Schooldays

My blog seems to be becoming increasingly and more openly autobiographical. One of the advantages of getting older is that one cares rather less about what other people think. I don’t have many subscribers but nevertheless feel happily compelled to write and publish my photographs. This morning I wondered what happens if for whatever reason my subscription to wordpress is ended. Where does the blog go? It seems it disappears forever. So I will be asking a friend who knows about these things how to make a backup or otherwise resolve that. Surely printing it all out cannot be the answer? I suppose I am thinking mostly of my three children who, if they wish to, would in theory always be able to learn a lot about me from it. They do read some posts but I cannot persuade them to begin to read either of my books. That is much to my chagrin of course, but it is very common – I have dealt with any number of children of authors who have never read a single word written by their parents.

Anyway, I had a very strange dream last night. I always do. I do not like my dreams, I usually wake with a start, often with a sense of panic or even terror, and I have never slept well. Almost certainly this is inherited from my mother. There is little more boring than other people’s dreams and so I will not go into detail, but for some reason (who knows how these things work?) this one featured, very strongly, an old schoolfriend, Andrew Ruhemann. We attended Highgate School in the 1970s. From between 13 and 16 years old were the unhappiest times of my life. I hated the compulsory team games, especially football, and was ruthlessly and relentlessly bullied by my peers from preparatory school (Keble). Bullies are usually deeply unhappy individuals I think and go out of their way to bring others down to their level. Jealousy is no doubt also a prime motivator. That is all in the context of rampant child abuse, both sadistic and sexual, which was normalised, known about (by teachers and parents), and brushed under the carpet, as was usually the case throughout the private education system in those days. Both schools made national headlines when these appalling crimes were exposed. I have written about all this in more depth in my books. I was never a victim of sexual abuse myself, but I knew plenty who were. The heads of both schools have much to answer for, in particular Roy Giles at Highgate and his deputy Norris Butcher (one of those teachers who wore the uniform of corduroy or tweed jackets with leather elbow patches). Both derived intense and obvious sexual pleasure (visibly so according to one account from a victim of the latter) from the canings they meted out. Far too many of the staff were simply incompetent, which is not to say that I was not inspired by some. Privileged to attend a private school we certainly were, but our environment was grim, dour, bare, smelt terrible, there was no compassion, no heart – emotions were to be suppressed at all cost, as were any signs of weakness.

My bullies, led by Stephen Wade, whose name sends a shudder through me to this day, made my life a misery. Whenever the slightest hint of bullying arose with my children, I would go charging into the school and put a stop to it immediately, but my parents’ mindset was that complaining was somehow shameful. What saved me came from within. I taught myself not to care what a certain handful of people thought of me and made a small number of new friends – once the bullies realised their actions no longer affected me, they stopped. But it was Andrew Ruhemann who really brought me out of myself and I am still grateful to him. He was very good-looking, highly intelligent, charming, charismatic and a superb actor. His King Lear was awe-inspiring (I, not an actor, had a tiny bit part as the King of France). Andrew befriended me and allowed me to join what was I suppose his entourage. Peter Magyar, Eddie Villiers and Jon Green, son of a major art dealer. with a wicked and earthy sense of humour. Peter was a strange fellow, a jester. He rather resented my intrusion at first. Eddie was more straightforward. He had an unsual relationship with his father whom he had to address as “sir” at all times (he mumbled it on the one occasion we all saw them together at their house but did not manage to conceal it). It opened up a whole new world to me and there were even girls (it was a single-sex school). Andrew instilled in me what became a lifelong love of the Rolling Stones and opened me up intellectually too. We shared a love of the work of T.S. Eliot, both discovering his poetry for the first time, Shakespeare, Milton, the French existentialists and other foreign literature. Also, we had a lot of fun. His lovely parents happily let us all stay at their large house in St John’s Wood whenever we wanted. Andrew had a delightful younger brother and a stunningly beautiful sister, on whom I had quite the crush (sorry about that both of you). My first proper girlfriend, Jaqi High, taken from this world far too soon not terribly long ago, came onto the scene around this time but did not really fit into to the group. But I felt completely safe at school now (my new friends were quietly loyal to each other) and our lifestyles bordered on the Bohemian. Some of our English teachers rather encouraged us – Philip Swan and Gabriel Trigger were generous, warm-hearted guides. Also, we loved pubs, playing pool. I think we all hero-worshipped Andrew to some extent. Peter and I certainly did. He was no saint (who amongst us…?) – he absolutely had that bad boy, roguish charm about him too and no doubt still does. I always seem to have been drawn to those people not shy of at least a little hedonism.

