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Spent the summer and autumn in a small cottage at Offham, a small hamlet outside Arundel. The cottage had been found by my mother's sister. Enjoyed the countryside immensely; even the two mile walk to school. It was an exciting place and inspired the background to Foxes' Oven. My sister, Linda, born in April this year. Returned to London. May have lived in Streatham for a while, at 113 Rodenhurst Road. My father kept us very short of money and my mother found it difficult to find the rent. Returned to Battersea: 48 Altenburg Gardens, a first floor flat where the majority of my youth was spent.

My primary school was Wix's Lane, London SW11; a huge tall building a short tram ride from home. Started here on 12 April 1943; my name is in the handwritten school records. I enjoyed school and loved reading but failed the eleven plus: it was supposed to be a pure intelligence test and so we were not given any training for it. It was the first time any of us had seen such a test paper, all squares and squiggles that we were supposed to work out on our own.

Attended Clapham Central School in Aristotle Road, Clapham SW4. My teachers were, in the main, excellent; most of them had returned from the war, voted socialist and were going to make a better world. Dai Davies for English, and Mr James for History, and W. G. Earle, the headmaster, for French. Left in December 1950 with six O-Levels: English, English Literature, History, Geography, French and General Science.

In my last year at school I worked evenings and weekends at my brother Ted's greengrocery shop, doing deliveries in the streets of Battersea on Saturday mornings and going to Covent Garden market at dawn to purchase stock. This was fun and laughter as well as being hard work. I could lift a hundredweight sack of spuds at age 14.

I also had a morning and evening paper round on Lavender Hill and later delivered beer in Streatham on a trade cycle - three nights a week for a shilling an hour, plus tips. All this while still at school. I was saving money for a bicycle trip to France. In August 1949, just before my fifteenth birthday, I cycled to Paris and back, alone, staying in youth hostels. Fell in love with Dieppe in particular and with France in general. I was away two weeks, though I was back in Dieppe after seven days; I waited another week in the youth hostel, too proud to return before the time I had announced to my family and the kids in the street. I have no idea how I talked my mother into letting me go. It was only four years after the end of the war; bits of tanks in the hedgerows still.

In the summer of 1950, my last year at school, I cycled along the Loire Valley: one month away this time. Much more confident.

Spring: I had no idea what I wanted to do, and there was no help from my family by way of ideas even, though there was plenty of pressure on me to get work and bring in some money. My father knew Fleet Street like the back of his hand and could have got me a job on a newspaper as copy boy or runner, which I would have jumped at, but we hardly saw him and in any event he could not be bothered even to suggest it. I disliked him a great deal so in truth I probably never asked him to help.

I became a library assistant at Earlsfield Public Library, Wandsworth, cycling to work every day to save money on fares. I was paid £2, 17' 6d a week, out of which there were seven shilings stoppages and a pound went to my mother. I got through the week on the remaining pound. These were days of rationing: one pair of shoes (cardboard in the bottom of them when they wore out), darned socks, one jacket (second hand) and a couple of hand-me-down shirts. Our bedrooms were never heated; in the winter I used to get into bed with all my clothes on - except the shoes - and undress only when I was warm.

My eldest brother had been in the army, infantry, towards the end of the war. Had he not collapsed while boarding the landing craft he would have been present on the Normandy beaches on D-Day. My other two brothers had been conscripted for national service and warned me what a complete waste of time it was. I decided, though with no money and no backing, to become a full-time student as a way of deferring my call up. My mother put up with this. I intended to keep myself, paying my mother for my food, by doing odd jobs.

I enrolled for the spring term at Battersea Polytechnic with the intention of getting A-Levels in English and French in the hope that I could get to university. The idea of going to university had always lurked in my mind though I never dared to believe that I could go, and didn't even know how to go about such an enterprise. Working-class kids didn't get into tertiary education as a rule unless they had made it to Grammar School, and even then it was difficult. I was encouraged a little by the chief librarian at Earlsfield Library, a Mr Roberts, and learnt how to apply for a place during my time at Battersea Polytechnic.

