12
THE home life at the Rhodes’s and Hamiltons’ continued the emancipation started by the revolt against the removal of Morgan. These upheavals were probably symptoms of puberty rather than causes of the sense of freedom with which I and my contemporaries entered the Main School.
There was anxiety at being a new boy again. Rhodes fell on his feet by becoming fag to Frankie Lord and Spurgeon, two mature and friendly Sixth Formers. Rhodes had the push and drive which made him a capable fag. Because I was thought of as a friend of his—not through any shining merits of my own—I was chosen to be fag to an athletic Sixth Former called Morgan and his study mate Nickalls. Morgan had the merit of being no relation to the prep school pest and did not resemble him in any way; he was alert and efficient, and alas, expected me to be so. Nickalls had the reputation, deserved I think, of being brainy though too clumsy to be a good athlete. I was big, dreamy, unbelievably incompetent, and though I have spoken of having achieved my freedom I fell almost at once into the pains of adolescence. I struggled with my duties: to make toast—”burnt again, blast him!”; tend the fire—out? not always; and make tea. I also had to see that supplies were kept replenished. Lack of foresight meant that I had frequently to borrow a tin of Swiss Milk—as our tins of condensed or evaporated milk were called. My voice had become deep and somewhat uncontrolled. I became famous for saying “Have you any Swizz-milka?” in somewhat sterotyped and mournful tones. ‘Swizz-milka’ became my theme call. I tried to get rid of the ‘milka’ but could not; by the time I achieved ‘condenny’ it was too late. My nickname was ‘Swizz’ till I entered senior school; then the name was used only by my intimate, Dyer.
After two terms of fag—it had its privileges—my pair could stand it no more. To my great relief I was sacked and returned to the obscurity of the school common room. I was no good—a failure for which I was profoundly thankful.
The sexual climate of the school could have been described as Nonconformist Wholesome—that is assuming that sex was admitted a fit subject for description. This result was achieved, first and foremost, by keeping the school intact as a kind of gigantic sexual pressure-cooker always gently simmering away under the watchful eye of two or three masters of unimpeachable integrity and vigilance. These men, aided by a system of boys of similar but less firmly established outlook, formed the main network of honourable spying, lightly sketched in, it will be remembered, by the Headmaster in his sermon in which he spoke of the failure of boys to realize when disloyalty to their fellows had become obligatory. This network served to detect any escape of steam from any part of the cauldron and to report it at once to the appropriate authority. At this point the big guns came into action, although loosing off only small-arm ammunition in the form of a cosy sexual talk. I was privileged to watch this from close range as I myself, to my surprise, came under suspicion. I say surprise, not because of any sense of sexual asceticism, but because my own sudden illumination which had led me to realize that ‘poison in another boy’s food’, being sent away, wiggling, expulsion and probably—but not quite certainly—poor Mrs Hirst’s incarceration in the Lunatic Asylum, were all the same thing and made me resolve never to get within miles of that dreadful domain from which no traveller returned.
I was having a very nice confidence-inspiring tea with a master for whom I had great admiration, though I always worshipped from afar. He was the music master, Tidmarsh, a terrifying disciplinarian, widely loved and revered by all Old Boys. On Old Boys days his study was the resort of every hero of whom I had ever heard. From that room came sounds of cheerful and distinguished laughter. In that very room I was knocking back a wonderful tea of buns, cakes, toasted scones, jam. And I was all alone. At last, when all had become cosy—I would be the last person on earth to be unsusceptible to the emollient effect of buttered toasted scones on a cold winter day—with the noises of the school common room drifting distantly in, he asked me, “Have you ever had any troubles?” “No”, I said at once.
In the light of the fire I could see he was watching, not intently, not curiously but sympathetically. “No”, I lied, this time deliberately, certainly, confident that I knew what he meant though I could not have formulated it. The conversation became general. Thank goodness it was only firelight or he would have have seen me blushing.
