Dream Repairman. Jim BSL Clark
was still an assistant at Ealing when I was called by Basil Wright, a great documentary filmmaker who I’d met briefly at the Edinburgh Film Festival. He was producing a feature for the Children’s Film Foundation, The Magic Marble that was being directed by John Durst. His editor had suddenly been called away. Basil wondered if I might be interested in taking over the editing. This was an extraordinary suggestion. I had never cut a frame of film in my life, but it was a tempting idea and it only took a short time to make my decision.
The news was not received well at Ealing. Mrs. Brown more or less said I would never work there again.
Nervously I arrived at Rotherhithe studio and walked into the cutting room. The film was larded with special effects, the premise being that a small boy owned a marble that, when rubbed, would produce a genie and so things grew smaller or larger. I do recall that I was much helped with this magic by Vic Margutti who was a special effects wizard of the period.
The shoot lasted only about six weeks because the Children’s Film Foundation did not make films with large budgets, and I do recall that we moved away from Rotherhithe and took a cutting room just off Kensington High Street. The film sound was mixed at Anvil by Ken Cameron and, although Basil Wright and I never had words, I got the feeling that he was disappointed in my work. We certainly never had any connection thereafter. I believe the film won some kind of award at a festival that year and was released under the title One Wish Too Many.
So there I was, a film editor without a film—nobody knew me so I had little chance of landing another job. Things got quite desperate for a time, and I eventually found work with the Disney company in London who had offices in Old Compton Street, Soho. This was followed by editing on two short documentaries that were directed in Cinemascope by Geoff Foot, himself an editor. One was about Scotland but it turned out to be a short job and then they had me cutting some puppet films featuring Sooty.
This was the lowest spot in my career. We worked in a basement room in Wardour Street with no windows. My assistant and I sweated over these wretched puppet films until I was about to cry with despair. There were moments when the idea of throwing in the towel and returning to Boston with my tail between my legs seemed attractive.
As a sort of desperate act, I called up Jack Harris and asked if he was doing anything and did he need an assistant? Jack must have realised how dreadful my plight was. It turned out he was about to start editing The Prince and the Showgirl for Laurence Olivier, but had already hired a first assistant, Desmond Saunders. Jack wondered if I might be interested in being the second assistant? Without hesitating, I accepted. I went directly from being a film editor back to a job as the joining boy. It was a move I’ve never regretted since it got me out of a rut and made me realise that life in the real world was hard and combative. I knew I would be happier in a more secure situation. I went, in one move, from Sooty to Marilyn Monroe.
* * *
It was during this period that Jessie suddenly died. Bending down to tidy up after a children’s party, she felt a searing pain in her chest. She was eight months pregnant.
When I arrived home, she was in the bath, hoping the heat would stifle the pain, but it seemed to increase rather than diminish. Since she was only a month away from completing her term, I thought it best to take her directly to the nursing home where she could deliver the child.
It was a short drive, during which she was doubled up with pain. I left her in the care of the doctors and returned home.
That night I had wild and vile dreams. I was awakened at around 6 am by a phone call from the nursing home. At first I thought they were calling to tell me Jessie had given birth. That was not the case. There was some sense of panic in the doctor’s voice as he said, “Come at once.” I dashed to her bedside. A priest was just leaving, having administered the last rites.
She was dead when I saw her. Just dead, still warm—I looked at her in complete disbelief.
The doctor tried to explain. An aneurism...the wall of the heart collapsed...blood into the lungs...terribly sorry...nothing could be done...have a brandy. I was so stunned I forgot to cry.
It was not until I walked into the hallway and saw the bag of clothes we had brought for the new child on the previous evening. I stopped, looking at the little bag—no longer needed—and then burst into tears.
Jessie’s funeral was a sad affair and most of the friends who had attended our wedding were there, certainly all the old friends from Ealing Studios.
Andrew didn’t come to the funeral. I thought it too soon to explain what had happened to his mother. It was some weeks before I told him his mother had died. He was five at the time and probably did not fully comprehend. Kate was not yet two so she had no way to comprehend what had happened. It was only a few weeks later that I adopted Andrew legally and Jessie’s father came to live with us.
When you are young life seems limitless. I was twenty-eight when Jessie died. I had been married four years and had two young children to support. It was without reluctance that I went back to work. It seemed the best therapy.
FLASHBACK: Nevill Holt Prep School
Many parents sent their kids to prep schools when I was young. So when I was ten, my parents sent me off. Nevill Holt was the prep school for Uppingham Public School and lay between Uppingham and Market Harborough. It was entirely isolated and stood on top of a hill that overlooked a great valley. It is no longer a school, but at that time it was home to eighty boys.
On the big day my trunk was packed, my tuck-box filled with any extra rations my mother could spare, along with toys and other amusements. The box, made of soft white wood with black painted steel supports at the corners, had, on the top, my initials in bold, black letters. I arrived there in the Spring of 1941 clutching my gas mask and Mickey Mouse annual. My father had driven me to the school, using precious petrol coupons. I was introduced to the headmaster and his wife, a formidably large lady of French extraction. Then came introductions to the matron and a variety of teachers followed by tea in the headmaster’s study.
It was then time for farewells. No tears. Just a kiss from Mother and Father. The crunch of the tyres on gravel and in a flash they were gone. I was left to myself and my fate. That was the last time I saw my parents in the light of innocence; and though still a child, from that moment on, I had to learn the gentle art of self-preservation. In some sense my childhood had just ended. I was ten years old.
It was, in many ways, an enchanted place. The school had been constructed from a series of connected buildings, which had their origins in Elizabethan times and earlier. I recall King John’s Tower. The buildings were joined to a small church, which was never used. Another series of buildings housed classrooms, a swimming pool, and a quadrangle for gymnastics and other communal gatherings. Small cottages were dotted about, used for staff quarters, and there was a farm attached. It was a completely self-contained domain, quite isolated from the rest of the world. The nearest village was a few miles off. A minor road lay outside the school, rarely used in those days.
I made many new friends very quickly. I played games. I learned to swim, read voraciously, and took up painting. My music lessons progressed beyond scales. The food was always good and the school farm kept us well supplied with fresh produce despite rationing.
My bed, in a dormitory shared with four other new boys, became a dark and secret room where I could become invincible. This was the time for homesickness to take hold. Other boys cried themselves to sleep. I don’t remember being homesick at all. This new community life was too full and too exciting.
I had a torch through which I could project pictures onto the ceiling. I had a supply of slides for it and we made up stories to illustrate the pictures. It was the star of our dormitory. It was primitive movie making, for this was before I had really fallen for the cinema in any big way.
My real fascination lay in aeroplanes at that time. I had a copy of Jane’s All the World Aircraft, which became my bible. It was a slim volume, hastily produced for aircraft spotters. All Allied and enemy planes were illustrated graphically. This, and the Stanley Gibbons Stamp Catalogue were my main reading for some years. Later I was to devour a new Edgar Wallace thriller every night.