Open Writing

We had among us, (as in any school, in any era, I suppose), some wonderful 'nut cases'. One of them was tall, gangly Johnny ('Twitch') Lysons. Ever ready for any madcap lark he was always destined to finish up as the fall guy; the butt of all our ridicule and snide witticisms. He accepted it all with an inherent good-humour, always laughing and with a spontaneous, infectious grin from ear to ear together with an enviable ability to see the funny side of any situation.

Once we shared a study and I recall, during the silence of 'prep time', with all of us doing our homework except for Twitch. He was sitting next to me at his desk, red in the face, his handkerchief shoved into his mouth to stifle his laughter, tears running down his cheeks, while reading, surreptitiously, Jerome K. Jerome's 'Three men in a Boat.

(Laugh away, Twitch; within three years you will be in the Navy, serving in many theatres of war, and swimming for your life through oil and flames when your ship is sunk — but, thank God, you will be saved and survive the war).

Surprisingly, he never took a commission. As he wrote to me,' I went for an interview for a commission, but the Selection Board looked at me as if I were making improper advances in a nunnery.'

More likely, I imagine, because he stood there looking at the pompous gaggle of officers and gave them that ear-to-ear grin while, probably, stifling a gigantic yawn. It was the Navy's loss and error. Had he been my officer, I would have followed him anywhere.

Another nut case was Peter Mitchell, or, 'Pan', as we nicknamed him from his initials. It was always my fortune to share a study with the nut cases: I would not have missed it for worlds. It was always hilarious — and exciting.

For example: once Pan and I were arguing about the bombs being dropped on us, when he said, "I tell you what, old fruit, to prove my point I'll build you a bomb."

And he did, but I never thought he would do so in our study. Gradually, from old biscuit tins, the damned thing took shape. Next, he filched bullets from the armoury, easy to do as he was a first-class marksman and in the school shooting team. He pulled up the lino on our study floor and, while I kept watch for any prefects, he cut a small trapdoor in the wooden floor. On completion, he used the resulting cubbyhole to store the powder from the bullets. I was scared, very scared; I did not mind if he blew up Manor House, but not when I was in it.

Finally, it was ready. With his four-foot bomb covered with a raincoat and tucked under his arm, Pan set off into the countryside, nonchalantly, jauntily and whistling happily. We followed half a mile behind.

Finding a suitable tree, he hauled up the bomb, tail first over a bough by means of a long cord. Standing behind a nearby tree, Pan, in reverence to the bomb, raised his straw hat, (always worn on Sundays and known as a 'barge'), and with a cheer, let go of the cord. We took cover from a distance and very wisely.

There was an almighty explosion as earth flew upwards, leaves and bits of broken branches cascaded downwards and biscuit-tin shrapnel whistled in all directions. A rather startled Pan peered from behind his tree, as with loud cheers we all flung our barges into the air in jubilation; even unexcitable 'Rowley' Rowlerson let out a whoop of appreciation.

Pan turned towards us with a huge grin, then, bursting into howls of delighted laughter, took off his barge and bowed.

(Laugh away, Pan, old friend, for within three years you will be in France, a lieutenant in the Rifle Brigade and you will have been wounded twice: you will also have been decorated with the Military Cross for gallantry in the field, which will delight every one of us — but surprise nobody.)

J.C. ('Jessy') Barker was another nut case with whom I shared a study at one time. I always used to envy him and Geoffrey Ambrose for the ease with which they passed all their examinations and tests without any apparent effort (both became doctors).

Jessy had that easy-going nature of imperturbable tranquillity, with a complete disregard for rules, regulations and authority, which he regarded with quiet mirth and conformed with them as though he were bestowing a great favour in doing so.

When you get two nuts like Pan and Jessy together anything could happen — and usually did. Thus I was once looking for Pan and found him and Jessy in the open-air outside toilets in which no prefect ever set foot or posterior because of the howling, cold wind blowing through.

By some multifarious means, in those days of strict, wartime rationing, the two of them had obtained a large supply of pork sausages. With the remains of the biscuit tins, they had made a small oven and were in the toilets happily cooking them. They both turned to greet me with their overfilled mouths bursting with sausages.

"Ah! There you are at last, Podge," said Jessy, addressing me by my nickname, "just in time for a lovely home-cooked sausage, just like the ones Mum makes."
So saying, he dug the end of a pencil into a hot sizzling sausage, dripping with grease, and offered it to me. I declined.

"Come on, Podge," said Pan between mouthfuls. 'There you are; we have reserved cubicle number 3 especially for you; lovely position, best seat in the house and no charge."

I told them that although the decor of their restaurant was very practical, the ambience was atrocious and the al fresco setting was too damned cold and draughty in mid-winter.

"But Podge," continued Pan, taking another gigantic bite while Jessy stirred the gooey-looking mess with his pencil and a ruler, "but Podge, you don't have to sit there on the seat with your pants down: this restaurant is managed with the utmost decorum. Keep your pants up in a gentlemanly fashion."

"After eating your ghastly sausages," I replied, "I would damn well have to sit on the seat with my pants down, probably for several days non-stop." Jessy gave his quiet belly-shaking laugh.

(Laugh away, Jessy. Within a few years you will have six medical degrees after your name; you will have done your service with the RAF as a squadron leader surgeon — but then, my old friend, you will die from a stroke when only 44 years of age.)