Guessing Games
(alas, I could take no pictures at the time)
on the way back to England |
Reverently -
for it was still an iconic place then, redolent of Spitfires, Hurricanes, chaps
with moustaches, posh voices, laconic descriptions of mayhem and expectation of
an extremely short future – I guided my Ariel motorbike into the hallowed
precincts of Biggin Hill, where the interview was to take place.
Ariel reaches Switzerland |
That summer evening,
Englandshire was looking particularly English to an eye that for the last five
weeks had been watching the French, Italian and Swiss scenery roll past; here
everyone was speaking a language I could understand, even at a fast mutter, and
I could communicate my needs without recourse to All You Need To Know in France/Italy/Germany; not that my needs
ever seemed to include “take the sheets away, they are damp/dirty, bring new
(ones)”; my needs – for instance “my bike is upside down in the ditch and too
heavy to lift, please help” - were untouched-on in the booklets. So it was
quite good to be back in untidy, disorganised, comfortable UK … but revenons à nos moutons.
The
interview, by the Officer Selection Board for the RAF, would last for three
days, during which the candidates would live on site and undergo a number of
tests, indoors and outside; some tests, e.g. intelligence test, would be
individual, others would be challenges to be solved by teamwork. Such was the
official information.
By chance I
knew a little more, for some years back, when I was doing my Dip.Ed., the
Psychology class was under the tutelage of the very person who had devised this
selection process, and we had listened in class to his minute description of
the tests, and of what it was that they were actually testing (as distinct from
what they seemed to be testing). Even back when it didn’t look as if this
knowledge could ever be relevant, I had been gripped by the ingenuity and deviousness
of the process; and now I felt simultaneously carefree and exceedingly wary –
for who could tell what treacherous extras might have been added in the
intervening seven years?
Now, at Biggin
Hill, we were a team of females and we were all nervous, so we coped with that by
going along to the nearby pub and sinking some alcoholic backbone-stiffener and getting to know one another.
We bonded, at least superficially: Charlotte, a brusque product of Roedean,
probably ex-head-girl, staunch and competent, would breeze through
effortlessly; Brigid, Irish, lovely, gentle, uncomprehending of English modes
of brutality, probably stood no chance; for the others, including me, it
probably depended on how much we wanted it, and how many recruits they needed. Would
it be kind or not to pass on the secret underground knowledge that I happened
to have? Mm, there wasn’t time, I’d make do with any nudges that might be
possible along the way.
Thus we
settled in. The next morning began with the challenge of Getting One’s
Preferred Breakfast. This didn’t seem like part of the interview but, noticing
that we were being observed by a Moustache, I felt it might easily be. So,
using what I thought of as my plonking voice (good for unnerving a
clever-clogs) I demanded coffee instead of tea, butter instead of marge. A
lifting of eyebrow from the serving chappie (goodness, how the vocabulary was
adapting to the environs!) and a tiny nod from the observer (if such he was),
and the coffee and butter appeared. Brigid gaped, Charlotte’s eyes narrowed. From
the rest of the team came some hard-to-interpret Looks, but there was no time
for explanation.
Outside
(minimal time allowed for attending to the bowels) we were steered towards a
couple of chalk lines, some lengths of stout rope and a few assorted planks. “This here is a river full of man-eating crocodiles”, our chap explained,
“and behind you is the enemy; you have to cross the river to get to your platoon
and safety; use the rope and the wood to make a bridge; you have 10 minutes
before the enemy get here; we want to see team-work.”
“Come on,
chaps,” I cried, mezzo forte, still
in plonk mode, “let’s get the planks strung together, and make a bridge.” (I
wondered if “chaps” was overdoing it, but it looked to be going down OK, and I
thought about a possible “rumpy-tumpy” which I’d heard used by ex-RAF persons extracting
the slothful from their tents at dawn; but the idea was perhaps too outlandish
and I discarded it.) Charlotte was already connecting bits of wood by strong,
efficient knots: she’d probably sailed dinghies since she was a tot. Brigid was
wringing her hands; I thought the observer was eyeing her appreciatively – now
there was a factor I hadn’t considered.
So here we
were, the enemy closing in to massacre us or worse, unless we bridged the river
in 10 minutes, using what I knew from First Ordinary Psych to be deliberately
inadequate materials; for the test was really to find out who had Leader
Material and who would simply fold up. Lateral Thinking, I guessed, was the way
to go now. So I plonked (crescendo
for the observer) “We’ve not enough wood - let’s rope together for safety, and
wade across, and use the planks to beat the crocs off. Come on! (fortissimo)” Brigid looked as if
she might burst into tears as we started linking ourselves with rope and
picking up our anti-saurian weaponry, but luckily the 10 minutes were now up,
and we could abandon this game and retire indoors for an Intelligence Test.
