POSTING #65

Being Knocked up in Durham, and Other English Cities

In this posting, I am going back to the 1960-1966 period when I was working for Canadian Immigration in England. (See Posting #63 for other stories from this period.

One of the best parts of conducting film shows in England was staying at small, historic inns.

My favourite was The Three Tuns in Durham, which I am happy to say is still in business. It dates from the 1500s, is in the centre of the city close to the remarkable Durham Cathedral with its Norman architecture and to Durham Castle, which is now part of the University of Durham.

After my first film show in Durham and the usual pub session with the travel representatives I returned to the hotel.

The night clerk asked, "What time would you like to be knocked up?"

The North American slang expression, 'being knocked up' hadn't made its way across the Atlantic at that time. Other officials at the Immigration office had warned me about the expression so I was able to keep a reasonably straight face. As time went by, I didn't react at all to the expression but I don't think I ever used it---I just couldn't bring myself to ask to be knocked up.

As a digression, I've been told that Australian visitors to Canada often buy sweatshirts with Roots emblazoned across them because the word 'root' is, according to a dictionary, "coarse slang for sexual intercourse". It makes me wonder how Australian teachers of botany discuss the parts of a plant without sending high school students into a storm of titters and guffaws.

Anyway, back to The Three Tuns.

I told the night clerk that I would like to be wakened at 6.30 with tea and the Times.

Then I climbed upstairs for a sound sleep in a soft and comfortable bed.

Promptly at 6.30, a maid knocked. opened the unlocked door (a different time and place!) and brought in a tray with a tea pot, an attractive cup and saucer, fresh rich milk and a copy of the Times. She pulled the curtains and disappeared.

I always asked for an early 'knock up' so that I could lie in bed, propped up on several pillows, sip the best tea I've ever had (only the North of England folk know how to make tea) and digest the Times.

And then after a leisurely soak in a deep, claw-foot tub, I went down for an English breakfast with grilled tomatoes, rashers of bacon, eggs, blood pudding (which I always left) and stone-cold toast (I learned that it didn't really matter that it wasn't warm---the sweet butter and strong Scottish marmalade made up for that). And of course, lots more excellent tea.

I travelled back to the Leeds office about as happy and comfortable as a person could be.

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On another film show occasion (in the North of England but not in Durham), the five travel representatives, who always came to our shows, and I had checked into a small inn. After the film show, the reps and I adjourned as usual to a pub.

As we sipped our beer, I looked at the reps. Four of them were clearly from working class or lower middle class backgrounds.

They were personable, hard-working, competent representatives for their companies, but their backgrounds showed. Their suits were off-the-rack, their body language showed a lack of confidence, their faces had a tense look of someone trying to get ahead, or at least trying to hang on to what they had.

Above all were the pronounced regional accents---of Lancashire, Yorkshire or Northumberland or other counties. (I thought about a secretary in our office who was spending money the family really couldn't afford to send their daughter for costly elocution lessons so she would grow up without a Yorkshire accent.)

At that time, accent was so very important. There were no regional accents on the BBC---all the presenters and newsreaders spoke 'proper English'.

The fifth travel rep, Reg Fairbottom (not his real name), was different.

He was in his 50s, not short and not tall, a little stout but his weight was concealed by a well-cut, three piece dark suit. He wore a school tie indicating that he had gone to a public (private) school.

The school had done a fine job. Reg spoke with what was called 'a posh accent'. That combined with his relaxed posture and confident manner marked him as a person who 'belonged', a person who had 'arrived'.

He could have worked for the BBC, any time.

Reg had a lot going for him but unfortunately he had a problem.

He drank too much---his favourite drink was the boiler maker, a shot of whisky (Scotch of course and spelled without the 'e')) with beer as a chaser.

Some drinkers become angry and obnoxious.

Not Reg.

As the evening wore on, he told stories, sang songs, played pranks---became more and more the life of the party.

Finally, I said good night to the group and went back to the inn.

The inn had only twenty or so rooms and no night clerk to take early morning calls. Instead, there was a chalk board on which guests were to jot down their 'knock up' details.

I wrote down "#7 6.30 T&T", which translated into: Room 7 wants tea and a Times at 6.30. And went off to bed.

I woke up with the sun coming in through the gap in the curtains. Looking at my watch, I saw that it was 7.15. I looked around for a tray with tea.

No tray. No tea. No Times.

There were no phones in the rooms to find out what had happened. So I rushed to get washed and dressed---I had a train to catch.

In the lobby, it looked like a scene from the BBC classic TV comedy Fawlty Towers. Guests were standing at the desk berating a harassed clerk who kept repeating that someone had erased the blackboard. The inn was sorry but what could it do. It couldn't make 'knock up calls' without the blackboard.

The mood in the dining room was bitter, as grumbling guests had to bolt their breakfasts in order to get to their business appointments or catch their trains.

A few weeks later, one of the travel reps called to say that the inn had decided that Reg was the culprit who had erased the blackboard and had banned him for life from the inn. The rep and I agreed that it was the kind of prank that Reg---after a night of boiler makers---might well have played

At the next film show in that city, I checked into the same inn and went down to the hall for the show.

Reg was there, big as life.

I asked him where he was staying.

"At the ------", naming the hotel that had banned him.

"But I thought...."

"Oh, there was some bother after the last show but I managed to get a room."

"How?"

Reg smiled, "You have to understand the British. I phoned and said 'This is Sir Reginald brumpf-brumpf. Would you have a room for me this evening."

Apparently, the clerk had said, "Of course, Sir Reginald, we would be delighted to have you stay with us."

"But", I asked, "what happened when you showed up?"

"Oh, they recognized me, but what could they do. For all they know I might have a 'K' (slang for a knighthood). We British still respect titles, don't you know."

And they were also deferential to someone with a 'posh' accent.

When I got back to the hotel, there was a night clerk to take the 'knock up' orders. They obviously weren't going to trust a blackboard when 'Sir Reginald' was around.

The next morning I got my tea and Times at 6.30.

Stop the Press News!!

On March 25th we saw our first boat of the season in the Welland Canal---the Rt. Hon. Paul J. Martin (Canada Steamship Lines).

It somehow seemed appropriate that in a week that the US President signed a major health care bill into law, the first ship through the Canal should be named after a politician who played a key role in bringing health care to Canada.


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See you next Sunday for Posting #66 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting, or email me at johnpathunter@cs.com.