THE SQUIRREL'S TALE: HARROGATE
The 1962 British National Science Fiction Convention opened in Harrogate, in the West Riding of Yorkshire, on Good Friday morning. The Liverpool crowd and I arrived in their hired minibus at almost exactly noon, and the West Park Hotel was already churning with fans. Having no preconceptions of what a British convention should resemble, I was pleasantly surprised to find myself at home immediately: the Liverpudlians knew everyone and made sure I didn't wander alone, and before I'd been in the hotel an hour I was into a game of Brag with Dave Barber and Phil Rogers.
Barber, Rogers and I half-blocked the entrance to the hotel lobby, and from that vantage point I met everyone who entered at least for the rest of the afternoon. From time to time Rogers (who was working as Ron Bennett's right arm on the convention committee) would be called away, and Dave and I would talk. He was astounded by my waterfall-shuffle, which is something any child in the States can do -- but it made him think he was against some card-sharp. Each time the shuffle fell to me (which isn't often, as the cards remain ordered for a good while in a Brag game) I would riffle them together without thinking, and look up to see Dave staring wild-eyed at my hands. Then, of course, I'd do it two or three more times, telling him how I learned this at the age of twelve while dealing Blackjack on a Mississippi riverboat.
The afternoon had not worn long when the door opened to admit the man who taught me Brag, the chairman of the convention, the editor of SKYRACK, and the 1958 TAFFman, all rolled up in the person of Ron Bennett. We had a soul-stirring re-union ("You've grown taller," he said, with one eyebrow raised, "and you've let your hair grow out from that beastly crew-cut you had in South Gate"), and exchanged information and goods. I had bought him a carton of cigarettes in New York, for which he paid me in sterling, and he owed me 28 cents from our last Brag experience together. He has a long memory, and paid me with a quarter and three pennies -- American.
"What the devil use is this?" I stammered, holding four coins that could do me no earthly good for weeks. "This isn't negotiable -- its play money!"
"We played for American coins," he pronounced, "and I owed you 28 cents, not shillings and pence."
Ron then introduced me to several people, among whom were Mr. & Mrs. Tom Boardman, Harry Harrison, and Ajax Hoch -- Americans all, under varying circumstances.
Tom Boardman, of Boardman Books, was Guest of Honour, and was an unusual combination: an American, living in England since the age of six months. He retains his citizenship, and accordingly has served in the U.S. Armed Forces -- he's now an officer in the reserves, having to travel to an Army base in Europe every summer for two weeks active duty for training. He seemed both British and American, and it is probably this peculiar combo which has made Boardman Books so immensely popular in the science fiction market in England. His attractive wife is also American.
Harry Harrison, of course, is the author of 'Stainless Steel Rat' and the Hugo nominee, 'Deathworld'; what I didn't know until we started talking after the Fancy Dress Party the next night was that he also used to be an active fan in the U.S., up to 1951 or '2; his conventioneering stopped just before mine began.
Ajax Hoch, of course, is a one-time Philadelphian I had met at the Pittsburgh convention eighteen months earlier. He is employed by R.C.A., and stationed currently at the U.S. base outside Harrogate -- very convenient for the con. Bennett had already mentioned this base to me -- it seems Liz Humbie teaches school to dependents there, and she had tried to get some root beer for me.
At some point in the afternoon, someone -- possibly Pat Kearney of London -- heard me complaining to Bennett about the 28 cents he had burdened me with, and purchased the coins for two-and-six, a tidy profit. Bennett howled at this and
demanded them back, shouting that if he'd known the fool things were worth *real* money he'd never have let me have them. I laughed, and at about this time dinner was served.
Meals at the West Park (part of the room charge) were pretty poor. Very flat, uninteresting food, often cold by the time it was served; we all sat down in the dining room, and were served the same meal, and of course this meant the tiny kitchen was strained to bursting to get it all cooked and served simultaneously. A very economical situation, I'm sure, but not inspiring, even to a crude meat-and-potatoes man like me. At one meal I was served a bun (or roll or biscuit or something -- I can't remember what the British label is for what I call a bun) with some dried ground meat inside. I ate it with all the inattention it deserved, only to find after the meal that I'd just consumed my first Yorkshire pudding.
Fortunately Valerie Jeeves fixed me a Yorkshire pudding less than a week later. Tasty, if done right and served fresh.