With the help of my friend Bernard Mattimore I got a summer job in the Festival Gardens, Battersea Park. Bernard was technically competent; I was an ignoramus. Under his tutelage I became a projectionist in a 3D cinema; which had moved down from the South Bank where it had show 3-dimensional films during the Festival of Britain. Bernard taught me how to do the job as we went along; threading in the film, rewinding, focusing etc. (see A Rose Beyond the Thames). In the Festival Gardens I met Timothy Bungey, and various out of work actors. It was a new world and a revelation. High adventure for a kid from Battersea.

In September I enrolled at the University Entrance Department, Regent Street Polytechnic, Balderton Street, off Oxford Street, London W1, to study for A-Levels in English Literature and French. This was like a mini-university for me in regard to the teachers and to the students I met.

Christmas postman at Chelsea Post Office. "Kings Road, High Odd" was the name of my walk.

This was a relaxed and enjoyable academic year, which included directing a Christmas show in the gym at 16 Balderton Street, drinking in pubs, going to 100 Oxford Street and Cy Laurie's jazz club, lots of parties, making lots of friends, and somehow doing lots of reading and study. In June I took my exams and passed English, failed French oral.

Christmas postman again, Chelsea. Worked all winter as counter and kitchen hand in Joe Lyons Tea Shop, Clifford Street, Bond Street, London W1, clearing tables and making trifles and putting trays of dirty dishes through a vast machine. I worked masses of overtime; ten to fourteen hours a day. It was very tiring, and a waste of time. I was saving money for an expedition to France to improve my French. In the days before the European Union it was almost impossible for a male to find work in France - girls could go au pair and look after children.

Between May and November 1954 I lived and worked in the small and delightful town of Corbigny, in the south of France (see French Leave) . With the help of Anne-Marie Cahouet from the Poly I found a job in her father's village, as a wholesale grocer's slave. Henry Foulet, the grocer, was an evil tempered bully, a friend of the Cahouets. Marie Louise, his wife, was kind and sympathique, and a wonderful cook. The Foulets had two sons Robert and André, and two daughters Janette and Denise; none of them, wisely, lived at home. Long-term friendships developed with them all. In later years I was accepted as an honorary family member and I still see them; invited to Denise's 70th birthday party even. I still visit Corbigny when I can.

This was my real introduction to provincial France, its people and its food and wine.

In November I took A-Levels in London; passed both.

From November 1954 until June 1955 I returned to London and found the amazing Mr Bungey from the Festival Gardens cinema working in the accounts department of the Savoy Hotel, London (see Spots of Time). He was also doing reviews for the British Film Institute. I became a clerk on the Bill Book in the Savoy, eventually promoted to be in charge of one shift. We worked from 0700 to 1600 or 1600 to 2300. The Bill Office was dull, dusty and Dickensian: stand up desks; vacuum tubes sending bills down to us from all floors. Everyone who worked in the department seemed to be some kind of a nutter; the flotsam and jetsam of London. Two friends from Regent Street Polytechnic, Michael Wright and Charles Watkins, used to come and visit me sometimes when I was on evening shift - I had shown they how to get in through the staff entrance - and I would order sandwiches and coffee from the kitchens and up they would come on a silver platter. Mike and Charlie would bring in wine and we would chat the evenings away.

Most of the winter passed in fun and parties and reading. I stayed quite a lot in a girlfriend's basement flat at 5 Camptden Grove, Kensington.

JUNE.  I had two weeks holiday from the Bill Office, but never went back.   Instead I did a return trip to Corbigny for a four week holiday.
I had my 21st birthday there, the Cahouet's gave me a dinner.     
         
On my return I began filming as a raw camera assistant with brother Ralph:  probably at Steel Peach and Tozers, Rotherham.   There was a film called Steel Rhythm, no commentary, but all done to jazz music;  director Max Anderson, a very nice man, an excellent editor.   It was a long film and we shot it on and off for some three months. It was my first taste of the 'high life'. That is to say that we stayed in the Grand Hotel, a five star palace with a beautiful receptionist called Shelagh, who folded me in her arms.
 
I also did a film, a Children's Feature, in Dedham, near Colchester, though this may have been the following summer. We stayed in a pub in Colchester.
 
