BACKGROUND [More photographs to follow]

As a consequence of recently attending a most pleasurable OSE reunion at the City Club in London, I resolved to activate an outstanding promise of some years ago – namely to record my recollections of my days (and nights) at St Edmund’s from 1952-1957.

Based on the conflicting evidence of witnesses in the legal process, it is widely accepted that memories are far from accurate and this contribution is not likely to be an exception to that truth. So, although some of the incidents and names related below are recalled with absolute clarity there may be some readers, should there be any, that will die in a ditch of disagreement. In the context of writing a true history of events during those years, the authenticity of this contribution takes a further knock as it is openly confessed that certain elements cannot even be claimed to be totally accurate – especially names. I hope such humility will be generally accepted since it would make for a very disruptive read were I to qualify each uncertainty with “as far as I can remember”. (As a totally irrelevant aside it occurs to me that it is a curiosity how when young we unquestionably accept names as being normal run-of-the-mill fodder but after school some names are so obscure that are never heard of again; for example a second Lacy-Hulbert or Laverack never crossed my bows in the 50+ years of leaving St Edmund’s).

Whatever the memory shortfalls, History is important to subsequent generations and it is to be hoped that these recollections will play some small part in the matrix of St Edmunds’s development. Whatever conclusions any reader might draw from this waffle, the major one should be that I loved (almost) every minute of the experience and was distraught at leaving. Having only one sibling – a sister some 8 years older than me with boyfriends up to 8 years older than her – I was in effect an only child and St Edmund’s offered an exciting friend-filled experience. Of course there was an underlying element of force majeure to this situation in that an elder sister was rarely enamoured of having a tiresome young brother in attendance when she wish to be involved in more development pleasures. I lacked the business acumen of my Mother who, as the youngest sibling of many, would charge her elder brothers a fee for ‘getting lost’.

INTRODUCTION

My educational trail to St Edmund’s in the early 1950s started at Boxgrove Sunday School, Thursley and Witley Village Schools, Ramsdean Preparatory School (RPS) that was unwisely collocated with Shalford Village School allowing us to be verbally assaulted with such cries as “Go home Ramsdean Pork Sausages” – being a clever transposition of ‘RPS’. Aside from the Shalford experience, most of my memories of those times are largely positive except for bullying by the girls at Thursley who for some reason seemed to stay on at the school for an extra 2 years.

PERSONAE DRAMATIS

Our initial visit to St Edmund’s must have taken place in late 1951 or early 1952 since our host was Ivor Bulley the then Headmaster who was soon to hand over his duties. My thoughts then and now were that Mr Bulley was an affable and kindly elderly man but have in recent times discovered that his name could not have been more apposite since he placed get stress on the disciplinary powers of the cane. That being so my good fortune lay in the fact that Peter Weeks assumed the Headmastership prior to my arrival. To a child Mr Weeks seemed to be a big man in both breadth and height, with an imposing voice to match. As is widely recorded he suffered horrendous injuries as a result of a crash in his Hurricane fighter during World War II. The visible signs of this terrible event included the loss of most, if not all, his fingers and thumbs beyond the first joint and a very wobbly right ankle. Since those days a greater understanding of the possible mental and emotional trauma (eg, Post Traumatic Distress Disorder) arising from such an event has developed but in Mr Weeks’s case, there were no overt signs. Of course the physical effects could not be concealed and some practical effects accrued from them.

First, Mr Weeks had to hold a pen with his truncated thumb that pressed the implement to the base of the remnants of his index finger and it is a testament to his resolve that his handwriting remained legible (perhaps less comforting to the boys, his digital impairment seemed to offer little reduction in his ability to dish out corporal punishment). Second, the injuries brought to an end any hope of playing cricket at a high level. This must have been a huge blow since the pre- War judgement had been that here was a man heading for a place in the English Team. Non-the-less on Fathers’ Day and in the nets Mr Weeks clearly demonstrated his talent. Third, in combination with very thick crepe shoes, the wobbly leg produced a discrete sound effect that led to the sobriquet of “Squeaker Weeks”.

Squeaker’s capacious office housed a very unwell Dachshund for many months that added to the trauma of being invited to visit his lair. In one’s mind a call to the Headmaster’s inner sanctum often meant that somewhere along the line a thrashing would accrue.  In broad terms I was, and remain, in favour of ‘just’ and accurately delivered (amateurism has no place in this) corporal punishment and by ‘just’ I mean that the victim has erred sufficiently to merit some serious recognition of a transgression. Being summary, immediate and quickly forgotten caning proved to be a more acceptable option that the worthless pursuit of writing a 100 lines as Homer Simpson doubtless discovered (there is a tenuous argument that lines helped to improve a pupil’s handwriting). My view did not change even at Pangbourne where all discipline by fellow Cadets and the uniformed staff was exercised within a quasi Naval Discipline Act structure (eg, a Defaulters process that required evidence to be presented as well as according the defendant the right to call witnesses).

Much rumour and legend surrounds the whole issue of caning at St Edmund’s not least of which is that the Headmaster had raised the cane so high that it struck the ceiling light resulting in fine shards of glass showering on both him and the victim. Another common belief was that a boy called Fleming (progeny of the Penicillin Fleming) received such a substantial caning on the last night of term that when his Mother administered his first holiday bath – always a grim event – she was horrified to see a series of purple welts across his bottom. There allegedly followed some ‘negotiations’ between Lady Fleming and Squeaker that were, no doubt, underscored by the possibility of legal action. As can be seen in the next paragraph the story may have some credence although it is impossible to determine a causal link between the Fleming incident and the dramatic change in the school’s corporal punishment policy.

In broad terms, the new caning policy was as follows: Major offences – the Jokarii Bat would be used; Minor Offences – such as talking after lights out – a table tennis bat would be used. We welcomed these changes since a broadly circular flat-surfaced implement proved a much better pain load spreader. The down side for the habitual criminal however was that he no longer had the kudos of showing the ‘dorm’ a matrix of purple stripes; instead there was merely a circular reddening of the skin that quickly evaporated, probably to the delight of her Ladyship.

