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“Both my sons, John Jr. and Thomas, were serving in the front line, so I was getting information my fellow hacks weren’t.”
“The Trib must have loved that.”
“I’m afraid not,” said John. “The editor sacked me the minute he found out I was workin’ for the CIA. Said I’d forfeited my journalistic integrity and gone native, not to mention the fact I was being paid by two masters.”
Kelley was spellbound.
“And to be fair,” he continued, “I couldn’t disagree with them. And in any case, I was gettin’ more and more disillusioned by what was happening in ’Nam, and even began to question whether we still occupied the moral high ground.”
“So what did you do when you got back home this time?” asked Kelley, who was beginning to consider the trip was every bit as exciting as the journey she’d experienced with the fellow who’d spent a day fishing with President Roosevelt.
“When I got home,” John continued, “I discovered my second wife had shacked up with some other fella. Can’t say I blame her. Not that I was single for too long, because soon after I married Elaine. I can only tell you one thing I know for sure, Kelley, three wives is more than enough for any man.”
“So what did you do next?” asked Kelley, aware it wouldn’t be too long before they reached the university campus.
“Elaine and I went down South, where I wrote about the Civil Rights movement for any rag that was willing to print my views. But unfortunately I got myself into trouble again when I locked horns with J. Edgar Hoover and refused to cooperate with the FBI, and tell them what I’d found out following my meetings with Martin Luther King Jr. and Ralph Abernathy. In fact Hoover got so angry, he tried to label me a communist. But this time he couldn’t make it stick, so he amused himself by having the IRS audit me every year.”
“You met Martin Luther King Jr. and Ralph Abernathy?”
“Sure did. And John Kennedy come to that, God rest his soul.”
On hearing that he’d actually met JFK, Kelley suddenly had so many more questions she wanted to ask, but she could now see the university’s Hoover Tower becoming larger by the minute.
“What an amazing life you’ve led,” said Kelley, who was disappointed the journey was coming to an end.
“I fear I may have made it sound more exciting than it really was,” said John. “But then an old man’s reminiscences cannot always be relied on. So, Kelley, what are you going to do with your life?”
“I want to be a writer,” she told him. “My dream is that in fifty years’ time, students studying modern American literature at Stanford will include the name of Kelley Ragland.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” said John. “But if you’ll allow an old man to give you a piece of advice, don’t be in too much of a hurry to write the Great American Novel. Get as much experience of the world and people as you can before you sit down and put pen to paper,” he added as he brought
the car to a stuttering halt outside the college gates. “I can promise you, Kelley, you won’t regret it.”
“Thank you for the lift, John,” said Kelley, as she got out of the car. She walked quickly around to the driver’s side to say good-bye to the old man as he wound down the window. “It’s been fascinating to hear all about your life.”
“I enjoyed talking to you too,” said John, “and can only hope I live long enough to read your first novel, especially as you were kind enough to say how much you’d enjoyed my work, which, if I remember, you first read when you were only twelve years old.”
THE ROAD TO DAMASCUS
DO YOU, LIKE me, sometimes wonder what happened to your school contemporaries when they left and went out into the real world, particularly those in the year above you, whose names you could never forget? While those who followed in the forms below, you would rarely remember.
Take Nick Atkins, for example, who was captain of cricket. I assumed he would captain Yorkshire and England, but in fact after a couple of outings for the county Second XI, he ended up as a regional manager for the Halifax Building Society. And then there was Stuart Baggaley, who told everyone he was going to be the Member of Parliament for Leeds Central, and twenty years later reached the dizzy heights of chairman of Ways and Means on the Huddersfield District Council. And last, and certainly least, was Derek Mott, who trained to be an actuary, and when I last heard, was running an amusement arcade in Blackpool.
However, it was clear to me even then that one boy was certain to fulfill his ambition, not least because his destiny had been decided while he was still in the womb. After all, Mark Bairstow was the son of Sir Ernest Bairstow, the chairman of Bairstow & Son, the biggest iron foundry in Yorkshire, and therefore in the world.
I never got to know Bairstow while we were at school: not only because he was in the year above me, but because he was literally in a different class. While most boys walked, cycled, or took the bus to school, Bairstow arrived each morning in a chauffeur-driven limousine. His father couldn’t spare the time to drive his son to school, it was explained, because he was already at the foundry, and his mother couldn’t drive.
I really didn’t mind the fact that his school uniform was so much smarter than mine, and that his shoes were handmade escaped me altogether. However, I was aware that he was taller and better looking than me, and clearly brighter, because he was offered a place at Gonville and Caius College, Cambridge (pronounced Keys—something else I didn’t know at the time), to read modern languages.
I actually spoke to Bairstow for the first time when I entered the lower sixth, and he had been appointed school captain, but then only because I was a library monitor and had to report to him once a month. And indeed, if we hadn’t gone on holiday together—well, I shouldn’t exaggerate …
Fred Costello, the senior history master, was organizing one of his annual school excursions to the Continent, as it was known before it became the Common Market, or the EEC, and as I was studying history and hoping to go to university, my parents thought it might be wise for me to sign up for the trip to Germany.
When we all clambered on board the train at Leeds Central to set out on the journey, I was surprised to see Mark Bairstow was among our party. Well not quite, because he sat in a first-class carriage with Clive Dangerfield, who was also going up to Cambridge, so we didn’t see them again until we all pitched up at our little hotel in Berlin. I shared a room with my best friend Ben Levy, while Bairstow and Dangerfield occupied a suite on the top floor.
There were fifteen of us in the party, and I spent most of my time with Ben who, like me, supported Leeds United, Yorkshire, and England, in that order. It was our first trip abroad and therefore one we weren’t likely to forget.
Mr. Costello was an enlightened schoolmaster who had served as a lieutenant in the Second World War and seen action at El Alamein, but believed passionately that Britain should join the Common Market, if for no other reason than it would ensure there wouldn’t be a third world war.
