and afterwards, off air, we happily talked shop about the BBC and the joys and frustrations of working there.
Throughout the day, the awareness of a large and very important part of my life drawing to an end became acute, heightened by people I’d never met before greeting me at my desk or in the lift, thanking me and saying how much my voice would be missed. One man told me that it had been the backdrop to his life ever since I had started in the mid-1980s. It’s overwhelming when people, particularly strangers, tell you these things, not least because of their obvious sincerity and kindness. Similarly, my inbox never stopped pinging with heartfelt, thoughtful and frankly inspiring words from friends, colleagues and listeners. It began to feel unreal, as if I was starring in a feel-good film with James Stewart hovering nearby, ready to step in and tell me how good life was and how it should be cherished.
Six o’clock drew near and soon I’d be reading my final news bulletin. I felt utterly calm throughout the programme, an acceptance that this was the culmination of my career as a newsreader. The newsroom journalists made one final attempt to get me to giggle on air, naughtily including a story about the American tennis player ‘Gorgeous’ Gussie Moran and the frilly pants she wore at Wimbledon in the 1940s!
I said my last ever ‘BBC News’ and friends and family sitting in the studio control room, who had watched the bulletin go out, all cheered and whooped with delight. Photos were taken and then I walked back to the newsroom feeling a mixture of elation, relief and wistfulness. It’s a cliché, but what happened next will stay with me for the rest of my life.
As I made my way back to my desk everybody in the newsroom stood and applauded, those working for television as well as radio. It continued for a long time after I reached the six o’clock bulletin desk; and it was spontaneous, heartfelt and deeply moving. People stood everywhere – lining the spiral staircase and up in the gallery, many of them unknown to me, yet all taking the time to pay me a wonderful compliment and give me a memorable send-off. It was utterly overwhelming and my determination not to get tearful dissolved within moments. I caught sight of my sister who looked immensely proud, which made me cry a little bit more. I wished my parents were still alive and could have been there with me; we had been a very close, loving family and they would have loved the occasion, particularly the chance to talk to my friends and colleagues.
Juliet, a close friend of mine with whom I’ve shared a lot of laughter over the years, executed the most perfect piercing whistle and everybody laughed. Helen Boaden, then the director of BBC News, stepped forward, gave me a big hug and thrust a glass of champagne into my hand. The party had begun!
Richard Clarke, the head of the newsroom, gave a very generous and funny speech and I replied off the top of my head, having forgotten to prepare anything earlier in the day. I received some lovely presents – including a much-cherished Spurs scarf! – and some beautiful cards, quite a few of them rude (everyone in the newsroom was familiar with my bawdy sense of humour!). My colleague Diana Speed kindly gave me a huge sheaf of complimentary tweets and comments on the BBC log that she had printed off.
After lots of hugs and more tears, my sister, close friends and I set off for supper in my favourite bistro. It had stopped snowing, but snow still carpeted the roads and pavements. We all piled into taxis, talking excitedly and looking forward to an evening full of fun, with plenty of good food and wine. The evening passed in a blur of happy reminiscence and funny stories, which inevitably got ruder as the evening progressed. Eventually our stomachs were aching with laughter and our voices grew hoarse from talking and laughing so much. At one point I sat back in my chair and watched the rest of the party, wanting to capture and distil the moment in my mind and memory. If I could, I would have made time stand still; I felt in that moment I couldn’t possibly be happier or more content. Someone soon put their arm round me and brought me back into the lively conversation around the table and the moment that I wanted to hold onto forever inevitably passed, as it had to. Reflection and thought could wait for another day.
Nobody wanted to go home after the meal so we piled into a friend’s flat across the road. There were more drinks and even more laughter and silliness. We ended up with loo rolls on our heads – don’t ask! – and I had my Spurs scarf ceremoniously wrapped round my neck. Eventually, the revelry came to an end and the party reluctantly broke up. It was the early hours of the next day, snow had started to fall again and it crunched softly under our feet. The whole evening had been the perfect end to an extraordinary day.
I had come to the end of a remarkably satisfying and – for the most part – immensely happy career at the BBC, and was looking forward excitedly to new and very different challenges. But now I want to look back, to the events and circumstances that set me on the path that ultimately led to my unforgettable final day and farewell.
