The Eigerwand, Part I

In this excerpt from his autobiography my father is again a bachelor, now in mid-60s Seattle. He seems to give little thought to his family while pursuing the life of a Lothario.

I returned to Seattle to await possible job offers and take part in the demise of my marriage. It seemed as if my life was disintegrating, piece by piece. Even my mother, my staunchest ally, was unhappy with the way things were going. With my sister going off to Graduate School at Northwestern in Chicago, she thought she would move up to Seattle. At first this was to enjoy grandmotherhood and to help Mary Ann raise two boys; then it was for the perceived companionship and support I would need. She had finally finished her Master’s degree in Education at UCLA and she believed she could find something to keep her busy in the Northwest.

            I don’t recall all the circumstances surrounding my final break-up with Mary Ann, but it was decided to at least make a trial separation that spring. The boys were told that they were moving southwards—to Carmel, California as it turned out—with their mother for a while. I was to stay on at our leased house, looking for another place, until the owner returned at the beginning of June.

            I was now so broke that there wasn’t the remotest possibility—although I longed to—of going to Cambridge and Europe for the summer. One bright sign emerged: I had been offered a further three year contract by UW, only two short of tenure! That would defer job-hunting for another two years. But then no offer was forthcoming from either Hopkins or Yale; but my friendship with Derek Price at Yale continued apace.

            I enjoyed the life of a 27 year old bachelor professor, but had few friends in the city. One day, after class, I was walking in the University District and I passed by this large glass window fronted coffee house with the weird name Eigerwand on it. It looked dark and somewhat dingy—not unlike all of the coffeehouses of the early sixties.

            As it happened, the Eigerwand came out of the Seattle World’s Fair where, as its first incarnation, it began as The Sleeping Buddha. I believe that its two partners, Joel Eisenberg and Eric Bjornstad, bankrupted it shortly after the closing of the Fair. And somehow some of its contents, barrel-tables, benches, ice-cream freezer, tea pots and tableware, found their way up to the University district.

            Along the Eiger’s walls hung numerous large framed black-and-white photographs illustrating Eric’s more renowned climbs—showing him in crevasses, climbing upside down, etc. Eric was a genius when it came to decoration: burlap (from a bag factory) was the wallpaper, the acoustic tile-looking ceiling was, in fact, egg cartons sprayed with dark brown paint and fire-retardant and the barrels and various utensils came from the old Sleeping Buddha. It was a cozy, friendly place in the University district of a rainy Northwestern city—and a reasonable profit-maker.

            In those days, Eric was an insatiable rock climber, this tended to mean that the Eiger was simply a money-generator to finance his climbing. It also, by way of his waitress-interviewing, a generator of his sexual fodder. This, coupled with his alluring red-finished pot-bellied stove with fire and private table at the back of place, provided Eric with ample companionship.

            Eric and I became acquainted not long after I started coming in. I found him to be intelligent, interesting, and willing to befriend me at a time when I was feeling very much alone. He, in turn, introduced me to other denizens of the place.

            I’m not exactly sure of the circumstances under which I first met Alicia Wheatley, but I believe it was at the Eigerwand, possibly in the company of Deb Das who seemed to be her guru. Alicia was considerably attractive, somewhat intelligent, and soft spoken. She was the daughter of a UW marketing professor. She had been a student, but had decided to experiment with a career in nursing. These were the days of “flower children” and clearly, under the tutelage of Deb Das, Alicia was fast becoming one. I personally think she had seen the film Elvira Madigan one too many times: she liked to wear gossamer summery dresses and drift or glide instead of walk. Alicia never planned anything in advance, she was, to say the least, spontaneous. She was the opposite of “up tight”; you might say, literally, not wound too tightly. But she had a soft, feminine, ethereal quality. She was, in short, lovely.

            About the only thing I remember that I found disturbing in Alicia was her nervousness; she was definitely high strung. Some part of her body was always moving; she could never sit still for long. Also, this was reflected in a pervasive intensity—the strong, committed way she felt about everything. I found her instantly attractive and wanted to possess her. Her hungriness and intensity made me want to possess her. Fortunately for me, she was not up to playing games: if she liked you, she was not difficult to possess—to ‘keep’, perhaps, but not possess.

            I remember that her friendship with a fellow student, Melody Greer, got her interested in theater. Melody was rehearsing for The Fantastics in a University drama production and Alicia was living it all out, vicariously. She sang “Try to Remember” endlessly when we were together. And we did spend a lot of time together. In order to get her to live with me, I had to promise to take her to work at a local hospital every morning around 6:30 a.m. This was the true test of love, as far as I was concerned!

            The only trouble was that Alicia was a bit of a nymphomaniac, so my nights preceding school days were none too restful. Going to bed at midnight, making love until 2 a.m., then getting up at 5:30 to take Alicia to her hospital, then going off to teach. Love, or lust, held it together for a couple of weeks, then it began to drag me down a bit. But Alicia’s physical beauty and feminine intensity held me enthralled.

            I really only clearly remember two events during the relationship. First was the evening I went to a sorority ‘apple-polishing’ dinner and found myself seated next to an imposing fellow Professor, a George C. Scott look-alike who seemed quite the self-impressed rogue. You could tell from his conversation that he wished he was a bachelor some 20 years younger. When I asked him about himself, I was floored to learn that I was seated next to and conversing with Alicia’s father! I tried to keep my cool as he kept prodding me about the love life of a young bachelor professor, and how I was doing with the co-eds—replete with the occasional nudge, nudge, know what I mean? thrown in. I found it embarrassing, because I suspected that, before too long, we would be more formally introduced by his daughter. As it was, I admitted to nothing, although he probed unabashedly. I remember coming home to Alicia that night, and asked her off-handedly to guess who I had dinner with. When I told her father, she went ghostly pale. She knew what a short-tempered bastard he was. When she learned that he hadn’t a clue as to who I really was, vis-a-vis his daughter, she relaxed and enjoyed my little joke.

            The other occasion I now remember vividly, was the weekend that six of us—calling ourselves The Olympic Loving Team—went out for a lustful weekend to the Olympic Peninsula. I can remember Susie, a waitress from the Eiger, who was a pal of mine, and her boyfriend Mark, a New York attorney, Jim Wolcott, his girl Kathy (another Eiger waitress), Alicia and me. There may have been one other couple along. I remember we had planned ahead, filled a cold chest with wine, ice, beer and other beverages. We brought along some pot and a few delicatessen sandwiches.

            We drove over, having taken the Bremerton ferry, and eventually stopped at a Norman Bates-type court motel in La Push, which, next to Humptulips, seemed to be the most appropriately named locale for the Northwest Spring Trials for the Olympic Loving team. We were all marvelously suited to one another and got along fabulously. The pot-smoking got us to playing kiddie card games like Go Fish! and Old Maid, and possibly my invention of 3-D Monopoly—where you can go under the board. We went to bed that night both physically and mentally wiped out. Susie and Mark had one bedroom off a sitting room that was shared by the occupants of a second bedroom (Alicia and I). We left the cold locker on a chair in the sitting room, still with remaining sodas and ice. Sometime during the middle of the night, thirsty from our cannabis and booze, three of us decided to get up and tiptoe into the common room to get something to drink. When it became obvious to each of us (Kathy, Susie, and me) that we were not alone in that darkened room, Susie spoke up, saying not to turn on the light as she was totally naked. When Kathy concurred that she too slept in the altogether and hadn’t a stitch on, I immediately flipped the wall switch to confirm all this and fed my eyes with their pulchritude as they ran squealing back to their respective bedrooms! Alicia was not too happy with my nocturnal activities and admonished me for my insensitivity. Since she did not partake of the weed, nor of much of the booze, she was, in my eyes, not really a full-fledged participant in our group. Had she not been great in the sack, that might have put an end to our relationship even sooner than it did.

            I had had an evening class student named Sharon Sinclair who was about 25 years old, who had quit regular day classes because (a) she needed to earn a living and (b) because she had dreams of being a professional figure skater. She had come up to me after class one evening in an effort to get to know me; in the course of this personal contact she learned that I had once been a figure skater. Her mental/emotional wheels were beginning to hum—rapidly. Clearly, she felt that time was fastly becoming her enemy; she had reached the advanced age of 25 with three years of college and hadn’t found a suitable mate. Her above-average intelligence which, unfortunately, showed a little too much and her above-average looks which were normally a considerable asset had also proved a drawback, in so far as they set her standards a little too high for what was currently available in the male population of Seattle. As a result, Sharon was an aggressive, determined young lady who, once aroused by a suitable quarry, became nearly obsessed.

One consequence is that she was sexually self-aware and used her predilection for nymphomania as a social assault-weapon. Naturally, I found this to be—in addition to the looks, intelligence and agile body—a most appealing attribute. After only two evenings we got into bed together. She was determined to make me feel that it was I who in fact seduced her.

 Indeed, once she got to know me intimately, she presented me with a joke present of some pale blue business cards with: “Peter Vorzimmer, Mind Screwer” printed on them! The only problem with Sharon was that her determination turned to obsession. Where I enjoyed this in the sex department, I found this too constricting to my bachelorhood. She did not possess the comforting warmth of a prospective mate; she seemed as shallow as she was bright; and it seemed to me she offered no long-term prospects as a wife. She was not generally social—perhaps it was a form of insecurity, of not being able to hold on to me in the busy full environment in which I lived. Only very slowly was I able to phase her out of my life, though she embarrassingly hung around the fringes of it at the Eiger, at the University and the University District in general.

Death in Hollywood

On Wednesday, March 17, 1954—St. Patrick’s Day—my father, 16 at the time, was driving to the Hollywood Athletic Club (HAC) to do some ice skating. He was headed west in the left lane on Sunset Boulevard, which is two lanes in each direction, and directly across from the Athletic Club. There were two cars in the right lane, slightly ahead of him, which had stopped to let a woman cross the street in the middle of the block. My father, not heeding the fact that the cars ahead had stopped, kept going and, as he came parallel to the first car on the right, the woman stepped into his path and he hit her hard enough that she died almost instantly.

