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The early Beardwood years at the new site of Colfe's Grammar School 1964-69

The memoirs of Stan Wolfson

Greetings yet again from "Death Row”! I knew that my number was up when I received a

letter last week from Department of Pensions to inform me that as from next year I would

receive a further increase of 25p a week. Big deal! If John Hayes doesn't take up my case in

the House of Commons, I shall reveal to the world his Latin marks in U4A in 1971-2. The

Roman satirist, Juvenal, once said "omni membrorum damno maior dementia". For those not

versed in Latin, it means "dementia is greater than any loss of limbs". You may lose a leg, an

arm or even an eye. But once you lose your mind, you cease to be a member of the human

race. Even vegetables are better off. At least they can be eaten. I have sadly known colleagues

who developed dementia in later years and didn't even know their own names, let alone be

able to recall past events. This does not include those who appeared to develop the disease

while they were still teaching. As long as I have a "mens sana in corpore insano" (with

apologies to Juvenal: "a healthy mind in an unhealthy body"), I want to revive a few memories

and relive a few occasions. As you get older your memories become more sharply focused in

proportion to the decline of your health. Paradoxically your past is all that you have left to

look forward to. In view of the response, provoked by my reflections on Lewisham, Russell

Joyce asked me if I would continue my recollections of Colfe's Grammar School up to the

point when Herbert Beardwood retired after thirty years of sterling service as nominal

Commandant of Conzlager Colfe's - as it was affectionately termed by the boys. I decided to

record only the early years at the new school site up to 1969, not because that year was the

first time that Herbert acknowledged my existence as a member of the teaching staff or

because it coincided with the promotion of Harold Dacombe to the role the Deputy-

Headmaster, when "Joe" Davies assumed a subsidiary role as geography teacher, but because

1969 marked the tenth anniversary of my arrival at the school in Lewisham. I felt like a

shepherd who has spent five years tending his flock in a quagmire, and five years in lush, green

pastures. I had experienced frustration and exhilaration in equal measure during that decade.

The next forty odd years were tame by comparison. The novelty had worn off, even if the

enthusiasm was still there. Herbert has long since passed on, as have Harold "Heinrich"

Dacombe, Trevor "Joe" Davies, Ernie East, Dennis Nicholson (of the "Nick makes me sick"

fame), "Bill" Bailey, Gerry "the bishop" Burtt, Pete Williams, Bill "football-head" Weir, Phil

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Tennant, Norman "the organ" Wilson, Alf "Abdul" Horrocks and many others who saw

service in the old huts and are remembered either with nostalgia or neuralgia. But as long as

the mind is capable of thinking, the memories linger on and can be shared by surviving

members of staff and pupils who laughed and wept in those days, and, believe me, for those

who had experienced Lewisham, there was more to weep about than to laugh over.

"Nostalgia is an emotion which depends on inaccurate recollection," runs the editorial for the

school magazine of January 1965. "Myths about the old site have grown up," continues the

editorial, "myths which will no doubt enthrall future Colfeians". This begs the question: What

is a myth? As Maxwell Scott once said, "When the legend becomes fact, print the legend". As

a Latinist I know that the word "legenda" means "worth reading". That which deserves to be

remembered deserves to be read. What does surprise me is the nostalgia for the old site,

expressed by those older members of staff who couldn't let go. It was as if their own careers

were disappearing in the sunlight. They simply couldn't believe that Herbert's promises would

eventually come to fruition. "New pastures" had a biblical resonance. But the old-stagers

visualised something more apocalyptic. I remember old "Sandy" Powell, the Physics teacher

who played a decent violin in the school orchestra, being almost in tears when Herbert

suggested that the Lewisham site would be abandoned in the near future. What difference it

would make to Powell is hard to understand. He was due to be pensioned off in any case. I

can assure readers at this point that I shall try to restrict my inaccuracies to the minimum and

explain the reality behind the myths. One has to be there to experience that reality. My

account is not designed to fill the gaps in the history of the school, but to present anecdotal

perspectives which others may not be aware of. Boys tend to see their teachers as automata,

not as human beings. This had certainly been the case in Lewisham when the term "pastoral

care" was reserved for the church. But things were beginning to change as the older members

of staff were gradually being replaced by a more sympathetic generation. The last year on the

old site, 1964, had been a halcyon year; nine boys had secured places at Oxbridge in the

summer, two with Open Scholarships, Skelker and Wright. That was a true reflection of the

quality of the teaching that went on at Colfe's and of the dedication which the boys gave to

their studies.

