Hopes and Fears

The second installment of Sir Rowland Whitehead's memories of Durlston

 

In exercising my brain for memories of Durlston in the early forties, I see minute cameos, tiny snapshots as viewed through an old Kodak Box Brownie, pictures with exquisite detail but with no beginning nor end. What were ‘Pollywugs’ I mused and then remembered. We had learned to fold and roll a handkerchief into a shape like a tadpole with the mass of the hankie tightly bound at one end and one remaining corner trailing at the back. The whole thing was so enormously neatly done that all one saw was a seamless piece of cloth swollen and heavy at the front and with a dainty tail at the back. How was it done ? Probably with the same cunning that we fashioned paper aeroplanes with more than ten folds to give them strength and stability. Ordinary paper darts were for beginners … Alas! I cannot now make Pollywugs or decent paper planes though I did recently learn how to make the ‘Typesetter’s Hat’. This was, in the good old days, a cap made out of a sheet of newspaper, elaborately folded, by the senior man in the typesetting room as he came in for the day. He wore the cap all day to keep his hair clean and, probably, as a mark of authority. Next day he made a new one.

Another snapshot. Dimoline (that was his name, wasn’t it?) upside down in mid air with only one leg sticking out of his pyjamas. Now that was something! Beds are, of course, for bouncing on and Dimolene had perfected a sort of back somersault which, with a little egging on from the rest of us, he could also perform with one leg tucked behind him into the seat of his pyjamas. I suppose that Miss Lattimer must at some point have restrained him.

And then, sorrowful vision, a tiny bird, a pathetic bundle of soft feathers that lay at my feet one April day. That term we had all brought elastic from home and cut forked twigs. A strip of leather and a piece of string and we each had a catapult. Keen to try out our skills I had, rather casually, aimed at a small dot at the top of the bare branches. Down came the creature, a Small Tit most likely, without a flutter. I prayed forgiveness from I don’t know whom and the code words of that time haunted me “You Rotter!”.

One summer term we performed Shaw’s Androcles and the Lion, outdoors, and in the natural theatre setting before the steps to the ‘front’ of the house. It was probably Miss Howard’s idea though Miss Dawson had a lot to do with it. I can’t place the actors too well though Murray Hudson could well have been Androcles. He was an extrovert little boy, vivacious and fun loving, though enjoying huge respect both from teachers and boys. I was the introvert, withdrawn, terribly shy, and no self-confidence. Oh! That I could be someone like Murray Hudson! Cooke-Hurle took the part of the lion. It suited his Puckish humour and he growled and snarled and roared inside his brown lion suit waving his claws at Romans and Christians alike. Though of course we couldn’t see it, his red curly hair exactly matched the mop on top of the lion’s head. It was excellent casting. Although my twin brother was an outgoing type it was judged, rightly, that neither of us were actors and so we appeared at the start of each scene holding the two sides of a painted paper banner announcing what was to come. The fear was that we should turn in opposite directions for our exit and the banner would be ripped apart. It was all right.

The other entertainment was the cinematograph, for that is the best word for the whirring, flashing and erratic machine that Cox set up in the main front room once in a while to give us the latest, and mostly, humorous films. The smell of warm celluloid is still with me. What did we see ? Well there was always Will Hay peering over his spectacles and engaged in some improbable exploit. Frankly the jokes were above me though at Cox’s bidding we all showed our appreciation to the ‘projectionist’ who had come over from Taunton with his machine and films. Another such comedy was called ‘Alf’s Button Afloat’. This must have been one of a series since the button in question was a ‘magic one’ and gave Alf all his wishes as the scenes moved on. Here now Alf was in the Navy with his button. Things go pretty well for him till, inadvertently, and in a tight situation, he cries out “Well stripe me pink”, whereupon his face is crossed by bands of dark lines. Well, that was the rub because the film was in black and white. We were very slow to realise the joke partly because of the lack of colour co-ordination and partly, I suppose, because our delicate upper class ears had never heard this Cockney expression.

Finally there came The Lady Vanishes with the wonderful Margaret Rutherford. A film story that has stayed with me forever. The two cricketing enthusiasts, unwittingly involved in the plot, trying to remember the notes of the secret tune which the plump lady had taught them, the code for rescue, only to forget entirely the music as they enter the Foreign Office corridors and then, thus bashful and crestfallen, to find the comfortable, copious Miss Rutherford, safe and sound after all, seated at the grand piano with a huge string of pearls on her bosom, playing the tune … I must go and see it again.

Today it is unthinkable that sixty young boys could be cooped up for weeks on end virtually without any contact with the outside world. No television, no ‘newsreels’, an anodyne film once or twice a term and Rose’s wireless seemingly left at home after our transfer to Earnshill. Without laptops, without mobiles, without PlayBoy computer games. No one can say which generation has ‘got it right’ and the raven that sits with his claws into our shoulder croaks into our ear “Nostalgia”.

