The school yard

Me; the bullied boy; Rasmussen

That aerial photo of the school helped arouse many memories, which in my life seem to be fastened upon places more than upon people. In that respect, I am more of a cat than a dog. I’m more introverted, solitary, not made to hunt in packs and defer to the leader. There was a tribal feeling in this new school, with its various uniforms and boundary lines and competing areas of influence; like the barons in Norman England under the overall control of the King. Our King (the Headmaster) was benign and subtle, but he ruled.

As soon as I had discovered the parameters of my new existence, I was able to revert to my dreamy way of being, a little detached from the more feverish social interactions. The friendships I formed were of the temporary kind, though sometimes intense while they lasted.

I hardly remember what I did in the school yard at various ages: more what I observed. We spent our breaks between lessons there and were not allowed to run. The surface was uneven and 180 boys in a confined space could get many grazed knees. As it was I knocked poor Walters’ front teeth out with a hockey stick. I was practising my swing, surrounded by a small crowd – fooling around I suppose. He happened to be standing behind me. He must remember that incident even more than me, for he needed expensive dental work. We met at a reunion ten years ago and he seemed still wary of accidental injury if he got too close. I remember Nicholls, a boy with an easy laugh who later joined the Navy. “You shitbag!” he called to someone in the yard playfully. I had never heard such an expression before and it shocked me, especially uttered so casually. At the reunion dinner only eight of us were present, not including Nicholls but I felt strongly the exact feeling I had at school, that I was a prude compared to them. For example my neighbour in Form III was Rasmussen, one of four sons of the Danish proprietor of a milk processing factory in the town. I’m sure it was his older brothers who had made his language sexually precocious, for he spoke a lot of “shagging”, an English term now familiar internationally as in “The Spy who Shagged Me”. He taught me a number of riddles, e.g. “What’s the definition of a period? A bloody waste of fucking time.” “What’s the heights of aggravation? Two fat bellies and a short cock.” “What’s the definition of a perambulator? Last year’s pleasure on wheels.” “What’s long and thin and covered in skin, pink in places and sometimes put in tarts? Rhubarb.” And so on.

I was once in a fight in the yard. It was on behalf of a timid soul in my class whose parents were dedicated evangelists of the Salvation Army. He was being jostled or teased and I saw him on the point of tears, for he wasn’t the type to defend himself at all. I told the tormentor to stop and he challenged me to a fight, illustrating his point with the imitation of a boxer’s footwork and a few quick jabs. I was scared but a circle formed around us to watch and shield the view from roaming prefects whose task it was to prevent these contests. I had to hand my glasses to a spectator and I think I think I got two punches in before the fight was broken up. It was gratifying that the crowd was on my side though it was partly from amusement that a bookish dreamer should take on Goliath.

Brian Turner ; Stan Nigh

In the Form IV, housed in the Nissen Hut, I sat next to Brian Turner who became a close buddy. We shared a subversive and satirical streak. Such were our whispered comments and drawings passed from one to the other that we had to be separated eventually: one in Form IVa and one in IVb. His genius was to relate everything to the viewpoint of the country bumpkin, a role he proudly adopted for himself. Every time his village of Shorwell was mentioned, he would cheer, even in front of the Headmaster in Assembly. He spoke in the broadest Isle of Wight dialect, though he could speak “the Queen’s English” when he wanted to. Together we elaborated his public persona into a comic world of the Shorwell bumpkin: primitive, opinionated, full of Old Testament imprecations upon the ungodly. Anything that couldn’t be found in Shorwell was an abomination. Instead, the bumpkin relied upon the farmer’s universal fix-it: binder twine. In this fictional world, it was good for shoelaces, keeping up your trousers and a thousand other uses. Our closeness became a silly habit hard to break. It took me away from seriousness in my studies and our japes disturbed the class. I was relieved at being split up, but the urge to subversion stayed with me. I’ve always been an idealist, secretly passionate to change the world, but this yokel satire was aimless.

One day I infringed some minor rule at break on a Thursday, when we wore uniform for the Cadet parade which started at 3 and continued till 5 with various types of instruction: drill, cleaning rifles, stripping down and reassembling Bren guns etc.

It was during the lunch break, and our CO Captain Bradley stopped me for some minor infringement as he passed through the yard. While he was at it, he criticised some aspect of my uniform: boots not shined or some such. I was furious and started to tell him that killing was wrong and I was a pacifist. With disdainful formality, he said I was free to join the Pioneers and clean toilets and wear dirty shoes. At that moment I decided on “revenge”. (1) I would be so smart he could never humiliate me again. It didn’t occur to me that this made him the winner. (2) I would inwardly despise and revile all warmongering. At the annual Service of Remembrance on November 11th, a “Church Parade” where the Cadets marched with Scouts and guides and Brownies and the Boys’ Brigade and bemedalled veterans, I was privately disgusted at the glorification of war. The Government had never admitted its role in getting millions slaughtered in the trenches of World War I. The Army staff officers had never apologised for shooting in the head “cowards” with shell-shock and so on. I was influenced by a radio dramatisation of R C Sherriff’s famous play, Journey’s End and by Eric Maria Remarque’s novel All Quiet on the Western Front. But we seek out the influences of our choice!