A change of buildings does not indicate a change in the behaviour of boys. Human nature

doesn't change, whatever the environment. In fact one might say that the change of

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circumstances increased the "liberal" movement among the pupils. Since boys didn't have to

travel to games, there was greater scope for loitering in the changing rooms and toilets of the

pavilion which, although it performed the function of a Sixth Form Common Room, was an

open invitation to "criminal" activity which today masquerades as entrepreneurism. On one

occasion just before the Christmas break in 1964 Phil Tennant, Pete Jones and myself were

doing the rounds of Games duty at the pavilion. Apart from refereeing rugger matches, we

would search the outbuildings for any boy who might be lurking there. It wasn't unknown for

boys to hang around until after registration and then skive off home. When we entered the

toilets at the back of the pavilion, we could see smoke drifting from under the door of one of

the cubicles. Phil opened the door and we saw a small boy with surprise written all over his

embarrassed face, a smoking cigarette-butt in one hand and an almost complete packet in the

other. The fact that his trousers were down added to the amusing situation. The smoke was

certainly not coming from his backside, but he was smoking an enema of the Turkish variety.

The absence of toilet paper in the cubicle added to the suspicion that something untoward

was afoot. The boy was given a telling-off - we didn't want to surrender him to the tender

mercies of Dacombe - and his cigarettes were confiscated - to be distributed later among

grateful members of staff who immediately binned them when they saw the label. I would

imagine that this young boy is now a grandfather. If he still smokes, I hope that he has changed

his brand of cigarettes.

Old traditions die hard and the system of Parents' Evenings continued for a while in the old

Lewisham style where the parents sat in a circle with a vacant chair for the staff member.

There was no privacy while the teachers moved around. Some parents took comfort from

this. Overhearing a conversation about a child's deficiencies led them to the mistaken belief

that their own offspring must be a paragon of intelligence by comparison. "Which is your

son ?" I addressed an anxious couple. The woman looked at me, then looked at the man next

to her. "He's NOT my husband" she retorted angrily. It was hard to avoid such embarrassing

moments. The conversation then resumed as follows:-

Mother: "Is my son's work improving?"

Stan: "Yes!".

Mother: "That's good!"

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Stan: "Not so good! It's going from worse to bad".

The circulatory system simply didn't work and was later replaced by the queue. This did at

least guarantee privacy. The relevant staff member just sat and waited and waited.....Why do

some parents leave it until 8.30 before turning up ? Officially the evening was supposed to end

at 7.00, but it never did. Just try to imagine talking to the parents of 80 boys in a space of two

hours. Simply impossible. The more experienced teachers had developed the knack of brevity

without rudeness, the younger teachers were too clapped out before the end of the evening

to know the difference between one set of parents and another, and, in cases where pupils

had similar names, confusion reigned. Later on Herbert decided not to set a time limit, and

parents took advantage of the elastic arrangements. A number of teachers didn't get home

until 10.30. Then they had to prepare their lessons for the following day. There were the odd

occasions when I spent 20 minutes, talking to a parent, only to find that I was discussing the

wrong boy; easily done when a parent speaks almost in a whisper, as if too embarrassed to

face reality or even to acknowledge that he/she was the parent. That's 20 minutes wasted, but

for whom ? At least the parent had believed that the son was very bright, even if the reality

suggested quite the reverse - and my mark-book didn't lie. What right had I to disillusion a

parent ? But at least Colfe's was still a Grammar School and the relationship between teachers

and parents was educational, not commercial. People were not yet paying for the privilege of

having a sow's ear being turned into a silk purse. In later years, when I was teaching the sons

of former pupils, I would ensure that I brought along my mark-book of the father's era. The

relationship had changed by now; the grammar school pupils had become the fathers of

independent school pupils. So if a father complained about his son's progress, I would look up

the relevant mark-sheet and point out that there was no difference. It's all a question of

genetics. In this case "spot the dad" became a regular pastime for teachers who had already

been briefed on who would be coming. If no parent was listed, it was up to Herbert to decide

whether or not he should send a letter to the appropriate orphanage. Messrs Westpfel, Frost,

Wardleworth, Courtneidge, Garston, McMenamin, Warnes, Fitzgerald, etc. I hope that you

are reading about your responsibilities in the staff/pupil relationship. I have to say that OCs

took a great delight in returning to their "alma mater" and meeting up with old familiar faces.

Brian Fitzgerald is a case in question, an outstanding sportsman, a credit to the school and a

friend whom I once taught. His son, Gareth, was in my 6th form set. No father could ever be

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as proud as Brian was. No son could ever be as proud of his father. That is the ideal situation.

What often delights me in meeting the fathers is not so much the happy reunion, but that they

can remember situations which I've long forgotten. It takes only one former pupil to open the

door on a whole class. I've had many a laugh at being reminded of past indiscretions.