Chapter 2
‘CREEPING LIKE A SNAIL UNWILLINGLY TO SCHOOL’
AT THE AGE of four I went to a small local prep school, St Aidan’s. There’s a photo of me in school uniform taken at the time, with my Panama hat at a jaunty angle on my head and my hair tied in bunches. Lance, an unpleasant boy in my class who was always sneaking up on the girls, had tried many times to untie the red ribbon that held them in shape, as an act of sabotage. Unable to re-tie the ribbon, I would wander around all day at school with one bunch rather than two, looking rather lopsided.
When I first started there I used to be in floods of tears in the morning before leaving home. I’d obviously been having far too good a time with my mother and perhaps didn’t like the change in routine. I would cling onto a chair or any handily placed piece of furniture, to stop myself being put in the car for the journey to school. Once there my attention was diverted, I’d become absorbed in an activity and the tears would stop. I remember one of my best friends at the time, Anthony, also being dragged unwillingly down the path leading to the school, equally reluctant to go in. He kept being put in the corner during Assembly because he couldn’t resist stroking my hair, which was very blonde and soft. He also liked to stroke my mother’s hair, which was similarly fine but auburn, as he stood behind her while she drove the car to school – she and Anthony’s mother Jean shared the school run. This was in the days before children’s car seats and seat belts. Throughout his early childhood he always referred to her ‘organ’ hair and often called her ‘Aunty Roof’, unable to pronounce Ruth. My other memory of St Aidan’s is of sitting at a splintery wooden desk in the back row of the class next to Richard, who had blonde hair, dark eyes and long, dark eyelashes. He was a gentle boy, less rumbustious than the others in the class and inclined to dreaminess. We chatted away together a lot, often ignoring what was going on during the lesson.
There were more hot tears and entreaties to stay at home before the entrance test for Haberdashers’ Aske’s. My poor mother had another struggle to get me there, cajoling me into the school where I was met by one of the teachers. The staff knew me because my sister was already a pupil there. I was given the biggest sheet of paper I’d ever seen and asked to draw a picture of my house. I liked drawing and filled the entire sheet, adding endless detail and including our front and back garden. My father’s wheelbarrow was there, as well as the swing. I became so engrossed I was actually the last to leave; my mother came looking for me and was astounded to find me with my head bent over the picture, oblivious to everything around me. The tears had been completely forgotten.
At about this time, I had an imaginary friend, Janet. She accompanied me in all my escapades, but if I did something naughty Janet was always to blame. My mother would play along with this and often asked how Janet was, and whether she would like a piece of cake or a glass of orange juice. I think I invented her because I was growing tired of being bossed about by my sister, Rachel, and being blamed whenever we got into trouble. Janet was my confidante, but was also a convenient scapegoat who would take the rap for my misdeeds. I happily chatted away to her in my head; she was someone to turn to when Rachel, four years older, grew tired of me and told me to go away. When she was in the mood, Rachel would call me her villain-friend and we would have adventures together. This was fun, but sometimes marred by her demands that I fetch and carry for her! I used to be bribed with the offer of sixpence to go and get something for her from her bedroom. I would dutifully trot off upstairs, bring back whatever was wanted and wait expectantly for my payment. I soon learned that the reward was never going to be forthcoming, and so headed off into the realms of my imagination with Janet, who never let me down.
My first school report when I was five stated that ‘Charlotte has a voice like a fog-horn and must learn when it is appropriate to use it.’ I loved to chatter and I couldn’t understand why that had to stop when we were having lessons. I’ve always had a relatively deep, low voice which contrasted with the high, squeaky voice of Anthony, much to the amusement of our respective families. He would stand at the front door and ask in a piping voice if ‘Chartot’ could come out to play. My mother told me later that she would laugh to herself as we wandered off into the garden deep in conversation, Anthony squeaking away happily and me responding in a soft contralto.
I loved to read out loud from the papers when I was small, much to Rachel’s annoyance. I would sit at the dining table while she would be at the piano, deliberately playing loudly in order to drown me out. It was a battle of wills and our mother always had to adjudicate over who had the right to stay in there and who had to leave the room. ‘But I was here first’ was the constant cry, and Ma – who was scrupulously fair – would tell us that we were like a couple of Kilkenny cats and should stop bickering with each other.