As children comprehending the mysteries of chains of command and, for that matter, adult inter-actions remained some way into the future. That said, we recognised that the Maths Master – Geoff Finch – performed the role of Second-in- Command, providing a rock of competence on which Squeaker probably depended in no small part. Whatever event was taking place Geoff seemed to be involved, whether it was running the Sports Day with the aid of a large low-tech megaphone or running volunteers ragged through narrow paths of Whitmore Vale.

Like many of the teachers Geoff had not attended University; the reason may have been that, like many others of his generation, the War had intervened. I know not although I know for sure that he was a marvellous teacher with the ability to not only understand why a pupil might be floundering but also to articulate the explanation with absolute clarity. As if that was enough, he had the neatest handwriting anybody could hope to develop.

Geoff Finch offered an additional very particular pleasure to me at least – he was a smoker. When dealing with a particular piece of work be it ‘prep’ or just a one- to-one explanation to a bemused child, he would ask you to stand behind him and look over his shoulder while he demonstrated his workings. The arising aroma from the combination chalk dust and nicotine proved to be absolutely sensational. Both my parents smoked but there was no similar joyous sensation so I must ascribe the credit to the addition of chalk dust. As an aside, those were the days when smoking was not only marketed on health grounds (Boots for example sold their own brand) but also the AA Handbook included a double page instruction on how safely to pass a lighted cigarette to the driver.

Below Mr Finch there did not seem to be any suggestion of a chain of command so it seems sensible to consider those individuals who had the most impact on my life at St Edmund’s. For me number one must surely be Captain “Down below you all must go” Slater a veteran of World War I who lived in a broom cupboard of an office next door to that of the Headmaster; indeed a space so small that on Health & Safety grounds today it would be the repository for vacuum cleaners and brushes. As befits a military man this small space was adorned with nominal rolls, rosters and listings of all shapes and sizes.

In terms of every day contact Captain Slater, with his beautifully controlled swept back hair of such depth and quality that many younger men must have envied, topped the bill. In retrospect, bearing in mind the Captain was the oldest member of staff by a mile, with a predisposition to maintain perfectly coiffured hair, it seems extraordinary that he should have been the designated PT Master. That said, PT under the Captain proved to be a very gentle experience with much arm waving but little else; in view of the amount of time dedicated to sport this exercise deficit could not have offered much of a physical developmental restraint for active small boys.

The Captain abandoned his cave just before the boys left the breakfast table and headed for the entrance to the Lavatories that were located at the Northern end of the building abutting Boundary Lane. There he would stand clutching a millboard, a ‘must’ for the military man in those days, on which sat the nominal roll of the school. For the subsequent 15 minutes or so he would shout: “Down below you all must go” which can be translated into “you must have a crap immediately after breakfast every day”. Although medically going “down below” is sensible advice, as young boys we were not persuaded, particularly if the urge to ‘go’ was not there and so it was the non-performers would merely turn to right at the foot of the slope to the lavatories into a small courtyard as the first step back to civilisation. While we fondly believed that we had outsmarted the Captain, there can be little doubt that he was well aware of such avoidance tactics but was probably content that the healthy living point of being regular had been made.

Aside from his PT and bodily function monitoring role, the Captain seemed to have a floor cleaning commitment. Every working morning he would sow heavy sand on the floors of the gym, the Theatre and the changing rooms that connected the two. The sand would then be swept thereby capturing all the dust before it had the chance to re-distribute itself. With all these duties for man of some considerable age (probably between 60 and 70), the Captain welcomed any passer-by into his office for a chat. My memories of Captain Slater are all fond ones.

Pauline McCausland, then a young lady, was THE face of administration – not that we knew then how her functions might be described although there was a sort of gut feeling that they were rather necessary. In that role she was ever present in the school community and was housed in a small office below the back stairs that led into the Gym/Assembly Roomii. One of her roles for the new arrivals was to have a number of sticky name labels printed that needed to be deployed to every book, document, pencil case or any other item to which a Cash’s name tapes could not be sewn but still stood the risk of being ‘nicked’. Something went awry with the labels for MJ Nicholson in that the initials had been altered to HJ thus requiring hours of repetitive amendment action amending the H to an M. The error proved to be something of an irritation to a boy who was keen not to be the ‘odd one out’; it also had the effect, in my mind, of making all my possessions look scruffy. From that moment on, my relationship with Pauline declined since, in my paranoid state, I felt convinced that she ‘had it in for me’. Reconciliation followed many years later at an OSE reunion in Barings.

For much of my time the overnight team consisted of: Miss Reeves, Miss Lush and Miss Plant. As The Matron, Miss Reeves wore a blue uniform the cut of which, somewhat unflatteringly, made her bottom look absolutely square. The uniform was topped off with a starched Nurse’s Cap and a pair of deeply unglamorous spectacles. I guess the boys, even then, regarded Matron as being as old as Methuselah as well as being a very formidable combatant who deserved respect. Each evening, akin to the old Royal Navy Muster Parades, the boys would line up in Indian file in front of Miss Reeves for her to wrench our ears back to see if there remained any dirt after we had claimed to have washed. Her whole approach to the cleanliness may have seemed contemporaneously brutal but the lessons were good ones and, subliminally, I am convinced that we all realised she had our best interests at heart.

For young pupils in particular Miss Reeves perhaps needed to tread the fine line between being a temporary mother while administering a disciplined framework in which truculent excitable small boys would be prepared to turn in without making too much fuss. As an illustration, in my first term she used to read Enid Blyton stories to calm us down but once through it was our duty to reciprocate by going to sleep or at least staying quietly in bed. As Melvyn Masters discovered one evening when noisily ‘entertaining’ the rest of the ‘dorm’, Miss Reeves burst into the room like Usain Bolt and immediately administered a bottom beating of six hard slaps with her bare hand – for which, on that occasion, she nearly gained a round of applause since Melvyn’s behaviour had not found favour with the rest of us.

The second-in-command of the night team in those early days was Miss Lush, the Assistant Matron. She also wore a nurse’s uniform and wore the early default option of NHS spectacles with circular lenses wrapped in tortoise shell. Although no doubt a sign of affection, Miss Lush caused Nicholson no end of embarrassment by publicly referring to him as ‘Nicodemus’ (this on top of other less charitable soubriquets as ‘Knickers’ and ‘Knickerbocker Glory’ led to much personal dismay about my surname). Other than merely being there, sometimes supervising bath nights and regularly patrolling the corridors after lights out, her role remained a mystery.