Recollections can work both ways. One of the boys, whose father had been at Colfe's before

the war, was Keith Hewstone whose experiences of Latin with me in 3C during 1963-4 are

best forgotten. But at least he will, I hope, have better memories of me in Lewisham than he

did of Alf "Abdul" Horrocks who was still plying his trade on the new site at Lee with a

combination of chemistry and menace. The value of family traditions cannot be stressed

enough. A father would never send his son to Colfe's, if he didn't believe that a sound

education could be acquired there.

The school Open Day allowed an extra range of activities outside the normal timetable and

enabled each department to set out its stall. It started at the Lewisham site and became the

responsibility of Ron Impey who had to liaise with each department. Parents were drawn to

the activities in the science labs because they were not as static as the displays which were

offered by other departments. Herbert decided that I should take on the less onerous job of

selling the final printed programme for the Sportsday events which took place on the school

field. Although access was free to parents, they would have to pay 2d on the relevant day for a

programme to find out the sequence of events, times and competitors. On one of those

occasions I appointed two L4th boys to sell them at the gates of the school field, one at the

top gate in Horn Park Lane, the other at the bottom gate in Upwood Rd. I allocated the

bottom gate to Wearing of L4B, straightened his obligatory school cap and sent him off. I

selected Wearing because he was an outstanding young Latinist and I knew that he would not

fail me. Half an hour later he came back, visibly upset and almost in tears. It appears that a boy

in the same class, Malcolm Hardee, had stolen his programmes and was selling them, pocketing

the proceeds. Hardee wasn't the sort of boy whom his classmates argued with. He wasn't the

comic character in those days. Signs of nascent criminality? Yes. Although he wasn't exactly a

thug, his weird appearance and unpredictable behaviour gave the constant impression of guilt

and he would never look you in the eye. Hardee muttered something about entrepreneurial

skills, but he didn't deny his role. I left it to Dacombe to sort out the mess. It didn't deter

Hardee from developing his business acumen in later years before he came to a tragic end. As

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for young Wearing, I haven't the vaguest idea what happened to him. He's probably a

grandfather now. But I doubt that he ever forgot Hardee or joined his fan club. When Ron

Impey left, I was given the full responsibility for Open Day and ran it right up to the time we

became independent. By this time Herbert was beginning to acknowledge my existence, and

on one occasion he even ventured to speak to me, thinking, perhaps, that a member of the

ground-staff merited some consideration.

A vast amount of money had been lavished on the organ which graced the new school hall and

many people were critical of the expenditure. An organ is all well and good, and looks

impressive at first sight. The problem is that you need someone to play it. Norman Wilson

had been appointed Head of Music, following the departure of Ken Barker, and the largest

organ he had ever seen was probably in some porn magazine which he had confiscated from

one of the 6th formers. He had never seen anything like the one in the hall and had never

played one before. It's one thing to play a piano, but quite another to play an organ. So poor

Norman resorted to a subterfuge; he would learn to play it when nobody was around. He

was in the hall well before 8.00 a.m. There was no one around except "Bill" Bailey, and he was

in the toilet anyway. "Bill" always arrived early in order to use the free toilet-paper. I would

arrive about the same time, though not for the same reason. Conscious that I wasn't alone, I

peered into the hall and listened to the awful cacophony emanating from this splendid

instrument. If you've ever heard a pig being strangled, this was it. But give Norman his due. He

never gave up. The pig had to be strangled at all costs. After several days, perhaps a week,

Norman grew in confidence until he became absolutely certain that he could perform in public.

Then came the opportunity. It was Assembly time. The staff were sitting on the benches along

the side of the hall. In the middle of the facing platform sat Herbert, flanked by his two

deputies, reminiscent of the three judges in the Classical underworld about to listen to

Orpheus at his best. Heads were bowed. Prayers were said. Now it was crunch-time for

Norman; the hymn was to be played. The beads of sweat could be seen running down

Norman's face. The hands and feet moved harmoniously towards the keys and pedals. The

first few notes were encouraging - not great, but encouraging. Then came a couple of howlers.

This was organ-grinding in the literal sense. Some boys were dumbstruck; others sniggered;

the teachers stifled their hysterics; Herbert raised an eyebrow; Dacombe and Davies watched

poor Norman in horror. Davies was a true Welshman and loved his music. He bit his lip and

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looked as if he was going to take it out on someone, if not on Norman, then on one of the

boys. Somehow Norman got to the end of the hymn. I think it was one of Joseph Parry's tunes.

So one could understand why Davies was so upset about the disembowelment of a fellow-

Welshman. When assembly was over, Herbert had a quiet word in Norman's ear. I don't

know what was said. But I do know that Norman was in the hall at 7.15 a.m. the following

morning. The noise issuing from the hall sounded no different from the noise emanating from

the toilet at the top of the stairs where "Bill" Bailey seemed to have spent the night. "We are

getting something really worthwhile in our new Mander organ" writes Norman in the school

magazine (Colfeian, July 1964. p.12). Great instrument ! Shame about the "player" who

couldn't cope with the demands of his keyboard ! Norman's performance left him red-faced.

