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.