A much younger fleeting member of the Matron’s team was Miss Plant. Her youth and bath-night duty of scrubbing the boys in the bath made her a popular addition to the going to bed routine. The bath night roster meant that half the school bathed on Tuesdays and Fridays whereas the other half bathed on Mondays and Thursdays. Whether such apparent parsimony was a reflection of environmental concern, cost cutting or water rationing I am not sure. Of course, I am more certain that the prospect of Miss Plant being on bath duty was a delicious one.

After a couple of years a rather more menacing night time regime came to pass. A new, or perhaps returning, teacher called Mr Monk moved into an apartment in the main part of the school; indeed right in the centre of the dormitory areas on the second floor. His wife lived in as well and was much taller than him. With cheeks that sported circular rosy patches Mr Monk’s cherubic hue belied his true character. He had one leg significantly shorter than the other which, combined with his thick brothel creepers, created a unique and a formidably scary noise as he patrolled along the linoleum clad corridors after ‘lights out’. The threat his movement generated for a small boy was probably on a par with the experience of a V1 Doodlebug raid in that when he stopped a beating was on the immediate menu. Speaking as one with wide experience of such punishment I can state quite categorically that his canings were both liberally offered and viciously administered. His arrival threw a dark cloud of eclipse proportions over the boarders’ quality of life for a while but I guess we eventually adjusted to his presence. The black shadow cast by this husband and wife team is not a topic that bears dwelling on for too long since this is, in the round, a happy tale.

As for the daytime team, primarily the teachers, some made no impact on my life and have been overlooked here. As a small boy there not only seemed to be plenty of them but also that they were extremely gregarious. The main manifestation of their herd instinct was The Common Room in which they would congregate in an inferno of pipe and cigarette smoke. That smoke drifted into the main corridor creating a nicotine flavoured cloud.

Mr Butler the Latin Master, also sported tortoiseshell NHS spectacles as well as an extremely childish sense of humour (his favourite joke at the meal table being “I won’t but Ma might” being a play on Marmite). Without wishing to be either libellous or contentious, my enduring memory of Mr Butler is that he rather liked placing his hand on one’s leg! Non-the-less Latin, after Divinity proved to be my top mark in Common Entrance so he cannot have been all badiii!

Another teacher located at the back of the school in a temporary classroom block, which saw out my entire time at the School, was Mr Smith and for the life of me I cannot remember what he taught. As can be seen from old school photographs his spectacles were interchangeable with those of Miss Lush and Mr Butler. But Mr Smith had a much more athletic gait and moved like a sportsman. Indeed, association football seemed to dominate his extra mural interests, numbering among his friends the great Charles “Charlie” Mitten of Manchester United. In class he would sometimes read out letters from Charlie making extravagant claims that we might meet him one day which never happened of course!

Our Geography teacher, Mr Ward deployed a rather large moustache that accumulated dried gravy, odd bits of food and, even more disturbingly, hardened snot. As with Geoff Finch, he called us to his desk for work discussion and correction but, unlike the former, this was not a pleasurable experience. One of the lasting effects has been an enduring dislike of moustaches.

As will be seen later in this mini memoir, a high staff turnover seemed to be a feature of schools in those days but one arrival who stayed was Owen Riddett. This was an event that created a flutter in the ranks since we had all been made aware that he had worked in the ‘real world’ of industry. A big man with a better disciplined moustache than that of Mr Ward, he heralded his arrival by lecturing the whole school on Soap manufacturing (he came from Unilever as I recall). Even with a liberal dose of lantern slides, all black and white, I am not sure this topic offered much appeal to the younger ones but he offered the talk with such evident missionary zeal that most managed to stay awake.

Even to a bunch or pre-pubescent boys devoid of any meaningful level of testosterone, the lithesome and hugely attractive Miss Bowen with her winning smile proved to be an exciting addition to the teaching Staff Order of Battle. It just so happened that her arrival almost coincided with that of a presentable young man name called Gardiner. And so the matching gossip got under way pairing him off with Miss Bowen. How wrong we were in these preconceptions since in quick time the more mature Mr McNab led Miss Bowen down the aisle. For the boys this seemed a complete mismatch as Mr McNab, with his hooked nose and deep red – almost rusty – complexion seemed very very old, whereas others were merely old.

The Padre, The Reverend Hardwicke arrived and all too quickly left again only to return some years later. He, like Mr Smith, placed Association Football at the top of his list of pleasures and always appeared to be a nifty player although the assessment of a small boy on the sporting prowess of an adult probably carries little weight. The Padre was a cheerful chap and a welcome addition to the school team even for a short while. For sure he was in post during the Hungarian Uprising (1956) since it will be recalled by some that at Evensong he offered a prayer for the people of “Hungrier” which evoked a few titters from the Congregation.

Another teacher transitee was ‘Wally’ Walters who played a mean game of cricket but that skill do not persuade him to stay for more than one season. He re- emerged running an Antique Shop by the traffic lights in the centre of Hindhead opposite that long forgotten Friary Meux treasure – The Royal Huts Hotel. Of course Friary Meux has itself disappeared from the Surrey landscape and Guildford no longer benefits from the tasteful aroma of brewing on Fridays.

The always immaculately groomed Val Newberry taught French in the downstairs classroom behind the changing room. He lived on the Campus in a spider of wooden huts between the school and the swimming pool. He always appeared cool and calm with everything seemingly well under control. For all that, Nicholson never progressed to O Level French despite undertaking enough resits at 10 shillings a pop to buy an Examination Board.

A miscellany of teachers/staff such as Miss Urquhart, the very tall Miss Roberts and, doubtless several others, made little impact on our lives. One of those others had been the music mistress (Miss Arkle?) with whom I had little contact other than being told by her that my voice did not merit a place in the choir; indeed there apparently existed no scope for training it to the required standard. I was not, however, to be denied the opportunity of wearing a uniform and volunteered to be an Organ Pumper.

