OTHER SCHOOL MOMENTS REMEMBERED
By Peter A. Douglas
“We do not remember days, we
remember moments.”
Cesar Pavese (1908-50)
Since I discovered this school website in 2004 I’ve enjoyed
reading about the experiences of ex-pupils of THS, letting many of
the varied aspects of school life to come back to me – the good, the
bad, and the ugly. Some of these memories, while not usually given
much attention all these years later, were already firmly lodged and
rose to consciousness with little prompting, while others needed
considerable enticing forth. Those in the latter category were
certainly helped out by having read what other contributors to this
site remembered and recorded, and I’m very glad that so many have
taken the trouble to set down their reminiscences.
The fact is, of course, that our school days are ancient history
now, and we seldom give them a thought in the normal course of
events. But whatever we now think of our time at school, it’s hard
to deny that it’s part of us, and part of what we became, and those
years, satisfactory or miserable, weird or woeful, are as necessary
as blood to our growth and maturity. So how can I not be the
archaeologist of my own past, sifting patiently through the
accumulated years for those remaining bright discoveries? Now that I
have been exploring the THS website, even more of these old images
get stirred up, and I often now find myself playing the ghost of my
former self, forever walking those now demolished corridors.
Some occurrences stay with us, while others have faded and gone,
and perhaps for the best in some cases. There’s certainly a limit to
the powers of human recollection, and it has always amazed me how
few events I am are able to call back out of what happened during
almost seven years at the school. Many of the “special” moments from
that great tragicomedy are seared into my brain like the memory of a
nightmare, such as the many and diverse horrors of the rugby field
and gym, and almost any encounter with Gunner Wright. However, I’ve
already written about such juicy recollections elsewhere on the
website.
Mostly what’s left in my memory banks is poor stuff, consisting
of scraps and instants that are impossible to cobble together into
any substantial or coherent article on a single theme. They’re like
colour slides flashing randomly and with varying intensity on my
mind’s screen, a jumble of moments and incidents that occurred at
any time over those seven years. Some are just brief flashes, others
more substantial. I’ve set out these below, and for convenience I’ve
put them into categories.
Most of these fragments are probably just my own, but because
some of the original experiences were shared by others, perhaps the
memories are too. Many seem typical for all of us who were at that
school at that time, and perhaps any time too. These wisps of memory
are scarcely noteworthy, even to me, but sharing experiences of the
old school is what this website is all about, isn’t it? I’ll be
satisfied if I can shake your memory tree a little and make fall
something once forgotten and something suddenly worth remembering.
SPORTS AND GAMES
Playing basketball, and the slap and squeal of rubber soles on
the gym’s hardwood floor.
The time Roger Barnes had to be taken to hospital from a
cricket match when a ball from John Wright smashed the lens of his
glasses into his right eye. He returned in two days, fine, but with
a bandage over his eye.
The summer sounds of cricket, the hard crack of the ball,
distant shouts as someone’s caught out.
Long shadows stretching across the pitch at after-school
cricket club, and the wonderful vibration of the bat when connecting
and hitting a beautiful, solid six.
Michael Eyton-Jones collapsing with a cramp during the senior
cross-country run and being brought back by car.
Staying behind after school to watch a Staff v. School
basketball game, and Mr. Holland’s nose got whacked and bled.
Playing tennis by the Tech College with Val Rhoades, John
Wright, and Pip Thomas, July 1963. Very mixed (up) doubles I have no
doubt!
Watching Trinity thoroughly beaten (by 9 wickets) in a cricket
match against Northampton Grammar School.
Lifting weights (125 pounds) in the sports store off the gym
with Adrian Hoffman, Pomeroy, Church, and Williamson.
The undeviating decline of my interest and abilities in games
and PT, as corroborated by Grimshaw’s sullen comments in my school
reports from 1956-60, where he lavished on me (admittedly accurate)
assessments such as “Below average standard,” and “Does not exert
himself very much.” Of course, some actual encouragement might have
helped, but in the dark and perverted universe of Messrs. Grimshaw,
Matthews, and Gibson, you only qualified for that if you didn’t need
it.
The taste of blood and mud after getting someone’s boot in my
face in the scrum. At least it meant an abbreviated games period,
and that was worth a little pain.
Writing a self-help treatise entitled “The Art of Getting Out
of Games,” distributed gratis to my closest skiving sports-hating
friends. Along with general advice, methods included equipment loss,
incapacitation, excuse notes, office employment, and (the best)
simply hiding.
