The replacement Robin Hood was a very welcome cast change, albeit yet again, not quite right. Cyril did his best despite his squeaky voice and punctuating every word by pointing his finger, but as far as I was concerned, I didn’t care – the damage was done! Never again would I be in a school play!

The following year was spent at a convalescent home at Lynmouth in north Devon with the hope that it would help to cure the Bronchiectasis that had developed when I was a young boy. I returned home and to school where a new headmaster had been installed. He was also the choir master of the local parish church and had already swelled their ranks with a few boys from my school; it was not long before I joined them. I enjoyed singing in the choir enormously and always looked forward to pay day every three months when we would each receive an envelope containing two shillings and sixpence. As well as the regular Sunday services: Matins and Evensong, there were other choir duties we could be called upon to do, such as weddings or funerals, and for these extras we were paid one shilling. For a boy of eleven years old this was serious money! It was Christmas 1950 when I sang my first solo in church: one verse of ‘See amidst the winter’s Snow’ after which I felt as though my chest would burst with pride.

After the service which my parents had attended, I was stopped by a lady who spoke in a well-educated manner. She introduced herself as Leah Thurlow, whose son happened to be one of the altos in the choir, and congratulated me on my singing. Turning to my mum she recommended I had singing lessons which she was prepared to give at her home. She went on to explain she had been a professional singer before getting married but had given it up to have her family and had heard ‘something’ in me that prompted her to make the offer of lessons. Like any parent who feels pride in her children when someone else praises their abilities, my mum felt the same and I was quickly enrolled as a singing student without being asked if I would like to be a singer, but I had no ambition to become a Pavarotti even considering he hadn’t even been born yet!

Three years later at the age of eleven I left the Junior Boys School and moved to the Senior Boys School in another part of town. I had managed to survive the bullying tactics that had scarred me for life and I soon put those memories behind me and looked forward to the future.

In September nineteen fifty I was assigned a place in form 2b under the tutelage of Mr. Donald Nutter, who taught both English language and literature. I also discovered that he directed the school plays which meant I had to work out a few tactical manoeuvres if I was to avoid a production! Much to my dismay I discovered that ‘King Peter’ was also in the same form! When a school production was in rehearsal our lessons would take place in the hall and I employed, what I thought would be, a safe manoeuvre. When we queued outside the hall door (one never entered a classroom until the teacher told you to do so) I placed myself at the back and so was the last to enter – hopefully unseen!

On one occasion I hadn’t progressed more than a few steps into the hall when Mr. Nutter moved towards me with a few sheets of paper which he thrust into my hand.  “Hinks” he said, “On to the stage now. You will play Casca”. I moved gingerly towards the stage and before climbing the steps I was handed a short, wooden sword.

“Right” said Mr. Nutter, “I think we’re about ready. We’ll work through this scene slowly so that you all know what you’re doing!” I raised my hand hoping he wouldn’t notice it. He did.

“You can’t have a problem yet, Hinks. We haven’t started.”

“Sir” I began, “Please sir, what do I have to do, sir?”

I hoped the expression on his face was a friendly smile, but it could have been a grimace of frustration; he had that sort of face.

“You read all the lines where it says ‘Casca’ and when you say the line ‘Speak hands for me’ you stab Caesar with your sword. It’s very easy!” he said smiling.

How ones life can change in so short a time! At my last school, I played a Merry Man of Sherwood Forest and sang a few songs. I then move to a new school and am now instructed by the teacher to become a murderer! At that moment I felt empowered and hoped with all my heart that Caesar would be played by ‘King Peter’!

Whether it was my good fortune or not, King Peter was cast as Julius Caesar but was quickly replaced due to his inability to learn lines. I continued in the role of Casca and enjoyed every minute because I began to see acting in a different light; it was actually quite exciting! Although we had a different Caesar, I managed to make the stabbing look real without him losing one drop of blood. Had ‘King Peter’ continued I wonder if he would have survived beyond the first performance! I was now aged twelve and my fondness for acting continued to grow, and thanks to my English Teacher I began to take a great interest in Shakespeare.

First steps

The last of the 1947 winter snow had gone as I walked briskly to school in the June sunshine. There was something unusual about today from any other; it was not normal for me to walk briskly to school any day, even with the prospect of school finishing in a few days for the long summer break. However, this particular morning held a promise of something different to the usual lessons of writing, reading, and arithmetic.

My road to school passed the tuck shop, but today instead of calling in with my penny to purchase my usual liquorice stick, I clutched the parcel my mum had handed me containing a piece of green material that the teacher had asked the parents to provide, large enough to cover my head or worn around my shoulders. What exactly the material was didn’t matter. It could be an old tea cloth or a piece of curtain material; as long as it was green, I would be one of Robin Hood’s ‘Merry men’ in the school play!

I had never been in a ‘proper’ play before. I had only played a cowboy with the two girls who lived in my street, and then only on condition that I always won the shoot-out. We always played cowboys at week-ends. During the week we played with marbles in the gutter, or threw a ball to each other. If he ball happened to go over the wall into the orchard, one of the girls would shin over to recover it. Many times a couple of apples or pears would be thrown over before the ball!

