4.2:Activities: my first completed novel

The occupation which engrossed me more than any other was in the writing of my first (completed but unpublished) novel - The Millions and the Mansions. I can see little of value in it when I examine it today. But it was the product of so much labour that it deserves some analysis in passing.

My general intention was to write a novel on the subject of opening a stately home to the public. I had been galled by the successful utilization of this theme by Adam Fergusson and John Mander, two of my friends at Eton who had written a play which had been performed at M’tutor’s with some measure of critical acclaim. But it was a subject of which I had far more intimate experience than themselves, and I saw no reason why I shouldn’t make even better use of such material. I evidently hoped that the predicament of the aristocracy in finding themselves obliged to put themselves on display to the general public, so as to incur sufficient revenue to meet the costs of their home’s upkeep, would engender sufficient empathy to excuse the attitude of condescension that is - albeit unwittingly - sometimes in evidence.

The plot was concerned with two families, with myself - a character called David - as a solitary son, while in another family there is a solitary daughter called Rowena, who was based upon [X]. The final outcome that I intended was of course obvious from the start. Before such a betrothal is successfully concluded however, I availed myself of the idea that the two families should fall out with each other as a result of their competition in attracting tourists to their mansions.

Marshes Hall was a house like Longleat, of course. But I made heavy weather of the portrayal of it being thrown open to the public, describing all the routines, and the cliché situations wherein the tourists intrude upon the family’s privacy. In the course of all this, they encounter the second family who have quite recently come to live in the neighbouring big house, which is called Baxford Lee - I had Sturford Mead in mind - and they get invited over there to dinner.

It is at that stage that Rowena catches David’s fancy. But their respective fathers have by now quarrelled - the one objecting to the other’s intention to follow suit in the opening of his lesser mansion to the public. I went on to sketch a tale of mini-warfare breaking out between the two families, which is conducted in a manner inspired by the farcical situations arising throughout my own experience of military manoeuvres. Campaign plans are unfurled at order groups, resulting in the establishment of observation posts, prior to commando raids and counter-attacks, the capture of prisoners and rescue missions. There are secret agents and espionage, pitched battles, negotiations for peace and a final armistice.

The rival protagonists are William, the Earl of Havingsham - to be identified with Henry - and Sir Gladwyn Robertson-Randle, who was a character based upon Robin Mount, a family friend who lived in reality at Chitterne. William ill-temperedly accuses Gladwyn of just copying his own idea, and he conspires to thwart that opening. Young David is sent to report on all that is happening from an observation post at the edge of the garden at Baxford Lee, where he is subjected to a fit of jealousy while watching Rowena flirting with someone else, called Giles - who is reminiscent of [M], or of Dommie Elliot perhaps.

He is then sent back there on a second mission (curiously!) to uproot azaleas and to replant them on Gladwyn’s front lawn. But he manages to get captured, and his jailer is eventually - and once again most curiously - none other than the girl he so much aspires to embrace. Meanwhile William gathers his retainers under the command of Mr Max, his estate agent who is ably assisted by Tom Parsons, the gamekeeper. A commando raid is organised to rescue him; and on succeeding, they take Rowena back with them as a hostage to Marshes Hall.

There are various sub-plots to contend with, such as my jealousy for Giles, in the evident attraction that he holds for Rowena. I fictionalise on a flirtation between myself and Lucinda, a girl who is depicted as his sister. I also concern myself with the frictional relationships between Mrs Broom, (Nanny,) and the rest of the staff. It is the loyalty of Nanny which comes into focus, in contrast to the treachery of Mrs Tiggins - or Sims. And in another theme I dwell upon Miss Casernapek’s - or Prokinar’s - attempts to find herself a husband through advertisements in the Matrimonial Times. It is by posing as an applicant that Thomas - or Donald - gains an entry into Baxford, enabling the rescue bid to succeed.