It was obvious that he would achieve a great deal in his life. First thing this morning, following my dream, I googled him and found an interview from 2013. He looks just as he did at the age of 17. I knew that he had gone on to become an illustrious, award-winning film producer and director. It was the personal moments that drew me in here. I knew too that his parents were both refugees. His Jewish grandfather on his father’s side got out of Germany just in time in 1933 and became a successful (chauffeur-driven) businessman – I never understood what he actually did. His mother was the daughter of a Romanian prince and princess. Her grandfather died in a labour camp. “They never lost that sense of having left things behind,” says Andrew. No wonder they cared little for little England sensibilities and hidebound convention which characterised my parents to some extent – I do not mean that unkindly. Andrew says that tales of the heroism of his mother’s father were the root of his own love of telling stories. His father’s father was “a top restorer of paintings” for the National Gallery who once appeared at their house “with the Laughing Cavalier under his arm”. I hope Andrew would not mind all this if he were ever to see this and that he remembers me as affectionately as I remember him.

Andrew abandoned the possibility of an acting career whilst at University but rose quickly to seniority and indeed fame as director and producer. It tickled me no end to see that one of his films was about the Rolling Stones’ exile and their album Exile on Main Street, which we used to listen to together over and over again. The compilation Rolled Gold takes me straight back to St John’s Wood, every time, especially the track ‘Don’t Play with Fire’ which actually mentions that part of London. Such sad news yesterday about the death of that wondrous spirit Marianne Faithfull. Andrew says that he has worked and still does largely with friends – that does not usually work out well but it has clearly worked for him. He is completely honest and open about those times when his company ran into severe difficulties (and goodness I know all about that). He is modest about the Oscar he received for co-directing the animated short The Lost Thing. Andrew has two stepsons and a son, the latter and his Jack Russell bringing out a “second childhood” in him. I know that too, it is one of the greatest gifts children bring.

What surprised me in all this are those things which we now have in common: a love of the wilderness and birdwatching, neither of which I would have predicted in him. Nor would I have predicted that he would be a classically trained singer. What makes him most angry are the same for me too: Tony Blair, whom he would like to see tried for war crimes (if I have said that once I have said it a thousand times), people not being held to account, and the unequal distribution of wealth. If he were prime minister for a day he would, like me, call in the bankers, sort out wage structure inequality, investigate the lobbying system (“veiled corruption” as he neatly puts it) which causes so much damage “to us, our children and our environment”, he would part re-nationalise the railways and nationalise energy and water. He describes religion as both the greatest and most evil of human inventions. I remember that he was quite devoutly Catholic. He would like to be remembered by his children and the world as “somebody compassionate, motivated, kind, generous, inspired and inspiring.” What more could anyone ask for? “… what really matters is being present [I have an old friend no never feels that unless he is involved in extreme sport, which I think is terribly sad], being true to yourself and having integrity and compassion. Of course love matters, but these things are a prerequisite.”

What an extraordinary mixture of feelings that dream has conjured up. Nostalgia for sure, but not regret, gratitude, and, yes, inspiration. Thank you again Andrew. I saw him only once after we had left school, on the top deck of a London bus. Our conversation was warm but brief and rather stilted. He had moved on. But I a bear him not a scintilla of ill will for that. In some ways he helped to make me who I am today. I hope that you are happy, healthy and thriving.