John North: How to take a call-girl for walkies

Keeler, Mandy Rice-Davies and others stayed in a house owned by Stephen Ward, their pimp, in Bryanston Square, near Marble Arch in London's West End.

"I could look out of the back of my father's property and see the girls washing up," recalls Peter. "I didn't realise there was anything unusual about them until one day I saw Ward put a collar and lead on Keeler and walk her around Bryanston Square. Now that did seem a bit bizarre."

The celebrated call-girl remained upright, made no use of lamp posts and may not even have been barking. "I couldn't really tell if she was enjoying it, but she didn't seem to mind," says Peter.

"I think that for Stephen Ward, sex was mainly in the mind. It was a way for him to establish domination."

When Ward died, Peter tried to buy the flat. "They just wouldn't show it to me, I thought it would have been interesting to see how the two-way mirrors worked," he says.

Long in Darlington, he still runs his own estate agency, remains active within the LibDems and the European movement and until recently was a regular entrant in the Wimbledon veterans' tournament.

Today, he sets off for a skiing holiday in Switzerland. "People said I was looking a little tired. I'm not quite as good on skis as I used to be, but I feel the need to liven myself up."

Mr Freitag will be 77 next month.

ALAN Curry, another Darlington lad originally, rings from Jersey where now he works in software solutions or some such - commuting at weekends back to his home in France.

"It's only an hour and a quarter back by boat to St Malo," he says. "I can get home quicker than I could travelling back to Middlesex on the Underground."

The call - "You're the only person I can remember" - follows some fascinating digging around the family tree.

His grandfather was from Chopwell, forever Little Moscow, that village between Consett and Gateshead where streets still carry the name of Lenin, Stalin and others caught red handed.

Times being particularly hard in 1937, the family and many others were persuaded to move to the West Bank - West Bank, that is, in Selby.

"It was like a commune, I never imagined such places existed in England" says Alan. "They were given a small house, a greenhouse and communal piggery and chickens. There was a wage but I think it was just above the dole, and they were expected to live on what they grew.

"I'd always thought of the West Bank being in Palestine, not a place in Yorkshire for pitmen down on their luck."

Eventually the family returned to Darlington, found work and prospered. Alan would love to know more about the West Bank. We'll pass on information.

LAST week's piece on the joys of the new West Park in Darlington said that by standing atop a small hill, Mr Tim Stahl could see Roseberry Topping in one direction and the Lakeland hills in another.

Now retired, Mr Stahl was a leading orthopaedic surgeon. Several readers have suggested that he may also have X-ray eyes.

Paul Dobson in Bishop Auckland has been doing his geography homework. West Park, he says, is about 60m above the sea. "Looking towards the Lakes, Stainmore Summit is about 46km away at a height of 447 metres. The first Lakeland peak in a straight line from Darlington through Stainmore is High Raise, a further 45km away. "To see it from Darlo over Stainmore, it would have to be 1,280m high, but it's only 829."

All are agreed, however, that if the sun ever shines again, it'll be a cracking view, nonetheless.

THE Stokesley Stockbroker, ever vigilant, sends the obituary from Tuesday's Guardian of Bill Hays, a Wingate miner's son who became one of Britain's brightest television and stage directors.

"Gregarious, charming and irritatingly handsome," writes Alan Player in the obit.

Hays had attended ballet school, the Billy Elliott of his day, dancing alongside Moira Shearer - he was a mouse - in the 1948 British premiere of Cinderella.

Considered too large, he was the right size to play rugby for England schools and was also a promising leg spinner with Warwickshire.

Back on home territory, it was after the last night of Brendan Behan's The Hostage at Jesmond Playhouse that the idea of a North-East equivalent was born.

Bill organised a meeting of himself, former pitman Sid Chaplin, songwriter Alex Glasgow and Plater himself. They came up with Close the Coalhouse Door, and struck a wonderful seam.

THAT it has proved possible to see the way to producing today's column is itself something of an achievement.

Nine days ago, the reserve spectacles fell fecklessly to the concrete terracing at Durham City FC - the frame smashed, the game dashed.

Last Monday, the second reserve pair went the same way, just as feet were due beneath the table in the 5s and 3s league.

The first went long ago, the fourth missing a lump the size and thickness of a beer bottle bottom. It was time for yet another mercy dash to Geoff Foster in Willington, blue light fitted to the front of Bond Brothers bus (or whatever these days it is called.)

Geoff is the world's most patient optician, eyeing the assemblage of broken arms and battered lenses with the unquenchable optimism of Albert Steptoe raking the day's rags. "I'm sure we can do something with this lot," he said.

The eye test went quite well, too, though the left one merely makes up the numbers and the lenses are what they call "complex". It's a euphemism - an optical allusion - implying enfeeblement.

Thereafter an excellent bowl of home made broth in the Colliery Caf and a pint in the Goldmine Bar and Grill, formerly the uncrowned Queens Head. Both venues are hung with prints of the dear old days, particularly of Brancepeth pit heap which dominated the town. Coal house door long closed, they think of it affectionately, even now.

Thus envisioned, the column returns next week.

text to go hereMystery of the war memorial women

A LETTER, and another mystery, from Howard Armstrong, one of an admirable dynasty that includes his cousin Hilary - the government Chief Whip - and his brother David, retired head teacher and Methodist local preacher.

Now in Sheffield, Howard has been revisiting the war memorial in Crook - "In honour," says the citation, "of the men of Crook who loyally served in the Great War."

What, though, about the women?

Most of the fallen were Durham Light Infantrymen. Others fought with the Yorkshire, Leicester and even Welsh Regiments. So who, wonders Howard, was Sister Alice May - listed under RGA.

What was she doing there, and how did she die? In vain, Howard has trawled the Internet and checked with the Commonwealth War Graves Commission.

We consulted Bob Pendlebury, veteran county councillor and veritable Captain Crook. "I've often wondered that myself," said Bob, and in turn referred the question to Harry Brook, septuagenarian athlete and chairman of the town's Historical Society.

"Well, that's a very good one," said Harry. "We've even consulted sages like Bob Pendlebury and still haven't got to the bottom of it.

"We're reasonably certain she must have been a nurse, and not a religious sister, but the real puzzle is that no one in Crook seems to have heard of her."

Closer inspection of the memorial is thwarted by ongoing roadworks and by the myopia mentioned elsewhere.

Harry Brook points out, however, that the name of Evelyn Davies also appears on Crook's memorial. Among the second World War dead, she is listed under NAAFI - and little more is known about her.

"She must have been awfully near the front line, but it's yet another mystery," says Harry. "To have one woman on the war memorial is unusual, to have two is extraordinary."

Crook's memorial also carries the name of a soldier who's remembered on the Willington memorial. "Apparently his widow wanted his name on the memorial in one town and his mother in the other," says Harry.

"It was a time of peace and reconciliation. The best option appeared to have him on both."

None of it, of course, comes any closer to explaining the killing of Sister Alice. Further information, on both victims, most gratefully received.