AS IT HAPPENED, Dad didn’t have to wait long to be reunited with his swan because a few years later he and Mum moved into our coach house, which had been hastily converted into a cosy bungalow. They brought along a few other additions of their own. Sadly, Dad’s fortunes had not worked out as well as he deserved or expected. The job on the farm was brought to a swift conclusion after a dispute with the farm owner. When Dad had sold the family home to move into the farm he had let it go too cheaply – I think he got around £30,000, which, for a four-bedroom detached house, was well below what it was worth at the time. Dad had worked hard all his life and ultimately had little to show for it when the farm job came to an end. With limited savings my parents were effectively homeless. Jill and I invited them to come and live with us at Randalls. Dad was such a kind, decent bloke who always had time for everyone that it didn’t need any further consideration. I was never going to allow my parents to be without a home; they had made so many sacrifices for me when I was growing up and, as far as I was concerned, it was an opportunity to pay them back – not that they expected it. So they arrived with their ‘family’. Dad had been collecting a small menagerie of water fowl, which he transferred to our pond. The seagull looked slightly disgruntled at having to share his home with a load of new arrivals.
Throughout my life, circumstance has always provided in some way or another at crucial times; call it fate or divine intervention. That is what happened when my parents arrived. Dad was a brilliant handyman who could fix anything. He never needed to be asked – he just enjoyed the simple pleasure of finding something that was broken or could be improved in some way and tinkering with it. Consequently, within a few months of his arrival there was nothing on the farm that didn’t work. If something broke it was fixed within a day. I would walk through the garden, notice the outside tap was leaking and make a mental note to fix it, but by the next day it was already done. It was like having a magical elf who invisibly mended things. He went about the place very quietly and unassumingly, and was always there in the background. Everyone loved him to bits and he was a true gentleman. He also loved wildlife and knew several people from his farming network who soon got to know about our willingness to take in wildlife. Our ‘hobby’ quite quickly turned into something much more. We never dreamed it would be anything more than a pastime and we never really meant for it to expand. Initially our patients found a home in the kitchen.
We didn’t advertise but the community was closer than it is today and people talked. Subsequently, every so often someone would arrive with a box. The exchange was always the same. There would be a knock on the door, usually at the weekend or in the evening. Jill or I would get up and open it.
‘Hello. A friend told me that you look after wildlife and I found this,’ they would say, offering the box for inspection. They would be invited inside.
‘What have you got there then?’ I would enquire curiously.
The lid would be lifted and something would be nestling inside in some straw or ripped newspaper, rustling around nervously.
I would then start asking questions to get as much information as I could about the creature – what injuries it had and where it had been found. I would take down the patient’s details on a pad that Jill helpfully left out by the door, attached to the wall with a piece of string. It was our log and helped us keep track of things. It was inevitable that I would take in the animal with the aim of feeding it, treating any injuries and ultimately getting it back out into the wild. Most commonly in the early days we would get small birds and hedgehogs. The hedgehogs were magical and we would be constantly rearranging our kitchen to cope with the growing number. We certainly didn’t go into it thinking we were going to create a wildlife hospital in our home. I can’t really blame anyone else because I let it grow and grow and tacitly encouraged it with a call to the local newspaper or the local radio station here and there, explaining that a new visitor had arrived. The local press loved it because there is nothing more heart-warming for the readers than a picture of a little baby hedgehog. After each small snippet in the papers we received more animals.
We had cages to keep the animals in and we utilized household goods to deal with emergencies as and when they arose. It was think-on-your-feet firefighting. One day a woman arrived with a box and showed me a fully intact nest in which sat several tiny birds cheeping weakly. They were so fragile and young their featherless skin was translucent and their closed eyes bulged like black wounds.
‘A cat got their mother and the father never came back,’ the woman said. ‘I got my husband to get up the tree on the ladders and get the nest. I couldn’t stand there and do nothing. I could hear them calling for their mother. It was awful.’
