The cardboard box
The ubiquitous HMV label
O ne Saturday afternoon in 1936 my father, who was a great second-hand shopper, was browsing in a local shop and came across a cardboard box on the floor, crammed with gramophone records. 8-inch, 10-inch and 12-inch. He liked military band music, and male singers who sang songs like 'Annie Laurie'. He felt that this enormous collection must contain something he liked. So he bought it and, balancing it on his bicycle saddle, walked it home. He dumped it in our 'front room', the room in our little semi-detatched house in Bushey Heath where the piano and the gramophone were kept.
I began rifling through it and found all sorts of things, titles that meant absolutely nothing to me, funny foreign words on the brown labels.
And then I saw it. A 10-inch HMV, with their picture of the dog listening with its ear at an ancient gramophone 'loudspeaker'. It was the label, the gilt lettering, that caught my eye. It said, 'Jesu, joy of man's desiring'. Then it said, 'Johann Sebastian Bach.' And the pianist's name was 'Dame Myra Hess'. Well, I knew a lot about Jesus. We heard about him every Sunday. I loved Jesus. But here was somebody called 'Jesu'. Who could it be? If it was the same Jesus, why wasn't there an 's' at the end? Curious, I put it on the turntable, wound the spring, released the brake and put the needle on the first groove.
A piano began to play, softly. Single notes picked out in a steady rhythm that was nothing like dance band or jazz rhythms but steady, measured, with more notes falling beautifully into place and creating harmony underneath it. I stood there, marvelling. It was like nothing I had ever heard before. A sensation ran through my body. The feeling was indescribable.
I found I had discovered music. The sort of music that has been my joy for nearly 80 years.
Reflections
Reflections
A short story
J eremy LeFeuvre woke, swore, stretched out a hand and groped for the phone. It was George, his editor at the agency. He sounded a bit on edge, Jeremy thought. Unusual for George. On the day he joined the agency he was assured by the others that if George were to be confronted by a rattlesnake he would shake hands with it and offer it a drink.
‘Leafy? Urgent job in the morning.' He named a local museum. 'Deadline, midday. Greek vase - apparently it’s suddenly become significant. Relates to current excavation work in Greece. They’ll be quivering a bit in the museum so - gently, gently. Anyway, they agreed to close the room to the public while you're shooting. Go get it, Leafy.'
Professional photographer Jeremy LeFeuvre always got his pictures, whatever the odds. He re-set his alarm, turned over and slept.
In a taxi shortly after sunrise next morning and weaving through heavy traffic he kept looking at his watch and muttering. The museum had been told of his brief so at least he’d be able to get on to the job as soon as he got there. But that vase - it would more than likely be in a tricky lighting position. And he remembered his last assignment in another museum; a jittery director and nervous guards.
The traffic ahead had stopped and a police motorbike came up from behind, heading for the front of the queue. Jeremy whipped out his phone and rang the museum, telling them about the delay and that he would be very short of time to do the job and would they very kindly make sure he could get straight to wherever the vase was and begin work. They assured him they would.
He looked at his watch.
It was an hour before he pushed the door to the museum main entrance. A guard was detailed to take him to the exhibit and to remain with him until the job was done. They went up a flight of stairs and into a long room lit by two rows of windows high up on both facing walls. Three rows of eye-level display stands filled the room. The guard pointed to the exhibit at the end of the row; the Greek vase, inside a domed glass cover. It was only a few inches high and the drab colour of something unsavoury.
Jeremy put down his case. ‘Right. Thanks. That glass dome thing. I shall need that taken off, of course.’
The guard was shocked. ‘The cover? Off? No, no, no! The cover is not to be moved. My orders from the Director, sir.’
‘Sorry, I have to insist - see, the reflections of those windows,’ he pointed behind and up to the row of sash windows, ‘see how they're reflected in the glass cover? I can hardly see the vase, let alone make a photograph of it! Please tell the Director now that the cover must come off - wait a minute, though.' He went round to the side and peered through the glass. No window reflections but none of the interesting bits either. 'No, that's no good. I must have the cover off.'
‘But -’
‘Please tell the Director! And quickly! I’ve got half an hour to do the job.’
