Born Wild Read Free Page A

managership of a new branch. We moved to nearby – but much posher – Southgate, and Dad joined the Rotary Club, an event that set me off on a completely new path. Instead of going to Borstal, I was packed off to Mill Hill, a smart boarding school on the outskirts of north London. They had an assisted-places scheme through which the school and Middlesex County Council would help to pay the fees of a few boys each year. A Rotary Club member had tipped him off about it. I don’t know why they took me but I’m so lucky they did. Almost all of my trustees in the UK are Old Millhillians to this day, including my oldest school-friend, Bob Marshall- Andrews, who was one of our founders and is now chairman of the George Adamson Trust.
    It’s fascinating to imagine how my life could have gone without the influence of Mill Hill. Would I have carried on looting Woolworth’s and ended up in jail, or would I have got a proper job and kept off the booze in my middle age? Mill Hill taught me many great things but it was a way of life I was after, not a salary; I haven’t received a salary since the day I met George Adamson in 1971. Bob said in a speech when I got my OBE that the idea of Mill Hill was to take people from very different backgrounds – the wealthy, the nouveau riche, the middle classes and the poor – put them through the system and spit them out asuseful, serving, articulate members of society. Then he turned to me and said, ‘With you, Fitzjohn, it all went terribly wrong.’ I may not be quite what they were planning but I knew from the moment I got to Mill Hill that I had to make it work for me.
    Mill Hill was an amazing place to arrive after thirteen years on the grimy streets of north London. It’s set in 120 acres of parkland and has views as far as the Chilterns in one direction and much of London in the other. The school buildings were like nothing I had ever seen before – towering ceilings with intricate plasterwork, polished wooden floors and panelling everywhere. It was like something out of a film. The school had gymnasiums, theatres and science laboratories – all things that would be impressive today, but in the 1950s I’d been used to having very little indeed. I was terrified. It was all so alien: I had to fag for someone, making his bed and cleaning his shoes, and I had to put up with a bit of bullying – but who doesn’t? It didn’t last for long. I was in the lowest class when I got there and right from the beginning I knew I had to get out of it and up to the next level. I had a great sense of privilege but was also conscious that this was my one chance. My schooling was virtually free but even having to pay for the textbooks and uniforms was a burden for my parents, who had to scrimp to make sure I had what I needed and that my sister’s fees at a convent in Whetstone could still be covered. All around me other children had things that I wanted. I decided what I had to do was: change my accent, get three A levels and play rugby for the First XV. The first two weren’t too hard but I was a weedy little squirt, and although I could jump like a Masai on a pogo stick – very handy at line-outs – getting into the First XV was quite a struggle.
    I really threw myself into the school. I worked hard at my studies and outside the classroom I was like someone trying to join the Marines. I did cross-country running, pull-ups in the gym, rope climbing, anything – as long as it hurt. Boys fill outnaturally at that age but I was also very athletic – something that’s stayed with me, which is lucky or I would never have been able to do half the things I’ve done. Tracking lions and chasing after leopards all day is exhausting work and I really needed to be strong.
    The academic work was a struggle. I’ve always had problems remembering things, and although I was good enough to pass my A levels, universities