Did You Really Shoot the Television? (2 page)

Lewis was inevitably chief. All the children grew tall, the boys over six feet, except Basil who stopped at five feet seven. They developed a ruse for raising cash. Sometimes the older children were allowed to take the younger ones for a short walk without Nurse. They would station themselves outside a sweetshop then, at the sight of a benign-looking old gentleman or lady, overturn the pram containing baby Muriel Magdalen. The ensuing shrieks usually prompted the passerby to still the clamour by proffering a penny, immediately appropriated by the baby’s siblings to buy sweets.

In times of penury, they sometimes purloined their father’s books, ‘mostly trash about science and philosophy and so on, that he could hardly miss’, and sold them at a curiosity shop not far from the house. They christened the old dealer ‘Tuppence-the-Most’, because that was the largest sum he offered for anything. By degrees, most of the contents of the Hastings attic ended up in the shop of ‘Tuppence-the-Most’. The boys always wondered what the neighbours thought of the sight of them crawling round the roof leads, laden with goods. Nobody ever said anything, however. When in funds, they hired a bicycle from the old dealer for sixpence an hour. Six of them would take it in turns to try to master it, taking ten minutes apiece. Most of the boys’ money, however, went to the
turnstiles at The Oval, a few minutes’ walk away. Passionate cricket fans all, devoted to the fortunes of Surrey, day after day they watched play from first ball to last. When his offspring were small, Edward Hastings subjected them to an hour’s lessons each day before he left for the office – Latin, Greek, Roman history and maths. Homework was set for the rest of the day, while Lizzie Hastings taught handwriting, history and geography. As the children grew older, tutors visited twice a week, including a bearded Frenchman who smelt of snuff, instructed them in his language, and prompted disgust by kissing them. Edward was too gentle a man to thrash his children, but Lizzie, in this as in most things a dour Scots biddy, applied the birch vigorously.

Their father liked to reward members of the Tribe for good behaviour or feats of prowess by inviting them to write down what presents they wanted, come their next birthdays. When Lewis was seven, on 8 March he wanted a whip; on 10 March, a box of tools and an alarm clock; on 7 June, implausibly, a bowl of flowers; on 13 June, a little pump; on 19 July, boxing gloves. When Ethel was eight, on 8 June she asked for handkerchiefs; four days later for a little pump. When
Basil was five, on 13 June he bespoke a little pump; on the twenty-sixth a camp stool; on 19 July boxing gloves. The shared mania for ‘a little pump’ was prompted by a fascination with one which their father used for filling his bath, in the absence of taps. The children loved to work it, though when they grew up they puzzled in vain to remember why. ‘Needless to say,’ recalled Basil ruefully, ‘we never got any of the presents we asked for. All we got was money, which had to be put into the Savings Bank at once and dragged out afterwards to pay for broken windows.’

Yet another mystery of the family’s financial affairs is how Edward Hastings, on an annual income which rarely exceeded £400, contrived each autumn to take his enormous clan to the seaside for six weeks. The children adored the holidays, but dreaded the journeys. Edward, obsessive as ever, wrote down lists of every item of baggage, and insisted that each was ticked off as it was carried out to the railway omnibus, while the children stood in line, at attention in the hall. Besides the pram, camp stools and suchlike, a large table from Trinity Square was thought indispensable, because it was the only one at which Edward felt himself able to write in comfort. Each child was likewise ticked off the list, as the Tribe filed out of the house. In a characteristically quirky letter dispatched to Lewis, by then missing from the family party because he was at Hodder, Stonyhurst’s prep school, Edward rehearsed one such journey, in a fashion which suggested that he was a court reporter
manqué
:

Herm, 1.10.92

At 8.20am on Friday 23 Sept 1892 a (Victoria) omnibus with pair horses pulled up at 29 Trinity Square. In the hall there were

seventeen pieces of luggage as under. (1) cutter stand. (2) cutter (3) office bag (4) Elizabeth’s box (5) my wraps (6) CSSH grub box (7) mamma’s wraps (8) cradle (9) children’s box A (10) children’s Box B (11) hatbox (12) hamper (13) portmanteau C (14) portmanteau D (15) mamma’s tin box (16) children’s hat box (17) Margaret’s box.

The following persons were in the square looking on while the
driver loaded the luggage: The Jacobs – the Smiths – the inhabitants of the Brockham Street corner house. Caroline Attwood the sister of Margaret Attwood came to see us and travelled with us to Waterloo. Mr Jarvis’s old woman was left in charge. I gave her a matchbox. Before the driver started Gladys and Beryl went on top of the omnibus. They saw the driver take a bottle. We were too quick for him.