I reassured the woman and told her we would do our best to get them fit and healthy, and big enough to fend for themselves back in the wild.
‘Thank you so much,’ she said. She was genuinely emotional.
‘You’ve done the right thing,’ I told her. Naively I believed back then that human intervention was predominantly the best course of action. Over the years I learned that was a false assumption and often, especially with baby birds, the best thing to do if they are not in immediate peril is to do nothing as one or both parents will usually return. Even birds that fall from the nest often find their way to a safe hiding place where a parent will continue to feed them.
When the woman left I started to think about the challenge I had just accepted. I had a nest full of birds that needed to be fed and kept warm. I racked my brains to think of where to put them. Eureka! We had an electric frying pan – one of those gadgets that you buy because they seem like a good, time-saving idea but that you never use. I dragged it out from the back of the cupboard, cleared space on a worktop, put it on the lowest setting and placed the nest gently on it. Then I grabbed my coat and car keys and went to a local angling shop to buy a pint of maggots. Back at home I found a bowl and mashed up some of the maggots into a smelly, revolting paste and, using a turkey baster, I spent the next thirty minutes feeding the birds. They loved it and over the following weeks we made several trips to the angling shop to keep a constant supply of mashed maggots, which the birds devoured hungrily. Thankfully, Jill and I had grown up in rural communities so we were not precious about the kitchen and keeping it spotless. Farmhouse kitchens are always in a state of organized chaos, with people and dogs traipsing in and out. Ours was the same, full of life and wildlife. The gas-fired Aga was regularly used to warm a patient. We patched up animals, bathed wounds and disinfected them.
‘Remember the oven when you go, there is a hedgehog in there,’ Jill would call out as I ventured off to work. She would prepare breakfast for the girls, then start to feed the animals. I got as involved as I could during the weekends and the evenings, but Jill did all the hard work.
It was a steep learning curve to begin with as there was no internet from which to get information. If only we had Google back then, it would have made life a hell of a lot easier. There was much trial and error and I utilized the network of other animal carers who were doing similar things. We shared information. Anne Cooper was a constant source of support and advice and if she didn’t know something she would be able to put me in touch with someone who did. I made telephone calls to the RSPCA and to other wildlife rescue centres, the most established of which was called Tiggywinkles, based in Buckinghamshire. It had been set up by a man called Les Stocker and his wife Sue in 1978, two years before we started our little enterprise. I saw Les on the news and it inspired me to some extent. I thought, If they can do it, we can.
Slowly, as we became more established, people started calling us for advice, too. The guiding purpose of what we did was to get injured animals back into their natural habitats but on occasion things would arrive at our door that were too damaged to survive in the wild or which had been kept as pets and were too imprinted by man. That, to me, is the worst-case scenario for any animal. It has lost its natural survival instinct and instead is a prisoner to man. As the years went on I formulated a strict philosophy, which I’ll explain later. However, in our early years we took in several animals that became permanent fixtures in and around the house. One of the first was Fleur, a beautiful barn owl.
At this point it is important to explain a little about my thoughts on naming animals. I believe that anthropomorphizing wild animals – attributing human characteristics to them – is the first step to imprinting them. Wild animals don’t have names because they are not pets, so I have tried to make a policy over the years of never naming things when they are brought in. My policy works sometimes but other times my daughters or, in later years, volunteers would give something a name. Fleur, however, already had a name when she arrived. She was delivered by the RSPCA. I had become friendly with one of the local inspectors, a very lovely man named Bill Alston.
Bill called me one day and explained that he had confiscated an owl from a person in Surrey because the bird was being mistreated and was being kept in a cage. He asked if I had room for her. We had the barn at the top of the farm, which could easily be sectioned up to create a secure aviary space, so I agreed straight away. Owls are magnificent, intriguing creatures and this one deserved a better life. Dad set about making a suitable enclosure and Bill brought Fleur over. It was evident from the very start that she had no fear of humans, which is not a good thing for a wild animal. Bill explained the dos and don’ts of owl care and left Fleur with us. She made herself right at home and hopped onto my shoulder while I held the tether attached to her leg. She surveyed the chaos of the kitchen, twisting her head from side to side, making a careful note of the animals in cages arranged around the room, no doubt thinking what tasty snacks they would make. I made a note to keep her well-fed in case she was ever tempted to help herself to one of the patients. Dead chicks were added to the weekly shopping list that included maggots, earthworms, dog food, cat food and sprats for the seagull.