A small team of Organ Pumpers sat, in uniform, behind the choir stalls rotating through pumping duties as and when an incumbent flagged. Located on one side of the organ was a lead weight on a piece of fine thread with a sort of Plimsoll line just below the hole from which that thread exited from the bowels of the organ. When the lead weight hovered on or above the line the organ offered a wailing noise that not only embarrassed the pumper but also made tuneful singing a significant challenge. Although stirring works such as the Stanford Te Deum placed significant physical demands on the pumper, it was the ‘high church’ policy of singing Amen at the end of each prayer that more often led to a shortage of air in the organ. For all these problems, we had the best seats in the house – nobody behind us and blessed with a panoramic view of everybody less the choristers to our immediate front. Such a view seemed of particular importance on parents’ days.

The Art Classroom was located behind the stage of the Theatre and, in my case, neither the environment nor the Art Mistress generated any contemporaneous or enduring interest in art. Having earlier offered my support for the principle of corporal punishment, this teacher’s particular brand was especially vicious and potentially harmful. Any miscreant would be told to stretch out a hand palm down and she would strike the knuckles with the largest paintbrush at her disposal. This proved to be much more painful than the more traditional form of corporal punishment.

Outside the confines of the school building there probably existed a groundsman or two but my abiding memory of the staff who worked outside is that of Mr Andrews, the Head Gardener. Remembering him with such facility is probably a reflection of his bucolic walking style and one entirely in keeping with his role. After all these years when watching Phil Mickleson playing golf, I am reminded of Mr Andrew who seemingly played absolutely no role in our lives other than merely ‘being there’.

THE ROUTINE OF LIFE

Of course those personalities discussed above and others long since forgotten combined to produce a routine of life. On a daily basis that routine started with Miss Reeves striding up and down the dormitory corridors ringing a bell which proved to be no more agreeable than the Bugle call Reveille at Pangbourne some years later. I suppose being woken, regardless of means, is usually disagreeable for growing boys. After ablutions and dressing we descended to the Dining Room for all the normal offerings of a Breakfast although there did seem to be an excess of tinned tomatoes on fried bread. Like all meals however, the menu choices were hampered by Rationing that remained, in the case of some items, until the 4th July 1954.

Dining room: Sheets of fatty pork & hair crackling, spotted Dick & Custard, followed by sweets (not on
Sundays). 

On occasions, before Breakfast finished, a public announcement informed a boy or boys that a parcel or parcels had been received for him or them. As an anti tuck smuggling measure, which might even have impressed those who drafted the USA’s Volstead Act, all parcels had to be opened in front of an adult witness who was generally Miss Reeves. Any sweets or similar goodies in any parcel were immediately impounded. This unwrapping spectacle took place on a large circular table on the first floor above the entrance hall and to the total embarrassment of any recipient most of the school gathered round to watch. My worst experience had been the receipt of an expandable tickling stick that had no conceivable practical or enjoyment value; after this blush-inducing event I told my Mother never to send me again and, furthermore, if she did they would not be opened by me. It should be recalled that parents are an embarrassment to any boy over a certain age and for that to be compounded by ridiculous presents was almost too much to bear.

The parcel diversion behind us we repaired to the entrance to the Lavatories where, as described above, stood Captain Slater in fine voice repeated over and over: “Down below you all must go”. From there we may have moved to the morning assembly in what was then euphemistically termed “the Gym” on account of a few wall bars spread on two sides of the room. I say ‘may’ since it is hard to recall the exact time line; indeed, I cannot remember whether on weekdays prayers took place in the Chapel or not. It may well have been the latter since we seemed to be spend a lot of time in the Chapel.

Whatever the sequence and with or without chapel, the Assembly routine involved the school ‘falling in’ on the following House lines: Clive (Yellow Badges); Nelson (Blue); Wellington (Red); and Scott (Green). Who selected those British heroes I know not and sometimes wonder if they have all stood the test of time in the minds of the young today. Prefects played a role in corralling the houses and then subsequently releasing them to Classrooms. Aside from the inevitable prayers, the main purpose of Assembly was for the Headmaster/Staff to make announcements relating to the day or days ahead.

Dispersed to our classrooms, our education probably followed a well-trodden path tracked by schools around the land. Good, bad and indifferent teachers alike kept us busy until ‘Elevenses’. At eleven-ish we all debouched onto the gravel area at the front of the school to experience some fresh air and perhaps run around a bit. The acne of this break was the opportunity to eat half a slice of marmite toast that had been deposited on a purpose-built ledge attached to the outside of the dining room. On bad days a thick layer of brown sugar replaced the marmite. This break re-invigorated us for the remaining two lessons before lunch – at least that was probably the theory.

I doubt if there is much worthy of note about our Lunches. The essentials were that rationing limited the options and that we were obliged to eat everything on the plate before moving on to the next course – a crucial stipulation if one could not wait to get stuck into the Spotted Dick and custard. The occasional Cottage or even Shepherd’s Pie offered a rare treat since it disguised the poor quality of the meat but for the most part the main meat was Pork, presented in thick slices accompanied by chunky bristled crackling embossed with blue dye stating: “Made in Denmark”. The revulsion this caused was exacerbated at supper since the Pork was delivered to us after the cook had gone home and the selected means of serving the meat, at least in a tepid state, was to hit the plate with hot gravy. When meeting the surface of cold meat and an even colder plate, white globules of fat appeared on the surface of the gravy. Matters were made worse by the addition of a selection of hugely unappealing vegetables that, for the most part, included, swede, parsnip – sometimes roasted and masquerading as yummy potatoes, artichoke and cabbage stalks – the mystery of where the rest of the cabbage had gone remained just that and the mantra of “stalks are good for you” never really filled that knowledge gap. Bearing in mind the promised land of a pudding with custard it often proved necessary to pouch much of the main in one’s cheeks for later disposal in the lavatory. The only other culinary point of note was that Fish was the standard main course on Fridays whether this related to any religious acknowledgement I know not.

