A Blind Man's War

time that I began to knock around with Alan Miller, the boy next door. He was maybe four years older than me, and one of those people born with a wrench or a screwdriver in their hands; the Great Architect had meant him to be a motor mechanic from the start. His first car was a prewar Hillman open tourer. He rebuilt it completely on a piece of dead ground at the end of his garden, and coach painted it a vivid leaf green. We used to drive out in it on Sundays (I was usually working on a Saturday – most of my peers had Saturday jobs), spot a family group taking a walk, coast the car up silently behind them and shout the strange word ‘Mackeson!’ as loudly as we could. Consternation, shouts and screams usually ensued; Alan would then bang the car into gear, and we would race away looking for another victim. That memory is the reason I feel I can’t complain about the ‘boy racers’ who make the Edinburgh streets lively places to walk on Saturday nights. I suppose one would be arrested for doing that sort of thing today, and if there is anyone still alive on whom we played that trick, let me take this opportunity to apologize. It was Alan’s car that Dieter was driving, of course . . . and you know what Charlie would say: what goes around comes around.

I hope I haven’t offended the 1956 Suez veterans too much by describing the Anglo–Franco–Israeli attempt to seize the Canal Zone as one of the most successful, least effective, invasions carried out by the British Army. As usual the Army, Navy and RAF played their parts well – gave their all – and the politicians made a mess of it. Although there is one story that I would like to verify: one Canberra pilot in Cyprus allegedly raised the undercarriage of his aircraft, and dropped it on the ground, rather than bomb unsuspecting Egyptians. If he took his decision for the right reason that action must have taken a lot of courage. It doesn’t appear in any of the official histories, but the veterans will tell it all the same: truth, or just another Suez myth?

The way the Americans and the UN saw us off in 1956 was as humiliating for Britain as was the Cuban Missile Crisis to the Soviets a few years later. Washington took the high ground over Suez, and said that if it was opposing the Soviet invasion of Hungary, it was damned if it would let us do the same in Egypt. It was actually nothing to do with what was happening in Hungary, of course. International relations are essentially a competition for resources, and consequently the US and UN stance on Suez was absolutely nothing to do with the morality of the British action: morality and politics are words I have difficulty in working into a single sentence anyway. I’m certain the US saw its pressure on Britain at the time of Suez as a way to clip British wings for ever, and make sure we could never compete with them successfully on the world stage again. And we never have.

. . . and who paid the bill? Mostly the soldiers, sailors, airmen and their families of course . . . although you’ve been paying for it through your petrol ever since. It’s been the same since Thermopylae; we never seem to bloody learn.

In 1950s London one of the places to be seen was The Savoy Grill, off The Strand. When I contacted the nice people who have it now, to ask them what it was like at that time, their archivist responded with e-mailed photographs, menus and a seating plan which detailed the favourite tables of the celebrities of the period. I never fail to be impressed by the people and organizations which go out of their way to help me get the detail of my stories right. But I had a sentimental reason for setting scenes at The Savoy hotel: I spent my last night as a bachelor there – then my first night as a married man – in September 1965. I remember sitting in what seemed to be an enormous bedroom, reasoning that if a chimney sweep’s son could make it to The Savoy, then anything could happen! It has recently re-opened after a major refurbishment – I must stay there again at least once more before I go, and see what they’ve made of the old lady . . . and in case you are wondering, the film star sitting at the next table to Charlie and Robert Fabian was Lauren Bacall – the place still has very fond recollections of her.

Now I have to comment on the very last sentence that Charlie wrote for you in the body of this book, because this book may – just may – be The Last Post for Charlie Bassett. If you didn’t pick up on what might have happened, just go back and read the last four or five pages again: I’m sure you’ll get it. The publisher doesn’t want another Charlie Bassett book at present, and I’m sure Charlie is getting tired of me picking over his bones anyway, so unless you kick up hell and bully Pan Macmillan into it, you probably won’t be hearing from him again.

Am I sad? In a way; but also very grateful for having been given the opportunity to put his stories in front of you in the first place.

One last word: if you want to see Charlie, just look around you. He is the man alongside you now: every man with a small ‘e’. He and his people are composites – I think they draw their characteristics and textures from all of the ordinary people I have ever met, and