All this I observed through a crack in the curtains at the back of the stage, where we and our opponents were briefly assembled, smiling uneasily at each other until we were given the word to file out on to the platform. We came out to a reception reminiscent of a Nuremberg rally which has got out of hand; the Fusiliers thundered their boots on the floor, while stern Caledonia on the other side got up and roared abuse across the aisle, sparing a decibel or two for the encouragement of their team. ‘There’s the wee boys!’ I recognised the cry of Private Fletcher, while McAuslan signified his support by standing on his chair and clapping his hands rhythmically above his head — unfortunately he was still holding his supper in one hand, not that he minded; if you’re McAuslan, a few chips in your hair is nothing.
We took our places, each side ranged on hard chairs behind two long Naafi tables on either side of the stage, and the question-master, a horn-rimmed young man with a long neck and the blue Education Corps flash on his shoulder, assembled his papers importantly at a little table in between. He was joined by Father Tuohy, the Roman Catholic chaplain, known locally as the Jovial Monk, who mitted the crowd to sustained applause, told a couple of quick stories, exchanged gags with the groundlings, and generally set the scene. (If ever the Palladium needs a compere at the last minute, they can simply engage the nearest military priest; I don’t know why, but there never was an R.C. padre yet who couldn’t charm the toughest audience into submission.)
Tuohy then explained the rules. There would be individual questions to each man in turn, on his particular subject. If he answered correctly, he got one point and could opt for a second slightly harder question, worth two points, and if again successful, attempt a third still harder question, worth three. If he failed at any stage he kept the points he had, but the question which had stumped him went to the opposition, who scored double if they got it right. At any turn, a contestant could ask for a ten-point question, which would be a real stinker, split into five parts, with two points for each, but unless he got at least four of the parts right, he scored nothing at all. It sounded fairly tricky, with pitfalls waiting for the ambitious.
While he talked, I glanced at our opponents — three officers, one of them a stout, shrewd-looking major, and a bespectacled warrant officer who looked like a Ph.D. and probably was. I glanced along at my companions: Forbes, looking villainous and confident, was sitting up straight with his elbows squared on the board; McCaw, beside him, showed signs of strain on his sallow, tight-skinned face; next to me the Padre was humming the Mingulay boat song between his teeth, his Adam’s apple giving periodic leaps, while he gazed up at the big moths fluttering round the lights. It was sweating hot.
‘Right,’ said Father Tuohy, smiling round genially. ‘All set?’ I could glimpse the sea of faces in the hall out of the corner of my eye; I wished I hadn’t eaten so many scones, for I was feeling decidedly ill — why? For a mere quiz? Yes, for a mere quiz. There was a muscle fluttering in my knee, and I wanted a drink, but I knew if I picked up the tumbler in front of me I’d drop it in sheer nervousness. Right — I’d play it safe, dead safe; no rash scrambling after points; nice and easy, by ear.
‘First general knowledge question to the Fusiliers,’ said the question-master; he had a rather shrill Home Counties voice. ‘What is a triptych?’
Well, thank God he hadn’t asked me. ‘Screens’ flashed across my mind, but I didn’t know, really. Private Fletcher evidently did, though, for in the pause following the question a grating Scottish voice from the body of the hall observed audibly:
‘That’s a right Catholic question, yon!’
Father Tuohy snorted with amusement, and composed himself while the Fusilier major answered — I don’t know what he said, but it earned him a point, and he asked for a second question.
‘With whom or what,’ said the question-master, ‘was Europa indiscreet —not necessarily on the firing-range?’ He smirked, lop-sidedly; ah-ha, I thought, we’ve got an intellectual joker here.
‘A bull,’ said the major, and looked across at me. I knew what he was thinking; the questions, for an army quiz, were middling tough; if he flunked on the third, would I be able to answer it and net six points? Wisely, at that stage of the game, he passed, and the question-master turned to me, his glasses a-gleam. Easy, easy, I thought, just sit and listen — and then some dreadful automatic devil inside me seized on my tongue and made me say, in a nonchalant croak:
‘I’d like a ten-pointer, please.’
