Bruno Scarfe – notes for an autobiography: interludes

I remember, faintly, being taken to an institution in the Glasgow area and being left there, at a very early age. Was I anxious! Was I unhappy! I had trouble with the food: was it not what I was used to? was it not to my liking? I think I was just too upset to be able to eat. So my parents were summoned to take me away. I can recall the reproaches for spoiling their holiday. That was in World War II, while my father was stationed in the Orkneys, or at the War Office, and was on leave.

* * *

Holidays on Arran with my mother, and her eccentric friend Gaby who rescued me from drowning, I remember more clearly. There was the impressive but disquieting spectacle of a navy in continuous passage past the island, perhaps on conclusion of the war. There were trips to the three main bays, each of which had a character as distinctive as its name. Of the cottage we stayed in, I only see stone, feel intimacy, and sense contentment. Outside, though, was different: it was midge territory. I recall long evenings out there, and how Gaby – and my mother? – dealt with the situation. They smoked. Did the midges bother me? Would I like to smoke also? Then I should have a cigarette too! The problem changed, and I vomited my heart out. “That should stop him ever wanting to smoke!” my rescuer said, in French, rescuing me from a future addiction, though not from the midges. On a happier note, I recall also how I looked forward to running down the hill to the van where they sold fish and chips. The smell was heaven, and so was the taste, what with all the salt and vinegar. I had no views, yet, about lard. After all, my mother used it.

* * *

When nine, I was driven to Tilbury by friends of the family and put on a little steamer bound for Göteborg, Sweden, where I was to be met by a lady not known to my mother or me. At first I was content to stare over the side of the ship, fascinated by the challenge of endless, shining grey mudbanks, just out of reach. Then I turned to wondering if I would be recognized on arrival. And then I began to be afraid, going to sea in this thing, all by myself, to a destination unknown. The ship’s fumes grew disagreeable, the deck began to move, and soon I was hurrying down to my bunk, which was in darkness, and I was sea-sick. Nobody seemed concerned. I stayed there, in the gloom, sea-sick, till we had reached Sweden – where the unknown lady recognized me. I have a faint but reassuring memory of a stylish flat in Stockholm, much smarter than anything I knew. There in the kitchen, I can still feel the tantalising and incomprehensible attraction for Maud the daughter, about twenty, and grace itself. She was patient, and full of curiosity. Perhaps she let me prepare something, leaving lots of mess behind? And I can remember a stay on an island called Sandham. There I picked blueberries in the lightly wooded glades to my heart’s content, and probably everyone else’s. The sea, which lapped at the foot of the garden, was clear, and I was allowed to go alone and dip, if only up to my knees. There was Åke the son, and his yacht round which I was shown, but not to go sailing. The beach sand was beautiful, but just above the high tide mark I met … a snake. I was petrified. I can feel, still, how time froze as I struggled, unsuccessfully it seemed, to drag myself away. How could such cautious adults have overlooked this danger, so close to the house?

Did my parents send me to Sweden because of ill health? My asthma, which had been with me since I was two, was not cured by change of climate and environment. It struck early. My “Summer Mother” could not understand that I had come with no medicines, and that at home I was left to gasp in bed. My real mother for long held the view that medicines were for weaklings, and not to be encouraged. Now I was introduced quickly and kindly to my first effective medication: an inhaler. Other setbacks – skin and ear infections – also were dealt with promptly and with kindness. All this was far from home, and at the hands of strangers. As for the beauty of this Baltic island – what a contrast with Glasgow in wartime, and the suburban claustrophobia of Oxford. Leaving was terrible. But years later, imagine the surprise, delight, and frustration when I received an invitation from Maud to her wedding. I really must have made a fuss over her and let my feelings be known in Sweden all those years earlier, to be remembered – still just a schoolboy – on the other side of the Baltic. And later yet, while studying German at a Goethe Institute out in the country near Munich, imagine the surprise when out of the blue came a little but much needed present from her mother.

