I remember, and I am not likely to forget, Marian Hayter. Colonel Hayter and his family were patients of my father, and lived out at Burghclere, not far from Colonel Elkington. There were two girls, Elsie and Marian, and two boys, Anthony and David. Anthony and David were the younger, about my own age, while Elsie and Marian were some eight or nine years older - about the same age as my brother and sister. Later, in the ‘thirties, Elsie became an Oxford Grouper: and what happened to her after that I don’t know. Marian Hayter was, by common agreement, the most beautiful girl for miles around. She did teach the torches to burn bright. Since then I have had the luck to meet some very beautiful women (including Virginia McKenna, Julie Christie and Raquel Welch) but I have never seen anyone - anyone at all - more beautiful than Marian Hayter. She fairly knocked you flat (even at the age of eight or nine); a perfect English blonde, golden-haired, blue-eyed, smiling, graceful in movement, softly rosy, with a kind of unselfconscious vivacity and poise which made you want to go on looking at her for ever. She later married the chairman of the Rootes Group. Good luck to him!
Anthony Hayter was one of the R.A.F. officers who escaped from Stalag Luft III in the famous and desperate wooden horse break-out. As is well-known, Hitler, in flagrant breach of the Geneva Convention, personally ordered that all escapers caught should be put to death. Anthony succeeded in travelling across Germany as far as Strasbourg. Here he was arrested by the Gestapo, who drove him out into a nearby wood and shot him.
For an eight-year-old the prospect of leaving home for boarding-school was a daunting one. I have always felt that the idea was not put across to me in a properly positive way. I had known for years - ever since infancy - that one day I was going, but I had also known since about 1928 that the time fixed was the Michaelmas term of 1929. However, this was changed, at almost no notice, to the earlier summer term. I don’t know why, but I dare say it may have been a full quota of new boys already accepted, or something like that, which made my father agree to the earlier term. However this was not the reason given to me. The reason given to me by my mother was that I had become too naughty and uncontrollable. If I were the parent of an eight-year-old boy, I certainly would not give him such a negative and dispiriting reason for so big and important a step in his life, even if it were true. I would contrive somehow to put the thing across to him in a positive way and do my best to persuade him to accept it willingly. However, if my dear mother had a fault, it was a moody inconsistency of temper. There were times when one could do nothing right. I can’t remember what I’d done wrong when one day, round about the end of March 1929, she said ‘As you’re so naughty, I’ve decided to send you to boarding-school this term.’ Of course, it had all been fixed well before that: my trunk had been bought and lettered, and clothes, socks and handkerchiefs put up together in conformity with the school list.
I tried pleading and promises to reform. But the sight of the trunk and other things brought home to me that this was a fait accompli. I remember, during that April, a feeling of mounting apprehension as the days went by, but not much else to mark the end of childhood.
On the afternoon of the day on which I was to leave, I slipped out alone into the garden and made a kind of ceremonial peregrination round the whole place, saying good-bye to the stables and the loft, the ruined pigsty, the herbaceous border, the hundred-yard-long hornbeam hedge; and to Bull Banks. The coming term was to last three months, and I would never have been away from home for anything like so long before.
I remember actually handling the grasses in the paddock and murmuring some sort of farewell to them. It was appropriate enough. For the next ten summers I was not to see the tall grasses changing their burnish under the midsummer wind; nor to take part in hay-making.
Chapter VII
Horris Hill was, and is today, an illustrious prep. school of high standing, a worthy peer of its old sports-field rivals the Dragons at Oxford. In situation it is not a true hill, the buildings, grounds and playing-fields covering a slightly raised, rather bare upland a mile and a half south of Newbury, which I imagine must once have formed part of the brackeny, birchy wasteland adjacent to the west.
The school was built and founded in 1888 by a certain Evans - the first headmaster. His son, Johnny Evans, was, in his day, something of a national figure; first as an England cricketer and then, during the Great War, as an intrepid escaper from German prisoner-of-war camps. Later, in collaboration with one Major Harrison, he wrote a book about his exploits, entitled The Escaping Club. He made, I believe, three or four escapes, of which only the last, of course, was entirely successful; that is, he got back to England. For one of his escapes he used a file which was sent to him in a cake baked in Horris Hill kitchen.