I lived off the film money for some months, no doubt ambling around London and not doing very much except reading and going to the theatre.
 
I was a Christmas postman again (five or six times I think I did it, always at Chelsea)   One year Peter Ustinov, who lived, I think, 215 King's Road, gave me a tip of a whole pound note. I have always adored the man, and not only for his talents, but for the quid.

I was looking for part-time work, out of money I guess and took a job, nightwatchman and forecourt attendant at Maythorpe Motors, Sydenham. It retrospect it was a horrible job, but at the time I thought it was wonderful, suiting me fine: three nights a week, Friday, Saturday and Sunday. I remember the dreary train ride to Sydenham, the walk down the hill;  the dreary office about the size of two telephone boxes;  broken lino on the floor, a spavined armchair in which I tried to sleep, and the smell of petrol and oil. I did read a lot, and took my typewriter with me and wrote letters to Michael Wright and others. Sometimes Michael and Charlie would come to visit and spent time with me until the last  train went back to London. There were long talks about 'love, life and literature.'

During this winter of I made various attempts to find a job in Spain, I really wanted to learn Spanish. I made approaches to schools that taught English in Murcia and Madrid but I failed. I  was very disappointed but when I heard that Mike Wright and Howard Jones, who were doing their National Service at SHAPE HQ in Fontainbleau, were planning to hitch-hike to Alicante to see Charles Watkins, I threw in my garage job, pawned my typewriter and other possessions, and set off to join Mike and Howard in Paris. I remember the feeling when I stepped off the train at the Gare du Nord, one of great joy. I remember the crowded restaurant we ate in, Le Gaudiamus, somewhere in the 5th.   We set off to hitch hike, three of us together, but it became obvious that it wouldn't work. We split up, and I headed off on my own towards Alicante.
 
I made very short work of it and I think I was in Alicante about three days after leaving Paris. Some good adventures and met some lovely people, mainly two Germans (the first Germans - as a war child - that I had ever met). They took me from Perpignan to Barcelona in a broken down Volkswagen.
 
I arrived at Aspe/Alicante and found Charles in a strange mood and think I only stayed a couple of days waiting for Michael and Howard. They did not arrive so I set off again, taking a train to Bilbao via Madrid.
 
There was something wrong with me; I didn't stay in Madrid, though I knew I ought to have done so. I crossed from one station to another and set off to Bilbao, my father's home town and went to see my Uncle Carlos. He was very kind to me;  I stayed a couple of days and met my cousin Charles Nicholson, of Nicholson's Paints.
 
I hitch-hiked back through France. Paid a visit to the Foulets in Corbigny. It was on this trip I met the man who treated me to the hotel in Clermont Ferrand, (see French Leave.)
 
I had not met up with Michael and Howard, so I decided to wait for them at Fontainbleau, where they were due to report for duty, but on my way there I lost what remained of my money and was obliged to carry straight on to London, courtesy of a repatriation grant from the British Embassy.
 
I came back to film work with my brother, Ralph. Back to Sheffield I guess. Another long steel film. Good money of course which I saved as I intended to make a serious attempt at passing O level Latin so that at last I could apply to university. Latin seemed like a huge mountain and deterred me seriously from moving forward in that direction.

Autumn; enrolled at North Western Polytechnic, Prince of Wales Rd, Kentish Town, to take Latin at O level; essential for university entrance at that time. Also sat in on French and English lectures.
 
Returned to the garage at Sydenham to support myself, working Friday, Sat, Sun nights.
 
Lived for a while in a dingy room and kitchen above the Sunlight laundry on Kentish Town Road. It was a slum.
 
Now my mother left her flat at 48 Altenburg Gardens, SW11, where she had lived since 1942/3 and went with my sister to NYC as a housekeeper. I was working too hard and playing to hard. Working three nights a week, and not sleeping during the day.

Christmas Postman; Chelsea, and too many parties and girl friends.

Very poorly most of this winter with permanent migraine.  Obliged to abandon studies at North-Western Poly.
Loafed around London; very miserable, no money;  can't remember what I lived on. I was totally broke.
 