Perhaps he now realised that "Mander organ" is an anagram of "red organ man". No, I'm not

referring to porn in this context, although the word "performer" raises more questions than

answers. Norman seldom attained any degree of proficiency during the early Beardwood years.

Whether he became proficient subsequently requires the judgement of a competent musician.

One thing I do know is that he stayed clear of Herbert, a case of the "Norman Evasion".

During the 1964-5 year several new young scientists arrived. Only one had experienced half a

term in the old building before moving to the new site. Philip Kestelman was one of the

country's leading experts on contraceptives. He had even appeared on television to discuss his

collection. The boys never knew about this and Philip didn't tell them lest he should be

inundated with requests for spares. He later edited the "Directory of Contraceptives". The

young teacher who came to teach physics on the new site was John Dore who was really a

geologist, but, as I've said before, Herbert was scraping the barrel when it came to appointing

science staff. Perhaps they had been put off by rumours about the old school before they saw

the new one or by the possibility that Mrs Hazeldine was still in charge of the kitchen. You

could tell from John's accent that he came from Worcester. John loved to draw pictures of

his pupils during lessons. Teaching was secondary. He had a great sense of humour and really

loved it when Violet Fenn, the cleaning lady, went into the showers after school to clean there.

John was starkers. You could hear her scream all over the school. She never screamed more

loudly when she lost her thumb in the school gate. At least she could still run her stall in

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Lewisham market. Dear Mrs Fenn, I remember your cheerful "Private Doberman" grin as if it

were yesterday ! John would give me a lift home to Camberwell in his car. He drove a

Triumph Herald with twin carburettors. I remember telling him how risky it was to be doing

85 mph down Upwood Rd (there were no speed humps in those days). With the radio blaring

a popular song "Little Children" by Billy J. Kramer and the Dakotas, we'd whizz along the

South Circular. At that time I didn't have a car and I'd relied on Messrs Pippette, Judge and

Robinson to take me as far as the Grove Tavern in Dulwich before catching a bus from there.

Pat Robinson was on his way to Brixton where he ran a boys' club. Mr Judge was Polish and,

since his real name was unpronounceable, he had changed it to something recognisable. He

taught Russian in place of John Isaac who had gone off on a course. I never discovered his first

name, but if it was Polish, I would never have remembered it anyway. He would frequently

regale me with stories about how U4B were giving him hell, especially Fewtrell who apparently

once hid himself in a cupboard. My fondest recollection of John Dore, apart from the after-

school badminton sessions in the gym (now the school library), is when he invited me to join

him and his girlfriend at a Chinese restaurant. The menu was supposed to be "a la carte". It

was more like "a la cat". I was ill for weeks and have never been to a Chinese restaurant since.

Science teachers are a rare commodity. They are in such demand that they can secure

positions anywhere. Charles Benson was a real asset to the biology department, an

entomologist of the first order. No one knew more about bees than Charles. He was always

looking over his shoulder in case the Italian police were on his track. His lineage had made him

eligible for conscription into the Italian army, and I've no doubt that Mussolini's intervention in

North Africa made him even more concerned. They might make him a general ! Charles drove

a really flash sports car, was married to a beautiful Israeli lady, collected rare illustrated books

and knew more about Georgian glassware than anyone I know. He had even given talks on the

radio about rare glassware. He lived in Mottingham, and, yes, believe me ! He owned a club in

the West End where the likes of Sir Mortimer Wheeler would turn up with a dolly-bird in tow.

I got to know Charles very well and we regularly frequented book fairs and compared

purchases. He eventually gave up his club. Perhaps he couldn't keep up with the "protection"

payments. Perhaps the carabinieri caught up with him. He certainly never became a general. I

don't know if he ever finished his thesis on apiculture.

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As far as games went, I was timetabled for a third form, and the amount of time wasted in

travelling for the last two periods in a coach to Crystal Palace was mindboggling. I never

experienced a breakdown as such, but the traffic en route could be so congested that boys

had barely time to get changed for a swim in the magnificent pool before it was time to return

to school. The staff had nothing to do but supervise the journey to and fro. Phil Tennant tried

to alleviate the boredom on the coach with occasional bursts of pretended anger, but

generally the boys were well behaved. We simply sat on the terraced poolside seats and

chatted. There were lifeguards on duty all the time. In my case I felt it a total waste of time

that I should be idling away an afternoon when I could be teaching Latin to a 6th form. One

has to remember that the facilities available today were unheard of in the mid-60s. Even the

open-air swimming pool was a long way off in the future. Yet, whatever the distance involved,

it had to be an improvement on the baths at Ladywell or Downham where Colfe's held its

annual Swimming Gala. Those were the places to hear "Joe" Davies' stentorian voice in action

as he read out the list of competitors.

