Chapter 4

I had given the theatre considerable thought and many plans had been drawn up and discarded. This was to be nothing less than a full proscenium marionette theatre with bridge. There seemed to be plenty of material. What it lacked in quality it more than made up for in quantity: packing cases, a door complete with frame ( If I could make a boat out of half a barn door ... ...!), tea chests, old black-out material (and how many things were made of this after the war, I wonder?), bits of rope and pieces if carpet.

There was a shortage of long timbers for the main screen around the proscenium. Luckily, a Guiding friend of Kath’s, who lived on a farm, had more long ash bean poles than she needed - woods were still being coppiced for this most useful of crops. Slowly the theatre took shape; castle, stage, leaning rail, puppet rail, proscenium, complete with curtains, electrically driven and with automatic stop switches, all operated from a foot switch.   Aircraft do use the most useful components. The automated curtains did not survive to even the first show.

One of the playlets involved a pilot and aircraft, both pestered by that virtually extinct creature, the Gremlin. The aircraft's propeller was driven by an electric motor fitted with a noisy buzzer (think the old trick of a piece of card in the bicycle spokes), controlled with a battery and switch on the puppet control via fine copper wires. In order to add realism to the flight of the aircraft a moving backcloth was devised

All that was needed was a large pair of rollers and a long piece of material. With an upright roller each side of the stage, the material could be wound from one to the other by means of a handle, like film in a camera. Nowadays, such an effect would not be attempted without a large Arts Council Grant). The lot was bought from the 'Wiltshire Times' office for two shillings (10p). They were newsprint end rolls; very heavy strawboard tubes with a large quantity of paper remaining. The edges of the paper were strengthened with masking tape and the resultant length carried all the scenes, including the moving back-cloth for the aircraft sketch.  No theatre that we made since has been so complicated as that string and bean-pole Palladium. It took well over an hour to set up, consisting, as it did, of every combination of length, shape and bulk in its parts; screws, pegs, springs, clips and ropes for holding it together. It could not have been better designed for sheer inconvenience of carrying and erection.

The show was almost complete by the middle of 1951 when Kath and I went to see the Great Exhibition in London. We marvelled at the Skylon, the Dome of Discovery and the brave attempt to transport us from the grey aftermath of war to the bright new technological future. We also savoured the delights of the new Pleasure Gardens at Battersea where my father was involved in the setting up and painting of the Centrifugal Wall ride and the Emmett Railway.  We visited the 'Grotto of the Perfumed Winds', rode the enchanting Emmett Railway, waited impatiently for the chiming of the Guinness Clock, heard the Embryonic Effusiveness of that Pleonastic Presenter of the Olde Tyme Music Hall, Leonard Sachs and also saw the Hogarth Puppets. We met Ann Hogarth and her husband, Jan Bussell and spent some time chatting to Jack Whitehead who was working with them at that time. This gave us the final push and we gave ourselves a deadline for our first production.

Kath had been with the Guide movement since she wore her first Brownie dress and woolly bobble hat. Having already met a few of Kath's Guiding colleagues it came as a pleasant surprise to discover that they are not all large intimidating women shouting "Rally, Rally, Girls!". Most were really quite feminine. I was introduced to a few shortly after Kath and I met. They were putting on a gang show at the Methodist Hall in Trowbridge and needed a 'squeaky door' sound effect for one of the sketches. Having made a suitable, small wooden device I arrived at the hall door looking for Kath. There I was passed from one pretty girl to the next as the 'Man with the Creaky Thing'.

Once the preparations for the puppet show were under way I had to visit the village hall. As it was during a Guide meeting I was to be introduced to the Guide Captain. Arriving at the entrance and expecting the usual demure greeting I was quite unprepared for the imposing figure standing like some Wagnerian Warrior Goddess on the stage at the far end. With a parade ground bellow of welcome, she leapt off the stage and with strides that threatened the very foundations, came pounding down the hall. Kath was in the doorway blocking my only avenue of retreat so I had to submit to a handshake that almost dislocated my shoulder. Making a mental note to treat the Guide movement with greater respect in future we discussed plans for the combined Guide and puppet show. The combined show would be longer and might attract a few more people.

