London 1944 - The Choice of School

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Before, during and after the War there were in the region of South London a multitude of ‘Grammar’ schools and minor independent schools, where able children could be educated. I could have attended:- Shooter’s Hill School (which my mother considered to be of inferior standard), Colfe’s, City of London, Eltham College, Emmanuel School, Haberdasher Aske’s, Archbishop Tennison’s, St. Olave’s and probably more. These were all for boys only. There were also Girls’ Grammar Schools such as Eltham Hill, and St Saviours – that being the female twin of St Olave’s. All were a channel of improvement for able children from poor backgrounds. Before the 1944 Education Act either one passed the Junior County examination which opened the door to these or if one was of borderline ability one might be able to go to a ‘Central’ school- as was the case with my elder brother. If you did not ‘pass’ then you might stay at school till fourteen and then leave to get a job, or apprenticeship.

This pattern for social improvement or ‘social mobility’ was destroyed by a later socialist Government, in the desirte to promote the impossible, - equality-. The socialist intelligentsia never grasped the notion that equality of ability is unattainable, though equality of opportunity is not.

My mother, with some idea of social enhancement for me, first proposed Eltham College. She and I went along for an interview with the head master. The broad wide acres of playing fields did not appeal to me. I was never a sporting type, indeed my physique was hardly inspiring to any one looking for a sportsman. When I had a ‘physical’ before evacuation, so later my mother informed me, I was described as ‘below normal’. The headmaster turned me down.

I ended up at St. Olave’s school next to Tower Bridge.

Some of the boys who attended with me were from even more impecunious families than mine. Example:- William Ainsworth. It was not until the VIth form (the last two years of schooling) that I understood his circumstances. At sometime around then, the headmaster put his name forward for an adventure holiday, fully paid, to Canada. Jealous, I inwardly wondered why he should be so selected. Later I realised the justification. I invited him to visit me at home and he came. I took him to Oxleas Woods and the long meadow beyond. These woods are the joy of Eltham. He spoke in the same terms that I had used when I visited Robin Angel on Shooter’s Hill. He felt that compared to his family, we were well-to-do. I visited his home. He lived in Peabody buildings. These flats were built by a charity for poor working folk in London. The toilets were on a communal landing, the flats were small and a pervading odour of rot or urine seemed all about. William later won a County Major scholarship to Oxford, where we were for some time close friends.

Now, sixty years later I am appalled at the political jealousy whereby the socialist system destroyed this pathway to a meritocracy which was well on the way to refashioning the brilliance and commanding position of Britain in the World. These accursed politicians still assert that prior to them only the middle classes could aspire to University. It is an absolute lie. In the years after WWII very many poor boys and girls went to the best universities at the public expense.

I digress! And look back in anger.

St. Olave’s and St Saviour’s Grammar School Tower Bridge was sited on a very small patch of ground near Tower bridge. In 1943 the school was for the most part in evacuation but some classes for new entrants had opened. Again, I suppose the staff had in some manner avoided the War. The war was still on. The doodle bugs had been replaced by the V2 rockets. These you did not hear coming. They were the forerunners of space rockets, sent up from Holland or Northern France and took a high parabolic trajectory before coming down vertically on London. There was no protection from them, nor was any warning possible.

I went to school by train from Eltham station to London Bridge station. On one occasion Eltham station had been blasted by a V2 between my going and returning in the afternoon. I saw one explode in the distance from the train window.

Four years of War had seriously modified London. I, with an exploratory mind, suggested to a friend that one day, instead of going home from London Bridge station, we should walk across Tower Bridge and traverse the City of London to Cannon Street Station and catch our train home from there. We did just that, encircling the ancient walls of the Tower of London, and passing across the bombed area of the City, we passed by small rough built brick walls protecting pedestrians from falling into the basement holes of buildings, whose remains had already been taken away. The rosy red fireweed blossomed from all the broken brick and stonework. It was extraordinary that so few important buildings or monuments had been destroyed. The Tower itself, St. Paul’s Cathedral, The single column of the Monument to the 17th century Fire of London are all still intact. Some renaissance churches designed by Sir Christopher Wren were seriously damaged, but he designed a great many, and some few were not missed.

The journey home was nine miles by train. The cost was entirely borne by the London County Council. I had a free season ticket. It enabled me to go to London at any time, and I used it to visit Museums and to go the theatre in later years with my mother.

St Olave's School 1945- 1951 Part IV

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The Teaching Staff – a list of those remembered – all I suppose now lost to the living.