Opening the paper,
I found an old acquaintance – the Moray House Test that we had tried and
scrutinised and been lectured on in the Psych class. And I remembered the
wisdom from back then: it was found that
moderate scores predicted the best officers; anyone who finished in time or could
do the last few questions was no use. With this as guide, I could cruise
gently through enough of the test to make a moderate score, and pass the time
wondering why I was here.
I was here
to escape from teaching. In final year at Edinburgh my careers advisor (whom I
saw only once) had asked what I wanted to do; “Anything except teach”. “I’ll put
you down for teacher training, then.” End of interview, he was almost
completely deaf. At that time, unless your family had lots of money, there were
really only three careers for a female graduate: teaching, civil service and
marriage, the last of which would normally end your career. After a few years
proof-reading in Oxford I realised that no female creature would ever find
promotion there, we were hired only because of knowing an ancient language; and
so, in order to get back to northern parts, I trained to be a teacher. Now,
after six years in a fine school, I needed out, surely there was something
better to do than trying to get the rudiments of a dead language into the heads
of nice young things who’d be better without it? So here I was, looking for a change, and
realising that in amongst the teacher training might have been the very thing that could
bring the change about. Maybe. I riffled through the test: moderate enough? too moderate? But time was up.
Now came the
interview where one was grilled by three senior officers, all sporting
moustaches. The Most Luxuriant Moustache conducted; the others were instrumental
in (a) disconcertation (a triangle, perhaps?) and (b) hostility (trumpet?). Luxuriant
Moustache outlined my scenario: a cricket match was due to start in an hour; I
must round up three players who had not yet turned up; here was a map of the
village, and marked on it the houses where the errant three lived; none of them
had a phone [!! – but quite likely back then]. I was given 5 minutes to devise my
plan of action.
How
enchanting! A story to make, concerted Moustaches to convince! The Prof’s voice
sang in my head: “candidates are given a scenario, a problem to solve; there is
no possible solution; what we do is watch how they behave under pressure,
whether they can invent new strategies when faced with new difficulties”.
After 5
minutes, I outlined a simple plan: go to the houses, tell the players they were
late, job done.
Aha, said
the Conductor, how many miles can you cover in less than an hour? you did
notice the scale on the plan? how far do you have to go?
Well, said
I, you noticed a lad who propped his bike on the wall and went into the post
office? I take his bike and get round the lot in less than half-an-hour; it’s
only about 10 miles.
A blast from
the Trumpet: Eh? You steal the lad’s bike?
- Oh yes, of course. It’s for Cricket.
He’ll understand.
Hmm (chime
from Triangle). You get a puncture after two miles.
- I’ll mend it, it’ll only take 10
minutes or so.
Conductor:
What with? The lad’s bike has no puncture repair outfit.
- I always carry about my person a book
of postage stamps, I’ll use one of those.
Pah! Rubbish!
(Trumpet) You can’t do that, it wouldn’t work. Harrumph!
- Last summer (molto suave), on the rough and stony road down Glenbrittle in Skye,
I had three punctures, and mended them all with postage stamps.
It was clear
that the orchestra wanted to sound a tutti
fortissimo of “lying toad”, but I laid on the Conductor the confident stare
of one who is very nearly telling the truth, and he looked at his watch and presto, con dolore. “Thank you. Would
you ask the next candidate to come in?”
In the pub
that evening, we discussed how it had gone. “Bastards,” said Charlotte, “you couldn’t
win.”
- “You weren’t meant to.”
- “That’s rather what I thought.”
Brigid
looked shattered. “Why were they were so nasty,
they hated me. And I’ve not been able to go, you know, Go, for days and days …* and she gave a tiny sob. So we all sank a
bit more alcohol.
There was
more, much more, along the same lines – things to do, hostility to face,
composure to be kept. Finally a medical, and then the verdict. Charlotte was
selected (of course: exactly the right sort) and so was I (possibly not the
right sort at all).
*
* *
Back home, I
handed in my notice at the school, and told my parents about the change of
career. “Oh dear”, said my mother.
As it turned
out, in the course of the three months working off my notice, I was
so enchanted by the skill of a dinghy racer I found at a regatta, who
sailed me to Cramond Island and back in a boat without sails, oars or rudder,
simply by holding out his jacket to the wind and shifting balance to steer, that I became engaged to him. And cancelled the RAF and all its possibilities.
When I told
my mother, she said “Oh dear, you won’t get that nice uniform.”
Your mum was right on both occasions.
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