* * *

A couple of times, while at school in Oxford, I was sent for holidays to Fraserburgh in Scotland. My father’s sister Audrey and her husband Norman lived there, and with them my grandmother. I remember Aunt Audrey teaching me golf, her husband’s interest – and a game my father used to play. The course was in wild, bracing countryside, which I liked. The long walks between greens, I liked less. Retrieving lost balls, I liked least of all. But my aunt had been a teacher, and she somehow managed to impart the necessary skills to a not very enthusiastic boy. Some forty years later Barbara, my friend from Foster, suggested a game of golf while visiting me in Omeo. I had not played – as far as I recollect – since Fraserburgh, but she enjoyed a game now and again. Luck, my caution, and those early lessons secured me a win, to her considerable embarrassment (or had she let me win?). I remember also how my aunt, during these sessions, talked long and hard about ambition at work, and career. Her husband, Norman, had had to retire prematurely from his position as manager of the local tool works, because of stress. She spoke with strong conviction about the risks in aiming for the top, being successful. My father was not pleased when I passed this on. And did her warnings leave a mark? Judge for yourself. And I recall often catching amazing quantities of fish on a handline – seven or eight at a time – in the harbour, and catching lovely Adele once, staying with neighbours, unawares for a kiss behind the door. After some argument the fish went to fill the cat, and without any argument Adele went into my address book. There have been fish and cats galore since then, but there was only one Adele, and though we may have exchanged a card, I never saw her again.

* * *

At some stage during my early schooling, I was sent to boarding school at Saint Maximin, near Chantilly, France, to further my French. It was not my favourite subject. There was nothing obviously wrong with the place, and I seem to remember really liking the wooded grounds. I recall no problems with the staff. But it was a disaster. Did I think there were too many sans culottes with crew cuts around? Did they think this long-haired English intruder good for a tease? So I felt threatened, and unhappy. And at some stage, inevitably, I came across a detail which provoked instant revulsion: the holes in the ground, toilets. Asthma struck, hard. I spent my remaining time in the school infirmary under medication and subjected to endless infusions de thé de tilleul. The Matron looked after me well. All was peace. And the premises boasted a real toilet. Such a relief! My father, though, was cross when I got home. I was reminded that the course in which I had been enrolled, uselessly, had cost him a lot.

* * *

Later, aged fifteen, I was sent away in boarding school ‘holidays’ to stay at La Rochelle, venue for French courses run by the University of Poitiers. I had a torrid time. I loved the sight of the gorgeous Latin female students at the classes. And later, out of class, I was mesmerised at the sight of them stretched out on the floor, either under or on top of their male partner. Some lay still, as in a trance. Others turned and twisted languorously, and were having a good time. But there was an element of mystery. I would have liked to be part of the action, whatever it was, but I was the wrong age, and from the wrong background. It was not to be. Determined to have some fun of my own, though, I set off for the beach, where I probably had a swim in mind. But it was low tide, and to swim there and then I had to cross mudflats. Unperturbed, I started over them, only to feel my bare feet getting lacerated on sharp and hidden surfaces underneath. The acute pain, and the ever growing agony of the return journey – having failed absolutely to reach the sea – remain fixed in my mind. Back at the study centre I sought out medical attention, and began the slow process of recovery.

When I went home, my father enquired about the centre, the courses, and how I had got on. He was anxious when I recounted the students’ activities, and went to extraordinary lengths to have me describe in detail what I had seen. Apart from reassuring him that everyone was dressed, I couldn’t tell him much, for I was still learning about ‘life’. There were things my top-class education, and my parents’ instruction, had not explained. They included French and English terms my father was now using, but chose not to define. Finally, he said he would be writing to those in charge, with his views on the sort of conduct they condoned. He seemed relieved, though, that I had come home with the appropriate certificate and the rating Bien. He never sent me, again, to a French institution to improve my French.

* * *

The following year I was allowed to do a course for foreigners at the Menéndez Pelayo University in Santander, Spain, in my summer ‘holidays’. I was put with a middle-class Spanish family which had seen slightly better days. They spoke no English. My Spanish was in its infancy, and though I could labour through a piece of literature with pen and dictionary at the ready, I had trouble stringing words together in conversation. As for understanding the answers, they were so many machine gun bullets, which just whizzed past as sounds devoid of meaning. The asthma struck, but I was ready with syringe and adrenalin. Within a week my legs were peppered with perforations, but I beat the asthma and all that the situation could throw at me. And a ‘situation’ had, indeed, arisen, for I had begun to come out in spots, to the embarrassing extent that the whole family were concerned. I had already told them of men in the street who had pestered me with small talk, and whom I had given the slip – though once only by slamming the door behind me. Perhaps the family thought I had not told them all …? So Celia, the daughter, took me to see the doctor. I don’t know what she told him, but the searching questions the doctor asked suggested plenty. What sexual contacts had I had since arriving in Santander, I was asked variously and often. I kept pleading ignorance. “Sexual contacts?” I asked back, “what do you mean?” The outcome? He concluded that my spots came from a severe infestation of … fleas in the flat where I was staying. We went home. Soon, Celia and her mother were hard at work sprinkling DDT throughout the flat. The swellings gradually went down, no more came, and honour was restored. I was entreated not to let the University know, or it would spell an end to their connection with it.

