Then it was that John Grierson stepped into the breach, once more, on my behalf. I am permanently indebted to him not only because he gave me a start but for the patience and tolerance he showed as I slowly struggled out of the crysalis and tried to spread my wings a little bit. As I have said, he believed education could be the cure for everything. For this reason, he sent his young brother-in-law, John Taylor, who had photographed Song of Ceylon, to Glasgow University to do a course in something or other. Even if he didn't get a degree he would learn how to concentrate through enforced essay writing.

During a visit to the unit at Mousehole, Grierson saw my French homework on the table of the digs I was sharing with Harry and his wife Lulu. I was doing a correspondence course with Wolsey Hall, trying to make up for the loss of my school years. Grierson, so Harry told me, was impressed that I was making some sort of effort and magnanimously suggested that when the film was finished I should take three months off on my pay of thirty shillings a week, go to France and get a better command of the language. Not only was this a wonderful gesture but he spread the word that contributions would be most gratefully received by his ex-messenger boy, he being the first to stump up five pounds, a lot of money in 1936. Many senior members followed his kind example. It was, as I said, a very special unit.

Conveniently, an aged great-aunt, another Gulland who lived in Kidbrooke Park, died and left her grand nephews and nieces £200 each. On this and the unit's contributions I lived like a lord for over three months in Grenoble. Mercifully the pound was uniquely strong against the franc, something to do with Leon Blum and the Front Populaire. As a result, for £2.10.0 a week I was able to pay my pension and university and ‘High Life’ cigarettes, aptly named. I bought a ‘bike’ for a pound which took me to and from my lodgings with a wonderful Buscarlet family of Avenue D'Eybens on the Route Napoléon, to the University.