Sedbergh
Five-Year Diary: Monday, 16th February 1976. Up early again, before a prefect or a bell woke us up. I had gone to sleep telling myself I would read the Chemistry chapter first thing, so I did. There is something practical about being awake before the others and being able to study in silence without disturbance. I got a momentary feeling of being alone, not institutionalised with a motley lot of other boys.
I dressed quickly in the cold dormitory air as other slept and went downstairs to the junior common room. My locker was against the wall; the wooden door was like opening a rabbit hutch. I took out my heavy, hardback Chemistry textbook. I sat to read and take notes at what felt like a pew. It was a wooden chair at a desk space. The desk was built under a large bay window. The window looked out into the rear yard.
The window was covered in wire mesh, criss-crossed and slightly rusting at the joins. The mesh was there because during breaks, the yard transformed into a war zone. Balls flew everywhere—rugby balls, footballs, and whatever else boys could kick or throw. The balls hit the mesh with a dull thud or a sharp crack. Sometimes, they rolled up onto the sloping roof below. Sometimes, a ball vanished over the top of the three storeys of the buildings. Other times, it would get trapped in the gutter. Sometimes an older boy would somehow get onto the roof to rescue whatever had been thrown up there.
We were eight, sometimes twelve, sharing the Junior Common room. We wore scruffy black trousers, white shirts, and ties. We had jumpers, I presume, and a Tweed jacket. You learned to concentrate despite the proximity of others. Or perhaps because of it.
The Chemistry chapter I was reading would have been about oxidation — the role of oxygen in reactions. At the Third Form level, we were learning that combustion was not simply “burning.” It was a chemical reaction with oxygen that releases energy. I remember trying to understand that oxygen was invisible but necessary — that without it, nothing burned. It involved lard, sugar, and oxygen. I think the purpose was to demonstrate that both fats and carbohydrates are fuels, chemically speaking. We worked in pairs. We used a small amount of lard or sugar in a metal spoon. We observed how each reacted in the air. Sugar would caramelise first, then blacken, giving off a sweet, burnt smell before charring completely. Lard would melt, then begin to smoke and burn, with a greasier flame.
The lesson, I suspect, was that both substances combine with oxygen to release energy. This process occurs just as food does in the body, only more slowly. Oxidation in the body is controlled combustion. I remember the smell. It was slightly sickly and slightly thrilling. We all leaned forward to see the flame catch. There is something primitive about watching things burn. Mischief was always close at hand. It involved deliberately setting fire to the wrong thing. Or spilling something onto the workbench or linoleum floor.
In English, we read A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I always wanted a decent part to read aloud. Reading in class was a performance opportunity. In a boys’ school, you took what chances you could. You never wanted a girls’ part, or at least I didn’t.
I was given Theseus in the last act — the Duke, measured and authoritative, presiding over order restored after chaos. I liked the sense of control in his speech. I liked projecting my voice and acting it out to an audience of sorts. Shakespeare felt significant — something culturally escapist.
Physics next: experiments on energy and fuel. We measured energy output. It was done by burning methylated spirits — “meths” — under a metal container. The container held 600 cubic centimetres of water. A Bunsen burner flame, blue and steady, is heating the base of a copper or aluminium calorimeter. We recorded the starting temperature of the water. Then, we let the meths burn for a fixed time. Afterwards, we recorded the temperature rise. The point was to calculate the energy transferred:
Energy = mass of water × specific heat capacity × temperature rise.
The manometer may have been attached to measure gas pressure or airflow. It was possibly used to observe changes in pressure as gases heated. We were learning that fuels can be compared by how much energy they release per gram. It felt scientific and precise, though the classroom smelled sharply of meths and warm metal. “OK”, I wrote, which probably meant it worked as it was supposed to. I enjoyed Physics and the teacher was sharp.
I took a break back in Winder house. I made two chocolate spread sandwiches. I also made instant coffee. It was boarding school coffee in a mug, thin and slightly bitter.
Then the walk back to school for Latin was in one of the oldest classes. The classroom had individual oak desks. The desks were marked with boys’ initials and a hole for an ink well. We used fountain pens. We either used cartridges or drew ink from a glass bottle. We carried the bottle around with us in our satchels or brief cases. We were tackling the accusative with infinitives — the construction used in indirect statements. Instead of saying “He says that the boy runs,” Latin says, effectively, “He says the boy to run.” The subject of the subordinate clause goes into the accusative case; the verb becomes an infinitive. It requires a mental shift — thinking in layers. I’d been clueless about Latin, despite studying it since I was 10 or 11.
In Maths we had ‘transformations’ – in size — enlargements and reductions, scale factors, perhaps similar triangles. Sometimes I grasped it instantly; other times the abstraction made it slippery. The teacher was exceptional: enthusiastic and always ready to provide personalised feedback.
Lunch at our House.
Then obligatory Sports, I did swimming — the school swimmers’ session. This was more like a leisure swim rather than a squad session. I took a lane to myself in the four-lane 25m pool. I did my own set: warm-up, then multiple 100s, some sprints, then out.
Later back at the House. Prep
Silas Marner by George Eliot’s language is denser than Shakespeare’s — less theatrical, more interior. Silas alone in his cottage, his gold, his isolation. Then Grammar — the mechanics behind the language.
French: Chapter 9. Le Petit Nicholas.
Probably more verbs, perhaps a narrative passage to translate. I would have underlined words I half knew. I couldn’t get French yet and desperately wanted to spend time in France. I’d been once. The year before, while skiing for a week, I’d broken my leg.
Divinity – the prophet Jeremiah speaking of suffering and endurance. Perhaps the concept of dignity is under trial. At fourteen, you do not fully understand dignity, but you recognise when someone possesses it. The school had an overbearing, Victorian-religious robot that I detested. I was by then a staunch atheist.
“Blocked Prev Breath.” I suspect this was an abbreviation for “blocked — prevented breathing.” Perhaps a note about asthma or the feeling of breath constricted — whether literal or metaphorical. I remember waking some nights feeling unable to breathe properly, as if something were pressing on my chest. It is strange to record it so matter-of-factly. I wasn’t diagnosed as asthmatic until my late teens, during my A-levels, four years away.
There was little time for the things that mattered to me or interested me. There were no girls my age around. I missed the natural world, rivers, and woods, even though we were deep in the North Yorkshire Moors. I also longed for art, both doing it and seeing it. Sedbergh was for ‘rugger buggers’ and philistinism, and performance, whether acting or singing.
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