Low Life at Durlston

I was sent to Durlston Court in the autumn term of 1940 after glimpsing  bits of the Battle of Britain from my parents’ home in Surrey.  The school had been evacuated from Swanage to a barn of a place called Earnshill.  The owners were the Coombe family related to the Earls of Shaftesbury and almost my first recollection was of gazing in wonder at the white marble Adam fireplaces and in awe at some of the family portraits that lined the grand staircase.

In the forties, Durlston was an institution run by gentlemen for the education of the sons of gentlemen.  The school was much favoured by naval officers, and every other boy seemed to want to try for a place at Dartmouth.  I was put in a class of eleven and no less than three of the fathers ended the war with the rank of Captain.  Indeed, the school’s most illustrious old boy, Admiral Pridham Whippell, commanded the light cruiser squadron in a spirited action off Cape Matapan in the Adriatic.

The wartime spirit was unique.  We always seemed to be winning, although up to 1942 we were obviously losing.  It has to be admitted that it gave vent to unbridled nationalism  yet “Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, but to be young was very heaven!”  Everything we did, whether switching off the lights or sweeping out the dormitories or learning arms drill in the corps, we did as a contribution to the war effort.  I have often compared the enthusiasm of those days with the perplexity, loss of direction, gloom at the austerity of post-war Britain and the general cynicism which set in once the war had been won. 

So much for the noble and the heroic.  But what about the antithesis?  In every institution like a school or a unit in the armed forces or even a prison, there is an official culture and a counter-culture. 

Gentlemen are endowed with original sin in ample measure.  There are the secret lives of inmates, whether boys or staff; there is the darker side of human nature.  There were those of us who stuck to the right side of the law and some of us who crossed the border of acceptable behaviour.  Usually, it was the low achievers who fell into the latter category.  When, in later life, I was appointed to the local Bench, I felt that my experiences at Durlston went some way towards enabling me to empathize with those who came before the Court. 

Mr Cox said he always remembered Durlston at Earnshill as a happy school and there were surprisingly few cases of bullying.  In the long break before lunch we usually went down into the big wood next to the forbidden walled garden.  I well remember lying in wait for a ‘miserable weed’ called Claridge [later to become a dashing naval officer].  As he rode down the path on his fairy cycle, I gently deflected the handle bars into a large bed of stinging nettles.  Not as heinous, I felt, as another friend of mine who cornered a smaller boy called Nichol, dropped a six-inch worm down his gumboot and made him run up and down the lawn.  I believe Nichol eventually became one of Her Majesty’s judges.  Although he did nothing but giggle at the time, saying it tickled, I have often wondered if, as a result, some of his judgements might perhaps have been a bit distorted by his earlier experiences. 

If you looked sharp at the beginning of the autumn term, you could pick cider apples from the trees at the bottom of the orchard which was out of sight of Harry Forward’s farm.  On one occasion, Timothy Chavasse and I found that the orchard had already been picked and the apples were in sacks at the base of each tree awaiting collection.  Carefully taking but a few from each sack we were making our way, triumphantly, back to the school when who should we meet at the bottom of the big wood but a very senior prefect.  Upon being ordered to disclose the contents of our haversack, we thought the game was up.  However, the prefect merely said that provided we gave him half, that would be ‘fair dos’.  I often reflect upon the interpretation that should be placed on this.  Did it mean that justice should be tempered with mercy, or did it mean that every man has his price? 

Durlstonians had a passion for building huts under trees, in the branches or, in several instances, inside trees.  The park had lines of the most venerable oak trees and in several cases water had got trapped in the roots and rotted the bole.  The Franks twins, a fellow called Horner and I managed to drain one oak tree, no doubt greatly extending its life.  We then worked like beavers hollowing out the fungus and rotten wood.  Soon, the four of us were able to sit inside on the brick floor we had laid, protected from any draft by a glass window we had cemented in.