Then after our triumphal return to Marshes Hall, we are in turn subjected to a siege. And there is a final shoot-out with fire hydrants up on the roof. All this in the presence of a dumbfounded press corps, who cannot be diverted to a spot where nothing will be observed. But the young lovers whose rôles as prisoner and jailer have now been switched, render the completion of the battle to be unnecessary by breaking into it with an announcement of their betrothal. And my readers are perhaps intended to suppose that they all lived happily ever after.

William and Julia (who in real life are Henry and Daphne) are both presented in caricature, emphasising the former’s egocentricity, ill-temper and despotic bombast, and the latter’s scatterbrained volatility. The manner in which they speak is an exaggeration of their personal idiom, but it still strikes my ear today as being fairly authentic. I might offer some illustrations of this. In this first example, William is instructing Julia and David on the manner in which a tour should be conducted - although the two of them would far prefer to take a peek at their first visitors.

"Rubbish," said William, "you’ll have plenty of time for that later. If we are to act as guides, I’ve got to make quite certain that we all know what to say. If I leave it to you, you’ll both talk nothing but rubbish. Complete and utter rubbish."

"Oh all right," sighed Julia, still hoping that they’d run into their first visitors on the way. "Come on David."

They walked down to the Great Hall, and William began his lecture. "The first sight the public will have of the house will be myself. I shall be standing in the doorway, framed by the stone pillars."

"If you remain here, you’ll miss our first visitors," said David.

"Damn the first visitors!" said William. "I’ll meet them later."

"You won’t get very far if you just go round the place damning all your visitors," said Julia.

"Stop interrupting," said William. "I’m trying to teach you the important task of guiding a party round the house. So don’t interrupt."

"May I have a map?" asked David.

"No you may not," said William. "If you don’t yet know this house like the back of your hand, you ought to be shot. Yes, you ought to be shot!"

Later in the novel William is fuming about his commando unit failing to be up and about at breakfast time - because they are suffering from Benzedrine-induced hangovers. And he is outraged to discover that one of them is being served breakfast in bed. I was then able to put words into William’s mouth which I had actually heard uttered by Henry.

"Damn it!" said William. "Anyone might think that this house was run for the benefit of others. Well I tell you that it isn’t. It’s run for me, me, me, and ME alone!"

There is another exaggerated insight into William’s personality, after the commando unit has forced an entry into Baxford Lee, accompanied by William’s dog, a Boxer puppy called Potamus - in real life Locker. He wishes to mark Sir Gladwyn’s territory with an offensive memento of their visit.

"Where’s Potamus?" asked William.

Potamus was eventually located waiting anxiously by the front door. His whining reminded David that he also wanted to relieve himself.

"I’ll be right back," he told William.

When he did return, he found William crawling round the hall, sniffing the table and chair legs, saying: "Here! Potamus! Be a good dog! Now hurry up and be a good little dog!" On seeing David, he explained with a malicious gleam in his eye: "This is my final insult to be flung in Randle’s face!" But Potamus seemed quite prepared to wait until he got outside, so the effort was wasted.

With greater relevance to the real life Henry perhaps, is a conversation on the subject of fascism, which supposedly takes place during the family’s initial visit to Baxford Lee - as Sir Gladwyn’s dinner guests. He was talking with his hostess, Lady Susan Robertson-Randle. who was based upon [X]’s mother, Mrs X.

They were really discussing religion, and William appeared to be attacking all such faith. Or rather Susan seemed to think he was attacking it just because she was defending it.

"Anyway we must all turn fascist," cried William boisterously.

"Why?" she asked.

"To beat communism," said William. "They are the only people who’ll give you any action. We need bags of action."

"Which are you talking about?" asked Susan. "The communists or the fascists?"

"Both," said William. "Do listen."

"I was," said Susan. "But I thought we were talking about religion."

"I was," said William. "But we’ve moved on. Christ!" he exploded. "Doesn’t anyone understand me in this house?"

Giles attempted to interpret. "I think he means that religion can’t defeat communism, so the only alternative is for us to support fascism - which is capable of defeating communism - so that we may ultimately reintroduce religion."

