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Patrick Moore The Autobiography

The History Press

The Kid

On several occasions I have been asked to write an autobiography. I can't imagine why. I am not a teenage footballer, a pop star or a rock legend; I am an ancient astronomer. If the total sales of this book amount to fourteen copies, I will not be in the least surprised. However ...

I am going to gloss over my first years very briefly. I was born on 4 March 1923, so far as I know. My birth, unlike Glendower's was not accompanied by any celestial manifestations. My father, Charles – more properly Captain Charles Trachsel Caldwell-Moore, M.C. – was essentially a soldier; he died in 1947. My mother, Gertrude – née White – was trained as a singer; of her, more anon. Brothers and sisters had I none.

I grew up first in Bognor Regis and then in East Grinstead, both in Sussex. I was destined for Eton and Cambridge, but never made either, because a faulty heart laid me low for much of the time between the ages of six and sixteen, and there were long spells when I could do very little except read. However, when I was eight I did manage a full term at prep school. I enjoyed it, but not all of the activities were successful. My mother was a talented artist, but this was something which I did not inherit. We had art once a week, taken by a Mr Moore. On one occasion I was given some art prep, and was told to draw a towel hanging over a chair. I misheard, and thought that I had been told to draw a cow hanging over a chair. I did so. My mother kept that drawing for years; I wish I knew where it is now. Mr Moore then wrote, saying that I was commendably keen, but on the whole wouldn't it be better if during art lessons I went and played the piano in the music-room? My art career ended at that point.

Carpentry was no better. It was taken by a master whose name was (honestly) Mr Wood. The boys were asked what they wanted to make, and chose the usual items, such as letter racks and hatstands. I elected to make a boat, so I was given a chunk of wood and told to hollow out the hull with a hammer and chisel. By the end of the term all the other boys had finished their letter racks, but I had not even completed the hollowing-out process, and had put the chisel through the bottom so many times that the entire project was abandoned. Career number two lay in ruins.

As you will gather, manual dexterity was not my forte, as was evident from the outset. I do not actually qualify as being dyspraxic, but I have to admit that I am fairly close to the borderline; for one birthday I was given a tool set, and it took me exactly ten minutes to hammer my thumb. (Things are no better today. Quite recently I was trying to fix a tin-opener to the kitchen wall when someone told me, kindly, that I was putting it in upside-down. I was).

That one term at prep school proved to be a false dawn, and it became clear that Eton was 'out'. I passed the usual school exams, with the help of tutors, and was geared for Cambridge when the war started. I manoeuvred my way into the forces – I have to admit that with regard to my age (sixteen) and physique I was decidedly economical with the truth – and that put paid to university. The other day I happened upon a photograph of a very young Patrick Moore in the uniform of an RAF officer. Looking at it now, I can understand why in those far-off days nobody ever called me anything but 'the Kid'.

What else? – Well, I did have a rather interesting war, but it was long ago, and a great deal of water has passed under the bridge since then. At the end of it I still had my Cambridge options, but it would have meant taking a Government grant, and this did not appeal to me. I prefer to stand on my own feet (size thirteen), so I meant to take up my place as soon as I could afford it. In the event, I never had time, because astronomy took over. I became 'hooked' at the age of six, simply by reading a book, The Story of the Solar System by G.F. Chambers, published in 1898 at the exorbitant price of sixpence. I was lucky; a family friend proposed me for membership of the British Astronomical Association when I was eleven, and I was duly elected. (Exactly fifty years later, I became President). In 1952 I was invited to write a book, and I did so: Guide to the Moon. It was published a year later, and so this seems to be a rather good place to begin my narrative ...

The Reluctant Teacher

There are two reasons for beginning these notes in 1953. One, as I have said, is because it was the year in which my first book came out. The second is that this was the year when I definitely abandoned all ideas about taking a conventional job. I was determined to go my own way.

At the end of the war I had no official qualifications – apart from the ability to fly and navigate a turboprop plane – and I had no financial backing at all. My father died in 1947. He and I were quite different people; had he been able to stay in the Army instead of being forced to retire because of a lungful of German gas swallowed in 1917, he would undoubtedly have ended up as a general, whereas nobody could be less military than I am. I was exceptionally close to my mother, who was with me until the day she died: 7 January 1981. One thing was certain: marriage was 'out'. Please do not misunderstand me. I was a perfectly normal boy, I became a perfectly normal young man, and today I am a perfectly normal old man. But Lorna, the only girl for me, was no longer around, thanks to the activities of the late unlamented Herr Hitler; in fact she hadn't been around since 1943. Quite recently, someone asked me whether she was ever in my mind. I replied that after sixty years there were still rare occasions when I could go for a whole half-hour without thinking about her – but not often. This explains why I am a reluctant bachelor, and also why I know that if I saw the entire German nation sinking into the sea, I could be relied upon to help push it down.

