Changing Names in Regent's Park

Grandad always wanted to work with animals. He grew up in east London, so when he left school aged 14, in 1944, he knew exactly the place to go in search of a job: Regent's Park Zoo. Grandad was interviewed by Wally the head keeper, three times his age. His office was like Aladdin's cave, crammed with half-used packets of animal feed, mismatched pairs of boots and a rather alarming tranquiliser gun right in the middle of his desk. He began by re-Christening Grandad.

‘Gerald, you say? Hm. Let me see.’ He paused, furrowing his brow. ‘I think we'd better call you Gerry. That will rest better on the ears of the other keepers. Now, why us?’

‘I rescue injured animals, anything at all, I look after them and release them when they’ve recovered, keeping them in cages in the garden. There are hedgehogs, a thrush, a field mouse, a pair of pigeons-’ He wasn't sure how to stop.

Wally smothered Grandad's verbal avalanche. ‘What’s the most unusual animal you’ve found?’

Grandad thought for a moment, before launching into his explanation.

‘A ferret, I think it was sent down a rabbit warren in Epping forest, it was whimpering and exhausted when I came across it and now there’s no stopping it! It’s up to mischief all the time and I’ve named him Fergus.’

‘Fergus?’ Wally chuckled. ‘Any particular reason?’

‘Well it’s his face. He somewhat resembles my old Maths teacher, and his name was Fergus.’

Such enthusiasm was infectious, and Wally felt momentarily helpless. The job was Grandad’s.

An early challenge was to walk Winnie the brown bear cub around the site, stopping to chat with the public. Grandad admitted that he felt nervous, but the mischievous Winnie did most of the talking. There wasn’t a second to feel self-conscious when conversing with visitors, as this cub excitedly pulled Grandad in every direction. She seemed to enjoy all the attention, peering back at everybody, often on her hind legs, snaffling treats from a grateful Grandad.

He enjoyed interacting with Winnie, and visitors enjoyed watching. One afternoon, her tour was interrupted by another keeper.

‘We’ve got something for you, Gerry. Tie Winnie here for a minute.’

Grandad followed unquestioningly. As the youngest member of staff it wasn’t his role to refuse. He was led into the mortuary. The stench struck him first, and what met his eyes appalled him. Two keepers were quite nonchalantly butchering and skinning a lioness.

‘Jane was a grand old lady, and she died peacefully. The war’s on, and she’s certainly not going to waste. She’s for the other cats.’ He put a hand on Grandad's shoulder, drawing him away from the table. ‘Anyway, would you like this?’

Grandad couldn’t bring himself to look down. He held out his hand. Whatever it was felt cold and smooth, with a sharp tip.

‘Be sure to take good care of it’, called the second keeper.

Back outside, he opened his hand, revealing a perfect, white, arching claw, with a razor sharp barb. Winnie inevitably thought it was for her, jumping up excitedly to see. That afternoon Grandad seemed more generous than usual with the treat bag. He certainly did take good care of Jane’s claw. He polished it and cherished it in a battered, old pill box. Forty years later he fixed on a delicate silver chain and gave it to his daughter, who still wears it today.

Grandad was soon thrown into the lion's den himself, working with the big cats. His favourites were the cheetahs, displayed in cages in those days, as there were no open enclosures for them. One routine duty was to muck out. The visiting public didn't come to see an empty cage being cleaned. Grandad would do anything for those cats but too often found himself avoiding monkey nuts tossed through the bars in his direction. Some would even jeer,

‘Better fatten you up, Mister. There’s not enough meat on you for a cheetah!’

He used to wonder why they found these insults funny. True, his keeper's hat and uniform were initially oversized, and he looked much too young to have any job, let alone this one. But why was he, time and again, their sport during the afternoon? And so he began to leave the door to the area at the front of the cage open as he raked. Out would come the cheetahs, fascinated by the rake like an alert tabby is drawn to a sweeping broom. They liked to play, at first with the rake, and then with Grandad. They would jump on his back, and his natural talent as an actor would take over. While they gently pawed at his hair, he would appear to stagger backwards, call out, tumble over, and the cheetahs would carry out their part to perfection. Members of the public used to dash off to fetch Wally.