Curiously, problems of language and asthma seemed as nothing, the flea bites just that – a hollow saga – and the encounters in the street irrelevant. I wonder how and why I fell in love with Spain and whether, in secret and slightly mischievously, perhaps it was Spain that seduced me, and fell in love with me.

The courting had begun years earlier when I started to read about a Spain the Establishment had tried to ridicule. It had continued at boarding school when I was allowed to diversify, and Lope de Vega’s cloak and dagger plays – pithy, lyrical, dramatic, and rich in atmosphere – had come to my notice. It came to a climax now. Suddenly I was face to face with the real thing, no longer between the covers of a book. The streets teemed with life. Out there, among the old, the children and the babies, were men and women both rich and poor who stood and walked with a poise and flair I had never seen. Their skin gleamed, their hair rippled, their eyes commanded. Theirs was a form of beauty I had met only in poetry, and theirs a vitality I had not even read about. The women in their vibrant colours, ears necks wrists fingers bejewelled, formed a kaleidoscope which danced and fused into the equally exotic setting of sounds and smells. So, at home with ‘my family’, the little privacy, the limted freedom, did not seem to matter. I was happy with them, their mealtime rituals, the background of classical furniture, old pictures, wall hangings, curtains, and the twilight atmosphere occasioned by the blinds and shutters which kept a hot sun at bay. I knew there was real life close at hand, outside, and that it existed in practical form and in microcosm inside, with a family’s traditions, pride, and affection.

The family introduced me to a friend, Casuso, who spent a lot of time showing me round Santander and telling me its history, explaining things as he saw them, but without imposing himself. At the University I followed and completed my course, concluding with the appropriate certificate and the rating Notable, so important to my father and also, maybe this time, to the school which had arranged everything. But the real value of my stay, purportedly to develop my grasp of Spanish, by far transcended anything a piece of paper might suggest.

* * *

The following summer I spent four weeks in Spain. This time I was not attending a course, but had a project in mind, sufficiently worthwhile to win the approval of both my teachers and parents. They had decided, I suppose, that I had acquitted myself honourably enough the year before, and had not disgraced myself in the interval. My project involved using Santander as a base from which to make a trip to the ‘interior’. My stay would clearly benefit my language skills, and travel inland should expand my experience and knowledge of Spain.

Judging from my diary, I saw Casuso often. Of Celia and her family, who could not put me up, I saw little (I wonder, now, whether I decided to omit ‘sensitive’ material, knowing my diary would be examined by those in charge?). Santander continued to interest, and I came to know it well. Once I walked through a slum, full of rubbish, bad smells and smashed paving: where the children were dressed – exquisitely. I evidently enjoyed the beaches, weather permitting, and the diary shows I enjoyed the lively mood of the taverns to which my hosts escorted me. This visit, however, was not to be about Santander.

It was about travelling inland, and visiting Leon Cathedral, the Escorial, and Simancas. These impressed me so much, that my account of the voyage inland was published later in Oxford Opinion, and diary descriptions of the latter appeared in the scholarly Ampleforth Journal soon after returning. Penetrating the coastal mountains and arrival on the meseta, the stained glass and atmosphere of Leon Cathedral, the history and structure of the Escorial, details of the national archives at Simancas Castle – these were among the highlights, and maybe I described them best. But I was equally struck by Salamanca as a whole, with its ecclesiastical, academic and civic buildings in styles ranging from mediaeval to baroque; who could forget the unique Plaza Mayor? I was moved by the setting and dreamlike atmosphere of Zamora Cathedral. I was moved by no idle admiration – but with pain and horror – at the seemingly dispassionate exhibition of religious polichrome sculptures at Valladolid. As for the Prado …!

Then there were the people. On the one hand, I remember the man in León who insisted on fixing rubber soles to my sandals though unbidden, and then tried to charge me a small fortune; just as I remember a railway official who closed the counter as I approached in a lather, and smiled. On the other hand, I remember occasions when unknown people gave me free accommodation or a lift, shared their food, or entertained me. Outstanding was the hospitality at the English College in Valladolid, where I dined alone with the Rector and his nine cats and then went on to enjoy the luxury of a full suite for the night; equally, the several occasions when the Dominicans of San Estéban in Salamanca entertained me in their parlour, showed me areas closed to the public, took me up behind the altar to see the elaborate stage work required to keep everything in place, and guided me round the town.