In about a week guilt became too much. I asked to see him; I owned up. He was very nice about it. Did I know of any other boys? This time I did not have to lie. “No”, I said. Perhaps if I had it wouldn’t have been so unbearable. Did it go on for ever? How long did it go on? For a year or so; then it became less. I did not dare to ask him how long it was before one became insane, as I felt I had pretty well exhausted my ration by this time. I thought that if 1 could last out the next two years I would probably have escaped. I resolved to keep a careful watch for insanity—those first awful symptomsl How terrible to know if had come, if had got me. But—so far it was all right. Thank Godl I did so that night, fervently, on my knees.
I avoided any more cosy talks; the reassurance wore off. I played games hard and fortunately I was good at them. Playing well became important because playing badly was not only horrible in itself, but a sign that the dread process of degeneration was active. As time went by I began to hate religion; it was ineffectual and at the same time an obstacle to sexual pleasures. My isolation was unbroken and thereby showed, but not to me then, how general this plague must have been to us all.
It seems unfair, irreverent, to say that from this time on sex achieved a certain cachet. It was a season ticket, nearly always good for a cosy chat and quite a good tea. Not all the staff believed in it. Charles Mellows, for example, produced outstanding teas but no sex talk. Just as one felt that the time had come for a slightly soulful, faintly devilish invitation to purely platonic intimacy, he would rise up, hissing through his teeth, shifting rapidly from one foot to another, and with glazing, abstracted eyes intimate that tea was over. There was nothing to do but clear out.
Sutton—Bobby, as he was always known—behaved as one man talking to another; sex or other intimacies could be discussed, if anyone wanted to, in privacy. In the meantime there were books to talk about, begonias to look at—he was a keen gardener-gramophone records to play.
Sex was not, however, so easily laughed at. One house in particular was notorious for… what? The housemaster was a huge man, frightening for his hearty good humour, his rigid, teutonic discipline, his aesthetic sensibility; his mousey, short-sighted sister acted as Matron. Some of his house were admitted to the privilege of sharing his interests. A boisterous religiosity seemed to defy anyone to storm the safe stronghold of his God—not, I would say, the Almighty because the impression was more of a limited co- operation, the housemaster in the foreground and the Very Nearly Almighty within easy reach for consultation and guidance. He was not popular outside his house; inside it he was deemed, certainly by himself, to be popular. At least, no one ever suggested that a capacity for sycophancy came amiss in a member of that house.
In those days early morning prayers for the whole main school were held in the School House common room. His majestic approach, rather like a great warship steaming into home waters to its anchorage, would be greeted by a spontaneous outburst of singing. The school choir, trained by Tidmarsh, was enthusiastic and very good. As befits an East Anglian non-conformist background it was naturally religious; that is to say, it had an ingrained religious quality which has, since it has become a great public school, become less raucous, less fervent. This was not so then. As the Great Man steamed up, the anthem was commenced. ‘Who is the King, the King of Glory? He is the King of Glory, the Lord Strong and Mighty, Mighty in Battle’.
I do not know if he noticed it, or if, noticing it, he regarded it as in any way inappropriate. He was the swimming master; the school swimming bath—it must have been the only school in England to be so enlightened as to have one at that time—was under his domain. We swam for pleasure and so became extremely proficient swimme
rs at school. He did not swim for pleasure; he swam, so to speak, ichthyologically, natatorially, to save life. He floated scientifically, lying with his arms stretched out, his legs stretched out, his toes peeping above the surface, the Body Beautiful itself, lying there in the middle, hairy, healthy, Holy.
Poor man I After years of faithful service he and his sister one day suddenly disappeared. Sacked? Resigned? By that time war had started. I was so bored by this undetectable, undetected landmine in our midst that I had reduced my sexual life to perfunctory prayers of the “Oh God, save me from self abuse” type. I did not care what happened; one also suspected that God must have had other matters to attend to.
In the intervals between bothering about sex, cosy sex, very rare and exciting capital SEX of the ‘poison-in-the-food’ variety, I played games and did work of the kind that usually is mentioned in the prospectus. I do not ignore these more usually recognized activities; I am here concerned with the spiritual life of the school and its individuals.