The school panoramic photograph for 1965 was the first photo of the entire school to be

taken on the new premises. Shot in the playground in glorious black and white - technicolour

didn't appear until decades later - it came in a cardboard tube, labelled "Schooldays Souvenir"

and cost five shillings (25p), a considerable sum in those days when you could buy a house for

less than £5000.

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Colfe’s School Panoramic 1965, left

Colfe’s School Panoramic 1965, centre

Colfe’s School Panoramic 1965, right

The third formers who had arrived with me back in 1959 were now in their final year of the

6th Form. This would be their last gathering on film. I find it hard to believe that they are

approaching their 70s. In the front sat the "weeds", boys, like Crowther, Forman (the one

sandwiched between Frost and Dawes), Lott, Kent, Pearson, Varney, Holby, Kennedy. They

were all there. The full complement of staff was there, from left to right: Tennant, Williams,

Kestelman, Worthington, right the way through to Sant, Thomas, Stringer and myself. In the

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middle was Herbert, flanked by Davies and Dacombe. Harry Finlay had left by this time, as had

Brian Butler who had gone off to Germany and Ron Impey who had taken up a post at Aske's.

But Colin Robson was a worthy replacement in the staff-room. For many of the boys this was

a rare opportunity to see the Head. Few had seen him in the flesh since their interview. But

there was no mistaking Herbert if you met him for the first time. It could have comic

repercussions. There was a dance, held by the Parents' Association, where Herbert did a spin

with a young mother. She took one look at Herbert and screeched loudly "Jed Clampett !" At

that time there was a TV show, called "The Beverly Hillbillies" which dealt with a problem

family, led by a dysfunctional patriarch who had just struck oil. The lead role was played by the

American actor, Buddy Ebsen, who was a dead ringer for Herbert, right down to the "Rudolf

Hess" eyebrows. This was somewhat unfortunate because Herbert's wife, who was lame,

occasionally turned up at school functions with her husband, and some members of staff

would whisper uncharitably, "The Clampetts have arrived". I would certainly recommend the

TV series if you want to know what Herbert looked like. I felt somewhat sorry for Herbert.

He had a lot on his plate, apart from family issues. It was easy enough to leave the school in

the capable hands of the Deputy Head. But the ILEA was a different issue altogether, and a

vindictive Labour Government vented its rage on Grammar Schools with its nonsensical

egalitarian arguments which the Labour Party still adheres to.

The U15 cricket side that year performed with greater effort than skill and won only one of

its seven matches. Sanders captained the side. Pip Stonebridge kept wicket, Clegg was the

mainstay of the bowling, and the batting relied heavily on Savage and Pugh. I distinctly recall

one game where Pugh was top scorer with just a modest score. The match was against

Beckenham and Penge GS (now Langley Park) and they had a young hitter who took us apart.

His name was Roger Dickson. I hope that you're reading this, Roger. It's a good thing that I

was umpiring that day. One of the things about running a cricket side is that you can

appreciate the quality of the opposition. I've even been known to reverse an LBW decision.

The worst situation I recall came later when we played a team at Ernest Bevin School. We

arrived at the ground by coach and had to wait outside until a groundsman came along with a

pot of paint to mark out the wicket. I had no objection to the opposition for not wearing any

whites nor to retrieving the ball which was regularly dispatched over the mid-wicket boundary

for six by their batsmen who were all West Indians over 6ft in size. U15s ? More like U20s.

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My main concern was that the dressing-room had been raided while we were fielding, and

personal possessions had been stolen. Suffice it to say that we never played EB again. As for

Beckenham and Penge GS I would say that any school which can produce the likes of Derek

Underwood is formidable opposition, and, believe me, Colfe's faced some great players:

Graham Johnson from Shooters Hill GS (later renamed Eaglesfield) whose offspin was

unplayable on their matting wicket, Chris Tavare and Paul Downton from Sevenoaks. I

imagine that Graham Clinton from Chislehurst and Sidcup GS later came into that category.

I'd love to know what all of those youngsters are doing now, and how many of them are still

around. I believe that Graham Johnson became President of Kent CCC.

Form 3C, 1966

In 1966 I was appointed form-master to 3C (above, the first form photo to be taken on the

new school site). It was a fine collection of young boys which ran alphabetically from Bagley to

Yonge and included Paul Davis (second from left in the back row) who became a good friend

of mine. We had intended to meet up again when he was coming over from Australia the year

before last. Sadly he died of a heart attack. He was 59. Paul had always shown an aptitude for

Latin and was almost as good as John Weatherill whose ecclesiastical responsibilities meant

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that I occasionally ran into him on the least auspicious occasions. I met up with several of

Paul's contemporaries at his funeral, including Pete Kennedy and Ken Reynolds. The little boy,

third from the right in the front row is Peter Yonge whom I arranged to meet a few years

back. He became one of my 6th Form Latinists in 1971-2, together with Gladding and Eaton.

