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    *         MEMORIES OF WINCHESTER HOUSE SCHOOL            *
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    G.C.Wraith  25/9/00


    These reminiscences about Winchester House School are
    mostly about persons now dead. May their shades forgive
    me if I wrong them. If my contemporaries have contrary
    memories, I hope these ramblings may coax them into the light.

     My mother told me that what convinced her that Winchester
    House School was a fit place for me to attend, was the sight
    of a hurled banana dripping down the wall of the sixth form
    just as she was being ushered in to look around. "This place"
    she concluded, "is run for the children's benefit." Bananas
    were a rarity in 1946, so I suppose it might have been the
    extravagance that weighed with her, too.

      I was seven years old when my parents suggested that they
    should accompany me to school for my first term at Winchester House,
    but this I flatly opposed. They gave me a bunch of grapes, a
    luxury in those days, to eat on the train. The only other thing
    I recall of that day was that on arrival I was straightway shown to the
    further part of the lower field where the grass stood four feet
    high. New arrivals were tunnelling vigorously through this jungle,
    and I abandoned myself to this activity with delight.

      I have often entertained (though never too seriously)
    the idea that individual development recapitulates that
    of mankind in general. At the age of seven I was at a
    warrior stage corresponding roughly to that of the Heruli,
    or to some other wild tribe that Tacitus described in his
    "Germania". To give a small example of my state of mind:
    in putting on my shoes and socks I would never leave myself
    in a position where I was wearing both socks without shoes.
    For if an enemy should spring suddenly upon me, I did not
    want to risk slithering on a polished floor in my stockinged
    feet. There was a better chance of flight, I calculated, with
    one foot shod and the other bare. It is no use to enquire
    who or what these enemies might have been; to do so betrays
    an ignorance of seven-year-old boys. Also, I was deeply
    embarrassed at the prospect of wearing a cap, because I knew
    that I was supposed to doff it in the presence of a lady, and
    I did not want to draw attention to myself with such gestures.
    In fact I still shun headgear of any kind except in arctic
    conditions.
    I tell you this, not to declare any singularity of my own,
    but so that you may better appreciate what kind of a task the
    staff of a preparatory school are sometimes faced with.

     Head of the lower school was Miss Blackburn. The lower school
    lived in the long gallery on the top floor of the south wing.
    Our toy boxes formed a complex littoral of bays round a sea of
    linoleum, where our hours of leisure were spent. Our first lesson
    was Latin, and that blew my mind. That one might, even
    approximately, speak words that could have been spoken
    two thousand years ago was marvellous to me. It set me to
    inventing secret languages and histories of my own for most
    of my childhood. To make more effective rote learning of
    Latin conjugations Miss Blackburn had us sing them, while she
    conducted with a large iron poker taken from the fireplace.
    I cannot remember anybody trying any impertinence with her,
    and that had nothing to do with the poker.

     The headmaster at that time was Mr Hayman, from whom we
    learned Greek. He was a large brooding man, rather fearsome
    when stirred to anger. Desks and their occupants would be
    scattered asunder as he waded through to sieze anybody
    rash enough to provoke his wrath, but that was rare.
    He would often gaze out of the window and fall into a trance,
    humming gently to himself. Nobody dared interrupt. Later I
    learned that he was in fact dying. The letter to my parents
    ran "Dear Mum and Dad, Mr Hayman died last night. We had
    sausages for breakfast. ... ". He taught us more than Greek.
    He had a huge knowledge and passion for classical studies.
    Many a lesson was taken up by his recounting myths, and he had no
    qualms about adding his own embroidery to them; that in
    itself was a lesson about ancient times and how myths were made.
    I remember dimly the very first class with Mr Hayman.
    He drew a triangle on the blackboard to indicate England,
    with a couple more for Wales and Scotland. Then he told us
    about Hadrian's wall and the legions sent into Scotland
    never to return. On other occasions he told us the story of
    the Trojan war; I particularly recall him recounting the
    tragic fate of Cassandra. Many years later I came to the
    conclusion that he was fascinated by the sadistic bits, but
    it may be that he thought that that was what would appeal
    to his audience. When he died the staff were transfixed
    with grief, so I must conclude that he was well loved. He
    was certainly an outstanding teacher.

     We were also taught Latin by Mr Llewelyn. He had a
    little Austin Seven and lived in the cottage by the gates
    at the top. He was a small neat man; I think he had a
    military background. I did not fear him at all, but I liked
    and respected him. He understood small boys. Occasionally he
    would burst into doggerel. There was a boy called Trainer, who had
    been bombed out of his home twice and had a hair-trigger
    temper. Nowadays we would say that he had post-traumatic
    stress syndrome. Another boy, Colin Fielding-Clarke, known
    as FC (he became a life-long friend), once managed to trip
    this trigger by some quite innocent remark, which led Mr
    Llewelyn to sing

       "Little Trainer, for a lark,
       threw his desk at Fielding-Clarke.
       Now those little spots you see
       are all that's left of poor FC."

    This ditty calmed Trainer immediately. I would not dare to suggest
    versification as a general treatment for rage, but Mr
    Llewelyn knew instinctively how to control the situation.