I met Howard Jones and Mike Wright demobbed and back in London. Howard seemed to be the most fortunate of fellows (See French Leave).   Working as a courier, taking train loads of people to a Hotel cum holiday camp in the South of France; Les Auberges au Soleil, St Augulf, near Frejus.  Nobody went to the South of France in those days unless you were a toff.
 
Howard introduce me to his firm;  the French Travel Service - a subsidiary of French Railways. My immediate boss was Joe Evans, an amazing guy who had been a commando in WW2 and escaped from the Germans twice.  
 
I began by taking groups of tourists to Paris on weekend trips - out on Friday nights, travelling over night on the Newhaven-Dieppe ferry, back on Sunday nights, arriving at Victoria on Monday Mornings. Hard graft, very little sleep but migraines began to disappear:  they couldn't stand the pace.
 
About twenty/thirty people in each group.  They were taken off me in Paris by Colin Norris;  ex-Cambridge, ex-French legionnaire who had been captured at Dien Bien Phu.  (He wrote a book about his experiences but I forget the title)  He was another amazing guy. (See Sunday Times article on Paris, and French Leave)
         
This job developed, (Howard was promoted to assistant manager at Les Auberges and I moved up the ladder).   Later that same summer I began to escort 200 - 500 tourists in a train to St Aygulf.   Out on Saturdays, back on Mondays - overnight travelling in couchettes, organising coach transfers in Paris, and all meals. I had about six hours in St Aygulf itself, and then returned with the previous week's clients.
 
In those days St Aygulf was nothing more than a hamlet on the road between Frejus and St Maxime;  it had maybe one hotel, a bar tabac, a bank, a garage, a laundry and a chemist.
 
Les Auberges took about five hundred people, housed in chalets of twelve small rooms each with two beds and a sink;  shower and loo at the end of each 'pavilion'.   There were 14 pavilions I think.
         
Les Auberges au Soleil had a main building which had a shop, a bar, kitchens, a restaurant and rooms underneath for waitresses and barmen.  

Christmas. Postman at Chelsea sorting office.

In the summer term of 63 I played hookey and, pretending that I was spending a term at Aix en Provence, I actually worked two/three months with brother Ralph on a National Coal Board Film down a mine in Nottinghamshire;  used money to spend another summer in Provence, with Celia, at Violette Paturel's bergerie (La Gaillarde), and later at Notre Dame de la Queste (Bonne Maman had moved from Rascas - it had been sold).  
 
Celia stayed with Jean and Licette Renoult, while I did the transhumance, in their rented house above La Gaillarde;  this before they had the wooden house a few years later.
 
I did the transhumance again, this time with three still cameras;  See photos and The Provencal Tales.
 
One summer holidays, maybe at the end of my first year, say summer 1962 I did my first job for Billy Johnson (see The Bunce)   I got this job through Bernard Mattimore who was working for Billy as a sound engineer;  I became pa and assistant stage manager for the launch of British Leyland spare parts product (forget the name).
 
Later I worked for Billy quite a lot and those jobs involved setting up and running massive Audio Visual shows and driving them in lorries around the country.   That first job was in Birmingham I think.
 
Back to Dublin in October 1963;  found Delgany cottage then, I think.   Went home to Battersea] at Christmas and probably spent the time with my mother.   I know that there were probably a couple of Christmasess alone with her;  simple times when we went to the National Gallery and a couple of theatres.
 
At some stage I invited her over to Dublin, and also took her to Violette's bergerie for a month or so one summer;  she enjoyed both trips very much.

A year of Trinners;  did quite a bit of acting.   One Easter I stayed in Dublin and Tony Weale and I hired a car and visited the West Coast;  Kerry, Dingle, etc.

I was awarded the Leverhulme Scholarship to the Ecole Normale Superieure, in Paris.   I think it was the same scholarship that Sam Beckett won when he went to Paris.  My only claim to fame.
         
It was an interesting year.   Tony Gable;  Roger Whitehouse, Jacques Chuto again;  etc etc.   Lots of cinema and theatre and some study in the Bibliotheque Nationale.           

