Five-Year Diary: 28th February 1976, Winder House, Sedbergh School
Woke absurdly early because my sheet had torn itself in half during the night. It was shredded. Maybe I’d had a nightmare, not that I recall. Not the most dignified beginning to a Saturday.
Revised Chemistry before breakfast. Valencies again. The building blocks of everything on earth, apparently. It makes one feel rather in awe of the natural world, as if by memorising a few magic combinations one might unlock the whole arrangement of the universe. Mostly, though, it feels like learning a secret by heart.
Congregation Practice
We had to leave the House early for congregation practice in Powell Hall. I cannot for the life of me recall what we had to do or why. Line up, take your seat, and sit up straight. Sing the hymns with gusto. Have our hymn books. The headmaster was new. I think he wanted to establish some order amongst this shower of boys.
Ordinary morning lessons after that. It’s a Saturday; a ‘normal’ school morning.
Chemistry Labs
Chemistry test on valencies. Twenty questions, one sheet, pencil only, no working allowed. A sort of intellectual firing squad. You either knew the answer at once, or you didn’t—no half marks. No sympathy. I hated multiple choice; it felt like tossing a coin. I prefer to fill in the blanks. We had those too.
“The valency of oxygen is?”
Magnesium chloride?
Aluminium oxide?
Tick, tick, cross.
It was a test of memory. If one had crammed the figures, one survived. If not, one perished quietly. I’d yet to figure out the value of testing yourself, writing stuff out on a blank sheet of paper. Like learning lines for a play, which I could do.
Had anyone taught us how to learn? Never. They could have. It’s not rocket science.
French
French was faintly more entertaining. B had been given an imposition for mocking the master, which caused general satisfaction.
We read Le Petit Nicolas and then drifted entirely off topic. I suspect no French has improved. N’est-ce pas?
English
English was better. I did well on a book review I’d written.
It was A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. I started reading it last Monday, and I finished it by the end of the week, which is quick for me, especially for something so serious. It isn’t a long book, but it feels weighty. Mum had got me it; if she wanted to depress me about being stuck in an all-male boarding school in the North Yorkshire Moors, she succeeded.
The story follows one ordinary day in the life of Ivan Denisovich Shukhov, a prisoner in a Soviet labour camp. He wakes up cold, works in the freezing wind, worries about bread rations, and tries not to get into trouble. That is the point, I think. The horror is in the ordinary. No grand speeches. No daring escape. Just endurance.
What struck me most was how unfair it all seemed. Men are sent away for absurd reasons and treated as if they are less than human. Ivan is practical, sometimes sly, but mostly just trying to survive. It feels, in a way, mean, as though the system is designed to grind people down until they forget who they were. There is something especially unjust about punishing a man and then continuing to punish him every minute of every day.
I admired Ivan’s resourcefulness. The way he hides a bit of bread or smooths a wall properly, to feel he has done something well, is oddly moving. It shows that dignity can survive even in dreadful places.
That said, the book does drag a little towards the end. The endless counting of rations and bricks can become repetitive. Still, perhaps that is deliberate. Camp life would be repetitive.
It is not cheerful, but it is important. I am glad I read it, even if it left me feeling rather cold.
We then read A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and I read Oberon. I can’t say I warmed to him. He seems rather smug.
Break back at the House
Break consisted of two slices of toast with chocolate spread and coffee. Comfort food; the same thing most days. I’m not one for Heinz Sandwich spread or Beans on toast.
Project Centre
Our weekend had begun at 11:25am. I was trying to make a pendant in metalwork. There is something satisfying about filing and shaping metal, though my pleasure came from its destructive nature; I really wanted to make a long sword or follow my blacksmith ancestors and wrap metal around a cartwheel.
Lunch.
Sport.
We were obliged to do something and had to sign up: swimming (if it was on, there was a House rotation on non training days); squash, fives or a run.
I attempted a three-mile run. I took a wrong turn and ended up somewhere unfamiliar. Wet grass, stone walls, a barn, a fast flowing river. Then the sun came out – its first appearance in 1976. It grew terribly hot so I decided walking back was the wiser course. Felt mildly heroic nonetheless.
Baths: six baths in two rows in the shower block. There were showers too. The baths were communal. We could get two or three boys in at a time, legs over the side. Picking who you got in with mattered. You stick to your year group. Prefects had their bath to themselves.
Music
I practised piano and flute in a music cube in the yard; out of boredom, not for a love of the instruments. The flute is tolerable. The piano felt like wrestling with a stubborn piece of furniture and sounded no better.
Went to the Grubber.
P had brought his guitar. After supper, I tried stringing fifths on it. Quite impossibly difficult. My fingers felt like boiled sausages. We decided to form a band. I’d be the lead singer.
Extra Chemistry
Later, I happened to meet the housemaster’s daughter in the corridor. It was an unexpected thrill; I didn’t know where to look, but I smiled at her. That’s chemistry!
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