When I was seven years old, the Christine Keeler/John Profumo scandal was all over the papers. I remember reading the coverage out loud without having the faintest idea what it all meant and what the true ramifications were. I knew somehow that it was exciting and had a certain mystery attached to it. This was underlined when my parents discovered what I was doing and made strenuous efforts to hide the newspapers from me. At first I was intrigued and made equally vigorous attempts to discover where they were hidden, but soon grew bored and headed off into the garden to play or go on the swing. My sister and I would propel ourselves higher and higher until the swing’s structure began to shake, and then launch ourselves off, aiming to land on a cushion set some way down the garden. Despite landing awkwardly on occasions, we never seemed to get hurt, nor did we break any limbs. I experienced pure joy on the rare instances when I landed plumb on the cushion.
My sister was mad about horses and being four years older than me usually dictated what games were played. She went through a phase of setting up gymkhanas in the garden, complete with miniature jumps and even a water-jump. This sounds grand but in reality consisted of the washing-up bowl filled with water. The jumps were Heath Robinson affairs, made up from old planks and oil cans plundered from the garage. Rachel naturally always had a clear round. To clarify, I should say that we were the horses and that the jumps were only about a foot off the ground. I always managed to have a clear round as well, but somehow Rachel would always maintain that there had been a minor infringement and I would be given four faults. I became increasingly disgruntled with these imaginary mistakes and would usually stomp off to do something else.
Our childhood was incredibly happy, full of laughter, teasing and fun. We were exceptionally fortunate to have kind, gentle and very loving parents who gave us both a wonderful start in life. They were never indulgent with us and so we managed to avoid becoming spoilt, demanding little monsters. They were clear-eyed about our faults and failings and were always firm on the occasions when we were told off. We grew up with a strong sense of right and wrong and were taught to treat others with respect and courtesy.
My sister and I attended Sunday school throughout our childhood. I’m afraid its essential message of salvation through Christ rather passed me by; I was much more interested in meeting my friends and having a good time. We sang choruses, listened to Bible readings and drew pictures depicting various Bible stories. My friend Jane and I extracted some fun from the situation by mimicking the conductor and being rude about the grown-ups. One or two of them seemed impossibly pious and holy and we did our best to keep out of their way. Unfortunately, we were once discovered finishing off the dregs of the Communion wine at the back of the church and were severely rebuked. Small children don’t understand the concept of transubstantiation and merely see the chance to have a free drink. We thought it was Ribena so were a bit disappointed by the sour taste.
One year a small play was put on depicting the raising of Lazarus from the dead – not the most punchy or exciting story for small children to act out. I didn’t take part that year but watched fascinated as my friend, Robert – who was playing Lazarus – stole the show. He lay on the floor under a table for some reason, supposedly dead. Robert, however, decided to make the most of his part and began rolling his eyes back into his head, fidgeting and even eating something that he’d found in his pocket! I thought this was wonderful and the audience began to laugh; emboldened by this response, Robert, reaching the point in the story where Lazarus is raised from the dead, leapt up and did a little jig. He then pulled an awful face, did a Bugs Bunny impression and ran off the stage. It was the stand-out moment of my entire Sunday school attendance.
There was always laughter in our family. Both my parents had a good sense of humour and saw the funny side to most things. They taught us to laugh at ourselves and not take ourselves too seriously. We all found ribaldry and earthiness funny – and I, in particular, had an obsession with bottoms and bodily functions. My friends and I would all squeal with delight if bottoms came up in conversation, even in the most innocuous way. On one occasion during the school holidays my sister and I went for a riding lesson; my pony was called Pooh after Winnie the Pooh – which, given my fascination with all things bottom-related, seemed highly appropriate. He was a docile creature, content to crop the grass and amble along at a steady pace, rather than break into a trot. I was secretly pleased that Pooh was so compliant, having had an unpleasant experience with Rosebud, a donkey on the beach, earlier in the holiday. Her minder had whacked her on the rump rather too enthusiastically and she shot off at great speed over the wet sand. My saddle began to slip and I ended up at 90 degrees to the rampant donkey, clinging on desperately. Old cine footage shows my father and the minder racing after Rosebud in a vain attempt to catch up with her before I fell off. Falling face down onto wet sand is not funny and I started to howl. Pa came to the rescue and a large ice-cream with extra chocolate flake went a long way to easing my bruised body and hurt pride. I’d also been delighted, given my scatological bent, that Rosebud, once she had been stopped, did a lengthy and very loud fart.
