Wednesday 29 February 2012

Professor Higgins (part one)




Peter O' Toole in pencil by me in 1985


He was Professor Higgins to my Eliza . . . He called me Eliza, among other things. Twiddlestick. Traitor. Sweetness. Gutter snipe. The Executioner . . . But mostly Eliza.

It's been an hour since I wrote that. So many are the memories that spanned our 20 years of knowing each other. I can't say 20 years of us "being together" because it wasn't always the case . . . Far from it . . . Six of those years I stayed in France after having ran away from him in Spain. Even during those 6 years I managed to pay him a couple of very surprise, but always very welcomed, visits whilst I was back in England on holiday. I couldn't stay away for ever.

I was 17 and had recently returned to the Midlands to be near my new boyfriend; a totally cool and hip silversmith who specialised in woodwind instrument repair and made beautiful jewellery. He, lets call him Silverhip, played the guitar well, cooked well and was a well-adjusted, educated young man of 21. He spoke well. I suppose looking back he was middle class . . . Yes he was. He is. And so very PC and organic way before PC was thought necessary.
His Father, who we'll call Brollyman, made his money hand-making "bespoke" umbrellas and was supplying Burberry's at the time, which was lost on me as I'd never heard of Burberry's. I was a savage. Fresh from the cave. One of the first few times I met with Brollyman, he asked me "Which of the seasons do you find most pleasing" . . . a perfectly reasonable question. I gave it some thought and struggled. Tried a bit harder . . . No. I really couldn't relate to the question . . . "Erm . . . I don't think they make any difference to me really" I couldn't see for the life of me why one season would be more pleasing than another. He thought I was plain ignorant, I probably was.
His father despised me . . . "A gutter snipe" he called me on one occasion. Something to do with me holding my knife incorrectly. How awfully British. Ha . . .  funny because I really was a "gutter snipe" to professor Higgins, yet he loved me. And didn't give a damn how I held my knife.

But they (Silverhip and his Father) didn't know about Professor Higgins . . . O they knew him. Who didn't. They lived in the same village as him. "Brolly man" who was the spit of  David Niven and spoke like Kenneth Williams had known Higgins's father; An extremely wealthy General, known for his diaries of  WW1 . . . They were a well known family. But no-one had any idea how well I knew Higgins. Not a clue . . . Not yet.

I'd taken a live-in job at the local hotel/bar/carvery in the same village. There was a Cabaret on a Saturday night. It was popular and buzzing but I was always the on-looker. Totally apart from the rest. I didn't get them and had no idea nor any care what they thought of me. I didn't have reason to talk to anyone much. I don't think I had anything to say really.

It was quiet . . . possibly a Monday lunch time, I was stirring and day-dreaming into, a bowl of waldorf salad to make it look fresher when The voice made me jump  . . ."Well . . . Hell . . .O! . . . I heard Richard Burton with the bass turned up . . . I looked up and saw a taller more swarthy and sinister version of Peter O'Toole . . . Like O'Toole meets Peter Cushing in a full length black fur coat . . . "O . . . I say . . . Now . . . Then! .  . . .
 I didn't hear any more of what he was saying. I was transfixed, magnetised . . . stuck.
And so was he . . . There was an instant massive connection, attraction, deja vu, . . . call it what you will. Le coup de foudre.

Before long, most afternoons as I finished work at 3pm, I was running off down the lane to the dark, dusty, forbidden "house" that was his home. It was his Mother's home too and there was no way she could know about me . . . That suited me fine. I had nothing to say.

So it was in through the "walled garden" gate, through another small door just inside the kitchen that led to a "secret staircase" inside the wall. Yes, in a narrow gap between the outer and an inner wall, there was a staircase with doors leading into cupboards on each floor. Higgins had his studio in part of the roof space . . .  a huge room where he wrote, painted, drank and tortured his own soul. Easels, Canvases, photographs, books, amazing clothes, theatre props . . . stuff everywhere. I never wanted to leave. There was red wine and cigarettes, I didn't smoke or drink in real life but this was different. This was not real life. Dory Previn sang to us. He was 47 . . . Almost as old as I am now. It was obvious to us both that our paths were meant to cross. He was charming, fascinating and intelligent. He was also an eccentric alcoholic with very little patience and some bizarre sexual tendencies. He could talk all day  . . . Which was just as well as I had nothing to say.

One winter's afternoon it was snowing heavily, he was at the carvery/bar chatting with the locals. A few of them liked him,  a few more of them tolerated him and his money . . . but most of them thought him a disgrace to the General's memory. A squanderer. Living in "The old house" with his Mother. Travelling the world as and when he pleased . . . Never having to work and constantly swirling a very large Brandy.
I finished my shift and instead of us walking down to his place we decided to use my room in the hotel for a change. It was tiny, just a single bed and a sink.

