Watson: My Life

by David Ruffle

  Our evening Bible readings was just that: reading. The passages we read were not interpreted or enlarged upon in any way. For many years afterwards, I could if required recite vast chunks of Scripture, but with no idea of the message behind any of it. I already knew that there would be some form of religious assembly to start each day at St Paul’s school. I was not looking forward to it, any of it. All too soon, my week’s grace was over and the learning had to begin. It was with the heaviest of hearts that I arose on the following Monday morning at the unearthly time of six o’clock to eat a hurried breakfast and depart for school. There was no mollycoddling of any sort; I had the address of the school and the name of my form master to report to, a Mr Tomkinson, and that was it. My uncle had prepared a list of train times into the city together with a rail pass, and also a map of where to find Cheapside so I would not disgrace myself and pound the streets of the city in vain. Mrs Chinneck slipped some money into my pocket, ‘for the tuck shop,’ she said. The journey was no more than seven miles all told, but for me it seemed like an eternity. The carriage was crowded and I felt I could hardly breathe. I was hemmed into a corner, my satchel with paper, pencils and a fountain pen inside, perched precariously on my lap. Once at London Bridge station we were all disgorged into the outside world in an avalanche of humankind pouring forth into the streets. Once I had consulted my map and got my bearings I felt happier, but only to a degree. It was just a walk of a few minutes to Cheapside and with a backward glance at the hustle and bustle of London I entered the school although at that precise moment it felt more like a Roman arena with lions licking their lips in anticipation of the arrival of the Christians.

  I felt hopelessly out of place, the weight of history which pervaded the building convinced me that I would be a failure; the country yokel whose shortcomings were about to be cruelly exposed. I asked at least seven boys where I could find Mr Tomkinson and was greeted with ribald laughter each time. Eventually, a boy who I learned later rejoiced in the name Alfred Great kindly showed me the way to Mr Tomkinson’s study. I had arrived. I was given a lecture on the traditions of the school that I was expected to uphold and the standard of behaviour expected from all pupils both within the confines of the school and the world beyond it. I was blessed it seems to have an education at all intoned Mr Tomkinson for it was a fact that a third of all the children in the country did not attend a school of any sort. I didn’t feel blessed I have to say. I was also provided with yet another map, this one being of the school and a table of punishments that I would be liable to for various transgressions. Spare the rod and spoil the child was the motto of those days when it came to educating the privileged few.

  I was designated an Oppidan, which was a term more freely used at Eton than other schools; it merely reflected the fact that I lived outside the school and my tuition was paid for by my family, namely my uncle of course. I was spared therefore the perceived horrors of fagging for the elder boys.

  However, life at St Paul’s would turn out to be exhilarating and stimulating. The guiding forces of the boys were education, sports, and morals, though not always in that order, and independence of thought and a questioning outlook were encouraged. I blossomed as a result of the progressive thinkers at the school who had turned away from the religion-based curriculum to a more suitable education for young gentlemen with the emphasis not only on moral guidance and sport, but also all branches of the sciences.

  But on that first day everything was an unknown quantity and by the time Mr Tomkinson had finished with me I was straining at the leash to get to my classroom for my baptism of fire. Before I could do that, and as I heard the strains of morning assembly dying away, there was one more task to perform; to meet the headmaster. The term high master was used instead of headmaster and the high master for all my time there was Herbert Kynaston. He was a renowned Latin scholar already and everyone at the school was expected to memorise all his works for recitation at any given moment. My contact with him was minimal, but I found him to be a kindly soul with a gentle, paternal manner. He addressed few words to me other than to mark my progress within the rugby team.

  St Paul’s indulged in all the popular sports of the day with the emphasis being on gentlemanly sports such as cricket and of course, rugby. The ex-public-school boy was expected to have a well-rounded character, impeccable manners and enviable personal qualities. Further, having led a team on the games field it was assumed that he could lead a regiment on the battlefield. According to one observer, public schools created men who would be ‘acceptable at a dance and invaluable in a shipwreck!’ So, in the space of sixty years, what had been an embarrassment to public school headmasters became their pride - games and athletic pursuits.

  But I fear I have jumped ahead once more. How difficult this is. I find my mind going off at a tangent constantly. But then, that is true of my life as a whole these days. My memories of these early schooldays are quite trustworthy whereas if you were to ask me what I did this time last week I would struggle. Truth be told though I would be able to work it out as most days follow the same pattern; the morning papers are delivered, I read them over breakfast followed by a morning constitutional and the rest of the day is usually spent in going over my notes of over seventy cases with Holmes, but no longer with the notion of publishing them.