The 59-year-old-woman woman, Bertha C. Smith was pronounced dead on arrival at Hollywood Receiving Hospital and my father was booked on manslaughter charges. Later that day he was released to his mother’s custody. The manslaughter charges were eventually dropped, but his driver’s license was suspended for a year and civil charges of negligent homicide were brought by the family of the victim.

My father’s only recollection of the trial, besides the decision that his parents were not financially liable for the death of the woman because she had not crossed at the crosswalk, was of the woman’s two sons, in their thirties, who glared at him throughout the trial.

Two ironic notes are that my father’s own paternal grandmother was named Bertha and that my father would not, himself, live to the age of 59.

My father was in the last half of his senior year at Hollywood High and my father says no more about it in his autobiography other than the fact that he was inconvenienced by losing his driver’s license for a year.

It was on the way to HAC one day, March 17th, 1954, that I got involved in an accident in which I killed an elderly pedestrian. Which, though she had made some negligent contribution, cost me my driver’s license for one year. It also took the wind out of my senior year of high school.

My lack of wheels forced me to concentrate on my writing skills—particularly my editorship of an amateur science fiction magazine, Abstract, a fanzine, as they are called. This brought me closer to a group of similarly minded young men. Charley Wilgus was my closest friend, followed by Don Donnell, Jimmy Clemons and Burt Satz. Don was the most creative and, at 16, already a good writer; Burt, who was universally picked on by the rest, was the best read (Hemingway, Joyce, and a host of others). Clemons introduced me to the world of Science Fiction and the L. A. Science Fiction Society—whose meetings were attended by E. E. “Doc” Smith, Ray Bradbury, and the agent Forry Ackerman. Possibly because of its controversial—read argumentative—editorials, its excellent mimeographed and often salacious art, Abstract became quite popular in the world of science fiction fandom. The high point of my early career was my bus trip to San Francisco to meet various pen pals: Gilbert Minicucci, Terry Carr, Bob Stewart, and Pete Graham. It took something for my mother to permit her 15-year-old son to go up by bus to San Francisco from L.A. to attend a Sci Fi convention on his own for a week!

A Falling Out

My father had some kind of disagreement with my grandfather in January 1964 the details of which we never knew other than the fact that it was something very trivial relating to paintings of a friend of his he was trying to promote. Years passed without communication of any kind between them and it became apparent to me that the incident, whatever the particulars, was in my father’s mind a sort of “last straw” in a series of conflicts with his stepmother, who had been my his father’s mistress and, therefore, in his mind, to blame for the dissolution of his parents’ marriage.

Although we, his grandchildren, did try to maintain a relationship with my grandfather, thanks in part to my aunt, my father’s sister Mary Ellen, it was never close and always a bit strained. I remember at the end of every visit with them, my grandmother—my step-grandmother—without asking me anything about how my life was going, would pull out a checkbook, write a check for a couple hundred dollars and hand it to me while telling how much they appreciated the visit. I always wondered if I appeared impoverished to her in some way.

My aunt, the only person that could have effected a reconciliation between her father and her brother, told us often that our grandfather wanted no part in making that happen. My grandfather was never told that his son had died in early 1995, having predeceased him by seven months.

During the six weeks I spent at my mother’s in Los Angeles before I moved up to Seattle, I was miserable. In my mother’s eyes I was still the teenager I was when I first left L.A. for college in Santa Barbara nine years before—and she treated me accordingly. I was broke—and thus dependent on her for support. And she was none too happy that my marriage was falling apart, because of my own infidelities which she saw as rank immaturity and a criminal shirking of responsibilities! I was obliged to account for all my time and money spent, I had to ask to borrow the car, in short, I had to explain or justify all my actions. I felt I was a prisoner on Alverstone Avenue. I couldn’t wait to get to Seattle.

My conversations with Mary Ann resulted in her willingness to come to Seattle and try once again to put our family back together. We would have a big family house for the year and it seemed to provide an opportunity to mend things. It also enabled me to save considerable face in my new location. After all, I was a young, green academic anyway, and in good old “family-values” middle America Seattle, being divorced at 26 with two kids would definitely not be a social plus.

All was going well with us at this time; the University of Washington History department had decided to keep me on, and offered me a 3-year contract despite the fact that Tom Hankins was arriving to fill the History of Science slot. But, I was happy and content, my dissertation manuscript had been submitted to the UW Press, and I looked to be well on my way. Nevertheless, I decided to hedge my bets by presenting a research paper on the work I was doing at the annual History of Science Society meeting to be held in Philadelphia just after Christmas. This had the additional advantage of seeing my father in New York—and also my former roommate on the trip to America, Claus Seligmann.

I contacted Claus, with whom I had been in regular correspondence since he stopped in New York, and arranged to see him there when I came out to attend the conference in Philadelphia. He invited me to come back up to New York and stay with him over the New Year’s holiday—the Conference was to be the December 27-30—I happily accepted.

I stayed with my father and his family in Manhattan for one night before I left for Philadelphia. Nothing unusual; my stepmother was as difficult as ever. She had been going on as if she were some important patron of the arts. They had some decent paintings on the wall, called the artist Leroy Neiman by his first name, and talked incessantly about discovering some young artist.

Since I had seen a number of Claus’ own paintings, I mentioned that I had a friend who was an artist, a good artist, and who was looking to be discovered. She and my father said to bring him over to the house—together with some of his works—one evening. I was happy; partly because I knew that Claus was a good artist, better than the one they had discovered, perhaps I could thereby do him a favor.

Philadelphia was somewhat of a success. I remember that my father decided to come down on the day I was to give my paper. That was some day! It was to be like an audition and I had heard that Yale and Johns Hopkins were both looking for an Assistant Professor on their tenure track. I was quite nervous, under the circumstances. But so was the young chap, Fred Churchill, who preceded me to the podium. I was sitting with my father in one of the back rows when Fred began. I wasn’t really listening when my father, hearing Fred slurring some of his words and swaying slightly, announced that something was wrong. He told me that he thought the speaker was about to faint; my father began to move out of his chair, towards the front. Sure enough, Fred continued for a few more words, then collapsed right in front of the audience. My father was one of the first to reach him where he was lying, already surrounded by people. My father urged people to stand back and give him some air and began to loosen Fred’s collar and tie. Meantime, former physician and Hopkins professor Oswei Temkin was also taking it upon himself to minister to Fred. He asked for a chair for Fred to sit in and was starting to help the bewildered young man into it, when my father intervened. He said that he should continue to lie still for a few moments and not stand or sit up! At this point, an argument ensued between Temkin and my father with Temkin demanding to know “Who is this man?” and declaring that he, Temkin, was a physician, and knew best, under the circumstances, what to do. My father countered that any first-year med student would know not to have a fainter be put in an upright position. Temkin demanded to know my father’s credentials. When he was told Chief of Medicine at Beth Israel Hospital in New York, Temkin mumbled and stalked off! Considering that Temkin had a say in the Johns Hopkins appointment only made me more nervous—and I was up next!

It all went well for the rest of the meeting; my father returned to New York and I followed the next day to Claus’.

Claus had taken a relatively menial architectural job in New York at modest wage in order to secure his visa, but he was none too happy at the rather stinginess of the wage he’d been offered and in his own ignorance of the wages necessary to live confortably in New York City. He had met and taken up cohabitation with, a German nurse, Jutta Holzhueter, whom he had met shortly after his arrival. She was an attractive, intelligent, extremely outspoken, Germanic young woman with a good sense of humor—and we all got along well. They invited me to a New Year’s Eve party, offering to find me a date. Immediately there came to mind the most beautiful woman I had ever met, who had been my birthday present the previous May in Cambridge. She was Dutch and was a flight attendant for KLM out of New York. She had given me her phone number when we parted in May and said if ever I was in New York to look her up.

It was a night I’ll never forget. I told Claus and Jutta that I might be able to scare up my own date for the party. I didn’t think, on but 24 hour notice, that I could get a date with one of the city’s most beautiful women—who certainly would not be hurting for a date on New Year’s Eve!

I was surprised to even get Michaela on the phone! And further surprised and flattered that she remembered who I was. I was stunned when she said that—as a matter of fact—she didn’t have a date for New Year’s Eve and would love to go along with me and my friends to a party. She had only just gotten in from one of her flights. She did mention, a bit offhandedly, that she had, about a month before, said to a young Dutchman she knew, that she might see him if he came to New York over New Year’s; but she’d not heard from him. By this time, I was hearing nothing, literally clicking my heels with ecstasy and glee at the thought of my incredible last-minute luck!

When queried by Claus and Jutta I said that I called some old back-up slag I used to know who would “make do” for a New Year’s date. Jutta was a little disappointed as she’d talked me up with an English nurse friend as a possible date. Meanwhile, I was in seventh heaven in anticipation of this gorgeous creature.

The party was to be a modest one, consisting primarily of nurses and artists in Greenwich Village. We brought two bottles of vodka and left early to pick up Michaela on the way.

When she opened the door, Mike was even more beautiful than I had remembered. Her long blonde hair was up in a French twist, showing off her flawless tanned face and flashing white smile. She was wearing a dark blue pinafore top dress with a single gold brooch. She seemed delighted to see me and invited me in for a quick drink while she got her coat. Claus and Jutta were down in the car.

I must say that I felt like King-of-the-World as I sipped my Scotch-rocks and surveyed her apartment. Who knows? Wasn’t it odds-on that I would get lucky on New Year’s Eve? I was definitely pre-orgasmic! This feeling was to last less than 30 seconds; for next the doorbell rang. Mike asked me if I would answer it.

Standing in the doorway of the apartment was the handsomest male human being I ever met. He was about 6'3" dressed in a ship’s officer’s uniform replete with braid and brass. He had a lion’s mane of blonde hair and a disgustingly charming white smile! I felt like a zit-ridden, wart faced Quasimodo by contrast. My mouth must have drooped open as he introduced himself. As he held out his hand, Mike came out of her bedroom and crossed to us. The only thing I could think of was to place my scotch in his proffered open hand and apologize for being in their way. I thanked her, hiked up my hunch, and strode out the still-open door. What total humiliation! And here I thought I would return to my waiting friends in triumphant pride and all I could do was drag one foot like Quasimodo and haul my humiliated hunch back into the car.

I was that close!