A few years later, even with bigger fit-ups we could arrive at a strange hall only an hour before a show, set up the staging, and still find time to sort out the last minute problems. That first show took two or three weeks of preparation, modification and near panic. A year before we had decided to produce a show and now it was complete: the play, the sketches, the individual turns, acrobat, singer, skeleton; the usual stock of the marionette performer. The curtains and scenery, lights and music had been checked for the umpteenth time. Hand painted posters had been placed strategically at the hall, the grocer's, the Post Office and a few on camp.

The Guides and Brownies were performing before the interval and the Grand Premier of the Beresford's Puppets was to fill the second half, about fifty minutes. Would it be successful? Would we cope with nearly an hour of arm-stretching manipulation? Would we dry up? Would anyone turn up?  Saturday arrived. It was too late to back out now. With that empty feeling in the pit of the stomach and much nervous joking, we started to check the untidy collection of boxes and bundles. As our transport was a pair of old bicycles it was just as well the hall was only a hundred yards from the caravan site. All afternoon we carried the assortment of packages along the footpath to the dusty, echoing hall. Slowly the theatre was assembled on the stage then moved back so the Guides could work in front. Puppets were unpacked, checked and hung.  Music was checked again and found lacking.  We had no gramophone and were using a 'Polyphon' belonging to Kath's family; an ancient musical box that played pinned discs. It seemed adequate in the quiet of the Nissen hut but now the sound was lost in the bigger hall. Panic! Half our show needed music and it had to be the Polyphon. Our puppet lady xylophonist relied on the sound for her miming and each musical act was timed to the discs.  

Jack, an aircrew flight Sergeant, was a radio 'Ham' and his shortwave radio interfered with our radio late at night.  I had fitted an old 24 volt motor, running through a large capacitor from the mains (illegally) and it interfered with his television (the first on the site).  An uneasy truce existed between us.  Our wireless was made up from two old five-valve radios that a friend had thrown away the year before. Such radios had a pair of terminals at the back marked 'P.U.', for 'pick-up', that could be used to amplify the signal from an electric gramophone (there were still a lot of wind-up types in use then!). A cap in hand approach to Jack who would have a microphone and advice. He grudgingly loaned us a microphone, an extra mic. amplifier, and various connectors and bits to produce a coupling of 19th and 20th century technology; a primitive electronic music machine. Surprisingly, it worked. It could fill the hall with about eight watts of power amplification. Present day disco operators would consider themselves well muted if limited to a hundred watts. No wonder our youngsters are becoming deaf and we need noise abatement laws. We were ready.

Home again to change and snatch a quick meal, both of us tense and developing the nervous habits that afflicted us before a show years later; Kath unable to sit still and me snappy. No point in returning until shortly before the start of the show at seven. We were not on until after the interval, about eight fifteen.  6:45; at last it was time to go. A few minutes later we were at the hall which had a disappointingly small queue at the door. Surely the door crew should have opened up and let them in by now? The back door was open so we crept in to be met by a harassed Guider.

"We've run out of chairs. They’re standing at the back and more are trying to get in! There was already a long queue when we opened at 6:30."

These were virtually pre-television days, with little local entertainment in the village and only the older films at the cinema on camp. The place was packed. Guiding families and friends were there, of course, some of the officer's wives had made it an 'evening' and dressed for the occasion. Luckily someone had thought to reserve a few seats for the vicar and his family who were settled at the front. Most of the villagers seemed to be there; the bike shop man, the apple ladies, the old couple from the corner cottage, the man from ..... Oh God! there's Mucker Burns.  The last few stretched Fire Regulations to the limit and were packed in somehow and we were ready to start.  I stood at the curtains awaiting the signal. The girls went through their routines of songs, dances and sketches whilst I worried over the possible shortcomings of the puppet show. Will those at the side be able to see?  Will the electrified music box work?  Will we remember our lines and cues?  Kath had spent a lot of time rehearsing with the Brownies, of course, so had a double set of worries.  Interval. Last minute checks. Draw the theatre forward to the chalk marks. Where are they? scuffed away. Never mind, about here. Puppets ready. Lights on. Introductory music. Curtains.

