The school I went to, Sir William Turner’s School for Boys,
in Redcar, was what I call a “semi-public” school. We had boarders and
“day-boys”. I was a day-boy. The old school had a tremendous sense of history
and tradition: cloisters between the main school and the “Great Hall”; creaking
wooden staircases in curious locations throughout the building; oak panels
naming all the past headmasters and head boys in the Great Hall; masters and
prefects in black academic cloaks; masters able to administer the cane, and
prefects to issue “sides” for infractions of discipline – say, 6 sides (sheets
of paper) to be submitted as an essay on a topic of their choice by a specified
date; walking, in all weathers, between school and Red Barns (the boarders
quarters, some half-a-mile distance) for lunch in almost complete silence
(where, incidentally, I learned to love the skin on custard, because, if you
did, the jug was passed to you first; if you were last, there was hardly any
left). The old school was demolished to make way for a new library, and a new
school was built; it was all downhill from there. Fortunately, I spent only one
year in the new school.
The choice of University course was largely up to the
masters. At the appointed time, we each entered the library alone, and sat on a
chair surrounded by the masters, arranged in a horseshoe. The exchange was
supposed to be two-way, but it was only minimally so. Mr. Barker, the
headmaster, scanned my report. He noticed that, in the third form, I had
switched from Geography to Greek, and asked me why.
“Because I came bottom in Geography, Sir.”
This seemed to me to be a perfectly reasonable response; I
was obviously not good at Geography, and had decided to try my luck at a
subject that I could certainly do no worse in (as it turned out, I performed as
badly in Greek as I had in Geography, but, in later life, I appreciate how much
of Greek actually stuck in my mind; I blame the Pelopponesian wars). Mr. Barker
saw it somewhat differently.
“Mr. Elliott, note that down for the school magazine.”
(Aquila, in which it duly appeared)
He guffawed. And this is where I have to express my love of
the English language. They say that the Eskimos have 37 different words for
snow – it isn’t true, of course, but they do have significantly more words then
we do to describe cold weather conditions, because they need them. England is
blessed (although it wasn’t immediately obvious at the time) with having being
invaded and overrun by foreigners on numerous occasions. And what was our
response? Not to resist as you might expect, except superficially, but rather
to embrace, to the extent that we gladly assimilated foreign language
vocabulary and idioms into English. Loving them to death, in a way. Such is
British history; we have hardly ever opposed, at least not vigorously, but
rather happily absorbed. I like to think this is a strength of our character.
And so Mr. Barker guffawed, loud and long. That idiotic
upper-class expression of amusement. And afterwards, he glanced again at my
report.
“Electrical Engineering, don’t you think, Mr. Elliott? Yes,
Meekings, Electrical Engineering. Next.”
And so my university fate was decided. My parents objected,
knowing how much I loved Mathematics, but to no avail.
I was in the Senior Scouts, having come up through the ranks
of Cubs and Scouts. In the upper sixth form, before moving on to University, we
undertook a trip to an uninhabited Outer Hebridean island – Mingulay. There was
only one island beyond Mingulay before you hit Newfoundland; it had been inhabited
at one time, but all that was left was a ruined schoolhouse and the surrounding
abodes. I mention this only because it made the local papers, and resulted in
all the members of the expedition being introduced to the Duke of
Something-or-Other. We stood in a line as he walked down, shaking hands with
each of us in turn.
“And what will you be reading at university?”
“Classics at Oxford, Sir.”
“Mathematics at Durham, Sir.”
“Philosophy at Liverpool, Sir.”
“Electrical Engineering at Battersea College, Sir.”
The last one, of course, was me. Battersea College was to
receive its Charter and become the University of Surrey while I was there, but
that wasn’t important at the time. Any “pure” subject (Classics, Philosophy,
Physics, English, History, …) was acceptable. Engineering, of any kind, was the
sort of thing you did if you weren’t considered good enough for the purely
academic subjects. And it wasn’t a subject you “read”.
So that was how I came to study Electrical Engineering, a
subject in which I had no interest, and which seemed to have even less interest
in me. And also how I came to be thrown out in the middle of my second year for
writing poetry on my exam papers. I don’t remember the subject matter of the
poems, but it probably related to the pointlessness of existence, or the
impoverished human condition – at that age, we are all idealistic.
But I enjoyed my time at university at the government’s
expense …
