0:00:01 > 0:00:03BBC Four Collections -
0:00:03 > 0:00:06specially chosen programmes from the BBC archive.
0:00:08 > 0:00:09BELLS PEAL
0:00:42 > 0:00:44CLOCK TICKS
0:00:45 > 0:00:49Safe were those evenings of the pre-war world
0:00:49 > 0:00:53when firelight shone on green linoleum.
0:00:53 > 0:00:56I heard the church bells hollowing out the sky -
0:00:56 > 0:01:01deep beyond deep, like never-ending stars.
0:01:01 > 0:01:04And turned to Archibald, my safe old bear,
0:01:04 > 0:01:09whose woollen eyes looked sad or glad at me,
0:01:09 > 0:01:12whose ample forehead I could wet with tears,
0:01:12 > 0:01:16whose half-moon ears received my confidence,
0:01:16 > 0:01:19who made me laugh, who never let me down.
0:01:19 > 0:01:22I used to wait for hours to see him move,
0:01:22 > 0:01:24convinced that he could breathe.
0:01:26 > 0:01:31One dreadful day, they hid him from me as a punishment.
0:01:31 > 0:01:36Sometimes the desolation of that loss comes back to me
0:01:36 > 0:01:41and I must go upstairs to see him in the sawdust, so to speak.
0:01:41 > 0:01:45Safe and returned to his idolater.
0:02:31 > 0:02:35Safe, in a world of trains and buttered toast,
0:02:35 > 0:02:38where things inanimate could feel and think.
0:02:38 > 0:02:42Deeply I loved thee, 31 West Hill.
0:02:49 > 0:02:53At that hill's foot, did London then begin
0:02:53 > 0:02:57with yellow horse trams clopping past the plains
0:02:57 > 0:03:00to grey-brick, nonconformist Chetwynd Road
0:03:00 > 0:03:04and on to Kentish Town and barking dogs,
0:03:04 > 0:03:08and costers' carts and crowded grocers' shops.
0:03:10 > 0:03:12BARREL ORGAN PLAYS: "Daisy Bell (Bicycle Built for Two)"
0:03:42 > 0:03:45I knew we were a lower, lesser world
0:03:45 > 0:03:48than that remote one of the carriage folk,
0:03:48 > 0:03:51who left their cedars and brown garden walls
0:03:51 > 0:03:53in care of servants. BELL CHIMES
0:03:58 > 0:04:02I could also tell that we were slightly richer than my friends,
0:04:02 > 0:04:03the family next door.
0:04:03 > 0:04:08We owned a brougham and they would envy us our holidays.
0:04:08 > 0:04:14WOMAN SINGS: # Goosey Goosey Gander Where shall I wander?
0:04:14 > 0:04:19# Upstairs and downstairs In my lady's chamber
0:04:19 > 0:04:25# There I met an old man who wouldn't say his prayers
0:04:25 > 0:04:31# So I took him by the left leg and threw him downstairs. #
0:04:33 > 0:04:38Maud was my hateful nurse who smelt of soap
0:04:38 > 0:04:41and forced me to eat chewy bits of fish
0:04:41 > 0:04:44and was the first to tell me about hell,
0:04:44 > 0:04:47admitting she was going there herself.
0:04:49 > 0:04:53Sometimes, thank God, they left me all alone
0:04:53 > 0:04:56in our small patch of garden in the front,
0:04:56 > 0:05:00with clinker rockery and London Pride and barren lawn
0:05:00 > 0:05:06and lumps of yellow clay as mouldable as smelly Plasticine.
0:05:08 > 0:05:11I used to turn the heavy stones
0:05:11 > 0:05:15to watch the shiny red and waiting centipede,
0:05:15 > 0:05:17which darted out of sight.
0:05:21 > 0:05:25The woodlouse, slow and fat,
0:05:25 > 0:05:30the other, greyish bluey kind, which rolled into a ball
0:05:30 > 0:05:34till I was gone out of the gate to venture down the hill.
0:05:44 > 0:05:48My dear, deaf father - how I loved him then,
0:05:48 > 0:05:51before the years of our estrangement came.
0:05:53 > 0:05:57The long, calm walks on twilit evenings
0:05:57 > 0:06:00through Highgate New Town to the cinema.
0:06:01 > 0:06:04The expeditions by North London trains...
0:06:04 > 0:06:05TRAIN WHISTLE BLOWS
0:06:05 > 0:06:07..to dim, forgotten stations.
0:06:07 > 0:06:11Wooden shacks on oil-lit, flimsy platforms
0:06:11 > 0:06:16among fields as yet unbuilt on, deep in Middlesex.
0:06:19 > 0:06:20HOOVES CLOP
0:06:30 > 0:06:33Most of all, I think my father loved me
0:06:33 > 0:06:37when we went in early morning pipe smoke on the tram,
0:06:37 > 0:06:41down to the Angel, visiting the works.
0:06:42 > 0:06:43"Fourth generation?
0:06:43 > 0:06:45"Yes, this is the boy."
0:06:50 > 0:06:54The smell of sawdust still brings back to me
0:06:54 > 0:06:58the rambling workshops high on Pentonville,
0:06:58 > 0:07:01built over gardens to White Lion Street,
0:07:01 > 0:07:04clicking with patents of the family firm,
0:07:04 > 0:07:06founded in 1820.
0:07:06 > 0:07:08CLARINET PLAYS
0:07:26 > 0:07:32Following in Father's footsteps was the theme of all my early childhood.
0:07:32 > 0:07:36With what pride he introduced me to old gentlemen,
0:07:36 > 0:07:39pin-striped commercial travellers of the firm,
0:07:39 > 0:07:43and tall proprietors of Bond Street shops.
0:07:48 > 0:07:53For myself, I knew as soon as I could read and write
0:07:53 > 0:07:55that I must be a poet.
0:07:57 > 0:08:01Even today, when all the way from Cambridge
0:08:01 > 0:08:05comes a wind to blow the lamps out, every time they are lit,
0:08:05 > 0:08:08I know that I must light mine up again.