Jutta was great, insisting that she call her friend Gillian, who was going to the party anyway, and have her make up a foursome with us, which she did. Lower than whale dung at the bottom of the ocean, as an old friend of mine would say, I would find Gillian, a slender attractive English blonde, a more than sufficient substitute for my Dutch 10. But there was an interesting end to 1963—and I never hear to that song “December 1963 (Oh, What a Night!)” with its line “Late December back in ’63 . . . what a lady, what a night!” that I don’t think of Gillian.

The party was packed with people, a convivial, casual group of urban existentialists. Much booze, and delicious boiled calamari which went splendidly with ice-cold vodka; all contributing to the normal boy-girl vibes which, at our age and general inclinations, didn’t really need any stimulating.  

Our first stop after the party was Gillian’s. I went up with her, telling Claus and Jutta that I would walk back to their apartment afterwards. We were feeling no pain at that point, but neither were we feeling any unmistakable signs of forthcoming intimacy either. Offered a choice of either coffee or another drink, I chose neither. A few minutes of small talk and Gillian excused herself—it was getting late. She asked for my help in moving the coffee table away from the couch that would become her bed. I obliged and the bed appeared, already made. I was getting tense. Although 26, I had little or no bachelor experience—and I knew that the moment of truth was quickly approaching.

All I could think of was asking to use her bathroom.

As I stood there nervously emptying my bladder, my mind asked the perennial question whenever I got into tight spots like this: “What would Herb do in a situation like this?” My full-blooded Blackfoot Indian roommate from college, mentor, guardian, role model came in handy during moments like these. As I turned towards the door I saw, still swinging from its hook, an empty clothes hanger in the batroom. I knew what Herb would do. I took off all my clothes and was about to open the door when I paused, feeling utterly naked—which, of course, I was. I got this mental picture of myself walking out, buck naked, into the apartment of a young woman whom I had only just met some five hours before and having her look me up and down saying “What in hell do you think you’re up to?” All parts of me shriveled at this thought. I reached into my jacket pocket and, thinking of the English cigarette ad with the line “You’re never alone with a Capstan”, I took out a cigarette and lit it. I thought proudly of my mentor Herb as I turned the knob and sauntered into the livingroom.

Gillian had turned all the lights out except a small one on the bedside table, had gotten into bed, and skootched herself over into the middle, not only leaving enough for me next to her, but turning down the bedclothes invitingly. Although I must have looked a proper fool, coming out of the john without a stitch on, cigarette dangling coolly from my mouth, I maintained my composure, stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray on the bedstand, turned out the light, and moved in to enjoy Gill’s delights for the opening of 1964!

When I returned to my father’s apartment, I tried to convince him to accept one of Claus’ offered paintings for his wall. He actually had a choice of three, from which he picked one. It was a largish colorful abstract which I found striking. I pointed out that it would be very helpful if my father could help promote Claus—as he was not only talented but much in need these days. I gave them a packet of Claus’ cards just in case anyone struck with the exhibited sample might be further interested. I also gave them what would be the price of the one they had on the wall, as an example of the kind of figure Claus was expecting. Before I could finish my promotion, my father jumped all over me, ranting about my expecting to turn his apartment into a gallery, expecting him to hawk Claus’ paintings right off his walls—to vend to his house guests! I hardly had a chance to remind him that offering a business card to an interested party would be sufficient; but he and Hellie went on haranguing me for my presumption and audacity—and soon the diatribe veered into the area of long-simmering grievances they felt towards me, my mother, etc.

I backed off apologetically, but that had the opposite effect, they pushed forward, my father working himself into a real tantrum, at one point looking as if he were going to strike me. Again I apologized, saying that I would take the painting back to Claus—and again they pushed. Wasn’t it Claus’ gift? What was my role here? Was I some sort of agent or middleman for Claus? Was I using them? And off they went on some tangent that nothing to do with the painting and everything to do with the history of our relationship, and how my mother was telling me how rich my father was, was always putting me up to something.

As they joined forces in the browbeating, two things came into my mind. First, I felt that Claus’ beautiful painting was about to become the permanent property—a presumed gift—of my father and stepmother and, second, that I was being treated like a teenager, being forced to listen to years-old grievances of guilt-sodden immoralists. Slowly, I grew angry. My loyalties to my recent friend, I began to realize, were stronger than to these unreasonable adults. The phrase about the best defense being a good offensive also came to mind. If I was seen as standing in for my mother, I would defend her. I found a way out of that room—and the apartment—in which I could avoid being struck by my father and left. As of this writing, the incident was now more than thirty years ago; and I’ve not seen my father since.

Farewell to Cambridge

My father bids farewell to Cambridge and sails home on the S. S. France on which he shares a stateroom with the German artist Claus Seligmann, which was the beginning of a friendship that would last many years.

Around about mid-June I decided to host one of those end-of-term parties. Since this was a huge house, it would be the ideal place. Paul Upton and the rest of the guys would soon be heading on out to the big world, so the occasion was right. And I had gotten a ticket to New York on the SS France on the 4th of July, so I didn’t have to worry about the mess. I invited everyone. In particular, there was this Norwegian girl, tall, dark, and beautiful, called Bee.

The best way to assure plenty of guests at a party is to seek out Tony Ventris at his stall on the Southwest corner of the Market Square. It would take the better part of a book to describe Tony but, together with his father, he sold bananas and tomatoes at a stall on Cambridge’s central square. Everybody, town as well as gown, knew Tony. He was an affable intelligent chap who fancied himself as a ladies’ man and a bon vivant. He had a hideous half-cockney, half upper-crust accent which made him a cross between Cary Grant and Alfie. But no one disliked Tony and, as Tony would have it, a party wasn’t a party if Tony wasn’t there! On top of that, Tony knew where all the parties in Cambridge were. Whenever any form of social event was planned, word got back to Tony at his fruit stall. He knew the time, date, place, who was invited and who was not. And he always included himself and a few of his friends. Furthermore, telling Tony about your social affair could be tantamount to issuing an open invitation to all of Cambridge—at least the under-30 crowd.

So I told Tony and stressed the fact that he was not to tell anyone else, that way I could assure an abundance of guests. But I made Tony pay the price of being, at least for the first hour or so, the bouncer, often a necessary evil at a Cambridge party during the summer. Unfortunately, as it turned out, I tried to assure security by asking my good friend, Franz Kuna, a tall big-boned Austrian, to also act as a bouncer.

The Spread Eagle supplied me with several gallons of my favorite student libation Merrydown apple wine and most of my friends were there, including the infamous Sammy Singh!

When the Waterloo party began, Bee was there. The place was crowded—on three of the four floors. I had danced with Bee, but was bothered by the lingering knowledge that she had been bedded by Sammy—and here I was taking her to the May Ball! We had formed a party, consisting of my buddies at Alconbury, Joe Marged and Joe MacLemore, and a few others—we agreed to meet in the Great Hall at midnight to partake of the feast. I had had much to drink and really didn’t give that much of a damn about this otherwise beautiful girl; so I decided to play it very off-handedly. I made it obvious that I wanted to bed her—and told her so; regardless of the consequences.

The night began busily enough, with people flooding in. Realizing that I may have overdone it, I asked Tony to be sure to admit only those people who he knew were friends of mine, with only cute female exceptions. Then I gave the word to Franz. I then went to join the throng in the main sitting room where the lovely Bee was.

After about an hour, during which time I was busy snaking all over Bee, I heard a commotion from out in the hallway; it sounded like a fight. I went out in the hallway and looked over the railing, down one flight. Sure enough, there was Tony Ventris locked in mortal combat with my friend Franz Kuna—the two bouncers were trying to throw each other out! And this was just the beginning of a bad night!

What had happened was that, having been sent by me to do the rounds and extricate one or two party crashers, Franz Kuna had happened upon Tony Ventris. Now the two did not know each other and I had also deputized Tony to throw out any supernumerary attendees.

Well, Kuna and Ventris happened on each other downstairs, and duly challenged each other. Both took great umbrage at being so threatened and both decided to toss the other out. Kuna is over 6' and good-sized; Ventris is a natural street scrapper, so the fight was on. I managed to separate the two and end the whole thing somewhat amicably—but I found the whole thing quite amusing.

I only spent about ten more days in Cambridge, having booked passage on what was to be one of the last voyages of the S. S. France, which was then one of the biggest ships afloat. The sailing date was to be the 4th of July, a propitious time, I thought, to be heading home to America.

I had decided to have another, smaller party of my best friends on the night of the 3rd, and so invited Elie and Johanna, Poul and Merete, Ib, Sammy, and a few others round to Waterloo House. That afternoon I consoled myself with the saddening thoughts of my departure, by consuming copious quantities of my favorite Apple cider, Merrydown; by the time I got back to my room for a lie-down, I was well past it.

As I reclined on my bed, I took my steamship information packet from the night table to read. As I opened it, a small single page slip fell out and I read it. It was to inform passengers that the time and date of the sailing had been moved forward, to 4 p.m. on July 3rd! Although my mind was a bit furry from the cider, my eyes opened wide as I looked at my watch—it was nearly 1 p.m. and the boat was sailing from Southampton in 3 hours! I panicked. First thing I did was call my friend George Abbott at his travel bureau to confirm what I’d read. He seemed surprised to hear I was still in Cambridge! He was very helpful, consulting some of his timetables: he told me I had 15 minutes to make the last train that would connect me with my London boat-train in time to make the sailing! What a panic! I immediately called Poul Holm and had him come over straightaway to help with my final packing Fortunately, I had packed and shipped much before this time and only had the contents of my room. I called my buddy Bill Blackburn, a Cambridge policeman, and had him come over and took my scooter and registration papers to sell the damn thing and send me the money. I called Elie to tell him what had transpired and that the party was off and would he tell the others. By that time Poul had arrived and we scrambled the stuff—electric typewriter, tennis racket, large framed print, tape recorder, Bobby’s helmet, hat, etc.,—downstairs and out to a waiting taxi. There was a mad dash for the train with Poul, Merete, and I dashing down the platform with the gear, the train just starting to pull out. I had jumped on and, through the still-open door they chucked the gear as the train slid out of the station. As I waved good-bye as the train left, I noticed Poul waving back—still wearing my hat! Oh, well . . . That was how I left Cambridge on July 3, 1963.

