Rev W W Davidson's (H. 1934-39) memories of BC

Rev W W Davidson (H. 1934-39) recalls his time at Brighton College with his twin brother, Henry Davidson (H. 1934-39)

By this time (1934) the war – or Great War as it was always referred to – had ended some sixteen years before. At the time of writing (November 1993) we have just marked the 75th anniversary of what was then called Armistice Day – the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, when the Armistice took effect. Then there was one minute’s silence and it was silence: the traffic stopped and people stood still wherever they were. It was impressive. That was the minute of Remembrance, the name by which we observe it today. It is now always on a Sunday.

This year some of the surviving veterans of Ypres (which the Tommies called Wipers!) in their nineties, together with H.M. the Queen Mother, in her 93rd year, gathered in Westminster Abbey. 1914-1918 is a long time ago.

Those who actually remember Flanders and other battlefields had their young minds indelibly imprinted by sights, sounds and emotional events which changed their personalities in a flash. Similarly, we who survived the Second World War are marked. I recall the first occasion Henry and I met Dorothy Hett, the wife of Walter Hett, Headmaster of Brighton College, which was on our return from Europe and the Far East. Dorothy and mother were sitting on a tree trunk in the garden of their house, Warrior’s Wood, in Cobham. She was weeping and mother asked what was the cause of the tears. She said she was so shocked to see how two young men (we were 26) had so aged. We were both bald at the front.

Again, my stepson-in-law’s father was described as, “a young man who had seen too much too young”. He was a Lancaster Bomber Captain. The masters at the College were recruited from First World War veterans. War is a damaging experience.

At whatever point in history an individual begins his or her education the climate of society makes a huge difference. In those days life was pretty uncomplicated. Every man and boy had his hair cut short back and sides. We wore uniform at school. Discipline was strict but not oppressive. We knew where we stood. We had targets to aim at.

Let me illustrate my point about the climate of the time. On the day of writing I have just collected Sue Smith who cleans for us. She has a young son of 12 years who told her yesterday about two boys on the football field who had an argument and a fight started. The young and new P.E. master told them to stop. They said to him, “You had better go away, sir, or we shall not be responsible for our actions”. He went away!

Today I am saddened by the apparent lack of reference points for the young. We have more single mothers in the U.K. than any other country in the world; no reference point there. It is as if someone has removed all the Trig points from the countryside and the travellers have no point on which to take a bearing. Society is impoverished.

In The Times of 30th October 1998 there was an article about bullying in schools. There was, of course, some in our day. ‘Tom Brown’s School Days’ is a record of savagery in a public school in the Victorian Age. It has always been present in society. However, I do believe the quality of the staff acts as a strong deterrent. I quote from a significant paragraph of the article:-

“There used to be a backbone of unambitious long stay teachers, well known, and trusted by generations of pupils. Now most of them have taken early retirement and schools have filled up with younger, cheaper teachers who don’t know what’s what. It makes a huge difference to the pastoral security of pupils”.

Henry and I set out into public school life in a very different ethos and in a way it is impossible for today’s generation to imagine what the ethos was like. Nevertheless, it is worth a try! I always recall my history tutor at Oxford saying, “You must be able to move about mentally in your imagination in your particular period. Then you get a feel for the period”. So, read on……………

Incidentally, before the calculator there was only long division and multiplication. The clever chaps had slide rules – a real sign of class and ability. The ordinary blokes had logarithm tables. Would anyone even recognise them today? Today’s senior citizens are a hardy bunch when you think how the world has changed and of the adjustments they had to make!

I shall always remember our first day at Brighton College, January 1934 – it was unforgettable – dressed in grown up uniform: black shoes, grey flannel trousers (worsted had not been invented), dark jacket, white shirt with detachable collar and black tie and – yes – on top of that a speckled boater with a broad band consisting of dark blue and dark red ribbon round it. How to wear it? Straight, was the answer. It felt strange walking up Paston Place to the Royal County Hospital, turning left, and then on to ‘The College’, as it was called, some quarter of a mile down Eastern Road. We always wore a Mac made of gabardine – blue, with a belt and buckle. This was the standard for many schools. I recall some twenty years’ later being issued with one when I joined the Royal Navy as a chaplain (but no belt!)

Having got to the top of the road Henry recalls that we were very apprehensive. In fact we were frightened. It was all very big and threatening. Having done well at our Prep School this was starting again at the bottom. As in the Navy a midshipman was the lowest form of animal life, we were the ‘New Boys’. We had to report a day earlier than the rest of the school in order to learn the ropes. In our fear we took a diversion up Upper Abbey Road, probably the steepest hill in Brighton. Having gone up we had to come down again. There was no escape. We walked through the main gate. Just inside we met another new boy, John Moore. His father, I remember, was an actuary and John became one himself. We were friends from then on. (Now in 1998 we are all still alive). We were met by the Head of House. We thought he was a master. He was big, dressed in a suit and gown. His hair had been well treated with Brylcream. To us, he was a man. Senior boys were eighteen or nineteen before they left. His name was W. D. D. Cook, Captain of Swimming, and a fine water polo player. We felt pretty small. He conducted us to our House, Hampden A, which was located in the Tin Huts. They were, in fact, ex First War Army huts of corrugated iron with wooden interiors. They were painted black. Behind them over the wall was a road. On the school side there was a bank on the top of which were the rugby and cricket playing fields. In retrospect they were shocking huts. There was a certain amount of heating from radiators. This was our accommodation. Yes – there was electric light!