My teacher had told me I was going to be one of Robin Hood’s men – provided I could get a piece of material that represented Lincoln Green.  If I hadn’t anything green then I would be a stall-holder; I much preferred the idea of being a member of a gang! Later that morning, with the piece of green cloth around my shoulders, she nodded her head in approval and I had made it!

There was one particular boy in the school (I shall preserve his identity and refer to him as Peter) who, for the want of a better description, considered himself to be the ‘king’ – a truer description would be a bully. Because of his strutting round the playground in a bullish and seemingly over-played confidence the teacher had thought it right he should play Robin Hood. This seemed to me to be very unfair! The Robin Hood that we’d been taught was a kind man who helped poor people. With the school bully in the play none of his Merry Men would be safe! Soon, my opinion was to prove true.

I can not speak for the rest of the school but I shuddered when Robin was given a bow – a real bow! Fortunately, it was suggested that even though he now looked the part he could not be trusted with an arrow, but this did not stop his intention of putting fear into the hearts of the rest of the boys.

One particular morning he decided to show his leadership qualities by demanding someone should challenge him to a fight in the playground. He waived the bow above his head and his eyes met mine. I tried to ignore him as the other boys moved away from me and formed a circle; there was no mistaking what they were hoping for. He moved towards me and my legs trembled as if made of jelly. He stretched the bow string and placed it over my head, then began to wind it as if winding up a clock with a key. The string bit into my shirt collar and everything around me began to go dark when I heard clearly the loud voice of the teacher. In full view of the other children she immediately demoted him to a stall-holder and everyone cheered – except me. Peter looked at me and snarled “Just you wait! I’ll get my own back! I’ll have your rabbit!” This was no idle threat and the thought of Thumper my pet rabbit ending up in some cooking pot was a very unpleasant thought. That night, Thumper would sleep in my bedroom in a box instead of his hutch in the back yard.

The greatest enjoyment I get from playing the piano is for my own pleasure.. I have always been envious of professional pianists, be they exponents of classical works or jazz. I can get a lump in my throat from listening to Alfred Brendl playing Rachmaninov, Dave Brubeck playing ‘Two Part Contention’, or Winifred Attwell playing ‘Black and White Rag’; simply magical! But when I play, it is for my own pleasure. I am not trying to emanate these great masters. My enjoyment is therefore two-fold: either listening to them playing, or me trying to play.

So, when I am prevented from playing to my usual standard because of a bent little finger on my right hand, I can’t help but ask the question ‘Why?’. It’s something that I didn’t notice until I failed to make that important stretch of ten notes. I’m not annoyed that it has happened; just the way it has happened. Stealthily.     

Consequently, just lately, whenever I sit at the piano, I’m acutely aware that I’m going to make a mess of whatever it is I try to play, so, inevitably I do. Herein lies another problem. Have I made gross errors of missing notes because of my finger, or, have I simply forgotten which notes to play? In other words, is the fault physical, mental, or maybe even both? Perhaps when it is time to fall off the end of the keyboard an angel will appear to accompany me, and lead me to a magnificent concert hall where I will find the most beautiful Bechstein grand piano and I shall be invited to play the ‘Moonlight Sonata’and the little finger on my right hand will no longer be bent. Perhaps this will be my reward for perseverance. Maybe I will even be able to play all three sections of the sonata without errors!

In my mind I see myself approaching the instrument and notice someone has beaten me to it. An elderly grey-haired gentleman is sitting at the instrument, bent over the keyboard, playing the Moonlight Sonata. Heavens above! It is none other than the Maestro himself, Ludvig von Beethoven. Maybe this is my reward, listening to him showing me just how it should be played! What a privilege! But I can’t help feeling this is the piece that I wanted to play! But I’m not there yet. I’m here, back in the real world. I’m now eighty years old and very much alive!

Eighty years, and what a life it’s been. What a show!

Some of you may have recognised that the two previous blogs will have seemed familiar.;this is no mistake.

Never having ventured into the realms of blogging before, I didn’t know what to write about, so a friend suggested I should publish excerpts of my very first book, which just happened to be ‘Ramblings of an Unknown Actor’ that I published last year.

Since I ‘blogged’ the first two excerpts it has created some enquiries where the book can be obtained. The answer to that is simple; me! The book is still on the press and ready to go should anyone wish to buy one. All you have to do is message me on Facebook. The cost is a meagre £6.00 plus £1.50 postage, but don’t forward any money until I advise you that I have received the copies from the printers!

Anyway, let’s move on to the next part of my story!

I don’t remember how it came about; there was no sudden flash of inspiration, but somehow, I became interested in the piano again. With trepidation I took out my beginners practice books and sat at the piano. In front of me I saw clefs and staves, breves, minims, quavers and semi-quavers in a way I had never seen before. They looked like telephone wires with rows of birds; I was looking at a foreign language!