0:08:14 > 0:08:21My urge was to encase in rhythm and rhyme the things I saw and felt.
0:08:21 > 0:08:24I could not think.
0:08:24 > 0:08:27And so, at sunset, off to Hampstead Heath,
0:08:27 > 0:08:30I went with pencil and with writing pad
0:08:30 > 0:08:33and stood tiptoe upon a little hill,
0:08:33 > 0:08:36awaiting inspiration from the sky.
0:08:36 > 0:08:43"Look, there's a poet," people might exclaim on footpaths near.
0:08:45 > 0:08:48The muse inspired my pen.
0:08:48 > 0:08:52The sunset, tipped with gold St Michael's Church.
0:08:52 > 0:08:57Shouts of boys bathing came from Highgate ponds.
0:09:00 > 0:09:05The elms that hid the houses of the great, rustled with mystery.
0:09:05 > 0:09:09And dirt-grey sheep grazed in the foreground.
0:09:24 > 0:09:26BIRDSONG
0:09:28 > 0:09:34But the lines of verse came out like parodies of hymns A and M.
0:09:36 > 0:09:39The gap between my feelings and my skill
0:09:39 > 0:09:42was so immense I wonder I went on.
0:09:52 > 0:09:56Once, when my father took me to the Tate,
0:09:56 > 0:10:00we stood enraptured by A Hopeless Dawn,
0:10:00 > 0:10:04the picture first to move me.
0:10:04 > 0:10:09Twenty times they told me had Frank Bramley watched the flame
0:10:09 > 0:10:14expiring in its candlestick before he put it down on canvas.
0:10:14 > 0:10:19Guttering there, it symbolised the young wife's dying hope
0:10:19 > 0:10:23and the old mother's, gazing out to sea.
0:10:23 > 0:10:27The meal upon the table lay prepared, but no good man to eat it.
0:10:27 > 0:10:31Put it down, translate the picture into verse, my boy,
0:10:31 > 0:10:34and here's your opening -
0:10:34 > 0:10:38"Through the humble cottage window streams the early dawn."
0:10:40 > 0:10:44The lines my father gave me sounded well,
0:10:44 > 0:10:46but how continue them?
0:10:46 > 0:10:48How make a rhyme?
0:10:55 > 0:10:58Atlantic rollers bursting in my ears,
0:10:58 > 0:11:02and pealing church bells and the puff of trains,
0:11:02 > 0:11:06the sight of sailing clouds, the smell of grass,
0:11:06 > 0:11:10were always calling out to me for words.
0:11:10 > 0:11:15I caught at them, and missed and missed again.
0:11:15 > 0:11:19"Catch hold", my father said, "Catch hold like this" -
0:11:19 > 0:11:21trying to teach me how to carpenter.
0:11:21 > 0:11:24"Not that way, boy, when will you ever learn?"
0:11:24 > 0:11:27I dug the chisel deep into my hand.
0:11:27 > 0:11:29"Shoot!" said my father,
0:11:29 > 0:11:32helping with my gun and aiming at the rabbit.
0:11:32 > 0:11:33"Quick, boy, fire!"
0:11:33 > 0:11:36But I had not released the safety catch.
0:11:36 > 0:11:40I was a poet, that was why I failed.
0:11:46 > 0:11:52My faith in this chimera brought an end to all my father's hopes.
0:11:54 > 0:11:58In later years, now old and ill,
0:11:58 > 0:12:02he asked me once again to carry on the firm.
0:12:02 > 0:12:04I still refused.
0:12:04 > 0:12:08And now, when I behold fresh published, new,
0:12:08 > 0:12:11a further volume of my verse,
0:12:11 > 0:12:16I see his kind grey eyes look woundedly at mine.
0:12:24 > 0:12:27I see his workmen seeking other jobs
0:12:27 > 0:12:32and that red granite obelisk that marks the family grave
0:12:32 > 0:12:37in Highgate Cemetery points an accusing finger to the sky.
0:12:44 > 0:12:49Oh, Peggy Purey-Cust, how pure you were.
0:12:49 > 0:12:54My first and purest love, Miss Purey-Cust.
0:12:54 > 0:12:57Satchel on back, I hurried up West Hill
0:12:57 > 0:13:01to catch you on your morning walk to school,
0:13:01 > 0:13:06your nanny with you and your golden hair streaming like sunlight.
0:13:06 > 0:13:10Strict deportment made you hold yourself erect
0:13:10 > 0:13:15and every step bounced up and down as though you walked on springs.
0:13:16 > 0:13:21Your ice-blue eyes, your lashes long and light,
0:13:21 > 0:13:24your sweetly freckled face and turned-up nose,
0:13:24 > 0:13:28so haunted me that all my loves since then
0:13:28 > 0:13:30have had a look of Peggy Purey-Cust.
0:13:31 > 0:13:35Wendy, you were to me, in Peter Pan.
0:13:35 > 0:13:38The Little Match Girl in Hans Andersen.
0:13:38 > 0:13:41But I would rescue you before you died.
0:13:43 > 0:13:46And once, you asked me to your house to tea.
0:13:46 > 0:13:49It seemed a palace after 31,
0:13:49 > 0:13:53the lofty entrance hall, the flights of stairs,
0:13:53 > 0:13:57the huge expanse of sunny drawing room.
0:13:57 > 0:14:00And there, your mother from a sofa smiled.
0:14:00 > 0:14:05After that tea, I called and called again,
0:14:05 > 0:14:09but Peggy was not in, she was away, she wasn't well.
0:14:38 > 0:14:39BOYS CHAT
0:14:46 > 0:14:52Up West Hill I walked, red-capped and jacketed, to school.
0:14:52 > 0:14:54A new boy much too early.
0:14:54 > 0:15:00School at nine and here was I, outside at half past eight.
0:15:02 > 0:15:07Walking from school is a consummate art.