"Oh," said Susan.

"No!" shouted William. "Damn religion! We’ve got to support fascism, and continue to support fascism. Religion can be practised on the sidelines."

"But didn’t you spend the war fighting to defeat fascism?" asked Susan.

"I had to," said William. "If I’d refused to, I’d have been shot."

"What about the concentration camps?" asked Susan. "Did you approve of them?"

"What about their belief that the will of the individual must be subordinated to the will of the state?" added Giles.

"All of that was necessary - under the circumstances," said William.

"Oh you must be wrong," said Susan. "Do you really mean to tell me that you spent the whole war risking your life, when you believed that you were fighting against what was right?"

"For the fifth time this evening," yelled William, "there is no right or wrong. Everything is either convenient, or inconvenient, for the society in which the particular individual lives."

"Very well then," said Susan. "So do you believe that fascism would have been convenient for the society in which we were living?"

"Yes," said William. "Emphatically yes!"

A little while later, it is Julia’s conversation with Sir Gladwyn which comes into focus. She is pleading with William to lend her some moral support.

"Do stick up for me. Gladwyn says that we are all too mercenary in our outlook."

"Humph!" said William. "I wish I could persuade you to be more so."

"But we’re not at all," pleaded Julia. "Oh please tell him so. Do.... do.... do...."

"I tell you that I like being mercenary-minded," said William obstinately.

"You are a beast!" said Julia despondently. "I did so want to win my argument."

Later still at the same dinner party, Julia is portrayed - from a remembered incident - as offering amyl nitrate capsules round the table, for the other guests to break open and inhale.

She interrupted the general conversation with screams of uncontrolled laughter, before slumping on to the table, and rubbing her nose over the varnished wood.

"Christ!" thought David.

Next to her sat Gladwyn with his eyes wrinkled tight shut, tears rolling down his cheeks and convulsed in silent laughter. "You’re right, I do, it’s true, I do!" he spluttered.

"Me too!" shrieked Julia. "I feel as if buttercups were sprouting out of my liver."

"Hell!" said William from down the other end of the table. "I might have known it. Julia has brought along her amyl nitrate capsules."

Gladwyn was now sitting bolt upright, blinking hard. He shook his head and turned round slowly towards Julia. "On second thoughts, perhaps it was not quite so nice.

Julia sat limp and gasping for breath. "Never mind," she moaned, "it was worth it while it lasted."

When it came to the depiction of myself, I seem at pains to conjure up the image of a budding young diplomat. For I did perhaps still think of myself that way. I had not yet ruled out the Foreign Office as my future career. David is portrayed in the novel perpetually soothing the ruffled feelings of Mrs Broom, Mrs Tiggins and Miss Maclean, or suggesting plans of campaign that would make rather more sense than those envisaged by either William or Julia. But my readers would not have acquired a liking for this individual. Let me furnish some glimpses into his faintly smug behaviour - starting with a sequence after it has been learnt that Mrs Tiggins has handed in her notice for the umpteenth time.

"I won’t even offer to raise her salary," said William. "I’ve done that too many times before."

"You know you will," said Julia, "or you’ll have to eat my cooking without making any complaints about it. Couldn’t you go and find out what’s the matter, David? We don’t want another of those three week periods when she’s on strike." .....

The kitchen door was ajar, so David pushed it open. "Hello Tigs," he said.

Silence. Then in a pained voice, she said: "Hello."

"I’m hungry again, Tigs."

Silence. And then in the same pained tone of voice: "Are you?" Mrs Tiggins continued mechanically with the task of washing up.

Something was definitely wrong. She should have answered: "I thought I’d told you not to come and pester me again this morning." But instead of that, all she had said was: "Are you?" A different line of approach must quickly be adopted.

"Is anything wrong, Tigs? I believe someone’s been annoying you."

Silence.

"Oh do tell me," he coaxed. "Is it Mummy or Daddy?"

Another silence. And then simply: "No."