April/May.   Worked for travel firm, Clarkson's;  one day visits to Paris;  factory and Mothers' Union outings;  whirlwind visits to the main sights, and some shopping. Two months solid of very exhausting work but it was, initially at least, hilarious. 
Tourist guides, about twenty of us;  all nationalities, camping out in the Hotel de la Poste in Beauvais - trips run from Beauvais airport - thrown out of that hotel eventually, then moved to the Cygne.     
 
Wonderful French drivers;  Pierre Cilliez, Bernard DeJong, Andre Retel etc etc.
Airport people too;  Francis Meurgey, Francoise Goffaux, etc.
 
We all became very good friends, a crazy atmosphere, with drunken dinners and sometimes, if we got a day off, long sunny picnics.   (See French Leave)
 
Used the money to spend another summer with Bonne Maman at Notre Dame de la Queste.   Celia had spent the year on a scholarship to Tubingen and joined me in Provence.
 
I did the transhumance for the last time;  again with cameras.

Returned to England in October and went to Bangor, Wales, to prepare a Diploma of Education.  
 
Lovely part of the world, but a mistake, really...a waste of time for me, and I think Celia.   We enjoyed the bits that had nothing to do with teaching practice.
Found a little white-walled cottage on Anglesey, Dywran, I think, just on from Llanfair pg;  and spent a lot of time there.  
 
Walks on Newborough sands;  a visit to Dublin, and various castles.  
 
Hated the teaching practice in Hollywell;  an evil Headmaster, and a stupid staff by and large, who allowed themselves to be bullied;  all mouth and trousers most of 'em.   No support for the unions.

April and May;   Clarkson tours in Paris again.
And then the Dordogne and Bordeaux wines again.
 
1968
Student rising in the Quartier Latin.  Very exciting, a kind of champagne in the air. I think I was the only tour guide to take his bus up the Boulevard St Michel, and back down the rue St Jacques.
 
Tours suspended after a while: everything was on strike;  trains, ferries, buses, 'planes. Went down to Paris from Beauvais, with some of the French student-tour guides. Had a great time for a week or so.
         
It was difficult getting out of France. It was almost impossible to lay one's hands on petrol but eventually Pierre Cilliez managed to get some and drove me and friends to Boulogne where the only ferry leaving France was to be found.
         

 
Began writing very rough draft of A Rose Beyond the Thames. Think I called it Lavender Hill or something. I have probably thrown that ms away.
 
August;  After a long discussion/argument with Celia's mother we managed at last to get our hands on Celia's Granny's legacy, about 8000 pounds.   Bought Tallis House at auction in The Bell public house for 5000 pounds. Auction August 1968.
 
Tallis House (then called Oxford Cottage, though previous to 1920's it had no name) was a virtual ruin. 
10 rooms in the main building, and outhouses, which were comprised of a scullery;  a slaughter house, and a stable, with low lofts above.
 
Previously the village butcher's shop.Johnnie Turrell, the butcher, a legend in the village. He had let the shop for about say fifteen odd years, when he retired, and lived in one room and let the house go hang. The roof was slipping off and leaking; windows and door were rotten and the placed reeked of damp. No bathroom, no lavatories in the house, just one WC outside the scullery.  The garden was a wilderness, and the doors were swinging off an old wooden  garage, and there were three corrugated iron sheds in the garden, all full of old bits of iron;  hinges, hooks, chains, nails, screws etc.   The whole place was a wilderness.  
    
If Celia and I had known anything at all about building we wouldn't have gone near the house.
         
So then began a 15/20 year period of learning and navvying.
         
We did everything;  from putting up scaffolding, learning how to do a roof, to digging drainage;  to ripping things apart and putting things back together.

We moved into Tallis House in March 1969. We came over from Little Milton on a tractor and trailer with all our possessions which fitted easily onto the trailer which was quite small.   I remember half a dozen kids on the trailer;  they had helped us on the roof and helped us with the moving.
         
Before moving in March  we stripped and rebuilt the roof on the outhouses, January and February 1969, then moved into the scullery, turning it into a rough kitchen.  One cold tap; Calor Gas Stove and battered secondhand furniture.   We slept in the only dry bedroom;  the left hand front one. This period is when I learnt roofing.
         