And how was religion at Durlston? Prayers were said every night and we sang hymns Ancient and Modern who’s tunes and words reverberate in the mind ever since. ‘Thy justice like mountains high soaring above’, ‘singing songs of expectation stepping fearless through the night’, ‘before the hills in order stood or earth received her frame’, ‘where stands a wing-ed sentry all skilful in the wars’, ‘but would strike the living fountains from the rocks along our way’, ‘and hearts are brave again and arms are strong’. And, of course, “The Hopes and Fears of all the years”. We knew the words and music of all these popular hymns and sang them gaily. Henry Scott Hollands’s thunderous hymn ‘Judge Eternal’, though, really did fill me with dread. Once I lay awake in the dormitory all night, sleepless in my little bed beside the green mantelpiece, with the hymn blasting like organ pipes in my ears.  ‘with Thy living power of judgement cleanse this world of bitter things’, ‘and the city’s crowded clangour cries aloud for sin to cease’. The words tramped through my tired brain with a dark majestic echo. Even today I shudder.

At prayers Cox would read short pieces from the Bible in a clear firm voice. Once this went slightly wrong. A passage of stern invective from the Book of Kings suddenly came to ‘and you that eat your own dung and drink your own …’. Here Cox suddenly realised that he had overstepped the mark. “Well – they were being jolly rude!”. We giggled happily and tried to remember the verse and chapter to look it up later.

One or two boys still got on their knees beside the bed at night but it was not easy when the rest of the ‘dorm’ were chanting Jabberwokky at the tops of their voices. ‘T’was Brillig and the Slithy Toves did gyre and gimble in the Wabe’. We even found a hymn tune to go with it. Now that was magical poetry and like all crazes it lasted about a term.

Cox himself was not above this sort of nonsense. New boys were expected, indeed instructed by the older ones, to go at the start of the first day of term to the Headmaster’s study, knock on the dark oak door and enquire of Cox if he could give them their ‘Elbowgrease’. Cockeye would roar with laughter, china blue eyes twinkling, and explain that it was a joke played on all new boys. “You silly little Juggins” and send us back smiling to the breakfast table. Incidentally strange to us was the habit of putting marmalade on our sausages. It was a Durlston custom and, actually, it is still rather nice, I think.

And so the years passed. Shipton pulled Cooper’s nose so hard it bled and he was known, even to this day, as ‘Trunk’. Shipton endlessly sang ‘I’m forever blowing bubbles’ in a squeaky voice. Chevasse one day pulled out his dental plate with a tooth attached – we were horrified. Tennant, cool and poised, was easily the most knowledgeable butterfly expert with a copy of Frohawk’s fine book of British Butterflies, something that we all coveted hugely. Barlow made wire frame aeroplanes by soldering dozens of pieces of metal together, reputedly uttering dreadful swearwords every time a soldered joint came apart. One of my school reports stated ‘this boy must watch his tongue’. My father assumed that I had been swearing. I hadn’t – I didn’t know any words. But how could I explain that to an anxious parent ?

Bond, I am sure, was dyslectic though in those days this was probably an unknown ailment. To hear him read in class made us squirm and we all felt sorry for him. That’s the past and the present day finds him, I am quite sure, happy and resourceful as anyone else. Rose, surprisingly musical, played the British Grenadiers on the piano and suggested once that if suitably clothed in green he would perform Greensleeves. Hancock illicitly taught me Chopsticks and, since the tune was, rightly, forbidden in school, I believe it was the reason for a beating by Cox. “This is a flea bite to what I will give you next time”, he said. The pain of my first beating was not very great but I took care that it was not repeated. The carousel turns gently round and faces and names come before me and vanish. One hopes that some of those named and, of course, others of that time will put in a word.

Cox did have one very real fear – constipation. It came about because, we learned from others, a boy in his care at the school had died from causes in some way connected with the function of his bowels. Every head of every school, very rightly, fears a death at the school. “Have You Been Round?” he would ask if he saw a boy looking slightly peeky. ‘Going Round’ and its importance was always explained to new boys. ‘Thank you, Cockeye, for your wise advice’ I still murmur.

What on earth was I like ? Perhaps someone will say. Perhaps no one noticed me. Full of fears. Heights, older people, public presentation, the attention of others, rugger tackles to the ankle rather than the easy clutch at the waist, public speaking or acting. A host of uncertainties. Luckily our playtime ‘escape’ was to a hollow tree at ground level but I can still feel that prickle of fear climbing a tree at Earnshill even ten feet above the ground.  Now that seems to have changed. I can speak happily in public. Even to a thousand people in Ceauceseau’s Palace in Bucharest with the President beside me – and in Romanian. Jumping out of a plane at 12,000 feet, gulping mouthfuls of pure Gloucestershire air, spinning at 120 mph and ‘pulling’ at 5,000 feet to drift peacefully to earth presents no nerves or problems. Abseiling seven hundred feet off Canary Wharf Tower is a morning’s pleasure. The old fears seem to have vanished. I can be as noisy and boisterous as the next man.

Did, perhaps, the shy little ten year old at Earnshill learn and store up things during those days that came to fruition later? Did Cox and Ellis, indeed, Miss Dawson, Miss Howard, Mr Shelly, Mr Warlow, gentle Mr Stanley and perhaps even the unkissed Miss Price have a message or guidance for my future? Who can say? Despite Mr Freud, Mr Jung and R D Laing of ‘The Divided Self’ and a host of intellectuals most of us still don’t know who we are or what we are. Perhaps it is better that way …

Rowland Whitehead  23.9.03