Seven Point Eight Read Online Free Page A
he jump at the challenge, or continue his life as a university lecturer?
2
The Establishment
Writing my memoirs is a bizarre thing to do. I’m not famous, as no one would recognise either my face or my name, yet, I‘ve led a full, enriched, and most peculiar life. I’d hardly believe it myself and these memoirs may read like a work of science fiction, still, I feel compelled to put pen to paper, or finger to typewriter to record the absurdities of my life. Maybe this will help me put things into perspective and understand why events progressed as they did, why I lost everything I cared about, and what the future may hold for me.
I sat in Max’s Daimler, chauffeured by his own personal driver, watching the Surrey countryside roll past my window as if on a cinema screen. As we drove through towns and villages, I watched with detachment as paperboys and postmen performed their daily duties, wearing their shirt, tie, and flat peaked caps.
Milkmen made deliveries from a hand pulled cart, while horse drawn drays transported coal to houses, the men with their blackened hands lugging sacks and emptying coal into the cellars. People rode bicycles to work, or walked children to the shops. Bakers and butchers opened up, and housewives waited to secure their daily bread and small ration of meat. Even though the Second World War had concluded five years ago, times were still austere.
The drive gave me chance to reflect, ponder my achievements and tragedies to date, and speculate on the decision I’d made.
Max had been correct in his observations. I was born in St Albans on the 21 st of February 1921 at 11:30 a.m, Greenwich Mean Time. My father, Peter Eldridge, was headmaster of a local grammar school and eventually died of lung cancer, most likely as a result of excessive pipe tobacco. That forms one of my strongest memories of early childhood, as from beyond the back of his favourite armchair, I used to watch the smoke puffing, twisting and writhing in the air. He loved a cup of Earl Grey to accompany the pipe; those two were like an old married couple in themselves. He was an excellent parent though, and I attained my achievements due to his influence and drive.
My mother, Margaret, was a proud and honourable woman, and a conspicuous red-head. She outlived my father by several years and died from heart failure eventually. I inherited her compassion, humour, and strong constitution. She was a very religious woman and inherently charitable, active in the community and a church regular, so my spiritual curiosities are a direct result of her influence.
We moved to London early in my life, because my father accepted the position of headmaster at the Grammar School, where he worked until his retirement. Therefore, this great city provides many of my formative memories. I vaguely recall the Thames flooding in 1928 and people wading in dirty water up to their knees in the streets, not a pleasant experience in winter. The water reached the downstairs windowsills, lapped around the wheels of the sparsely parked Austin 7 family cars, and broke embankment walls in places. The floodwater had an eerie stillness at night, illuminated by gas street lamps in places.
I also clearly remember the excitement of our first rotary dial telephone. Frequently, I got into trouble, accidentally on purpose calling the operator on the manual switchboard, as I played with the dial a little too often. They were a very polite bunch of women, those operators, and my first experience of chatting up the female of the species.
During the twenties and thirties, home comforts were very basic indeed. You slept in your jumpers and big socks, and your bed would be layered with blankets because there was no heating in your room. In the winter, it was so cold you found a layer of ice on the inside of your window. The covers and clothes created such cosiness, you were extremely reluctant to throw the blankets off in the morning and place your feet on the cold
2
The Establishment
Writing my memoirs is a bizarre thing to do. I’m not famous, as no one would recognise either my face or my name, yet, I‘ve led a full, enriched, and most peculiar life. I’d hardly believe it myself and these memoirs may read like a work of science fiction, still, I feel compelled to put pen to paper, or finger to typewriter to record the absurdities of my life. Maybe this will help me put things into perspective and understand why events progressed as they did, why I lost everything I cared about, and what the future may hold for me.
I sat in Max’s Daimler, chauffeured by his own personal driver, watching the Surrey countryside roll past my window as if on a cinema screen. As we drove through towns and villages, I watched with detachment as paperboys and postmen performed their daily duties, wearing their shirt, tie, and flat peaked caps.
Milkmen made deliveries from a hand pulled cart, while horse drawn drays transported coal to houses, the men with their blackened hands lugging sacks and emptying coal into the cellars. People rode bicycles to work, or walked children to the shops. Bakers and butchers opened up, and housewives waited to secure their daily bread and small ration of meat. Even though the Second World War had concluded five years ago, times were still austere.
The drive gave me chance to reflect, ponder my achievements and tragedies to date, and speculate on the decision I’d made.
Max had been correct in his observations. I was born in St Albans on the 21 st of February 1921 at 11:30 a.m, Greenwich Mean Time. My father, Peter Eldridge, was headmaster of a local grammar school and eventually died of lung cancer, most likely as a result of excessive pipe tobacco. That forms one of my strongest memories of early childhood, as from beyond the back of his favourite armchair, I used to watch the smoke puffing, twisting and writhing in the air. He loved a cup of Earl Grey to accompany the pipe; those two were like an old married couple in themselves. He was an excellent parent though, and I attained my achievements due to his influence and drive.
My mother, Margaret, was a proud and honourable woman, and a conspicuous red-head. She outlived my father by several years and died from heart failure eventually. I inherited her compassion, humour, and strong constitution. She was a very religious woman and inherently charitable, active in the community and a church regular, so my spiritual curiosities are a direct result of her influence.
We moved to London early in my life, because my father accepted the position of headmaster at the Grammar School, where he worked until his retirement. Therefore, this great city provides many of my formative memories. I vaguely recall the Thames flooding in 1928 and people wading in dirty water up to their knees in the streets, not a pleasant experience in winter. The water reached the downstairs windowsills, lapped around the wheels of the sparsely parked Austin 7 family cars, and broke embankment walls in places. The floodwater had an eerie stillness at night, illuminated by gas street lamps in places.
I also clearly remember the excitement of our first rotary dial telephone. Frequently, I got into trouble, accidentally on purpose calling the operator on the manual switchboard, as I played with the dial a little too often. They were a very polite bunch of women, those operators, and my first experience of chatting up the female of the species.
During the twenties and thirties, home comforts were very basic indeed. You slept in your jumpers and big socks, and your bed would be layered with blankets because there was no heating in your room. In the winter, it was so cold you found a layer of ice on the inside of your window. The covers and clothes created such cosiness, you were extremely reluctant to throw the blankets off in the morning and place your feet on the cold
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