I made my connections and got to the dockside in Southampton just as the France was tooting its horn signaling the dockers to let loose its mooring lines. All the traditional passenger gangways were up—only a conveyor belt moving the last-minute fresh perishables into the galley area was still attached. Boxes of fresh vegetables, canisters of milk—and me and my gear were put on it at the last minute. About 6 short Phillip Morris-like bellboys were dispatched to aid me in getting myself and my gear to my stateroom. The boys went ahead, carrying all the ridiculous gear, including the policeman’s helmet.

I had to share a cabin with two others, one of whom was already in the room squaring his stuff away. A succession of red-liveried bellboys brought, first, the typewriter, then the tape recorder. My roommate an English architect with the very Germanic name of Claus Seligmann, was curious and trying to form a picture of who his roommate was, and what he did, from the various paraphernalia that he watched coming into the room. Next came the framed print—an impressionistic Three Boats by the Vietnamese Artist Lê Bá Đảng—then the Bobby helmet, then a mountain climber’s ice axe. He was totally mystified, albeit convinced that he was unlikely to find his roomie boring! Then I came in. That meeting was, it turned out, to change Claus’ life dramatically. We were to become fast friends and, although he was newly divorced and looking for employment in New York City in the Promised Land, we would meet again, in December and, in 1966, I would be instrumental in getting him a professorship in Architecture at the University of Washington—as well as a hospital position for his new fiancée at the U. W. hospital—and his move to Seattle where he has lived ever since. So much for chance encounters.

At this time I was sorely conscious that I was entering a new phase in my life. I had no idea if Mary Ann and the boys would ever come back. I had no idea what academic opportunities would present themselves after my one-year-only contract at U.W. I had little money and no income until the end of September (but U. W. would then give me one large check at the end of September covering three months’ wages). I was heading back to my mother’s house in Los Angeles and would have to kill at least six weeks before going up to Seattle.

The Dissertation

Although this part of my father’s unfinished autobiography introduces Gudrun, there are no details about how and when they met, nor is it covered in his journal of that period, nor in letters. Presumably the omission would have been corrected in a subsequent draft.

There are notes, though, that indicate that he met Gudrun in early May of 1963. My parents would remain separated for the entire summer, from May 13 to August 27. When reading these Cambridge chapters, it’s hard to believe he had a wife and two small children, since there is scant mention of us.

The next event to have an impact on my life was on my birthday, May 7th, of 1963. We decided to host a party at our house on Panton Street. The usual bachelorish crowd had been invited—Ray, Pista, Dick, Ib, Sam, Charles the Hungarian weight-lifter, my new friend Anders from Sweden, who would go down to Pamplona with Ib and me in 1966. The little place was nearly full to the rafters by 8 p.m. It was then the front door-bell rang and opened it to find the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. With shoulder-length blonde hair, in a medium blue one piece dress, tanned and beautiful, she wore a 4" wide red ribbon, from her right shoulder to her left hip. She was holding a single red rose in her clasped hands in the middle of her chest. Her head was tilted down sniffing it when I opened the door. She looked up and said, “Are you Peter?” When I acknowledged that indeed I was, she added, “I’m your birthday present.” I stuck my head around outside to see who was playing what I thought obviously must be a joke. She commented that it was no joke, that she was for real. I looked heaven-ward and mumbled “I believe in you, big fella!” I was in shock.

Just at that moment, who but my buddy Anders, the Swede, jumps out from behind a bush in the front garden shouting “Happy Birthday, old man! Do you like my present?” Looking hungrily at this goddess incarnate, I could only mumble “I’ll say!” and ushered them into the house.

It turned out that Anders was stuck for a possible birthday present, when he stopped in town before coming to the party. He stopped at the Kenya Coffee House, one of our old stomping grounds, for he knew he could always buy a box of fancy chocolates there. He was having a coffee when he overhead Swedish being spoken at the table next to him. There were two tall beautiful Pan Am flight attendants talking at the next table. They had flown in on a Charter to Mildenhall, a USAF/RAF base some 11 miles away, and they had about 14 hours to kill before heading back. Clearly, they were looking for some night life and were presently at a loss to figure out how they were going to find it. They were happy to find this engaging Swedish fellow, Anders, at the next table; especially when he told them that he knew of a party—which was just where he was heading. They agreed to accompany him; but first he stopped at the counter and bought a box of chocolate with a big red ribbon on it. He got the counter lady to remove it and substitute a much bigger one, which he promptly hung around the beautiful blonde. Michaela was her name; she was half-Swedish, half-German. She agreed to come as my birthday present, so they were off in a cab to my house.

I was beside myself with glee and couldn’t take my eyes off this girl. Mind you, hairy, muscle-bound, dark and sinister Charles, the Hungarian weight-lifter also had eyes for “Mike” and was making the big moves on her as well. It was hard being the host, a married one at that, and keeping up a conversation with this ravishing creature.

There was something about that party—and not Michaela—that told me that the days of my marriage were over. Mary Ann could sense that as well. The loveless days of my youth were ended, and now something inside of me wanted to make up for it all. I had insufficient moral conscience, plus no desire to act on what I had. It was only to be a matter of days before I would meet Gudrun, and that would clinch it. Mary began to talk about going home, and I made no efforts to stop her. Sometime before the end of May, Mary and the boys left for Michigan.

I decided to vacate Panton Street because the rent was more than I could afford on my own and some drinking mates of mine at the Spread Eagle around the corner on Lensfield Road, who were also students, invited me to stay at their place in Waterloo House, next door to the pub, for free!

It was a big house, having four floors and included the flat of the owner and one English working girl, in addition to four University students. I would be replacing one of those four and would therefore have one room, and would share a bath, sitting room, and kitchen. I moved in on June 1; the other guys left about two weeks later.

During the month of May I finally finished my thesis, handing in the typescript volumes around mid-month. I expected my oral examination around the first of June—and planned accordingly.

So enamored of Gudrun had I become as the result of that first long evening we spent together, that all I could focus on was the opportunity of seeing her again. After my oral dissertation defense, I would be finished with my graduate career—only having to be notified of my passing and the date of the awarding of my doctorate. I would be expected to be home—though I wasn’t sure to where I would be returning—as soon as I was done. I had accepted my first job offer—at the University of Hawaii—which Sydney Smith had been instrumental in getting me—even though it only paid $5000 a year and the cost of living in Hawaii, beautiful and desirable as it was, was reportedly 20% higher than the mainland! Then, as luck would have it, an offer came through—this time partly due to my friend Harry Woolf, then Editor of ISIS—from the University of Washington, in Seattle, at $6400. I had been morally obliged to accept the latter and had dispatched a letter of regret to Hawaii. I had been in correspondence with the History Chairman at U. W. and, through him, had arranged to rent the 4-bedroom furnished house of a professor who would be away for a year on sabbatical. It would be available on September 1. Since Mary and the boys were separated from me, It looked as if I would return to my mother’s home in L.A. for the balance of that summer. I arranged with my good friend and travel agent, George Abbott, to sail home to America in early July on the S. S. France

There I was with what seemed to be two weeks on my hands before my oral exam. I decided to make a trip to Sweden, on the Tilbury-Gothenburg ferry to see Gudrun who was a student in Gothenberg. I decided this would only take about a week or less, and planned to return on the last day of May. I reasoned that my dissertation readers would have to receive and read my dissertation (and its lengthy appendix, the critical catalogue of the Darwin Reprint Collection) all within about 10 days and then—since there would be at least three of them—set a mutually-convenient time and date on which to examine me.

I decided to leave Gudrun’s phone number in Gothenberg and a tip with the porter at the Porter’s Lodge in my college and told him that, when the postcard came from the Board of History setting a date, time, and place for my oral examination, that, if the date was earlier than June1st, he should immediately call me and tell me. I would be back on May 31st and would stop by the college then. With that, I booked my ferry, called Gudrun to tell her, and took off on my scooter for the ferry to Sweden.

When I returned from Sweden, physically and emotionally tired out, I went directly home to Waterloo House. The next day I slept late and finally got around to St. Catherine’s a little after 1 p.m. The porter told me that a card had only just recently come for me—I would find it in my box. I turned to the letter boxe and retrieved the card. It stated that my oral examination would take place on June 1st, at 1:00 p.m. at an address on Grange Road—the house of Professor Carter. I looked at my watch, it was about 1:15! I couldn’t believe my eyes. I yelled at the porter—why hadn’t he called me? He reminded me that I had said “if the exam date was earlier than June 1st” then he should call me—the date on the card was June 1st. Fine. I was already 20 minutes late, it would take me another six minutes to get to the address. Off I zoomed, hell bent for this crucial meeting.

I found the house, was directed to a room inside and told by Professor Carter that I had missed the exam. Dr. Wilkie had to be back in London and, after 20 minutes of waiting, left to catch his train back to London. I was instructed to call Dr. Hoskin for a new examination date. When I did, I was told that Dr. Wilkie was leaving for his summer holiday shortly. I gulped; I had really screwed up! I commented that I was due to sail back to America on July 4th and, hopefully, a new date could be set before then. Dr. Hoskin said he would try. Eventually, all three would get together—with me—in another ten days. They knew I would not miss that one!

Helen(e) Bang

In this portion of his autobiography my father writes of  meeting a Danish girl named Helen, who would become his first mistress, and of being blackmailed by his landlord. One interesting fact I found among my father’s notes after his death was that Helen would appear the following year (1963) as the fictional character of Helene Bang in Kingsley Amis’ novel One Fat Englishman.

The endless fornication and carousing continued throughout the spring. I had made a number of increasingly feeble attempts at my research, but unfulfilled socio-erotic impulses and the fantastic availability of gratification kept me from it. But as May rolled around I was becoming a full-fledged sex-addict. Then fate intervened.