I tried to remember what I had been taught and the names of the spaces and lines: FACE; All Cows Eat Grass; Every Good Boy Deserves Football; Good Boys Deserve Football Always; but where do they fit?  In frustration I closed the lid of the piano. One thing was certain; I was not going back to piano lessons.

As I sat there, I heard the radio in the dining room which my mum and dad were listening to. Maybe it was Top of the Pops or something similar but as I listened, I recognised one particular song which was a favourite of mine at the time. I raised the piano lid and began to play the tune, first with one finger and then another. This rather excited me; I had made a huge discovery! As the song progressed, I found myself playing the same notes in the same key – but using chords!

I could actually ‘hear’ the sound of the chords! Who needed music? As long as the piece was in the key of ‘C’ I could play!  Shortly after this discovery I decided to have a serious attempt at learning the ‘Moonlight’, but first, I had to find out everything about those damn cows and football! It took a lot of effort but with help from ‘The Rudiments of Music’ I was soon ready to have a crack at one of Beethoven’s famous works – despite the fact that it was written in ‘C’ sharp minor; I was not going to let a few birds beat me!

It took twelve months of meticulously working my way through the piece, note by note, and constantly listening to a recording.  Finally, the time came to attempt to play the first movement. I must be the only pianist who has learned any piece in this fashion and when the task was completed couldn’t read a note of the original score!

This brought its own problems because if I went wrong at any time, I couldn’t look at the music and pick it up from where I’d gone wrong, I had to start at the beginning again and try to remember where to put my fingers. Consequently, there have been occasions when I have commenced playing it and have finished maybe forty-five minutes later. In contrast Daniel Barenboim could have played the entire sonata three times! Despite the shortcomings in my musical abilities, over the ensuing months I searched for more chords and ventured into unknown territory in the keys of ‘G’ and ‘E flat’!

To date, I have served a forty year long apprenticeship as an amateur actor, and thirty years as a professional. I have written three plays, and two and a half books. A friend suggested that I write a blog which may give me the incentive to complete the third book, so here goes. I hope you enjoy the read!

Something is happening to me.

It’s almost imperceptible, but I am aware that it is happening.

As certain as I am that above the clouds of a dark rainy sky the sun is shining brightly, I am equally certain that I am different today than I was yesterday.

It’s nothing to do with my health or aches and pains that everyone gets; day by day we learn to live with those. No, the truth is I’m getting old! I know that is what we’re all doing, every day; no matter what age we are.  It is how it creeps up on you that catches you out – stealthily.

For instance, why is the small finger on my right hand suddenly bent inwards, yet the small finger on my left hand is quite normal? It doesn’t hurt; I’m not in pain. It doesn’t keep me awake at night or affect my driving, but it has had one profound effect; my ability to play Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata’ – well, by that I mean the first movement!

One very important requirement for playing this piece is to be able to stretch the right hand to play one note with the thumb and the tenth note with the little finger, simultaneously. Failure to do this could result in such a dreadful discord it would be likely to wake Beethoven from his heavenly repose as if from a nightmare! In fact, I have attempted to play the piece so often I doubt he has had a restful night for several years. Hopefully, at least in the Lord’s ear, my attempts at playing the piece would sound as if Beethoven himself were playing.

As for the assault on my own hearing, well, I’m afraid I’m with Beethoven on this one; I’m partially deaf. I’m sure he must be thankful I’ve only ever attempted the first movement because the second and third movements could have resulted in all my fingers being affected! I’m not saying I’ve become disillusioned but recently I can’t even bring myself to play ‘Chopsticks’!

If anyone sees me sitting at my piano they will never find me looking at music. Despite having a few weeks piano lessons, notes are just a jumble of lines with dots on them. So how could I possibly learn to play the ‘Moonlight Sonata’? I honestly did try but after having only had about eight hours lessons with Miss Simkins, the local piano teacher, I spent the following couple of weeks at Alec’s coffee bar in town, where I spent her half a crown fee on cups of Espresso.  I was finally found out when shopping with my mother in Woolworth’s when we bumped into Miss Simkins and the truth came out. After stammering an apology my parents finally decided the piano was not for me!

So, how does the Moonlight Sonata come into this story?

Miss Simkins asked me on the occasion of my first lesson if I had a particular piece of music I would, one day, like to play. The choice was not a difficult one. The ‘Moonlight Sonata’ had long been a favourite piece of mine, and the following week she presented me with the sheet music, with the promise that if I practiced diligently I would achieve that goal! I’d no idea at that time what the word meant.

In addition to this she discovered that another pupil of hers was my cousin and she thought it would be marvellous if we played duets together. All I needed now to complete my preparation was a copy of ‘The Rudiments of Music’ and I would then be well prepared to become a concert pianist! Miss Simkin always believed in aiming high.

However, this would require much practise and it wasn’t long before I quickly became fed up with one and a half hours practicing scales every evening when my pals were outside playing. Eventually the call from my friends was stronger than that of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata and the Royal Albert Hall combined! This lack of interest in the piano was to last for almost two years and the over-strung upright piano in the lounge which my dad had purchased for me, stood un-touched.