0:15:07 > 0:15:11Which routes to follow to avoid the gangs,
0:15:11 > 0:15:15which paths to find that lead, circuitous,
0:15:15 > 0:15:17to leafy squirrel haunts
0:15:17 > 0:15:22and plopping ponds for dreams of Archibald and Tiger Tim?
0:15:22 > 0:15:27Which hiding place is safe, and when it is?
0:15:27 > 0:15:30What time to leave to dodge the enemy?
0:15:32 > 0:15:34I only once was trapped.
0:15:35 > 0:15:37I knew the trap.
0:15:37 > 0:15:40I heard it in their tones.
0:15:40 > 0:15:42"Walk back with us."
0:15:42 > 0:15:45I knew they weren't my friends,
0:15:45 > 0:15:51but that soft voice wheedled me from my route to cold Swain's Lane.
0:15:56 > 0:15:59There, in a holly bush, they threw me down,
0:15:59 > 0:16:03pulled off my shorts and laughed and ran away.
0:16:03 > 0:16:04And as I struggled up,
0:16:04 > 0:16:11I saw grey brick - the cemetery railings and the tombs.
0:16:20 > 0:16:23"Betjeman's a German spy,
0:16:23 > 0:16:25"shoot him down and let him die."
0:16:25 > 0:16:29"Betjeman's a German spy, a German spy, a German spy..."
0:16:34 > 0:16:37HORN PLAYS
0:16:53 > 0:16:55TRAIN WHISTLE BLOWS
0:17:06 > 0:17:10Teatime shows the small fields waiting.
0:17:10 > 0:17:15Every hawthorn hedge straining inland before the south-west gale.
0:17:28 > 0:17:33Can it really be that this same carriage came from Waterloo?
0:17:37 > 0:17:44On Wadebridge station, what a breath of sea scented the Camel Valley.
0:17:44 > 0:17:49Cornish air, soft Cornish rains, and silence after steam
0:17:49 > 0:17:52as out of Derry's stable came the break
0:17:52 > 0:17:56to drag us up those long familiar hills,
0:17:56 > 0:18:00past haunted woods and oil-lit farms
0:18:00 > 0:18:04and on to far Trebetherick by the sounding sea.
0:18:06 > 0:18:11Then, safe in bed, I watched the long-legged fly
0:18:11 > 0:18:13with red, transparent body,
0:18:13 > 0:18:17tap the walls and fizzle in the candle flame
0:18:17 > 0:18:20and drag its poisonous-looking abdomen away
0:18:20 > 0:18:23to somewhere out of sight and out of mind.
0:18:23 > 0:18:25While, through the open window,
0:18:25 > 0:18:29came the roar of full Atlantic rollers on the beach.
0:18:41 > 0:18:46Then, before breakfast, down towards the sea I ran alone,
0:18:46 > 0:18:49monarch of miles of sand,
0:18:49 > 0:18:54its shining stretches, satin smooth and veined.
0:18:54 > 0:18:59I felt beneath bare feet the lugworm casts,
0:18:59 > 0:19:02and walked where only gulls and oystercatchers
0:19:02 > 0:19:05had stepped before me to the water's edge.
0:19:15 > 0:19:19The morning tide flowed in to welcome me.
0:19:19 > 0:19:24The fan-shaped scallop shells, the backs of crabs,
0:19:24 > 0:19:28the bits of driftwood worn to reptile shapes.
0:19:28 > 0:19:31The heaps of bladderwrack the tide had left,
0:19:31 > 0:19:36which lifted up, sent sand hoppers to leap in hundreds round me,
0:19:36 > 0:19:38answered, "Welcome back!"
0:20:26 > 0:20:28SEAGULLS CRY
0:20:36 > 0:20:40Bright as the morning sea, those early days.
0:20:40 > 0:20:44Though there were tears and sand thrown in my eyes
0:20:44 > 0:20:48and punishments and smells of mackintosh,
0:20:48 > 0:20:52long, barefoot climbs to fetch the morning milk,
0:20:52 > 0:20:56terrors from hissing geese and angry shouts,
0:20:56 > 0:21:00slammed doors and waitings and a sense of dread,
0:21:00 > 0:21:04still, warm as shallow sea pools in the sun
0:21:04 > 0:21:09and welcoming to me, the girls and boys.
0:21:09 > 0:21:11HORN PLAYS: "Girls And Boys Come Out To Play"
0:21:37 > 0:21:41Wet rocks on which our bathing dresses dried,
0:21:41 > 0:21:45small coves, deserted in our later years
0:21:45 > 0:21:49for more adventurous inlets down the coast.
0:21:49 > 0:21:53Paralysis when climbing up the cliff,
0:21:53 > 0:21:57too steep to reach the top, too far to fall.
0:21:57 > 0:22:01Tumbling to death in seething surf below.
0:22:01 > 0:22:04A ledge just wide enough to lodge one's foot,
0:22:04 > 0:22:09a sea-pink clump the only thing to clutch.
0:22:09 > 0:22:14Cold wave-worn slate, so mercilessly smooth
0:22:14 > 0:22:17and no-one near, and evening coming on.
0:22:17 > 0:22:20Till Ralph arrived -
0:22:20 > 0:22:23"Now put your left foot here, give us your hand."
0:22:23 > 0:22:28And back across the years I swing to safety, with old friends again.
0:22:47 > 0:22:51Sweet were the afternoons of treasure hunts
0:22:51 > 0:22:55and in the Oakleys' garden after tea of splits and cream
0:22:55 > 0:22:57under old apple boughs,
0:22:57 > 0:23:01with high tide offering prospects of a bathe,
0:23:01 > 0:23:03the winners had their prizes.
0:23:06 > 0:23:08Once, I won.
0:23:08 > 0:23:10That was an unfortunate affair.
0:23:10 > 0:23:12My mother set the clues
0:23:12 > 0:23:17and I, the host, knew well the likely workings of her mind.
0:23:25 > 0:23:31Childhood is measured out by sounds and smells and sights,
0:23:31 > 0:23:34before the dark of reason grows.