Edward concluded with a brief inquisition, also characteristic:

(1) Have you been allowed to have your notebooks?

(2) What is the name of the archbishop who visited Hodder on 20 Sept? If you don’t know, find out.

(3) Furnish list of school books, stating a) name of book b) author c) edition d) date e) publisher

(4) Ask Father Graham the name of the Jesuit who drowned.

Herm, in the Channel Islands, was the family’s favourite destination. For several successive years, Edward rented a house on the island, the whole of which was the private property of a Prussian nobleman, Prince Blücher. Their holiday routine was as precisely regimented as everything else in their lives: 7 a.m., rise; 8 a.m., breakfast; 9 a.m., compile journals; 10 a.m., free time; 11.30 a.m., bathe; 1 p.m., lunch; 2.30 p.m., family walk; 5 p.m., tea; 5.30 p.m.,
evening prayers; 5.45 p.m., free time; 6.30 p.m., all children under seven go to bed; 8 p.m., supper; 8.30 p.m., retire to rest. The only part of each day which the children found intolerable was the requirement to compose a journal of its predecessor. Here is a typical entry of Lewis’s:

Bathed in the morning. Pater swam out five or six miles, perhaps, and a man said, ‘What is that man doing that for?’ It was Aubrey’s birthday. He got a pile of prayer-books from the pater and mater and somebody else gave him 2s 6d and a watch and chain, which broke while we were all winding it. Borrowed sixpence from Aubrey and went rowing with Basil. Dinner roast pork, beans, potatoes, stewed plums and rice pudding. Sardines for supper. Buns for tea. Yesterday the sky was an Italian blue. There was no wind. The sea was studied [sic] with boats of all kinds. There are some books in this house. Some of their names are
God’s Glorious Creation
,
The Plant World
,
On Foot in Spain
,
John Halifax
,
Cresswell’s Maxima And Minima
and
Map And Plan Drawing
, all rotten
.

The children’s favourite companion on Herm was a fat, grizzled old sailor named Tom Duffy, who served as engineer of Prince Blücher’s private steam yacht. A man of infinite good nature, who had travelled the world as a seaman, Tom told them tales of Africa, the West Indies, Constantinople, Iceland. ‘It was so very much better than the stories in
The Boy’s Own Paper
,’ wrote Basil. The old salt took the children fishing for whiting and mackerel, and rigged their model boat. They spent hours standing at the door of his curious little cottage, in which he kept everything hung on the walls – even his prayer-book, attached to a piece of string. He said that it saved an old man the bother of reaching down. Tom, to the Pater’s gratification, was a good Catholic. When they saw him chewing tobacco, the boys tried it themselves. They were horribly sick, and were later soundly thrashed by the Mater. The aged sailor laughed heartily next day when he heard the story. He resumed his usual duty, answering the children’s incessant questions.

‘Ever been to Jersey, Tom?’

‘Rather.’

‘What’s it like?’

‘Jersey? Jersey’s a place for five-pound swells. A five-pound swell? That’s one of those young fellers cutting a dash on five pounds because that’s all he’s got.’

‘But you can do anything with five pounds, Tom.’

‘No you can’t, missie. It sounds a lot to you, but if you have to pay for your own lodgings and your own fares and your own food and your own amusements, it don’t last more than a fortnight. And then you’ve got nothing to show for it.’

Herm was full of fascinations for children. There were snakes, which the boys caught and sometimes tried to take home. They once caused consternation in the Customs shed at Southampton when the reptiles staged a mass escape. For some reason, Herm’s princely owner had elected to keep kangaroos, which roamed wild, and seemed untroubled by having stones thrown at them. No ordinary visitors were allowed on the island, so that it was a paradise for digging caves in the sands, playing pirates, hunting for treasure. ‘We were so happy
that we couldn’t quarrel very much,’ wrote Basil. They also dreaded the prospect that a row might result in one of the Pater’s show trials, which would waste precious holiday time.

Each Sunday, the family boarded the proprietor’s glittering steam yacht to attend Mass on Guernsey. At sea, the boys watched Tom Duffy working the engine. If Prince Blücher himself was aboard, he passed the trip shooting seagulls. The children marvelled at their father’s almost inextinguishable holiday good temper. Edward seemed happier on Herm than at home, delighting in his children, perhaps because the Tribe was easier to manage amid the wide-open spaces. To Basil, each one of those September days in the Channel Isles was an idyll.

