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.”