So Who's Your Mother by Olivier Tarquin

Author:Olivier, Tarquin [Olivier, Tarquin]
Format: azw3
Publisher: Endeavour Press Ltd.
Published: 2013-02-12T05:00:00+00:00

Thirteen

Luckily the tenants of 31 Queensdale Road were keen to terminate their lease and we could move in, home, on our arrival. Both children went to Basset House School nearby. I began job-seeking, humiliated by the dole but grateful for it. Gordon had suggested I go for something related to the arts, antiques perhaps, or a particular era of painting or sculpture, become an expert and so forth. That all struck me as a zero sum game; I wanted to contribute to wealth in the Third World. Many were the meetings I had with the great and the good.

For occupation between times I converted our dining room into a playroom. The hefty table was sold. Using the pinewood from our pack-ing cases from Jamaica I made an ottoman for toys, a carpenter’s bench with shelves on one side, and a folding dining table which could seat eight when unfolded. The floor I laid with black and white temple tiles.

At the Garrick Club the founder of the Edinburgh Festival, Sir Ian Hunter, said the next big thing in people’s homes would be video tapes and recording machines, so they could record television programmes and buy or rent tapes of any films they wanted to watch. A company had already been set up called Crown Cassettes. While networking I found that Alun Chalfont was looking for someone to lead a similar company which he was putting together with the publisher George Weidenfeld as chairman. We had a series of discussions and they very much liked my idea of using this means to create video tapes on educa-tion for developing countries, using local teachers, the best ones, to help make up for their scarcity. Education was the key to practically every-thing.

This took flight. It suited my idealism, was practical and carried with it a salary which was substantial enough to cope with that worry, far off but still looming: public school fees and the interim premiums for assurance policies to help pay for them. They said they would prepare a contract for me, meanwhile they had rented offices in Wimpole Street and were drawing their directors’ fees. I was called upon to pay a visit to the labour exchange. For six months they had been paying the dole and wanted to know of my progress. The interviewer was alert and supportive. He said that what I had found was perfect for me and wished me the very best.

A couple of days later I was telephoned by a senior partner in a City law firm. He knew all about my progress but had bad news. That morning, he said, the financier behind my company had broken his word in the City and so ‘My dear fellow, I thought I should let you know: the whole thing is fucked. Including your job.’

So that was that. I could not go on living in Queensdale Road and still send the two kids to school on dole money. I rented the house out and took a cheap and gloomy basement flat, 3 Holland Park, next to the Greek Embassy Residence.

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