FORGIVE OUR FOOLISH WAYS

Love Story

North Yorkshire. Spring 1946.

An army truck swings through a pair of school gates. In the back, a young soldier in khaki battledress looks expectantly across the playing fields.

Over these images, the sound of boys singing:

‘Dear Lord and Father of Mankind,

Forgive our Foolish Ways …’

Lifting her fingers from the piano keys, a young woman turns to address the boys. She’s interrupted by the maid who introduces the soldier – a German prisoner-of-war from the nearby POW camp.

She treats him coldly and officiously, as though he’s an unwelcome intrusion. He smiles graciously.

It’s the first step in what will become a passionate love affair.

In 1980, thriller writer Reg Gadney was commissioned to write a four-part series for the BBC. He chose a subject close to home. On being demobbed after WW2, his father was appointed headmaster of Malsis boarding prep school near Harrogate in Yorkshire. It was where Reg spent his childhood. A German prisoner of war camp was stationed nearby and, on day release, one of the prisoners was sent to help tend the school grounds. Young Reg formed a friendship with the POW, which he remembered in FORGIVE OUR FOOLISH WAYS. He further imagined a fictional love affair between the POW and his mother, one which scandalised the local population.

The producer Colin Tucker sent me the scripts. I found an immediate affinity with the subject matter. The generation born to those who returned from the war – of which I formed a part – was directly affected by what our parents suffered. Food and clothing restrictions, for example, continued long after Germany and Japan surrendered. Confectionary rationing wasn’t lifted until 1953. My dental health suffered consequently. My paternal aunts owned sweet shops, and they both indulged my sweet tooth by giving me free access to the sweetie jars. That I have any teeth remaining is a miracle.

Apart from a short driving sequence across the Yorkshire Moors, all the action was set in the school. The first task in pre-production was to find a suitable location. Since the scripts were set in 1946, we had to find somewhere that hadn’t been modernised. Our first stop was Malsis School. Unfortunately, fire doors had been fitted throughout and its Edwardian splendour was compromised.

Searching through the Independent Schools Directory, we found Aysgarth School, fifty miles to the north. On paper, it seemed a perfect fit. And, as we motored through the gates and up to the imposing Victorian pile, the scripts’ action unfolded before our eyes.

We introduced ourselves, and the Headmaster’s wife, Wanda Reynolds, showed us around. Not a fire door in sight! The place had remained untouched since its heyday in 1890.

She took us into the dormitory for the seven-year-old boarders. Photos of family and pets were propped on each bedside table and snuggly toys rested on each pillow. They suggested an attachment to home. I asked Mrs Reynolds whether the boys suffered from homesickness. ‘In the first term, they often cry themselves to sleep,’ she said, ‘but they soon get used to it.’ Thinking of Matthew, my three-year-old safe at home, I wondered what kind of parents would subject their sons to this. We walked down the row of beds, and I noticed one with a picture of Willie Whitelaw beside it. Whitelaw was a prominent Tory politician: the deputy prime minister in Thatcher’s cabinet. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that’s his grandson’s bed. We have several politicians’ children here.’ As she ushered us downstairs, a bell rang. ‘Teatime,’ she announced, ‘I’m sure you’re ready for a cuppa. You can meet my husband at the same time.’

In his office, we explained our purpose to Simon Reynolds. He seemed kindly disposed to the idea and offered to discuss it with ‘the powers that be’.

Later that day I received a call from Colin Tucker. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ he asked. ‘I had the DG on the phone this afternoon wondering why you’re poking about in his brother-in-law’s school.’ Which identified the powers that be. ‘It’s perfect,’ I reassured Colin. ‘And I think they’ll agree to let us film there.’ ‘So I gathered,’ he replied. ‘You mean it’s a done deal?’ ‘Certainly looks like it.’

We started casting. Penelope Wilton seemed to have the qualities necessary for Vivien Lanyon, but I was overruled. Reg was friendly with Kate Nelligan and already had her in mind when he wrote the part. It was another done deal.