The Padre actually gave a muted scream and shuddered away from me, the question-master sat up straight, there was a stir on the platform, a gasp from the hall, and then a bay of triumph from Twelve Platoon: ‘Darkie’s the wee boy! Get tore in!’ Just for a moment, amidst the horrifying realisation of what I’d done, I felt proud – and then I wanted to be sick. My fiend had prompted me to put on a show, for reasons of pure bravado ; if I managed to lift ten points it would be a tremendous psychological start. And if I failed? From the tail of my eye I could see the Colonel; he was clicking his lighter nervously.
‘For ten points then,’ said the question-master, rummaging out another sheaf of papers. ‘I’m going to give you the names of five famous horses, both real and legendary. For two points each, tell me the names of their owners.’ He paused impressively, and apart from the subterranean squelching in my throat, there wasn’t a sound. ‘Ronald. Pegasus. Bucephalus. Black Auster. And – ’ he gave me what looked like a gloating grin ‘ – Incitatus.’
Silence in the hall, and then from somewhere in Twelve Platoon a voice said in horrified awe: ‘Bluidy hell!’ The Colonel’s lighter clattered on the floor, I felt about two thousand eyes riveted on my sweating face – and relief was flooding over me like a huge wave. Take it easy, I was saying to myself; don’t let your tongue betray you. By a most gorgeous fluke, you’re in business. I took a deep breath, tried to keep my voice from shaking, and said:
‘In the same order . . . ahm . . . yes . . . the owners . . . er, would be.’ I paused, determined to get it right. ‘The Seventh Earl of Cardigan, Bellerophon, Alexander the Great, Titus Herminius – in Macaulay’s “Lays” – and the Roman Emperor Caligula.’
Forgive me for describing it, but in a life that has had its share of pursed lips, censorious glares, and downright abuse and condemnation, there haven’t been many moments like that one. It rocked the hall, although I say it myself. The question-master, torn between admiration and resentment at seeing one of his prize questions hammered into the long grass, stuttered, and said: ‘Right! Ten points – yes, ten points!’, the front two rows applauded briskly, the Fusilier major shaded his face with his hand and said something to the man next him, and Twelve Platoon threw up their sweaty nightcaps with abandon. (‘Gi’ the ba’ tae Darkie! Aw-haw-hey! Whaur’s yer triptyches noo?’ etc.) I lit a cigarette with trembling hands.
In my relief, I’m afraid I paid little attention to the other questions of that round – I know the Padre stopped at two, having identified the opening words of Treasure Island and the closing sentence of Finnegans Wake (trust the Army Education Corps to give James Joyce a good airing), and McCaw picked up useful yardage over Lloyd George and the peerage. It was Forbes who really stole the show – either in emulation or out of sheer confidence he demanded a ten-pointer and was asked what sports he would expect to see at The Valley, Maple Leaf Gardens, Hurlingham, Hileah and – this was a vicious one – Delphi. He just cleared his throat, said ‘Way-ull’, and then trotted them out:
‘Fitba’ – aye, soccer’ (this with disdain for the effete term), ‘ice hockey, ra polo, racin’, in America, an’ athletics – the Greeks in the auld days.’
I applauded as hard as any one – frankly, while I knew Forbes was an authority, he’d shaken me with his fifth answer. I should have realised that the Topical Times and Book of Sporting Facts researchers cast their nets wide. (The Colonel was equally astonished, I imagine, over Hurlingham; you could see him thinking it was time Forbes was made a corporal.)
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We finished the first round leading 26 – 15, and then the contest developed into a long, gruelling duel. I don’t remember all that much of it accurately, but some memories and impressions remain. I know the Padre, after a nervous start, ran amuck through the Augustan writers and various artists of the Renaissance, with a particularly fine flourish over an equestrian statue of Gattemalatta, by Donatello, which had the Jocks chanting: ‘See the Padre, he’s the kid!’ Sergeant McCaw started no fires by attempting ten-point questions, but he was as solid as a rock on such diverse matters as the Jewish Disabilities Bill, the General Strike (I could hear the Padre mumbling snatches of prayer during this answer and trying not to catch the Colonel’s eye), and the results of celebrated by-elections. He seldom failed to answer all three of his questions. Forbes was brilliant, but occasionally erratic; he shot for too many ten-pointers and came adrift as often as not, on one occasion even forgetting himself so far as to engage in a heated debate with Father Tuohy on whether gladiatorial games were or were not sport. (‘Hoo the hell’s a fella expected tae know whit a Roman boxin’-glove’s called in Latin?’) Nor, it was clear, would he have included the Emperor Commodus in his list of Great Heavyweights. I did reasonably well, but never equalled my opening effort. I tried one more ten-pointer, and crashed heavily over the Powers involved in the Pragmatic Sanction (really, I ask you), but scored a mild tactical success over the question-master by insisting that the victorious commander against the Armada was Effingham, not Drake. Father Tuohy backed me up (affecting not to hear the cry of ‘Your side got beat, onywye, padre’ from some unidentified student of Elizabethan history in the audience), but the question-master hated me from that moment on.
