So there I was, having beaten Willie at last, with a smile on my face. And then along came Walter Lindrum and wiped it off again.
Hard on the heels of my victory at Leeds, Walter decided, along with Clark McConachy, that he would contest the 1933 BA&CC championship. This was excellent news, putting the competition back where it belonged as the premier event of the billiards season. Moreover, since the men from the Antipodes were joining in, the competition received a further shot in the arm by being renamed the World Billiards Championship. But although all this was good for the game it certainly made life tougher for me!
Walter and I emerged through our respective channels to meet in the final, which on this occasion was removed from the hallowed precincts of Thurston's and placed instead in the Dorland Hall which Willie and I had pioneered and found so financially sound three months previously. But sadly, from a playing point of view this second experience did not bear comparison. Walter, although trailing for ten out of the twelve days, dramatically pulled back my lead on the last Friday so that on the Saturday, despite Dorland's large seating capacity, the box-office was turning away spectators in their hundreds. (Oh for closed-circuit television.) Although we began the final two sessions neck and neck, Walter successfully hogged the table and drew clear. I could not get a look-in, and when time expired Walter was declared the new champion by a margin of some 700 points.
A doubly sad moment: my first defeat in any championship match since 1927 and the end of the billiards world's boast that theirs was the only title in sport which had never been outside England.
And the title was not the only thing which went outside England for the first time, Walter took home with him the trophy itself which had been competed for since 1870. The arguments that ensued changed once more the face of British billiards and Walter never again returned to these shores.
Walter was always an unpredictable chap. Once when he was playing Willie Smith he made a break of over 3,000 but despite enthusiastic applause he complained bitterly about missing the final shot. He stared at the cloth for some minutes and then told the referee that a hair out of the table brush had caused the ball to run off. Again, a remarkable incident sticks in my mind which occurred during a week when we were playing a match at Thurston's. After an evening session we went out on the town and it was well into the early hours by the time we got to bed. Just before the party broke up we met a gentleman who had an interesting business proposition to put to us and who invited us to lunch with him the next day. I arranged to collect Walter from the Strand Palace Hotel where he was staying and was as good as my word. But when the receptionist telephoned his room to tell him I had arrived he received only a faint reply asking me to go up to see him. On entering Walter's room, I discovered him lying on the bed with a cold towel wrapped round his head.
'What's the matter?' I asked.
'Cancel the lunch, Joe, and this afternoon's match as well. I'm too ill to do anything.'
'You can't do that,' I told him. 'You're in play with 800-odd unfinished and we'll have a packed house waiting to see you make a thousand or more. I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll go and keep the lunch appointment and pick you up this afternoon. You'll feel better in a couple of hours.
He looked no better when I rolled up after lunch but we applied more cold towels and I somehow managed to get him to Thurston's in a taxi. Walter began play with a 'Full House' board outside, as predicted, and reached 1,000 in no time. Finally he took the break to 1,300 and left me an impossible position. I missed the shot and did not get an opportunity to play another one all afternoon; Walter went to the table and ended the session with over 1,200 unfinished. This was quite unbelievable to me, knowing how terribly off-colour he was. But there was just no holding Walter when a cue was in his hand.
Anyone who knew Walter as well as I did, having been in such close contact with him, could not honestly have been amazed, therefore, at the news that came from Australia late in 1933 to the effect that having got the billiards trophy on his sideboard he was now adopting a 'come and get it' posture. Walter's message was firstly that anyone wanting to challenge him for the title must go to Australia since he had played 'away' the previous year, and secondly that he would keep the cup on that sideboard if no one went over to win it. He refused point blank to enter the BA&CC championship, the closing date for which was then imminent.
This, naturally, threw the Billiards Association into paroxysms of rage. Cables requesting the immediate return of the cup went unanswered and Stanley Thorne, secretary to the Association, was moved to threaten 'drastic action' if Walter continued to refuse - though what this action might have constituted was deeply unclear. The Association were further annoyed by the fact that Walter conducted his end of the dialogue through the medium of Australian newspapers; his nose-thumbing attitude was going down very well in his own country and both Press and public appeared to be on his side. At one stage Walter claimed that John Bisset, in congratulating him on his victory in 1933, said it would give Australian billiards a fillip if the next championship were to be played there. John denied saying, or even implying, that the championship should be contested 12,000 miles away, but he kept the temperature cool by replying blandly to newspaper inquiries: 'Walter is a delightful fellow and a great friend of mine. Please don't make me say anything to upset him.'