Two other observations about Lunch are offered. First, the Masters sat with us except although the Headmaster sat at the top table under the portrait of his predecessors. This mingling allowed for Mr Butler to offer his puerile one-liner about Marmite and for us, on occasions, to watch Mr Ward’s moustache take on board gravy, custard and certain other food stuffs. Second, sweets became our reward for completing the meal. A large biscuit tin groaning with sweets circulated on each table under close staff supervision – the allocation being 3 per week day except Wednesdays when that increased to 4, 6 on Saturdays and, brutally, none at all on Sundays (to fill the sweet gap on that day some opted t to cram chocolate from the week’s ration into a metal lozenge tin that was parked on a hot radiator so that it morphed into a large lickable lump of solid chocolate for use during the day of rest). Whether this parsimony reflected a genuine effort to protect our teeth or merely represented a fact of rationing life I do not know although the Dennis Laverack incident suggests that the former may have been the true reason.

Laverack’s parents lived somewhere hugely exotic like Brazil and their visits to the school were doubtless rare. However, at the end of one particular day out while his parents were engaged in conversation with Squeaker, Dennis took the opportunity of this preoccupation to climb through a window of Geoff Finch’s classroom with a mountain of sweets under his arm – straight into the arms of Matron. Dennis experienced corporal punishment that evening and the goods were impounded.

The shortage of sweets made for some irrational behaviour or even acts of desperation with one such example being the John Hall toffee incident. Somebody informed John that Sharps Toffees of Maidstone (then a leading brand and household name) were running a competition whereby any child who sent them 250 used Sharps Toffees papers would win a £100. Bearing in mind the sweet rationing detailed above, it will be appreciated that it took John many months of begging to accumulate that many papers. Credit to him that the target was reached and the papers were parcelled up and despatched to Maidstone. After some days he received a letter declaring that no such competition existed and soon after that a parcel arrived containing a pound of Sharps Toffees which were instantly confiscated for the good of all! Poor John, after all his hard work the sight of yet more toffees may have been almost too much to bear.

So, food or sometimes lack of it, occupied much of our thinking. In order to fill the sustenance gap some boys grew Mustard and Cress on moist blotting paper which I suspect offered the illusion of benefit rather than the reality of it. However the sweet tooth of boyhood did mean that toffees and chocolates influenced much of our leisure time thinking. But let us return to the daily routine.

In Summer the two afternoon periods followed the lunch break after which we could take advantage of the long evenings to play cricket or even golf. In the GMT terms after lunch we deployed to play soccer (Michaelmas), and hockey and rugby (Spring Term). It was never a very appealing prospect to return to the Classroom after sport so the Summer Term offered the more attractive programme. The other joy of Summer had been Squeaker’s, not infrequent, impromptu declarations of a day off if the weather looked particularly promising.

Two non standard classes are worthy of comment both of which applied to the very young. First, in the Classroom off the Gym on the North side (actually more often divided into two by use of a sliding door) afternoon lessons involved listening to BBC Home Service Education broadcast – generally welcomed as a treat.

Second, an even greater treat in the early Winter terms was the invitation to watch TV in Squeaker’s sitting room in lieu of the academic post games double period. The TV had a 9 inch screen but in order to enlarge the picture for a sizeable audience a weighty magnifying glass supported by two leather straps was lowered onto the front of the screen. The result was effective for those sitting face-on but parallax rendered the picture highly distorted for any boy off to a flank. Our two favourite programmes were Muffin the Mule and The Penguins.

In later years the invitation to enter Squeaker’s inner sanctum was extended to major sports events – usually Rugby. To cope with the larger TV audiences such events attracted, the 9 incher was replaced by a projector TV that threw the images onto a large screen but the poor definition led to an eye watering experience akin to sitting in the front row of the cinema in the sixpenny seats.

The Kings and Queens of England from 1066-1952 are another enduring memory of Classroom off the Gym for it was there that we studied and were tested on their names and dates; failure to master both in the correct sequence meant that a boy would not be able to watch the Saturday evening film. Such ‘blackmail’ proved a great motivator.

To add value to the academic programme on certain evenings guest speakers addressed us in the theatre. They were generally worthies such as the mountaineer Wilfred Noyce and, sadly for them, could never successfully appeal as much as a stimulating film like Sanders of The River, Hornblower and The Bengal Lancers (with house names like Clive and Nelson it seemed wholly appropriate to show us films of Empire and derring-do; indeed the map of the coloured red in recognition of the Nation’s possessions). None-the-less many of these talks offered much giggle potential in particular the need for the speaker to bang the floor with his (never a ‘her’) pointer to prompt the lantern slide operator to move to the next picture; the pointer was generally a full-size billiard cue. Some speakers opted for an epidiascope of main battle tank proportions which, when in action, offered a loud clanking sound redolent of such a weapon of war.

No doubt we had to commit some of the remainder of the day to ‘Prep’ although I have little recall of that. Thus the next high spot was the process of going to bed. As described, twice a week, each boy endured or enjoyed a bath; the former if Miss Lush performed scrubbing duties and the latter when the task fell to Miss Plant. Whoever bathed us, Miss Reeves always inspected behind our ears to confirm that the process had been thorough. And so to bed…but not to sleep!

Sleep, especially, in the light of Summer evenings never visited quickly but even in the Winter much needed to be discussed, Mr Monk allowing or rather not knowing. On Summer’s evenings in a front bedroom facing North, certain activities held our attention such as the Auxiliary (Retained) Fire Brigade undertaking training sessions on the playing field always culminating in the excitement of turning on the hoses. On other evenings we would wonder at the golfing skills of Jeremy Winckley who seemed to be able to hit a golf ball absolutely miles – we were in awe. Being so close to Farnborough Aerodromeiv strange aeroplanes made circuits around the high ground of Hindhead; indeed, I remember seeing the Flying Wing pass over the School which never made the production line although it may have produced useful technical data for the Vulcan Bomber. Witnessing these events without punishment could be a challenge since Matron or Miss Lush sometimes looked in

Simple pleasures were the name of the game

As for the week-ends, variations in routine were inevitable although a lie-in never seemed to be one of them. On Saturdays classes ended at lunchtime leaving the afternoon free for sport or other leisure activities whereas Sundays offered a very different experience. For a start we attended Mattins and Evensong an inconvenience which seemed to despoil the entire day. With the tedium of Chapel behind out of the way, many of us repaired to the woods on the South East boundary to develop our underground hutchies. These dug outs, that probably defied all the Health & Safety rules of our modern age, were not unlike a First World War trench complex although they were generally entered by crawling through a narrow tunnel possibly so designed to deter any grown-ups from invading our space. Denial of such access assumed particular importance these complexes were the only potentially safe home for successfully smuggled tuck.

