Five-Year Diary: Wednesday, 9th June 1976
(Sedbergh School, Age 14.8)
The heat claimed everything. Not just a warm day, but a dry desert heat that caused the air to shimmer and set everyone itching with restless energy. We craved a river, a lake, or the high fells—anywhere but the classroom. There was already talk of a historic drought – greater than anything since ‘the war’. The grass, what was left of it, on the banks above the Rawthey had wilted away its spring-green, replaced by pale, dusty patches, marks scuffed in the baked mud. Only the cricket field—that proud, tilting ground of public-school displays —remained defiantly, extravagantly green, drenched by a regular dose of the hose.
French: I handed in my précis prep, and that was that. The classroom was a furnace—trapped heat, reeking sweat, sunlight stabbing off the desks as if it meant to blind us. No one wanted to concentrate, and why should we? Shirts clung to our backs, tempers on edge. The master carried on as if everything were perfectly civilised, yet he was a wet stick where once there’d been an ice cream. He stubbornly pretended that lessons mattered while our world outside quietly died.
German: Endless note‑taking. Precise, methodical, unrelenting. We record each word, whether it settles in the mind or not. Pens scratch in strict rhythm. A yawn behind me is quickly stifled. The heat presses down, but the lesson proceeds with firm, unsentimental order.
Divinity: We talked about William Tyndale — not just as a translator, but as an insurgent who nurtured words like seedlings from the grip of Latin mud and set them loose in English. What he did was so dangerous that it could get him killed – this made it feel like words mattered. Theology felt tame beside that. One man defied authority and tradition, insisting that ordinary people should read the Bible for themselves. Not permission. Not mediation. Access. That was the real lesson. It had nothing to do with Bible studies and, for me, little to do with Christianity. This is why I respected this teacher. He had a way of reading the room, knowing that amongst the fourteen or so present, one, or none, had any interest in the Church.
Break. Coffee. Everybody was lingering outside because it was too hot indoors.
Latin: I’d done poor prep and knew it. One of those uncomfortable lessons where you avoid eye contact and hope you’re not asked too much.
Music lesson: mercifully, I was outdoors, while the rest of my class was caged in a PE like a fluster of chickens. My music teacher, the only female teacher I had, the wife of the former headmaster, no less, and the only one-to-one tuition I received for anything, took me outside. We sat in the garden in a circle of sun, the light pooling around us, burning the edges of the day like a strip of film jammed in a projector. I tried to rise to the occasion when I put my flute to my lips and played to the birds. I scared them off. Or it was too hot for them to be out.
Lunch: hot and noisy and smelled of hot plates, warm bodies and cut grass.
After lunch, I changed into shorts and escaped early down to the river before the crowds arrived, though it turned out everyone else had the same idea. The place was packed. Practically the entire school and half the town were there. Boys leaping from rocks, shouting, throwing each other in. Even some of the younger masters were swimming.
The water was freezing at first, but perfect once you were in. Everybody stretched out along the banks afterwards like lizards. For once, nobody really cared about rules, hierarchy, or school. Just sun and water and noise.
Biology: I was hopeless. I fooled around too much and got an imposition. I blamed the heat, which was partly true. Nobody could think straight by then.
English: Bodge was away (again). We were given Churchill’s My Early Life to read. It had adventure in it. Cavalry charges and escapes, and politics and swagger. Is this what was expected of us? In a colonial future and future wars?
Then a swimming match. We lost overall, but I swam well myself, and we managed one relay record for the school, so it wasn’t a complete disaster. Chlorine, shouting, whistles, wet tiles, tired shoulders. The usual mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration afterwards.
Later, I beat Branston at squash two–nil, which cheered me up considerably. The courts were cool by evening. Quick to the corners. Good length. Branston was keen to improvise, so I gave him some tips. He’s closer to beating me at squash than he ever will be over a 100m front crawl.
By evening, the heat still hadn’t broken. The stone buildings retained heat even after sunset.
It’s still light when we’re sent to bed. We lie on top of our beds, or with just a sheet over us. Some boys sat on the window keefe – a few made it to the roof.
Everybody hoped tomorrow would be another scorcher.
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