When Hitler, the Wops, the Nips and the Vichy Frogs had been disposed of, I had to take some personal decisions. Suddenly, instead of having a great deal of responsibility, I had none at all; a curtain had been dropped, and I was still in my early twenties. My Cambridge place was still there, but I could not overcome my distaste at applying for a Government grant; perhaps illogically, it went against the grain. I was brashly sure that I could write, and that eventually I would earn enough to pay my way through university. At least I could type – and thereby hangs a tale.

When I was six, my grandfather's 1892 Remington typewriter was found in our loft at East Grinstead, and was passed to me as a plaything. Instead, I taught myself how to use it, and I still have it, in full working order; in my will it is left to the Science Museum, where its twin is. Two years later I acquired a 1908 Woodstock; I believe it cost half a crown. By then my 'bible' was W.H. Pickering's book about the Moon, which had been published long ago and was quite unobtainable. A family friend who had connections with a science library in London managed to borrow a copy, and it was in my possession for a month. I remember thinking: 'If I type it out, I'll have the book I want, I'll be able to type quickly, and I'll be able to spell.' It worked like a charm; after 60,000 words I was touch-typing with no difficulty at all. That typed copy is in my study now.

That Woodstock has served me ever since, and all my books, including this one, have been written on it. Mind you, changing a ribbon is quite a business; you have to get a modern ribbon and wind it on to the old spool, a procedure which has to be done about once a week. I have battled with an electric typewriter and even with a word processor, but with a total lack of success. (Not long ago NASA asked me to write a chapter for a book they were publishing about the Moon. I complied, and was sent a reply: 'Thank you for your chapter. This is exactly right, and will go straight to press; moreover, congratulations – you are the first author to send in his material.' And in ink, at the bottom of the letter, a query: 'What the ... ing hell did you type it on?')

Writing it would be, but meantime a job was essential. My mother had a modest income, but I did not have the slightest intention of living on that, so a job it would have to be.

The only thing that seemed possible was teaching, so I applied for a post at a boys' prep school, and was accepted. I was sure in my own mind that I was not cut out to be a schoolmaster, but teaching occupied me for the next few years, first in Woking and then at Holmewood House in Tunbridge Wells. Holmewood was new, and when I arrived the total complement was around a couple of dozen boys, aged 8 to 14, and half a dozen adults. John Collings founded the school, and was headmaster; his wife Mary was there, of course. My fellow members of staff were Jo Oldham, circa sixty years old and Alexander Helm, known to most of his friends as Sandy, but to just a few as 'Elm' – because he was once pompously announced by the old school butler as 'Mr Elm', and the name stuck. He became, and has remained, a very close friend indeed; I was best man at his wedding to Paddy (sadly, no longer here – cancer claimed her) and am godfather to their daughter Pippa.

Setting up a new school must be a pioneering process, and it was certainly true at Holmewood. We were all very close, and as John Collings was not fit – again, due to war service – there were times when Elm and I found ourselves running the show. Once I even had to do the school accounts. The Army had owned the house and grounds before John bought them, and there was a ha-ha round the boundary – a ha-ha being, as I am sure you know, a ditch with one vertical wall, so that it can't easily be crossed. We had no use for it, so we ordered cartloads of soil and filled it in – we had no shortage of boy volunteers, it was that sort of atmosphere. In the accounts I entered 'Dirt for ha-ha, £40.' The auditor marked it 'Ha-ha to you', and sent it back!

I won't dwell on the school years, because I never intended to make teaching a career, and I would have left Holmewood well before 1953 had not John particularly asked me to stay on until everything was really firmly established. In fact I enjoyed my time as a teacher, and I do genuinely think that the boys knew we were there to help them on their way to their public schools. I am still in touch with many of them – and of course some of them have now retired, which is a shattering thought and makes me feel very antique. Four years ago I was in New Zealand, and went to stay for a week with a former pupil, Robert Crawford, whom I hadn't actually seen for a long time even though we corresponded regularly. I think I half-expected to see a twelve-year-old rather than one of New Zealand's most senior and respected surgeons. Tempus fugit ...

Quite a number of Holmewood episodes remain fresh in my memory, by no means all of which would appeal to the modern Politically Correct fanatics and the crackpot child psychiatrists. For example, there was some mysterious creature, which persisted in digging holes in the cricket pitch. We christened it Hubert, and set out to identify it. We put sand round the hole to see if we could find any traces; next morning there were little fairy footprints in the sand – no boy ever 'came clean', though I always had a shrewd suspicion as to the identity of the culprit (I really must remember to ask him next time we have lunch together). Finally we decided upon drastic action. Around 5 November we packed the largest hole with gunpowder, covered it up, and left a trail of powder in the direction of the cricket pavilion. Watched by a crowd of boys, we lit the trail. Fire made its way along the grass, and then into the hole. It was much more violent than any of us had expected, and it was lucky that we were far enough away to dodge flying debris. When all seemed to be quiet we uncovered the hole, which was now so deep that one of the boys wondered whether it would reach through to Australia.

