Home Front Alice Pitman

‘Alice doesn’t grow much,’ my father, Robert Pitman, wrote in his Express column when I was two and a half, ‘but she talks a lot. She even conducts interviews with perfect strangers asking them: “Where do oo live?” “What’s oo name?’ etc.” ’

‘Not much change there then,’ said Mr Home Front (a bit too miserably in my opinion).

In common with Blanche Dubois, I not only still enjoy talking to strangers, I have always depended on their kindness. For, despite the current post-brexit hand-wringing, I still believe most people in this country are very nice. And always helpful in a crisis. Mr Home Front is the complete opposite to me. He won’t ask anyone, let alone a stranger, for help, in case it undermines his masculinity. In pre-sat nav days, we would have violent rows in the car, when lost en route to an unfamiliar location. ‘Just ask that man with the dog!’ ‘We don’t need to. We’re going the right way’ (we seldom were).

My top Dubois moments of recent years:

1) Running out of petrol near a busy junction in Surbiton. An elderly couple called Len and Trish stopped to help. They were en route to the Surrey beauty spot of Newlands Corner. ‘We like the view, don’t we Trish?’ ‘And the chips.’ ‘Yes, and the chips.’ ‘Chips first, view second.’ Without wanting any payment, they drove me two miles to a petrol station, then back to my car. They even waited until I was up and running before waving a cheery goodbye.

2) Losing my then ten-year-old son Fred’s best friend on the North Downs for fifty minutes. A horrible Picnic At Hanging Rock scenario, where the rural idyll quickly assumed an atmosphere of malevolence. Seeing our distress, a passing rambler joined the search, before contacting the park ranger on his mobile. At dusk, just as they were about to send up a police helicopter with infra-red lighting, the boy – looking very sheepish – appeared back at the car. He never properly explained where he had got to (abducted by aliens?). ‘Oh, he’s always going missing!’ laughed his mother when I dropped the boy off (annoying).

3) Losing daughter Betty – aged three – at crowded Bocketts Farm on a hot summer’s day. As it turned out, an entirely manufactured disappearance: Betty had gone missing on purpose as she wanted to hear her name relayed

over the Tannoy. Except, for some unfathomable reason, she decided to tell them her name was Cassie. ‘Will the mother of Cassie come immediately to the front kiosk?’ an increasingly shrill voice kept announcing over the speakers. ‘Jeez,’ rang a chorus of disgusted mothers after ten minutes of this, ‘what sort of mum doesn’t go and pick their kiddie up?’ Meanwhile, kind strangers were helping me scour the haystacks in the play area for my missing child. Then a light bulb suddenly went on in my head: was the unclaimed Cassie Betty’s creepy alter ego? I still have no idea why she called herself Cassie. Maybe she was hoping a more interesting family would adopt her.

4) Lupin the dog’s collision with a speeding white van eight years ago. A stranger called Diane stopped and drove the two of us to the vet in Dorking, six miles away. ‘I’m doing this for the dog,’ she said. ‘I love dogs. Cats don’t do it for me. They don’t love you like dogs do. They play you for a fool, cats; it’s all about food with them.’ They kept Lupin in overnight for X-rays and observation, and Diane drove me back home. She didn’t want a penny either. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘he’ll be fine.’ She was right: just one broken rib and a chipped tooth.

5) Betty recently purchased a £40 oak chest of drawers from a Leatherhead charity shop. ‘It won’t fit in the car,’ I said. ‘It will,’ she insisted. It didn’t. So Betty recruited two late middle-aged brothers called Trev and Bill from the Waitrose car park (they had just nipped in to get flowers for their annual visit to their father’s grave). Trev told us we’d picked up a quality bit of furniture. ‘It’s all in the flow of the grain, see.’ He went on about the patina for ages, running his hand along the surface, squinting up close to admire the detail. Bill told him to stop prattling on about oak and get a move on. But they couldn’t get it in the car either. So Bill suggested they put it in the back of their van. ‘What about Dad?’ said Trev. ‘He’s dead, you numpty,’ said Bill. They then heaved the chest into their van – bickering all the while – and secured it with straps. Trev told us how Bill had just come out of prison: ‘Look at him, hair tied back in a ponytail like a girl – won’t get it cut, the silly sod.’ Bill told us how they were originally from Essex. He started to explain the Surrey connection, but Trev told him to put a sock in it: ‘They don’t want your life story.’ The brothers then followed our little Fiat all the way home. They only wanted a fiver for their trouble. Betty was so delighted she gave them ten.