"Mrs Broom?"

Silence.

"Is it Mrs Broom?" he repeated after a suitable pause. Silence confirmed the question. And gradually the whole story was revealed.

On this occasion the row turns out to be that Mrs Broom and Miss Maclean have complained about not being sent up the same fried breakfast as had been served up in the dining-room for Lord and Lady Havingsham. (Miss Maclean was based upon Miss Stewart, the diminutive Scotswoman who was currently Daphne’s lady’s maid.) The reason for the inferior menu was that Mrs Tiggins had run out of fat, so that she had been unable to fry the potatoes, so had mashed them instead. But offence had been taken because Mrs Tiggins had flung a few verbal obscenities at them, when they came down to the kitchen to complain. All of this having been understood however, David manages to soothe their feelings, and to report back to Julia that Mrs Tiggins is no longer intending to hand in her notice.

The feuding is perpetual, so the whole household relies upon David’s prowess as a diplomat to keep them on an even keel. I appear to feel far too comfortable in this guise, to an extent that it now embarrasses me. So let us switch our attention to my treatment of Rowena, with whom David so quickly falls in love. It strikes me now that I appear far too concerned to present her as a deserving object for his love. From my descriptions of her, it is clear that I was full of romantic notions concerning theoretical heroines, without personally having the experience to deviate from cliché models. I depict her as enticingly naughty whilst still prudishly virginal. The concept of the cock-teaser, or the professional virgin, had yet to be registered as undesirable within my values. And yet by adult standards, their love scenes are quite simply boring.

As far as literary inspiration was concerned, I was modelling the novel in the school of P.G.Wodehouse. I was hoping to carry my readers on a wave of hilarity concerning the absurdity of attitudes and events. But I still did not possess adequate sensitivity concerning what does make people laugh, and most of my attempts to arouse such mirth were merely facetious. For example there is the scene when David and Rowena have finally reached the conclusion that they should marry.

A radiant smile broke through her clouded face. "I was wondering how long it would take you to reach that solution."

"What solution?" asked David, taken aback.

Rowena laughed. "Never mind, perhaps you never reached it!"

David smiled sheepishly. "I reached it," he admitted.

"Well it looks as if I shall have to accept," said Rowena with mock resignation.

"I’m afraid so," sighed David. "After all, it’s the only way we can keep peace between the two families."

"Martyrs, both of us!" said Rowena. "Ah well! You’d better go through the formalities."

David sighed and raised himself to his knees, but then he hesitated.

"I shall not accept you unless you go through all the formalities," she declared.

"All right then," he said, gazing down into her wide laughing eyes. "Miss Robertson-Randle," he began. "Or may I call you Rowena?"

She nodded. "You have my permission, Lord David."

"Miss Rowena, could you - under any feasible stretch of the imagination, imagine yourself as my wife?"

Rowena thought hard. "Yes - I think so - under a suitable stretch of the imagination."

David hesitated. "Well.... could you force yourself to turn that piece of imagination into reality?"

Again Rowena considered the point. "Well.... yes.... in fact I think I will." She sat up from where they were lying and introduced herself. "Lord David, meet your future wife!"

David dropped from his knees and sat down beside her, holding her hands. "I think the occasion calls for a celebration, Miss Rowena."

"Butler! Bring in two glasses of champagne!" she said.

"Your lips are my glass, and your kiss my champagne!" said David.

"Lord David, how gallant!" said Rowena.

Once more they locked each other in a passionate embrace.

When the humour is more dependent upon the absurdity of the situation, I fare better perhaps - even if it sometimes verges towards the lavatorial. Here is an example - when David has just smashed up the contents of Sir Gladwyn’s cellar, while managing in the process to drink enough of the wine to get himself quite inebriated. He has then been transferred to Rowena’s bedroom, bound hand and foot in an armchair. There have been some fierce exchanges between the two of them, and he now finds that he is unable to get to sleep.