It was my birthday, the 7th of May, and there was a party at Overstream House, a University rowing house party place just on the North side of the Victoria Avenue Bridge. When Dick Walters and a couple of other guys and I arrived, the party was already well under way. In fact we met other “gunslingers” coming out of the place. They mumbled to us as they passed us, “Forget it. It’s Noah’s Ark time. All the animals have paired off already. There’s no chance ...” As they spoke I noticed a tall, blonde, attractive Scandinavian girl dancing with a local guy who was a full head shorter than she. She looked over and saw us come in, then carried on with this Yo-Yo—my term for a shorter-than-average guy who does most of his dancing vertically, bouncing more up-and-down, more than any other direction, bobbing away. He looked like a real twerp. My attention then went back to these guys who were leaving and the chaps I was with. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’ve found my girl for the evening!” I was chided for what seemed like my fruitless egotism and I rejoindered with a challenge—having bet a pound with each of them that I would end up taking the Scandinavian blonde home that night. Ten minutes later I grabbed the proffered notes en passant as the girl and I exited the dance hall together. That evening was to have some decided effect of my life.

I left the party with that girl, Helen, that night. She was very intelligent, quite articulate and with an apparent sensuality. We didn’t go to bed that evening, but I sort of got the impression that she wanted to. I took her home to the temporary digs she was staying in, that of a doctor who one of her friends was working for and who needed a house sitter for his family home just a few blocks down from me on Huntingdon Road. Helen had invited me to come round for a visit: if it was sunny, she would be at home tanning herself in the back yard.

The next day, unable to get this sultry 22-year-old, worldly, sophisticated Danish girl out of my mind, and with little else to do, I ventured down the road to pay her a call. She came to the door in a terrycloth bathrobe as she had been sunbathing in her one-piece bathing suit. She invited me to the backyard with a bottle of wine and a small portable radio for music. We lay on a blanket taking in the sun. The conversation was all small talk, skirting the obvious sensuality that was beginning to rise in us. I certainly know that the music, the warm sun, this attractive and intelligent Danish blonde were having an effect on me, but, in my relative inexperience I couldn’t seem to fathom if she was interested in me. Finally, at an appropriate moment, I leaned over a kissed her. It was a warm and inviting kiss, but it was not one, like Deborah and Burt in From Here to Eternity that seemed to promise anything more. After a few more minutes of small talk I felt that we were going nowhere in particular and I was growing a little tired—if not tumescent—of lying in the sun. I made my exit, saying I would ring her later and we might go out. She welcomed the invitation but did not seem upset at my leaving.

Three minutes later I was up in my loft room, standing in front of my desk, looking out the window onto Huntingdon Road at the beautiful day outside and kicking myself for having left her. I wanted her... and, I thought, she wanted me. I was just going to resign myself to a little work when I opened the drawer and saw a couple of foil-wrapped Durex condoms staring back at me. God, I was sure, was giving me a sign! I snatched up the rubbers and headed downstairs, outside, on my scooter, and back to Helen’s place.

When she came to the door she was in her terrycloth robe again. She looked a little hesitant; I had to come up with some explanation of my return ... but I couldn’t. I wanted her. I told her I couldn’t explain why I had come back and, as I did, I reached out for the lapels of her robe. I was going to kiss her. Then, at that moment, the loosely-tied cinch around the robe came loose and the panels came about four inches apart, revealing the fact that she was completely naked underneath. It was a beautiful, perfect body, spread out over her 5'8' slender frame. I took it all in. As I tried to stammer out an explanation as to why I’d come, she just took my hand and led me down the hall, up the stairs and into the bedroom she had been using. “Helen ...” I said as I took hold of the lapels of her robe. As I pulled it open, she shrugged it onto the floor. “Shh ... don’t say anything ...” and she pulled open my shirt. With that I tore open my pants and stepped out of them, having just kicked off my shoes. It was all so quick, passionate and violent, it was over in fifteen seconds. As I started to pull out of her I felt her hands press against the small of my back. “No, don’t...stay there until you’re ready again.” With those words I was already ready again! This time it was really passionate and violent. She came several times—and I thought it was love! A beautiful, bright Danish nymphomaniac! This seemed to me what life was all about! I never gave a second thought to my marital status, my kids, or where the hell I was!

The relationship with Helen became all-consuming. We lived and breathed for each other. My relationship with the Frosts—witchy, puritanical Beryl in particular—had become intolerable; as a result I went out to look for another place. It was about this time that, having confessed to Mary Ann that my work would undoubtedly require me to spend at least another term at Cambridge, she said that she and the boys would be coming back to England—as soon as they boys’ school year was over—probably around July 1.

Actually, just as it was coming time for me to find a new place, so it was becoming time for Helen to return to Denmark. I hadn’t really given it much thought, but my heart was going with her. I can’t recall the details of our parting, but that is probably because something in me didn’t recognize it as a parting.

I did find a little house on Panton Street, just opposite the University Chem Labs and just down the road from my friend John Henshaw, who was an artist and the only man in town who regularly threw a New Year’s Eve Party. The house was alongside the yard and meeting place of some weird sectarian church group. It was a cute place that was actually quite bigger than it appeared on the outside.

As expected, Mary Ann and the boys moved in July and life resumed fairly normally. I realized that my six months of playing around, while they may have cost me only one term of delay, nevertheless cost me an extra year because of the necessity of now earning a living. I got a job teaching for the University of Maryland at Sculthorpe USAF base—which paid quite well, but still wasn’t enough to keep the whole family. I also managed to get a job teaching at the Tech in town: two subjects—A-level Biology and courses for the Certificate in Medical Lab Technology.

Mary Ann and I tried to resume a normal life—but, through the criminal activities of Maurice and Beryl Frost, this was not to be. Shortly after Mary Ann’s return, I had a visit one evening from Maurice Frost. Seems he was still having a hard time finding suitable employment, their money was running out, so he was bringing along the latest still-unpaid gas bill for my small gas ring which I had occasionally used to heat food and drink in my flat. He told me that, as the bill was for gas service for the whole house, he would just have to guess at the amount I owed him. He said I should give him £181! (A single ring used very intermittently for 5 months would have normally come to about £8, tops—about £30 in 1994 money). I couldn’t believe my ears! If I didn’t pay it, said he drifting off into unspoken innuendo . . .

I replied: “Maurice, if you’re doing what I think you’re doing...”

He smiled craftily. “I didn’t say a thing,” he added.

I was furious! Here I’d taken pity on this guy who had, through no fault of his own, gotten into financial troubles. I had agreed to pay rent in excess of value so as to help him and his family out—and now he was blackmailing me for more money! I was fit to be tied.

I asked “What do you intend to do?”

“You mean,” he said, “if you don’t pay?”

“Exactly,” I countered.

He shrugged his shoulders: “I guess you’ll just have to wait and see.” I could only reply, “Maurice ... get fucked!” and with that I got out of the car and walked back to my house.

One night, a couple of weeks later, when I was out teaching at the USAF base at Sculthorpe, the Frosts came by the house. Mary Ann had just put the kids to bed. She knew the Frosts but, believing they had come by to see me, she told them that I wasn’t in, I was teaching. No, said they, they’d come to have a chat with her. The ominous tone in their voices made her incline to beg off to another evening—one which would involve my being there. Eventually she relented and invited them to come in and sit down.

Beryl began in a pseudo-noble tone about how she felt it was her moral duty to relate to Mary Ann just what it was her husband had been doing for the past five months. If it was something bad, Mary Ann said, she didn’t want to hear about it. It was, said Maurice, and she should. Beryl then fetched from out of her purse a little notebook and, as she flipped through the opening pages, commented that, so unbelievable and so immoral had been my behavior that she just had to keep a record of it as no one would believe it otherwise. However uncomfortable, Mary Ann listened quietly and without comment. It was a distasteful scene: this scrawny, witch-like woman looking years beyond her actual age and her puffy, weak, pale-faced husband who had always seemed like such a “lech” to Mary Ann; taking such a moral “high ground”—stabbing a man in the back who had befriended them and helped them in a time of need.

A psychologist would say that Beryl was deriving much pleasure from causing Mary Ann considerable pain. She detailed the total number of nights I had stayed in their house, then she claimed to have the exact number of nights I had shared my room with a member of the opposite sex. She talked (lying quite blatantly) about laughter, cries, little screams, etc. She commented that there were at least 30 different females, she went on, flipping through her notes trying to cite with pseudo-accuracy the lurid details.

This was the unseemly way Mary Ann learned what I’d been up to. The writing of this, even after thirty years, I still find painful. Clearly Mary Ann was shattered. There never had been a question in her mind as to the truth of these happenings. Clearly, she was feeling helpless and alone. She had but one friend in whom to find some solace, some consolation, and that was Johanna, Elie Zahar’s wife. Nonetheless, she was feeling very alone.

I wasn’t to find out about this scene until some weeks later when a special delivery letter from Helen was diverted to the house from my college as I hadn’t been there to sign for it. She handed me the letter when I arrived home that night and told me she knew all about the affair from the Frosts.

We spent several hours that night talking about it. And I didn’t make matters any better when I told her that I had gotten heavily involved with Helen. The upshot of the whole conversation was that, at least temporarily, she would let the whole matter pass until I finished my dissertation and we returned home to the U.S. Then, if I hadn’t given her any further reason to distrust me, we would see what we would see.

But somehow or other I seemed not to be able to leave it at that: I saw an opportunity to vent my feelings about Helen. I wasn’t sure I could give her up. This proved an even further blow to Mary Ann. She wasn’t sure that she didn’t want me to leave; she wasn’t sure that she wouldn’t take the kids, pack up, and leave for home in America. We went round and round, but I was obviously reluctant to just simply cut the string that (to whatever extent) seemed to be binding me to Helen. As we wound down, Mary Ann insisted on my ending it with Helen, no ifs, ands or buts. I said that I obviously understood, but ... I felt that I had to confront her—such had been the past and such were my latent feelings for her that I felt I had to see her. So the conclusion was that I would go to see her, make a decision, and return. This was probably one of the worst moments in Mary Ann’s life. She had thrown in her fate with me, left America to come and live in England, had two children and set herself on a life-path and now she would be obliged to sit around a rented house in Cambridge, England and keep up a brave front in front of two small children, while I tooled off to Denmark to see if I loved someone else and therefore see if I wanted to have a wife and two children any more. What a position she would be in! What a self-involved, 24-year-old bastard I was!

