to leave. Salvation beckoned when I contacted Dr. and Mrs. Booth. They invited me to a party and realised I was unhappy.
I was in the habit of returning to Boston on weekends during this period, largely to avoid a weekend in Bromley, but I had few friends in the town at that time since most of them were away doing their National Service. I had been rejected by the doctors on account of my eczema, an unpleasant skin condition that had plagued me since childhood. So, although I avoided two years of army life, I was feeling isolated and separated from my friends, who occasionally appeared on leave and complained about their wasted years during which their real lives were on hold.
At some point during this year in London, I made the conscious decision to leave Bromley, which had become unbearable, particularly after a nasty incident when I was stuck in a railway compartment with a drunk who lunged at me and attempted to remove my trousers, saying boozily, “You’d make a fine centre forward!” There were no corridors on these trains and I had to wait until the train stopped to make an escape. Fortunately the man did not pursue me as I dashed outside, but it was unnerving to say the least and put an end to Bromley.
The following week I moved into a bed-sit just off Cromwell Road. Now I was living alone, in a tiny room with a gas meter and a hot plate. It was, however, all mine and it was a more central location.
Back in Boston we set out to make A Boston Story. This was filmed in black and white, and we added a soundtrack with music and narration. It included a visit to London where Charles was seen wandering around the Festival Gardens, though his mind was still in Boston. To say that this amateur movie was poor is an understatement, but we ran it for a few evenings at the Assembly Rooms in Boston. It was favourably received and then we gave it a decent burial.
I had now been appointed the Publicity Officer for the Federation of Film Societies, despite being only nineteen, and was often in provincial cities for weekend meetings. I also attended the Edinburgh Film Festival and reported on films that members might rent for their societies.
One blissful year I was invited to Biarritz to a Festival of Films Maudit that was organised by Cocteau and his cronies. The invite came from the British Council. I met Ralph Glasser and Derek Griggs and we travelled to Biarritz by train, stopping at St. Jean de Luze. It was my first time in France and it was a very heady experience. I was, as yet, unexposed to much of life, particularly as led by bohemians in France. I was warned not to dip too heavily into bottles of Pernod, which might put me away.
On the opening night of the festival, I forgot those warnings and ended up with my friends in a hotel suite overlooking the Atlantic, the temporary home of Denis Price, the English actor who had been in Kind Hearts and Coronets and who was a guest of honour. He had not heeded the drink warning either and, drunk as a skunk, declaimed a speech Noel Coward had delivered in In Which We Serve. By this time we were chucking champagne into the ocean, and I eventually passed out on a chaise longue, from which I was rescued by Ralph Glasser just as Price was about to commit a rash act. They bundled me out of the apartment, and I remained in my room for two days, missing many films and wondering what had hit me.
It was shortly after this that I decided to leave home. I called Francis Howard, who was now with Industrial Colour Films. He got me the job that took me away from Boston. My parents, instead of being vindictive, were both supportive. But my new job, fun though it was, did not last. The company went bankrupt within the year. It was “I told you so” from the family, but I was not to be so easily brought back to Boston.
I was out of a job, not a union member, twenty-one, and totally unknown. In those days, it was of paramount importance to belong to the union and it was the hardest organisation to join. The catch-22 syndrome persisted—no experience, you couldn’t join; not a member, you couldn’t get experience.
Dr. Booth had a keen interest in my career, or lack of it, knowing that Father was now paying my rent. One day he casually mentioned that a doctor he knew in the Borough was called if any medical attention was required at Ealing Studio and wondered out loud if it might be a good idea to suggest he mention my name to the head of Personnel.
My interview with Baynham Honri was the outcome of this conversation.
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