And there were, of course, some hard realities. There was the endless business of working out train and bus times, queuing for tickets, and waiting for transport which might not be on time. There were journeys which began at night and ended at dawn, in conditions which ranged from asphyxiating heat to bitter cold, and where a ticket did not guarantee a place on the wooden seat. Each move meant finding a room for the night, at a price I could manage. As the money dwindled, there were more and more meals of egg and chips, or just grapes, some other fruit, bread, and a glass of cheap vino. Strangely, once onto the meseta there was no asthma.

I returned safely to Santander, where I rested briefly before leaving for England. The time came, rather unexpectedly, when my money threatened to run out, and I had to take rapid leave of my friends: host family, Celia, and Casuso – who saw me off. I trained to Irun, and then, clutching my two suitcases, set off across France, hitch-hiking. Back home, in Oxford, it was remarked how thin I was. On this occasion, there was no certificate for my father: just a diary. But he was satisfied.

* * *

A few months later I won an Open Scholarship to Pembroke College, Oxford, and did a final term at Ampleforth. I failed my National Service medical because of asthma. My feelings were mixed, for I was glad to be spared dangers and embarrassments, but disappointed at missing out on exotic overseas duty. My parents were relieved. I should have gone, then, straight up to Oxford. As I remember, I argued against this, as I would have been much younger than the other freshmen. So I was told I could study instead in Spain, as I wished, during the intervening period, but must spend five months in Germany first.

Why Germany? My father had met my mother, who was German, while he was studying in Paris. She had left Germany at eighteen and, after two years in Hungary, had adopted France. She was a governess there, a job she held with several familes – upper class, some of them aristocrats – for about fifteen years. They married and, with the War imminent, moved to England, where I was born, and then on to Scotland. During the War and long after, my mother told people she was French. Now it was time, my parents decided, that I learned my mother’s native language, and saw something of Germany.

But there were ironies, of which the following are background examples. They bear on my reluctance to go to Germany, my initial reactions, and compensatory reactions afterwards – at a subconscious level. The ironies open with my grandfather from South Shields, whose career in the Merchant Navy ended in his drowning, torpedoed by the Germans in the Bay of Biscay during World War I. His widow fell ill, and my father and his brother were sent to a Merchant Navy orphanage. During World War II, my Father was called up to serve with the British Army, where he rose to Lieutenant Colonel before returning to academia. Meanwhile, my mother’s brother was in the German Navy, where he lived out the war as a U-Boat Commander. My father’s brother made his career with the Royal Navy, and finished up high in rank at Chatham. So there were conflicting emotions, even without mention at this point of other ironies.

My parents announced three aims for me while in Germany: I was to learn the language, of which I knew almost nothing; I was to find a job, preferably in publishing, on the strength of a school reference and my new German; and, lastly, I was to meet my still unknown grandmother, and my mother’s former school friends.

It was May. I was sent to a Goethe Institute in the picturesque village of Kochel, Bavaria, to receive my dose of German. The village, with its mountain peaks and the icy lake where I occasionally rowed and swam, was remote. Consequently, when there was a study-free day I might hitch-hike to Munich, Innsbruck, or neighbouring villages. Rain and snow, sub-tropical warmth and bitter cold, alternated. It made for difficult but interesting situations when travelling pillion through open countryside, and even when scrambling up and down the muddy village streets from study centre to inn. The cottage where I lodged – with a group of Greeks – could be cold, though the owners were hospitable and, at a later date, wined and dined and lodged me free of charge. The inn meals I still remember for their variation from excellent to awful, the abundance of potatoes and bread, but shortage of all else. The atmosphere created by Institute staff and students however, was usually good, and tensions dropped away. At the Institute I studied, amicably enough, with Greeks and Turks, Indians and Egyptians, Canadians, French, Spaniards and others. It was curious studying and then relaxing with such an international group, what with Cyprus, Suez and the perennial Gibraltar, and being taught by … Germans. And there, finally, I succeeded in acquiring another of those certificates so desirable at home, with the rating Guten . The eight week course had been excellent, the staff dedicated, and this student in particular, conscientious.