Having hung up our coats and boaters we were instructed to go back to the main buildings where we did tests. John was bright and went into a high class. We were not so bright and went into the bottom class, with a good many others.

We met our Housemaster, one Frank Holdgate, a Cambridge science graduate known as ‘Nags’. This was simply because he was in the habit of nagging at boys with a slightly nasal voice from his 6’2” height. My immediate impression was not great. He was not inspiring nor really frightening. I thought he was OK but uncertain of himself. Looking back I can see that I had, from an early age, an ability to sum up a person. It has developed over the years and has proved a useful asset in my life.

We were then told to go to lunch in School House dining room. We waited outside a big oak door. On Remembrance Day (1978) I passed the spot and vividly recalled the door being flung open from the other side. Inside there was a man – or so he appeared to us – one, Christopher Jarvis, Head of School House and Captain of Boxing (Heavyweight). He greeted us – “Ah! New Boys! I eat them!” Incidentally, Christopher was later ordained. He was the son of the then Provost of Sheffield who was a controversial figure. He frequently threatened to resign, but never did! Christopher served in the Black Cat division and was badly shaken up in a mine field. He survived and became Chaplain of the College immediately after the war. He did splendid work visiting problem children and their families during the holidays. He also did a spell as Chaplain of the Royal Hospital Chelsea. Sadly, his war experience proved to be more serious than anyone thought and he withdrew from pastoral life and lived in a cottage with his sister in the grounds of Warwick Castle where he became a gardener.

So, New Boys, I eat them! That was the first of many frights. The English public school is unique. The schools take young boys and make men of them. At least that was the idea. It was done by rigid routine, tough discipline, and, at times, punishment with a stick. Fear and tradition also played their part every day. You were constantly made aware of the fact that you were no one. In Brighton College the new boy was a Fag.

A Fag was a servant to the house prefects and school prefects. You ran errands, bought tuck at the Tuck Shop, collected the newspaper from the College Porters’ Lodge, and cleaned the prefects’ rugger boots or cricket boots. In the winter you fagged three days at a time. The fagging list was put up at the beginning of term. In the summer you fagged four days at a time. I thought I had finished, but, come 11.00am and, at the beginning of a 15 minute break, I was asked why the newspaper had not been collected and delivered. “Because I am not on duty”. But I was shown the list and there and then, in the Horse Box, as it was called – a quarter of the Senior Common Room – I was given at least three on the backside with an Officer Cadet’s swagger stick, and I had to collect the paper at the double and not be late for class. I never made the mistake again! In retrospect it did me no harm. It certainly taught me a sharp lesson – don’t assume anything; next time read the notices carefully.

At Brighton the masters had their own classrooms and the boys moved around. Sometimes it involved a good walk and even a run to get there on time. It was inadvisable to be late. The school bell was rung by Tommy Smart, the Porter. P.T. was always in the Quad. This was the kingdom of Sergeant Major Becket, an Army boxer and a relative of the famous Joe Becket of boxing fame. There was no messing about with him. He was a splendid character, always immaculate in white flannels, white sweater and white rubber shoes. “Don’t look down, lad, look up. There is nothing to look down for – I’ve picked up all the tanners earlier in the day!” (A tanner was sixpence in old coinage, a little larger, with a milled edge, than today’s five pence piece). After forty minutes of Becket, half on the Quad and half in the Hall, one felt ‘done’.

Recalling Sue Smith’s son’s incident with the young master, I can just imagine what would have happened in January 1934 when I first went to Brighton College. If anything like that had been said to Sergeant Major Becket he would have fished into the right hand pocket of his immaculately pressed white flannel trousers for a small piece of paper and a stump of black lead pencil. All he would have said was, “What’s yer name, lad?” He would carefully and solemnly make a note (whether he ever actually wrote down the name or not is unimportant, but he never forgot!). “See you at 3.00pm on Saturday afternoon in the Quad”. Becket’s drill was a remedy for insubordination that worked. We called drill a ‘Twistipation’. We all held Sergeant Major Becket in the highest regard throughout our time at Brighton and we sought him out when we returned in the years that followed as Old Boys.

The staff had all, with a few exceptions, seen service in the Great War. Our fathers were survivors. We were, therefore, in the presence of mature, educated men. Looking back and recognising the ethos of the time, they were fair, strict, good-natured men. Sometimes they were sarcastic and a little cynical, but really nothing to worry about. They were good factual teachers. We knew where we stood. The staff of masters was in charge. There were, of course, those who defied the order of the day. By and large we were kept busy all day and every day, games every afternoon.