There we sat on half-holidays smoking our home-made pipes filed with rotten wood which had a bitter but not unpleasant taste.  We soon perfected the technique of heating up tins of soup; although our early attempts to cook nearly ended in disaster.  A tin of paraffin tipped over and the tree started to burn.  Fortunately, we managed to smother the flames for otherwise the whole tree would have gone up.

Food was rationed, although I can never remember going hungry.  Now Mrs Cox kept some chickens in a shed by the walled garden.  Didn’t Mr Cox tell us that we had to share and share alike?  My friend David Franks and I knew that if you collect birds eggs you must always leave two, otherwise the mother will desert the nest.  Mrs Cox must often have wondered why her old hen never seemed to lay more than two eggs.  Incidentally, we made a remarkable scientific discovery – you don’t actually have to boil the water in order to boil an egg.  If you place an egg in an old baked bean tin over a candle, the water may never actually boil, but after about half an hour you will have a boiled egg!

Our neighbours in another oak tree were not quite so fortunate in evading the long arm of the law.  Messrs Whitehead and Whitehead (twins) and Cooke Hurle were slightly older, and generally more sophisticated crooks.  All three went on to Cambridge.  On one occasion they paid a visit to the kitchens where large piles of ‘butch’ [sliced bread with margarine] stood ready for tea.  Having each purloined several slices, they repaired to the Art Room where there was a large coke stove.  Soon the Art department was redolent with the inviting aroma of toast.  Alas, at that moment Mr Ellis, the Deputy Head Master, was seen coming across the yard.  All three were shortly given six of the best by Mr Ellis, who had the reputation of beating appreciably harder than Mr Cox.

Mr Cox’s philosophy was simple; don’t beat the boy hard, but beat him hard enough to make him think.  On one occasion he really excelled himself.  Flowing through the estate was the river Parrett.  At the end of June the water heated up to a most acceptable temperature and there was an elbow bend which was deep enough for diving.  Many a long weekend afternoon was spent lolling about in those muddy waters.  Bathing was, of course, in the nude and anyone who hasn’t bathed ‘starkers’ has missed out on one of the more sensuous experiences known to man.  Perhaps the numbers got out of hand and about a third of the school stank of river water.  At any rate, the authorities decided to put an end to it; there could have been a fatal accident.  On a hot Saturday afternoon a young Master was despatched down river so that he could come up the bank away from the school.  Suddenly, the pool seemed to clear.  Someone said, “It’s a false alarm” and the silky voice of Mr Moss rejoined, “What makes you think that?”  That night Mr Cox beat twelve of us, a fifth of the entire school.  This must surely have been an all time record. 

Fishing, however, was encouraged and a number of boys were endowed by their doting Fathers with the most sophisticated fly rods.  The great thing was to land a chubb and have it cooked (officially) for breakfast.  Some boys such as Smithwick were skilful fishermen and big Hancock once landed a pike!  Another keen fisherman was the elder Lushington, a wild and forceful character, lacking any great intellectual powers, yet possessing a fertile and inventive mind.  He created a most elaborate water garden consisting of a series of rock pools cemented together and fed by a hosepipe in the yard.  This he proceeded to stock with every conceivable form of river-life.

The river Parrett flowed on to the Sedgemoor wetlands and eventually out into the Bristol Channel – from whence it had come was more of a mystery.  David Lushington and his buddy, the elder Tennant brother, were determined to find out.  One Sunday afternoon they wandered far up the river beyond the borders of the estate until they came to a bridge.  There, nestling on the knee-deep water of the river were half a dozen white ducks.  Now, in wartime Britain, the prospect of a roast duck was particularly appealing to two vigorous and growing thirteen year olds.  They quickly caught one hapless bird and started to ring its neck, causing a cloud of white feathers to cover the surface of the water.  Suddenly, they heard a pony and trap approaching.  In a panic, they threw the duck onto the bank.  The pony and trap pulled up and a rather suspicious farmer asked the pair what had happened to the duck.  “Oh”, said Tennant, “it looks as if the poor thing is hurt.”  Indeed it was more than hurt, it was stone dead.  The farmer seemed satisfied with the explanation, climbed back into his trap and went on his way.  As it was getting late, the terrible two resolved to hang the duck up in a tree and return the next Saturday to cook it.  Alas, they were destined to be thwarted, for on the following Saturday they returned only to find that the mice had got there first!