He was married to a German lady and had been working as a missionary in Japan. Old

Colfeians find themselves in all parts of the world. John Donovan, standing on the left, now

resides in Texas where he proved a greater success in the oil business than Jed Clampett.

Lineham, far left in the front row, was the son of a schoolteacher and loved making up a list

of my jokes for each lesson. How much Latin he learned I couldn't say. Learning Latin doesn't

come easy, and teaching it to boys who don't seem keen on learning it is equally difficult. I can

fully understand the attitude of boys in 3C if they found the going tough or resented my

efforts to prove a point. Education is a learning curve for both pupils and teachers. I'm sure

that sexagenarians, like Trevor Leese, (back row 5th from left) have distinguished themselves

in their chosen fields and may occasionally reflect on the past. Nothing that you study in class

is ever wasted. 3C will always be 3C ( 7C now), a class of 11 year-olds. This is something I

find hard to come to terms with. School days are ephemeral. Nothing really lasts. Even

responsibilities have their drawbacks. Each class had to have a representative spokesman.

Herbert insisted on a form captain. So I decided to appoint Rene Smith, the boy in the middle

row directly behind me. Rene would be first to admit that Latin wasn't his "cup of tea", and he

was a very quiet boy, but he had potential and I had taught his brother. One break-time Rene

came to me, visibly upset. Someone had stolen something from his desk. As I was teaching in

Room F (where the offence had occurred) during the first period, it must have been someone

from the L5th during period 2. I notified "Joe" Davies who said to me in his usual way "I'll sort

it out". He paraded the relevant class in the hall and everyone stood to attention with a look

of fear on their faces. One boy looked like a quivering jelly. "You, boy !" said Davies "Come

here !". The boy duly obliged and owned up. I didn't stay to see the consequences. I shan't

name the offender. But everyone knew who it was. There are few incidents that I recall from

that form. But I do remember asking David Crook (middle row 5th from left) to write me a

letter of apology for shouting out to Prankard (middle row far right). Those were the days

when I charged boys a hire fee of two shillings (10p) for any text-book which they had

"forgotten" to bring in. I still have some IOUs which need to be redeemed. The money went

to the "Masters' Common Room Fund". David Tillcock (on left next to Rene Smith as you face

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the class), who became one of the pillars of my U15 cricket side a little later, was one of the

boys whom I selected the following year on Herbert's instructions to join a group

representing the school for a trip to Greenwich where Francis Chichester was to be knighted

by the Queen for sailing the Gypsy Moth around the world. I well remember that occasion

because my camera went haywire. You may have heard of "The Queen's Head". The "Queen's

legs" are something else.

It was during this time that the Numismatic Society (not to be confused with the Mae West

Pneumatic Society) flourished. Collecting coins was something which appealed to me and my

colleague, Don Garrett who sadly died of Hodgkinson's Disease at the early age of 39. So the

Society was founded and Trevor Hamlyn was a very efficient secretary in running it. Boys

were encouraged to bring in coins for discussion. One boy brought in a mediaeval gold angel

which was worth a fortune. It belonged to his dad who was probably wondering where it had

disappeared to. If any old Roman coins needed "improvement" because of damaged patina,

John Dore would arrange for some electrolysis experiments to be put into operation. No

one in the science labs knew what was going on in the lunch hour; few knew what was going

on in lesson times. Sometimes we held auctions, and one of the governors was kind enough to

provide some coins for this purpose. When Herbert discovered our interests, he decided to

top every contribution by allowing us access to a small collection of coins from German East

Africa. Apparently they had been bequeathed to the school by one of the governors. We had

to make sure that we returned them to the Head's office by the end of the lunch-hour. This

collection contained two extremely valuable Tabora gold sovereigns which mysteriously went

AWOL when Herbert retired. The fact that Herbert claimed on his insurance for the "loss"

added insult to injury.