I do not suppose that the teachers at St. Olave’s were any better or any worse than any others. Some were extremely bad, some were extremely good.

Soon after the beginning of peace in 1945 a sea change occurred. For then a younger breed of teachers arrived.

Mr. Newmarch.  

This young teacher was there throughout the war and he was the first teacher I met at the new school.  There must have been some good reason why he was not in the services. He was a teacher of Latin. This was the first new subject to me. Mr. Newmarch was approachable and charming. The text books in Latin were brand new and to me fascinating. The school was aware that if any boys were to enter Oxford or Cambridge, then it was necessary that they had some qualification in Latin! I found little difficulty with it, though I little realised why it was necessary to learn it. I remember little, but the foundation in understanding the structure of language has been very important. Apart from that it later eased my way into Oxford.

Dr R.C. Carrington

I first saw the Head Master Dr. R.C. Carrington over a year into my school life. He arrived with the main school on its return from evacuation to Torquay in Devon in 1945. He was a Classics Scholar and in the book ‘Who’s Who’ was described as onetime ‘Student of Archaeology at Rome’. He was a man smaller than his presence suggested. He had a broad high forehead and always looked well washed. Rumour had it that he was repeatedly looking for another position as Head of a far more important school. Today I consider that he was a wise man. He took it upon himself to teach some ‘general studies’ to the VIth form. He covered many subjects, with learning; The History of the United States; The History of Architecture; The Departments of the United Nations. He caused the school to receive monthly digest of United Nations reports which we VIth formers had to read and make resumés.

He even glossed on the basics of Geology, which he averred should be the a study for all students, and introduced the study of Italian. He was not a likeable man; one’s impression is that he was not liked by the staff, but I believe he had admirable ideals. His ideal seemed to me to develop in us the new ‘Renaissance Man’.

Mr. Joseph

History was taught by Mr. Joseph. His exposition of the development of 19th Britain left me somewhat bored. That which moved me most was his undoubted anger at the return of a Labour government in 1945. “That Churchill who has done so much for this country, and routed our enemies, should be ousted by those who owe him so much is a disgrace.” (They at least were his sentiments, if not his words.) Joseph was an aging man with a small moustache and greying hair. But he was a full bodied person with a dominant will.

Sikey Sinclair

He was the bête noire of the pre-peace days. He taught mathematics, looked after the silver badges for the schoolboy’s caps and was constantly angry and crushing. Sometime in my fourth year I found favour with him. A geometry homework was set and all our exercise books were marked by him. At the next maths lesson he arrived and standing by his desk, his black gown wrapped about his middle he began to disclaim to the class. “You have failed. Your work is dismal. Cave! Cave! Come out here!” I shrank and quavered and rose and slowly went to the desk. He threw in groups the exercise books to the floor and said to me –“Cave stamp on them! Stamp!” I reluctantly stepped on a few. “You Cave are the only boy to have got it right!” One did not cross with Sikey if possible.

Mr. Charlwood

He was an empty headed waste of space. He taught geography. He was inept. He was not a tall man and was thin. He had a habit of sitting on top his desk in the Gandhi position, cross legged. One such occasion was interrupted by the headmaster who entered to declaim that each boy would be issued with a ‘dip’ pen. Such pens were to used in conjunction with the ink wells, lodged in the top right corner of every desk. Fountain pens were abolished and any boy seen to use one was to have it confiscated. This ploy had the aim of improving our handwriting.

Dr. Stockwell

He was the senior teacher of French, and I hated his guts. He had the air of boredom. The most used phrase in his lexicon was “You’d better go into detention laddie.” How little he understood me or anyone. Let me recall some anecdotes. My mother had given me a wrist watch. It was my very first watch and I was proud of it. On the back was written ‘Fond acier inoxydable’. I had no idea what it meant. I took it to show Dr. Stockwell. He just brushed me aside and said ‘It is stainless steel’. I wanted to know why it meant that. Moreover I was proud of it. Could he not have spent a little more time saying how nice it was, who gave it to me, that acier means steel- inoxydable means not oxidising and that fond means base or bottom? He had no time for any boy, no patience, no love. He had no talent to be a teacher. His black gown was torn and aged beyond repair. It was so old that the black cloth was turning green in places.

My final despair of French came during one summer holiday. With some semblance of how to be a teacher he gave out small books of the Tales of Maupassant. “Read these during the holidays!” I dutifully began and I genuinely found the first tale interesting. Unfortunately a little way in I discovered that a chunk of the pages had been lost. I threw the book aside and disgusted, resolved never to bother with French again.

Now I live in France. C’est la vie.

To be continued