There was no sign of Hubert. Next morning there were six holes in the cricket pitch, and we admitted defeat; Hubert had won hands down. He, or she, or it, was never identified.

I also remember the swimming pool, which we dug with volunteer labour (again there was no shortage of recruits). In the end we had a good pool, suitably lined, refilled every week with water drawn from the mains. Of course it wasn't used in winter, and at the start of summer term we realized that it was (a) full to the brim with green slime on the top, and (b) the plug was in the plughole, with no cord. What to do? We held a poolside conference. Someone, clearly, had to dive in and get the plug out. Elm, who is a very strong swimmer, was not there for some reason or other, and I firmly opted out, because I can barely swim at all. Bill, aged thirteen, came to the rescue. Watched by an admiring host, he stripped off, held his nose, and jumped in. Nothing happened, and I was just wondering how to break the news to his parents when he reappeared, brandishing the plug before clambering out to a round of applause and squelching off toward the showers. To say that he smelt was the understatement of the century ...

We did not have a strong religious atmosphere at Holmewood, but officially the boarders were scheduled to go to the local church each Sunday. Somehow or other this never seemed to happen; either it was too hot, or too cold, or urgent cricket practice was needed, or else whoever was due to take church parade had a headache. Eventually the Vicar volunteered to come and take a service in the school dining hall. He was very anxious to have a lectern and a dove of peace. We rustled up a lectern – a prop from one of the school plays – a dove was beyond us. Then one of the boys produced a plastic pterodactyl, and we set it up. I have to admit that it was an evil-looking beast; it leered at you, and I can still see those eyes even now. The Vicar did not regard it as suitable, and went so far as to suggest that we were not taking him seriously enough. Still, we had done our best.

Cricket was always a major sport at Holmewood (it still is), and on Sundays we occasionally fixed up matches against local teams. Some of the older boys were always keen to play, and they were pretty good (both Jo Oldham and John Collings were excellent batsmen, and they coached well; I was less useful, because I was purely a bowler, with an unorthodox action). One evening, after a match, some prospective parents were being shown round the school. Three or four boys were relaxing on the field, and one of the visitors commented that they looked very peaceful. In fact they looked rather too peaceful, and I knew that some cider had been left in the pavilion. Tactfully the parents were steered clear, and subsequently the boys were ushered to their dormitories, very sleepy but with no obvious signs of hangovers. Of course, they had thought that they were drinking something as innocuous as lemonade – and as one of the boys had made an excellent thirty in the match, it was perhaps understandable.

I do not want to give the impression that there was no discipline. There was plenty; for example there was a definite policy about bullying, which amounted to what we would now call zero tolerance. It was accepted that any boy caught bullying would be rather disinclined to sit down for the next hour or two, and the predictable result was that there was no bullying at all – something which would surprise the modern 'do-gooders' who have done such immense harm to our whole educational system.

I have said that I do not propose to dwell on school days, but I cannot pass on without referring to that well-known poet L.F. Antyne. At one stage the boys had been reading poems by T.S. Eliot and came across the immortal lines:

The sunlight shines on Mrs Porter,
And on her daughter,
They wash their feet in soda-water.

We decided that if Eliot could get away with this sort of verse, so could we, and we invented Antyne. Jo Oldham was superb at this sort of thing, and Antyne poetry became all the rage; it spread like wildfire, and one could not open a boy's English book without finding a new Antyne poem. One which became popular was entitled 'Futility'. I think I wrote it; it may have been a combined effort – anyway, here it is:

The deep futility of ephemeral things
Which stir the soul to unimagined dreams
Of Brussels sprouts, and spinach in the snow.
The birds' shrill call in the translucent dawn
To embryonic beetles, and pale moths
Which hide their heads in shallow troughs of earth,
Naked and fearful, as the world awakes
To thought transcendent life, and cosmic death.
The earthworm, crawling to his nameless tomb
All energy dispersed, to form new creeds
New auras of the spirits of the wild,
In the deep pool of life, which ceaseless flows
Through endless time and space, in rhythmic praise
Of all creative impulses, which dwarf
The puny concepts of the human mind.
All, all, shall pass into oblivion ...
How sad!

A difficult situation arose when a modern poet came down to give a talk. One wretched boy stood up, read out some Antyne poetry, and asked for comments on it. The poet proceeded to tell us what it all meant. Keeping a straight face was no easy matter, but we managed it, and I must admit that the boys, played their parts well; not one of them giggled.

As 1953 drew on, I had to make another decision. I had had my first book published, and interesting things seemed to lie ahead of me – Cambridge or no Cambridge? Things at Holmewood were stable, there was quite a staff, and the numbers of boys were increasing all the time. I was no longer needed, as frankly, I had been in the pioneer days. So, at the end of the winter term I produced the school plays for the last time, made my farewells, and jumped out into what was, for me, a new and unchartered world.

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Excerpted from Patrick Moore The Autobiography by Patrick Moore. Copyright © 2011 Patrick Moore. Excerpted by permission of The History Press.
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