We came to the half-way stage with a comfortable lead, and our Colonel produced a cigar from his sporran and sat back. He was anticipating, and not wisely, for in the second half we began to come adrift. The Fusiliers were finding their stride; two of them were only average, but the bespectacled genius of a warrant officer and the rotund major were really good. The major twice snapped up three-point questions on which I had failed (how was I to know the names of all the Valkyries), and on his own account displayed a knowledge of classical music and Impressionist painting which was almost indecent. I scrambled one ten-pointer by identifying five of the occupants of the stagecoach in the film of that name, and got a life-saving eight points from another ten-pointer by naming four of the Nine Worthies (God bless my MacDonald granny for keeping Dr Brewer’s Reader’s Handbook where my infant hands could get at it), but for the rest I was content to sit on my first two questions most of the time and take no chances. Forbes did well, with some fine work on baseball and the dimensions of football pitches, and McCaw continued his sound, stone-walling game, surviving one particularly blistering attack concerned with Gladstone’s Midlothian campaign, and for good measure quoting ‘Keep your eye on Paisley’, to the delight of the St Mirren supporters present.
The Padre was erratic. He pasted the Lake Poets all round the wicket, and caused some stir among the betting fraternity at the back of the hall by bagging two ten-pointers in succession (five trickily obscure quotations from modern poets, and a tour de force in which he identified five of the plays possibly attributable to Shakespeare outside the recognised canon. I can still hear that lilting Island voice saying slowly, ‘Aye, and then there wass The Two Noble Kins-men, aye . . .’). But he shocked the home support by confusing George Eliot with George Sand, and actually attributed an Aytoun quotation to Burns; it began to look as though he was over-trained, or in need of the trainer’s sponge. And so we came to the final round, with a bare seven-point lead, and Father Tuohy announced that the last eight questions would decide the fate of the two-pound boxes of Turkish Delight which were the winners’ prizes – to say nothing of the regimental honour and the Colonels’ fivers.
We were proceeding in reverse order in this half of the contest, so that the sporting questions came first, and general knowledge last. I wondered if I dare caution Forbes not to try for a ten-pointer, decided not to, and sat trembling while he did just that. I needn’t have worried: it was a football question, and he rattled off the names of forgotten Cup-winning teams without difficulty. And then his opposite number tried his first ten-pointer of the night, licking his lips and shredding a cigarette in his fingers, and as he identified obscure terms from croquet, backgammon, sailing, golf, and real tennis the Fusiliers’ boot-stamping rose to a crescendo. We were still holding on to our seven-point margin.
McCaw looked awful. Normally pallid, he now appeared to have been distempered grey, but he folded his arms, gulped, went for three questions, got the first two, and then stumbled horribly over the third: ‘In American politics, what are the symbols of the two main parties?’ He got the donkey, and then dried up. God forgive me, I toyed with the idea of doing elephant imitations, but my sporting instinct and a well-grounded fear that my trumpeting would not go undetected kept me silent. Still, he had got three points: our lead stood at ten. His opposite number blew up on his first question, and we came to the Padre’s turn. His hands clamped on his knees below the table, he put up his head, sniffed apprehensively, tried to smile pleasantly at the question-master, and asked for the first of his three questions in a plaintive neigh.
‘What,’ said the question-master, ‘are the books of the Pentateuch?’
It was, for the Padre, the easiest question he had had all night. They might as well have asked him his name. I relaxed momentarily – this was one certain point in the bag – and then to my utter horror heard him begin to babble out the books – of the Apocrypha.