I left for Denmark shortly thereafter, taking the Harwich-Esbjerg ferry. I had called Helen ahead of time and so she was there to meet me when the ferry docked at noon on the day after my departure. I will never forget the humorous scene which followed upon her inquiring as to whether I’d brought contraceptives with me. Confessing that I hadn’t, she pulled over to an Apotek in Esbjerg so I could run in and get some. I didn’t give it a second thought until I saw that there was no one in the relatively small place except women. I felt like a 14 year old trying to buy rubbers in a less-than-crowded American drug store! I was doubly chagrined to find a woman pharmacist coming forward to the counter to assist me!

I had no idea what the Danish word for contraceptive was, but, as always, I thought if I spoke slowly, pronounced precisely, perhaps I would be understood: “Con-tra-cep-tive” I articulated carefully, as it seemed to me the pharmacy had grown quiet and the ladies were fixed on the stranger. It drew no comprehension from the pharmacist. Repeating it had no new effect. “Rub-ber” only tended to increase her mystification. Then, I looked down and saw that she was pushing a blank writing pad and pencil across the counter to me. But then I thought, what does one draw in a case like this? At last I came up with a drawing that looked rather like a test tube lying on its side. No comprehension—as a couple of ladies pushed their way to take a look at what I’d put on the pad (one of the shorter ones had actually lifted up my elbow to get an unobstructed view!) I was beside myself with frustration and embarrassment. Then, somehow or other, the message got through and the pharmacist lit up with comprehension! As she kept nodding and mumbling, ‘yes, yes, I understand’ she dipped momentarily under her counter and came up with a large (about 6"x5"x4") cardboard box and upended it, spilling its contents on the counter top. There must have been about 100 loose, unwrapped condoms there: big ones, medium ones, pink ones, lt. blue ones, ribbed ones, tipped ones—every conceivable style, color, shape, and size imaginable.

I could hear the group behind me inhaling with surprise as in one breath! Even the odd “oooo” and “ahhh”s! I felt about 2" tall; all I wanted to do was get the hell out of there! But she stopped me by asking (I surmised) how many I wanted. I paused, thinking; then I saw that all had turned to look at me. I reckoned that they were probably thinking: here’s a swaggering Yank thinking he’s coming here to swive all our innocent maidens; but I wasn’t going to let any possible opinion of this group to sway me. I said “Four dozen!” Needless to say there were a few “tch, tch”s among the second round of “ooo”s and “ahhh”s. But I grabbed my package, paid, and dashed out into Helen’s waiting car.

We had about a 3 hour drive to her family home outside of Randers on the main Jutland peninsula. When we got to Kolding, about 1/3rd of the way, we were finding it difficult to contain ourselves. A mile out of the smallish town we actively started looking for a lovemaking place ... so full of pent-up hormones were we. Within a minute, Helen ordered me to turn off to the left, down what looked like a farm road.

A little way down the road there appeared what looked like to be an old barn. Helen told me to pull over. We got out of the car, me following her into the barn. I was looking left and right and all around to make sure the place was as deserted as it appeared to be. It was.

We spotted one darkish corner with a pile of hay and Helen ordered me to close the barn door. As I did so and turned back to her, she had already taken off her blouse and was busy removing her panties. She beckoned me as I undid my belt and lowered my fly. Within seconds, we were making the most delicious, frantic, impassioned love: We almost set the hay afire! But we had hardly finished than we heard the rustling of the farmer/owner who had, it appeared, been in the building the entire time! We were devastated with embarrassment!

I got the feeling that I was being introduced to the family as a prospective mate for Helen. I don’t think I had a single moment while in Denmark, except, perhaps, for a few minutes in that barn, where I was not reflecting on my position, my future; not to mention wife and family back in Cambridge. Somehow, the view that seemed to predominate was that it would be poetic retributive justice for me to burn my bridges behind me and, having done so, have nothing to show for it but burned bridges. In Helen’s tough and seemingly unrelenting mother I saw where Helen had gotten not only her smarts but her tough, take-charge attitudes: there was a lingering fear that, after the romance and passion had waned a bit, I might just be left with a bossy wife and a long-distance view of some charred bridges! I loved my two sons and, although I had badly damaged her and thoughtlessly caused her much grief, I nonetheless cared for Mary Ann. I did have a conscience, though it didn’t seem to play much a role in the decisions I had made in 1962.

By the time it had come for me to leave Denmark and head for the ferry, I had made up my mind. I knew I had to leave Helen behind: that there was no moral or personal choice. As we were getting out of the car at the ferry quayside in Esbjerg, Helen gave me a nice cardboard-framed photo of herself.

I stood at the ships stern as it pulled out of the harbor and waved goodbye to Helen on the quay. As she drifted away into nothingness and the ship passed out into the North Sea, I reflected on what might have been. I thought how near-perfect the match might have been. But then I came back to reality, thought of Mary Ann and the boys and I remember standing at the stern of the ship as I tore up her photo and threw the pieces into the sea, believing I would never see Helen again. I definitely had the feeling I was closing a chapter in my life.

In the next two months there were—at my college—two letters from Helen, but I answered neither of them. I knew that she must have known that it was over.

Cambridge 1958-1962

Chronicled below are some of my father’s earliest infidelities from his unpublished autobiography. It would seem that he recorded only the most memorable dalliances, hinting at others perhaps less interesting. His extramarital activities seemed to dawn with the new decade of the 1960s and read something like a bad British comedy of the period or an Austin Powers-type spoof. My father and mother had moved to Cambridge so that my father could get his masters and doctorate, which, as his memoirs reveal, took him at lot longer than it should have.

Mary Ann was seven months pregnant when we sailed August 15th on the TSS New York out of Manhattan for Southampton. Mary Ann’s parents would come over just before the baby was due—which was not until the beginning of October. Michaelmas Term, 1958 would commence on October 4th—the day Jeff was born.

We stayed in a little bed & breakfast place on Trumpington Street until we found a furnished house through January’s, the estate agents. Given our young ages and lack of experience, in addition to being new parents, my mother agreed to supplement our income, if needed. We found a lovely semi-detached four-bedroom house on Windsor Road—just off the Histon and Huntingdon Roads north of town. The rent was 8 guineas ($25) a week, but I would need a bike or a scooter to get around.

It was a spacious place, which required no further furniture—except some space heaters (it was not centrally heated). Two of the bedrooms were of decent size (12'x14'), the front would be the master bedroom, the rear would make a decent study; the remaining two were rather small (only 6'x9'), but good enough for a nursery and a box room. Downstairs there was a front sitting room—which would be our dining room—and a back sitting room with french doors opening onto a large garden. There was a smallish kitchen with an antique gas stove and an ancient fridge, and there was also a larder. Out back, abutting the garage, was a coal shed which also had an outside toilet (although there was one toilet and one bathroom upstairs on the second floor.) The structure was shared with a neighboring house having the same amenities. It was considered solid, if not upper middle class as evidenced by the fact that our neighbor, Doug Howarth, was Manager of the local Legal & General office, one of the country’s insurance companies. He had a wife and three children (two sons and a daughter), pre-teens. Our Estate Agent, as it turned out, also had a wife who gave birth at the same place and on the same date as Jeff.

Our life in Cambridge was one of stereotypical domestic bliss. We lived fairly well due to a favorable exchange rate—and financial help from my mother. Mary Ann became pregnant with Mark in February following Jeff’s birth; the boys would be 13 months apart. Slowly the trappings of family life were surrounding me.

In the meantime, Cambridge University’s Committee for the History & Philosophy of Science was busy creating a graduate program in the subject. The first students would be students who wanted to become science teachers in secondary schools, and wanted an additional feather in their cap. But it was difficult for the graduate school to attract competent people versed in specific sciences. It was difficult to train historians sufficiently in the sciences for them to do competent graduate work in their history, but seemed less so to train scientists in the methods of history. This is particularly so as it is the task of every would-be graduate student in the science to research the history of his intended area of research. So, the student of proven competence in a scientific field was the desired candidate to do grad work in the History of Science. As a result, I was proselytized by the resident Historians of Science, namely, A. Rupert Hall of Christ’s and Sydney Smith of St. Catharine’s, to do graduate work in the History of Biology. To do so, I would have to attend lectures, supervisions, and tutorials for the graduate Diploma in the History and Philosophy of Science; but to make the switch over more palatable, I was told that successful attainment of the Diploma would pretty much guarantee my acceptance as a graduate student in the History of Science and would also be allowed to count towards 3 of the 9 required semesters towards a Ph.D. I did so in June 1959.

In the spring, at Mary Ann’s suggestion, I wrote to her old Biology Professor at Northern Michigan College (now University) about a summer school teaching position. He, in turn, passed on my letter, to another Professor—Holmes Boynton—who, in turn, offered me a job for that summer of 1959. It didn’t offer much pay, but it was enough to pay all our passages back to the upper peninsula of Michigan, where Mary Ann’s parents lived; and where our costs would be negligible and it would only be a 65-minute drive to Marquette from Michigamme.

The Northern position was an NSA-sponsored summer Institute for Teachers of the Sciences. Most of the attendees were high school science teachers, most of the lecturers were visitors. There were also a number of regular college students in attendance that summer, many of them living in the dorms. I became friendly with many of them. I participated in several evening bull sessions with the students wherein I told of my own exploits at UCSB and encouraged one and all to “Question Authority.” Well, word got back to Boynton that I was promulgating subversion among Northern students and I was summarily called in—this after 2½ weeks of the session—and told that my services would now no longer needed. I was given my full pay as severance and there I was, fired from my first job. As this was, apparently, not going to affect my career, I could have cared less, but I was embarrassed. I returned, somewhat chastened, to Cambridge, and the beginning of a graduate career.

My biggest initial help came from Dr. Sydney Smith, Tutor in Natural Sciences at St. Catharine’s, University Lecturer in Embryology, and member of the History & Philosophy of Science Committee. Sydney was always helpful, but he was equally on an on-going ego trip. He was a relative non-achiever—though he did excellent work—who had to make it up by demeaning those under him. He incessantly told us what relatively uneducated, sometimes stupid, always ignorant, lot we were. Nonetheless, out of these meetings, we did obtain vital—and helpful—information.