On another occasion Lushington required some paraffin.  Now Mr Harman (Haymo), the Mr Fixit, was charged with keeping the central heating going.  Incidentally, I sold Haymo the very first rabbit I snared for 1/- (5p).  Every morning Haymo used to light the boiler using paraffin from a large drum in the corner of the boiler room.  What could be simpler than for Lushington to sneak into the boiler room and help himself.  Unfortunately, when he turned on the tap the paraffin gushed forth in a mighty spurt.  In a panic, Lushington seized Mr Harman’s broom and dispersed the tell-tale puddle. 

The next morning Mr Harman entered the boiler room and no doubt noticed a strong smell of paraffin.  Opening the bottom of the boiler he raked out the cinders, some of which were still red hot.  As usual, he took his broom and started to sweep up the cinders, whereupon the broom burst into flames.  On such occasions, Mr Cox would assemble the whole school and call for someone to own up.  On this occasion he didn’t bother, he just sent for David Lushington.

Michael, his younger brother, was just as creative.  He perfected the technique of producing lead pellets using a pair of pliers as a mould for the state of the art catapults manufactured by Croft from lead which I used to strip off the roof of one of the garden sheds. 

An interesting theory of child development in vogue at the time was that if you are brought up in the countryside and spend your boyhood climbing trees, raiding birds nests for eggs, or catching butterflies in nets before asphyxiating them with cyanide to add to your collection impaled on a pin in a box, you somehow develop into a better person.  Some of us spent four wonderful years doing just that, but not necessarily turning into better people. 

Our role model for the uncomplicated outdoor type was a young Master called Warlow who was waiting to go into the Navy.  He had a Winchester .22 repeater with which he used to machine-gun jackdaws perched high up on the numerous elm trees.  As a more senior boy, I was once privileged to be invited by Mr Warlow to take part in a rat hunt.  About five of us dug along the rat tunnels in the large compost heap by the vegetable garden.  Several rats were flushed out, which we immediately set about bludgeoning to death with our garden forks amidst peals of laughter.

One little boy, a Brigadier’s son I believe, with a round face and ruddy complexion, every mother’s dream, was always scaling some lofty tree in his search of jackdaws’ nests.  He used to come down carrying the eggs in his mouth.  Once an egg broke, which could not have tasted very pleasant.  On another occasion he found a young jackdaw which he kept as a pet, until it started flying into the dining hall and became something of a pest.  One day he found four baby jackdaws, newly hatched.  He and his little friends played with them, feeding them with chopped up bits of woodlouse.  When it was time to go in for tea, this adorable little boy lined them up on an old log.  As they craned their necks, outstretched blindly expecting some further dainty morsel, he swiftly ran the blade of his penknife along the log. 

Nowhere is the collective life of a boarding school stronger than in the dormitory with constant pillow fights and mock wrestling.  The supreme dare was to sneak down the passage for a midnight stroll.  Usually, this ended in standing around in the wood shivering amidst the wet leaves, eating sodden bits of bread and margarine and longing to get back to a warm bed.  One of our more forlorn escapades involved trying to climb up a yew tree at night; from whence the Franks twins and I planned to climb onto the roof to retrieve a tennis ball.  Perhaps it was fortunate that we were detected before we fell and broke our necks.