In 1968-9 I was still teaching lower school classes of about 30 boys. 3C ran from Alexander-

Webber to Yensen, L4A from Abbey to Yates, L4R from Allcock to Wrighton. U4C was

smaller in size and contained many of the boys I had taught in 3C during 1966-67. Several boys

in my L5th set (Lineham, Brock, Donovan, Palmer) had gone into the remove form from 3C

and had thus skipped the U4th year. My 6th Form Latin set comprised only 5 boys; Hurst,

Lyons, Packer, Turpin and Wadsworth. I remember them vividly. Turpin's dad, Gordon,

taught drama at the school and Wadsworth, who was always smiling, joined the teaching

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March 2016

profession. I sincerely hope that this vocation allowed him to retain that smile. Basil

Worthington who drew up the time-table persuaded Herbert to make some drastic changes

at the end of the year. Most of the staff had complained that the school summer term was

ending in chaos after the school and public examinations were over. So it was decided by the

powers that be to start the following year's timetable in July. The only trouble was that it

involved just a few weeks and whatever the pupils learned during that time would be forgotten

by the time the summer holiday had ended. Today such a system would be impossible with

students joining the 6th Form from scratch. A few of the staff, myself included, were annoyed

that the system was in operation. We loved a bit of chaos at the end of the year. Besides, the

time could be reasonably employed in extra-curricular events. The pupils didn't like it. The

thought of work was unappealing. The novelty of being put in a new class soon wore off and

the boys were back to being their old selves. One thing particularly irked me: the games

allocation. Whereas I had originally been allocated two games sessions in 1968 which were

subsequently commuted to private study periods in the library, I was given only one in 1969.

To make matters worse, I had no teaching on Wednesday afternoon, but one bloody private

study for period 6. So I couldn't skive off for the whole afternoon, merely for the last period.

As I've stated earlier, teachers DID skive off. After all, if the 6th form did, then why not the

staff ? One merely prayed that there were no emergency "please-takes" to cover. Herbert

couldn't complain. He skived off regularly to take his seat on the bench as a JP, a position

which he had held for some five years now. The longer he remained Head, the more time he

took off. I'm somewhat surprised that he was able to do this with the ILEA breathing down

his neck. So whereas he originally had difficulty in identifying me, I soon barely knew who he

was. I often wonder if the boys knew who he was. He was rarely seen. I just hope that no

former pupils appeared before him in court. The responsibilities for running the school fell to

"Joe" Davies who did his job perfectly, sometimes even over-zealously. He often conducted

the morning assembly, and if he didn't like the way it was going, he would start all over again. I

could see the whole state of affairs from my classroom window in Room F. I was supposed to

be in assembly with my form. But I was a music lover. The boys didn't mind the aggravation. It

ate into the teaching time.

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March 2016

L4B, 1969

In 1969 I already knew who would be in my L4th - L5th groups because of whom I had taken

in the last three weeks of the summer term. In September 1969, I was appointed form-master

of L4B (see above). This class ran alphabetically from Ball to Yates and was one of the most

hilarious forms I ever taught, with the likes of Bill Worthington, "Muttley" Wilson, Toogood,

Swann, Renshaw whom I often called "Rickshaw" because he was a bit of a drag (a relic from

the days when I had taught his brother), Pellett who fell victim to one of the worst incidents I

can ever recall, and the one and only Pete Howitt of television fame. Pete was a natural

comedian. I can still see him in the photo sitting next to me, shying away from my aftershave.

At that time there was a TV programme, entitled "The Addams Family". In it was a butler

called Lurch who would suddenly appear with his usual catchphrase "You rang?". Now there

was no operational tannoy system in the school, and messages were delivered by a prefect.

On one occasion this prefect came in. He was tall, gaunt and cadaverous, and he looked just

like Lurch. When he came into my room, Pete Howitt shouted out "You rang?". Everyone

collapsed in hysterics, myself included. The system of message delivery is one which I myself

abused and I apologise for any grief I may have caused. I recall an occasion when a prefect

came in with a message. I looked at the message, then looked at some innocent boy and said

sternly "The headmaster wants to see you immediately". The boy would grow pale, get up and

walk towards the door. As he was about to enter the corridor, I would say "Come back ! I'm

only joking". In fact it was a simple message about assembly times. I hope that this did not have

17 Stan Wolfson

March 2016

any long-term psychological effects. The monotony of classroom teaching has to be broken

somehow. This now takes me to the system of "trials" which I introduced for similar effect.

Boys are notoriously poor cheats. A good cheat is somebody who copies another's work

with slight variations. He must not be precise in his copying. If I get five pieces of translation

with seven identical errors. There must be four cheats. The "trial" involves locating the

prototype and determining the sequence of copying. This I have never failed to unravel. There

are five guilty boys; four are guilty of copying, the fifth, the prototype, is guilty of aiding and

abetting. The only difference between this and normal courtroom procedure is that I am

prosecuting counsel, judge, jury - and executioner. The whole episode lasts only about ten

minutes, but the boys, apart from those convicted, loved it. Copying someone else's

homework requires the necessary skills which were patently lacking. If I saw that a piece of

work was copied, I'd put a line through it. If there was a repeat offence, I'd tear the page out.