0:23:34 > 0:23:39Ears hear again the wild sou'wester's whine.
0:23:39 > 0:23:43Deep in the noise, there was a core of peace.
0:23:43 > 0:23:46Deep in my heart, a warm security.
0:23:53 > 0:23:58Nose, smell again the early morning smells.
0:23:58 > 0:24:02Congealing bacon, and my father's pipe.
0:24:02 > 0:24:06The after-breakfast freshness out of doors
0:24:06 > 0:24:09where sun had dried the heavy dew
0:24:09 > 0:24:14and freed acres of thyme to scent the links and lawns.
0:24:14 > 0:24:17Mint around the spring and fennel in the lane,
0:24:17 > 0:24:20and honeysuckle wafted from the hedge.
0:24:20 > 0:24:24A neighbour's cesspool, like a body blow,
0:24:24 > 0:24:29then clean, medicinal and cold, the sea.
0:24:42 > 0:24:45Eyes, see again the rock face in the lane,
0:24:45 > 0:24:48years before tarmac and the motorcar.
0:24:58 > 0:25:01It all is there, excitement for the eyes,
0:25:01 > 0:25:05imagined ghosts on unfrequented roads.
0:25:05 > 0:25:08Gated, and winding up through broom and gorse,
0:25:08 > 0:25:13out of the parish on to who knows where.
0:25:13 > 0:25:17Safe Cornish holidays before the storm.
0:25:19 > 0:25:21CHILDREN SHOUT AND CHATTER
0:25:28 > 0:25:31SCHOOL BELL RINGS
0:25:59 > 0:26:01Let us pray.
0:26:04 > 0:26:09Give unto us all, O Lord, an understanding heart
0:26:09 > 0:26:12and grant that we may learn to work thy will,
0:26:12 > 0:26:16until the fullness of thy kingdom be come.
0:26:16 > 0:26:18- Amen. - ALL: Amen.
0:26:20 > 0:26:22In the cricket match yesterday,
0:26:22 > 0:26:28the A-11 beat Eagle House First 11 by 100 runs...
0:26:28 > 0:26:30BETJEMAN: Before the hymn,
0:26:30 > 0:26:33the skipper would announce the latest names
0:26:33 > 0:26:37of those who'd lost their lives for King and country
0:26:37 > 0:26:39and the Dragon School.
0:26:40 > 0:26:44Sometimes his gruff old voice was full of tears
0:26:44 > 0:26:47when a particular favourite had been killed.
0:26:47 > 0:26:50Then we would hear the nickname of the boy,
0:26:50 > 0:26:52Pongo or Podge,
0:26:52 > 0:26:55and how he'd played 3Q for Oxford,
0:26:55 > 0:26:58and if only he had lived, he might have played for England.
0:26:58 > 0:27:03Which he did, but in a grimmer game against the Hun.
0:27:03 > 0:27:05And then we'd all look solemn,
0:27:05 > 0:27:08knowing well there'd be no extra holiday today.
0:27:16 > 0:27:19And we were told we each must do our bit,
0:27:19 > 0:27:23and so we knitted shapeless gloves from string
0:27:23 > 0:27:25for men in minesweepers.
0:27:25 > 0:27:30And on the map, we stuck the Allied flags along the Somme,
0:27:30 > 0:27:33visited wounded soldiers,
0:27:33 > 0:27:38learned by heart those patriotic lines of Oxenham.
0:27:38 > 0:27:42"What can a little chap do for his country and for you?"
0:27:42 > 0:27:45"He can boil his head in the stew," we added,
0:27:45 > 0:27:49for the trenches and the guns meant less to us
0:27:49 > 0:27:52than bicycles and gangs
0:27:52 > 0:27:55and marzipan and what there was for prep.
0:27:57 > 0:27:59CHILDREN SING HYMN
0:28:52 > 0:28:55One lucky afternoon in Chaundy's shop,
0:28:55 > 0:28:59I bought a book with tipped-in colour plates,
0:28:59 > 0:29:03City Of Dreaming Spires, or some such name.
0:29:03 > 0:29:06Soft, late-Victorian watercolours
0:29:06 > 0:29:09framed against brown paper pages.
0:29:12 > 0:29:16All that was crumbling, picturesque and quaint
0:29:16 > 0:29:20informed my taste and sent me biking off,
0:29:20 > 0:29:24escaped from games, for architecture bound.
0:29:27 > 0:29:28BIRDSONG
0:30:05 > 0:30:09When I returned from school, I found we'd moved -
0:30:09 > 0:30:1153 Church Street.
0:30:11 > 0:30:14Yes, the slummy end.
0:30:14 > 0:30:16A little laugh accompanied the joke.
0:30:16 > 0:30:18For we were Chelsea now,
0:30:18 > 0:30:22and we had friends whose friends had friends
0:30:22 > 0:30:24who knew Augustus John.
0:30:29 > 0:30:33We liked bold colour schemes, orange and black.
0:30:33 > 0:30:38And clever, daring plays about divorce at the St Martin's.
0:30:38 > 0:30:40Oh, our lives were changed.
0:30:40 > 0:30:44Ladies with pearls and hyphenated names
0:30:44 > 0:30:47supplanted simpler aunts from Muswell Hill.
0:30:47 > 0:30:52A brand-new car, and brand-new chauffeur came
0:30:52 > 0:30:54to carry off my father to the works.
0:31:01 > 0:31:04Once, on a stall in Bloomsbury,
0:31:04 > 0:31:08I found an atlas folio of great lithographs -
0:31:08 > 0:31:10views of Ionian isles,
0:31:10 > 0:31:14flyleaf inscribed by Edward Lear -
0:31:14 > 0:31:16and bought it for a bob.
0:31:18 > 0:31:19Forgotten poets,
0:31:19 > 0:31:24parsons with a taste for picturesque descriptions of a hill
0:31:24 > 0:31:28or ruin in the parish pleased me much.
0:31:28 > 0:31:32But steel engravings pleased me most of all.