Returning from the rugby field one drizzly autumn day in 1957 I
forwent the obligatory shower, which was embarrassing and loathsome,
and I rushed to dress and go. But before I could make myself scarce,
Grimshaw spotted my muddy knees (a definite drawback to the short
trousers I still wore then) and made me undress and take a shower. I
couldn’t win: on the playing field I was in trouble because my knees
weren’t muddy, and now I was in trouble because they were!
Climbing the rope in the gym and being shouted at for not doing
it fast enough, and for being generally useless. Fortunately I
regarded criticism from Grimshaw as the same as praise from those I
respected.
Attempting the pole vault and the high jump with predictably
painful results. And then feeling better after watching someone else
fail miserably, and hilariously, too.
Throwing the javelin and discus in athletics. And especially
the shot put, as it was the least strenuous exercise and took place
in a location rarely frequented by Grimshaw.
THE PREFECTS’ ROOM
Looking back, it’s clear that the prefects’ room was the scene
of many events in my final months at school. It was our social
centre and our refuge. There were endless talks and arguments there
over tea and cigarettes, about the events of the era and contentious
topics in general: Marxism, astrology, the Bomb, the Campaign for
Nuclear Disarmament, the Aldermaston marchers, the Profumo affair,
Harold MacMillan, De Gaulle and the Common Market, religion, the
death of Pope John XXIII, Beeching’s railway cuts, the possibility
of an electricians’ strike, the orbiting of “Faith 7” in the Project
Mercury programme, the Eurovision Song Contest, “That Was the Week
That Was” (TW3), and a dozen other topical items, touchy and
trivial.
Participating somewhat in the political and social upheavals of
the 1960s to the extent of having sessions in which we read out loud
satirical excerpts from “Private Eye.”
Several of us immature geniuses locking Val Rhoades in the
prefects’ room cupboard. On other occasions we hid her handbag, and
tied her up. I have no idea what was going on! S&M early bloomers,
perhaps!
How the prefects’ room stank, among other things, of Michael
Eyton-Jones’ games kit and a long-ignored brimming waste bin.
Being obliged by its disgusting state to actually clean the
prefects’ room. Even our exceptionally low standards had their
limits.
Hearing songs from the new Beatles’ album, “Please Please Me,”
on the radio in the prefects’ room in 1963. I think this was the
first time I heard this group, which was to dominate my musical
experiences (those awful “hops”) in the upcoming university years,
and even now has the power to transport me back in time and raise
the hair on my arms.
Listening to the first and second Test Matches against the West
Indies. For the second Test Match I had a bet with John Wright, and
he won 7d off me.
Someone’s great idea of pouring a weak cup of tea for Bob Lacey
and adding to it sour milk and the squeezings of a dirty dish cloth.
Unaware, he actually took a sip. I don’t know why we were being so
nasty.
Playing chess, brag, whist, and rummy for hours and hours.
Having fish and chips for lunch, about 20 or 30 times. When we
were surfeited, a variant was pie and chips and other health foods.
Witnessing a fight in the prefects’ room between Ian MacIlravie
and D. Betts, who got a bloody nose.
John Wright’s imaginative and revolting lunch one day. He
heated up a tin of kidney soup (for which many disgusting similes
were suggested) into which he tipped a whole packet of Smith’s
crisps. He let the crisps become soggy and then mashed them up and
ate the mess. No one was sorry he didn’t share it. On another
occasion, John’s lunch was egg and Bovril sandwiches that he dunked
in tomato soup. Fortunately, John went into insurance, not the
restaurant business.
Pip Thomas letting the saucepan boil dry of water while heating
his steak and kidney pie. The predictable awful stink resulted. It
can’t be coincidence that so many prefects’ room memories concern
the sense of smell!
LESSONS
Escaping mentally by staring out of the classroom window during
history, watching the sun set behind Kingsthorpe Hollow.
Chalk dust hanging in late sunbeams as Mr. Hogg mercifully
wipes the blackboard clean of something algebraic that I didn’t
understand anyway.
Doing a couple of terms of Spanish with Harry Bamber. No exams
– just for the hell of it.
Making life hell for young, toothy Mr. Roe, our new chemistry
teacher, and fresh out of teachers’ training college. I think we saw
ourselves as part of his essential continuing education, a sort of
post-graduate teacher commando course, courtesy of his rotten class!
Having to give up art, music, and geography in 1958 when I went
into 3A. Well that certainly narrowed down the possibilities for my
future and subsequently created a lot of “What If” thoughts.
The persistent reek of H2S from the science lab’s Kipp’s
apparatus.