My parents were remarkably tolerant of burps and farts, as long as they were kept within the family. It was not acceptable to unleash them at wider social gatherings! ‘Better out than in’ became an unofficial family motto and we’d always share a giggle if one of us transgressed at a family meal. Once when we were driving back from Devon my sister and I shared a can of coke and devised a competition to see who could burp the loudest and longest. My sister won hands down!
As the youngest in the family I had a tendency to show off and ‘get a bit out of hand’ as my mother would say; I tended to test the boundaries more than Rachel, who had a sense of responsibility marginally more developed than mine, probably because she was the eldest. She’s four years older, much more practical and extremely kind. She is, quite simply, one of my best friends as well as my sister. I love making her laugh and watching her whole face crease up with delight if I tell her something funny or mimic someone we both know. We’ve developed an emotional short-hand – if we catch each other’s eye in company we often know what the other is thinking. She’s almost as great a giggler as I am and we frequently have to walk away from each other in order to maintain a modicum of control and decorum.
When we were little, Rachel wielded all the authority by dint of being the oldest. She founded the Whirligig Club with her friends and I was allowed in on sufferance, but not before I was made to eat a flower from the garden, a rule that did not apply to other would-be members. The flower made me feel slightly sick, but the social cachet of being a member was too great to ignore. We fought verbally but not physically, apart from the occasional wrist-pinching and Chinese burns, expertly administered while Ma wasn’t looking. There was a great deal of scowling, sticking out of tongues and name-calling; I was known as Elephant Ankles and she was always Hippo-Bum! Miraculously, although we still jokingly call each other rude names on occasion, we’ve grown very close and enjoy sharing time together. I remember feeling very protective on holiday, when, aged nine and thirteen respectively, we were clambering over rocks after buying ice-creams. Three boys, led by a tubby dead-ringer for Richmal Crompton’s Hubert Lane, chased after her, shouting ‘Let’s ping her bra strap’. I saw her cheeks burn with embarrassment as we scrambled over the rocks to the safety of the family car. Feeling emboldened by the proximity of the car and our parents, I turned, stuck out my tongue and yelled at them to shove off. They were so surprised, we gained a vital few seconds on them and no bra straps were ever pinged.
There was a short time when we didn’t appear to have much in common – I was ten and still hoping to be a cowboy, a footballer or a petrol pump attendant when I grew up, while Rachel had embarked on her teens with her hair in curtains that hid most of her face, a slightly sulky expression and, to the outside world, a withering disregard for her younger sister. Underneath that attitude, however, she was kind and caring; crucially, we never lost the ability to make each other laugh to the point of collapse, and shared humour was the bond between us. I was always proud of her musical achievements; she sang, and played the piano and organ very well, becoming the Organ Scholar at school. She played with great verve and brio and I loved hearing her play the music of Bach, Brahms and Mendelssohn. I used to sit alongside her on the organ bench in our local church, turning the pages while she practised. I don’t think she realised at that stage how proud of her I felt.
Nowadays we share a lot of interests and like to do things together, especially walking. Rachel sings in two large London choirs and I try to get to the concerts she is singing in whenever I can. She has always been very supportive of the things I’ve done in my career, acting as a sounding board when life wasn’t running smoothly, but always delighted with my successes. She’s the first person I ring when I’ve got good news to tell. My friends frequently tell me how much they like her and how lucky I am to get on so well with her. They’re right – there’s absolutely no guarantee that you will grow up to like and be close to your siblings, so I know how fortunate I am. I don’t, however, want to portray her as a paragon – we have arguments and she can be bossy, which I suppose is the prerogative of an older sister, but she’s a woman of great integrity and loyalty whom I admire and love in equal measure.
When I was growing up my hero was William Brown, Richmal Crompton’s wonderful fictional creation. I read her books voraciously as a child and still enjoy reading them now. I was a classic tomboy and longed to have my own gang of Outlaws. I also wanted my version of Jumble the dog, but my father was allergic to cats and dogs so my sister and I had to be content with Scamp the hamster. I was a rumbustious, spirited child and loved to roam around the local park with my friends Anthony and Robert, skimming stones in the river and generally getting very dirty.