Tiring of the trench warfare environment (Alexander?) Lade and I built a tree house overlooking Mr Andrews’s greenhouse. The construction seemed to pass muster although at the foot of the tree we planted a small rockery garden below which resided our accumulated and smuggled sweets alike. With some pride it can be claimed that our hidey-hole avoided detection by the Directing Staff.

In the Winter, roller skating in the Theatre offered a major week-end activity. The excitement came from a racing start from the far end of the changing area leaping over the down step into the Theatre without either hitting another skater or falling off. The speedier the experience the greater the adrenalin flow.

Although there may have been an evening meal on Sundays, I suspect they were ‘light scales’ since the catering staff deserved at least one afternoon off a week. Perhaps as a diversionary tactic, after Evensong in the Summer the school played Rounders after which a snack of rich tea biscuits and milk was deployed as a diversion from the grim prospect of going to bed with a whole week of work stretching before us. In morale terms Sunday evenings were the nadir of the week being the pre-cursor to 6 days of classroom work.

EVENTS

1952-1957 embraced some significant events including the deaths of Stalin and King George VI, the accession of Queen Elizabeth II and her subsequent Coronation the following year, the Suez Crisis, the conquest of Mount Everest and a total eclipse of the Sun right on top of the School (well as we thought at the time). In addition to Squeaker’s generous allocation of ‘nice day holidays’ these events meant that the distractions from classroom work were many and varied.

The passing of Stalin and the lingering lying in State process made a significant impact on me, probably because death had not hitherto intruded in the life of a growing boy. Even though the King had died a year earlier, that event preceded my boarding school days and my parents probably felt that the event formed no part of my learning curriculum. All the Red Top papers displayed large photographs of Stalin lying in State.

In 1953 two cheerier events that were publicly juxtaposed, seemingly for political reasons, were the Queen’s Coronation and the Climbing of Mount Everest. For the former the boys dispersed to their families for an additional exeat allowing us to be with our families for such a momentous event. Andrew Deacon stayed at our house, probably because the drive to and from his home in Reigate was, in those days, too tall an order. Like millions of other families we hired a TV for the event and, in common with those millions, the set never returned to the shop since the drug of TV had been infused. At home, we all received: a Coronation Mug; a large model of the Gold State Coach; and Matchbox the Gold State Coach. In my case, sadly, the mug is the only remaining item.

Some weeks later these cheery events were distributed to the Nation as a double bill film. And so it was that the entire school marched to the Rex Cinema in Haslemere to witness these inspirational events in full Technicolour. After the show we walked back to school – mostly uphill but meeting little, if any, traffic.

Why God should have arranged for a bespoke total eclipse over St Edmund’s we never discovered. But, since he had accorded us plenty of warning, at the given time we burst out of the school building onto the gravel drive, ferreted around some large cardboard boxes for a pair of dark glasses and, once equipped, looked to the heavens. The subsequent shock of discovering that people all over the World also partook rather took the gloss off the event; indeed, I have never bothered with an eclipse since the fantasy that the event had been organised for us generated an intimacy that could never be recaptured.

In 1956 the mobilisation for the Suez Crisis deployment took place. Other than the sound of distant vehicle movement this event made little impact on our secluded world. However, much must have been going on just outside the main gate since a mile down the road towards Portsmouth lay two enormous hutted camps that had been built for the Canadian Forces during the War and extended to the edge of Liphook. These camps straddled the A3 although at about this time the one on the Western side was demolished. As I recall the Camps functioned as a Military Hospital in those halcyon days when the Army had effective integrated medical support.

On the first week-end of the Michaelmas Term the entire school walked South down the A3 to the first bend in the road where we turned left into the undergrowth in search of Blackberries. This annual ‘Blackberry Picnic’, so called I guess because sandwiches were provided, ran as a competition based on houses (ie, Clive, Nelson etc). Other than a break to consume our lunch we picked blackberries for most of the day although it would be foolish to pretend that many berries were not eaten on the hoof. The berries were deposited in large and deep aluminium pans which were lugged back to the School at the end of the day. The pickings influenced the pudding menu for weeks ahead. It may also be that the fruit was cooked in the same pans since then we were blissfully unaware of the potential harm of aluminium when burnished by fruit acid..

At the end of each Summer, the School played at Boy Scouts for some 48 hours. Large bell tents were erected on the old grass tennis court next to the A3. Other than the discomfort of sleeping under canvas and trying to cook an edible meal, this annual event appeared to offer little added value. That said, being ‘out of the ordinary’ in itself created a buzz.

Beside each bed in the dormitory sat a wooden stand that housed a sponge bag, a towel, perhaps a book and a potty that lay bottom up – presumably to minimise any unpleasant odours. One of our contemporaries, having earlier peed all over the linoleum floor in the Geography classroom, had already established a reputation for poor bladder control. However one particular night he exceeded even his reputation. Soon after lights out, this boy decided he needed a pee and embarked on the ritual of turning the potty the right way up and letting rip. Soon after he awoke, decided he needed a pee but forgetting that he had already ‘been’ turned the potty through 180 degrees. This action resulted in the contents being spread over the linoleum while he urinated on the bottom of the potty. That night proved to be one of our more uncomfortable ones!

In discussing the dangerous territory of bodily functions, I am reminded of the great diarrhoea debacle. On this day Shepherd or Cottage Pie had been the main course but most of the school subsequently paid a high price for this rare treat – namely diarrhoea. Soon after this unpleasant attack those affected were invited to report to the large parcel opening circular table on the first floor where Matron issued each boy with a potty, a small container and a wooden ice-cream spoon. She then invited us to repair to one of the rooms adjacent to the public area and ‘perform’. Of course, performing to order is always more of a challenge than doing it on desire but most of us managed to create a soupcon that was spooned into the container and handed over to Matron who labelled it, prior to packing for back-loading to the medical world. Some weeks later, when the great diarrhoea debacle was but a distant memory we were informed with much gravitas that it was ‘the Pie what done it’ (a conclusion that we had all drawn weeks before).