Getting “guffed” by Stan Guffogg. This was our name for Stan’s
personal contribution to the remote era of physical punishment in
schools. It consisted of a flick of his wrist that resulted in a
sharp, painful crack on the victim’s temple with the protruding
knuckle of his middle finger. A guaranteed attention-getter.
Getting a “dusting.” This is what we called another of Stan’s
tricks (I think it was Stan) was to beat an offending boy with the
soft felt side of the blackboard eraser. Humiliation rather than
hurt was the object, for the effect was to whiten your hair and send
a cascade of chalk dust on to your shoulders and down your neck.
Spike Clements’ habit of clearing out his sinuses with a
discreet but very noticeable snort, something that punctuated about
every fifth sentence he spoke. It was hard to know if he was even
aware of it, but we certainly were, and we had the challenge of
suppressing giggles each time. SSKKNNFFTHTH!
Spike droning on about the Trade Disputes Act of 1906, Edmund
Crompton’s power loom, or the rise of the railways.
Harry Hartwell droning on about Thomas Malthus, the Hanseatic
League, or Elizabethan finance.
Mr. Hill droning on about Strachey’s “Queen Victoria,” Milton’s
“Samson Agonistes,” or Addison and Steele’s interminable “Spectator”
essays. The last were supposed to "enliven morality with wit, and to
temper wit with morality,” but didn’t enliven us much at all.
Mr. Jones droning on about sines, cosines, and tangents.
Mr. Crick droning on about Wordsworth and “The Prelude” and
those bloody daffodils.
Mr. Jury, our woodwork master before Mr. Waller, giving us the
instruction to “Open your drawers and take out your tools.” Snigger.
It’s hard to believe that he was unaware of the second level of
meaning. In my mind’s ear I hear him saying that in a West Country
accent.
The comedy and the frustration that was inescapable in such
practical lessons as woodwork and metalwork, and great laughter and
helpless shrugs comparing the truly pathetic wobbly-jointed tea
trays that were so many weeks in the making and could not possibly
be of any use.
Jack Linnell leaning over my much rubbed-out and re-penciled
technical drawing and just shaking his head and sighing. This
expression of his disappointment was, in its way, so much more
pitiful and eloquent than any words could have been. I almost felt
bad for all his squandered effort.
Pip Harris’ geography project where he had us look in our
kitchen cupboards at home and bring in any tin of fruit. We then had
to write about the country or the area where the fruit originated. I
had a tin of pineapple slices from Hawaii. More then 40 years later
I took a tour of the Dole cannery in Honolulu, and actually thought
about old Pip Harris.
Feebly tackling musical notation with Mr. Chesters. Giggling at
what we thought a “semibreve” was (a man with one nostril bunged
up). And what the devil is a “hemidemisemiquaver” anyway?
Sid Phillips’ horror-filled idiosyncratic remark upon seeing
the short, stubby pencil one of the class was using: “A penzil! Do
you call that a penzil?”
Looking out the chemistry lab windows at the poor devils
playing rugby in the rain and feeling warm and cozy by my Bunsen
burner because even chemistry was better than games.
EXAMINATIONS
Revising for my history and Latin exams in the maths and
history stock room on the top floor of the Tower, and listening to
the constant whir of the lift mechanism through the wall. I can’t
recall how I got this “privilege.” While it was at least somewhere
private to concentrate, it was also a rather cramped and nasty
environment, full of dusty textbooks, piles of paper, and assorted
junk. One day in January, one of the school’s boilers failed and it
was very cold up there.
Being allowed to stay at home to revise for our big exams in
1963. Sitting under a tree in my sunny back garden and getting
heavy-eyed and bored going over “The Franklin’s Tale,” “ Volpone,”
and “Much Ado About Nothing.”
Lethargic afternoons in the library, the creak of chairs, the
rustle of pages, and anxious whispers in the room’s calm as we
revised for exams. Then somebody farting and breaking the spell.
Going to Notre Dame school and convent on Abington Street
(since demolished) with Peter Drinkwater for our French oral exam.
Every step could be heard on the stone or wood floors. Afterwards we
explored the place and found a small tree-filled courtyard that
contained a charming little church. Apart from the exam, it was a
nice morning among the nuns and out of school.
Devising a neat system of mnemonic aids to help me remember the
salient facts about dozens of topics in economic and social history.
All I had to do was remember a single word for each topic, such as
the effects of the Industrial Revolution. Each letter of this word
was the first letter of a keyword from which I could reconstruct a
sentence or even a paragraph about the topic. It really worked! But
it also demonstrated the obvious fact that the exams were little
more than a test of temporary memory, not of true knowledge.
