Afficianados of Gilbert and Sullivan operettas will recognise a key moment in HMS Pinafore when Little Buttercup announces that, when she was young and charming, she ' practised baby farming '. In the summer of 1966 I was young at 19, almost certainly not charming, and far from playing a part in the rearing of others, I was struggling to grow up myself. A full ten years were yet to pass and I was still being described as an ' emotional pigmy '.
That summer, enjoying the first of several Gap years, I held the position of general junior fac totum at Stoke Brunswick Prep School near East Grinstead, an establishment of which my father was one of two major-domos. His Co-Headmaster was John Bartlett [ ex Sussex, slow left arm and very difficult to spot his googly ] who, with his wife Philippa, had many fine children. To assist with the process of childcare they had secured the services of a young Norwegian lady, Anne-Lise Sonsteby [ she had a diagonal line through the 'o' of her name but I regret that is beyond the competence of my laptop and me ].
Anna-Lise and I were friends. The days were long and golden; cares and worries never entered our heads or our vocabulary. As we enjoyed an evening game of tennis, bordered on one side by a glorious bank of azaleas and on the other by an outdoor heated swimming pool, courtesy of Mr Dewar who produced Scotch whiskey and who had previously owned the school property. There was a touch of the Joan Hunter Dunns about Anna-Lise. I say this with some confidence as I met JHD some twenty five years after John Betjeman arranged his engagement to her as she became Joan Jackson and kindly took me out to lunch from school one weekend with her son Andrew, the charming son of a delightfully spirited mother.
Anyway, Anna-Lise was certainly ' furnish'd and burnish'd ' by the Ashurst Wood sun and a cause of ' weakness of joy ' as we spent days out in Brighton [ the handsome West Pier still in its prime ], drinks in the local Six Bells and much else besides. I was only a little less than heartbroken when the time came in August for her to return to Norway, especially as at the moment of her departure she dropped into the conversation that there was a rival back home waiting for her. Zeus himself could not have let rip a more ferocious thunderbolt. Then horror of horrors, in September I received a letter with the devastating news that this tediously sounding Arild had not only been fully reinstated but that his insolent proposal of marriage had been accepted.
I decided immediately that this called for a drastic, international action plan to show the young lady and this interloper who was boss. I decided that, as soon as time permitted, I would travel unannounced to Norway and present myself as what my mother used to call ' God's gift to mankind '.
And so it was that two days after Christmas, deep in the winter of 1966, I set off from Upper Hartfield [ where the Rolling Stone Brian Jones died and where Winnie-the-Pooh lives on forever ] to make the journey to Gjovik, a town about seventy miles nearer the Arctic than Oslo. The North Sea crossing from Harwich to the Hook of Holland was purgatorial. Whoever wrote about the ' cruel sea ' should have sampled this one as we passengers were faced with the apotheosis of a Hobson's choice: be unwell in the steamy, stenching lounge along with everyone else as various fluids undesirable lapped around your ankles or sample the natural violence of deck life where the fruits of your illness and that of many others came back to attack you as you lent over the side. This was certainly the pursuit of true love; a sure case of ' I would crawl over miles of broken glass ' to do something or other.
Looking back over fifty years later, the next stage of the journey is but a passing blur but I do remember alighting from the train in Oslo and marvelling at the beauty of the station bedecked with Christmas lights. Everywhere there were spruce trees of a gargantuan order, tastefully lit and reminiscent of Trafalgar Square, where since 1947 the King of Norway has given a tree to the people of London in appreciation of their support in the Second World War. The tradition was started by King Olav and is now continued by King Harald, a very nice man whom I met in 1961 when he was but a Prince and was rowing in the Balliol College 1st VIII coached by my father.
There wasn't much time to appreciate the bright lights of Oslo as the train to Gjovik awaited. There followed a magical picturesquely white experience as we seemed to plough through a mythical winter wonderland. So it should not have surprised me when we reached Gjovik that I looked in vain for something resembling a taxi. The problem was compounded by my inability to mutter even one word of Norwegian and the station master was clearly not linguistically equipped to empathise with a Hamlet soliloquy or a slice of John Arlott commentary from Old Trafford. I passed gently under his nose a piece of paper containing Anna-Lise's address and he immediately disappeared. He returned several minutes later carrying what I took to be a pair of skis. I use this expression as I had not seen these dangerous implements in the flesh before and certainly had not come into contact with them for their intended purpose. Slowly it dawned on me that this was the only means of travel in that part of the world and, apart from other considerations, I was wearing my suede shoes [ brothel creepers as we called them then ] and was carrying a substantial suitcase.
Again I shook my head and again the station master went away, to return this time with a pair of tennis rackets or so I thought before realising that these were not for my next Wimbledon appearance but a type of footwear. I donned the absurd accoutrements and clutching a hurriedly drawn map as well as my vintage portmanteau, I set off into the darkness. I knew just how Oates must have felt when he left Scott's tent muttering that he night be gone for some time.
Feeling also like the page who followed Good King Wenceslas ' Fails my heart, I know not how; I can go no longer ', I spurred myself on with the thought of the ultimate prize and somehow I made it to Anne-Lise's front door. Here however old man Zeus was lurking again with another translucent salvo. The joy of seeing the surprise on the face of the said young lady was rapidly offset by the sight of a young male hovering in the background whom I correctly assumed was my mortal adversary. I could tell at once that the game was up, that this was a menage a deux which would not be disturbed. My mind went to the words of the French poet de Florian, later adopted in a song by Joan Baez, Plaisir d'amour ne dure qu'un moment; chagrin d'amour dure toute la vie.
However -- and perhaps it was a good thing -- there was no opportunity for pleasantrires as the household, apart from Anne-Lise, had not one word of English and my Norwegian had not developed much in the previous twenty four hours. It was decided that the only place for me to rest my head was in the attic and, golly, my head did need resting after climbing the ladder to ascend the dizzy heights into a space that was barely three feet high. Thus incarcerated and thwacking my head frequently on the beams, I spent much of the next three days, embarrassed and petrified for all manner of reasons to descend into the body of the house where shadowy figures with speech unintelligible lay in wait. When I did pluck up the necessary courage, the reward in terms of bodily nourishment couldn't have been greater -- endless supplies of delicious open sandwiches, invariably accompanied, even at breakfast time, by doorsteps of rich chocolate cake.
' What can I say, what can I do to express my appreciation? ' I asked Anne-Lise. Just say ' Tusen takk ' came the reply and I followed that instruction religiously. Whatever the time of day, whatever the situation, I greeted them all with the Norwegian equivalent of ' Thank you very much ' and it went down rather well or they thought I was just a little deranged. In any case by the third day, in the manner of Jesus thinking it was about time to get up and get out of that tomb, I decided that I had had enough [ cake ], that Anne-Lise had absolutely no interest in me and that the family must be concerned as well as bemused. So I rose early, attached the tennis rackets more or less appropriately and set off for Upper Hartfield.
There was a young man who was sure
The Norse girl was his paramour.
He ran off to Norway,
She came to the doorway,
Gave cake, then said ' On with your tour '.
The journey back was no less protracted and no more pleasant than the outward trip. For six months Anne-Lise and I indulged in a touch of friendly correspondence then all messages, as well as smiles in my case, stopped together. I hope that Anne-Lise has had as good a life as I and Arild too, even if fifty years ago I wished someone would drown him in a butt of Malmsey wine. And I did learn the importance of saying ' Thank you ' or ' Tusen Takk ' with untold frequency.
24th April 2018
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