Memories of Kenny Whittall

Dr David Cheesman, 2016

I knew Kenny Whittall while my father, Jack Cheesman, was British Consul in Istanbul from 1966-1970. I was at boarding school and then University in the UK and used to come out for the holidays, so from the ages of 16 to 19 Istanbul was home.

Kenny was a very big man, tall and broad, with a large personality to match. We used to visit him at The Refuge, his rambling old weekend retreat near Pendik, on the Asian side. We just called it Pendik, as if the town did not exist. We used to take with us a selection of goodies that were not readily available in Turkey at that time but which diplomatic families could bring in – English tea, instant coffee, British marmalade, whisky, gin, etc.

The Refuge was one of those places you could never get to if you didn’t already know where it was. My father, who could find his way anywhere, knew the route but my mother did not, and since we lived on the European side, she was also nervous of taking the car on the Bosphorus ferry. There was no bridge in those days. Whenever she, my sister and I went there on a week-day, while my father was in the office, we would take the ferry across and pick up a taxi on the other side. On one memorable occasion, our taxi deposited us at a modern bungalow in a completely unfamiliar area. The taxi driver could make no sense of the address we had given him but, as a proud Turk, he refused to admit defeat and would not hear of it when we asked him to take us back to the ferry. He drove around in circles, interrogating passers-by, but the address meant nothing to anyone. My mother had the bright idea of mentioning Whittall. ‘Whittall?’ repeated the driver. ‘Whittall,’ we confirmed. His face lit up: ‘Ah, Whittall!’ he exclaimed and drove us straight to The Refuge.

Betty Mckernon’s article on this website gives a vivid picture of The Refuge, bringing out details that I had long forgotten of the rambling interior with its naval-themed rooms. The house was a reflection of Kenny’s personality - idiosyncratic, hospitable and entertaining. It was on the shore of the Sea of Marmara, with a view south towards one of the Princes’ Islands. There was a grassy terrace at the front with a flag-pole. The flag was raised at noon and at 6 pm to mark the opening of the bar. If you were out on Kenny’s yacht, the Bati, the flag was the signal to return. We once brought a British army officer with us so Kenny put him on flag duty so that he could bring his military bearing to the task. I don’t think he actually did anything – he merely provided his mystique.

Drinks would be accompanied by Kenny’s puns and jokes. If someone took ice (Turkish buz), Kenny would remark: ‘In other countries, people put ice in their booze. But in Turkey, we put buz in our booze.’ Or if someone wanted beer, he might explain why the Turkish counting system had its priorities right, ‘because we start with beer’ (one, two, three – bir, iki, üç).

Lunch was often preceded by mezze. If there was an ‘R’ in the month, there would be oysters from Kenny’s own oyster bed, but my personal favourites were börek, triangular pastries filled with sharp cheese and mint. I have tried many other börek, but none has hit the mark.

I should stress that the ritual of raising the flag ushered in a talking session accompanied by some drink, not a drinking session. Food was served quickly, leaving little time for serious drinking even if anyone had a mind to it. I do not remember having wine with the meals, and the bar closed when we went into lunch. It did not re-open until the flag went up again at 6.00. Kenny had a culture of early to bed and early to rise so in the evening there would be one or at most two drinks before the meal and perhaps a liqueur afterwards, including ‘Monster Mariner,’ known by everyone except Kenny as Grand Marnier. Then a couple of hours of lively conversation and off to bed if we were staying over. The conversation was always lighthearted. All potentially controversial subjects like politics, business and religion were avoided. We often talked about my father’s passion for Greek and Roman antiquities, places we had visited in Turkey, or which Kenny felt we ought to visit, especially nooks and crannies in Stamboul, as Kenny and his generation called the old city, which he recommended I should track down on my endless walks around the city.

During the day, we usually went out in the Bati. I don’t remember Kenny coming with us. You had to row out to the boat on a dinghy, and boarding was a tricky operation. At this stage of his life I expect it was too risky for him, and he may also have taken the opportunity for an unobtrusive rest. Betty has described the pleasure of breakfast on the Bati. The speciality was Bati Scrabble, scrambled eggs and tomatoes prepared by the captain. Bati Scrabble was infused with the tang of the boat - perhaps a mixture of sea air and fuel - which doesn’t sound appetising when I describe it quite like that but was in fact delicious. Only the strong and spicy scrambled eggs of South Asia have a similar bite to Bati Scrabble.

We spent our last weekend in Turkey with Kenny: Saturday 3 – Sunday 4 January 1970. It was an understandably subdued occasion. Kenny lightened the mood by wandering off and returning with a certificate which he presented with a flourish to my sister, admitting her to ‘the Honourable and Select company of Refugees.’ This going-away memento was a touching surprise because you only qualified for such an honour after spending 21 nights at The Refuge. My father had long ago been awarded his key to The Refuge, which doubled as a corkscrew. He had built up his tally when my mother left him alone throughout 1968 while she returned the UK to bring her diabetes under control and he spent as much time as possible enjoying the company of Kenny and his guests. The rest of us had not clocked up our 21 nights. My mother and sister tended to come for the day without staying over and I only came during the holidays. Kenny said he was making a concession on account of my sister’s age – she had turned four the previous month. He was extremely fond of children and had seen her grow from baby to toddler. My mother, Anne and I left Turkey for the last time a couple of days later and my father followed in about April.

The mock-solemn language of Anne’s certificate carries the authentic voice of Kenny Whittall. An intriguing feature is that it refers to ‘the year of our Lord one thousand nine hundred and fifty [blank]’. Kenny had to replace ‘fifty’ with ‘seventy.’ He must have explained it to us at the time but I can’t now remember whether he kept a stock of old certificates to amend or this was the only one he had to hand when the impulse struck him, but it is a reminder that the fifties must have been his heyday. One of the delights of this website is to see photographs of Kenny from that time, when he was in his prime and full of vigour. Although we knew him at the end of his life when his health was poor, he left a profound impression. We were all extremely attached to him. There are very few people of whom I can say, nearly fifty years on, that I still remember their voice and inflections – to the extent that, for the past several days, I have heard Kenny in my mind preparing to deliver the punchline to one of his puns – and I just can’t catch the words. If I could only get the rhythm right, I’m sure the words would follow – come on, Kenny, tell the joke!