People started to call when they saw stranded wildlife and sometimes I would go and collect animals if I was around. From there the rescue service began. The very first rescue happened soon after we started out. It was Sunday and the phone rang. I answered and spoke to the manager of a local golf course.
‘We have a problem with a swan on the eighteenth tee,’ he explained. ‘The blasted thing has been there for hours and it won’t move. If you approach it, it hisses and no one wants to get attacked. It’s holding up all the members – they can’t play through.’
‘Is it injured at all?’ I asked.
‘We’ve not been able to get close enough but it certainly isn’t moving,’ he explained.
‘I’ll be right over,’ I said.
I went out to the garage and started to rummage around for any equipment I might need. I grabbed a pole, reasoning that from a distance I would be able to gently nudge the swan to see if it could be moved. I took a large fishing net in case I needed to try and catch it and I took the biggest carry-cage we had. I also took a pair of thick leather gloves. I packed it all up in the boot of the car and drove to the course where I was met by the exasperated manager, his face red with frustration at the obstinate swan that was ruining Sunday for his members. He showed me across the green to the scene of the crime.
The tee was surrounded by members, mostly men in various shades of pastel all looking equally irritated. The manager pointed.
‘There it is,’ he said, with barely concealed ire.
I looked over to where he was gesticulating and there, sitting on the immaculate grass, was a rather magnificent male adult swan looking totally unfazed by the commotion around it.
‘Leave it to me,’ I said confidently, while thinking, Okay, what am I going to do now?
Slowly and deliberately I walked towards the swan. I glanced at it but I didn’t look it directly in the eyes. I sensed that would only aggravate it and I didn’t want to appear threatening. Having been around animals all my life I had an innate sensitivity to them: I could read their moods and body language and I could tell the swan wasn’t distressed. It seemed quite calm. I got the distinct impression it was just being obstinate and awkward. I was used to Dad’s swan so I had a good idea of the type of temperament they had and this one was displaying typical swan arrogance. I also knew that while you have to respect them, the adage that a swan can break a leg with a wing is a myth, unless you suffer from something like brittle bone disease. I also knew that, on the whole, swans were all bark and no bite. Almost on cue, as I neared the subject of my first rescue it reared up, spread its wings and started hissing.
I could hear some mumbling from the golfers who were now enthralled, probably hoping that I would be attacked.
‘Don’t be so silly,’ I said quietly but firmly and carried on walking slowly towards the bird, which started to beat its wings, roll its eyes and honk. I knew I couldn’t back down. For one, I needed to show the swan that I wasn’t scared, but mainly I didn’t want to look like an idiot in front of my audience.
As I got to within a few steps of the bird it stopped making a fuss, and slumped back down again with a dejected look on its face.
‘Good swan,’ I said. I stepped forward, reached out slowly and got hold of it. It made an indignant grunt but allowed itself to be handled. I took care not to hurt it but made sure I held it firmly enough around its wings so it couldn’t start flapping around. I also held it far enough from me facing away so it couldn’t turn round and peck me. Then I walked back towards the manager.
‘Where do you want it?’ I called.
‘Can you take it back to the lake on the twelfth, please?’ he said.
I walked past the golfers and released the swan back to where he should have been. It let me carry it all the way without a fuss.