My prized possessions were a pair of red jeans, Harlem Globetrotter black and white baseball boots and a ‘Man from Uncle’ black briefcase filled with a spy’s essential accoutrements – a plastic Luger pistol and a walkie-talkie disguised as a cigarette packet. When I wasn’t busy being a spy, I raced around on my bicycle at speed, perfecting a sideways slide to bring it to a halt in the style of speedway riders that I’d watched on television. It seemed awfully boring to slow the bike decorously using the brakes. After a while the bicycle seemed a bit tame, so my father fitted a black device on the frame that mimicked the sound of a motorcycle engine. I was delighted with this added dimension to my bike-riding and remember the joy of listening to the low growl as I cycled through the park. I recall it as a moment of pure happiness – the freedom of independence that the bike gave me, the wind on my face and in my hair, wearing my favourite red jeans and blue windcheater and the little engine ‘revving’ satisfactorily.
In the 1960s, before the advent of compulsory seat belts, children sat in the back of a car without restraint. When I was very young I often used to stand behind my parents’ seats looking straight ahead through the middle of the windscreen. One Sunday afternoon we were driving along a dual carriageway, with a central reservation overgrown with bushes and young trees. Ahead of us a car turned right as if to do a U-turn and get on the dual carriageway heading in the opposite direction. Instead it kept on turning, in effect doing an ‘O-turn’, ploughed through the central reservation, accelerating all the time, and hit our car amidships. We ended up wrapped round an unforgiving lamp-post, which bent over and badly dented the roof.
Our car was a virtual write-off and I was thrown around in the back like a rag-doll. I was only seven and was badly shocked by what had happened. The noise of tearing metal had been frightening and I was also bleeding heavily from a nasty gash on the top of my head. I stood next to my parents waiting for an ambulance to arrive; we all felt sore and stiff and our spectacular bruises would soon manifest themselves. The police at first couldn’t believe what had happened until they saw the tyre marks. A learner driver had been at the wheel and had panicked for some reason; her husband, sitting next to her, did nothing to avert a crash, such as grabbing the wheel or yanking on the hand-brake. To compound an uncomfortable situation, the woman had hysterics at the sight of my bloodied face and had to be slapped in the face by the ambulanceman. We were all taken to hospital and checked over; fortunately, none of us had broken anything and we were soon allowed home.
Over the next few weeks all our aches and pains blossomed, but there were no lasting ill effects. The cut on my head healed and I was very proud of my multi-coloured and extensive bruises. The shock of the accident didn’t stay with me and I soon forgot about it. I think it affected my parents much more, because they saw the car coming straight at them out of the bushes and knew a collision was imminent and couldn’t be avoided. When the case came to court Mr and Mrs Bottle entered a not guilty plea, much to the annoyance of the police. They really were called Bottle and so the accident was inevitably referred to as the Bottle–Green case!
Pat and Tony Sherwood and their children, Tim and Stephanie, were our closest family friends and have remained so, in spite of the geographical distance between us. They lived in the Midlands and would visit us in London at Easter-time, or we would travel up to them. We shared a lot of laughter and fun together and had some good childhood adventures. There was roughly a two-year age gap between each of the four children – Tim was the eldest, then my sister Rachel, Stephanie and me. I followed Tim around like a devoted acolyte, getting into scrapes, the muddier and dirtier the better. Rachel and Stephanie did what I regarded as girly things like ballet. While Tim and I marauded round the garden, the two girls would be in the garage practising their jetés and pirouettes. One day Tim and I locked them in without their realising and went in pursuit of further adventures; they only discovered they couldn’t get out when they were called in for lunch. To my great delight a desperate banging started up from inside the garage. Tim and I kept quiet about what we had done, but we were soon rumbled; the key was handed over reluctantly and the girls emerged relieved, but slightly resentful! Rachel declared she would never play with me again; this upset me, but as we were then given rice pudding for dessert, the feeling was only momentary. And talking of rice pudding – at that age I seemed to specialise in tipping my bowl or plate off the table and onto the floor. This wasn’t deliberate, but probably the result of my eagerness to eat what was placed in front of me; I expended a lot of energy as a child and had a healthy appetite. One lunchtime the inevitable happened. I was probably rushing, in order to make more time for adventures; the bowl slipped off the table and fell upside-down – naturally – on the carpet. My mother rolled her eyes and told me off for being careless; Pat was remarkably understanding, while my father and Tony just laughed. I was more concerned that I wasn’t going to get any more rice pudding, but was soon mollified when another helping appeared.