  I decided nine years ago that my literary career, if it can be called that, was over. There was a ritualistic bent to so much of school life. I could imagine that in so many ways that nothing had ever changed for centuries. When entering the school, we were supposed to intone the school’s motto: Fide Et Literis-By Faith and By Learning. Dean Colet who had founded the school and was Dean of St Paul’s Cathedral although Colet was an outspoken critic of the powerful and worldly Church of his day, a friend of Erasmus and Sir Thomas More. Erasmus wrote textbooks for the school and St Paul’s was the first English school to teach Greek, reflecting the humanist interests of the founder. Colet distrusted the Church as a managing body for his school, declaring that he “found the least corruption” in married laymen. For this reason, Colet assigned the management of the school and its revenues to the Mercers’ Company, the premier livery company in the City of London, with which his father had been associated. Even now, the Mercers’ Company still forms the major part of the governing body. One of St Paul’s early headmasters was Richard Mulcaster, famous for writing two influential treatises on education (Positions, in 1581, and Elementarie in 1582). His description in Positions of “footeball” as a refereed team sport is the earliest reference to organised modern football. For this description and his enthusiasm for the sport he is considered the father of modern football. That is of course Association Football or soccer not rugby football.

  Anyone who has ever known me will know of my preference for rugby; in fact, I have only ever attended two soccer matches both of which are permanently erased from my memory, probably rightly so. Originally, the school provided education for 153 children of all nations and countries indifferently, primarily in literature and etiquette. The number 153 has long been associated with the miraculous draught of fishes recorded in St John’s Gospel, and for several generations Foundation Scholars have been given the option of wearing an emblem of a silver fish. St Paul’s was the largest school in England at its foundation, and its high master had a salary of thirteen shillings and sixpence weekly, which was double that of the contemporary headmaster of Eton College. The scholars were not required to make any payment, although they were required to be literate and had to pay for their own wax candles, which at that time were an expensive commodity. Incidentally, the school moved to a new building in Hammersmith where the system of street numbering was being changed so whether by accident or design St Paul’s new address was 153 Hammersmith Road.

  4 Painted by Camille Pissarro in his work, ‘The Avenue’.

  Cylinder 3

  I really must make a note of where I am at the completion of each cylinde
r for I have no method of playing the recordings back. Let me think... oh yes... all this wealth of history and tradition weighed down on the pupils so that we became part of the fabric of the place, part of the conventions it was founded upon. We became the institution as much as the school itself. It was not however a weight which crushed us with huge burdens of expectation. For me personally, coming from the background I had, it was a heartening and motivational experience in spite of my initial misgivings as to how I would fare in such an environment. The building itself was a thing of beauty to me although damnably difficult as a newcomer to negotiate.

  Unknown to me at the time, but there was a growing awareness that architecture is required to perform a number of functions in any society. Buildings have both a rhetorical and regulatory as well as a purely functional purpose. They are intended to control behaviour and shape ideas; to exert influence and express identity. The Cheapside building certainly did that admirably.

  The curriculum, which was in the process of changing rapidly, still favoured the classics hence learning Latin and Greek was still deemed to be essential for those who wished to enter university. Of course, a school like St Paul’s would quite reasonably expect all its pupils to go on to university, at least those of us who intended to work for a living.

  As I progressed in the school, the need for the classics became less of a requirement as the twin ideals of science and sport took hold. Athleticism was believed to be vital for our health and moral well-being. If we were encouraged to be manly, energetic, and enthusiastic at their games the idea was that we would be trained to become healthy and ingenuous throughout our whole school life; failing this course, there will arise an unmanly precocity in self-indulgence, betting, smoking and drinking.

  I can certainly lay claim to being manly, energetic and enthusiastic at games, but perhaps it is wise of me not to dwell on self-indulgence, betting, smoking and drinking! I settled into school life quickly and to my surprise, easily. I was diligent and showed the necessary respect for the teaching staff. I made friends who remained friends for many years. It was contrary to my expectations for I had imagined a harsh, cruel regime. Oh, there was discipline of course; I can hear now the swish of the cane and the biting feel of it on my backside. Even the most studious of pupils could be as prone as any of us to committing the odd misdemeanour and incurring the wrath of various masters. Without exception, we saw this discipline as just and indeed, character forming. I am not by any means an advocate of cruelty, but a deserved punishment meted out fairly is just and proper. Perhaps these views are outdated now, but I stand by them.

  The daily journey to the school from Forest Hill would never feel like a chore. If I may use the phrase, it became akin to a voyage of discovery. I spent my time studying my fellow passengers, trying to guess how their home lives were, what they did for employment. Funny to think of it now because without knowing it, I was employing Sherlock Holmes’s methods. Of course, I had no clue as to whether my deductions had any basis in fact, but it allowed a normally mundane train journey to pass quicker.

  My uncle was pleased with my progress during those first few months. Not that he said too much about it to me other than brief pats on the head and a hurried well-done. My aptitude was leaned heavily in favour of the sciences; biology, physics and chemistry I found fascinating subjects. It was, I think, during that first year that I decided that I wanted to become a doctor. There was no great flash of inspiration that brought me to that point.