The day began with Chapel. All boys except Roman Catholics and Jews attended. We were catered for spiritually, mentally and physically. Yes – it was knowledge by rote: life was like that in the thirties (although perhaps, in the Sixth Form, there was more imagination). Everyone filed into Chapel to one’s allocated place. Henry and I were in the choir. School prefects filed in last in order of seniority wearing gowns. There was a hymn, a lesson read by a prefect (and, incidentally, a great deal of trouble was taken rehearsing these readings), prayers followed, and then out to classrooms. This was the regime Mondays to Saturdays.

The shape of one’s timetable really controlled the whole of one’s life. The worst thing was a double period: no escape from the master for two periods. Let me give a thumbnail sketch of some of the staff:-

One master, H. B. Davison, know as ‘Dago’, was upright and very well dressed. I cannot remember him ever wearing anything but a bow tie. A ‘double Dago’ put apprehension into everyone. Even Donald Low, a scholar and life long friend, confided in me that he feared those. In fact Dago was the finest kind of gentleman schoolmaster you could wish to meet. We found in the library a book, ‘The History of a First War Royal Horse Artillery Regiment’. In it was the history of the Territorial Army. Henry found the book and also found a picture of Major H. B. Davison, MC and Bar, ‘The lad David’. He was mounted on a charger – splendid sight.

Dago had a unique teaching technique. His subjects were French and Latin. The key to his teaching was ‘The Dago Notebook’. I still have mine. It is not out of date. Down the left hand pages were rules of grammar, etc. The right hand side was creased down the middle – not severely – the word or phrase on the left and the meaning on the right. The left hand was for rules. When everyone was seated Dago said, “Notebook!”. He picked up a different one each class and then started round the class. If you could not answer all he said was, “Tenner”. That meant write it out ten times. Next class he would ask, “Tenners?” We would own up. “Know it now?” “Yes, sir!” He never asked to see the tenners. He assumed you had done it. On mentioning this to Henry he could immediately quote from his Notebook. Indeed, I’ve known boys, when married with children, asking fro a Notebook from their friends for their children. By picking up at random a different book at each lesson he made sure there were no mistakes. “It’s no use learning mistakes!” he would say.

He was a little deaf. If a boy mumbles he would say, “Speak up, tupenny. I am a little deaf – I was wounded in war”. Tupenny was a two pence piece and Tupenny was a term of endearment. In those days 2d was a lot of money if one had only a little.

To overcome who was who with us twins he decided to call us William/Henry, said fast, and, “then I shall never be wrong!”. We did not mind this. Years later, when in the School Certificate class, I remember him asking, “William are you frightened of me?”, to which I answered, “Yes, sir”. With a lovely smile he retorted, “William, what a whopper!” He was the kind of teacher from whom I could learn.

My very first confrontation with him was when, very unusually, I was ‘off’ P.T. I had, with others in similar circumstances, to work at the back of his large classroom in the New Building on the ground floor. Others who had reached a certain age did their Recruit Training for the OTC (Officer Training Corps) under the famous, to us, RSM Hawkins. ‘Toplis’, so named because he looked exactly like an infamous criminal whose picture appeared in a newspaper. He was ex-Royal Marines and a crack shot, one of the King’s Hundred – the last hundred in the annual shoot at Bisley for the King’s Cup. Each year the winner was, and indeed still is, ‘chaired’ by his fellow competitors. Toplis had a special saying when training recruits to assume the prone position for firing: “Keep your bottom down, laddie, otherwise you will get it pepper-potted”. So you kept your bum down! These recruits drilled in front of School House. I, for the only time I was excused P.T., was viewing the recruits with a great deal of fascination and longing to be one myself. They were doing arms drill and marching. In order to set the intervals in the proper, ‘2, 3’ manner, Toplis struck a kettledrum. I was absorbed when suddenly I was brought back to reality: H. B. Davison spoke. “That boy at the back looking out of the window – what is your name?” “Davidson, sir”. “How do you do? Did you not know that our clan is celebrated for its hard work?” The point was nicely put – and taken.

Then there was the Rev. A. J. Williams, known as Bill, a graduate of Clare College, Cambridge. He played rugby for Waterloo and Lancashire. He had been a Naval chaplain, who was in the HMS Princess Royal at the Battle of Jutland in Admiral Lord Beatty’s Battle Squadron. He recalled in private conversation, when I was older, how that, when they saw the first salvo fired at them by the German fleet, he ducked behind a canvas screen on the bridge structure. He chuckled as the memory of such a futile gesture was recalled. As a master he was pretty ineffective. He had been a heavyweight boxer, indeed, he was heavyweight champion of the Navy. He had a damaged nose. Consequently his eyes frequently required wiping. In his breast pocket he always had one of a splendid collection of coloured silk handkerchiefs. He would bury his face in this and dig into the corners of his eyes with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. It was a regular occurrence during his teaching.