0:31:32 > 0:31:35Volumes of London views,
0:31:35 > 0:31:40or Liverpool, or Edinburgh, the Athens of the North.
0:31:40 > 0:31:43I read the prose descriptions,
0:31:43 > 0:31:46gazed and gazed deep in the plates
0:31:46 > 0:31:50and heard again the roll of market carts on cobbles,
0:31:50 > 0:31:54coach doors slammed outside the posting inn.
0:31:55 > 0:31:59Beyond the bookshop, treasure in my hands,
0:31:59 > 0:32:03I scarcely saw the trams or heard the bus,
0:32:03 > 0:32:05or noticed modern London.
0:32:06 > 0:32:12I was back with George IV, post horns, street cries and bells.
0:32:12 > 0:32:16"More books!" my mother sighed, as I returned.
0:32:16 > 0:32:20My father, handing to me half a crown, said,
0:32:20 > 0:32:23"If you must buy books, then buy the best."
0:32:25 > 0:32:27I feared my father.
0:32:27 > 0:32:30Loved my mother more.
0:32:30 > 0:32:34And just because of this, would criticise in my own mind
0:32:34 > 0:32:37the artless things she said.
0:32:39 > 0:32:41CHURCH BELLS PEAL
0:32:48 > 0:32:54All silvery, on frosty Sunday nights, were city steeples
0:32:54 > 0:32:56white against the stars.
0:32:56 > 0:33:00I used to stand by intersecting lanes
0:33:00 > 0:33:04among the silent offices, and wait,
0:33:04 > 0:33:06choosing which bell to follow.
0:33:06 > 0:33:09Not a peal, for that meant somewhere active.
0:33:09 > 0:33:13Not St Paul's, for that was too well known.
0:33:13 > 0:33:16I liked things dim.
0:33:16 > 0:33:19Some lazy rector, living in Bexhill,
0:33:19 > 0:33:25who most unwillingly on Sunday came to take the statutory services.
0:33:27 > 0:33:30'Twas not, I think, a conscious search for God
0:33:30 > 0:33:33that brought me to these dim, forgotten fanes.
0:33:35 > 0:33:38Largely, it was a longing for the past,
0:33:38 > 0:33:42with a slight sense of something unfulfilled.
0:33:42 > 0:33:45And yet another feeling drew me there -
0:33:45 > 0:33:50a sense of guilt, increasing with the years.
0:33:50 > 0:33:53"When I am dead, you will be sorry, John."
0:33:54 > 0:33:59Here I could pray my mother would not die.
0:33:59 > 0:34:02Thus were my London Sundays incomplete
0:34:02 > 0:34:05if unaccompanied by evening prayer.
0:34:07 > 0:34:09BELL RINGS
0:34:19 > 0:34:22Doom, shivering doom.
0:34:22 > 0:34:28Inexorable bells to early school, to chapel, school again.
0:34:28 > 0:34:30Compulsory constipation,
0:34:30 > 0:34:35hurried meals bulked out with whipped cream walnuts from the town.
0:34:37 > 0:34:38BELLS PEAL
0:34:44 > 0:34:47Doom, shivering doom.
0:34:47 > 0:34:52Clutching a leather grip containing things for the first night of term -
0:34:52 > 0:34:57house slippers, sponge bag, pie jams, Common Prayer,
0:34:57 > 0:35:02my health certificate, photographs of home.
0:35:02 > 0:35:06Where were my bike, my paintbox and my trunk?
0:35:09 > 0:35:13At first, there was the dread of breaking rules.
0:35:13 > 0:35:17"Betjeman, you know that new boys mustn't show their hair
0:35:17 > 0:35:19"below the peak of college caps.
0:35:19 > 0:35:23"Stand still and have your face slapped." "Sorry, Jones."
0:35:23 > 0:35:27The dread of beatings, the dread of being late.
0:35:27 > 0:35:32And, greatest dread of all, the dread of games.
0:35:32 > 0:35:33WHISTLE BLOWS
0:35:35 > 0:35:36In with it!
0:35:38 > 0:35:39WHISTLE BLOWS
0:35:43 > 0:35:44Good ball! Let's go!
0:35:45 > 0:35:47Get it out! Get it out!
0:35:47 > 0:35:52# To all life thou givest
0:35:52 > 0:35:57# To both great and small
0:35:57 > 0:36:01# In all life thou livest
0:36:01 > 0:36:05# The true life of all
0:36:05 > 0:36:10# We blossom and flourish
0:36:10 > 0:36:14# As leaves on the tree
0:36:14 > 0:36:19# And wither and perish
0:36:19 > 0:36:25# But nought changeth thee
0:36:27 > 0:36:31# Great Father of glory
0:36:31 > 0:36:36# Pure Father of light
0:36:36 > 0:36:40# Thine angels adore thee
0:36:40 > 0:36:45# All veiling their sight
0:36:45 > 0:36:49# All laud we would render
0:36:49 > 0:36:54# O help us to see
0:36:54 > 0:36:58# 'Tis only the splendour
0:36:58 > 0:37:03# Of light hideth thee. #
0:37:06 > 0:37:09In the name of God the Father,
0:37:09 > 0:37:11God the Son
0:37:11 > 0:37:14and God the Holy Ghost, Amen.
0:37:22 > 0:37:26And he spake a parable unto them, saying,
0:37:26 > 0:37:31"The ground of a certain rich man brought forth plentifully..."
0:37:31 > 0:37:34BETJEMAN: The centre and the mainspring of your lives,
0:37:34 > 0:37:38the inspiration for your work and sport,
0:37:38 > 0:37:41the corporate life of this great public school
0:37:41 > 0:37:44spring from its glorious chapel.
0:37:44 > 0:37:49Day by day you come to worship in its noble walls,
0:37:49 > 0:37:51hallowed by half a century of prayer...
0:37:51 > 0:37:54BISHOP: And then I will bestow all my fruits...