We started mechanically; our little announcer introduced the first act, xylophonist, curtains, announcer, acrobat, curtains, just as we had rehearsed. The audience soon interrupted our wooden performance; they laughed unexpectedly, applauded, they sat silently through an item we thought hilarious. They did not react as we had mentally rehearsed them!  Although we soon learned to judge an audience quite quickly and even to modify a show as we played, they still surprised us with their reactions and we no longer took anything for granted.  Apart from exchanging a few nervous glances and giving the occasional whispered reminders we seemed hardly aware of each other. In later years we could we could chat in whispers, agree to instant changes in pace and even make rude remarks about the audience but that show was run on undiluted adrenalin.  Last item. Curtains. More applause. The show was over. Was that really almost an hour. Did we leave anything out?  I could not remember doing some bits. We walked out front, took our bow and I made some inane remarks about it being our first show and hoped they would forgive any shortcomings. A few final words from the Guide Captain and it was all over. A number of people stayed behind to chat and there was what was to become the standard query,

 "Do you do Parties?".

The happiest memory, though, of that first performance was a comment by the elderly and usually austere lady caretaker of the hall;

 "Oi larfed at they little darncin' figgers!".

The theatre was dismantled far quicker than setting up and the puppets hurriedly dumped into boxes and bags along with much giggling in nervous release. By the time we had finished others had cleared the hall, packed away the chairs and tidied up. We were thankful for the willing hands who helped to carry our gear back to the hut.

I cannot remember discussing the show, only feeling very tired. Kath, of course, also had her Brownies to worry about; they, thankfully, had performed like little troupers. Adrenalin keeps one going during a show but all the physical and mental stress catches up afterwards and all we wanted to do was sit. This again is a reaction which remained except, perhaps, we would put the kettle on a little sooner for a cup of tea.

Puppetry is very demanding of all ones faculties and with so much variation in audience, working conditions, travel, parking problems and 'getting in' one is never blasé. There is nothing quite so satisfying, though, as when the tiredness is mellowed with the knowledge that everything combined to produce a good show for an appreciative audience. I think I would cringe if I saw our first show now but expectations, then, were much less, especially as few people had television and even that had pretty basic offerings. Films at the cinema were good but were almost of a different world and we had to make our own pictures to the radio plays. I only hope that over the years we improved along with the profusion of entertainment offered at the present day.

We had become quite friendly with the Rev. Kendall, his wife, Ray and their young family. They had arrived at Lyneham shortly after us, from missionary work in Borneo. He had a pre-war Baby Austin and had travelled widely in this unlikely transport. Their photograph album contained two favourite snaps; one of the car on a high Italian pass, radiator gently steaming and the other taken from their Rome hotel window of the diminutive vehicle surrounded by gesticulating Italians. This uncomplaining vehicle was offered as transport to our few remaining shows whilst at Lyneham.  One of these was for the vicar of Trowbridge Parish Church who had married us the year before. An elderly and kindly man but quite oblivious of our need for concentration whilst trying to prepare the show that was due to start in a few minutes; he wanted to discuss the intricacies of puppetry. You meet them all sooner or later: the organiser who would like you to raise your stage five minutes before the start; the member of the local amateur dramatics who is the only one allowed to operate the stage lighting but can be relied upon to muff his cues; the little darlings who come close to the proscenium and look up at you working the puppets.  Then there are the schools but more of those later.  Also at Trowbridge Old Town Hall about this time we saw the Staverdales' Sharpe's Toffee show led by Sir Kreemy Knutt.  Madge and Cecil were very kind to a couple of newcomers when we spoke to them after the show; no doubt stopping them getting away as soon as they would have liked.  It is always a delight to see the definitive example of any activity and that was how we felt about their 'Ballet Mouchoir', the Ballet of the Silks; a beautiful and skilful presentation.

By the Autumn of 1951 the Korean war was at its height; British and Continental wounded were arriving daily and our Hastings aircraft needed much servicing. We were working long shifts, often all night and it was impossible to guarantee puppet bookings with the uncertain hours. The hangars blazed with light most nights as we tried to keep as many aircraft as possible on the repatriation runs.  Sometimes spares would be in short supply and an aircraft would be sacrificed and become a 'Christmas tree', picked clean of its essential parts.  Intermittent card schools would be held whilst awaiting 'cabin time' in the Planned Servicing Schedules. The tea urn would steam for hours on end. Occasionally, longer breaks would occur, perhaps awaiting an aircraft to complete an air-test, when impromptu football or cricket matches would be held. It was during one of these breaks on a night shift that I took my first and last solo ride on a motor-cycle.  Assured that they were really kindly, docile machines I was loaned someone's prized possession and eased gently out of the hangar and onto the comparative safety of the perimeter track. It was easy. Change gear and away into the midnight darkness. A wide, gentle turn on the 'compass swinging' pan and back to the welcoming light of the hangar. The group of spectators offered advice as I blurred past them with the far end of the hangar coming up fast.