Years later, when I was serving in the Royal Navy as a Chaplain (1953-57), I met Canon Arthur Gilbertson, then the senior ‘old’ Naval Chaplain. In my school days he used to come regularly to Brighton and preach as the Chaplain of the Fleet. He recalled Bill with warm affection and consequently gave me much appreciated friendship. To illustrate the nature or disposition of Bill, Gilbertson told me that he had, on being appointed Chaplain of the Fleet, written to each of the C in C’s, Portsmouth, in this case – to inform the Admiral of his recent appointment and to ask permission to visit the Admiral’s Command (they always observed these courteous social customs in those days). In his letter he reminded the Admiral that his shipmate had been Bill Williams. Incidentally, Gilbertson had been chaplain to Beatty’s flagship and, as far as I know, Bill was in the battle cruiser behind. The Admiral replied, “You are welcome into my Command at any time. I recall Bill Williams clearly. He was, without question, the worst preacher I have ever heard, but, without question, one of the finest chaplains I have ever met”.

We knew he was an indifferent preacher. But he not only taught us how to scrum and hook but he introduced me to real Christianity. He just ‘spoke’ by his general attitude. No scholar, but full of common sense and manhood. Yes – he was a hopeless preacher. A frequent saying of his in the pulpit was, “as it were, so to speak”. Lots of boys ran a sweepstake during the sermon. The total number of “As it were’s” was decided before the sermon and careful count was kept. There was suppressed excitement near the end, as the total was decided when he turned to the altar and said, “And now unto God the Father, etc…” Who was the winner? There was also pulpit cricket: outstretched arms was a wide – one run; a pointed finger was a bye; and a general sweep of hand from right to left was a boundary – four runs!

After the war, at the Memorial Service for the 150 Old Brightonians killed, (60 of them were our contemporaries), Bill was the preacher. It was as if the biblical story of the dumb man had been given back his speech – ‘The string of his tongue was loosened and he spake plain’. It was a splendid sermon, based on the words, “They are just beyond the veil”. He had invited me to help him with the sermon. He spent hours working on it, but when he got into the pulpit he abandoned his script and spoke from the heart. It was such a joy and relief to us all.

Bill took such an interest in me during my training for Ordination. He and Peggy, who was a skilled needlewoman, gave me two splendidly embroidered stoles – white and green – which he had used for years. By this time he had suffered a stroke and could no longer perform any priestly duties. A finer man you could not wish to meet. Peggy always called me ‘Little Bill’ so I knew which Bill she was referring to. On Remembrance Sunday 1997 I returned both stoles to Brighton College Chapel for safe-keeping and, hopefully, for further use. I had had them since 1950! Bill’s only daughter, Hilary, later became Mayor of Brighton and, only recently, moved to New Zealand. After retiring from the College, Bill served a few years as Chaplain of the Royal Sussex County Hospital. Matron told me that there had been, from time to time, a succession of chaplains, but never before in her experience had the hospital had a chaplain like Bill Williams.

Next was E. D. G. Hammett, a Welshman. He could draw immaculate triangles and circles on the board with speed. Then, in his Welsh accent, “Now we all know, don’t we (your name) that an isosceles triangle has, what, David?” Yes – he could teach you how to do those sums. “If water drips from a tap at the rate of 10 drips a minute, etc., and the receptacle has a capacity of so many cubic inches, how long will it take the receptacle to fill?” Ernie had been in the Machine Gun Corps; goodness knows how he survived. I was a Vickers Machine Gunner in the Cheshire Regiment in 1940 so I realise just a little of what he had survived. But, more important, he was a fine rugby player. It was, I suppose, unique to be invited to play for both Wales and England at stand-off half on the same day! He chose England (he played tennis for Wales). He trained the 1st XV three quarters. In those days kicking for touch was a big part of the game and he taught us all how to kick with the instep and cause the ball to spiral. So – we had good masters. We all knew where we stood.

In our last two years (1938-39) the then Headmaster, C. F. Scott, recruited four splendid young graduates to join the staff: K. G. C. Campbell, Dulwich and Trinity, a fencing Blue and junior British Sabre champion. He had money, good looks and taught French, mainly. He was also the owner of an expensive Cambridge blue MG sports car. A good deal of envy followed that car around! T. G. L Balance, an Oxford cricket Blue. He taught English. W. S. Stewart, solo boy chorister of Liverpool and later Choral Scholar of Trinity, Cambridge. And lastly, Gurney, who had a First in Classics. These men made an enormous difference to the staff and the school. Tragically, Ken Campbell, having survived the war in the Intelligence Corps, died of cancer in spite of the best efforts of the King’s own physician, Lord Dawson of Pen. ‘Tris’ Balance died of wounds in northern Italy whilst serving with the Durham Light Infantry.