Friday evening was the opening session -- introduction of celebrities including me because I had hitch-hiked around the globe, said chairman Bennett; of course he also did me the favor of introducing nearly everyone else in the room which was in the Clarendon Hotel, a short walk from the West Park; most of the program was there, as it was the slightly more attractive of the two hostelries.
We mingled in the meeting hall after the session, and I made good use of the introductions with a round of hand-shaking and good cheer. I met Sid Birchby, Ken Slater and Archie Mercer, among others that evening. Mercer has a furious brown beard which has gone untrimmed since he began it in June 1961; he seems to be a marvelously hirsute individual, because it is easily longer than Walter Breen's growth, untrimmed since before Mercer's began. This great brush obscuring half his face, and a large frame for an Englishman, give Archie the
appearance of great strength and ferocity -- but to my amazement he turned out a shy, modest individual with (he claimed) such a fear of the spotlight that my suggestion that he stand for TAFF was rejected out of hand. It's a shame, too
-- his timidity seems an obstacle, but he is certainly one of the most universally well-liked British fans, and has probably been of more service to American fandom in his quiet way than many more active souls.
Slater was the dickens of a surprise -- since I recall him as Captain Kenneth F. Slater, RAF, from the letter-columns of Starling and Thrill Wonder, he had assumed in my mind a striking military bearing. But the truth is out: Ken Slater is a ruddy-complexioned, stout, smiling man with a van Dyke, and a twinkle in his eye. Sid Birchby saved me from thinking all Anglofandom a set of contradictions by being an extremely normal fan -- quiet, of moderate height and appearance, obviously soaking up the convention as a memorable experience.
About ten, the Clarendon quieted down to small conversation and I had had a few words with most everyone; Barber suggested Brag, and we took ourselves back to the lobby of the West Park, where we sat until I lost my limit about midnight. Jill Adams of London was most helpful in telling me how miserable a Brag player I am -- if she hadn't kibitzed, I probably should have stayed on for a few more hours/shillings. I believe I lost a pound that night, at thruppenny Brag.
My room, number 2, was very comfortable despite the cold night, becauseElla Parker had brought me an electric blanket. That's a bit of hospitality I've never seen equalled on either side of the Atlantic -- good old Ella had remembered the sun and warmth of California and reasoned that her comfort here had a good chance of being at least matched by my discomfort there. The blanket connected with the light-socket, my head connected with the pillow, and before I knew it Saturday was upon me.
I missed breakfast, of course, and expected to starve out the morning or find some coffee somewhere; surprised was not the word for me when Ella and Ethel Lindsay grabbed the landlord on his way through and demanded tea and rolls. He seemed startled that anyone should miss breakfast, but off he went and in jig time he was back with chow for an army. The three of us surrounded it.
That innkeeper was a fine fellow, by the way, name of Bert Harman, a personal friend of Bennett (in Harrogate nearly everyone knows Bennett); he broke his back making us happy for the weekend -- for instance, besides the extra breakfasts he
made up without charge, when Dave Barber and I wanted cards Friday he got out a deck and made us a present of them; further, he was always interested in how the convention was going, how I was enjoying England, and like that. More of him later in this chronicle, to be sure.
Some time before noon, I walked downtown with the Slater family -- Ken and Mrs. S., and eight-year-old Suzy. They were seeing the city, I was looking for flashbulbs; as it developed, I saw some of the city and they helped me look.
Harrogate is a spa, possessed of some 88 mineral springs (chalybeate and sulphur), with only light industry to surround the tourist-focused activities which keep it going. The Stray, a huge public park and garden protected by act of Parliament
from being built upon, fronts the main line of buildings and formed the scene for our walk to the business section, Suzy dancing ahead of us and swinging around tree-trunks. It's a small town of approximately 60,000, and combined crowded,
old-fashioned buildings with more modern department stores and restaurants. It sports a large J. J. Newberry's -- incredibly American, with the prices all in sterling being the only difference -- and a food I've never seen elsewhere: the Wimpy.
On my return to Harrogate after Sheffield, Bennett and I discussed this oddly-named hamburger. Hamburgers are known in England and are nothing new -- but recently an American-style chain of Wimpy stands has sprung up. I can't explain why I saw them only in Harrogate, either, as Peon assured me they would be in London. Perhaps I wasn't too interested in eating hamburgers while in England.