During the Second World War, Evans formed part of an army organization in London whose job was encouraging and helping British prisoners-of-war to escape. In the course of his work he came in for criticism which need not be recounted here. Also I have seen the argument expressed that, during Hitler’s war, encouraging prisoners to escape was not altogether a good idea, since it brought about Nazi reprisals (such as the murder of Anthony Hayter and his friends).
Anyway, the foregoing makes clear that Johnny Evans (whom I sometimes saw on his visits to Horris Hill but, although his son Michael was an exact contemporary of mine, never actually met) was a courageous, games-playing, extrovert sort of man - a typical Victorian gentleman and Christian.
The headmaster of my day was Mr J. L. Stow, generally agreed to have been an outstanding prep. school headmaster. He was chairman of the Prep. School Headmasters’ Association, to whom he was known as ‘Daddy’ Stow. At Horris Hill, however, he bore the homelier nickname of ‘Stidge’ (or sometimes ‘Stygo’).
Mr Stow was in every respect a strong personality. Even his gentleness and kindness were in some way powerful, like those of a lioness with her cubs. He possessed in a high degree the two essential qualities for a schoolmaster, warmth and humour; and he had a strong but pleasant voice. He taught well: in fact he was fascinating; it was positively enjoyable to be a member of any class he took. He was the form-master of the top form, of course, but he also taught maths, to the one-from-bottom form - no doubt as a means of getting to know the younger boys and size them up, for he was very keen on that. He knew every boy in the school - there were, in my day, ninety-four — by his Christian name.
Though neither tall nor particularly stout, he was a well-built, heavy, imposing man. (I never saw him run.) In my mind’s eye he is always wearing a double-breasted, grey flannel suit and looking alertly about him from his brown eyes. (His manner was never abstracted or reflective.) He was continually among the boys and could converse with them good-humouredly and amusingly. He knew everybody’s character and he knew everything that was going on.
He was - in that world, anyway - something of a larger-than-life character, generous and magnanimous of mind. He could be both emotional and intimidating. If he saw occasion (such as a fumbled pass in a school soccer match) he would burst out in a roar: ‘Oh, no, no, no! Come along, now, for goodness sake!’ which carried far across the field. I well remember how, playing in my first school match at home, I had the good luck to throw the wicket down from deep mid-off, running the batsman out. ‘Well played, Dicky!’ called out Mr Stow loudly. As good as an M.B.E. any day!
I often reflect, nowadays, how lucky I was to get four years of Mr Stow - to say nothing of his friendship in later life. From the ancient Greeks onwards, a fine schoolmaster has always been recognized as one of the greatest blessings which anyone can have. I had three, of whom Mr Stow was the first. He may have been a man of strong, turbulent emotions and even somewhat prone to angry outbursts, but he put them to excellent use, and he was liked and respected by everyone: the right man to have on your side.
Horris Hill was a school for young gentlemen, and there was much emphasis on the vital importance of truth, honesty and correct behaviour. Perhaps four or five times a term, on Sunday evenings after hymn-sing
ing (of which more anon), Mr Stow would deliver what was known as a ‘pi-jaw’. This might be concerned with all manner of matters - bullying, scatology (we knew nothing at all about sex, of course), behaviour towards the lower classes (kindly, polite, decided, firm and magnanimous), diligence, gratitude, how to show proper respect towards one’s elders and betters and towards ladies, and so on. I recall how once he spoke to us about the wrongfulness of leading smaller boys into misdemeanor out of a desire to show off to them as being rather a devil. He showed how vulgar and unworthy of a gentleman this was, and then, with the most telling effect, quoted Matthew, Chapter XVIII, verse 6, ‘Whoso shall offend one of these little ones … it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.’ I’ve never forgotten it.
At times he could deliver a cutting rebuke without roaring at all. I had a friend called Pawson II, who had a habit of biting the skin on the sides of his fingers - unconsciously, I’m sure. One day, when he was doing it in form, Mr Stow took a minute or two to castigate the nasty habit and point out how objectionable it was. A morning or two later, the wretched boy was doing it again, while Mr Stow was expounding Virgil. He finished the passage and then enquired conversationally, ‘Breakfast nearly over, Pawson?’
