Good old england: two episodes | thearticle

We arrived as refugees in the autumn of 1956. There was tremendous sympathy and goodwill towards all the refugees from Hungary. It even extended to the man who stole a duck from St James

Park in order to relieve his solitude. But after a while we fitted into English society as did many other refugees before us, and we stopped being refugees. We were just another young

married couple who lived as other twentysomethings did, but still appreciated that kindness and gentleness around us that was so specifically English. Here are two episodes that I am

convinced could not have happened in any other country. The hedge A year passed. We both had good jobs. We managed to acquire all the necessities of life and some luxuries too. We decided it

was time to have our own transport. We wanted to explore the country. A car was still beyond our means, but a motorcycle was a distinct possibility. We had the money to buy one but who

would teach us to ride it? Marianne became friendly with the caretaker at the place she worked. She asked him: Do you know how we could buy a motor bicycle?” “You have come to the right

person,” said the caretaker. My son is a motorcycle enthusiast. He will help you.” And indeed, next evening Danny, six foot four, visited us in our rented room. He told us about hire

purchase, of which we were unaware. He came with us the following Saturday and we chose a motorcycle, the two-stroke 250 cc Ariel Leader with a sidecar. He collected it for us and a few days

later he spent good two hours telling me and showing me how to use the newly acquired vehicle. His enthusiasm knew no limits. He spoke fast. The most frequent word he used was _easy_. 

Before leaving he summarised the instructions: “ Kick-start the engine, put it in gear, give it some gas, and off you go. Easy. Do you want me to write it down on a piece of paper?” “Yes,

please,” I said. Next morning, I got out of bed at dawn and with the piece of paper in my hand I made my debut. I stalled the engine maybe a dozen times, but the thirteenth attempt was

successful. With a big jerk the motorcycle came to life with me perching uncertainly on the seat at the top. Marianne was waiting in front of the house. I rode round the block several times

waving to her each time I passed. I gained confidence. I drove faster and that ’ s when it happened. At a corner the wheel of the sidecar left the ground throwing me out of balance. I landed

in a finely manicured hedge. The motor, as one may expect, stopped. In the quiet of the early morning the sudden stopping of the noise was clearly discernible. Marianne ran toward the sound

that she could no longer hear, and found to her relief that I was OK, only the motorcycle, resting in the hedge, needed some attention. Joining forces, we tried to move the vehicle. It

stuck stubbornly to the hedge. The sudden silence of the engine and the mounting desperation in our loud voices advising each other as to the best way to liberate the motorcycle, brought the

master of the house to his feet. He wore a dressing gown over a long nightshirt. He was clean-shaven and might have been in his late fifties. He looked inquisitively at us, then he noticed

the motorcycle in the hedge. “ You need to take it out of gear,” he said. As he spoke, he followed his own instructions.  We felt miserable. We had woken him up, we had damaged his hedge. We

expected harsh words and a demand to have the hedge repaired. “ You must be shattered,” he said, “ come in and have a cup of tea.” An accident in London Three years passed by. We exchanged

our motorcycle for a splendid car, a small Austin A 30. We learned to drive with moderate success. I failed the driving test twice but passed on the third attempt. Marianne ’ s third driving

test went the same way as the first two. She failed. She needed more practice. When this story starts, she was at the driving wheel. We were in a traffic jam on a fairly wide London road,

with the traffic moving forward at a snail ’ s pace, maybe 20 yards every 3 minutes. For the last half a mile or so we had been following a posh car. I think it was a Rover. Alas, after 20

minutes her attention flagged, and we ran (_walked_ would probably be a better description in this particular case) at a speed of 3 miles per hour into the back of this car. A man and a

woman got out of the car to inspect the damage. The man was about 35, already greying, casually dressed. The woman may have been 30, very elegant, as if just stepping out of a fashion

magazine. We got out of the car as well. Marianne was distressed. That was her first accident. She burst into tears. The man first looked at the back of their car. There was a dent on the

bumper. The woman looked at Marianne. “ Darling,” she said, “ you shouldn ’ t cry because of a small dent, that can be hammered out or whatever they do to it in a garage.” Then the man

repeated the same message. “ Don ’ t cry, nobody is hurt. How can I console you?” Marianne kept on crying. He addressed her again: “ Do you know what Rada is?” Well, being interested in

Soviet history I knew that for a couple of years after the Bolshevik Revolution in Petrograd, Rada was the name of an independent Ukrainian government before it was crushed by the Red Army.

But I could not imagine that it had anything to do with a minor car accident on Tottenham Court Road. The man continued: “ If you stop crying, I shall give you two tickets to the end of year

exam play at RADA.” He stopped for a moment and continued: “ RADA is our breeding ground for the best British actors.” Marianne stopped crying. The man took two tickets out of his wallet

and gave them to her. “ Let your boyfriend drive you home and everything will be fine after that.” With a final: “ Enjoy the play!” the couple re-entered the Rover with the maltreated

bumper. We never heard from them again. We were sorry that they did not introduce themselves. For years after the accident, we wondered who they might have been. The next weekend we found

RADA (the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art) in Malet Street, Bloomsbury, not far from the scene of our accident. Our tickets were for the first row. The theatre resembled one of the smaller

theatres in Budapest. We felt at home. The play was a musical. The title was _Shut Up and Sing. _It was about an East End gang, led by a charismatic but terrifying leader. I don ’ t remember

the story, but I do remember the charismatic but terrifying leader. It was played by one of the students, a certain Tom Courtenay. He was fantastic. Sitting in the front row, we were

worried that he might hurt us. That ’ s how strong the reality was that Sir Tom (as he now is) created.   A MESSAGE FROM THEARTICLE _We are the only publication that’s committed to covering

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