I Never Met Ernest Hemingway

My path through life, and that of Ernest Hemingway, never crossed. I must have been one of the few English-speakers who happened to be in Paris in the 1920s who never met the famous writer who was, as we all know, affectionately known as ‘Papa’. If everyone, whether in fact or fiction, who alleges they met him are telling the truth, when did he have time to write? I was in Paris at the same time as the ‘Lost Generation’ because of my mother. When I was born she was very young and, as I was later to understand, inclined towards a cheerful promiscuity. After I was born, this continued for a while. She just enjoyed it, she said. My grandparents, only one set for me as you will discover, disapproved of their daughter’s proclivities but accepted the situation for two reasons. Firstly, she was a whiz with the pastry and secondly, I was a captivating child - at least so I believe - and this is my story. Later in life, I had a friend who would recount stories about Nigeria. There were plenty of them. Evidently in British West Africa, both before and after the countries of that region became independent, nearly all domestic servants had their ‘book’ which comprised a batch of usually bedraggled references from previous employers. Some provided elements of humour with such typical phrases included in apparently glowing testimonials as: ‘James has discharged his duties to his complete satisfaction’ or: ‘Herbert is an exceptional pastry cook, he is very light fingered.’ So was my mother. My second day in this world coincided with her seventeenth birthday. She told me my father was a Welsh rugby player; I believe he was a prop forward. She called me Percy. Now, you can hardly expect Papa to think it fit to meet a Percy. Alright, we know about Percy Bysshe and I read lots of the stories of Percy F Westerman when I was a boy but I suspect that To a Skylark and tales of derring-do were not exactly to his taste. But, to return to my mother's saving grace. She was a magician with the pastry. Her mother and father were bakers and Whitwells bread was famous throughout Gloucester but the icing on the gingerbread, so to speak, was my mother's confections. Her lardy cakes were the toast of the land. Rumour had it that Buckingham Palace had a standing order, through a third-party of course; Whitwells was not, ‘By Royal Appointment’. The shop was Whitwells but they were Glossop, and so was I. Makes it worse. Papa and Percy Glossop sharing a rum St. James at Les Duex Magots; I don’t think so. Even if we had, what would we have talked about? There is no evidence that he had the same relationship with cakes and biscuits as Marcel Proust and although I am far from being a teetotaller, he would no doubt have scorned the warm mild beer I used to drink at the Lower George. In addition, I was not too fond of boxing, except for a pugilist named Hal Bagwell, about whom more later, and I did meet Georges Carpentier once - but not in the ring. Papa joined me in Paris - well not exactly joined; as I have explained we just happened to be in the same town at the same time. He had retreated from the USA to Canada and then to France because of prohibition. The British would never have stood for prohibition, although my father and his fellow countrymen were somewhat restricted on Sundays. But I digress. I am about to recount the life and times of Percy Glossop - pastry cook extraordinaire, teller of tales and a citizen of the Europe of the twentieth century - and not that of a writer I only marginally admire and whose ownership of a Nobel Prize I question. With me it all began with Alice Smith. My grandfather had a deep affection for her and the following descriptions and events are as related by him to me, decorated with a little of my talent for words - which at this early stage is, I trust, already apparent.