During my first term I was dreadfully homesick. Homesickness can be tantamount to a nervous breakdown - that is, you no longer care what anyone else thinks; you weep openly and so on. No one could have been gentler, kinder or more understanding than Mr Stow. He spent what seemed a long time in comforting me and talking to me privately. Later, one bit of this conversation came to be a standing joke between the two of us for years. Between sobs of misery I said ‘Sir, can I say anything I like to you?’ ‘Yes, Dicky, you can say anything at all.’ ‘Well, sir, that Dickens this morning; I didn’t think you read it very well.’ This made me feel enormously better. We were able to talk about something other than my unhappiness, and Mr Stow had shown himself benign and humane.
I remember another incident worth relating. One summer evening Mr Stow was strolling round our dormitory, and by way of making conversation was asking each boy in turn how many runs he had made that day. ‘Fourteen, sir,’ said the dormitory captain. ‘Well done, Michael,’ replied Stidge. ‘Ten, sir,’ said the next lad. ‘You must get another nought on it next time.’ As he came closer to me, I felt apprehensive and horribly embarrassed, for I had been undeservedly lucky. ‘And how many did you make, Dicky?’ ‘Sir,’ I replied in a low, ashamed voice, ‘twenty-eight not out.’ Without a word Mr Stow extended his hand over the end of my bed. I crept forward and shook it.
Horris Hill was not a school of strong religious indoctrination, like an R.C. school or a Woodard. It was straight, unpretentious C. of E. in the manner of that time. There were school prayers morning and evening, consisting of a short reading from the Bible, the Lord’s Prayer and the appropriate collects. On Sundays we walked both to matins and to evensong at one or other of the local churches, Newtown or Burghclere. Usually these were services for the school alone (we filled Newtown church, anyway) but on special occasions, such as Remembrance Sunday, we attended with the village people. We were disgustingly snobbish little boys, and I remember one of my companions imitating the Burghclere choir. ‘Ten thaousand times ten thaousand …’ Finally, on Sunday evenings, after divinity prep., there would be communal hymn-singing from the English hymnal. This was a popular institution. Everyone knew the tunes, and it was almost the only community singing we got. Small boys of that class are - or were - unthinking believers and in many cases deeply sincere about religion. I don’t think we reflected with any intensity or fervour on the words, but some of the verses which come back to me now I wouldn’t want any nine-year-old of mine to have on his mind.
‘I sometimes think about the cross,
And shut my eyes and try to see
The cruel nails and crown of thorns
And Jesus crucified for me.’
‘Ah, holy Jesus, how hast thou offended,
That Man to judge thee hath in scorn pretended?
I, blessed Saviour, I it was denied thee.
I crucified thee.’
I don’t know how much effect this sort of stuff had on other boys, for we never talked much about religion among ourselves, but it shook me all right, and has left me all my life with a sickened horror of Christ’s passion. Some years later, when I tried to talk to my mother about this, she dismissed it as ‘morbid’. I could talk about it to my father, though. He understood and to a large extent shared my feelings; but he didn’t tell me what to do about it.
I wish — and I dare say I am not the only person to have wished — that Christ had not died as He did. (Neither Mohammed, Buddha nor Confucius were put to death.) Nor can I see what good it did for us as Christians. I can see that Christ was the first martyr for Christianity. After all, He could have said to Pilate ‘I won’t do it any more: I’ll go home and keep quiet.’ That would have got him off all right, I think. (John, Chapter XIX, 12.) However, He preferred His integrity, and no doubt He was right in reckoning that His teaching would not be likely to endure if He showed that He valued His own life above it. ‘But if you ask them’ (the clergy) ‘in what way the death of the Landlord’s Son should benefit us, they are driven to monstrous explanations’ (C. S. Lewis). The benefit must, I think, be accepted as purely transcendental in its nature. ‘Almighty God, grant that the death of Thy dear Son may be effectual to my redemption’ (Dr Johnson). However, my own greatest enlightenment and help in these difficult matters were to come many years later, first from Frazer’s Golden Bough, but more positively and inspiringly from Joseph Campbell’s The Hero with a Thousand Faces and The Masks of God.