Then, wielding a letter of introduction , I made myself known to a small but serious publisher in Munich, Piper Verlag, who interviewed me and gave me some sample work to prepare. They took me on. I worked there for two months, paid, as an apprentice reader, and advised on the suitability of some forty foreign language novels, already published, for translation into German. Some were in Spanish or French, but most were in English. They were mainly by authors still unknown to me. After reading them, I had to summarise and evaluate them. Summaries were one thing; evaluations, where possible appeal to a German public had to be considered, were quite another matter. It was all most exhausting, and often involved the twin gifts of divination and diplomacy. My brief also included some translating of book reviews, telephone calls and letters to English and French publishers, and thinking up sales slogans. All this took place in what were mainly hot, dry months, with the chief recreation restricted to walks in the parks – some of them beautiful – and discount meals with staff at lunchtime. But there were good moments with staff at their home, and an occasional outing. One member of staff was to visit me later in Salamanca, another stayed at my home in Oxford. I lodged with a friend of a friend of my mother, in circumstances which grew ever scratchier. Perhaps I spent too much time dealing with clothes and cooking, which supposed an invasion of space and drain on power, or perhaps the motives were more personal.

It was September. I spent my final weeks – a holiday at last! – with my mother’s school friends in Dusseldorf. I am reminded of peeling potatoes for immediate consumption, and helping pick fruit for the months ahead and storing it in the cellar. Everything seemed to come in industrial quantities. The weather continued to be warm, close. Then it rained, on and off, and rained, and rained. The cellar flooded, and the fruit … had to be moved up to the attic. I remember being taken to the country, and the family hunting lodge which I snapped with the little Agfa box my Aunt Aenna had given me years ago. The result was good, and my host – an architect – ordered enlargements on the spot. There was a trip to Cologne, and a longer one to Wuppertal, where my grandmother and Aunt Aenna lived, and at last I had a photo of Grandmother. Then it was goodbye to Germany, with its range of educational experiences so different from any my parents could have ever imagined.

It was not envisaged, probably, that while studying at the Goethe Institute I might miss Ingrid, my friend in Oxford. When the others lodging in the cottage smuggled girls in at night, maybe some of them prostitutes, I was curious and impressed, but not envious. And though some of the girls on the course were gorgeous, I made no move. I just pined for Ingrid. Curiously, the parish priest – who initially heard my confessions in Latin, the only language we shared – once had me address a group of five delightful girls from Kochel on the subject of life in England: in English, which they were studying. The girls then escorted me home. Again, I made no move. Contrary to popular belief, in my case absence made my mind grow doubtful, and I began quite imperceptibly to question a lost reality. At cottage, inn, and Institute – examples and precedents, or just talk and general atmosphere – began their work on me.

Neither was it envisaged, probably, that working with a publishing firm in Munich would bring me interesting friends. Of two men with whom I worked, one was particularly gentle and sensitive, cultured, full of mystery and mood. We had some memorable evenings at his home, with wine, music, and candles. And then, one evening, he tried to proposition me. I was unaware he was homosexual. I was stunned, and – stupidly – disappointed. I got on well, also, with his colleague, in charge of my work programme. He later called on me in Salamanca, took me out for some much needed meals, and bought me a beautiful wall hanging – a Madonna – I took round the world with me. As for the firm’s general secretary, I fell head over heels in love – my first passion. But Elfriede, the ‘Cupid’ of my poem, kept me more or less at arm’s length. Though we went out for walks, drinks, and a meal or two, and I became the best of friends with her cat, sister, and mother, she kept warning me she didn’t share my feelings. It was two months of increasing agony. Finally, several years later, she had second thoughts and visited me in Oxford. It was too late. I was more or less engaged, and lacked the desire, or the nerve, to change things.

Nor was it envisaged, probably, how well I would get on with Sigrid, in Dusseldorf, during my brief ‘holiday’ there between finishing in Munich and starting studies at Salamanca. She was the daughter of my hostess, who had attended school with my mother in a dim and distant past. Our relationship was unexpectedly relaxed and spontaneous. We went for walks, picked fruit, talked interminably, and shared the frustrations of chores and timetables together. We had a great time. I must have flirted , inconsequentially as I thought, and without objection. Years later, I was to be reproached by her mother, to my astonishment and sadness.

But it was probably envisaged I would see a lot of my grandmother, whom I had never met. I saw her for several hours only. The atmosphere was perfect, but we were worlds, cultures, and years apart. Our meeting was genuine, but it occurred ostensibly at a surface level only. And because it was genuine, it concluded as soon as we had embraced, had paid – as it were – our respects.