A couple of hours later we were pulled out of half-asleepness by a knock on my door . . . Strange . . .  It must be one of the other live-in staff. I put on my dressing gown and opened the door very slightly. Woah! No! It was Silverhip, otherwise known as my boyfriend. He worked in the city nearby but had come back to the village early due to the snow . . . and thought he would pop in and surprise me . . . O he surprised me!
"Hi . . . Aren't you going to ask me in?" His head was already in . . . there was no point shutting the rest out now . . .
"Oh . . Er . . yeah . . . OK . . ."
Seeing Higgins sat on my bed in nothing but his cravat, he said . . .
"Maybe my father was right" . . . Maybe he was. I had nothing to say. (to be continued)

I have only ever kept one photo of Higgins. A black and white A4 publicity shot from some theatre. It disappeared in France . . . I suspected my man at the time. Years later when we were back together I kept another copy of it . . . I looked for it tonight to accompany the post . . . Gone! 
So the nearest thing is a portrait I drew of Peter O'Toole whilst I was living in France. I probably did it at the time to "replace" the missing photo.

23 comments:

  1. Amazing drawing!

    Interesting remembrance - I felt like I was working along side you watching what you were up to. How charming those ne'r do wells can be. Like Arthur eh?

    You must have been quite stunning then.

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    1. Thanks Jeannie.
      Yes Charm was his forte. Arthur? Do I know him?
      I will dig out a photo of Silverhip and my 17 yr old self later to complete the picture. I might have another root aroung for Higgins . . although I think he has probably gotten into the wrong hands . . . again!

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  2. I read this transfixed. More. More I say. Wonderful writing.

    And judging by the sketch at the top you are an artist as well. This is two talents. I was brought up believing that everyone had a special talent. You have two. Is one of them mine? I am getting a bit tired of waiting.

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    1. Really? Thanks . . . this is the first time I've written a "memoir" as such. I've been intending to for a while as there are many but this was the first.
      I used to love drawing portraits, pre-kids and pre-gear when I had time, peace and inspiration. Hopefully when Hamper G gets to school I might find those three things again. I'm sure you have many talents as well as gardening and photography. Talking of gardening . . . The sun is just breaking through.

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  3. You drew that!!! My lord you have talent...

    Poignant story - lovely

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    1. Thanks Furtheron . . . I started going through all my drawings last night to find this and was pleasantly surprised. At the time of drawing I was overly self-critical (learnt from my dad) and nothing was good enough . . . Things look better now, though that could be that my eye sight is not as sharp ;-)
      O that's just part one . . . Now I need to start raking up the memories . . . along with the garden. Yay! The sun's out.

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    2. Funny how people can be so self-critical - thanks for your comment about my guitar playing... I can tell you every single mistake in that piece... :-) I just see myself as a guy who fiddles about on guitar but enough people seem to say I can play well - I suppose after nealy 40 years doing it I ought to accept a certain amount of ability.

      I can't draw to save my life - I am utterly rubbish at it and I never studied art - people go on about £50m paintings and I look at it and don't like it at all ... eye of the beholder and all that

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  4. I want more! Part Two, please. Your drawing is amazing. A talent I've always wished I had but alas, I have none when it comes to that type of thing. Reading your poignant writing lets me know that I have no talent when it comes to writing either. You really are very talented! I can't wait to read more.

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    1. Thanks JJ . . . Yep there's plenty more episodes where that came from. Roughly another 30yrs worth.
      I inherited the love of drawing from my Dad . . . And got some good advice from him too. Very critical he was.
      Writing though. I've never written anything before this blog ( apart from letters to prisons over the years). I've noticed the more I write, the more I have to look at and disect stuff to try and put thoughts/feelings into words. I like that.
      You most definitely do have a talent for expressing yourself through your words and photographs . . . And Poetry.
      I enjoyed going down memory lane though and trying to capture how I felt and the whole "picture" . . It made me smile. I might find time for a little "wander" later on :-)

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  5. You're a v good artist; I wish I could draw like that!

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    1. Thanks Gledwood. You should still do those paintings you were gonna do. I can't do a thing with paint . . . Way too messy. Only pencil.

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  6. And that Silversmith guy sounds like an interesting person ;-)

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    1. Yes well there'll be more of him . . He put up with me and my youthful, careless antics for three years.
      I think he was the first well-adjusted person I'd met . . . but I thrived on drama and chaos.
      We still keep in touch . . . He married and settled well. A middle-class Dr . . . made his Dad very proud ;-)
      Thanks for reading and commenting. With love as always x

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  7. I loved reading this! Do you ever look back and think life was so much more interesting when we were younger? I do. Thanks for sharing this, I hope there is more to come. You're a good writer and look at that drawing!!!! You're so talented!

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    1. Thanks Barbara . . . I suppose it was interesting in a different way . . . I definitely took more risks.
      O there's plenty more to come. I've often wanted to write out some of the past . . . This is as good a place as any. Thanks for reading. I hope you're good x

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    2. nicely written and beautifully drawn

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  8. Interesting (and fun!) blog...I like, sure, and know half the people on your blog list. But came here by way of SYD. That's all. I'll be back for Part II of Higgins. I'm figuring it IS a bio? Take care
    PEACE!

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    1. Hi, welcome Steve E . . . Thanks for reading. It started out as a 16 month plan to improve my life . . . That's ongoing. Along the way I thought about delving into the past . . . Looks like it will be a bio ;-)
      You too, take care.

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  9. I can't wait for part 2!! And the drawing is amazing! Looking forward to more!!

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    1. Thanks Annette . . . Now I have to find time to write more . . . Preferably not 2am ;-)

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  10. Thanks for sharing your memories with us.

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