For Wolf Hahn, the German POW, Colin and I flew to Munich in Germany, where we interviewed several suitable contenders. One in particular stood out. Hartmut Becker had the looks of a leading man and the calm reassuring presence likely to win over a seven-year-old boy and, through him, his mother. The clincher, however, was his accent. Hartmut spoke English with an accent that suggested he’d learned from English, rather than American, teachers. Any American accent would have been anachronistic since the American influence in Germany didn’t become apparent until the American occupation after the war.

Other parts were cast from among actors we admired. Harold Goodwin was Capper, the head gardener, and Fanny Carby, the cook. Tim Preece was Cameron Worrell, one of the teachers. I’d had the good fortune to direct Tim’s script FATHER’S DAY for Granada TV the year earlier and we’d become close friends.

Towards the end of pre-production, I booked a screening room at Television Centre in Shepherds Bush and invited Kate and Hartmut to watch BRIEF ENCOUNTER, which for me encapsulated the tone required for Reg’s script. As we approached the security barrier, Kate was in my car’s passenger seat. A jobsworth was checking passes. Kate leaned across. ‘Mr King is a reputed director and you’re keeping him from an important meeting!’ she said with such authority that the man had no choice but to lift the barrier.

The magic of BRIEF ENCOUNTER rubbed off – so much that Kate made an appointment to visit Celia Johnson. On our first day of shooting, she proudly showed me the wedding ring on her finger. ‘It’s Celia’s ring from Brief Encounter,’ she explained. ‘She’s lent it to me for the film. Isn’t that generous of her?’

That slender band of gold was a good luck charm throughout the production.

We started shooting and it became immediately apparent that Kate Nelligan exerted a magnetic influence over the boys. Whenever she appeared, a small knot of them clustered around her. And the tissues she used to blot her lipstick became currency, which they used to swap for cigarette cards – the equivalent of today’s Pokemon cards.

Technically brilliant, Kate maintained a certain detachment, which Hartmut found confusing. He took me to one side. ‘Why won’t she rehearse with me?’ he asked. I also found it hard to understand. She seemed to be acting in a bubble, unwilling to engage with anyone other than the writer. Luckily, Reg was a constant genial presence throughout the early days of the shoot and eased any tensions that Kate’s aloofness might have created. He reassured me that it wasn’t personal. Kate always formed close friendships with the writers of her shows – David Hare (PLENTY) and Christopher Hampton (TALES OF THE VIENNA WOODS). Maybe she regarded fellow actors and directors as lesser mortals – as, in many ways, we are.

A measure of Kate’s skill was evident when we shot the show’s last scene. The story had come full circle. The boys were singing again – this time in the chapel. The school was closing for the Christmas holidays, and the boys were leaving to return to their respective homes. Word had come from the War Office that Vivien’s missing husband had been declared dead. Despite universal disapproval of their relationship, Vivien anticipated spending the rest of her life with Wolf. As a gesture of defiance towards the doubters, she rehearsed the choir to sing ‘Silent Night’, but in German.

She entered the chapel, having just received a letter from Wolf explaining that he was being repatriated to Germany. It was his responsibility to build a new Germany. His voice could be heard reading the letter as the boys sang ‘Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht’. The camera tracked over her shoulder as she walked down the aisle towards the altar. She turned and faced the congregation. A tear brimmed on her eyelid and rolled down her cheek.

We shot three takes. At the same point on each of the takes, Kate turned. And, at the same point, a tear rolled down her cheek. The well of emotional recall must have been deep. It was profoundly moving.

However, Hartmut’s gift to me on the day we completed his part is my most treasured memory. It was the last day of the shoot, a scene in which Wolf teaches young Christopher how to cast a fly. The location was a beautiful stretch of the river Swale. Spirits were high. We were heading home the following day.

The sound crew, who had been moaning throughout the shoot about the camera noise from Bernard Hedge’s beloved Éclair NPR (the acronym stands for ‘Noiseless Portable Reflex’ – a misnomer if ever there was one), had asked the art department to mock up Bernard’s camera in painted cardboard. When the 1st Assistant called ‘Wrap’, Bernard was distracted and his camera was replaced on the tripod with the dummy. I then flew into a (pretend) rage, complaining about the noisy camera, and demolished the dummy with a plank of wood, while the focus puller was filming Bernard’s reaction with the real camera, one of open-mouthed shock.