'Help! The cheetahs have got the keeper!'

Grandad's manager would deliberately peer at the clock. 'Oh yes, that's Gerry mucking out the cheetahs, and mucking about with the likes of you!'

One balmy August afternoon in 1946, Grandad was walking a south-east Asian Binturong, Whiskers, named after its characteristic otter-like face. Members of the public were, as usual, reacting in all sorts of ways; some calling out, some pointing and some tucking into their ice creams. Grandad knelt down obligingly for a photo request, only for a young tearaway to snatch his hat, plonk it on his own head and then hurl it over the adjacent fence. Little did the boy appreciate what was happening on the other side. Each day of the summer holidays, the zoo staged a chimps’ tea party at the entrance to Monkey Hill. At times the chimps sedately sat together around a picnic table, helping themselves to the neatly cut cake and sandwiches set before them, while keepers poured the tea. However, the public preferred the madcap actions of the chimps as they inevitably dashed around with trophy cups and saucers, scampering up onto the flat roof of the viewing gallery. And on this particular afternoon, one cheeky chimp spotted Grandad’s hat as it flew over the fence and dashed away with the spoils. Although Grandad did get it back, it was never the same again.

Grandad also worked with canines. He rather liked the dingos, Sandy and Bea, who spent a good deal of time sprawled out in the sun. Impatient visitors often grumbled that these animals hardly seemed worth having on display. Grandad attempted to demonstrate their abilities by devising a challenge. He used to suspend a favourite snack from the top of the cage, leaving a light table on the opposite side. Sandy soon worked out that she could drag the table over, until it was underneath the reward. Then with a bound, she could reach her prize. Visitors appreciated the dingos’ intelligence, and managers saw the potential for challenges of this type to be employed in broader strategies.

In September 1947, the vicar of St Mary’s, Paddington, wrote to inquire whether there were any activities which might interest his Sunday school class. Grandad suggested to Wally that a keeper could show them the five week-old lion cub, Heidi, and tell them a story about a big cat. He was immediately assigned the role.

‘I need five volunteers.’

Up went all ten pairs of hands. Parts were assigned, and penny bags of sweets given to the unlucky ones. Grandad unrolled his blank paper scroll, and boomed at his young audience. ‘Androcles fled his cruel master. Go on, you hit him with this balloon, and you, run! One day, he wandered into a cave looking for shelter. Now, wander! When it was too late to turn back, he heard a fearful, echoing roar. Roarrr! Androcles could see a lion. It was limping. Limp, limp! Yes that’s it. Androcles fearlessly approached the lion. No, fearlessly! He noticed a sharp thorn in its paw. Crouch down and look. He carefully pulled it out. Good. The lion licked his hand. No don’t do that! Not long afterwards, Androcles was arrested. He was sent to the arena as punishment for fleeing his cruel master. Pretend to cry! In the arena, he was surrounded by two tigers and a lion. Stand around him. And he thought he was done for. Pretend to pray. Suddenly, the lion roared. Yes! The tigers slunk away while the lion approached Androcles. Slink not run! He shut his eyes. Brilliant. But the lion simply licked his hand. No, no, no! Androcles realised it was the same lion. He was spared by the emperor, and the lion was given to him. Shake his hand.’

The children seemed spellbound as they stroked Heidi. They gently teased her, giggling when she yawned and fawning when she pawed them back. Shows like this evolved into regular children’s activities.

In 1948, Grandad had to leave the zoo to fulfil his national service order. He was sad to go and, judging by his comments, his colleagues were sorry to see him go too. He wondered whether the animals would miss him. However, after two years with the RAF, he rejoined. Most of his former friends on the staff were still there, as were most of his old four-legged friends.