The guard started to say something, decided against it and got the director on his mobile. Jeremy cursed himself for not bringing with him the very thing that would have saved the situation - the huge black umbrella that was made for jobs like this.
The Director entered and approached slowly, pointing at Jeremy’s chest.
‘You,’ he said, ‘are not allowed to move or even touch any of the protective covers in this room. Do you understand this?’
‘Look, suppose you do it for me? Or him?’ He indicated the guard. 'Just for five minutes.'
‘On no account. The covers are not moved.'
'That means I've got to cover all the windows - black paper or something!'
'If you are having difficulty you may cover the windows. We will provide a ladder. We can give you black paper.’
‘All these windows? That would take far too long!’
The Director produced an enormous shrug of the shoulders and spread his hands.
‘That is all. You must understand - this room is sacred to us. The least sign of anything bad happening in this room means immediate emergency action.’ At the door he turned. ‘The ladder and paper will be brought to you.’ Minutes later the door slammed open. A guard brought in a ladder and, under one arm, a huge roll of black paper. He leaned paper and ladder against the wall, stood back and watched. One by one Jeremy covered the windows. It took him something short of twenty minutes. As he was finishing the the last window an idea occurred to him and he grinned. Then his phone rang.
‘Leafy? What the hell’s going on? I’ve got to have that image in ten minutes. What’s happening?’
‘George believe me, you don’t want to know. Tell you later. Just finishing getting the set ready - doing the shot in five minutes.’ Sweating in the heat of the room he was aware of the door opening and somebody coming in. He swore softly, then saw that it was only a workman of some sort, wheeling a trolley.
At the camera he examined the image on his screen. He banged off a dozen pictures, each from slightly different angles, downloaded them onto his phone and sent them to George. Then he climbed up to the end window and began removing the paper. The guard watched him from below. When he was finished he came down and approached the guard. The man stiffened, clearly expecting trouble.
‘Those window frames.’ Jeremy pointed, then, grimacing horribly and wagging his head he stared into the man’s eyes. ‘Bad. Very, very bad.’
‘Bad?’ The guard took a step backwards. ‘Bad? You mean - what?’
'Very dangerous. The whole windows thing could collapse any minute.'
'Blimey!' The guard turned to leave, then hesitated as a voice behind Jeremy spoke. 'You finished here?' It was the workman.
'Yes.' He watched as the man reached out to the glass dome. He very gently lifted it off and placed it on his trolley. He selected a length of cloth.
Not believing his eyes Jeremy said, ‘You mean - you mean you're allowed to do that? Take covers off?’ He swivelled round to the guard but he had left.
Speechless with fury he picked up his gear and went down to the entrance hall. He tapped on the ‘Enquiries’ window.
The face behind the window smiled up at him. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Ah. Yes. Name's LeFeuvre. Just finished my job. You might give the management a very important message.’ He leaned close to the oval opening in the glass. ‘All those wooden window frames upstairs -’ his voice dropped to a dramatic whisper. ‘Deathwatch beetle.’
The MG Magnette ZB
W HAT a car! It sat on the drive outside my study window like a wellbred sheepdog, crouching, poised, waiting for its master’s call to action. She was the 1956 64hp Magnette ZB. Inside you found comfortable leather seating, superb steering, cornering like a dog after the rabbit. She would do 80mph with power to spare. Not that I can remember travelling at 80, but that’s what the experts tell me.
Many felt that she had broken tradition, losing the familiar sporty look, low-slung and roofless with headlights squatting on mudguards. Yet in the parking lot by the track she still fitted calmly into the sporty scene. She carried five of us round the country on many summer holidays, roof rack and boot loaded to bursting point with luggage and all the must-have paraphernalia of childhood.
Our two boys, whilst not exactly falling over themselves to do so, liked washing her. In the shot above they are assisted by our older son's friend from across the road. Our daughter was otherwise engaged upon, I feel sure, some household duty. A dutiful lot, our three.
I don’t remember breakdowns happening; the only incident I remember causing causing the furrowed brow was when I had visited my very elderly parents and taken them out for a spin. We stopped as near as possible to a coastal beauty spot, parking hard up against an ancient stone wall. I got out via the front passenger door, helped the parents get out and went with them for a gentle stroll down the hill to the beach area and had a lovely hour or two. We returned to the car, I flourishing my keys and preparing to help my parents get back in. But I came to an abrupt halt at the front passenger door by which I had exited and carefully set so that it locked when closed. It was, very naturally, as I had left it - locked from the inside.