Henry and I survived, as did Bill Stewart. Bill returned to the College with a Military Cross to become successively Housemaster of Chichester and then Headmaster. After building up the College he became the Master of Haileybury. He died quite suddenly one Sunday afternoon on the playing field the day after James’ confirmation. It was an enormous shock to us all. I preached at his Memorial Service in the Chapel at Brighton College. He had recovered from ‘flu’, but was unaware that he had viral pneumonia.

When the war came we were prepared for discipline in the Services. Many young men I observed in the Army had a hard time learning the hard ways – they had not had our experience or advantages. In my years (1934-39) the College did pretty well at games and at work. It was competitive and there was a lot of House rivalry. The Cock House Cup was the aim of every House. Bill Williams’ House, Wilson’s, always walked off with it!

Games came easily to me being, what is called, ‘a natural’. However, work in the classroom was not easy. Looking back I can see quite clearly that I had, what today is termed, ‘learning difficulties’ – it was not a matter of being unintelligent. However, that is how it appeared. No one knew what the problem was. Clearly it was a mild form of dyslexia, but serious enough to be a real hindrance and embarrassment. It is interesting to note that in my two-volume edition, 1952, of the Shorter Oxford Dictionary, the word, dyslexia, is not listed! There was a good deal of private suffering in regard to getting to grips with work in the classroom. There was definite confusion with letters and numbers. Apart from this, I was well up with the stream. As I progressed up the school, I succeeded. But all the time there was the ball and chain of learning difficulties.

I have always had an excellent memory for day-to-day facts and events. Writing at my desk on this bright, sunny last day of February 1995, I can step back into Brighton College and recall so many things in remarkable detail. I can see the look of the changing room, the clothes on the pegs, and the showers, etc. It is just like a re-run of a film. Even the smell of various parts of the College is near at hand. But, when it came to absorbing facts, say, of history: “Write notes in the battle of Aboukir Bay”; “Write notes on the battle of Worcester”, I found it so difficult to produce these. All through my ministry I had to think of ways of retaining the names of people or streets in my parishes. Now I can see that there has always been a huge difference my experiential memory and my cerebral memory: to experience was to recollect, but to see information printed on a page was a different matter.

Years later I became aware that I could progress quite easily from practice to theory, but theory to practice has always proved difficult. Things have not changed in the 1990’s. In those days you were slow, average or bright. I was certainly slow, in the first instance, at reading. There were few, if any, theories as to why this was. Now I know. Spelling has always presented me with problems. There is a blockage regarding a number of simple words. Presumably the mental habit of being uncertain is too well established to correct. At least I know when I am uncertain and even have an old dictionary in the glove compartment of my car! If one had difficulty it is essential for one’s confidence and self-respect to have a method of overcoming it. I had this. No one helped me with this problem. I had to solve it myself.

In retrospect the sad realisation for me is that so much mental time was, and always has been, spent dealing with this difficulty that there has been little or no time for imagination. I am not a creative person. In later years, with time to analyse, I see quite clearly that I can be really innovative when finding an answer to a physical problem. When repairing or restoring china or furniture I can nearly always find a way of solving a problem. This also applies to helping individuals. I have patience – by grace, I am sure – and perseverance. So – if I had known what I know now my school academic record would have been quite different.

Without going into too many details, I did well at practical things. OTC was a joy. Henry and I were both under-officers. Rugger, cricket, fives, were all easy and so I succeeded. I got my Colours for all these with ease. In cricket, at 17 years of age, I was the youngest in the 1st XI.

Regarding work – that was a very different matter. Having FAILED my Oxford and Cambridge Joint Board in the summer terms 1937 and 1938, my father decided it would be a good thing if I attempted this hurdle once again in the winter term 1938, when there was no distraction such as cricket. Walter Hett, the Headmaster, told my father that I had failed so badly it really was not possible for me to pass even after one term’s remedial work and it would be a waster of the entrance fee, which was then five guineas – five pounds and five shillings – quite a lot of money. Nevertheless my father said, “I would like him to try”.

I set to work with the concentrated help of masters – Tubby Hill, Bill Stewart and Ralph Farnell. In the middle of the exam I played for the 1st XV v Old Boys and, in the course of the match, came into collision with Henry as we tackled the same man. My right eye came into contact with his head resulting in an almost instantaneous balloon which virtually closed my right eye. Steak and other treatments of the day failed to reduce the swelling so I did the second week of exams with a shade over it: I was one-eyed. Henry used to make me answer questions when we had gone to bed. No-one could have received more help and encouragement. Henry recalls that he met me after I had come out of the Exam Room in the New Building having written the History paper. He took the paper and, after reading the questions I had ticked, asked what I had given as my answers. He recalls, “Bill could not remember a bloody thing!” Yes – I got a Credit!

