Page 113 - Michael Frost-Voyages to Maturity-23531.indd

But I also felt a bit depressed in the girlfriend stakes, because I found that David
had landed a job at a Sussex boarding ‘prep school’ (which means boys up to the
age of 14) as a history and judo (by that time he had a black belt) teacher. The
iniquity of this fact was that he had only three ‘A’ levels, and as yet, of course,
no degree, but the school (which shall remain unnamed) was one of the most
expensive in the county and I was quite sure that had parents known that one so
educationally unqualified (though his teaching abilities were actually outstanding)
was teaching their beloveds, there would have been hell to pay. But from that
perspective the situation was rather particular, for the owner and headmaster
(for whom my parents’ friend, Mrs O’Leary, was secretary) was a Lloyd’s Name,
a status characterised by two seminal facts. The first was that one could make
scads of money, for (mainly shipping) insurance premiums were very high and
the insurers were only rarely called upon to pay claims. The second fact was
equally significant; if there were a claim, Names are liable up to the entire extent
of their wealth; in recent years many of the very wealthy have been bankrupted by
asbestosis claims, which have amounted to billions and will likely long continue.

This excursion into Names serves only to underline why David was able to
obtain such a job; his services were cheaply bought. To the headmaster, this was
important, because he annually hired six Danish girls to look after the school’s
domestic needs; in return they received a minor stipend and English tuition, the
latter in part provided by David. He, of course, could not have been happier; by
chance, all the girls were, he said, good-looking and, to put it bluntly, had been
brought up with what might be termed a Scandinavian morality, this in an age
when films made in those northern nations displayed things then shown UK only
in ‘certain cinemas’. And here was I living at times in the lap of luxury, but which
was devoid of other personal activities about which I seemed able only to dream.
It seemed unfair; but I am not sure to whom.

One activity in which I enjoyed myself was Dinner with Captain Wakeford
and Pearl, his wife. This was a ‘training dinner’ at which one was to learn how
to use a knife and fork. I had been to one two years earlier, as a cadet, and knew
that the food was good, but the conversation stilted (though now there was wine,
which helped!). We had to borrow boat cloaks for the occasion, a smart addition
to the usual uniform, and, if we were lucky, there would be an interesting guest.
But there wasn’t; the special guest was the Bishop of Southampton, about whom,
and of whose conversation, I recall nothing.
Fortunately, I was quite accustomed to long dinner conversations. Our
family had for years got together on festive occasions with the O’Leary family,
which comprised Mr (John, an RAF pilot during the war, a financial analyst by
the 1960’s, an arch-conservative Catholic with little real understanding of the
political world, and a man whose hobbies included beer consumption and the
standard opera fare), Mrs (Paddy, a highly intelligent lady of great vivacity,

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