But Sydney did introduce me to The Whim, Cambridge’s venerable (now gone—replaced by a Liberty store) tea-room. Many an hour was spent talking, visiting, and, occasionally, picking up girls there. I can remember a whole range of characters from there, from Elie Zahar, now LSE’s eminent philosopher of science, to Ivan the Terrible Driving Instructor. The latter was a local Englishman who so very much wanted to be part of our “crowd;” he also recognized the opportunities that we had found at the Whim for picking up girls. Ivan would invariably come in at tea-time and plop himself down with one of us. But when an attractive group of girls would come in, this gaunt and somewhat thick-witted chap would hop up and, uninvited, join their table. Ivan was the only man who I believed could clear out the entire place, simply by hopping from table to table and precipitating hurried departures!

Two elderly sisters ran The Whim and they had their decided favorites among the regulars; if you were polite and reasonably well-dressed and passed the time of day with them, you were admitted to their sanctum. When they could no longer make a go of the place in the face of Caius’ mounting rent increases; and when no one person or institution stepped forward to preserves this landmark, it went the way of so many Cambridge places: it fell to a local extension of a chain store. Laura Ashley, Liberty, Dillon’s, Marks & Spencer and the Body Shop; all have pushed out local store owners by paying the exorbitant rents the College-landlords have demanded. Pubs like the Bath and the Eagle have been bought and renovated almost beyond recognition—and even serve pizza as pub-grub! The “Crit” as the Criterion pub was known, nestled in the Arts Cinema passageway, was the handwriting on the wall; then the Still & Sugarloaf, then the Rose on Rose Crescent—and so it goes, or, went.

My principal friends in Cambridge from 1958-1962 were, among students—notably the St. Cat’s trio of Peter Lomas, Alaba Akinsete (from Nigeria), B. K. Wong (from Malaysia), Alun Steer—reading German at St. Johns and after whom I named my second son—and various “townies,” such as Janet and Brian Legg, she the Administrative Secretary of my department, he a Cambridge United footballer—and then there was Elie and Johanna Zahar, he a brilliant undergraduate mathematician, and she a German student at the Tech.

During my first academic year, my mentor Sydney Smith—embryologist and part-time historian of biology—took me under his wing as a fellow Darwin scholar and showed me around the Darwiniana at the University. There were some items to be found at the Botany School at the Sedgwick Avenue site; the reason for this being that Darwin had left most of his scientific collections to his botanist son, Francis who had become a professor of botany at the University. Botanical research papers, reprints, collections, found their way here. Darwin’s personal library, some family letters and papers, zoological specimens and collections remained at Down House in Kent, which had been preserved and maintained by the College of Physicians and Surgeons. It had been turned into a school shortly after Emma Darwin’s death, but reverted to the public domain in the late 20s and now stands much as the Darwins had left it in the 19th Century. The University Library contains Darwin’s papers, letters and manuscripts.

Most important for me personally, was Dr. Smith’s taking me to the Botany School Library. There, some 9' up along the topmost shelf along one corner wall was a 15' line of manila-wrapped, string-tied packets of 3"-4" thick book-sized bundles. Dr. Smith invited me to ascend the library ladder and, pointing to the rightmost side, suggested that I open one. They were offprints of scientific periodical articles belonging to Sir Francis Darwin. Then, finding much satisfaction in this smug game of hide-and-seek, he beckoned me to move a little further to my left and retrieve another bundle. I soon had packets of articles that had been collected by both Francis and his more illustrious father; a little further to the left and I was looking at Darwin’s own personal reprint collection. Containing over a 1,000 books and journal articles, it also contained a total of over ¼ million words of Darwin’s holograph annotations. This was to be the researcher’s gold mine and was to form the basis for my doctoral dissertation! I had the material with which to assay the direct influence of contemporary sources upon Darwin and his ideas! This was handed to me by Dr. Smith and became the center around which my research revolved.

My social life revolved around the Leggs, Alun Steer and his Yugoslavia girlfriend, Nuja, my journalistic efforts (held over from my Santa Barbara days) and my college friends. Through my friend Alaba (Vincent) Akinsete at Cat’s I met Bittan (Mai-Britt) Hallquist, a Swedish student studying English in Cambridge. We became good friends, having had many lunches, etc., together with the boys from Cat’s, at The Gardenia, The Whim, The Copper Kettle, and all those other places that students piss away their indolent hours when they should be studying. Socio-sexually inexperienced that I was, I enjoyed the attentions of Bittan. I was most curious about Sweden. So, with Alun Steer having gone off to Germany to study for the Michaelmas term of 1960 and his heading home to England for Christmas, I contrived a little trip to the Continent: from Tilbury to Gothenberg, Sweden via North Sea ferry, thence by train to Stockholm, where I would then train down the 20 miles to see Bittan in Tumba, then back up to Stockholm and then train, via Copenhagen to Hamburg, where I would meet up with Alun and then we’d return home to England on a student train, arriving on December 23rd. It was an interesting trip—Mary Ann making no objection, providing I was back before Christmas.

Bittan met me, along with heavily falling snow, when I arrived at the station in Tumba. She told me it was Santa Lucia night and there would be a small festival down at the local school. This was the formal arrival of winter, the festival of lights, wherein one 13-year-old school girl who’d been elected to the role of Lucia, would lead a candlelight procession from one part of town down to the school. This was to be followed by a dinner of nearly all the adults in the town. It was quite impressive to see the strings of hand-held candles coming from all the different lanes, converging on the High Street and moving en masse down to the school. Dinner was quite gay and I was one of the centers of attraction. I was taught how to skål and consumed many of the little chilled shots of aquavit. The next day Bittan offered to accompany me up to Stockholm and spend my last day in Stockholm with me before I left on the train to Copenhagen. It was a fun day and we ended up at the Regina Hotel, a modest place in the center of town. We each got single rooms—on different floors. We said a warm farewell at the train station the following day—I would be in Copenhagen by late afternoon.

I can’t remember much about Copenhagen and Hamburg except that I knew no one in the former and Alan was not very helpful, socially, in the latter. We enjoyed several evenings in the student beer cellars and I was introduced to several English-speaking students. I remember but one problem with the English-German translating. There was this young couple, Hans and Gerda, quite attractive, in their mid-20s. They seemed quite attached and quite vivacious. In an effort to get to know them better I asked them how long they had been “going together.” What I didn’t know was that the term, translated literally into German, means “having sexual intercourse”—as in “how long have the cow and bull been going together?” There was a hushed pause in the conversation, the two looked at each other, blushed visibly, then burst out laughing. They realized that my question, quite innocent, had missed its meaning in translation. My puzzlement in their laughter was allayed by Alun’s explanation and the good times continued.

As it turned out, Alun had much work undone and he would be unable to accompany me back to England. I was disappointed at having to make the long haul back on my own. But he introduced me to three Art students who were travelling in that direction, so I would have some companionship. They were an Italian, an Englishman, and a German—it looked like, with my French, we had all the language bases covered, if needed.

I remembered we arrived at the Hamburg railway station on the day of our travel quite late at night. It seemed quite eerie and foreboding to me; winter, late night, foreign country. And the German love of uniforms. It seemed that even the S-Bahn conductors looked like SS men in their black uniforms with their peaked caps. I felt like I was in an old black & white B movie and expected Conrad Veidt to emerge any minute in a Gestapo uniform. The German I heard in the background certainly helped to set the mood.

The bahnhof was quiet, with a moderate number of people; one or two had laid out on the long benches in the waiting room, at least one sound asleep. The four of us students sat on a bench opposite the sleeper, keeping our eye on the electric notice board above for the platform number of our train to Dunquerque.

All of a sudden—so it seemed—the double swinging doors on the street side of the waiting room burst open and two black-uniformed policemen came striding into the room. At that point I felt my Jewish blood curdling in my veins—it was the 1940s again and they were surely looking for me!

They had black leather boots on and they strode down either side of the main central aisle, glaring down at each person waiting. As they reached our aisle—I was already feeling so guilty; of something—in one alarming swoop the cop had unleashed his billy club and THWACK! thumped a reclined sleeper on the soles of his shoes. He shot up in an instant—God knows if he had had a heart condition he would have died of a coronary right then and there! I could see from the frozen expressions of my pals that they shared my terrified thoughts. We all felt like camp escapees trying to make our way out of Nazi Germany: the railway station waiting room in the dead of a winter night was the perfect setting. I really expected the cop to approach me and demand to see my “papers;” but they passed on, scrambling another sleeper and, seemingly appropriately, escorting him out of the station. We sighed and visibly relaxed when the announcement board indicated our train’s platform and we rushed for it.

We were lucky that the train was not crowded. We split up, three of us in one compartment, the Italian Franco, the Englishman Bob, and I in one compartment and our other friend had one all to himself for the time being.

As the train trundled Westward through the night, we quickly learned that the best way to guarantee our privacy was to draw the three curtains on the aisle side of the compartment—one on each side of the sliding door and one on the door itself. We found that the seats slid slightly forward, allowing them to recline at about 30º and thus, if there was no one in the seat opposite, it would make a veritable bed. Unfortunately, there was no lock on the sliding door of the compartment, so at nearly every stop someone noisily slid open our door and jolted us awake; no doubt stirring the recent memory of jackbooted Gestapo agents catching us at last!

Finally, around 2:30 a.m. Franco got the bright idea of resting the foot of his left leg and propping it up against the door lever. By straightening out his leg he created a virtual bar against the opening of the door. The way some travelling schweinhunds responded to this erstwhile challenge by wrestling with the unopenable door was something to behold. At one point I imagined three or four putting their muscles together in an effort to get inside! Obviously, there was little peace and precious little rest on that trip. By 7:30 a.m. with what looked to be the influx of commuters as we crossed into Belgium, someone had summoned the conductor to “unlock” our compartment and we were aggressively rousted into sitting positions as three grumbling German commuters slammed the now-empty seats upright and plopped themselves into their seats, glaring at us student-bums all the while.