Sunbathing on the playing fields after exams with John Wright,
Pip Thomas, and Peter Drinkwater. It was very hot that day, May 31,
1963, and the temperature reached 76°, so we had some juniors bring
us ice creams.
SCHOOL RULES
Knowing the rules was the hard part. There were so many, most
of which we knew nothing about until we were caught breaking one. It
was therefore just about impossible not to fall foul of some
trifling regulation over the course one’s school years. Hanging
around too long after the school day ended (not usually a problem)
was forbidden, and it was easy to get shouted at by a teacher or a
snotty prefect for being inside the school during break too.
The school uniform offered plenty of rule fixation for some
teachers (frustrated military types, we supposed), and most of us in
our early years there were reprimanded for not wearing a cap, or
some similar scruffiness that was seen to bring the school into
disrepute. Such were the times. In the summer, when in the 6th form
at least I think, we were permitted to not wear a tie provided that
the collar of our white shirt was outside the collar of our blazer.
Gunner got me for that once, and the snarled words “Your collar!”
were quite enough to make me jump to it.
Another rule dictated that when moving about the Tower we had
to go up the wide staircase on the northwest side of the building
and down the narrower staircase on the other side. Well of course,
we often broke that one, especially when we closest to the “wrong”
staircase and had only one floor to go. Harry Hartwell pinched me
for that once but gave me a rather genial finger-wagging that made
me think that he was not really upset by my crime but was obliged to
make the point.
A more serious infraction was to use the Tower lift, which was
restricted to teachers and to pupils only with rarely dispensed
permission for a special reason, such as carrying something heavy
for a teacher. Seeing a teacher as the door opened left little room
for being presumed innocent, and I almost never took the risk. Mr.
Timms nabbed me once, and I spun him some fast-thinking tale about
having hurt my ankle in PT. I’m sure he didn’t believe me as I got
scolded anyway, but, to my relief, I heard no more about it.
Opening or closing a window or a blind in the classroom without
permission was a minor infraction that was on the books, though few
teachers seemed passionate about it. Nevertheless, there were
occasions when some hapless pupil fell foul of this diktat and got
wearily bawled out for his audacity. The simple solution was to do
it before the teacher entered the classroom, and perhaps he wouldn’t
notice or care.
After drinking our milk, the rule was to replace the empty
bottle in the crate. One day I carelessly left my bottle on the
playground steps and got told off by a blustering and now nameless
prefect. It seems a small thing, but the injustice of it must have
stung, for the memory persists.
SCHOOL LIFE
The cloakroom bridge between the Tower and the Science Block
filled with the wet gabardine smell of dripping mackintoshes on
rainy autumn mornings.
The taste of the tuck shop’s sweet cream buns and salty sausage
rolls. The tuck “shop” was merely a table set up daily by the side
of the stage near the entrance to the gym. I don’t recall if they
offered a larger selection.
The sourish frigid gulp of the free milk taken from the
third-pint bottle distributed in the morning outside the lavatories.
A great location for that!
The insane but persistent rumour that Gunner, as punishment for
an especially grave offence, had once actually flogged a boy with a
whip-like metal aerial of a tank. Such was Gunner’s reputation that
even this wild allegation seemed terrifyingly plausible at the time.
Hanging on the wall in the school library, a reproduction of
Rembrandt’s 1632 painting entitled “Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes
Tulp,” depicting several gawping Dutch burghers surrounding Dr. Tulp,
who is explaining the musculature of a corpse’s dissected left
forearm. This painting impressed me at the time, and stays with me.
Little atheists that many of us were, or at least sleepy,
apathetic, and hopeless singers, in morning assembly we would simply
soundlessly mouth the words of the hymn instead of singing them. One
day I noticed that those around me were actually singing, or trying
to. Then I saw why. Gunner was prowling along the walkway by the
Music Room above the ranks of pupils. Half way down he stopped and
swept us with his hard blue eyes. I don’t think anyone actually knew
for sure why he was doing that, but his penetrating glare never
failed to bring forth whatever it was we thought we were guilty of,
and even the innocent quaked. After a while, and much to our relief,
he returned to the stage, his point wordlessly but clearly
communicated. Looking back with some reluctant admiration at this
and other Gunner episodes, I find it remarkable that one man could
so simply and silently hold so many in thrall.
Being awarded 3rd prize in the Timken Essay Contest at Speech
Day, April 25, 1963. The subject imposed on us was “The specialist
is an impediment to the advancement of mankind.” I have no idea what
stance I took on this. The guest speaker that day was a Dr.
