Squeezing the Orange. Henry Blofeld

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       FOUR

       Queen Charlotte and a Milk Train

      After an accident like that, what next? Well, the immediate future was none too happy. As I lay in my hospital bed, prayers were said for me in both College and Lower Chapels at Eton. The power of prayer may never have been better illustrated for somehow I continued to breathe. Or maybe it was just that the Almighty couldn’t face me yet. Tom and Grizel, after coming down to Eton for the Fourth of June celebrations, had high-tailed it to France and were somewhere in the Loire, but no one knew quite where. Various SOS’s were sent out on the wireless urging them to return as quickly as possible. Grizel told me some time later that on that very day they were in Chartres, and after lunch they went to the cathedral. As I have already said, Grizel was a down-to-earth, on-my-own-terms, not-to-be-shaken member of the Church of England, and was ever mindful that a brace of Blofelds had long ago, or so rumour had it, been barbecued by Queen Mary. Inside the cathedral she did something she had never done before, lighting a candle in one of the side chapels and plonking it down with all the others. It was getting on for half past two, just about the exact moment at which I bicycled into the bus. This was just too much of a coincidence. Unaccountable things like this do happen. What goes on in the subconscious? Who controls these things? Was Grizel’s God ticking her off, through me, for lighting a candle in a Roman Catholic church? Or maybe He was telling her that she had the chance to save my life. Is that too far-fetched? Whatever the truth is, there can be no logical explanation for what happened.

      Of course they came back to Eton as fast as they could, hoping against hope that they would find me alive when they got there. My brother John also rushed down, and nobly stayed for a night or two in my room at MNF’s. It must have been beastly for everyone – except, that is, for me, who was blissfully unaware of anything. There cannot be anything much more boring than endlessly going to look at a body which is still breathing but resolutely refuses to come back into this world and take an interest in life. For a time I was on the danger list, which in retrospect makes it sound quite exciting, although it was not at the time for those around my bed, who soon included my sister Anthea. But there was nothing any of them could do, other than wait. Eventually, after what must have seemed an age, I stirred, and in time came to.

      When I finally returned to real life I was endlessly asked how much I remembered of it all, both fore and aft as it were. The truthful answer was pretty much nothing, except for one or two unimportant things. One was strange. The day the accident happened, M’Tutor had had a guest to Boys’ Dinner, a Spaniard who had come with a group to look around Eton. He sat next to MNF, and I was on his other side. Even to this day I can remember exactly what he looked like. I don’t think we can have spoken much, but it is amazing how small things can stick in your mind. I do remember that my first concern in the hospital on re-entering this world was the need to get back to school, because ‘I am captaining Eton against Marlborough on Saturday’, a day which had long since gone. The nurses said, ‘There, there, you’ll soon feel better,’ or something like that. Yet it was true that on Saturday, 15 June, Eton had played Marlborough on Agar’s Plough. Memory is a funny thing. Various people came to see me in hospital, but my only desire was to get back on the cricket field as soon as possible.

      There was a certain amount of pain, because my skull had been badly broken, and one cheekbone was squashed flat and had to be cranked up again in an operation. Cleverly, I managed to flatten it a second time while I was asleep, and it had to be done once more. I am not sure if everything went according to plan, because I still have very little feeling on the left side of my face. One or two of the nerves must have taken a turn for the worse. My large nose had a bit of a going-over too, and had to be reorganised. I was left with a whacking great scar on top of it, which was skilfully removed later on by a plastic surgeon called Stuart Harrison, who had learned his trade under the famous Archibald McIndoe in his hospital at East Grinstead. Even after that I am not sure I would ever have won a beauty contest, but I don’t think I was visually much more offputting than before the accident. I think my right shoulder had to be rebroken, under anaesthetic of course, although the aftermath was painful. My skull was broken most of the way round, but not all of it, otherwise my ghost would have needed a ghost to write this. Some of it was crushed, and a certain amount of digging around had to go on to remove all the bits and pieces of bone that were floating about the place. I am not sure whether I actually remember any of this, or whether I am just repeating what I have been told. One thing I do know is that I suffered quite badly from brain bruising, which stayed with me for a number of years – there are of course those who say it is still. There were lots of other amusements to keep the doctors busy, but considering all things it wasn’t too bad. I lingered in hospital for a week or two, then once again we journeyed back to Norfolk in the old Rolls, which was still one of the joys of Tom’s life.

      When I got back to Hoveton, there was something of the return of the prodigal son about the way in which everyone bustled around me. I didn’t care for all the fuss. I felt all right, and perfectly able to get on with things on my own, without all the mollycoddling. But obviously I was not allowed to do much, and I hated the shackles that were imposed upon me. All I wanted to do was to get back on the cricket field and to look to the future, for there was nothing I could do about my accident. I also had a burning desire to return to Eton for the final week of my last half. I particularly wanted to sing one of the verses of the ‘Vale’, the leaving song at the school concert on the last Saturday of the half. There were four verses, and four of the best-known chaps who were leaving the school, who always included the captain of the Eleven if he was on his way, sang a verse each. I made sure this message was conveyed by Tom to Bush Forrest.

      I believe, although I can’t really remember it, that at some stage in those days at home I picked up a cricket bat and someone trundled in and bowled me a ball or two. Maybe Nanny made a late comeback with her right-arm unders, which were less nippy than Miss Paterson’s. But there was one dreadful cricketing moment hereabouts. After my departure Edward Lane Fox took on the captaincy of the Eleven, which was lovely, as it sort of completed the circle after all the years we had played together. The two days of the Eton and Harrow match arrived, when I should have been leading Eton down the steps at Lord’s, one of the very few things resulting from my knock on the head which I regret just a little. I suppose that later, there was a chance that I might have been asked to captain the Public Schools against the Combined Services, when I would have had another СКАЧАТЬ