Despite Mr Cox's endless campaign against what he termed 'vulgarity', the forces of nature are stronger.  Bawdy humour prevailed, at first of the anal variety.  There was endless fascination with the development of our bodies.  There was some rivalry between Timothy Chavasse and me as to who would be the first to manifest evidence of manly hair.  We even rubbed Brylcreme onto our nether parts to encourage its growth.  At the beginning of one term Timothy returned from the 'Hols' in triumph.  Clearly, he had won by a short hair!

It seems scarcely credible today that up to the age of twelve many of us did not know the facts of life.  In the long winter evenings after lights out at seven o'clock we were allowed to talk and often someone would tell a ghost story.  From time to time one would climb into a pal's bed in the way children do for emotional support.

On one such occasion, shortly after lights out, the door opened and Miss Price, the Assistant Matron, steamed in.  Without bothering to put on the light, she crossed over to the dark end of the dormitory.  "I just wanted to check your temperature" she said, as she popped a thermometer into Salmon's mouth.  Beneath the sheets, Franks D was cowering in fear in the knowledge that detection would have probably warranted a good slippering.  Then, taking David Franks' wrist, she proceeded to count his pulse. 

It was one summer's evening in June 1942 that I first became aware of the fruit of the tree of knowledge.  Tony Hancock the comedian's younger brother RT was in the bed next to mine and in the course of conversation let slip the joyful news.  The sunsets over the soft Somerset farmland shone with particular intensity that evening.  So that is what grown ups did.  It seemed hardly credible.  So that was what the nods and sly winks of the adults' world were all about.  It seemed hardly possible that that was what one's parents had done.  What of the Masters?  Did they have a love life too?

Poor Mr Stanley, a kindly old fool washed up on the beach of life, clearly did not.  Several of the female staff of indeterminate age had not married because so many men had been killed in the Great War.  Yet, there were several bachelors on the staff, also of indeterminate age.  The sort of men who later used to say, "I became a Prep School Master because I simply had to find something to do".  Why didn't they get together?

The demure Music Mistress, Miss Syme, used to sit in her room listening to a string of small boys struggling to play the piano with five fingers instead of one.  We noticed that a further visitor to her room, with increasing regularity, was the gallant Mr Edge, a bachelor of indeterminate age.  Yet no sound from the piano was ever heard and surely with his thick beer-sodden voice he couldn't sing.  Would they?  Wouldn't they?  The whole school was agog.  The gallant Mr Edge was in an agony of suspense; he tried praying, but the Almighty wasn't listening.  Now Somerset cider is stronger than beer, he was observed one evening trying to walk across the park on his way back from the Pub; the commander of a merchant ship trying to dodge a submarine could not have pursued a more erratic course.  Would the fair Miss Syme accept him?  To cut a long story short, she eventually did.  They were married from the school and lived happily ever after.

Messrs Cox and Ellis were pretty good at selecting their staff.  There was nobody on the staff who compared with Evelyn Waugh's Captain Grimes.  Nevertheless, some had their vices.  Young Mr Moss clearly took delight at another's discomfort.  If you weren't paying attention, he used to aim a bit of chalk at your head.  As I was generally asleep at the back of the class, I did notice that as the term wore on his aim got more accurate.

A glib assumption by some of our less well informed countrymen is that many Prep School Masters are 'bent'.  It is hardly likely that the middle classes would spend thousands of pounds, even, in some cases, at considerable financial hardship to themselves, to secure what they believed to be the finest educational grounding that money could buy, if that were true.  Yet, one did come across the occasional Master who was a bit suspect.  The Art Master at Durlston had wavy auburn hair, was immaculately dressed, the sort of man who no doubt wore hand-made shirts; he had a taste for silk ties, and he was perfumed.  He had a soft silky voice and used to wear brown suede shoes, with rubber soles so you couldn't hear him coming.