Back in London, during Victorian winters when there were annual freezes, the Pater taught his brood to skate on the Ladies’ Pond in Battersea Park. They never minded skating days, because lessons at home were cancelled. Indoors, most of the boys’ games involved model soldiers and bangs. In those days, gunpowder could be bought
loose across the counter, like tea or sugar. It was regarded, even by Edward, as a perfectly normal playroom accessory. One day Lewis and Basil made a bomb by wrapping sixpence worth of black powder in an oily rag, placing it inside a tin and wooden fort, then laying a powder trail to the door of the nursery.

The Pater was summoned to join the children and witness the climactic moment. Blinds were drawn to make the room dark, then the fuse was lit. They watched enthralled as the flame raced across a desert made of silver sand and entered the fort, defended by broken lead soldiers, their uniforms glinting in the firelight. When the trail caught the oily rag, for an instant the fort became brilliantly lit. Then there was a thunderous crash as it blew apart. The watchers coughed and spluttered in a nursery full of smoke. The Mater ran upstairs and threw a fit when she observed a deep burn on the floorboards. She scolded Edward for allowing it all, as well she might. He, however, chuckled and chuckled, and was still laughing as he went downstairs. In his own life he had allowed himself so small a quotient of fun, of recklessness, of self-indulgence. A moment such as that one released all manner of unexpected emotions. At heart, the poor man may have yearned to unleash a wilder spirit than ever he allowed. In any event, the explosion provoked no recriminations for Lewis and Basil. Heredity must count for something, because an enthusiasm for bangs has been a persistent attribute of the Hastings family ever since.

The Tribe reserved its utmost scorn for visitors, who were received with almost unfailing discourtesy. A woman before whom they were paraded in the drawing room said to Lewis: ‘Well, you are a big boy! Do you know that I nursed you when you were a tiny baby in arms? You must give me a kiss.’ Lewis glared blankly back and demanded: ‘Are you going to give us any money?’ This caused her to become very red in the face and leave quickly. The children categorised visitors who offered no tips as ‘the paupers’. Young Claude cannot have been best pleased when old grandmother Mary Hastings died in 1885, and bequeathed him only her red rosary blessed by the Pope.

Children often recoil from the banality of grown-ups’ remarks. My grandfather winced when a woman visitor gushed: ‘And is this
really Basil?’ The Mater, who had thrashed her offspring that very morning, assented with an indulgent smile, which increased her son’s disgust.

‘He is a very big boy – and he looks so healthy.’

‘Oh yes, but just a little bit troublesome at times, aren’t you, Basil?’ said the Mater, beaming.

‘Oh no, I’m sure not!’ said the visitor, lifting her veil as well as her glass of sherry, the better to inspect the youthful prodigy.

‘I am afraid so. He had to have a little whipping this morning.’

‘Well, there now, but he’s going to be a good boy always now, isn’t he?’

If these performances were repugnant enough, the children’s worst ordeals took place when parties were held at Trinity Square. Never much liking outsiders anyway, their resentment intensified when they were ordered to confine themselves to bread and butter, so that visitors could scoff the cakes and éclairs. After tea, the Tribe was required to sing for the assembled company, to their mother’s piano accompaniment. The worst of the ditties they performed was entitled ‘O Tea, O Tea, O Fragrant Tea’. Once, old General Hastings, Edward’s uncle who had spent most of his life in the US Army, arrived on a visit. He was very old and very deaf, supposedly in consequence of cannon-fire, and his wife shouted at him through a speaking trumpet. The children quite liked his stories of the Mexican expedition and the US Civil War, ‘but he was horribly ignorant about real history like Horatius and Castor & Pollux’. Their best visitor ever was a girl cousin, whose father gave her a sovereign with which to amuse herself and the Tribe. They were able to go to the Zoo and back in cabs, as well as gorge themselves on ten shillings’ worth of ices, mince pies, Banbury cakes, ginger beer, meringues, angel cake, chocolates and tangerines. Basil said: ‘It was the best feed we ever had.’

But that huge family was always happiest in its own company. Both Lewis and Basil became accomplished story-tellers, regaling the younger ones with tales of slave ships, pirates, treasure, ghosts. There were more than enough of them to perform plays and tableaux in the big kitchen, which had lots of doors. The nurse was conscripted
to print a programme on Edward’s typewriter. ‘I don’t think the pater liked anything so much on earth as these plays,’ wrote Basil. ‘He was always frightfully solemn at the solemn parts, and roared like mad if there was anything comic. At the end he clapped and clapped till he was tired. If you wanted to cheer him up you only had to tell him that there was to be a play the next Saturday.’