If it happened a third time, I'd tear up the exercise book into tiny fragments. This happened on

only one occasion when I told a boy to pick up the pieces. He knelt down, turned round,

looked up at me and said with a cheeky grin "No sweat, Sir!" I said "with your teeth!" Incidents,

like this, break the humdrum routine of school life. Some of my L5th set consisted of boys

whom I had taught in 3c back in 1966: Brock, Colin Chapman, Donovan, Lineham and Palmer.

They had probably come up via the Remove form. This system might have been good for the

most competent pupils. But I've seen boys in tears when they were "relegated" after the

summer examinations. I can see no point in pushing pupils to take their O-Levels a year earlier.

Education should not be a pressure-cooker. This is the UK, not China.

It remains for me to dwell on the Classics department, run by the amiable "Doc Jock 45" and

now joined by Don Garrett. Herbert was a mathematician, not a traditionalist. He knew as

much about Latin as I know about astrophysics. If we had a job explaining its value to him, just

imagine the task of explaining its value to the boys. He worked on the principle of numbers. If

Classical Greek was dwindling, you simply replaced it. But with what? Russian was all the rage

in those days. So Russian it would be. Now I can understand the logic of sending John Isaac to

the USSR to learn the language. He was a linguist and would employ his skills in introducing

the subject to the L5th on his return. But the idea of sending Doug Rivers, a Design and

Technology man with only a limited experience of teaching some basic French, beggars belief.

Doug came back, somewhat disillusioned. Apparently the organiser of his group, Gerald

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March 2016

Brooke, had been arrested for distributing copies of the bible which were considered anti-

Soviet propaganda. Whether he was an evangelist or a lunatic (which amounts to the same

thing), I don't know, but he spent a number of years in some remote Gulag, carving chess

pieces out of wood. Doug was upset by the experience. He felt that KGB agents had followed

him everywhere in the USSR and, believe me, it's no fun standing in a loo, having a slash, when

the man is standing next to you with a gun bulging out of his pocket. It must have felt like

standing next to Shaking Stevens. Doug soon lost heart about teaching Russian and

subsequently gave up. Herbert decided that since I had taught Greek, Russian would be no

problem. What does a mathematician know about languages? It so happened that I was familiar

with Russian. I had joined a "Russian for Scientists" group in my college days and, although I

was well in touch with the Russian for "oxygen" or "oil refinery", I was a bit shaky when it

came to "balance of terror" or "living standards". To hone my knowledge of the Russian

language I spent four years at evening classes which I first joined in 1960 together with one of

my 6th Formers, Richard Sage. The numbers in that first class, conducted by Mrs Swan from

the University of Harbin, rapidly dwindled when the Trotskyites realised that the difficulties of

the language far exceeded their principles. In 1963 my Russian lecturer, Igor Neudachin,

quietly joined us at the teabreak and whispered, "John Kennedy has just been killed". You

could hear a pin drop. By this time Ancient Greek had disappeared completely. But Latin

didn't suffer the expected casualties. In fact I was teaching 4 periods with 3C in 1968 and 4

periods with 3B in 1969. It was in the decade to come that my timetable would be heavily

committed to teaching Russian. They say that if you can teach Classics, you can teach anything.

Don't believe it. Versatility is essential. But there are limits. Colfe's Grammar School was in a

state of transition. Traditional subjects were being gradually eased out. Period allocations

were being reduced; Latin was to be replaced by Classical Studies. It could have been worse.

The Head of Classics at Trinity was Dennis Blandford who edited a Latin newspaper, Acta

Diurna, from the school. I first encountered Dennis when I was a schoolboy and won a book

token for my crossword solution. I subsequently contributed to the Acta Diurna and he

became a good friend of mine. One day I saw him in tears. He told me that his Headmaster

had shut down the Classics Department and had informed him that he would either be

teaching Italian or he could look for a new job. It took some years for Latin to be restored at

Trinity - and only after a new headmaster had taken over.

19 Stan Wolfson

March 2016

To describe what life was really like in the new school would be doing the school less than

justice. To go from Hell to Heaven would be no overstatement. People who complain about

any deficiencies in the school buildings today should count their blessings. To teach in room F

was a privilege after Room 3 in the Conzlager. Even the study rooms at the end of the first-

floor corridor were beautifully adapted for the needs of small sets and were paradise

compared with the cutlery cupboard at the back of the kitchen in Lewisham. My only concern

was trying to teach in the lecture theatre opposite the study rooms. With 20-30 boys looking

down on you, it wasn't always easy to see what they were up to. You felt as if you were under

a microscope. But let there be no doubt. Anything had to be better than Lewisham, and only

those pupils and teachers who are still with us and who can remember what conditions used

to be like will be in a position to make valid judgements. Never rely on hearsay. Go directly to

the source. Talk to those who were there. It was like going from Auschwitz to Butlins.