0:37:54 > 0:37:57BETJEMAN: The old Malburian bishop thundered on,
0:37:57 > 0:38:00when all I worshipped were the athletes,
0:38:00 > 0:38:02ranged in the pews opposite.
0:38:02 > 0:38:05"Be pure!" he cried.
0:38:05 > 0:38:09And for a moment, stilled the sea of coughs.
0:38:09 > 0:38:14"Do nothing that would make your mother blush if she could see you.
0:38:14 > 0:38:17"When the tempter comes, spurn him
0:38:17 > 0:38:20"and God will lift you from the mire."
0:38:20 > 0:38:23Oh, who is God?
0:38:23 > 0:38:25Oh, tell me, who is God?
0:38:25 > 0:38:28Perhaps he hides behind the reredos.
0:38:28 > 0:38:32Give me a God whom I can touch and see.
0:38:34 > 0:38:37The bishop was more right than he could know.
0:38:37 > 0:38:42Safe in the surge of undogmatic hymns,
0:38:42 > 0:38:45the chapel was the centre of my life...
0:38:46 > 0:38:49..the only place where I could be alone.
0:38:51 > 0:38:53CHURCH BELLS PEAL
0:38:57 > 0:38:59Dear lanes of Cornwall.
0:38:59 > 0:39:02With a one-inch map, a bicycle
0:39:02 > 0:39:05and well-worn little guide,
0:39:05 > 0:39:08these were the years I used to ride for miles
0:39:08 > 0:39:10to far-off churches.
0:39:16 > 0:39:18I'm free! I'm free!
0:39:18 > 0:39:20The open air was warm
0:39:20 > 0:39:23and heavy with the scent of flowering mint.
0:39:23 > 0:39:27And beetles waved on bending leaves of grass.
0:39:27 > 0:39:31And all the baking countryside was kind.
0:39:34 > 0:39:36"Don't fidget, boy.
0:39:36 > 0:39:37"Attention when I speak.
0:39:37 > 0:39:40"As I was saying, now I look at you,
0:39:40 > 0:39:44"bone lazy, like my eldest brother Jack.
0:39:44 > 0:39:47"A rotten, low, deceitful little snob.
0:39:47 > 0:39:50"Yes, I'm in trade and proud of it, I am.
0:39:53 > 0:39:55"My boy, it's no good sulking.
0:39:55 > 0:39:59"Listen here, you go to Bates and order me the car.
0:39:59 > 0:40:02"You'll caddie for me on the morning round.
0:40:02 > 0:40:05"This afternoon you'll help me dig for bait.
0:40:05 > 0:40:07"You'll weed the lawn and when you've finished that,
0:40:07 > 0:40:10"I'll find another job for you to do.
0:40:10 > 0:40:13"I'll keep you at it, as I've kept myself!
0:40:13 > 0:40:16"I'll have obedience. Yes, by God, I will!"
0:40:18 > 0:40:22"Come back!" I seem to hear my mother cry.
0:40:22 > 0:40:23"Come back, come back.
0:40:23 > 0:40:25"He is your father, John."
0:40:31 > 0:40:35One rector talked of poetry, Cornish saints
0:40:35 > 0:40:39and asked me which church service I liked best.
0:40:39 > 0:40:41I told him evensong.
0:40:41 > 0:40:45"And I suppose you think religion's mostly singing hymns
0:40:45 > 0:40:48"and feeling warm and comfortable inside?"
0:40:48 > 0:40:51And he was right. Most certainly I did.
0:40:51 > 0:40:53SEAGULLS CRY
0:40:53 > 0:40:55BELL CHIMES
0:41:04 > 0:41:07In quest of mystical experience,
0:41:07 > 0:41:10I knelt in darkness at St Enodoc.
0:41:11 > 0:41:14I visited our local holy well,
0:41:14 > 0:41:17where to the native Cornish still resort
0:41:17 > 0:41:20for cures for whooping cough
0:41:20 > 0:41:24and drop bent pins into its peaty water.
0:41:24 > 0:41:25Not a sign.
0:41:25 > 0:41:29No mystical experience was vouchsafed.
0:41:29 > 0:41:33The little ferns just trembled in the wind
0:41:33 > 0:41:37and everything looked as it always looked.
0:41:37 > 0:41:41But somewhere, somewhere underneath the dunes,
0:41:41 > 0:41:45somewhere among the cairns or in the caves,
0:41:45 > 0:41:48the Celtic saints would come to me.
0:41:48 > 0:41:52The ledge of time we walk on like a thin cliff path,
0:41:52 > 0:41:57high in the mist, would show the precipice.
0:42:00 > 0:42:03An only child, deliciously apart,
0:42:03 > 0:42:07misunderstood and not like other boys,
0:42:07 > 0:42:13deep, dark and pitiful, I saw myself in my mind's mirror,
0:42:13 > 0:42:18every step I took a fascinating study to the world.
0:42:22 > 0:42:24The other parents of the holidays
0:42:24 > 0:42:27seemed easier to deal with than my own.
0:42:32 > 0:42:36"Well now, my boy, I want your solemn word
0:42:36 > 0:42:39"to carry on the firm when I am gone.
0:42:39 > 0:42:42"Fourth generation, John, they'll look to you.
0:42:42 > 0:42:46"They're artist craftsmen to their fingertips.
0:42:46 > 0:42:48"Go on creating beauty."
0:42:53 > 0:42:54What is beauty?
0:42:56 > 0:42:58Here where I stand,
0:42:58 > 0:43:04the green Atlantic bursts in cannonades of white along Pentire
0:43:04 > 0:43:06There's beauty here
0:43:06 > 0:43:08There's beauty in the slate
0:43:08 > 0:43:12And granite smoothed by centuries of sea
0:43:12 > 0:43:16And washed to life as rain and spray bring out
0:43:16 > 0:43:20Contrasting strata higher up the cliff
0:43:20 > 0:43:24But none to me in polished wood and stone
0:43:24 > 0:43:27Tortured by father's craftsmen into shapes
0:43:27 > 0:43:31To shine in Asprey's showrooms under glass
0:43:31 > 0:43:33A maharajah's eyeful.