13
THE school yvas recognized for its high moral tone, one of the symptoms being an absence of bad language. One boy invented and used ‘blam’; ‘blast’ was permissible if not used to excess; ‘drat’ was used by masters. On one occasion the Headmaster, whose expression was unruffled no matter what the state of affairs, was demonstrating in a mathematics class while a traction engine in the lane outside was puffing and snorting and grinding gravel into the surface. It was certainly difficult to hear for the Headmaster was not given to shouting. For once composure settled on us and did not leave us throughout the exposition—which we could not hear—of the intracacies of vulgar fractions. At last he surrendered. Ruffled rather than soothed by our occasional but well placed complaints that we had not heard, he burst out, “Oh drat that traction engine!” We were aghast, both at the mildness of the expletive and that it should be uttered at all. He sent a boy out with a message to the driver, but the boy failed to convey his headmaster’s wishes effectively. For the rest of the period we watched the Headmaster—we could at least watch even if we could not hear him—without his usually noble expression. For he had a noble expression which often showed to advantage, particularly when he was preaching, or making a speech on Prize Day or other occasions when parents or visitors were present. ‘A fine face’ it was generally agreed, except by that small group of carping critics where envy and detraction are at work. Later on, when a well-known artist was commissioned to paint his portrait, it was generally agreed by friends and foes alike that he had caught his expression perfectly; the friends averred that the fineness of the underlying character shone out from the canvas with an inner radiance; the few others agreed about the revelation, but insisted that it showed him as he might be if he were straining at stool. When I became an undergraduate at his old college at Oxford I met a don who had known him from those early days and who made to me the remark that “he was a downy old bird”. I was slightly shocked because I was a supporter of the ‘noble’ school of thought— and still am. Searching my mind for some criticism which would make the portrait more credible, less open to the criticism that it is vitiated by hero-worship, I think he may remind me of my ambition to soar into the empyrean without adequate down or its counterpart. In my schooldays, my fledgling period, religion provided me with a soft mental down. Such hardness of character that I had was more akin to bits of shell that continued to adhere than to the development of a character that was a ‘spine’.
After tea on Sundays a voluntarily organized prayer meeting was held. The authorities provided, or permitted, the use of a classroom for the purpose. I first noticed this when I saw serious looking boys coming out of a classroom, but as there were a number of prefects amongst them it seemed as well to be circumspect with one’s curiosity. I did not like being called a ‘silly chump’, yet it seemed to be reciprocal of ‘poison-in-the-food’. I cleared off.
In due season I inquired of Heaton who usually knew everything as he was alert and did not, like me, go around with his eyes shut. Looking self-conscious he said it was a prayer meeting—The Prayer Meeting.
Why didn’t the bell go for it?
Well, it was kind of private—but anyone could go of course.
Did he go?—I knew jolly well he didn’t.
“Nay”, he replied, pursing his lips and blushing as he did when haggling with his father. “You won’t catch me going there.” I couldn’t imagine anyone catching Heaton anywhere; he was too wary an old bird, however downy.
“What do they do?”
“Oh, pray and that sort of thing.”
“I saw the Prices coming out.” The Prices were Sixth Formers, very good athletes. “What do they do there?”
“Nay; you ask them.”
This was one way of calling me a chump, so I shut up. If it had been a pig being slaughtered Heaton would not have blushed at being questioned; some things a respectable god would know. But the Prayer Meeting belonged to a different ceremonial; to witness it would have had the same effect on Heaton as seeing a pig slaughtered had on me. Neither of us would want to be the pig—or to be ‘crucerfied’ if it came to that.