Leaving the Slaters, I investigated several photographic supply shops, and found they had no Kodak flashbulbs of the M type at all; all I could find as substitute was an F series that worried me -- they had glass bases, not metal, and I know too little about cameras to experiment. I decided to take available light only, and chance the results. you know who saw my slides at LASFS and New York this summer, many of my indoor shots were overly red, but almost all were properly lighted because of the versatility of Al Lewis' camera.
Returning to the West Park, I reasoned from its emptiness that the programme must have started at the Clarendon. I went to my room to drop some things I had picked up and to change film, and bumped into two gigantic young gentlemen, each well over 6'3" tall, obviously looking for fans.
"The convention is starting in the Clarendon," I said, whereupon they looked at one another in surprise. Just as I pondered what I had said wrong, they sprang upon me -- they had spotted my slovenly American accent instantly, and
introduced themselves as James White and Ian MacAulay of Irish Fandom. They were late arriving -- their luggage had not come through on the plane with them, and they'd finally had to leave Walt Willis to wait for the next plane. We talked
about travel and my visit that week to Belfast as we strolled over to the other hotel, and I was in the unusual position of introducing these seldom-visitors to England to the few fans I could name.
E.R. James spoke about then, beginning with a definition of science-fiction as stories with definite groundings in logical, scientific fact. He then went on to claim that the oriental mystics thought of science-fiction before anybody on
our side of the planet, and he drew gasps of astonishment and delight by removing his jacket and all the change from his trousers, and standing on his head. My attention was diverted by someone speaking to me at this point, and I missed the
connection between his gymnastics and the continuity of his talk -- but it was as effective as lightning would have been in that crowded room.
Brian Aldiss introduced Tom Boardman with a very witty talk about s-f, fandom, and pre-historical anecdotes. Boardman himself spoke quietly, as a man with little stage presence but a great deal to say. He explained the history of his
publishing ventures and detailed at some length the picture of science-fiction publishing in the British Isles today; he was asked a number of sharp questions, and replied most honestly concerning the ethics of reprints and the frequent lack of bibliographic information given in paperback reprints.
I was supposed to talk about MIT that afternoon, but things got a bit hectic in there when the speeches ran on towards dinner. Everybody wanted a break, and I was shuffled about to the next day, which didn't bother me a bit.
During the afternoon sessions I met J. Michael Rosenblum, one of the nearly pre-historic British fans, sustainer of Britain's famous FUTURIAN WAR DIGEST throughout World War II when publishing fanzines was an almost impossible task. Mike is no longer the youngster described by Joe Gibson from a
wartime meeting -- he is now a robust, cheerful businessman with a quiet, clear speaking voice and an interest in almost everything.
More meetings: Brian Burgess of London, another towering giant, who reminded me of Bre'r Bar of the Joel C. Harris stories; Brian Aldiss, Hugo-award-winning Oxfordian who was helpful in my almost-meeting with Professor Tolkien; and --
surprise -- Eric and Beryl Bentcliffe, my hosts of two event-filled days earlier. Eric was wandering about with camera in hand, busy as a bird-dog and-happy to be actifanning again.
It was pleasant to meet the Cheltenham crowd, too -- Eric Jones, with whom I used to correspond as early as 1952, and who turned out to be an alive, outgoing man and the sustaining prop of the Cheltenham SF Circle; Peter Mabey, the hard-working Librarian of the BSFA; and Audrey Eversfield, Bobbie and Bill Grey, and John Humphries. They made sure I was thoroughly invited to visit Cheltenham and somehow at about that point I found myself upstairs in the Clarendon losing a small fortune to John Roles and Ina Shorrock while Norman clucked at my eagerness for Brag. It wasn't until the next
night (Sunday) that I began to win back my losings, a change at least partially due to that session in the Shorrocks' room, and Norman's comments about my playing. He has the most irritating manner of raising his eyebrows when I do
something wrong -- a sure-fire teaching system.
During the later afternoon I took advantage of a counter at one side of the assembly hall downstairs to set up with my camera taking fairly candid shots of many people intent on the programme. These shots with late afternoon lighting directly on the subjects were among my best -- particularly one of Mercer, full-face, looking rather startled as I call his name, snapping the shutter a breath later.