Richardson, who spoke of “square pegs in round holes,” a theme that
many of us at school surely had some sympathy with.
What a waste of time detention was, more of an inconvenience
than a punishment. It could actually be productive if you were
permitted to start your homework, but utterly deadly when you just
had to sit there in enforced silence while the master marked
exercise books. I had seven detentions between 1A and 4A, 1957-60,
so was neither perfect nor a hardened criminal like Derrick Cooper,
who reports elsewhere on this site that he had 11 detentions in one
term in the summer of 1954. The only potential difficulty was
explaining one’s lateness to one’s parents, but a plausible fantasy
reason was never hard to create.
Revisiting the school a couple of times after my final day, the
first occasion being in the September after I left, though I can’t
recall why. I met several teachers, Bob Lacey, Pip Thomas, and
Johnny Tero. Buzzer seemed to think that, as we were heading for
university, we were good advertisements, and bade us walk around
“with exaggerated modesty.”
The other trip back to school, eight months after I emerged
into the world. This was for Speech Day, March 12, 1964, when I was
awarded the P.E. Tompkins Prize for French. There was tea served in
the gym afterwards, and I spoke with Messrs. Meldrum, Wright, Hill,
and Hartwell, as well as plenty of school pals. The Vice-Chancellor
of Leicester University spoke, on what I have no idea. (Note that
the programme for this event is on this website.)
Collecting form registers as a prefect on “office duty.”
Sneaking out of school towards the end of our final term. Bored
and unoccupied after the exams in mid-June, we did a lot of that, or
we simply did not show up. We went to see films at the Plaza and the
Savoy, wandered down to the Romany, and went to watch cricket at the
County Ground. We seemed untouchable, and not missed, for a while at
least. But this plus our general time-wasting, idleness, mischief,
cricket practice, and card-playing were surely what prompted the
“Wider Horizons” lecture series that dominated our final fortnight
at school (see elsewhere on this website for more on this).
Barry Druker pinning a satirical critical poem on Mr. Hill on
the school notice board at the end of the school year, 1963. I’m
sure he spoke for many of us. I wish I kept a copy.
A group of us going to London on the train with Mr. Hill to see
the RSC’s production of “King Lear” (which we were studying)
starring Paul Scofield. We also visited Madame Tussauds waxworks,
and especially the “Chamber or Horrors.”
Buying John Wright two Wimpey hamburgers in exchange for a
prefect duty. Probably milk.
Anthony Hancock going through his routine to help us remember
his name – pointing to the relevant body parts,
“toe-knee-hand-cock.”
Attending the school debating society events after school. Two
propositions were, “The monarchy is outdated and should be
abolished,” and “Modern buildings are eyesores.”
Watching the school play in November 1960, “The Ghost Train.”
Skiving off games to sit at the back of the hall with Adrian
Hoffman, Nick Thomas, and Eyton-Jones to watch the dress rehearsal
for “Androcles and the Lion” March 1963.
Mr. Hill asking me to do a write-up of this Shaw play for “The
Tower” magazine. Later he was clearly displeased with what I’d
written as he told me to rewrite some parts of it. I can’t recall if
I refused or if he didn’t like my revision, but what appears in the
magazine is by “C.H.H.” and those aren’t my initials! (This is on
this website.)
Witnessing a fight in the bike sheds; the encouraging shouts of
the onlookers and the clatter of tumbling bicycles.
Thawing out after coming to school on my moped, a 1957 Norman
Nippy, during the exceptionally frigid winter of 1962-63. We had to
get Gunner’s permission to come to school in a motorized way, and,
roaring up from Balfour Road at the back of the school, we parked
under cover between the gym and workshop entrances.
I was going to say the obvious, that all these crumbs of memories
don’t tell a story, but on second thoughts, strung together like
this, perhaps they do after all. If nothing else, they add up to
part of a story anyhow, one of vanished times in a vanished school
in an era of educational history that has vanished too, and also
from what is a substantially vanished world half a century old.
They are momentary and tantalizing glimpses into rooms that I’ll
never enter again and whose doors are barely even ajar any more.
Each of us ex-THS folks can doubtless add to this list, bits and
pieces of days surviving down the years, each in itself scarcely
enough to disclose or write of, but still forming a jumbled
kaleidoscope of live sparks among our aging neurons.
Would you like to share your crumbs, your glimpses, and your
sparks? I’d like to read them.
“When I was younger, I could
remember anything, whether it had happened or not.”
Mark Twain (1835-1910)
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