In fact it was Henry who ‘phoned Walter Hett and asked him if he could put me out of my misery. I was told to ‘phone Walter, which I did. Well, come the second week in January 1939 Walter Hett asked me to visit him at the College. It was still the Christmas holidays. I can picture him at his desk. He was signing letters in a book of leaves of blotting paper, his pince-nez glasses on his nose attached to a silk braided ribbon with a gold nugget slide by which he adjusted the loop that went round his neck. Walter was known to us, and to everyone, as ‘the Duke’ because he acted the part of the Duke of Plazatoro in ‘The Gondoliers’. I sat just inside the door on a chair whilst he finished. Then he looked up and said, “I have a certain piece of information which has come to me from my friend who is Secretary of the Oxford and Cambridge Joint Board. I cannot guarantee that this information will appear in ‘The Times’ next week. If you would like to hear it I will tell you”, to which I replied, “I would like to hear it, please”. “You have passed all five subjects with a Credit in each and have Matric exemption”. Unbelievable! He was please and so was I. I walked home on air and told my mother. She said, “I don’t believe it”. She did, really. We were very relieved to read it in ‘The Times’ a week later. It proved that I had the brain power, which had been working hard with a kind of ‘governor’ on its production side. So I could go to King’s, London University. This success changed my life.

Again, recalling the incident of the young P.E. master which I have already related, it makes me hugely grateful that the masters at Brighton were of such stature. In the first place they were real men.

My first Housemaster was not too impressive even though he soon moved to another House and then went on to be Head of the Arnold School, Blackpool. By contrast, his successor, R L Farnell, stood head and shoulders above him. Early in the First World War he had left Oxford before taking his degree and joined up with thousands of others. He survived Gallipoli and returned to take up school mastering. I don’t quite know how he got his degree. Presumably, like so many of us after World War II, he took a shortened course. He certainly strode into Chapel wearing, now I come to think of it, a BA gown and a degree hood. Tommy Smart had been his batman and he became the College porter. Both were wonderful characters. They were invariably kind, genuine and sincere. Their sense of humour was always present. Ralph’s laugh was unmistakable. His nickname was ‘Spitty’ because there was a certain amount of ‘splash’ around his mouth when in full cry. He taught English and Maths. It was quite within his ability to teach the Sixth Form, although his speciality was the School Certificate.

In addition, Ralph was a keen sportsman. His main game was hockey and he was Captain of Sussex. Brighton had its own brand of Fives. Three masters – R L Farnell, T A Hill, R L Lester and an OB, A K Wilson (an excellent games player and father of our contemporary, Norman) – played Fives every week. It was a highly skilled quartet. Ralph hit the ball with real ferocity from the back of the court. I used to watch these four as often as I could and learnt so much. Eventually, after years of learning, I was invited to play. Thanks to them I eventually won the Junior Fives Cup with the elder Storr-Best (which I still have) and then the Senior Cup the following year. I can’t remember what happened to that, but my partner was Leslie Grose, a very fine athlete.

Ralph was a real teacher. Of course he had his methods! One was his habit of taking a large handful of hair (which we called ‘air raids’) and moving one’s head about at the same time uttering such things as, “You ‘orrible little brute, how many times have I got to tell you”? Or he would put his boot on the end of the bench and pressure you along it. On one occasion, I can still see the other boys between the victim and the window piled up as they all sought to escape him. There was a lot of laughter and good humour. He taught me ‘The Tempest’. I almost knew it by heart. It was thanks to him that I achieved a Credit for English, which was one of his subjects, as was my Credit for Maths. When I became Head of House he treated me like a man. I was, in fact, nineteen when I left Brighton, but in those days this was normal because many of us went either to university or into the services.

Ralph’s enthusiasm was splendid. He wrote to me regularly throughout the war. When I left the College he gave me (and Henry too) a gold Eversharp pencil. Engraved on it were these words:

Bill,
In gratitude
For his devoted services to Hampden
And the College
R.L.F

I still have and treasure it.

There is so much I could write about this remarkable man; his wonderful devotion to his mother who lived in Oxford. Think of driving to Oxford from Brighton over a weekend in a four door open bull-nosed Morris Cowley, which he started with a crank handle. In the thirties that was a journey and a half. His first wife died in childbirth and he later married the nurse who attended her. That child was a schizophrenic. She was a clever girl, but a real problem to him. Eventually she committed suicide. His second daughter, Jane, was a pleasing girl. Alas, she had her sister to cope with. Mrs Farnell, ultimately, also committed suicide. Ralph triumphed over this. Years later he developed cancer. After surgery, his sister, who owned a fine house in Hampstead, nursed him with the help of an Australian nurse.

I vividly remember visiting him in Hampstead when I came back from the Far East. The nurse told me I could have twenty minutes with him. After twenty minutes we knew that it really meant saying “Goodbye”. Typically he said, “Bill – we’re going to have another twenty minutes”, and we did. Bill Peters, the College Chaplain, took the sacraments to him all the way from Brighton. He was a devoted Christian. I have always been so grateful for the influence of this fine Christian gentleman schoolmaster. When I compare Andrew and James’ masters, they both missed out badly. Their models were in an inferior league and this has always caused me sadness. Whenever I call at Wadham and go to the chapel I think of Ralph Farnell because, on entering on one’s right, is a marble plaque to a Farnell – his uncle, in fact. He told me about him when I went up after the War.