"Rowena!" he said softly. She did not answer, although he knew that she was still awake. He hardened his heart. She thinks I’m about to apologise, he told himself. "Miss Randle!" he declared with greater precision, but there was still no answer. "Miss Randle, I want to go outside."

There was a pause while Rowena decided whether she could reveal that she was awake. "Why?" she finally enquired.

"You forget," said David "that I’ve got quite a lot of liquid inside me."

"Are you going to be sick?" she asked contemptuously.

"No," said David, "but I’ve still got a lot of liquid inside me."

"Oh," said Rowena, embarrassed by her own stupidity. This was a crisis which none of them had foreseen. She sat up in bed and considered the problem. "But you’ll run away," she said.

"It will be the worse for you if you make me stay here all night," declared David, amused by her perplexity in spite of his recent anger.

After a long silence, she reached a conclusion. "I’ll take you along there, but I’m going to keep your hands and feet tied."

"That will be a bit awkward, won’t it?" suggested David.

"You’ll have to jump," said Rowena.

"I don’t mean that part," said David.

"Oh!" said Rowena. "Well you’ll just have to manage as best you can."

"I suppose it’s possible," sighed David.

Rowena got out of bed and came over to unbind him.

An area where I am far less successful is in the humour I seek to portray in the dialect spoken by the local yokels, for it strikes my ear now as being patronising. In one such example, Mrs Tiggins is treacherously holding the attention of Jack, the sentry that William has posted outside, so that the labourers who have come to rescue Rowena can be admitted by the back door.

"Nice weather," remarked Jack with a distinct touch of the West Country burr.

"Oh yes, it’s lovely weather," said Mrs Tiggins.

"Though it got me bad a fortnight ago," said Jack. "Caught cold in that there thunderstorm."

"Did you now?" said Mrs Tiggins.

""Oo ar!" said Jack. "Then oi got a boil on me upper molars - as that there dentist calls ‘em."

"Did you now?" said Mrs Tiggins.

"Still got it now," said Jack, craning his neck back and displaying about three black teeth with a red mark that might represent a boil.

"Nasty isn’t it?" said Mrs Tiggins, peering into his mouth with the required interest.

But dentists aren’t what they were," said Jack gravely. "It’s all this trouble about nationalization which makes them nervous like. Ar, the blame is to this Socialist government!"

"Yes dreadful, isn’t it?" said Mrs Tiggins.

I dwelt too heavily at all times, and at too great a length, upon the manner in which my various characters speak, supposing that the private family jokes upon that subject might be shared by my readers at large. Sometimes it is a question of trotting them on stage to perform their particular comic caper, or to utter their ritual one-line gag - rather as they did in Tommy Handley’s Itma, the radio series which most schoolboys of my generation had greatly enjoyed. (An example might be when Thomas comes into the room to say: "I have bad news for you....") Or on other occasions the intended humour prevails in the speech mannerisms of particular characters. Let us look at this paragraph where Mrs Broom is chiding other members of the staff for the treachery they are contemplating in assisting Rowena to escape.

"Miss Maclean," said Mrs Broom. "I’m surprised at you. You’ve forgotten all the kindness, all the consideration, all the happiness that you have received at the hands of Lord and Lady Havingsham. If ever I’ve seen anything so ungrateful, then I’d be ashamed to admit it." Mrs Broom was twitching herself up into a frenzy. She turned on Rowena. "It’s all your fault! You come here as a guest, and this is the way you repay their hospitality. You ungrateful.... You ungrateful.... You.... Oh!" She turned away in her exasperation. "I’m going straight to Lady Havingsham, and I’m going to tell her exactly what’s going on down here. Ingratitude! Slanders! Oh!" Mrs Broom turned on her heel and strode off towards Julia’s bedroom.

In this next example, it is Sir Gladwyn’s cook, Miss Casernapek - or Miss Prokinar from our house in Cornwall - who is speaking. She has just brought in the soup when they are dining over at Baxford Lee.