But in the end neither the hawks nor the doves in the BA&CC could find a solution in the face of Walter's implacable attitude. So, with the best face they could muster, they decided to transfer the championship to Australia after all and placed it for this one occasion under the auspices of the Amateur Billiards Council of Australia. There were only three entrants, Lindrum, McConachy and me - with me having a bye and so meeting the winner of the Lindrum - McConachy duel in the final. All I had to do now was to get to the other side of the world.
I booked on the Orient Line vessel Orsova, scheduled to sail from Tilbury on Saturday, May 5th, and I was so looking forward to the tour that I could scarcely wait in patience for the day to dawn. In the era before jumbo-jetting became an occupational fact of life for sportsmen such a trip was a major event, and in recognition of the fact John Burns and other billiards friends gave me a great send-off at the National Liberal Club on the Friday night. I was particularly glad to see the great Australian cricketer Don Bradman at the dinner and took it as a personal tribute that he had dashed from Waterloo to join the company. He did not make friends readily or court easy popularity but he was a sincere friend to those who, as he used to say, were 'dinkum'. It was typical of him that in his pocket he had ready for me letters of introduction to sporting writers in Sydney, Melbourne and Adelaide.
Don was a persevering amateur billiards player with a well-equipped room at his home in Adelaide, but he always said he needed to devote more time to the game to achieve an acceptable standard. When in London he often played in the fine billiard-room at the National Liberal Club; even in the evenings during Test matches he would be found there playing billiards as if nothing else mattered in the world.
Once Don brought an Australian doctor friend into the club for tea while I was there and for the benefit of his guest I agreed to play a game of snooker with one of the club members. In the first few minutes I missed a number of easy pots whereas my opponent was banging them down from all parts of the table. While he was in mid-break Don took me to one side and whispered: 'The doctor has just asked me which one is Joe Davis?'
This was typical of his sense of humour. But I wondered how he would have felt if, when he had made a duck, I had asked him when the great Don Bradman was going in to bat!
On my farewell evening, however, I was not asked to do my stuff at the billiard-table. Instead Don challenged John Burns, who had made a charming after-dinner speech, to 100 up. And to the delight of the guests the game ended in a victory for the veteran statesman.
The next morning I went down to Tilbury, my cue case in my hand, to begin my voyage. With the Orsova's arrival in Sydney scheduled for July 5th this gave me close on six weeks aboard ship. And what a wonderful trip; I loved every moment of it. At Colombo in Sri Lanka (Ceylon in those days) four Aussies embarked, bound for Freemantle, next door to Perth in Western Australia. We got along famously together and so, when we reached their destination, they asked another passenger and myself to have lunch with them at their home in Perth. This we happily agreed to.
'Well, what do you think of Aussie so far?' they asked eagerly when we had settled comfortably in their home.
'Very nice,' I replied quickly. 'But I was rather surprised that no kangaroos ran up the gang-plank.'
Looking at the faces of my new-found friends I could cheerfully have bitten off my tongue for my facile comment. 'They correctly concluded that I was joking but it was rather cruel and impolite of me and did not go down at all well.
While I was in Perth I thought I might as well telephone Walter Lindrum in Melbourne to let him know that I had arrived safely, would be with him in a matter of days and was raring to get down to some serious playing after my holiday on board the Orsova. I was impressed by the fact that I got him straight away at his billiard-room in Flinders Street and after the pleasantries I got down to business. 'Well, Walter, what plans have you made, when do we start and where are we going to play the championship?' I asked.
'Oh,' said Walter vaguely, 'I thought I'd leave all that over until you arrived.'
Words failed me.
Much as I wanted to absorb the sights of Australia I needed, first and foremost, to make money. Things were so bad back home as a result of the Depression that this was one of my motivations for the tour. And yet here I was without any prospect of a game anywhere. Moreover, Australia was, I discovered, suffering from a Depression even worse than that in Britain. Very little spare cash was circulating and billiard-clubs and halls were going to the wall all over the country. For me to earn more than a crust would require almost superhuman effort, not only as a player but as an organiser and a publicist. Every stop would have to be pulled out. And yet Walter had so far done nothing. Indeed, throughout my trip he was little help. He seemed unaware of my situation, unaware that every day without a game was money down the drain - money that I could ill afford.