Henry and I have an interesting connection with Nigel Kennedy, the violinist. His father’s name was John Kennedy. His parents went to Australia and John was handed over to a foster mother. Her name was Atkin-Swan so he was known as John Atkin-Swan. She was a formidable lady. I clearly recall Ralph Farnell saying to me one day (I was Head of House), “Bill, we are in trouble. Mrs Atkin-Swan is steaming up the drive”. She was like an angry swan paddling along in pursuit of the Housemaster. Little did Henry and I know that John would become such a distinguished cellist. He used to play ‘The Swan’ on the stage at Speech Day. He had a double mastoid, not seen in these days of antibiotics. The operation was carried out by cutting a curve behind the ear to get at the infection. Of course the bone would not close and the victim always wore a strip of dressing the length of the wound. John had one on each side. He could never swim.

I clearly recall being operated on in my parent’s bedroom. I was given an anaesthetic by Dr Clarke and Dr Scatliffe, ENT consultant at the Children’s Hospital, lanced my left ear drum. It was drained for days and dressed daily by the sister of a fellow called Marlow in our House, Hampden. I was lucky. Things were different in those days! In the year 2001 I had a hearing test and the examiner informed me that he could still see the scar 70 years later.

Henry and I had a soft spot for John Atkin-Swan because he alone knew the difference between us and always got our names correct. John became a distinguished cellist. When he came of age he again assumed his real name, John Kennedy. He was appointed Principal Cellist to the Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra by Sir John Barbarolli. Later he was Professor of Music at Sidney University. He married Cilla, a pianist. They met at the Royal School of Music. Sadly, John became a victim of alcohol and his marriage broke up. Their only son, Nigel, met his father once when he returned from Australia, but it was too late. He could no longer play. Later Cilla married Duncan Forbes, an exact contemporary of ours in Hampden B. Henry and Dorothy are still in touch with her and Nigel, now just ‘Kennedy’. Nigel is very good to his mother.

When Henry and I came to take our leave of Walter Hett, the Headmaster, at the end of the Summer term 1939, I recall him telling us that he may have made an error regarding our being twins. He told us he had thought of taking Henry out of Hampden A and making him Head of Hampden B. In fact Henry thanked him and said he thought it would have been unfair to Hampden B and that he was quite happy to have soldiered on as Number 2 to Bill. The results of being twins, in our case, in that period, were not always to our individual advantage. Henry was hard done by. Henry should have been made Head of Hampden A. The reader will recall that serious error at Prep School when the loveable rogue, Jim Knowland, changed our hair partings and I became Davidson I and Henry, Davidson II. Henry should have been Head of Hampden A in terms of seniority. It just shows how silly adults can be when they are blinded by the novelty of twins instead of realising that they are two individuals. Today I always say that parents who have twins should go on a course for parents, run by twins. At least today twins get a better chance and are usually dressed differently. It’s bad enough being recognised as the same without being dressed the same. But you have to be on the experiencing end of this statement to know what it is like. Spectators just don’t seem to get the point.

From all these memories of mine you will, as the reader, observe that all these men had a serious and long lasting influence on me for good. Further, their influence has lasted, for which I am always grateful and thankful. I fully appreciate that ‘distance adds enchantment to the view’ but, I repeat, these men were of the immediate post First War era. They had been pupils of the sternest tutor, namely adversity. The later additions to the staff, Bill Stewart and his colleagues, came into a man’s world in the Common Room where there was an abundance of experience and maturity. But education is not enough – it was their humanity and experience in the University of Life which rubbed off on us day by day. I am grateful to them and supremely to our parents, whose vision and sacrifice made our years at Prep School and Brighton College possible. It was the best inheritance they could have given us. They left school at fourteen years of age! In the end, through all of them and in spite of my learning problems I did get an Honours Degree at Oxford after the War.

Looking back over the years, ours was a strange world as seen from today. No television – how many can imagine that? Looking after the aged members of one’s own family. In our case, my father’s father, Captain Henry Davidson, Master Sailmaker and Master’s Ticket, widowed as was his younger brother, Captain Robert Lamb Davidson. He had a Master’s Ticket in sail and steam. In his day the youngest man to so qualify. They had both ‘rounded the Horn’ by the time they were fourteen years of age. My mother and father took them into our home during our time at the College and cared for them until they died aged 92 and 78 respectively. They were splendid models of manhood who, by their quality of life and example, had a profound influence on Henry and me which we have valued all our lives.

No one knew that one day Walter Hett knocked on our door at No 5 Paston Place and asked my mother if she would look after Dorothy, his wife, for a few days because he was at the end of his tether. She was the daughter of Mr Bouddillon, the oldest living Old Brightonian, originally from Southern Rhodesia. She stayed with us for a couple of weeks and as a result they both could carry on. In the latter days of my grandfather’s life my parents sat up with him for months. Father did the first stint until 2.30am then Mother took over. Father travelled every day by train to Eltham in Kent. He said it was worth it to live by the sea. He had himself survived the whole of the First War in the Royal Siege Artillery and had been gassed.

