Fifty Years Ago: Tuesday, 29th June 1976
(Sedbergh School, Age 14.9)
The heat carried on. It felt like it was getting hotter each day and revision was becoming harder and harder. I tried to do some French revision but fell asleep. Whether it was the warmth, the boredom of French grammar, or simply tiredness, I don’t know. I’m used to going on holiday to Spain for weather like this.
German: I started off in the wrong room. I don’t know how I managed that. I blame the heat; my head has turned to pudding. Perhaps everyone was moving around because of exams, or perhaps I simply wasn’t paying attention. Once I found the right place we went over fifty German idioms and then had a short test on verbs.
- Das ist mir Wurst. (It’s sausage to me = I don’t care.)
- Ende gut, alles gut. (All’s well that ends well.)
- Morgenstund hat Gold im Mund.
The morning hour has gold in its mouth.
Meaning: The early bird catches the worm
The normal school year had almost disappeared beneath exam preparation. Not just tests – exams. The real McCoy.
Geography: we received our end-of-term results. I came First.
Not just first in the class, but first in the top Geography set in my year. I don’t remember who taught us then, nor whether there was any particular comment made about the result. What I do remember is that Geography was a subject that genuinely interested me. It connected with things I already enjoyed. My shelves contained books by Nigel Calder. I loved maps. I liked understanding how places fitted together. Given the chance, I’d far rather be outdoors exploring than sitting inside. Geography seemed to join those interests together in a way that made sense.
After the results we went over what we needed to cover for the exams, which brought everyone back down to earth. There was still plenty of work to do.
Break: I had a shandy and a sandwich. The shandy was Bass Shandy, lemonade and beer, from my ruck box – without any alcohol in it. It felt refreshing on such a hot day. If only my tuck box was a refrigerator.
Even break felt hot. The grass was dry, the air hardly moved, the House yard was dusty and everyone was crochety and functioning at half speed.
The day continued to be very hot.
History: We’d been reading The Making of a Nation 1603–1689 by A. J. Patrick. The Stuarts, Parliament, religion, civil war and revolution all merged into one long procession of names, dates and events that had to be remembered before exams. Little did I know that I’d be covering the same ground again and again, for A’ levels and Oxbridge Entrance. In this instance at least I was laying something down that would last.
I didn’t take History O’Level though. Odd that. Something to do with the combination of subjects I was taking: all the sciences, we had to take Maths, English and a language. I’d had to choose between Geography or History. I’d read somewhere that teaching history at school was a mistake. Maybe that had decided me.
In the afternoon we all went river dipping, to the River Lune to swim. I think we were on the far side of Buskholme though there were several places where boys swam. The river offered an escape from classrooms, studies and revision timetables. You needed to keep plimsoles on for the rocks and it was shallow, so it was less swimming and more floating and splashing about.
One of the unusual things about river swimming was that it mixed worlds which were kept apart. There were schoolboys, townspeople, teachers and sometimes teachers’ families all using the same stretch of water. At school those groups rarely overlapped.
Twiggy was only a couple of months older than me, but he was in the year above. If people had met us together they would have assumed I was older. He wasn’t particularly academic, or sporty and looked younger than his actual age as he was so gangly and thin. We got on well enough when he wasn’t telling me to “watch my nip”.
While we were there we saw ‘Ma Skull’, the Deputy Head’s wife, down by the river. It sounds derogatory.
We were barely aware that teachers had families most of the time though a teacher’s son mattered if he was at the school (there were a few of those). A daughter mattered if she was our age and pretty (there were just two of those). A teacher’s wife might be known if she helped run the second-hand book exchange or if she happened to be married to a Housemaster. Otherwise they remained largely invisible figures somewhere beyond the boundaries of school life.
Afterwards we went back for supper.
I learnt that I was going to Corps Camp at the end of term. I don’t know who decided that. It’s a compulsory requirement of coming to Sedbergh. I was never asked. I thought I’d go next year. Get it over before the O’Level year was the thinking.
I probably saw my name on a list somewhere. Looking back, my parents must have been consulted and both agreed that I could go. Neither of them seems to have had any special expectation that I would spend the beginning of the summer holidays with them.
I wasn’t bothered about going. I’d already attended Pioneer Camp every year at prep school, camping in Northumberland. I knew roughly what to expect. This would be similar, except with a military overtone and held on Dartmoor at an Army training camp.
What surprised me was discovering that the decision had been made without me. One day I assumed I’d be home in a couple of weeks, the next thing I found I was headed for an extra week of school controlled activity. But 14 year olds don’t make plans.
Away at school, many decisions arrived like that. Somewhere, adults discussed them, lists appeared, arrangements were made, and eventually you found out what was happening.
Your role was to keep turning up; until you didn’t.
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