Eventually the West Park inhabitants wound our way back to dinner; by this time Walt Willis had arrived from the airport, and I was privileged to meet him ahead of most other American fans by four months. He was tired and rushed from the hassle at the airport, and I don't recall him saying anything deathless that afternoon; as he and the other Irish fen were at the West Park, I saw much of them for the next day and a half, but as I was to visit Belfast the next weekend we naturally spent much of our time meeting others. The Irish boys are nearly as unfamiliar with English fandom as I am because they have attended very few conventions: Walt has been to two conventions in America, for example, and only three in the U.K. John Berry is an even wilder example -- he has never attended a British con, and the only ones who have met him are those fen who've visited Belfast; but he's an extreme, and Walt, James and Ian certainly knew their way about.
Saturday night was the fancy dress ball, highlighted by a number of events reminiscent of the Variety Show at the Pittsburgh Convention. To start it off somebody bought me a drink and dealt me three cards and I learned some more about
Brag. That was broken up shortly, though, by Ella who wanted me to meet Terry Jeeves; Terry and Val had to shout at me by then, though, for the Gerry Pool trio had started up in a corner, and the party was really warming. They shouted hello and I shouted hello back, and they roared an invitation to visit them in Sheffield after the convention, and I cheerfully bellowed back acceptance, just as Bennett came up and informed me that the panel of judges was supposed to have an American on it to lower the standards of judging. I contemplated slugging him but as I set my glass down someone filled it; so I picked it up and elbowed my way through the dancing crowd to where my fellow Areopagi sat.
We had fun judging that group; the costumes were few, and Ethel Lindsay agreed with me later at Chicago that they were less spectacular than the American costume parties, but choosing from among them offered some interesting problems
-- for one thing, we had to invent categories as we went along. Mr. & Mrs. Boardman and Harry Harrison were the other judges -- Bennett had stuffed it solidly with Americans. As the monsters and girls paraded before us we talked and judged intermittently, taking our own time about it; and when we finally handed out the lavish prizes (Bennett out-did himself there, believe me) we pleased everyone and were well satisfied with our work.
And the noise level continued rising.
After that was the spa-water drinking contest. I don't know whether those waters were chalybeate or sulphur, but Norman Shorrock and I tasted a wee drop and agreed roundly that they'd have to catch us and throw us before we'd enter that contest. We watched and I worked the camera while Brian Jordan won by downing perhaps twelve ounces of the vile fluid, leaving his nearest competitor half a cup behind, spitting and grimacing horridly. Jordan was carried insensible from the room, uttering weird sounds; he should be available for comment within the sixmonth.
Right after the spa-water drinking contest I tried to have a word with Harry Harrison about American fandom; we actually did exchange a few phrases, at the top of our vocal ranges, but the music had started up again, and a conga line began. I was invited to join in right behind Ina Shorrock, and no gentleman could resist being in a conga line behind Ina Shorrock; the wildly swaying crowd of over two dozen fans wound its way about the hall, upsetting the remains of the
Brag game and overturning tables, and suddenly the leader decided it was stuffy and we were bumping and singing through the lobby of the West Park, and I forget what happened between then and the party in the Parker-Lindsay room around two ayem.
I mentioned earlier that Liz Humbie had tried to get root beer at the U.S. base near Harrogate; she had failed. She was abject, she was frightened, she was mortified -- but I forgave her, because I was getting a bit scared that everywhere I went my hosts would have heard of my taste in soft drinks and stocked up on root beer. Fortunately I was guaranteed that her strongest efforts weren't good enough -- and, of course, that cinched it.
So I wandered into Ella and Ethel's room, and Ella leaped up, elbowed the Brag players out of the way, and opened one of two CASES of Hire's Root Beer, in tins.
I was astonished.
The explanation was simple enough: Ajax Hoch, that sneaky-American stationed at the same base, had civilian canteen privileges; Liz, as a British national, had none. He and Ella had contrived to surprise me and hadn't thought to tell Ron or Liz. Ella watched in glee as I chugalugged a can of brown carbonate, and then announced that, finally, she would let someone else try some. The room full of adventurous souls didn't exactly crush me in their press to this strange drink
-- especially when I told them it wasn't alcoholic -- but my careful eye found about 50% favourable reaction among those who did try it. Ella, for instance, hates the stuff and insisted that I wasn't worth the trouble and should be made to drink all of it, right then; but Ian MacAulay and George Locke rather liked it. Dave Barber says no respectable man would drink anything like that and try to play Brag.
