The French Run

This is the story of a crazy summer I had more than sixty years ago. It started on our last ever day of school. When the teacher called out "Please finish writing and put down your pencils" we got up with the rest of the class and walked across the road to the pub to celebrate, still in our uniforms; two book-loving boys from the East End of London with an uncertain future. That's when it all went wrong. We got dragged into a fight with some hooligans from another school; a weapon was pulled, a lad was injured, but nobody saw how badly because we panicked and ran before the police could arrive. We'd already arranged a secret trip to France; the bags were packed, we'd got our passports and francs, and the Morris Minor was ready to go. So, we made a dash for it, worrying about the boy on the pub floor, anxious about the police pursuing us. We got to the ferry and crossed the channel. There was a very nervous road trip, driving south with pork pies and fondant fancies, looking over our shoulders for the gendarmes, disrespecting Ernest Hemingway, smoking, which we all did in those days, and singing along with The Beatles on the radio. Please Please Me. When we finally reached Cousin Jean's farm, it turned out he was trying to launch a mad make-or-break entertainment business based on the fabulous French coming-of-age story, Le Grand Meaulnes. So, it was agreed we could hide out with him, but only if we joined his magical circus as actors in the Harlequinade. And that's where the story really began...