I had never registered that the ZB passenger door handle is not blessed with a keyhole.
And, do you know, I cannot remember how we eventually got in.
Choirboys
To have sung in a very good church choir for several years has been, for me, one of the great delights of this life. Our choir was taught and conducted by a Choirmaster who was a born teacher; his manner and his technique were the chief reason for the choir’s excellence and for the subsequent invitations to sing the services in our land’s cathedrals during holiday months.
Sixteen men and roughly 30 boys attended weekly practice sessions in the little first-floor choir vestry above the main church - a not very beautiful Victorian brick building; the Choirmaster rehearsed the boys alone for about three-quarters of an hour and then we men would arrive. For fifteen minutes both men and boys practiced together. The boys then left and we men continued, sometimes for more than an hour.
We sang for both the morning and the evening services. In the mornings the vestry gradually filled with a buzzing crowd of men and boys creating an ocean of flapping blue cassocks being donned and white surplices being hoisted over heads, hair being combed and music books being collected from a cupboard.
Naturally, the boys cared nothing for the state of their hair. The Choirmaster’s constant efforts to make themselves tidy bore little fruit; one Sunday morning I took it upon myself to put things right with my own comb and as weeks went by they gradually took the thing for granted and bowed their head for my attention as I approached.
Watching them processing calmly and in perfect symmentry ahead of us, it was difficult to connect them with the same milling, chattering bunch of kids of a few moments before. Eyeing them from my position in the Decani stalls opposite I frequently caught sight of small breaks in form among the Cantoris trebles; the nudge that a boy would give his neighbour in reproof for a slight mistake or merely a sidelong glance and a pair of lowered eyebrows. Or possibly an amused smile.
Singing the services in our own church was satisfying enough; singing in the glorious, vast, deliciously-echoing space of a centuries-old cathedral was the ultimate prize, an experience that had the power to bring tears.
Stanley Sharpless: The Test
Sitting at my desk one morning in the new and exciting Technical Publications Department in the early 1950s, I looked up to see the chief editor coming over. He adopted what I was to discover was his favourite discussion position: feet wide apart, both elbows on the edge of my desk and his bottom pointing to the roof.
‘Just been in with Sharpless,’ he said. ‘And he wants to see you.’
Something lurched inside me. What had I done?
‘It's something about your job.’ The lurch came again, a bit higher up.
I had been in the department for about a fortnight, learning the job - writing instruction leaftlets for the company’s photographic materials and chemicals.
In his fairly impressive office Stanley Sharpless, Ad Manager and now famous for his comic lines, 'Cocoa coursing through their veins', motioned to me. 'Sit down, Paul.' He flicked a finger.
My mouth as dry as a dustbag, I sat down in the chair indicated and waited for the bad news. Through the open windows floated the growling of Kingsway traffic.
'I've had an idea,' he said. He straightened out a long strip of paper on his desk. 
Plain paper covered in pencil notes on both sides. It had been concertina'd into five or so folds to form a four-inch square. 'A lot of people just don't seem to understand how take a good picture. How to hold the camera, how to avoid sun-glare and blurring and so on. And I want a free leaflet to be available in every Kodak dealer's shop. In England and overseas. We’re going to call it TRAVEL TIPS BY KODAK so, ostensibly, it’s for people about to go on holiday. Here's a rough I've done.' He pushed the paper across the desk. 'Take it. Spend some time with it. I've scribbled the headings all the way through. And I want jolly little illustrations - watercolour sketches - dotted amongst the text. All right?’
He smiled as he said it, and it was a friendly smile.
As I went into my own office all five of the other authors were grinning at me. One of them couldn't suppress giggles.
‘What’s wrong?’ I said.
They broke into a little cheer. I gathered that the ‘Travel Tips by Kodak’ leaflet was by now famous - it had been discussed for weeks and was known as 'Stanley's Tips'. They’d all been waiting to see who got the job.
Over the next few weeks I finished it and, in the process, learned how to handle good-natured cracks about tips and travelling.