  Damn, I think I have said that before. I have no way of checking what has gone on to the first cylinder with no means of playing it back. And I am sure I have said that before too. I am none too sure I wish to hear my own voice thrown back at me on a machine. I digress, but I am sure Mr Huntley will edit this floundering of mine.

  My decision meant I had to apply myself even harder with the years of training ahead. I was single-minded enough in those days to know that I could see it through come what may. Even so, I made sure that there was time to apply myself on the sports field also. The St Paul’s rugby football team had only recently been formed, and one problem we constantly had was the dearth of opposition. We did play occasional matches against other schools, but more often than not we would be pitched against scratch sides from various London clubs. Chief amongst these was Blackheath for we shared their ground and facilities such as they were. Their first team was far too strong for us, but we put up battling displays against their more junior side. Thus, began my association with the famous Blackheath club, an association I still maintain in my honorary position of Life President.

  My closest friends at school were Edward Fothergill and James Tawton; we shared ambitions and an appreciation of sport. We were also very good at devising pranks. Pranks in general were accepted as par for the course at St Paul’s just as long as there was no danger to life or limb and things didn’t get out of hand. Even the masters were not above joining in with the spirit of it although I am sure none would ever have owned up to it. Hauling one of the master’s bicycles into a tree was deemed to be going just a bit too far and the punishment although slight, was certainly applied enthusiastically.

  In this way, I stumbled through my school years. Not the best scholar, but far from the worst. I think it could be fair to say that any academic ability I displayed while at Hexham School had evaporated a little at St Paul’s. I did enough, just enough, to be able to feel confident that I could succeed in my chosen profession. University was the next step for me, but as it turned out there was another step to take first, one that some found surprising, even odd.

  I decided to put everything in abeyance as far as education and career was concerned and take myself off to Australia for what I imagined would be just a year. My uncle voiced no objections; he was still a little upset that I had decided against joining forces with him in his business empire. After that blow, I don’t suppose he cared what I did as long as I was not in his hair. However, I remained eternally grateful to him for the opportunity he carved out for me. My place was reserved at the University of London for the autumn of 1873 much to the chagrin of their board and my masters at St Paul’s who would rather my education moved speedily on. I had long been giving thought to a year away from studies where I could experience life before life made its mark on me.

  One of the most exciting books I had ever read at that point in my life had at its core, the Eureka Rebellion[5] that took place in far off Ballarat[6] in Australia, when miners and the army fought a pitched battle. The novel romanticised the whole affair, but I read it many times and was inspired and saddened by the events which unfolded. Therefore, my destination had to be Ballarat, for perhaps it may be said, the shallowest of reasons and so, I made my plans. I have even further reason to be grateful to my uncle for he was willing to fund my trip with the proviso that as soon as I disembarked in Australia than I was to stand on my own two feet and find for myself gainful employment. I delayed my venture for a few months owing to my friend Edward’s announcement that his father was to be the medic on the steam ship Hellespont which was sailing to Melbourne in the summer of 1872. No, sorry, it was James’s father, Doctor Tawton. Of course, how could I have forgotten that? Tawton was quite happy to have me assist him in any capacity I could during the voyage.

  There was to be a very small remuneration for my efforts, although my wages would mostly be the experience and insight I would gain from observation of his working practices and techniques. Prior to joining the ship at Liverpool, I travelled up to Hexham to visit my brother and to Corbridge to see the Griffiths family. Henry was no longer in the workhouse and was employed in a local brickworks. He had fallen in with a local widow whose name, if indeed I ever knew it, escapes me. All I remember is that she was a coarse woman who relied on alcohol to get through her days. I had only been there a few hours before she made a most improper suggestion to me that shocked me profoundly. I was in a dilemma as to whether inform Henry or not. In the end,
I decided he had a right to know. I was naïve enough to think he would care, but his reaction saddened me for he merely laughed and cursed that I should have taken up on her offer; others had he said. After that incident, I avoided him until my day of departure when we were entirely civil with another and I realised that for all his faults and yes, mine too, he was my brother and the bond of love, deep down though it may be, could not easily be broken.

  My reunion with the Griffiths family was a very happy one indeed; Josiah and Irene who had known only a child were now presented with the sight of a confident young man. Thomas was away at university in Edinburgh studying medicine and intent on following in his father’s footsteps. Lily, my Maid Marian of old, had done very well for herself and with a reasonable education behind her, certainly for the time, had taken on the duties as a junior teacher at Carlisle Girl’s school. Not only that, but the tomboy of six years previously had become a beautiful, assured young woman. Still, for all the wonderful exterior, I had no doubts she could still climb a tree better than most, was still supremely skilled with a catapult and I was, even six years on, not prepared to engage in a fist fight with her! I was entranced by her, so much so that I almost took the step of asking her to accompany me to the other side of the world. Of course, I didn’t although we made vague promises to meet just as soon as I returned. Did I love her? Certainly, on some level. Romantic love? Well, possibly, more than possible on my part and who knows? Hers as well. But those things were not mentioned or discussed and when next we met our lives were very different indeed.