Everything seemed to conspire against me. Even the Press failed to come up trumps. When we put in to Port Adelaide and later Sydney the newspaper boys came on board all right but although I tried hard to promote the idea of the wondrous matches that Walter and I would soon be playing to the delight of millions, all they wanted to talk to me about was cricket, in particular what the English thought about Jardine, Larwood and bodyline bowling. The England cricket team had only recently left for home; in fact we had passed them at sea. But I kept a low profile and commented merely that the English cricketing public thought it deplorable. What a fool I would have been to do otherwise. Being in the public eye I had learned to avoid commenting on anything outside my own sphere, such as politics and, in Australia, cricket. I had enough to worry about without getting caught in cricketing crossfire.
When I pressed Walter for helpful suggestions he said there was a good hall attached to the YMCA in Sydney which might be a suitable venue for a big match. So I immediately booked the place and took over the whole operation, playing a few small shows meanwhile to pay my living expenses. I engaged the stall, hired the seating, placed the advertising in all the papers and hoped for the best. We opened on August 30th and I gave a good account of myself in beating Walter and scoring four breaks of over 1,000 during the two-week match. At the end I presented Walter with a balance sheet and his share of the gate. The takings would not have caused a gold prospector to swap jobs but my cut was enough to keep me going and to enable me to save a few pounds towards my return boat fare, a daunting sum which was already looming large in my mind. I did not want to spend the rest of my days in Australia.
In Sydney I talked to Clark McConachy about the possibility of arranging a tour for us in his native New Zealand, but he said that times were just as hard at home. He had explored every avenue before leaving for Australia without being able to arouse a flicker of interest. This was the most depressing news yet. I had already travelled some 12,000 miles and badly wanted too see New Zealand which was now just a stone's throw away. But there was no question of being able to afford any time there if I could not pick up any engagements. So I never made the trip, something I have regretted ever since.
Time was now marching on and still arrangements for the World Championship seemed far from complete. But it did begin to appear as though the final would be timed to take place in September at Melbourne during the city's centenary celebrations.
So that was a straw at which to clutch.
Meanwhile the hard business of keeping wolves from doors had to continue. And hard was still the word, even following my Sydney performance. We played a match at the Tivoli saloon in Melbourne, but thereafter it was a club here and a club there, including one memorable afternoon and evening exhibition at the small New South Wales country town of Wagga Wagga (birthplace of the jockey Scobie Breasley who won some great races by the shortest of short heads and gave his followers heart attacks!) The exhibition was memorable for the fact that after deducting expenses Walter and I - the World Champion and leading contender - shared a profit of £1. That is what the Depression meant to billiards players.
Perhaps the only truly successful event of the entire trip was one which was unscheduled, unpredictable and totally unbelievable. Yet despite its dream-like quality, it actually happened.
As usual I had been filling the time between sessions of an exhibition with a comfortable nap in the smoking-room of my Sydney hotel and as I slid reluctantly back into wakefulness a breezy-looking fellow came over to introduce himself. Then over the inevitable cup of tea which the Australians seemed to drink at all hours of the day, he explained that he was a sheep tanner from some way out and that he would like me to have supper at his home after the show that evening. Oh, and would I bring my cue with me because he rather wanted me to play a game or two of billiards for the benefit of a friend of his.
Although I quite liked the fellow, who seemed genuine enough, I hardly fancied a late night ride out to heaven-knows where and so I was busily thinking up an excuse when the farmer pulled from his jacket a bulging wallet. I could, of course, name my own fee, he explained. This put a different slant on the proposition and so, remarking modestly that I would leave the sum for him to decide, I agreed to take the trip.
As arranged he was waiting for me at the end of the evening session and walked me, cue in hand, to his car which was parked round the corner in a side street. Perhaps this was out of consideration for the sensitivity of the city's fine upstanding citizens; certainly my own first sight of it practically stopped me in my tracks. It was a battered and dusty jalopy of uncertain but distant vintage - the sort you would expect to see in Laurel and Hardy's Farmyard Capers. I clambered into the back seat wondering what I had let myself in for and devoutly hoping that the journey would be a short one.
We cleared the city in no time, then plunged into the darkness of the countryside and after being jolted over eighty or so miles of imperfect roads I somehow fell asleep. Eventually a particularly large bump, passed over at speed, woke me up. The countryside was as pitch dark as ever and I felt as though I needed my supper. I took out my cigarette lighter to look at my watch; it was half past two in the morning.