0:43:36 > 0:43:39MUSIC: "The Varsity Drag" by Jack Hylton And His Orchestra
0:43:45 > 0:43:47# Here is the drag See how it goes
0:43:47 > 0:43:50# Up on the heels Down on the toes
0:43:50 > 0:43:54# Everybody do the varsity drag
0:43:54 > 0:43:56# Hotter than hot Newer than new
0:43:56 > 0:43:59# Meaner than mean Bluer than blue
0:43:59 > 0:44:03# Gets as much applause as waving a flag
0:44:03 > 0:44:08# Hmmm mmmm
0:44:08 > 0:44:10# Hmmm mmmm... #
0:44:14 > 0:44:19My walls were painted Bursar's apple-green
0:44:19 > 0:44:24My wide-sashed windows looked across the grass
0:44:24 > 0:44:28To tower and hall and lines of pinnacles.
0:44:28 > 0:44:32The wind among the elms, the echoing stairs
0:44:32 > 0:44:36The quarters, chimed across the quiet quad
0:44:36 > 0:44:37From Magdalene Tower
0:44:37 > 0:44:40and neighbouring turret-clocks
0:44:40 > 0:44:44Gave eighteenth-century splendour to my state
0:44:44 > 0:44:48Privacy after years of public school
0:44:48 > 0:44:51Dignity after years of none at all.
0:44:56 > 0:45:01First college rooms, a kingdom of my own
0:45:01 > 0:45:05What words of mine can tell my gratitude?
0:45:05 > 0:45:10No wonder, looking back, I never worked
0:45:10 > 0:45:13I cut tutorials with wild excuse
0:45:13 > 0:45:17For life was luncheons, luncheons all the way
0:45:17 > 0:45:20And evenings dining with the Georgeoisie.
0:45:25 > 0:45:29And as the laughs grew long and loud I heard
0:45:29 > 0:45:32The more insistent inner voice of guilt,
0:45:32 > 0:45:36"Stop!" cried my mother from her bed of pain.
0:45:36 > 0:45:39I heard my father in his factory say,
0:45:39 > 0:45:43"Fourth generation, John, they look to you."
0:45:53 > 0:45:55CHURCH BELLS RING
0:45:58 > 0:46:01Silk-dressing-gowned, to Sunday-morning bells,
0:46:01 > 0:46:05long after breakfast had been cleared in Hall,
0:46:05 > 0:46:09I wandered to my lavender-scented bath.
0:46:11 > 0:46:14Cooper's Oxford marmalade and toast
0:46:14 > 0:46:19But half-engaged my thoughts till Sunday calm
0:46:19 > 0:46:23Led me by crumbling walls and echoing lanes
0:46:23 > 0:46:27Past college chapels with their organ-groan
0:46:27 > 0:46:31And churches stacked with bicycles outside
0:46:31 > 0:46:35To worship at High Mass in Pusey House.
0:46:46 > 0:46:49ECHO OF HYMN-SINGING
0:47:47 > 0:47:51Some know for all their lives that Christ is God
0:47:51 > 0:47:54Some start upon that arduous love affair
0:47:54 > 0:47:57In clouds of doubt and argument
0:47:57 > 0:48:00And some - my closest friends -
0:48:00 > 0:48:04Seem not to want His love
0:48:04 > 0:48:07And why this is I wish to God I knew.
0:48:09 > 0:48:13As at the Dragon School, so still for me
0:48:13 > 0:48:17The steps to truth were made by sculptured stone
0:48:17 > 0:48:22Stained glass and vestments, holy-water stoups
0:48:22 > 0:48:28Incense and crossings of myself - the things
0:48:28 > 0:48:32That hearty middle-stumpers most despise
0:48:32 > 0:48:35As "all the inessentials of the Faith."
0:48:40 > 0:48:42ECHO OF HYMN-SINGING
0:49:01 > 0:49:05Oxford May mornings When the prunus bloomed
0:49:05 > 0:49:09We'd drive to Sunday lunch at Sezincote.
0:49:10 > 0:49:15First steps in learning how to be a guest
0:49:15 > 0:49:19First wood-smoke-scented luxury of life
0:49:19 > 0:49:22In the large ambience of a country house.
0:49:23 > 0:49:25Down the drive
0:49:25 > 0:49:28Under the early yellow leaves of oaks
0:49:28 > 0:49:31One lodge is Tudor
0:49:31 > 0:49:33One in Indian style
0:49:33 > 0:49:39The bridge, the waterfall, the temple pool
0:49:39 > 0:49:44And there they burst on us, the onion domes
0:49:44 > 0:49:48Chajjahs and chattris made of amber stone
0:49:48 > 0:49:51'Home of the Oaks', exotic Sezincote!
0:50:01 > 0:50:06Stately and strange it stood, the Nabob's House
0:50:06 > 0:50:11Indian without and coolest Greek within
0:50:11 > 0:50:14Looking from Gloucestershire to Oxfordshire.
0:50:17 > 0:50:20Dear Mrs Dugdale, mother of us all
0:50:20 > 0:50:24In trailing and Edwardian-looking dress
0:50:24 > 0:50:27Sweet confidante in every tale of woe!
0:50:29 > 0:50:32The Colonel's eyes looked out towards the hills
0:50:32 > 0:50:35While at the other end our host is heard
0:50:35 > 0:50:39Political and undergraduate chat
0:50:39 > 0:50:42"Oh, Ethel," loudly Colonel Dugdale's voice
0:50:42 > 0:50:46Boomed sudden down the table, "that manure -
0:50:46 > 0:50:49"I've had it shifted to the strawberry beds."
0:50:49 > 0:50:51"Yes, Arthur.
0:50:51 > 0:50:52"Major Attlee, as you said
0:50:52 > 0:50:55"Seventeen million of the poor Chinese
0:50:55 > 0:50:57"Eat less than half a calory a week?"
