Tale guide

In the beginning

Richard arrived on a cold and snowy evening on the 12th of December 1950 in a little nursing home in Tavistock, County Devon in the United Kingdom.

Born the middle son of Mary and Peter Phillips he was one of the eighth generation of Phillips’ of Turner and Phillips of Plymouth, suppliers of Bechstein and Steinway pianos by appointment to the Queen.

According to Mary Phillips, the ‘famous’ author, we were direct descendants of King Philip of Spain but we were never able to prove the connection and given my mother’s predisposition with the importance of being Phillips, we filed this claim into the box labelled ‘dinner tales’.

The wind howled around Trethevey, our three storied home built on a hillside of an estate just outside Tintagel. It was dark and scary. The repetitive haunting hoot of an owl drew my attention to the window. The owl’s large round eyes stared down on my cot and I screamed.

Such is my very first memory of life or simply imagination. It would seem that we were not wealthy but came from wealth much of which was lost during the Second World War and the destruction of Plymouth by the German bombers. But my early years were influenced by the ever present warmth of a French nanny, journey’s into a lush green English forest where I climbed all over fallen Oaks with my Father and a red peddle car that disappointed because of the absence of a ‘blake’!

Much later, my Mother told the story of how during a painting visit to Trethevey, an artist friend went out onto the cliffs to capture a scene on canvass. Halfway through her work she fell asleep in the idle warmth of the sun and when she awoke, she was amazed to find that the panorama before her was completely different to that that she had started to paint. The explanation? The little people had mischievously moved her a little way down the coast. I believed it then and I guess, deep down inside, I still believe it today.

December 1955 heralded the first major fork on life’s road. The Phillips family pulled up anchor, sold all that it possessed and left on the mail ship to South Africa in search of a better life.

My memory of the Atlantic crossing is confined to Father Christmas dropping down onto the deck and handing me a beautiful red fire engine.

Africa welcomed us with an early warning of the paradox that is the very being of the breathtaking beauty and uncompromising harshness of its landscapes and its people. No sooner had we arrived in Durban at the tender age of 6, than I caught a severe case of sunburn and was admitted to hospital with enormous blisters all over my upper body. Memories of the incident and the accompanying pain stay with me to this day.

Peter Phillips had already made a mark for himself at the BBC in the years between 1940 and 1955. He was an accomplished pianist, song writer and producer and he believed that he would be able to continue his career in South Africa. While he gave it his best shot he found that being English became the biggest obstacle to him reaching the heights he pursued. He also abhorred the racial undertones he encountered in Southern Africa at least in his early years in the country.

He turned down a fabulous offer to head up the production department at Rhodesian Radio because he didn’t want to be a part of what he deemed to be a racially partisan organisation.

I suspect that decision marked the second major fork in the road for me as in retrospect, had he accepted that offer, I could quite likely have found myself drafted into the Rhodesian army and fighting in the Southern Rhodesian war once old enough. But his decision to decline the offer kept us in South Africa and as I reached junior school we found ourselves in the Cape.

My younger brother and I were enrolled at Monterey. ‘A private school for Diplomats’ children’, my Mother would boast. The school was housed in Cape Dutch styled buildings located on what was probably an old wine farm in the hills of the very affluent neighbourhood of Constantia. Our uniform of white shirts, grey shorts and blue tie stood out by virtue of the powder blue jacket and cap.

It wasn’t long before we became boarders. Why this should have been, I can only hazard a guess, but there is no doubt that the decision marked the beginning of my real life’s education. It was here that I first encountered the need to stand on my own two feet, learn the rules of engagement and seek to find my way along the path of least resistance.

Preparatory school finally gave way to high school. The memories of those days were overwhelmed by a deep sense of pain and loss that filled the pit of my stomach on each and every time I was returned to the hostel at the end of every school holiday. These feelings of anxiousness and unhappiness never left me but did dissipate as I took on the challenges of life in the classroom and on the sports field on the days following my return.

I guess these feelings and experiences played their part in shaping the character and disposition of that adolescent and continued to fuel his rebelliousness nature.

The classroom was boring save for the geography lessons of Mike Orford. He had worked the rubber plantations of Borneo, been part of the support team that climbed Mount Everest, had visited the ancient Asdic temples of Central America and had taken a barge down the Amazon River. Not only had he had all of these amazing adventures but he took great pleasure in sharing his experiences with us in a very accomplished and animated manner. I was simply in awe of the man and the world he painted.

I started smoking, played rugby for the third team and was sometimes selected for the second team. I joined the school’s cadet band and over time became an accomplished drummer winning provincial colours at the annual inter school cadet competition. Because of our close affiliation with the University of Cape Town, the cadet band occupied the centre of attention when it led the annual university Rag day parade down Long Street to the foreshore and back every year. It also enjoyed the privilege of playing at Newlands Rugby Stadium before the start of the annual clash between UCT and the University of Stellenbosch.

It was during these heady days that I met my first, second and possibly third girlfriend and discovered to my amazement that I possessed a talent to disarm and enchant the opposite sex. At any opportunity I mingled with the ‘older generation’ and discovered very quickly that my ability to drink with the boys was somewhat overrated.

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