Sitting on a small segment of one of the beds, I spent much of the night talking to MacAulay, James White, Ted Forsyth and Peter Mabey. Ian and James were curious about my mathematical abilities -- Ian is a physicist from Trinity College in Dublin, and James adopts the pose of a curious observer. It seems that all of Irish fandom was interested in relativity, because Ian had tried to explain Einstein's concept of the four-dimensional universe to Berry and failed.
They told me Berry refused to accept relativity until Andy Young, far-wandering astronomer, had happened to be in Belfast and told him the universe was shaped like Marilyn Monroe. Berry immediately brightened towards this visualization, and decided to undertake a life-time study of relativity in order to find out what part of the universe he was standing on.
Walt claimed to have defeated Ian in a physical sciences type argument by deductive logic, and Ian turned to me for help. "You are a mathematician," he proclaimed, "and mathematics is the servant of the sciences."
"And the queen," I insisted. "Eric Temple Bell says it's the queen and servant of the sciences. Yes."
"Well, queen and servant, then, but you admit it's the servant. What I want you to do, servant, is help me get out of this pickle with Walter, who wants me to explain --" and so help me, gentle reader, that was at three in the ever-loving
morning, and I can't for worlds recall the problem Walter and Ian were having.
All I recall clearly is that I considered the problem with a furious grimacing and wiping of my glasses, stared hard at Willis and harder at Ian, then turned quickly about and glowered at Liz Humbie, who cowered from me. Then I grimaced some more, muttered under my breath, and made my pronouncement.
"There is a simple, decisive answer to your dilemma," I said. "You stop relying on physics, and turn to logic and rhetoric, remembering that the true scientific method is eclectic and shuns no discipline where it may aid the advance of certain knowledge. And you tell him to define his terms."
Having spoken, I had to sit still while Walt roared in anguish -- it seems he hadn't really known what he was talking about, almost as much as Ian hadn't known what he was talking about.
Somebody asked me if I was so smart, what was a Klein bottle, and I told him it was a bottle with its inside on the outside and both of them the same side, sitting on its top, and able to hold a liquid. That brought Janes White up short, and he stared incredulously while I attempted a detailed hand-waving
description which was interrupted by Willis bellowing "Define your terms!" every few minutes. Amazingly, I think White understood when I was through.
And then Dave Barber and Sid Birchby (I think) taught me nine-card Brag, which is in my estimation an extremely expensive game with no fun attached. It seems you get to pay sixpence for nine cards from which you assemble three Brag hands and you start betting to out-Drag your opponents' three hands. After I tired of giving Barber my shillings, I talked to Bill and Roberta (Wild) Grey about Arthur's grave at Glastonbury which unfortunately wasn't on my itinerary, and then I spent an extremely interesting hour or so talking the international fan scene over with Forsyth and the busiest fan librarian in the world, Peter Mabey.
The BSFA and the N3F started to get in communication with each other a couple of years ago, but I guess it just wasn't time for the idea then. At one point there was a new set of BSFA officers elected and no word about the N3F was passed on. We decided to talk about this with the entire BSFA slate the next morning after the Annual General Meeting, and at some time near dawn I found I wasn't looking at Mabey but at the inside of my eyelids. I sought my couch, grateful for the electric blanket.
Easter Sunday might have dawned gloriously in that northern city, but I didn't know about it until vastly after the fact I lay insensible, and of course I missed breakfast again -- but that didn't matter, because I was up just in time for lunch. Sunday was a muchly relaxed day, despite piling-up of programme items scheduled on from Saturday; the judging of the photo contest was over before I got to the Clarendon, and I was just in time to go back to the West Park for the BSFA Annual General Meeting.
During the AGM I sat still and listened -- the concept of a national fan organization holding all its business during one annual meeting startled me, and I learned quite a bit; I was also entertained by the first competition for the next consite in the memory of British fandom. London had come to Harrogate
expecting to take the 1963 con away with them -- but that was because no one has ever wanted a convention in advance, and they figured to break a tradition.
Amazingly enough, Peterborough (it's 40 miles north and slightly east of London) also wanted the convention -- so they had to shake the dust off the rule book and actually hold a vote. My notes say it was 39-25 for Peterborough, and at this writing Ken Slater, the 1963 Chairman, is well along with preparations for the convention, which will be held next Easter in the Hotel Bull. BSFA officers were elected, and Tom Boardman made a surprising offer to publish a special anthology professionally, proceeds to go to the Dr. Arthur R. Weir Memorial Fund to establish a Fan Recognition Award in roc's name. There are some fourteen pounds (about $40) in the Fund now, and British fandom has high hopes for a fitting memorial to that surprising and well-remembered fan.