In the end I got there, probably as a result of asking too many questions and thereby laying myself open to the suspicion of having come to God or Jesus. One of the Prices (who some years later captained Oxford at cricket) was presiding. On this occasion he went in to bat first, saying “Let us pray.” We all stood. I shut my eyes though I wanted to see what was going on. For ages and ages nothing happened; then at last someone, to my intense relief, began to pray. Otherwise I would have had to open my eyes to see what they were up to. For all I knew they may all have sat down except me—they could hardly have crept out without my noticing, and anyhow I could hear the chap next to me breathing. I was so relieved that I didn’t hear anything after “Oh God”—not ‘Gawd’ or ‘Gud’ or any of that lot, but just straight ‘God’ and later ‘Amen’. Then we sat down and Price read a few verses of his own choosing from the Bible. Then, “Let us pray” again. This time someone started at once, there being less nervousness in the Second Innings despite the poor score in the first. He was followed by Jones who, as I later discovered, was the mainstay of our batting strength; he could always be relied on for a good score. He was a tall, red-haired, emotional Welshman with a keen face and a powerful flow of sincerity. He spoke in a slightly strangled voice on the verge of contrition. As far as I knew there was only one thing you could be contrite about and that was linked with asking God for a clean heart. Not that, in my experience, it was the slightest use.
Jones had a peculiar walk which seemed as characteristic as the walk of a cricketer going in to bat, a walk which suggested a mixture of crisis, confidence in the outcome, anxiety mastered. In prayer meetings where movement was restricted to standing up and sitting down he managed to convey the same impression by his anguished tone. Then, as if he had somehow mentally cleared his throat, the flow would establish itself, clear, forcible—no, not clear; muddy, like a river in spate.
I found I could not easily stop attending; my presence had become noticeable. Unable to stop attending I could hardly refrain from, well… showing myself a ‘good soldier of Christ’. Accordingly one Sunday I found myself with eyes clenched tight and a horrid feeling in my chest, addressing myself out loud, ostensibly to God, but in fact to Price, Jones and one or two others who formed a kind of Celestial Selection Committee. “Oh God”, I said, “Thou knowest…”—then why bother the poor fellow?—”We meet here again this day to confess our faults and failings”—not on your life! Wiggling? Whining? Cheating? Hoping I would get into the water polo team come what may? ‘Not’, as Bernard Shaw would say later, Ijloodly likely!’ However, I had Isroken my duck’ and was getting into form. I was suddenly reminded of Jones, swerved off, was reminded of Price, and swerved again. In terms I borrow from a sports writer’s description of my hero, the English international threequarter, Poulton, playing against the South Africans, I ‘sold them the dummy, show
ed them the double swerve and scored between the posts’, the posts being “For Christ’s sake, Amen”.
Afterwards I felt much better; I was not inclined to doubt Jones who assured me, coming up with his walk characteristic of impending religious crisis, that it was due to the Holy Spirit. Holy Spirit or not, a few Sundays after this, perhaps because I had got my swimming colours, I felt I couldn’t stand any more of it. I did not go to the Prayer Meeting! Nothing happened; absolutely nothing happened. I did take the precaution of praying that I might score a goal—I felt it advisable to keep the score moderate—in our coming swimming match, though I hoped secretly for another as a bonus. I did ‘hedge’ my devotions by practising assiduously. I kept clear of the Selection Committee.
At the opposite pole from Jones was a master who didn’t take religion seriously; it was popularly believed that he thought the boys who went to the Prayer Meeting were a lot of hypocrites. He was fat and, I thought, unathletic till I discovered he played for England at hockey. Although I knew that hockey was a sissy game which even girls played, I felt an emotional tremor; an international was an international, even at hockey. Furthermore, I respected games like cricket in which a hard ball and some hard instrument like a stick or bat was used; I disliked pain and I did not want to be hit.
Sometimes he behaved as if work was a joke. My friend Dyer had not done his Latin homework—it was notorious that he never did, so it was no surprise when he couldn’t say his repetition when called up to the master’s desk to do so. There sat Corelli, smiling, complacent. Between him and the window, opening on a vista of trees and lawn, stood Dyer unshaken, impenitent, floundering.
“Me… me…”
The Long Week-End 1897-1919 Page 9