At irregular intervals the School held a fire practice. This would generally hardly be worthy of note except that on one occasion when in ‘calling the roll’ Nicholson failed to respond since he still lay in his bed fast asleep. So the Head of the dormitory whose duty it was to wake us up was made to write a formal letter of apology to my parents accepting that Michael might have fried. My popularity took a dive not only with him but also with the rest of the school who had to stand around outside while the process of locating the missing boy ground on. One after effect of this incident was the construction of a simple device to make sure that Nicholson never overslept again. This involved placing a pile of books on a dressing gown belt on the shelf above me bed and paying it out to the Head of Dorm’s bed. With the belt knot behind the books one pull caused a cascade of books onto my head thereby eliminating any excuse for oversleeping again. Various painful troop trials proved the efficacy of this solution.

Unplanned events inevitably included childhood diseases such as measles and mumps. Try as I could to catch these, especially in the latter case having witnessed Squeaker’s agonies, I only succeeded in the case of Chicken Pox, the symptoms of which almost passed me by; a large armadillo-like lump on the top of my head was the only manifestation. When this lump fell off, I was mortified to be left with a small bald patch. How ironic that now there is no hair at all I should have worried about such a small matter.

The most terrifying event of all that bore down on any boy in his leaving term was the requirement to make a farewell speech after a formal dinner with the Headmaster in the Dining Room. It just so happened that my Sister’s 21st Birthday Party at The Sally Lunn in Hindhead coincided with the date of the farewell dinner and my parents requested my release to attend this special event. To my utter dismay Squeaker acceded to their request but only after my public speaking commitment had been completed. I have absolutely no idea what I said but am fairly convinced that it was pure drivel exacerbated by being offered by a palpably nervous boy. In the days of being ‘seen and not heard’ such requirements were, I suspect, more daunting than is the case today.

PRIZES

Prize Giving. Sibley collects a cup watched by ‘Squeaker’ Weeks. Fuchs – son of Antarctic Explorer makes his way to claiming his prize

In later years it has been my claim that I only ever won one prize at school and that was for leaving. The claim has some validity in that Squeaker did indeed present all leavers with a Concise Oxford Dictionary in the fond belief that whenever an Old Boy wrote to him or the school, there would not be any spelling mistakes. My copy travelled the world and only fell apart some ten years ago when the masking table finally failed to hold it together. A dictionary made for a really useful near lifetime present although at the time one might have preferred a year’s subscription to the Eagle

What I liked about the prize awarding philosophy of the school was that an opportunity existed for anyone to win one, regardless of academic prowess. The Star Prize system allowed for quarter, half or even full stars to be awarded for a wide range of activities. Twenty Stars=a Prize and the awards towards that embraced academic achievement, sport, bravery (eg, not crying after a penicillin injection) etc. Not for academic achievement I am certain, Nicholson made off with two Star Prizes in his St Edmund’s ‘career’. One was Thy Servant a Dog by Rudyard Kipling with the other being a book of short stories by the famed American author More O’Henry who died of cirrhosis of the liver in 1910 perhaps serving as an early, largely ignored, warning about drinking too much.

To my, and possibly everyone else’s, utter amazement, Squeaker personally selected me as the winner of the Soloman Prize for ‘Good Leadership’ in my last term. Aware that joining the Royal Navy was my aim in life he gave me the latest edition of Jane’s Fighting Ships which I have in front of me as I write as a poignant reminder that we once had a Navy. History relates that I peaked too early in the leadership field and after two attempts at passing the Admiralty Interview Board, the Admiral President opined: “Have you ever thought of joining the Army?”. In 1961 I joined the Armyvi!

SPORT

An overriding sporting memory is the journey up the school drive in the ageing Morris Van (mini bus as a term had yet to be invented). As the vehicle rose from the dene in the drive any victorious team would burst into a lusty version of Rule Britannia so by the time we arrived at the front door the whole school knew of our success. Of course, losing had to be handled differently and involved being as quiet as possible so that the losers could sneak in without detection.

Story of my life – coming second in the 220 yard race

Summer Term offered the greatest variety of sports, embracing cricket, swimming, rounders (Sundays only) and athletics. The apogee of the cricket calendar was Staff and Parents versus the Boys. To make the contest fairer the grown-ups bats had been planed to be half the width of a normal bat but that failed to prevent sixes being hit all over the ground. The First Eleven offered a variable standard of quality. For example, in one away match at Highfield the Team suffered the ignominy of being dismissed for five – three of which were extras. On another occasion however, against Edgeborough, Preston and Reynolds broke the then current batting record in a stand of over 200 runs. This particular achievement made copy in the national press

[Photo]

The obstacle race – Mason (?) leading with Phillips in pursuit

Rumour had it that Squeaker had been on course for a place in the English Test Team had it not been for the War. For sure he seemed to be on course by setting out on a similar path to another famous old Carthusian Peter May who played in the 1945 Charterhouse First Eleven (a remarkable team that included Lord James Prior and that likeable rogue Simon Raven). With such a background it was probably inevitable that Squeaker should devote much of his time to cricket in particular giving us patient guidance in the nets in which he managed to both bat and bowl despite his appalling war wounds. On the issue of rumours, the common belief at the time was that Squeaker had, from the nets, hit a ball through the stained glass window in the Chapel; hence the single pane of plain glass.

The schools we played against included: Fernden (Haslemere way where the future Admiral of The Fleet Lord Boyce was contemporaneously being educated), Highfield (Liphook), Aldro (Shackleford), Allen House (Woking), Edgeborough (Farnham) and Amesbury (Hindhead). Visiting other schools offered the opportunity draw comparisons. I suspect that Highfield was our least favourite, partly because as a purpose built school the buildings lacked the personality of the nooks and crannies that St Edmund’s offered. Also, aside from the crushing defeat at cricket, there was a suspicion that Highfield took it all much too seriously and, worse still, may even have practised.