The advice simply confused me and went unheeded as I found full throttle instead of the brake. Neatly stacked at that end of the hangar was a large number of light weight seats used to convert the Hasting from cargo to passenger transport. At the last moment I managed to slew the bike sideways and hit the pile broadside. Once the heap of seats had been removed, the rescuers divided into two unequal groups, mechanics and humanitarians. A couple dragged me to my feet and brushed me down but apart from a few bruises my pride was the main casualty as the main group inspected the bike with all the care and expertise of brain surgeons. I have not ridden one of these machines other than as a passenger since.

 During the day one might look up into the bright Autumn sky and see the slim lines of the latest British world beater, the huge six-engined Brabazon on air test from Filton, near Bristol.  We also saw another newcomer at Lyneham who survived somewhat longer. A radio show called, "Anything Goes", was recorded at the camp theatre and it featured a young Bristol comedian, Benny Hill with Cherry Lind and Johnny Morris.

Apart from a couple of Christmas shows in the village, puppetry had to be put aside with the uncertain hours. There did not even seem to be time to make anything new. Perhaps the New Year would bring some relief from the relentless activity on camp. What little spare time we had was generally spent away from Lyneham camp, shopping or visiting.

All activities at home were overshadowed towards the beginning of 1952 by me being put on PWR (Preliminary Warning Roll) for overseas service. This came as a bit of a shock as when I returned from Iraq two years before I had been assured that I would not be going overseas again because of my ear trouble. This meant a lot of preparation as one never knew just when the posting would arrive. Kit had to be found and kept in readiness. Inoculations had to be brought up to date. There were plans to be made for the future of the caravan. Puppets and theatre to be stored and junk cleared (and married couples collect far more; it was far simpler when single!) and all the time wondering where in the world I might be going. In those days the choice was a lot wider.

In the meantime I was sent on a three week course on the new My 9 Autopilot at Smith's Instruments at Cheltenham and the Royal Aircraft Establishment at Farnborough. My main memory of that course was a heated argument; one that seems to crop up every decade; for three weeks it raged around the problem (and the sinks) of which way the water swirls out of the plug-hole in the northern hemisphere.  As I discovered many years later, it is, allegedly, due to the Coriolis effect but this, at 'sink' level would have negligible effect. was at Farnborough that I began to get an inkling of the meaning of elegance. No, not high heels and a posh frock but scientific elegance. A woman engineer had a table top completely covered with components; a mock-up for a new aircraft auto-stabiliser for fighter planes. Our exclamations of admiration were cut short when she told us that was the easy part. Getting it reduced to fit into a small box was the clever bit and required elegant solutions; working out redundancy, which parts can serve many functions, finding limits to miniaturisation, etc. I offer an example for the 'techies' with the diagram to the left.  It applies throughout science. We often see on TV or film, blackboards full of formulae.  Einstein started with these and ended up with the truly remarkable and elegant: E = Mc².                     

Grasshopper mind again? Well, yes I suppose so but any puppeteer should be a bit of an eternal student, justifying tucking away such information in the puppet corner of the mind; there might just be an elegant solution to a puppetry problem, especially in controlling movement.

Christmas came and went and a posting to Singapore arrived; I would be leaving in February. More inoculations, embarkation leave, final packing and off to the kitting out centre at Lytham St. Annes. The sea front was bleak those last days of February, '52; the broad golden sand empty and windswept. The Golden Mile at nearby Blackpool was shuttered against the winter and the tower stood stark against the grey sky almost making us happy to be heading for the sun.

The troop train carried us and our new khaki outfits south, crossing London through little used tunnels and derelict underground stations, surfacing again at Clapham Junction and on to Southampton and the army troopship, Empire Orwell.

Lessons learnt: How to make the best of limited materials.  Getting to grips with an audience.  Beginning to understand design.