I was about six when our two families visited Boscobel House in Shropshire; it’s famous for its role in the escape of King Charles II after the Battle of Worcester in 1651. He took refuge at Boscobel and spent the night hiding in a nearby oak tree. The guide who took us round the house looked rather severe and regarded us warily. We were the only people visiting and she seemed to look upon us as a potentially disruptive group, probably with good reason. My father was genuinely interested in the history of the place, but the other adults took it less seriously. When shown the priest-hole, Tony remarked with a straight face that it was a shame that Charles II wouldn’t have been able to watch Juke Box Jury, because television reception would have been poor in such a confined space. The guide gave him a look of rich disdain.
We then moved on to view the Royal Oak in which Charles II took refuge. It’s now believed to be a direct descendant of the original tree, although sometimes it has been presented as the actual tree. We were looking out of an upstairs window and Pat – who is only small – could just see a tiny sapling nearer the house. In jest she said that surely the king couldn’t have hidden in such a puny little specimen. The rest of us laughed, but the guide remained po-faced and refused to join in the joke. At that point we decided that it was time for us to go and we trooped out in search of tea, still laughing. The guide couldn’t hide her relief when we left! Fifty years on, my parents and Tony no longer alive, the rest of us all still laugh at the memory of Boscobel.
When I was fifteen, I spent a week with Pat at the primary school where she was deputy head. I wasn’t sure at that stage what I wanted to do with my life so decided to shadow her at work. The school was in a deprived area and large numbers of the children came from broken homes and dysfunctional families. When I was first introduced to Pat’s class they gathered round me like playful little puppies, all vying for my attention and keen to tell me their latest news. They couldn’t pronounce my name so called me ‘Scarlitt’. I found them fascinating because they were so full of energy and exuberance. They lived in the moment and seemed to be happy, in spite of any problems at home. I used to read with them and found them responsive and keen to learn; if you praised them, which I did often in order to encourage them, they visibly blossomed and tried harder.
At the annual sports day, they were all beside themselves with excitement, throwing themselves around the field in pure joy. There were cries of ‘Scarlitt, look at me’ as they lined up for their races; they wanted to be acknowledged and admired, because nobody took much notice at home. I would wave at them and cheer loudly; at the end of the race I was engulfed by hordes of little people, falling over themselves to catch my attention. I often wonder what happened to them in later life and hope that they managed to create happy relationships of their own.
I’ve always enjoyed reading to children and helping them to enter an imaginative world. They never seem to tire of favourite stories and you have to be prepared to read to them endlessly. Peter Pan was a great favourite of the small son of another friend. I threw myself too energetically into the role of Captain Hook, however, and we had to stop because he was getting too frightened. After that we read Peter Pan together without any reference to Captain Hook, until he grew old enough to relish Hook’s exploits rather than be fearful of them.
I also like the fact that children love to tell jokes and can’t stop laughing while they do it. Some of the jokes are terrible and make you groan out loud, but others are genuinely funny. I remember being asked who was the most elastic man in the Bible – the answer came with a triumphant hoot of laughter. Apparently it is Joseph, who tied his ass to a tree and walked to Jerusalem!
We used to listen to the radio a great deal at home and it was always on when I came home from school. I have vague memories of listening to The Petticoat Line while I had my tea, as well as The Archers. My sister remembers me as a small child standing right in front of the radio, my face about half an inch away from the set, listening intently to the warm, reassuring tones of Daphne Oxenford as she uttered the immortal words ‘Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.’ Rachel was convinced that I thought that the voices were coming from tiny creatures inside the radio.
Round the Horne was a great family favourite, as was The Navy Lark and The Men from the Ministry. Before long I could recall great chunks of the former, without fully comprehending the fabulous double entendres. The voices of Kenneth Williams, Kenneth Horne and Leslie Phillips were as familiar to me as the adult voices of family and friends. That’s why it was so delightful to meet and work with Barry Took on The News Quiz all those years later, and to be able to tell him in person how funny and inventive his scripts for Round the Horne and Beyond Our Ken were.
Throughout my childhood my father was always a source of great mischief and impishness. He was an incorrigible tease, and my mother often used to tell him to stop, sensing that her children’s patience was being sorely tested. When we were little he would occasionally brush our noses with a wet flannel to wake us up, or resort to tickling our feet and throwing off the bed-sheets. We would groan and sigh, adopting an air of exasperation, but really we enjoyed it.