April and May;  Clarkson's Tours...maybe went to Provence for three weeks at Jean and Licette's . I drove down with Celia in an old diesel engined Armstrong Siddley. On these trips we stopped off to see our friends;  Beauvais, Corbigny, Beaune, Avignon and Grimaud.

Paris season again;  then instead of Bordeaux I did a season in Provence, based in the Nord Pinus in Arles.  Great times.  (see Sunday Times article and French Leave.

All this time I probably did the odd job for Billy Johnson;  that would be road shows for multi-screen presentations (See the descriptions in The Bunce),
There was one big show based at the Grosvenor Hotel and Hilton, Park Lane, I was stage manager for Billy;  we had an audience of 2000 people every night for a week. It was amazing.

I was camera assistant for Billy too, whenever asked, and the odd bit of script writing, and lorry driving and cable laying.  Everything in fact.

The Discovery Tours part of Clarksons, which was what I did, was bought by Inghams tours and I did Provence for them this year, I think.

I suppose I must have begun to write The Borribles about this time, in between earning money and doing the house.

Ditto, Provence.  Filling in with work on the house;  more film work and working for Billy Johnson.
From this time until the mid to late eighties I worked on a free lance basis as a sound assistant;  averaged two or three days a week.   It was well paid;  worked with Billy, Bernard or Dave Hutchins, sometimes for the BBC or Commercial Television;  interviews, documentaries.   This work took most of my time and I fitted in the writing when I could.

The Borribles published in hardback by The Bodley Head, London.   Widely reviewed, generally favourably. Rewrote A Rose Beyond the Thames for the seventh time about now.

The Borribles published by Macmillan Inc in New York: and named one of The Best Books for 1978 by the American Library Association.
 
An amateur stage version of The Borribles produced by Mayday Productions at Battersea Arts Centre.
Might have been April.

A Rose Beyond the Thames published by the Bodley Head. 

The Borribles Go For Broke. Second of the Borrible trilogy, published by the Bodley Head.
Musical version of The Borribles performed on stage in London by The Young Vic Theatre Company.   March I think.  Stewart Mungall was director.

July/August.   Film work in Dallas and Los Angeles.   About six weeks I think.   With Bernard Mattimore;  it was a comedy documentary with Max Boyce, singer and comedian, pretending to be a dallas Cowboy.   I was sound assistant.

The Hollywood Takes, a crime thriller published by Doubleday in New York.  Turned down by Vivienne Schuster, my agent.
 
Returned to Budapest as a courier, again with Yorkshire Tours...was this over Christmas too, think so.   I was given about seven hundred pounds in Forints for A Rose Beyond the Thames.   Not allowed to bring it out of the country so did all the best restaurants, and had Turkish bath and massage every day.   Zdenek, my interpreter in Prague, now a friend, came down and spent some time with me.   It was good fun.
 
The Provençal Tales published by Pavilion Books, London;  and by St Martin's Press, New York.

I was commissioned by The Sunday Times to write a travel article.  (On the strength of my agent, Vivienne Schuster, sending The Provençal Tales to the travel editor) Went into the office once;  decided to do an article on going back to see the shepherds to see how they were getting on.  I had seen them occasionally but not for any length of time.

Went to France with Celia and Rose;  stayed with Licette.
 
I was invited by the British Council to talk in Stuttgart and Munich.

1989

1990

Various bits of filming still;  took my car and drove down to the Cevennes and followed the route of Robert Louis Stevenson on a mountain bike. Met up with Martine and Francois Mellano.
Drove on to Martine's home in Bedarieux, then on to Maite in Narbonne.

Touchstone Films took an option on The Borrible Trilogy. I think it lasted three years.   They did nothing with it except commission a terrible script.   25 grand.
Think I did a couple of Sunday Times trips this year;  Christmas in Istanbul with Celia and Rose;  Pottery trip, Meze, Gibraltar with Billy Johnson and then on my own to Andalusia; Seville, Cordoba, and Granada.   Also cycled along the Canal des Deux Mers for Sunday Times.