One hot, steamy evening in my first summer term it was the Art Master's turn to be the master on duty, probably a Saturday evening when most of the staff would have been out.  The door of the dormitory was open to let more air in.  As the sun sank and we larked around, finding it quite impossible to sleep, suddenly he was there, standing in his silent brothel creepers.  In the name of law and order, he then proceeded to make us drop our pyjamas and spanked each one of us on the bare B.T.M, a performance which no doubt afforded him as much pleasure as it did us pain.  Shortly after he left.

One likes to think that the Art Master joined the army and met a hero's death.  Of a staff of no more than five or six men at any one time, no less than three were later killed in action.  Mr Cox used to make use of young men who had left their public school and taught for several terms while awaiting call up.  One such, a quiet and unassuming character, I met again in uniform lolling against the noticeboard at Tonbridge in February 1945.  He said that he was waiting to be sent to France, so he must have been killed within weeks of the end of the War.

It is usually the best men who get killed.  Mr Stewart fell into that category.  He was a Master undoubtedly seeking experience with a view to becoming a Headmaster himself.  I remember him as an excellent teacher; he was also the Games Master and had, I believe been a distinguished rugger player.  He used to dress in plus fours and smoke an Oxford pipe.  About the middle of the War, he joined the army and was killed shortly after D-Day.

Then there was Mr Hawke Genn; he kept a barrel of cider in the enormous cellar under Earnshill, from which we used to occasionally take a nip.  He was usually a bit untidy with an unkempt droopy moustache.  He was the sort of Master who, if you asked him why he was in teaching, would probably have replied that when he came down from Varsity, he simply had to find something to do.  Nevertheless, he really did try to explain things.  Thus, the difference between active and passive: the master beats the boy (active); the boy is beaten by the master (passive); even Franks J could grasp that.

Eventually, the time for his call-up to the Air Force came and he took evening prayers.  He had chosen the hymn and by the end was in tears.  I had gone thorough life thinking that somehow he knew he was going to be killed, as he was flying over Germany.  Years later I mentioned this to my old friend Timothy Chavasse, who offered an alternative explanation.  Apparently, he had been having a raging affair with one of the maids and was broken-hearted at the prospect of being torn from his lady-love.

Partly because there was a war on, some of the staff were women.  I remember with affection the Music Mistress, Joyce St Croix.  She was dedicated to her vocation and, for those of us with some musical leanings, had a wonderful way of introducing us to Beethoven or Mozart as if letting us into a secret.

Then there was Miss Dawson, a sort of Hedda Gabler figure who couldn't help dominating anything she ever touched.  She had had no formal training as a teacher, yet she was one of the best teachers I ever encountered.  No French teacher ever taught pupils the elements of French grammar like she did.  Good looking rather than beautiful she was, in some respects, more like a man than a woman.  She was slightly above average height, had dark brown hair and her harsh masculine voice was not without a certain melodiousness.  I was reminded of Miss Dawson some years later when I saw Maria Callas walk onto the stage at Covent Garden.  That is what it was like, every morning she used to sweep into the classroom and for the next forty minutes held us in her thrall.

After the donnish Mr Ellis gave up the partnership to become Headmaster of his own highly successful school, Miss Dawson moved into the position of Deputy Head.  From then on the school changed, as was inevitable.  Barton-Sea was not Earnshill.  In an earlier age the aims of a prep school were less complicated than today.  Mr Atkins had founded the school in 1903 with the celebrated 23.  By all accounts he was passionate about the classics.  Boys left Durlston with a sound grounding in Latin, the bedrock of European language and civilization.  Mr Cox carried on this tradition.  He also taught us the subtleties of cricket, surely the most graceful and chivalrous of games.  He had survived four years in the trenches which had reinforced his Christian beliefs.  I can still hear his rich bass voice enjoining us at morning prayers to "give and not to count the cost, to fight and not to heed the wounds".  If the foregoing, strictly personal memoir suggests that you can never eliminate the darker and licentious side of human nature, then that was no fault of the gentlemen of a bygone era who strove to set before us standards of decency and honesty.

Anthony Dix
Wimbledon 2003