We can all do it, of course – the sudden blank spot, the ridiculous confusion of names, the too-hasty reply. ‘Wrong,’ squeaked the question-master, and the Padre for once swore, and slapped his head, and cried ‘No, no, no!’ softly to himself in sheer anguish. And we sat, feeling the chill rising, as the bespectacled warrant officer snapped up the Padre’s question, got two points for it, conferred briefly with the stout major, and elected for the regulation three questions, which he answered perfectly for a total of another six. Our lead had been cut to a mere two points.
It was nasty. I looked across at the stout major, and he grinned at me, drumming his fingers on the table. I grinned back, sweating. The dilemma was – should I go for the regulation three questions, which at best might give me a total of six points? If I got the six, then his only hope would be a ten-point question; if I stumbled on any of my questions, he could have a shot at them for bonus points, and with his own questions still to come he could probably win the match. Again, he might fail one of his questions, and I would have a chance at it . . .
Or should I try for ten? If I did, and got it, that was the game in the bag; if I came a cropper, he had only three points to make on his own questions for victory. I looked along at my companions; the Padre was sunk in gloom, but Forbes suddenly spread his ten fingers at me, scowling fiercely. McCaw nodded.
‘Ten-pointer, please,’ I said, and the Jocks chanted encouragement, while the stout major smiled and nodded and called softly: ‘Good luck.’
And then it came, in all its horror. ‘What were the names of the five seventeenth-century statesmen whose initials made up the word “Cabal”?’
‘Ca-what?’ said a voice in the audience, and was loudly shushed.
I didn’t know. That I was sure of. For a dreadful moment I found myself thinking of cabalistic signs – the zodiac – and I hate to think what I looked like as I stared dumbly at the question-master. A cornered baboon, probably. Think, you fool, I found myself muttering – and out of nowhere came one gleam of certain light – whatever the C in Cabal stood for, I knew it wasn’t Clarendon.
That, you’ll agree, was a big help – but at least it was a start. Charles II – Dutch Wars – broom at the mast – de Ruyter climbing a steeple in childhood – 1066 and All That – ‘They’d never assassinate me, James, to put you on the throne’ – Restoration drama – dirty jokes in The Provoked Wife
– oh, God, why hadn’t I paid attention in history classes? – oranges, Nell Gwynn, Chelsea Hospital, licentious libertines – Buckingham! It must be! Nervously, I ventured: ‘Buckingham?’
The question-master nodded. ‘One right.’
And four to go – but three would get me a total of eight points, even if I didn’t get the last name. I went for the two A’s – Ask-something – no, Ash! Ashley! I gulped it out, and he nodded. The other A was as far away as ever, but a worm of memory was stirring – one of them was a Scotsman – Laurieston ? Something like that, though. And then it came.
‘Lauderdale?’
‘Right. Two more.’
I was buffaloed. I caught the major’s eye; he was no longer smiling. One more would do – just one, and I was safe.
‘I’ll have to count you out, I’m afraid,’ said the question-master, and he began to intone ‘Five-four-three – ’, and the Fusiliers took it up, to be shushed angrily by their Colonel. The temptation to shout ‘Clarendon! And to hell with it!’ was overpowering – Cla – Cl-something – oh, lord –
‘Clifford!’ I shrieked, all restraint gone, and the question-master snapped his fingers.
‘Right. Four out of five gets you eight points. Bad luck with the fifth – it’s Arlington.’
I should have got that. It’s the name of a private baths in the West End of Glasgow – if you can’t remember that sort of thing, what can you remember?
Now it was for the Fusilier major. We were ten points up – he could just tie the match if he went for the big one, which of course he did, smiling in a rather frozen way, I thought.
‘Good luck,’ I said, but he didn’t need it. He identified the five Great Lakes without a tremor (pretty easy, I thought, after my abomination, but that’s the quiz business for you). And as the audience roared in frustration, Father Tuohy scratched his head and said, well, that was it. The match was drawn.
And then the babble broke out in the hall, with sundry crying for a tie-breaker to be played. Father Tuohy looked at the question-master, who spread his hands and looked at the top brass in the front row, and they looked at each other. The mob was beginning to chant ‘extra time!’, and Father Tuohy said, well, he didn’t know; the only people who were in no doubt were the seven other contestants and me. We were all busy shaking hands in relief and getting ready to pile for the exit and something long and cold. And then the brigadier, rot him, got up and addressed the question-master as the noise subsided.