The following is one of the few examples of when Caru granted the press access to his thoughts. He refused to conduct interviews because, he said, by their very nature he would be placed in a subservient position; answering questions as if he were on trial. What follows is an account of one such meeting with Tristan Ffoulkes who at the time was working as a junior literary writer with one of the Fleet Street quality newspapers



Ffoukes: It was in the summer of 1958 that I received instructions to ‘have a conversation’ with Huw Puw Caru. It was explained to me that he refused interviews and that I was merely to listen to him and record the conversation, and perhaps to prompt him onto other subjects without asking a direct question. My editor also warned me not to suggest his writings were influenced by other writers. “It may give us some amusement to see you return with a bloodied nose”, he explained, “but I need an article for Sunday’s edition.”

   The reason for this meeting was the impending publication of Caru’s short story collection called “Unanswered Tales”^1. He had refused to meet me at his home, and suggested the lounge bar of the White Swan in Bala. I was later to learn that he had probably chosen the venue because he was unknown to the landlord there. I was ready waiting for him in a bay window seat when I saw him alight from a bright red motorbus² across the street, recognising him by his 6ft 4in height and gangly stature. He looked younger than his claimed 85 years of age³. He entered the lounge and identified me from my notepads and pencil. He had a very profuse beard and told me that he always grew a beard when meeting the press as it helped to preserve his anonymity. I said “But we only arranged this meeting ten days ago”, to which be replied “Exactly”. He removed his cap and I could see quite clearly that he was wearing a false beard clipped over his ears. He was going to conduct this meeting wearing a patently obvious false beard!
   We settled down with some drinks. The plural applied in his case as he was willing to take best advantage of my small expense account. Unfortunately, though I still have my notepad from that day the pencil used has faded and smudged over the years and much of what I say is from memory, for this conversation was never published when the book deal fell through. I had decided to get one of the trickier subjects tackled at the beginning and said “It’s said that you do not suffer fools gladly”. He laughed out loud at this and replied “No, my dear, fellow. On the contrary, I adore fools for they are the ones who listen to me and hang onto my every word. It’s the know-alls I despise, because they seem to disagree with what I saw and steadfastly refuse to be persuaded otherwise”. While I was trying to work out that one he changed the subject by saying “Next you’ll be wanting to know why my stories do not have happy endings. Well, the reason is that life is like that. Whatever brings happiness never lasts, life lurches from disappointment to sadness to tragedy all the time. Look out of that window and I bet you cannot see a happy face. Death is the culmination of life, so by comparison the endings of my stories are but light relief. Just think about all the ways you can die, all the permutations and causes, while you journey back to London on the train.”

   “Does this have to also apply to your children’s stories too?” I asked, before realising that it was a direct question. “My children’s stories are not intended to be the pap that is generally written now” he snapped. “I see classic tales reduced to one dimensional storylines at that cinema down the road. They cannot even be bothered to use actors now! Cartoons and drawings” He spat those last words out. “There’s always work for dwarfs in entertainment” he declared. “Why, I bet you could find seven in Bala right at this moment” he said gesturing to the High Street behind him. There, in a group, were seven dwarfs on the opposite pavement. Was this pure coincidence, was Caru prescient or did he have advance knowledge? It later occurred to m that he probably engineered the whole scenario with fake invitations to audition for Munchkins at a non-existent Wizard of Oz show at a non-existent theatre. He had dominated the conversation to the extent that he could precisely time that comment when the dwarfs would be looking for an address. He continued, “It has been suggested that my children’s stories should have a moral outcome. Why? That has been done and done well, but if I am to be a moral guide, what are the parents for? Time for another pint and make the chaser a double this time, my good chap”

   He then proceeded to outline the influences of the stories in the new book. Here my notes are more unreadable and I am relying on memory. Several were based on dreams he had as a child while in South Wales. I wondered what sort of childhood he had to have dreams like some of those he related, but he would not be drawn on that. Some were based on real events, like the Llangwlyb Dam tragedy of 1928, and some based personal experience such as finding that an inn he was staying in was haunted. He deviated here to give a full account of how the proprietors thought this was an attractive feature of the premises and justified a slightly higher room-rate, and how he sought to have recompense. The local constable was summoned and sided, of course, with the inn.

   Caru said “Look” and showed me his hands were empty, leaned across the table and appeared to pull a half crown coin from behind my ear, which he pocketed. “I’m learning the tricks of the magician’s trade for another story” he explained. He managed to infer disdain in the way he said the word ‘magician’. He then whisked out a pack of cards from his pocket, shuffled them and asked me to pick one and not show it to him. I did so and he declared “Seven of diamonds …..”. I showed him the Queen of spades. “…… is still in the pack” he continued, “so your round again, I think. I’ll have a plate roast beef sandwiches too, with plenty of horseradish sauce. Have a packet of crisps yourself”, he added.

   While the sandwiches were being prepared and while they were being consumed Caru gave me a somewhat mixed up account of the goings-on in his village (without giving any clue as to its identity), intermingled with his thoughts on politics, how the country was going down the drain, and the possibility that he would write his autobiography one day⁴. One interesting local story was of note. Apparently there were whisperings that Caru was using the more unusual plants in his herb garden to brew love potions, which he was using to lure the women of his village. He laughed aloud relating the accusation that he had had to jump from a bedroom window when the man of the house returned home. “At my age!” he exclaimed. “I always hide in the wardrobe, and sneak out later” he added with a wink.

   It was time for him to leave. The bus home always left promptly so he bade me farewell. I felt quite pleased with myself. Knowing him to be a difficult interviewee I thought I had gained some insight into the man. I was finishing my packet of crisps as I saw him board the bus. There was a whiskey bottle poking out of the pocket of his tweed jacket. When I went to settle my bill at reception I found the cost of that bottle on my bill. I decided that I would have more of a chance explaining it to my editor than arguing there. I also found that I seemed to be half a crown short in loose change.
   Tristan Ffoulkes tragically went missing whilst on a cruise ship just two weeks after he gave this account and his notes to The Caru Foundation. His body was never found.

1. Foundation note: This collection was never published. Caru travelled to Cardiff to meet with the head of the publishing house. By all accounts it seems that a disagreement arose concerning how and why promotion of the book would go ahead. Caru refused the usual book signing sessions required, the publisher insisted, and Caru threw a large glass of rowan berry wine in the publisher’s face. Quite how Caru had concealed his drink about his person is unknown, but Caru seemed instantly repentant declaring that it was the final glass of the last bottle of a fine vintage and too good for that piece of shit.
2. Foundation note: This took place about three weeks before he was permanently barred from using the coaches, either scheduled routes or private hire charabancs to the coast, of the Bala Motor Traction Company. Caru arrived about 30 seconds late to catch the Barmouth bus and because of Obediah Griffiths-Jones’ insistence of punctuality of his services the driver refused to stop to let him on. Caru waited all day for the bus to return, boarded it and punched the driver on the nose saying “Pass that on to that twat Griffiths-Jones”. It should be pointed out that the Bala Bus drivers had a long list of banned passengers handed to to them by Griffiths-Jones.
3. Foundation note: Caru’s age is not in dispute. We have copies of his birth and death certificates. His marriage certificates using the pseudonym under which he lived give his age as twenty years younger.
4. It is probably this reference, repeated by Ffoulkes, which inspired the fake autobiography found in a car boot sale