That afternoon I spoke to the new BSFA officers about the N3F/BSFA alliance, and we determined that first steps would be made with small-scale exchanges of publications and information about activities sponsored by the groups.
Afterwards, I set up in the assembly hall of the Clarendon again, fixing myself to a doorway near Slater as he conducted a scientifictional quiz game, bringing fan after fan into the range of my camera.
When the game was over, Mike Rosenblum brought out a great store of ancient fanzines and photographs, and talked for all too brief a time about Britain's past in the s-f fan field. He went back to pre-1937 fan days, covering the Leeds SFL Chapter and the first convention in England, the SFA and the old BSFS, and a hatful of other things of intense interest to natives and visitors alike; perhaps it was the tight packing of the crowd, perhaps it was that British fans know each other so well, but I'm sure Mike's talk would not have held a U.S.
assembly as well. The lot in the Clarendon was totally attentive, intent on the reminiscences of one man; there are too many strangers at American cons, and too many differing types of fans.
In the evening Eric Bentcliffe and I entertained the (seemingly) entire mass of attendees with a talk about TAFF, its future and its problems. We had quasi-rehearsed this at Eric's home a few days before, and it went off like clockwork,
corny jokes and all. In fact, I daresay I have never played to a better audience. One of the most interesting outcomes of this talk was a short list of American fans whom the British would like to see nominated for TAFF -- it amounts to a mandate.
Later a mob filled the West Park assembly room (where the fancy Dress Ball had been held) to watch a Guinness movie, 'A Matter of Life and Death'. Then we all charged over to the Clarendon for a wine-and-cheese party, brightened considerably
by some of the hoariest old silent pictures I have ever seen -- Tarzan from before Weismuller, and Popeye cartoons like you have never imagined.
When the cheese and movies ran out, I found myself in a flying wedge headed for the lobby of the West Park and -- you guessed it.
That game was an extraordinary event in itself; we must have settled down around midnight, when someone asked us if we intended to stop early or late. We replied that the cards would stop being dealt when the sun's first rays illuminated
the lobby; and we paid no heed to cries that the lobby opened westward.
During the night, as least the following people sat in from time to time: Norman Shorrock, Ron Bennett, Liz Humbie, Phil Rogers, Sid Birchby, Dave Barber, Pat Kearney, Jill Adams and myself. I don't believe more than six of us were at the table at any one time; if anyone else joined, he was there for only a brief span.
By this time I had gotten the hang of the game -- you don't play your cards, you play your opponents'; I was winning fairly regularly, and if Norman had thought I was keen the day before, he was goggle-eyed at my enthusiasm for the game when I began raking in chips -- HIS chips. He played casually, as always, and won heavily from Bennett on some of the most fantastic hands I've seen: hands where the bet went up to a pound, where pots often totalled more than five pounds, and where tension all around the table was incredible. I learned
how to be out-Bragged, and I learned how to laugh insanely at my cards no matter what; but mostly I learned how to rake in Norman's chips.
By the way, I am deliberately not describing Bennett's style of play. Anyone who has engaged in any game of skill or chance with him will appreciate the problem -- and you who have not would doubt the most conservative description. Let it be said merely and stand as inadequate but all stencil can convey that he is the most disconcerting opponent possible, and also a subtly skillful player; whenever I thought I had the game cold, Ron would completely upset me in my complacence and while doing so would take a big pot.
At something like two o'clock Sid Birchby sat down with us, and by three or so he conceived the idea that nearly destroyed the West Park Hotel -- he suggested coffee.
"But there'll be no hot water at this hour," muttered Norman, much more interested in cards than coffee.
"They have a geyser," insisted Bennett, "and it's worked just as one I have at home." And you know, it didn't register that he had said "geezer" instead of "guyzer" -- the same pronunciation I had noticed when I had trouble understanding how Mrs. Bentcliffe procured hot water. No, I just wrote it off to tapping the heat of the aforementioned Harrogate mineral springs -- the alert reader will observe that I am a peculiarly unscientific sort.