The horrifying thought occurred that I was the victim of some practical joke - or worse - so I rattled on the glass partition. But without turning his head the farmer shouted: 'It's all right, Mr Davis, we're nearly there.' And, sure enough, we shortly afterwards rumbled to a halt in the courtyard of what appeared to be a ranch of some substance. And there, thankfully, I delved into my supper.
Afterwards I was taken into the billiard-room: the craziest billiard-room I have ever seen. The table was of a make unknown to me, the cloth, though no doubt once green, had become bleached almost white with age and the illumination was provided by two oil lamps.
Then I noticed him: the spectator, the 'friend' for whom I had come to play. He was an old, old man perched on a high chair. My host introduced him. He was his grandfather, a keen billiards player in his day and since he was English to the backbone he had very much wanted to see the English champion. By that time, probably 3.30 a.m. I had never in my life felt less like playing billiards but somehow the enthusiastic grip of the old chap's bony hand made me determined to put on a royal show.
My farmer friend was a useful player and for a quarter of an hour or so we knocked the balls about while I got used to the table. Then I settled down to what I felt might become a decent-sized break. By the flickering light of the oil lamps my host called out the score as I went along - putting heavy emphasis on each 100 for the benefit of our spectator. I have to admit that the pockets were on the large side, but I still had to concentrate on every shot as though my life depended on it. At last, as the first streaks of daylight crept into the room, I reached 1,000 - at which point I stopped, turned to the old man in his high chair, and bowed. He was clapping like a five-year-old.
Back in my hotel, having been chauffeured into the city, I slept until well past noon. On waking I momentarily thought the whole episode had been a wild dream - until my eyes came to rest on the roll of bank notes lying next to my hairbrush on the dressing-table.
After such an experience anything else was bound to be an anticlimax. And that included the championship. Walter polished off Mac in their heat, which ended on October 6th, and on the 15th we met in the final, at Melbourne's Railway Institute on the third floor of the Flinders Street railway station buildings. Prime Minister Lyons opened the match, which was well publicised since the city's Centenary Celebration Committee had appointed one of their publicity officers to the championship. Five hundred seats had been specially arranged in the Institute and although people were not being trampled in the rush we received a healthy enough gate in view of the prevailing economic circumstances. The fact that Walter was playing only a stone's throw from his own public billiard-saloon was an additional advantage. He was very much the local hero. I once went to see him at his establishment, only to find a huge crowd gathered round one of the tables; it was Walter, just practising. After some considerable time I asked the man standing next to me how many points Walter had made. 'Put it this way,' the man replied, 'he's on his second piece of chalk.' It could nearly have been true.
He was just too good for me in the Melbourne final. He was playing at his best, at one time scoring a break of 1,353 in which the first 1,000 was reached in thirty-four minutes. And although I pressed him right up to the last day, he won by 875 points; not a shaming result by any means but a great disappointment all the same.
Although no one appreciated it at the time, that match marked the end of another epoch in the history of billiards. Walter thereafter continued to cling to his trophy despite the best endeavours of the Billiards Association to make him return it. And so the following year they left him alone, instituting instead a new contest for the title of United Kingdom champion, limited to home players. This became the premier championship as far as I and my brother pros were concerned. The world title, so called, was just an anachronism, something left over from a bygone era like a dinosaur in the space age. It was Walter's own little trophy and the conditions he placed on its defence were so dauntingly unfavourable to an opponent that, as far as I know, nobody actually challenged him. He remained world champion until he retired in 1950 - whereupon he consented to return the trophy to the Association. But for sixteen years his had been a hollow crown.
He never again visited the British Isles, nor did I return to Australia. So we never again played each other and I never managed to beat him at billiards on level terms. Later in the thirties I badly wanted to go back, especially to play Walter at snooker. Indeed, I was several times offered contracts for an Australian tour - but always on the condition that Walter could be persuaded to be my opponent. I am convinced we could have made a killing, but it was not to be; Walter would never come to terms. Why this should have been I will never know, but certainly his eccentric manner of conducting business seemed to worsen as the years went by. I heard, too, of other players' matchmaking attempts which founded when Walter failed to reply to correspondence, failed to turn up at meetings or slapped in unacceptable terms at some point during negotiations.
He still continued to make his living at the game, of course, and still played superb billiards. One incredible feat was performed during a wartime charity match in Melbourne in 1944 when in consecutive visits to the table he scored breaks of 3,737 and 3,752. He played a great deal for charity during the war and received the OBE for his selfless efforts in the New Years Honours list of 1951. However, in my view, just by conducting business sensibly he should have been a far wealthier man than he was when he died suddenly in Brisbane in 1960 at the early age of sixty-one.