However, I anticipate. Looking back now, I think the greatest benefit which I derived from Horris Hill was not doctrine (they didn’t indoctrinate us with ideas: ideas are no good to little boys) and still less a religious atmosphere. (There was very little invoking of Christian values to support discipline: Mr Stow’s reference to Matthew, Chapter XVIII, 6, was quite exceptional.) The benefit was a sound knowledge of quite a lot of the Bible. Thanks to Horris Hill, I have a pretty good grip of the synoptic Gospels (John came later), Acts, Genesis, Exodus, Joshua, I and II Samuel and I and II Kings. We didn’t do the prophets or St Paul; too much for small boys. I think that these (expurgated, of course, after the manner of those days), comprised an excellent syllabus for nine- to thirteen-year-olds, and I have always been glad of it.
However, Bible Study was not pushed particularly hard at Horris Hill. There was divinity prep. on Sunday evenings and a divinity period on Monday mornings. Apart from that, revision and preparation for the end-of-term exam, were left to the discretion of the form master.
My introduction to the Bible itself (in contradistinction to the excellent Baby’s Life of Jesus Christ, by Helen Rolt, which my mother had read to me, and the Bible stories told by Miss Langdon) was somewhat unusual. Horris Hill’s syllabus for the academic year 1928—29 was the synoptic Gospels and the Acts; but I had arrived in the summer term, and consequently was plunged straight into Acts for starters. However, I already knew enough about Jesus’s life, death and resurrection to have a reasonable idea of where we were and, as with The Pilgrim’s Progress, I found it stimulating and exciting to think that I was reading, in the authentic, grown-up text, one of the great books of the world. I enjoyed the way of teaching, which, as well as explanation, was largely based on training you to identify, comment upon and remember memorable contexts. ‘Silver and gold have I none; but such as I have give I thee: In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth rise up and walk.’ ‘Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me? … It is hard for thee to kick against the pricks.’ (Explain about donkeys.) ‘And Gallio cared for none of these things.’ ‘Hast thou appealed unto Caesar? Unto Caesar shalt thou go.’ As Rudyard Kipling said of Uncle Remus, ‘The book was amazing, and full of quotations that one could hurl like javelins.’ It’s an admirable train
ing in the appreciation of beautiful prose.
At the end of my first term, there was what was known as a ‘massed divvers exam’. That is to say, the whole school took the same examination paper. The littler boys, of course, were not expected to do as well as the senior boys: they just did the best they could. I remember that the exam, began with fifty one-word answers, the questions being given out orally - of which the first was ‘Where were the apostles first called Christians?’
This divinity paper, to my own enormous surprise, turned out to be my first academic success. When the list went up, I was thirtieth out of the ninety-odd participators. The name of the top member of each form was underlined, and mine was above that of the top boy of the form above my own. Of course, my father was delighted, having been no inconsiderable biblical scholar himself; and remained one, too.
I should have explained earlier that Horris Hill and my home at Wash Common lay about a mile and a quarter apart as the crow flies and only about two miles apart by road. My father was the school doctor and of course I came in for a certain amount of ragging on this account — some of it rather spiteful. No doubt he got special financial terms for me, but I rather think there may have been other reasons behind his decision to send me to Horris Hill. We have always to remember the never-mentioned influence of poor Robert. If I was at Horris Hill, my father could keep an eye on me and if necessary even be there in a few minutes. Also, I know that he was not satisfied with the way in which the education of my brother (now sixteen) was turning out at Sherborne. John had gone to Sherborne prep. school at the age of nine. My father had chosen Sherborne because it lay close to his own old home at Martock and he knew the district, the public school and its reputation. However, John had been unhappy there and had not done particularly well: nor was he getting on any better at Sherborne itself He never seemed to act like a normal, happy boy. He was abstracted, self-conscious and preoccupied; worse, he did not get on well with my father, with whom his relations were always distant and cool. The two of them seemed to have little or no rapport. I think my father reckoned that, taking all things into account, there was much to be said in my case for a different boarding-school, nearer home.
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