Miss Casernapek hobbled round the table, like a large spider inspecting the fringes of her web. In front of each guest, she deposited a plate of her special soup. The butler once attempted to take the tray from her, but one could see from his expression that he never expected to succeed. She gestured him aside saying: "Go avay! Dis is my soup." The guests watched her with curious interest. Then on reaching William she paused, leering down at him with frog eyes to say: "And for you my lord Havingsham, I haf made a beeg special soup." With this she lowered in front of him a soup plate which the slightest tremor would have made to overflow. "There!" she announced, wrinkling back her cheeks into a dainty smile of satisfaction. "You like it, my lordship?"

The estate agent, Mr Max, is based upon Mr Gill, who had died several years previously at Longleat. I am concerned to draw attention to his linguistic perambulations - as he indeed might have phrased it. But whereas Mr Gill’s idiom was genuinely articulate, I seem to be implying that when Mr Max spoke, it was with a verbosity which had run amuck. This example is taken from his response to the plans for rescuing David from his imprisonment at Baxford Lee, which had just been divulged by William at his order group.

"Ah.... yes Lord Havingsham," said Mr Max, grinning all over his massive features. "I believe that you suggested giving to the.... ah.... personnel posted on sentry duty, as it were, a beverage of hot Horlicks. Ah.... I recall that in one of my.... ah.... idler moments, I, as it were, perused an advertisement concerning this beverage, which stated it was recommended to inflict, as it were, the person who partakes of it with.... ah.... a somniferant sleep." Then judging from William’s expression that his mood was improving, he even ventured a short little cultured laugh.

William addressed Julia. "See to it that Benzedrine is mixed into their Horlicks."

None of these conversations in caricature could really have served to amuse my readers - or not for the right reasons. And the patronizing element becomes even more discernible when Miss Maclean is portrayed as getting everything wrong when having to pretend to be a tourist guide. A Van Dyke painting is described mistakenly by her as a Van Gogue. Not the sort of mistake that anyone makes. And there’s little foundation for mirth even if they do.

The novel is characterized by far too many improbabilities. The whole concept of two families declaring war on each other is an absurdity in itself, however frivolously that warfare might be conducted. Then comes the method in which it is waged. We are asked to suppose that Lord Havingsham, who is described as being a Justice of the Peace, would instruct the County Council to start road works just outside Baxford Lee - in order to inhibit their tourists’ entry - and that these road works would be undertaken within a matter of twenty-four hours; and that they could be called off again with equal promptitude. We observe this J.P. performing the most illegal acts - like sending his son to dig up his neighbour’s azalea shrubs, and to replant them on the front lawn. A case of malicious damage at the very least. And there are instances of breaking and entry, kidnap and assault upon either side.

What really comes to the reader’s attention is the naivety of my outlook upon life. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I appear to believe that a feudal way of life is still in operation. And that requires some thought in itself, for it was true that Henry had created within our home life some notion of despotic control over his limited circle of underlings. And to some extent this had effected the clarity of my vision as to how the world really operates in this day and age.

But that only goes some of the way towards explaining the naivety of my outlook upon life. The idea of David getting imprisoned just outside the wine cellar, with the potential for such havoc within easy reach, is a point that would hardly have slipped Sir Gladwyn’s mind. And it is indeed curious that he should then have chosen to transfer the prisoner to his daughter’s bedroom. And the manner in which the press corps are manipulated, to suit the purposes of David and Rowena, defies credulity. We hear that these reporters promise to put out of their minds all that they have witnessed with regard to the outrageous acts of public assault, in addition to some juicy slices of past family scandal, in return for permission to write about an engagement between two uninspiring young people. And they behave as if they were actually on to a good thing!

This same naivety is also in evidence when it comes to my description of amorous scenes. They are all so absurdly innocent. But I appear to be more at home when describing Rowena’s efforts to arouse David’s sexual desires, without the slightest intention of satisfying them. An idealization of cock-teasing, as it might nowadays be claimed. This scene takes place while David is sitting bound hand and foot, in the arm-chair in Rowena’s bedroom - before he gets smitten with the desire to urinate, as previously described.