     Mr Davis, the chaplain, taught us mathematics. He looked jovial,
    a bit like the Dalai Lama. His teaching methods were unconventional,
    even for those days. He was anxious that we should be alert,
    and to this end he would occasionally throw pieces of chalk at
    us or announce "If you have ever seen a policeman in your life
    write an X, and, if you have not, write a Y". Then he would snap
    his fingers, one, two, three; if by then you had not written an
    X or a Y you were a "sausage" or even a "super-sausage". A theorem
    of Euclidean Geometry which was misquoted by a boy
    might be renamed after the boy himself, and every time it was
    needed for a proof on the blackboard the new owner of the theorem
    would be asked to present it carefully; "Your Theorem, please, Mr
    Morgan". Those who had consistent difficulty were enrolled in the
    "Royal Society" which met twice a week in his home for special
    coaching, helped along by cocoa and cakes provided by Mrs Davis.
    There was nothing unkind about Mr Davis or his methods.
    I also got the impression in chapel, when we got to the blessing,
    that he really meant what he was saying. I remember him drawing
    a sort of diagram in one of his sermons, to indicate a proper
    ordering of Christian priorities:
              God > people > ideas > things > money
    I feel affection for him still.

     There was a Mr Bate, who smoked his pipe upside-down and used
    a length of twine as a belt to keep his trousers up (corduroy,
    with patches). He taught French, with an accent that even his
    pupils knew was abominable. If he did not like your efforts, your
    exercise book would be hurled back to you, spinning like a discus,
    with a growl "that stinks!". We liked him because he was
    aggressively unrespectable, and because he would promise that if
    all the boys in his class learned to swim, he would bicycle fully
    clothed into the swimming pool. He did this with dignity.
    First bubbles, then his pipe would float to the surface, followed
    by himself. What an incentive!
    I cannot help feeling that Compo, in Last of the Summer Wine, was
    somehow modelled on Mr Bate.

     Mr Meikle, who became headmaster after Mr Hayman's death, was
    more important in teaching us French. He typed out and circulated
    his own word-lists. He was a large man with hairy arms and a
    bow-tie, who resembled Stanley Holloway. He was very strong, and
    would occasionally impress us with feats of strength, or with
    his skill in putting two fingers to his mouth and emitting a
    piercing whistle - sufficient, I imagined, to knock birds from a
    tree. He adored the works of Conan Doyle, particularly the
    Etienne Gerard stories, and was a wonderful story teller. It
    was a treat to hear him read, and every Saturday evening those
    who wished could hear him do so, in his study by candlelight.
    Those first in would get an armchair, but most would lie on
    the floor. He was a kind bluff man, an all-rounder, of a type
    that seems to have disappeared.
    He had a collection of Charlie Chaplin films and cartoons
    which would be put on as starters for the Wednesday evening film
    shows which he ran. Those film shows were the highpoint of
    the week. I can still hear the yelling hoard bursting down the
    corridor, after, say, "Destry Rides Again", each one with an
    imaginary six-shooter in hand, trying to get rid of pins-and-needles
    after an evening sitting on the floor.
     Mrs Meikle, Hosky, was adored by all. She played the role of
    universal mother without any sort of affectation or falseness.
    I have been told that she was a young assistant to the matron when
    her husband-to-be was yet a boy at the school.

     Every Christmas holidays we would take back to our parents the
    Great General Knowledge Quiz. This was concocted by the staff,
    principally Mr Meikle, and the idea was that parents would help
    their children to find out the answers which the children would
    then learn by heart, to compete for a prize when term next began.
    It was a good way to get parents together, apart from anything
    else. The telephone lines would hum with queries; "Can you do the
    one that starts with subtracting the number of Muses from the date
    of the Defenestration of Prague?". There were always plenty of
    questions on works of Conan Doyle and Dickens, classical mythology
    and of the Who-did-What-to-Whom-When-Where-and-Why variety. Even local
    libraries were drawn into the fray.

     I have dim memories of other teachers who came and went
    suddenly. There was one who smoked like a chimney and stubbed
    his cigarettes out on our hands. I think he had been a salesman
    of some sort. Then there was some poor youth with wavy hair fresh
    out of Oxford who could not keep discipline and was pursued by a
    taunting mob of children down the corridors. "Lord of the Flies"
    should be compulsory reading for staff, perhaps.

     I was a healthy child, but I disliked all forms of organized sport,
    which I perceived to be of more use to those who needed to know
    where I was at any given moment than to my own physical or social
    development. Physical exercise for its own sake I thought
    unnatural. For the sake of a quiet life I did not press these
    opinions on others. Later in life, when I was being tested for
    aptitude to fly aeroplanes, I discovered that I had been born
    with ocular muscles that rendered me unable sufficiently to
    synchronize hand (or foot) with eye, which may explain why
    I loathed all forms of ball game, and resented being forced to waste
    my time with them. I speak not only of playing, but also of
    spectating. "Watching" cricket was not so bad, because
    in the long grass you could read or pretend that your fountain pen
    was a spaceship, with less chance of being accused of heresy.
    There were plenty of other boys in the same boat, which confirmed
    my belief that I was not a freak. I still consign the sports section
    to the dustbin before I read the paper.

     The hedgerows round the upper field were full of dog-roses and
    dens, the most renowned of which was "M". Its approach
    was guarded by a compost of grass cuttings, left there by old
    Makepeace, the groundsman, which had deliquesced to something
    resembling black treacle. We called it the "malplaisance". Many
    sport-free afternoons were spent besieging or defending "M".

     In the upper school each day we had to learn a certain number of
    pages of vocabulary and a certain number of pages of grammar in
    French, Latin and Greek. There was insufficient time to do this
    during the day, so it was essential to have an electric torch to
    read under the bedclothes after lights-out. At least an hour of study
    was necessary each night. We regarded this as normal. The next morning
    we would be tested by the senior boys, and if we got anything wrong
    they hit us. This too was considered normal, but eventually I
    deliberately hit back, knocking the poor fellow right across
    the room. I helped him up and told him to get on with the testing.
    From that point on, at least in my presence, morning testing became
    more civilised. The incident gave me a shock, because I realised
    how easily I could have done serious damage, and I vowed to
    restrain myself. Fortunately I have never needed violence since.