[Photo with megaphone long jump]

Fuchs for Long Jump. The ubiquitous & inspirational Geoff Finch holding the megaphone – practical, effective and non-tech days

Being across the road Amesbury was too close to offer the excitement of travel and their chocolate brown uniform always seemed somewhat distasteful. The beautiful school building of Aldro was rather let down by a cricket pitch that was peppered with mole heaves; their post-match fare of hand grenade Rock Cakes and powdered orange juice did little to add to the appeal of a visit. Now closed, Fernden lay in beautiful grounds but we were struck by how many beds the school managed to cram into the dormitories – positively of refugee proportions (contemporaneoulsy the future Admiral of the Fleet Lord Boyce was a student there). The long drive to Allen House in Woking rather took the edge off the day especially after a defeat when the return journey lasted forever. Whereas the locality of Edgeborough with its beautiful grounds made for a pleasant day out.

One other educational establishment worthy of mention is The Grove Girls School, not because we played against them but rather that once a week they crossed the A3 to come swimming in our open air pool. Although we swam in the raw the girls sported swimming costumes but this did not impact on our curiosity and some of us took the opportunity to peer through the pool fencing to ogle at the enemy – girls.

Somehow in the two Winter Terms we all had a go at Soccer, Rugby and Hockey. This variety stood all of us in good stead for whatever sports one’s public school favoured. Minor sports were also on offer including squash, golf and even fives. In the case of squash, St Edmunds proved a sound foundation for Ian Mackay- Dick who subsequently became Army Champion over a number of years.

Sports Day seemed to be the only opportunity in the entire year for athletics to take place but it had the added attraction of parents being invited. Even now I can recall leading down the home straight in the 440 yards only to look over my right shoulder while Mason overtook to my left. As with missing a stumping when keeping wicket a few years later at Pangbourne, the memory of that race remains in absolute black and white clarity (colour was in its infancy in the 1950s!)

CULTURE

Culture appeared in my original structure but as the subject is reached, there seems little to say about it, probably because I was, and am, deeply uncultured. Piano lessons were not in my curriculum although with pianos peppered around the dormitories the whole school regularly echoed to the sound of scales of variable quality. Art never appealed since, as described, the Art Mistress instilled too much fear for one ever to feel creative. And although plays and pantomimes took place, I never got beyond singing in the chorus of Sur le Pont d’Avignon.

The school did however make one brave effort to excite our interest in Shakespeare by send a mini van load of reluctant boys to see a performance of Julius Caesar in the old Guildford Theatre next to the Coop in North Street (less glamorous than its successor but blessed with much better leg room). This project was doomed to failure as the production failed to impress even the smallest of boys. For example, during the assassination scene Caesar accommodatingly lifted up his arms to allow a dagger, clear metal on one side and painted red on the other – to be thrust into the void and twisted on withdrawal so that we could see the blood. This laughably unconvincing scene stunted my enthusiasm for theatre in general and Shakespeare in particular.

A rare cultural event – the school play.  My only recollection is singing Sur le pont d’Avignon

Perforce my ‘culture’ was restricted to peering at card mounted photographs through the Library’s Stereoscope that offered 3D views of historical events such as the Boer War and Queen Victoria’s Jubilee Celebrations, attending lectures by such worthies as Wilfred Noycevii and playing the Owzthat cricket dice game in which I always engineered a successful fantasy match for the great Trevor Bailey. It is a sad reflection that under this heading it has only been possible to record a few trivial pursuits but that is probably in direct proportion to the size of a miniscule school library of not much bigger proportions than those of Captain Slater’s Office.

CONCLUSION

The passage of time from squirt to bigger squirt

Too many names to recall & the best I can manage is a stab at the Directing Staff: First Standing Row – ?: Miss Roberts; ?; Mr Green; Mr Riddett; ?; Miss Pauline McCausland; Miss Lush. Sitting Row – Miss Arkell; Val Newbury; Miss Urquart; Mr Smith; Geoff Finch; Peter Weeks (Headmaster); Mrs Pam Weeks; Captain Slater; Miss Reeves; Mr McNab; Sister

   MJN aged 10 years

The exciting new addition from the previous year was Miss Bowen (standing beside Miss Lush) who, to our love-sick desolation married Mr McNab in short order [Photo 1956] MJN aged 11 years

 

MJN aged 13 years. Peaking too early being Clive Division Prefect and the recipient of the Salmon Prize for Leadership

At the risk of extending the trivial pursuit thought process for some inexplicable reason, I can recall with some clarity the cars of certain parents. Richard Dimbleby used to collect Jonathan and Nicholas in a White Rolls Royce whereas ‘Wads (?)’ Preston’s father, who was a serving Army Officer in the British Army of the Rhine, bowled up in an unprepossessing grey Opel. The parents of Hall, of Sharp’s Toffees fame, owned a most elegant Bentley Continental but the car I really coveted was the Ford V8 Pilot of the Mason family. The Nicholsons sported a Yellow and Black Drophead Hillman Minx – VRN: FUV 351.

Well that’s it. I loved my time at St Ed’s and really did not want to leave. My good fortune however was such that the Nautical College Pangbourne proved to be every bit as enjoyable so much so that aside from making a personal visit to Captain Slater at his house, I completely forgot St Eds. I hope these memories have, in part, made up for my gracelessness in not visiting my Preparatory school.

As for me, the Nautical College Pangbourne beckoned confident that a career in the Royal Navy was there for the taking; in reality this is as near as I got to joining the Navy.

NCP Cadet

i The then popular game of Jokari involved two players, armed with a wooden bat shaped like a tennis racquet, alternately striking a rubber ball that was attached to a long rubber rope. A player who failed to hit that rubber in return to his opponent’s shot lost the point ii The very stairs that Squeaker had descended one evening wracked in pain arising from Chicken Pox that had forcefully attacked his nether region glands with the purpose of issuing a comprehensive bollocking to the entire school. It would seem that he had opted to live in the School until the disease had abated and we were making too much noise. As bollockings go, it was most effective. iii A pity really since Pangbourne offered Navigation and Seamanship in lieu of Latin iv A word that is now apparently used so infrequently that, according to recent reports (2012), it is to be expunged from Oxford Dictionary.