Apparently, the train-ferry connection was not too well planned, for we were told that the ferry was just leaving as we pulled into the dockside siding. Being holiday time, all the ferries were booked to capacity and thus, if we missed this one, there was no telling when the hell we’d ever get off the continent. As it was we had to jump onto a moving ferry. With the dangerous gap already widening, I almost had second thoughts, but my wife and kids sitting expectantly around a Christmas tree flashed in my mind and I leapt onto the ferry. I was home by late afternoon of the 23rd.

The year 1960 ended and all seemed quite normal on Windsor Road. My research was proceeding slowly but surely. We were living fairly comfortably on $300 a month; paying as we were only $108 for the rental of our four-bedroom furnished house.

We were able to entertain, even throwing the occasional party for groups of our friends: the Jocks of Christs and the Mummers—two totally and diametrically opposite social groups. Rugby players like Vic Harding, Dave MacSweeny, Donald MacBean, Ron Hoare, and embryonic actors and comedians from the Mummers and the A. D. C.

Much to the occasional chagrin of my bourgeois neighbors—who had to look out their windows in the morning to see what looked like the aftermath of the Battle of the Somme with bodies strewn everywhere.

Towards the summer of 1961 I had begun to feel that I was letting myself get too out of shape. To that end I inveigled soccer-playing Brian Legg to play whiffle ball with me in our backyard, against the side of our garage and I began a diet. By the beginning of term I had gone from about 208 lbs. down to 154—9 lbs. below my ideal weight. By Christmas I would treat myself to a host of new clothes.

That December of 1961, Mary Ann and I decided that she would return home for Christmas in Michigan with the boys. As I was to be finished with my dissertation by June, I could fly back for good at the beginning of summer. To that end, I secured myself a small flat on the 3rd floor of a friend’s house on Huntingdon Road, just around the corner from Windsor Road. This was the house of Maurice and Beryl Frost, who I got to know through Maurice’s job as Registrar of Births, Deaths and Marriages. There was just the two of them and their five-year-old daughter in a big Victorian house. I had just run into Maurice on the street and he looked terrible. He had lost about 50 lbs. due to the sudden onset of Diabetes. He had also lost his job. It being a dead-end position, he was not fit for anything really but another civil service job—and there weren’t any of those going around. Beryl worked as a secretary/accountant for a local dairy; they were only just scraping by at the time. When I mentioned that I would be moving out of Windsor Road and still wanting to stay for another six months in Cambridge, the idea came to Maurice that he could solve both our problems by renting me the 3rd floor two-room flat at the top of his house and £2 a week seemed good for both of us. All I needed to bring was a desk, a couple of kerosene heaters, books, bedclothes, typewriter, a gas cooking ring and a couple of utensils.

I turned the two small rooms into a cozy little apartment. I brought a large carpet which effectively became wall-to-wall in the front sitting room. I had a couch, a desk and chair, a coffee table and a couple of lamps. The heater which had heated the Windsor Road living room made the small sitting room quite toasty. In the other room was the big double bed, a bureau and a night table. In the hall landing there was a large cupboard where I kept utensils, crockery, and light food.

I had flown back to America with my family, intending to return on New Year’s Eve. The first and only dance party at the International Centre on Trinity Street was to be a New Year’s party—and I didn’t want to miss it, replete with new duds and a slender 154 lb. body. I can still remember that party. The place was packed—wall to wall with attractive Scandinavian girls—and all my “gunslinger” pals. I was like a kid locked in a candy store! They even managed to serve drinks that night—something one could normally never get at the Centre.

The only girl I remember from that night was Tula, a slight brassy Finnish girl. She was a lusty thing who, true-to-form, drank much that night. She weighed in at about 90 lbs. and was so limp from inebriation that I found it easier to dance with her by carrying her entire weight so her feet never touched the dance floor. It was like making love vertically. I was in seventh heaven! This was a token of things to come!

I think I spent nearly every day of the first five months of 1962 in the Centre. The lunch cafeteria was my venue; so much so that Anita, the German cook, had become an ally of mine as the place became my living room.

I can even remember the night, having come home after a particularly wild evening, seen my desktop full of uncompleted work and, opening the desk drawer, swept everything on top into it, not to open it again for six months!

One of my more memorable affairs was with the Coroner’s wife. This woman’s husband had also hoped to become Cambridge’s next mayor. They lived around the corner from where I was living and I had met her on one of our many joint appearances at Lloyd’s Bank. She was both flirtatious and chatty—she was then about 36 years old, Irish, with dark hair and sparkling, come-hither eyes. I can remember, shortly after Mary Ann left, running across her and, engaging her in conversation over a coffee at the Kenya coffee house, I invited her to come ’round and see how students live. As it was but a two-minute walk from her house, she did so on the following day. It was not a difficult conquest; indeed, I was the seducee! It was chiefly memorable for the fact that she kept blurting out, at the most inappropriate times, “Do you know what my husband would do if he ever caught us?!” Or, at the moment of orgasmic truth ... “My husband is a violent man!” I vowed then to leave this neurotic woman alone thereafter and to have more respect where I parked my Willy! As Coroner, I could just see him standing over my dead body—having been murdered by this irate husband—and stating: “Death by Misadventure.” I was definitely going to give that woman a pass.

That winter I was, as they say, a “slut”. I remember dating a little Finnish bird called Eino. I had been trying, for some weeks, to get into her pants, unsuccessfully. One evening, on what I determined would be our last Platonic date, we went to a party at Pete Andres’ on Emmanuel Road and the liquor, as usual, was flowing like water. I had even brought my own bottle of Vodka which I had stuck to chill in his fridge.

In the course of the evening the effect of all the alcohol brought on an “I don’t give a damn” attitude towards this girl. I had resigned myself to never enjoying her slim dancer’s body carnally. I pointedly let her dance with any guy who asked her, and enjoyed dances with a few nubile beauties myself—almost to the point of ignoring her. This had the unexpected but much desired effect of getting her competitive dander up and, after another half-an-hour she insisted that we leave. I told her she could find a cab across the street at the Drummer Street bus station, but she leaned into me, pulling on my lapel, and whispered “I want you to take me back to your place!” She had decided. I heard the victory bell go off in my head, and, draining my last water glass of vodka, grabbed her and steered her out of the busy party and out, onto my scooter, and vroomed off to Huntingdon Road. The cold night air on the scooter ride really caused the effect of the vodka to take hold on both of us; by the time we dismounted in front of the house, I wasn’t quite sure that I could make the long flights up to the 3rd floor. It was bone-chilling cold and I would be lured up those stairs by the thought of my warm toasty, over-heated apartment.

When I got to my landing I lurched directly into the bedroom and, pulling off my clothes in one big go, I collapsed onto the bed. Eino was miffed at the idea of having committed herself to this act, she was going to have to forego any notions of romantic foreplay. I was totally drunk and getting less compos mentis by the minute. She hovered over the bed with me lying prostrate in it looking quite perturbed as she shucked off her coat and blouse. The room started swimming around me as I looked up at her luscious body and well-formed breasts and saw her unfastening her dress. As it slid to the floor and she slid her panties down to her ankles (thank God for the over-heated room!), I realized that nothing but 20 miles of bad neural road lay between my eager brain and my sleeping Willy!

Could I summon up the roving molecules of hormonal chemistry? Could I somehow direct them to the appropriate source? That was the question. Obviously, Willy was not being a stand-up guy. And Eino, sure that her disrobing gestures would have had the appropriate effect, was not too happy with the flaccid results.

With a slight shrug, she seemed to resign herself to a more overt form of stimulation and slid in and down on top of me, running her hands all over my bod. I kept repeating in my mind this little prayer ...” God, if you love me, you’ll make me sober. Just a little sober; just get my blood to the right parts; just for ten minutes. God make me sober.” But this was not to be the case; there was a backlog of gastric alcohol that was still entering my blood and the latter was not going anywhere useful. Eino was getting more and more passionate. I could feel her body on mine getting hotter and hotter; she was no paragon of sobriety—yet the alcohol was having the effect on her that I had been praying it would have on me. The 20 miles of bad road between brain and schlong was stretching into 40, or was totally blocked—fellatio even by a sexually dedicated Brigitte Bardot would have had no effect. Eino tried for about a quarter of an hour: she would have rubbed Willy raw if I hadn’t told her to forget it. We’d try it in the morning I assured her.

Then something went click in her mind; and her overheated and dedicated passion turned to quiet rage. She jumped out of the bed and, with me mumbling my fervent tumescent mantra, proceeded to dress herself. But my mind swam as the room whirled and my eyes circled helplessly in their sockets. I could barely discern that delicious body as it was being covered up. Talk about frustration!

I begged her to stay, promising untold ecstasies in a few hours, but she wasn’t having any of it. She turned, put on her jacket, and, before she left, she strode over to the window, threw it fully open, and looked out, cursing that it was starting to snow and she was about half-a-mile from home. She strode out, slamming the door, not having shut the wide-open window in the face of what has since held to be Cambridge’s worst winter storm in this century! Outside, and faced with the prospect of a long, freezing walk home in the snow, she found some satisfaction in leaning down and letting the air out of both tires of my scooter.

In the morning I opened my eyes and looked down at my uncovered body. It was blue! I couldn’t believe it! I could barely move: I was suffering from exposure. My head was pounding, that was how I knew I was alive. As I cast my mind back to the night before, I winced in painful memory of how badly I had blown it with the lovely Eino—after weeks of frustrating anticipation! I had to shout down for Maurice’s assistance, as I was incapacitated. I asked him to draw me a warm bath, help me up and help me downstairs to thaw. I reckon that all the alcohol I had drunk had acted as an anti-freeze—particularly when I saw the two feet of snow that had accumulated during the night at the foot of the still-wide-open window! Nearly two feet of snow had fallen on Cambridge during that night. The city was paralyzed. As it turned out, it had to borrow emergency snowplows from the city of Stevenage, 25 miles south, to clear the main roads in and out of Cambridge.

After I had recovered sufficiently to be ambulatory, I decided to take my scooter into town. Fat luck! I then discovered what Eino had done in her fit of pique. I had to remove one tire and carry it down about 500 yards to the nearest petrol station for a refill, put on the spare tire as well, then go refill the second tire. Also, it was near-lethal trying to navigate that scooter down the Castle Hill: it was sliding all over the place. That was one winter I shall never forget!