0:50:59 > 0:51:03So Sezincote became a second home.
0:51:09 > 0:51:12Dinner with Maurice Bowra sharp at eight -
0:51:12 > 0:51:15High up in Wadham's hospitable quad.
0:51:15 > 0:51:18A dozen oysters and a dryish hock
0:51:18 > 0:51:22Claret and tournedos, a 'bombe surprise'
0:51:22 > 0:51:25The fusillade of phrases - "I'm a man
0:51:25 > 0:51:28"More dined against than dining - " rattled out
0:51:28 > 0:51:31In that incisive voice and chucked away
0:51:31 > 0:51:37To be re-used in envious common-rooms By imitation Maurices.
0:51:37 > 0:51:38I learned
0:51:38 > 0:51:42If learn I could, how not to be a bore
0:51:42 > 0:51:44And merciless was his remark that touched
0:51:44 > 0:51:48The tender spot if one were showing off
0:51:48 > 0:51:52Within those rooms I met my friends for life.
0:51:52 > 0:51:54And as the evening... BELLS PEAL
0:51:54 > 0:51:57..mellowed into port, he read us poems.
0:51:57 > 0:52:03There I learned to love that lord of landscape, Alfred Tennyson,
0:52:03 > 0:52:06There first heard Thomas Hardy's poetry.
0:52:07 > 0:52:11King of a kingdom underneath the stars,
0:52:11 > 0:52:13I wandered back to Magdalene.
0:52:13 > 0:52:17Certain then, as now, that Maurice Bowra's company
0:52:17 > 0:52:21Taught me far more than all my tutors did.
0:52:30 > 0:52:33Failed in Divinity.
0:52:33 > 0:52:35Oh, towers and spires
0:52:35 > 0:52:36Could no-one help?
0:52:36 > 0:52:39Was nothing to be done?
0:52:39 > 0:52:41No, no-one, nothing.
0:52:43 > 0:52:45Mercilessly calm
0:52:45 > 0:52:49The Cherwell carried under Magdalen Bridge
0:52:49 > 0:52:53Its leisured puntfuls of the fortunate
0:52:53 > 0:52:57Who next term and the next would still come back.
0:52:59 > 0:53:01I'd seen myself a don
0:53:01 > 0:53:04Reading old poets in the library
0:53:04 > 0:53:07Attending chapel in an MA gown
0:53:07 > 0:53:11And sipping vintage port by candlelight.
0:53:33 > 0:53:36I sought my tutor in his arid room
0:53:36 > 0:53:40Who told me, "You'd have only got a Third."
0:53:41 > 0:53:44I wandered into Blackwell's, where my bill
0:53:44 > 0:53:47Was so enormous that it wasn't paid
0:53:47 > 0:53:50Till ten years later, from the small estate
0:53:50 > 0:53:52My father left.
0:53:56 > 0:53:58Not even dusty shelves
0:53:58 > 0:54:01Of folios of architectural plates
0:54:01 > 0:54:03Could comfort me.
0:54:04 > 0:54:07Outside, the sunny Broad.
0:54:07 > 0:54:11Stone emperors circling the Sheldonian
0:54:11 > 0:54:14The hard Victorian front of Exeter
0:54:14 > 0:54:18The little colleges that front the Turl
0:54:19 > 0:54:22The locked and double gates of Trinity
0:54:22 > 0:54:27Stood strong and confident, outlasting me.
0:54:34 > 0:54:38Already, I could hear my father's voice.
0:54:38 > 0:54:42"My boy, henceforward, your allowance stops:
0:54:42 > 0:54:45"You'll copy me, who with my strong right arm
0:54:45 > 0:54:49"Alone have gotten myself the victory."
0:54:49 > 0:54:51"Your father's right, John;
0:54:51 > 0:54:52"You must earn your keep."
0:54:54 > 0:54:56Pentonville Road!
0:54:56 > 0:54:58How could I go by tram
0:54:58 > 0:55:03In suit from Savile Row and Charvet tie?
0:55:03 > 0:55:06How could I, after Canterbury Quad
0:55:06 > 0:55:09My peers and country houses and my jokes
0:55:09 > 0:55:12Talk about samples, invoices and stock?
0:55:19 > 0:55:21LIFT WHIRS
0:55:21 > 0:55:23DOOR OPENS
0:55:29 > 0:55:33Ah, welcome door - Gabbitas Thring & Co's
0:55:33 > 0:55:36Scholastic agency in Sackville Street!
0:55:40 > 0:55:44"The principal will see you."
0:55:44 > 0:55:46"No degree?
0:55:46 > 0:55:48"There is perhaps a temporary post
0:55:48 > 0:55:51"As cricket master for the coming term
0:55:51 > 0:55:52"At Gerrards Cross."
0:55:52 > 0:55:53BELL RINGS
0:56:08 > 0:56:13Here I was, a private schoolmaster
0:56:13 > 0:56:17in a preparatory school here in Gerrards Cross.
0:56:18 > 0:56:24Earning a living at last, and some self-respect.
0:56:24 > 0:56:28Of course there were humiliating moments.
0:56:28 > 0:56:31In the morning, for instance, lavatory duty.
0:56:31 > 0:56:35When I had to go through the mark book, "Have you been?"
0:56:35 > 0:56:38And the boys would say, "Have you, sir?"
0:56:38 > 0:56:41I couldn't keep order at all,
0:56:41 > 0:56:43but I never laughed so much in my life!
0:56:48 > 0:56:53You know, I think it's only when we're young
0:56:53 > 0:56:57that an autobiography is interesting.
0:56:57 > 0:57:02That's why I ended mine at this point.
0:57:02 > 0:57:07Because it still has in it things we share in common.
0:57:07 > 0:57:11Struggles at home, struggles at school,
0:57:11 > 0:57:14and then, struggles to get a job.
0:57:14 > 0:57:16ORCHESTRA PLAYS: "Baa Baa Black Sheep"
0:57:35 > 0:57:38SCHOOL BELL RINGS