A successful rescue release, where the animal went straight back in the wild without needing to stay at the farm, was the gold standard for the animal and for us because we were being overrun. Each morning the girls sat at the table having breakfast before going off school, oblivious to the activity around them. They knew nothing else. They couldn’t understand why there was always a long line of school friends waiting to be invited back to the house for tea. When they were young their birthday parties must have been the most eagerly awaited in the school. Kids loved the house because there was always something exciting to see there. Fleur added to the lure of it all because, although she had a home in the barn, she spent a lot of time in the house. In the end she lived with us for twenty years – in the wild, barn owls live for around six. She became an unofficial mascot and would come to fundraising events with me and to the school talks I later gave. In hindsight I feel sorry for her because it must have been a crappy life for a wild animal. If I had known more when we first took her in I would have tried to get her back into the wild. She might not have lived long but the quality of her life would have been far better.
If I was presented with the same situation today I would act differently. We didn’t put things to sleep that perhaps we should have done back then. A lot of people will find that difficult to understand because they believe that by keeping a wild animal captive, you are helping it. In my opinion you are not – you are torturing it. People still do it today – they put a crow in a cage because it only has one wing. That’s like you or I living the rest of our lives in a telephone box. It is not fair. We should have respect for wildlife: it should be flying freely or running around in the wild and should enjoy its life. I think if it doesn’t have that sort of life it shouldn’t be here. I learned these things as I went along but it took many years and, at the beginning, all I could do was follow my heart and feelings.
Another permanent resident arrived soon after Fleur. It was a mentally impaired deer. We never found out its story and without an MRI scan we had no idea what was really wrong with it apart from the fact that you could tell just by looking at it that it wasn’t in possession of all its faculties. It had lost its marbles. We made an enclosure for it and kept it in the garden for years. It was skittish and nervous, would fit occasionally and wasn’t particularly confident on its feet. Dad was the only one who could get close to it. He had a way with animals, which is probably where I got it from. He loved that deer, even after it stuck its antler right through his leg one day.
Meanwhile, the dogs remained calm and took the presence of all the other animals for granted, which was bizarre because out on a walk they would chase anything. But if they were walking up the garden and a duck waddled across the lawn they totally ignored it.
For several years I funded the project personally with the money I was making in the City. I hate to think what I spent on it in all – probably somewhere between £100,000 and £200,000. I bought equipment, food, medical supplies and bedding. We begged and borrowed as well. We spoke to local hospitals and got the dressings and ointments that they threw away. We also began approaching vet practices and often, when we had an animal which we couldn’t patch up ourselves, they would help out with stitches or antibiotics. We received great support from a local vet who came on board and volunteered her time early on. Her name was Joyce Tibbetts and she was wonderful. She did brilliant work for us for many years. Joyce would come in and perform procedures if we needed her. Often vets would call us after people had taken injured wildlife to them and they had patched the animals up and needed someone to care for them as they recovered.
When the children went to school Jill’s days were consumed with looking after all the animals, feeding them, cleaning them, caring for them and medicating them. By the late 1980s the trickle had become a flow. We grew naturally, which was good in retrospect because it allowed us to learn as we went along. On the 7.03 from Leatherhead to Waterloo I was the only City gent reading wildlife and veterinary manuals, rather than The Times or the Daily Mail. Later, I developed an idea for a storybook for children about a one-eyed owl that found itself injured in a rescue centre. While others gazed out of the train window on their journeys to work, I sat huddled over a pad scribbling away intently for many months, writing down the story which was eventually published as The Owl with the Golden Heart. I’m still immensely proud of the book today.
When it became too busy for Jill to cope on her own we started to ask for volunteers, firstly among friends and neighbours. One lady came in and said she wanted to help on one afternoon a fortnight. She ended up being our most senior volunteer and she was amazing; she did everything Jill did, and which a veterinary nurse does now. Sadly, she died of cancer several years ago. We found that people were willing to come in and help, which was a bonus because we could not pay for staff. As the overall costs rose, I could no longer afford to keep up so we started tentatively fundraising. We would ask people who brought in patients for donations and on the whole they were happy to leave a few pounds in the knowledge that we would do our best to look after whatever it was they had saved.