She tried humming snatches from popular tunes, affecting a careless air, but hoping to make him look up at her. She tried getting up and walking round the room. She tried fiddling with ornaments, and making rather a clatter. She looked round casually, but discovered that he was still engrossed in his own thoughts. Sitting down again, she frowned. It was much too early for her to go to bed yet. Besides, she hadn’t finished tormenting him yet. So she sat patiently in the darkening room, waiting for him to sober up....

She examined him carefully. An idea had occurred to her, but she wasn’t sure whether she could carry it off. "I’m going to bed," she stated in a quietly casual tone. At any rate his attention must now at least be subconsciously attracted. If he wished, he was in a position to see. Rowena regarded it as her duty to ensure that he watched. But she turned sideways from him, so as not to give the impression that the scene she was enacting was for his benefit. Slipping off her shoes, she prepared to undress....

Rowena slipped into her nightdress, and tried to sneak a glance at David to see if she had caught his attention. There was something in the fixedness of his eye and in the tenseness of his body that might indicate success. But he was still looking down at the ground by his feet. Sitting on the end of her bed, with her thin nightdress displaying her figure in an ample fashion, she began to run a comb through her hair.

He remained motionless. She paused, and looked down at her toes, making an excuse of it to raise the hem of her nightgown to display her shapely legs. She continued to comb her hair. If the light had been on, she would have been far too embarrassed to behave as she was doing. But the need of the moment was to get David’s attention firmly fixed upon herself. And the end seemed to justify the means.

David’s heart was pounding. Where Rowena was now seated, she could not be seen distinctly out of the corner of his eye. He could gather an impression of what she was doing, but he couldn’t see her with any precision. And seeing her was for the moment all important. Surreptitiously, and with the greatest care not to be noticed, he gradually turned his head a few inches to a position where he might continue to study her.

But Rowena had seen. "Stop staring at my legs!" she remarked sharply.

David winced like a small boy caught stealing sweets. "I’m not staring at your legs!" he lied - thankful that the night concealed his crimson cheeks.

"You have been staring at my legs for the last two minutes," said Rowena in biting tones.

David swallowed twice in quick succession with the result that he almost choked himself. Flustering for an excuse, he realised that none was at hand. Then to his joy he found that his anger was returning. He turned as best he could and looked at her squarely, waiting while his temper kindled a new light in his eyes.

"God! You’re just a bloody conceited little tart!...."

This opens up into a full scale altercation, and David might have been better advised to escape from the prospect of any betrothal at this juncture. But of course, that’s not the way in which the tale finally gets resolved. As a potential novelist, I was aspiring to present to my readers the tale of a premarital relationship - respectful of a virgin’s inhibitions, and yet revelling in all the unfulfilled, but tantalizing anticipation of fully fledged copulation. It was a case of not being worked out upon the subject within my own mind, so my literary flow was to that extent impeded.

All this having been said, and despite the laborious pace at which the tale unfolds, it still ranks as an achievement that I completed the arduous task that I had set myself. Before the completion of my National Service, I had this manuscript of some 50,000 words in my hands. Throughout my life I have met people who are constantly talking about the book they will one day write - without ever putting pen to more than a few pages of paper. The novel in their heads never finds even primary shape, and they remain unsure in their own minds whether they really possess the tenacity and the perseverance to conclude such a task. In my own mind, this was a question which had now been clarified. Whatever my natural talent in these matters - or the lack of it - I now knew that, if I embarked upon such a task again, I could be sure that I’d see it through to its completion. And that was an achievement in itself.

At the same time I had grave doubts in my mind as to whether I had written something that might be appreciated by others. I knew in my heart that my friends in the Life Guards would only ridicule it, if I were to show it to them. So I kept it hidden away in a drawer - fearing greatly that someone or other might sneak into my room, and set me to ridicule by quoting passages from it in the officers’ mess. But thankfully, this was a fate which never befell me.