But as one door closed, another opened. And there, standing on the threshold of a sparkling career was an impish, likeable and good-looking snooker player of twenty-two who was to have a profound effect on the game. His name was Horace Lindrum. Yes, Lindrum.
It is a wonder that Horace and I got along so well together during the years that followed, for our first encounter took place in stormy circumstances. But Horace was not personally to blame. The person responsible was his mother, a fiery red-headed little lady known variously as Violet, Vi, Ma and by a wide variety of expletives. She was actually the sister of Walter Lindrum, but when her marriage was dissolved she changed her name, and that of Horace, back to Lindrum, for Horace was showing the hereditary talent at an early age and Lindrum was a good name for an up-and-coming lad in the profession. In her teens Ma Lindrum had been a concert pianist but she gave up her career when her son began to excel as a virtuoso of the cue and instead became his manager. In fact she dominated Horace completely and for many years, as well as running his business, ran his life. She doted on him and smothered him.
She was fiercely proud of his successes, but it was a pride that manifested itself in a negative way: instead of praising his undoubted achievements she used them in attempts to detract from other players. Her brother Walter she never spoke to because he once said that he did not think Horace was his equal. Me she picked a public quarrel with before we ever met.
But she picked the wrong moment. I was in Sydney, preparing for my return to England after being beaten by Walter, when she demanded to know, through the medium of the public prints, who I thought I was. Horace, she said, had made a snooker break of 137, easily beating my current snooker record of 114, and in any case how could I possibly claim to be the world snooker champion when I had not actually beaten her Horace? I replied through the same papers that if Horace had indeed surpassed my break it did not constitute a record since it was not registered and, for that matter, I had beaten it unofficially myself. I added that I called myself the world champion because I had won the world championship whilst Horace had not even entered. 'Rubbish,' Ma replied: 'Davis is a phoney.' She was certainly a great publicist.
But I rapidly wearied of these violent attacks on my reputation which continued day after day. Finally, even though time was running out for my Australian tour, I went to see the Sports Editor of the Sydney Sun to issue a challenge. 'Tell Mrs Lindrum to put her money down,' I said, 'and I'll play Horace.' Next morning I returned to the office to see what reaction there had been and was just in time to savour it for myself. Only minutes later a slamming of doors and a flurry of feather boa heralded the arrival of Vi Lindrum: 5 feet 2 inches of purple dress and pink hat. I can safely say that it was not love at first sight.
'Calls himself world champion,' she yelled, waving her handbag in my direction. 'I could beat him myself. You know I pot a thousand balls a day for practice. I've got secret strokes that would paralyse the pommy bastard.'
With as much patience as I could muster I repeated why I felt entitled to designate myself world champion. But Vi was short on listening and long on talking. 'Nuts,' she replied, 'Horace is Australian champion and that's good enough for anybody.' Then she added: 'Play Horace for the championship, why don't you? He'll take the pants off you.'
'If Horace wants to play me for the championship', I said, 'all he has to do is to enter the competition in the normal way.'
'Coward,' she shouted back. 'Horace could lick you before breakfast.'
Enough was enough. I slapped a bundle of notes on the Sports Editor's desk. 'That talks a universal language,' I said to her. 'There's a hundred quid there. Cover it and I'll play Horace here and now in Australia. And the winner takes all the gate money.
After all the build-up she could hardly refuse. The match - effectively the unofficial world snooker championship - was on.
We played our sixty-three games at the Tivoli saloon in Melbourne. I was certainly putting my career on the chopping block, but it was even more of an ordeal for young Horace, especially with the Demon Queen breathing almost literally down his neck. There was no denying that he had made some big breaks in Australia but he had always been up against markedly inferior opposition in games where there was little at stake. In such circumstances he could knock the balls about with abandon in the relaxed style which suited him. He was temperamentally more of an exhibition player than a competition player.
Against me at the Tivoli he never got into his stride. I won the first game - a thing I always liked to do - and never looked back. As for Horace, the more he tried the worse his play became and at the end of the contest the score was 42 to 22 in my favour. It was the biggest trouncing he had ever had. But he was still a young man and we all have to learn.
Despite the somewhat one-sided nature of this final match Horace's pulling power and his mother's publicity efforts ensured quite respectable gate receipts, with the result that I could afford my passage home without having to beg on the street corners of Sydney.
So I suppose I had cause to be grateful to Ma Lindrum after all.