In 1987 we became a registered charity and renamed ourselves Wildlife Aid. It was easier to ask for money as a charity. I was still working and I never hid what I was doing from my bosses. I’m sure they didn’t like it and most of my colleagues probably thought I was slightly mad. I got reprimanded now and then for calling on the work phone to check on a patient’s progress and, if truth be told, I was often preoccupied with things back on the farm more than I was at work. In 1992 we opened a surgery, which we created in a room at the front of the house, and the singer Beverley Craven came and opened it. It was a fully functioning veterinary surgery with equipment bought by funds we had collected or which had been donated by businesses. It was a far cry from the first medical shed I had erected with a wooden shelf and wooden cages and only one medicine: an antibiotic powder someone gave to us and which we used sparingly on the worst cases.
In the midst of the madness we tried to lead a normal family life. I bought a river boat, which we kept moored on the River Thames at Shepperton, and we had friends over and entertained. They graciously accepted the creatures deposited in cupboards and other nooks and crannies around the house. It really never crossed my mind that they wouldn’t. Often we would be deep in conversation about some subject or other and Fleur would swoop in, land on my shoulder and eye up the leftovers.
Sharing the house with wildlife had other consequences that were not so pleasant. One night we went to good friends for dinner in their big, posh house in Surrey. I was sitting at the table having polished off a lovely plate of boeuf bourguignon and a couple of glasses of Bordeaux. I was listening to my mate as he recounted an anecdote about a friend of his, a trip to Bangkok and an unfortunate mix up with a lady he met in a bar. Absentmindedly, I glanced down at the sleeve of the lambswool jumper I was wearing and watched as a flea jumped off me onto the table. I glanced up to see if anyone else had noticed. They hadn’t. Should I say something or just pretend I haven’t seen it? I thought. I decided not to say anything.
In the mid-eighties the City changed a lot and it was not for the better. Something happened called the Big Bang. Markets were deregulated by the Thatcher government and trading went electronic and screen-based. The yuppie was born and a new generation of brash City boys obsessed with money and materialism like never before rode into town. In the midst of all this the job that I was expected to do became increasingly complex and the computerization of the trading environment also closed the door on one of my specialities: a process called arbitrage. The system worked like this. In different countries there were different markets – London was home to the raw sugar market and Paris was home to the white, refined sugar market. Both were usually pegged together. However, sometimes they went right out of sync for whatever reason. Prices in Paris, for example, would go screaming up while London did not move. This gave you the opportunity to sell Paris and buy London at a wide differential, knowing that the real price would be somewhere in the middle and that at some point in the future, maybe a month down the line, it would come back into sync. At that point you sold your London stock, bought Paris and made a killing. I made a huge amount for the company on arbitrage. It was beautiful. I would watch for the glitches in the markets, buy what I needed and then sit back and watch the markets converge, before undoing the deal. It was quite good fun and I made a name for myself as the arbitrage king. I was one of the first people to arbitrage white sugar against raw sugar, which was ironic, really, as I was useless at maths.
After the Big Bang arbitrage stopped and, while I continued to earn good money and had six people working under me, increasingly I felt unable to understand what was going on. In part, I started to hate my working life and was relieved to get home and to busy myself with the animals.
I questioned what I was doing at work. I began to dread going to work because everything was just too complicated. The firm was also bought out by an American group and things changed. Then, in 1992, Black Wednesday happened and the City went into meltdown. The government was forced to withdraw the pound from the European Exchange Rate Mechanism and sterling dropped off a cliff. We were all at our desks for seventy-two hours when the shit hit the fan. By the end of the week the streets of London were filled with dazed yuppies wandering around like zombies, unable to comprehend what had just happened.
The job eventually took over my mind, body and soul. The firm owned me and I never had a sense of balance. My kids were half grown up, and Jill and I were living increasingly separate lives. I had done a deal with the devil and comforted myself with material trinkets and by walking around with a wallet full of £50 notes, but eventually you have to pay the piper, don’t you?