It was only very gradually that it became apparent how there were sports where my performance might be a lot better than average. At the outset of my Eton career, it was really only boxing, gymnastics, swimming and fives which interested me. But Eton wasn't the right school in those days for developing any manner of professionalism in gymnastics or swimming, so the interest quickly waned. As for fives, I started with the advantage of being an Old Ludgrovian, where the game had been regularly played. But as time went by, I found that my own skills were gradually surpassed by those who had originally been regarded as relative novices.

I was a member of the House Shooting Team, and that of Jaques' was regarded as being one of the very best. We won several trophies over this period. And on the river too, Jaques' Baby IV (with myself rowing stroke) was in contention for the top prize - even if we only came fourth out of the thirty-two entries in the final rating. It might still be said however, that I was just beginning to impress people with my potential as an oarsman. In addition to that, I reached the semi-finals in the Junior Novice Sculling races.

When it came to the boxing ring, my fortunes were varied. I was now being selected quite frequently to box for Eton, and had chalked up a couple of victories with my first two such encounters. With this prestige to my credit, I was expected to win my weight in the school boxing competitions. But I had the misfortune of getting my nose broken - by Belville - in the semi-finals: so entered the finals against Arthur major, in rather too cautious a frame of mind. In the event, it was my undoing, for the decision went in his favour. And I felt bitterly disappointed, in that I'd invited Both Henry and Daphne to come and watch me fight. They had been informed by others how everyone expected me to win, so my failure to match those expectations made me feel really bad.

Arthur major was too old to be selected at this light weight to represent Eton in the Quadrangular Tournament, so the task once again fell to myself - despite the tenderness of my broken nose. My confidence had been shaken perhaps, but in any case I was defeated in the finals (quite narrowly on points) by Hoppé from Bedford College.

Despite the success of now being ranked as a regular member of the Eton boxing team, I was to encounter a series of defeats in the ring over the following year, although in some of these I achieved some degree of honour in that I was commended publicly for my courageousness. I might quote from a letter home during the Michaelmas half of 1948, in illustration of this.

I lost another fight (in a disputed decision) against Arborfield. So I wasn't finding any substantial basis for developing my self-confidence in these matters. And what really shook me was when I narrowly lost on points, for the second time to Arthur major in the school boxing competitions. I had been most eager for this rematch, and was fully confident that this time I would vanquish. The difference now, as I foresaw it, would be that I'd take the fight to him from the very start. But in doing so, I ran straight into a sucker-punch - and was floored. The fact that I gradually recovered, and was taking the fight to him by the third round stands to my credit. But it was not sufficient for me to win the judges' decision. I suffered from concussion incidentally, for a couple of days afterwards. So it is perhaps fortunate that the decision went against me, in that I'd have been required to fight the very next day in the finals, against Randle, who already had his colours and was renowned for his hard punching power.

I think it's true to say that my real interests lay elsewhere than in sporting activities, over this period. Over recent years I had been building up what was really quite an impressive collection of Lepidoptera - for someone of my age. This had been partly achieved during the holidays, both at Longleat and down in Cornwall, but also during the Summer Half at Eton - a passion which reached its peak during the summer of 1948. Graham-Wigan was the only friend with a comparable collection, and we made regular sorties to the woods around Windsor, on our bicycles, to net what specimens we could of the fritillaries and hairstreaks which abounded in those bracken-clad rides and glades.

Sometimes Miss Prokinar, the Polish cook at Cowrie, endeavoured to contribute to my collection by sending me the large Convolvulus Hawk moths which she had managed to catch. Unfortunately she had scruples about killing them, so put them into the box alive, while boring holes in the lid so that they would have a supply of fresh air for the journey. I refer to this in a letter home.

Jaques regarded the activities of the bug-hunters in his tutor's with a benevolent tolerance, while hinting on occasions that we were perhaps proportioning rather too much of our time in this particular direction. And I knew that Henry regarded the hours I spent at night, when we were at Cowrie, catching the moths which flocked to my paraffin lamp, or which flopped around inebriated after tasting the rum-flavoured syrup with which I had sugared the bark of trees, as a mere craze that would soon pass. He was right as it so happened. But in any case there was nothing more stimulating to attract my interest during those boring years of my adolescence. I was happy to have anything at all to absorb my attention over this period.

In creative matters, I was treading water so to speak. I had ceased to take piano lessons some time ago, on the idea that I couldn't very well cope with extra studies in both music and art. But the truth of the matter is that I was no longer studying either subject during this period while I was preparing intensively for my School Certificate. Nor yet had I really abandoned either subject in toto.

I had been given a second-hand clarinet for Christmas, at my request, and I had taught myself to play simple tunes on it. Henry however had dismissed this interest from the start, as being but one more example of a temporary craze. Nor was it ever suggested that the best way of mastering the technique of such an instrument would have been to take some more music lessons. But I have no one to blame but myself in that I never demanded any.

My interest in art had been kept alive in terms of the booklets which I had been preparing for Daphne as successive Christmas presents. There had been the upside-down drawings inspired by Rex Whistler, and there had been those illustrated limericks of my own composition. And a number of charcoal drawings and water colour landscapes and portraits remain in existence to this day. Some landscape scenes of the garden at Sturford are quite creditable, while my portraits of Henry, Nanny, Valentine and myself stand in evidence that I could achieve a good likeness. The charcoal drawings however, are perhaps nothing more than evidence of the lust stirring in my belly now that I had reached puberty - with too much stress upon the male inclination to manhandle a female's mammary glands.

More revealing I think, as to what may have been going on in my mind over this period, are the excerpts which remain of my literary endeavours. Let us examine one particular story, which I entitled The Hanging Man. I'll start with the opening paragraph.

The hero goes on to explain why he is such a superstitious person. He evidently had good reason.

He continues his journey, on horseback now, arriving eventually at a clearing in the middle of the forest, where he espies a large grey mansion - not unsimilar to Longleat, it should be noted.

At long last, his patience was rewarded when a thin wizened old man made his appearance. The wretched hero got a bit of a shock however, when he was greeted with his own name: "Come in Mr Lockhart, we were expecting you." He is told that he has been allotted "the room on the top landing, opposite the picture of the hanging man."

Mr Lockhart endeavours to conceal the fact that he is feeling ill at ease, and asks a few casual questions.

But this was nothing in comparison with the fears which were soon to beset him. The wizened old man was suddenly to disappear.

After a further series of blood-curdling experiences in the grey mansion, Mr Lockhart succeeds in escaping - to record his tale. But the last paragraph in the story makes it sound as if he's still in need of psychiatric treatment.

If we are to examine the ideas within this story with any manner of seriousness, we should perhaps identify the image of the hanging man as the self-accusation of guilt. And we should note that he was half naked: exposed to scornful view or, as we might well interpret it, exposed to the eyes of the world as being guilty - or half guilty - of homosexual acts. Then there is the crimson-coloured matting, which emitted a smell as if of dried blood. Past guilt of some kind or, more probably, Daphne's former marital guilt - for which as her son, I was somehow assuming personal responsibility. I would appear to be saying that I fear myself to be stigmatised for life by my own homosexual memories at least, if not by an inherited predisposition towards sexual immorality, and that such a notoriety will finally engulf me.

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