Hartmut pressed an envelope into my hand while the crew was still laughing. ‘Please don’t open it until you’re home,’ he said. ‘What’s inside will tell you why this project was important to me.’

Of course, I didn’t wait to return to London before tearing it open. Inside was a black and white photo, with scalloped edges – an original print. The image was of a man in a German infantry uniform flanked on either side by two boys in short trousers. A note was attached in Hartmut’s handwriting. ‘This is a picture of my older brother and me with our father. It was taken the day before he went to the Russian front. He didn’t return.’

Sad to relate, the photo and Hartmut’s message were lost in one of the many house moves made over the last forty years. I gather he died of cancer a couple of years ago. This post is the perfect opportunity to pay tribute to a wonderful actor – and a lovely man.

I felt bad I‘d contributed to teasing Bernard. He’d been a real servant of the show, to the extent of risking his life. The script called for Vivien to show Wolf the beauty of the Yorkshire Dales; she drove her husband’s car. We filmed the car driving past fixed camera positions framed in the majesty of the moors. Then we needed to shoot the dialogue in the car, which I imagined could be from camera positions in the back seat. Bernard suggested it would look better if the close-ups were shot through the windscreen. But no provision had been made for a low-loader (which is the safest way to film this type of shot, where the car is loaded onto a flatbed truck and towed by another vehicle; the actor is no longer responsible for steering and can concentrate on acting). I made this objection to Bernard. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll tie myself to the front of the car. As long as Kate drives slowly, I‘ll be fine.’

It was getting towards the end of the filming day. Instead of doing the sensible thing and adopting my original plan, I let myself be persuaded to take Bernard’s advice. The camera grip strapped him to the bonnet and ran alongside the car to ensure he was safe.

All was well until we turned the corner from the deserted country road onto a main road. Suddenly traffic appeared. With a large cameraman restricting her vision, Kate reacted instinctively and braked. Bernard’s momentum carried him forward, then back onto his harness. The camera tripod jerked back and hit his chest, badly winding him. In hindsight, it could have been catastrophic. We could have had a dead cameraman and I could have faced a manslaughter charge.

The choice of music was all important. The budget didn’t stretch to a specially composed score, so we had to rely on found music. Colin Tucker and I auditioned pieces for what seemed like days until he had decided to send a request to the BBC Music Library – a wonderful BBC resource that John Birt discarded in his quest to ‘rationalise’ and ‘modernise’ the Corporation. To those of us who depended on the Costume Department, Props Department, and Music Library, it was an act of supreme vandalism. Its justification was to reduce the overhead of staff salaries and pension rights. The irony, of course, was that the same people who’d worked directly for the BBC were rehired on freelance contracts – and paid considerably more. Birt was following management practices inherited from American corporations, which were already five years out of date.

The music librarian offered a brilliant suggestion: Frederick Delius – born and bred in Yorkshire. The twin voices of oboe and flute answering each other in Brigg Fair captured the developing passion of the lovers and the haunting slow movement of his cello concerto described the agony of a love that would remain forever unfulfilled.

Graded and dubbed, the films were presented publicly in a viewing for the cast, crew, friends and relatives. Hartmut flew over from Berlin to attend. After the screening, he talked to Reg Gadney’s mother. ‘If you’d been Wolf,’ she told him, ‘the story might have ended differently.’ Considering her husband was still alive, it was an unconventional compliment.

Kate was included in the following year’s BAFTA Best Actress nominees for her performance in FORGIVE OUR FOOLISH WAYS.

A postscript:

Years later, I was idly watching Michael Aspel present THIS IS YOUR LIFE. The week’s subject was the Olympic oarsman Matthew Pinsent. My attention was suddenly grabbed by the familiar sound of boys singing ‘Dear Lord and Father of Mankind.’ The studio director cut to an image of the adult Matthew watching the opening sequence of our film. As Bernard Hedge’s camera panned across the row of boys, there, unmistakably, was the ten-year-old Matthew singing his heart out.

Who’d have known?