So Birchby and Bennett trundled out to Birchby's auto and retrieved his camping equipment, which just happened to contain some essence of coffee (a romantic name for instant coffee -- it's what the British call it) and they set up in the kitchen to serve the rest of us. Bennett turned the geyser to "fill" and went about getting tea and tea-things out of the cupboard; and, when the clear-plastic water-container was rising to full, he reached up --
And turned the knob the wrong way.
It continued to fill, and he turned the knob more violently the wrong way, letting out a squeal while Birchby laughed hysterically, insisting that it was identical to one Ron had at home. At this point the card-players came charging in to the rescue, to find Birchby doubled up in laughter and Bennett struggling with the infernal geyser, which was letting huge gouts of warm water all over him and the kitchen.
Norman got the fool thing turned off, and Liz helped Ron to a chair, while the remainder of us looked for pans and cloths with which to mop up. All the time Bennett was swearing at the geyser and laughing alternately, and the situation was getting funnier and funnier, as such things do at three ayem. Liz was trying to calm Ron a bit, but she kept bursting into gales of laughter; it was all anyone could do to mop up.
In this incident I learned the meaning of geyser -- it's a small, wall-mounted water heater, gas-operated. This was what had been on the wall above the sink at the Bentcliffe home, but it was metal and I didn't understand its use; it must have held at least three imperial quarts, while the West Park's geyser held perhaps one, to be used for single pots of tea or to infuriate Rom Bennett.
And so we mopped up, and Norman started the just-full geyser heating, and Liz helped Sid fix tea and coffee. As I was carrying my fourth tin of water from the room, I noticed the water beginning to bubble, and pointed it out to Ron.
"Don't pay any attention to the dirty little thing," he snapped. "You have to wait until that little red light goes out."
And, since he has one just like it at home, I took his word for it. On my next trip with a tin of water, as we were getting the last of it off the floor, I mentioned to Ron that the water was coming to a gentle, rolling boil.
"When that light goes off," he said, "the water is ready. It has a thermostat which clicks the light off at just the right time."
He was still shaking from his hysterics about shutting the thing off, so I made another trip. As I re-entered the kitchen, I saw steam rising from the far wall and boiling water spurting out the top of the geyser; nobody else was paying it any attention.
"Ron!" I shouted, "the geyser is boiling!"
He looked at me as if I had not a brain left.
"That red light --" he began, and turned to look at it.
"Oh, my ghod!" he screamed, suddenly hysterical again, "that light must mean it's finished heating!"
And with a cry of "But I have one like it at home!" he leaped across Dave Barber and grappled once more with it -- only this time every control was being doused with scalding water, and it took a seeming eternity to get it under control.
He had no help this time, because one and all we stood gasping for breath, holding our aching ribs and nearly collapsing with laughter. And of course we had to mop up again, but Bennett and I had to go to the lavatory about this time. When we returned, nearly recovered, the group was put into fresh paroxysms of hilarity by Sid Birchby, who unthinkingly picked up an unusual spoon, with half the bowl missing for some reason, and attempted to spoon instant coffee with it. He stood there inanely with coffee spilling out of his utensil, while we stared, and pointed, and laughed.
From then on to dawn, someone might say spoon, or water, or geyser, or "I have one just like it at home," to find gales of laughter.
At dawn the Irish boys descended from a party in Ella and Ethel's room which had lasted the night, and we told them the story. One by one British fandom filed downstairs then, as the day brightened and sobriety returned to our all-night Brag game. The Slaters set up their stand for Peterborough on the card table, and someone suggested breakfast. It was Monday, and the night was over.
After breakfast my main task was co-ordinating with the Jeeves family, with whom I was to travel to Sheffield that morning. This may sound easy, but I had to keep moving to keep awake once I'd eaten, and I did it by walking from one of the two hotels to another all morning.
Early off, Susie Slater came into the West Park with a popsicle; "penny ice," I think she called it. It was a muggy, hot day, and it seemed that all fandom turned on that pretty child to rob her of her tiny, but cold, popsicle. She looked frightened for a minute, then in a very businesslike way she took sixpences from everyone and went out to get more. I have a picture of Jimmy Groves very soberly working at a "penny ice" (at sixpence?), with the red colouring that many of my photos took when indoors -- he looks preposterous.
And I said goodbye to one and all -- to the German fans, the Cheltenham fans, the Irish, the London, the Scot fans -- and Terry, Val and Sandra Jeeves and I headed south to Sheffield. The convention was over.
- Ron Ellik ....taken from THE SQUIRREL'S TALE, (Jan'69).