Henry and I had splendid examples of true Christian living at home and at the College. It was a fine start to our manhood which was about to be tested in war.

The Chapel
It was, and still is, at the heart of the ‘campus’ as the Americans call it. Originally, before all the new building since 1945, it was like the hub of a wheel.

The old term, ‘hatched, matched and despatched’, was, in fact, social formula religion. We went to Chapel every morning – a hymn, a lesson and prayers. Tommy Smart rang the slow bell, then the fast bell. As a school prefect I seem to recall ringing the bell by means of two cords, each with a toggle on the end. They were located in Tommy’s box just inside the main building entrance.

Boys went in first – a pause – then school prefects in gowns – then the masters in gowns – and finally, the Headmaster followed by the Chaplain. Charles Allen in the old days coaxed lovely tunes out of the asthmatic organ. I can still hear the squeak of the swell pedal. He entered the organ loft from the music room. We could see him through the grills. It seemed that he was behind bars!

On Sunday there was 8.00am Holy Communion and, I think at 10.30am, Morning Prayer. It was best suits. A good many parents attended. I can remember reading again and again the inscriptions on the Burne-Jones windows. There was one to a boy killed on the Matterhorn – or am I just imagining things? There was always a visiting preacher of various qualities. At 6.00pm there was Evensong with no sermon. Being in the choir meant choir practice and being in the Chapel without fail. But, in those days, that was the form.

On Armistice Day we sang, ‘O Valiant Hearts’. Being young, it was impressive to hear the school clock strike and the Maroon sounded from the centre of Brighton by the War Memorial. The staff knew what we could not, but we caught the atmosphere. In a few years we were to have our own war experience to experience.

There was, in the Chapel, on the right hand side of the chancel, the TOC H lamp which burned day and night. Certain school prefects were invited to be guardians of the lamp. In turn we had to keep the wick trimmed and the oil level up. I can still smell the rape oil. My interest in the TOC H movement was renewed by my marriage to the niece of Rev. Hugh Longuet-Higgins. He had been with the famous Tubby Clayton in France and helped in founding TOC H (Talbot House). (Wasn’t TOC the term for ‘T’ in the then Morse alphabet?) It was for rest, peace and care for weary soldiers. Later, when Vicar of St Stephen’s, Rochester Row, in Westminster, I was Chaplain to the St George’s Drive ‘Mark’, as the hostel was called. It was the original one set up in England after the Armistice.

Confirmation, rather like everything else, took its turn (‘came up with the rations’). At a certain age we were ripe for that step and were ‘done’ by the Bishop of Chichester. The preparation was formal and routine. I declined to be confirmed because I did not feel ready for it. There was far too much routine pressure; it is acceptable for School Certificate, but not for spiritual matters. However, having been in the choir at St George’s, Kemp Town, from the age of six, I had a lot of church experience. There was music in the family. Anyway, it was thought a bit odd that a senior boy should put confirmation off for a year. I know I was right. During my ministry I never pushed people. We clergy have no authority to pressure the Holy Spirit (that is, if you really believe in His power, which I do. He can manage all by Himself.)

I look back with gratitude to the Chapel. The choir was good. We sang all the traditional anthems. At Christmas the music for the Nine Lessons was really good. The solo boys had good voices, but then Charles was a very special music master, like Jack Hindmarsh at Haileybury years later. Bill Stewart and Tris Balance added to the quality of the choir, as did the irrepressible cockney, Gordon Davis and his tenor voice.

During my ministry, I returned to the College countless times. Immediately after the war, at Wadham and at Westcott House, I took a leading part in resuscitating the Old Brightonian Association branches in Oxford and Cambridge, remembering that some 60 of my contemporaries had been killed and I was alive. There was much to be thankful for. The College had been the only school on the South coast which was not evacuated. It was up to us all to play our part in bringing to life what had nearly died during those awful years.

I was frequently invited to preach at Commemoration Day and Remembrance Sunday. Inevitably I was invited to conduct funerals. In particular, I remember well that of Keith, A K Wilson, one time captain of Sussex, of whom it was said that, when skippering Sussex against the Australian Services XI, “Keith Wilson gave a demonstration of the delicate art of placing the ball where the fielders are not”. Then there was the funeral of Tommy Smart, the much loved and respected College porter, Ralph Farnell’s batman.

There was also the dedication and address for one of the other sets of twins, Alan Stevens. I had known him at school, of course, but happily he did a short Colonial course at Wadham during my time (1946-48). He was an officer in the Colonial Police. Tragically he was the first man killed in the Mau Mau rising in a spear attack. His parents gave me a service book in memory of him which I used for over thirty years and which I still have. As is too often the case, one was asked to speak at the memorial service. Apart from school days, my knowledge of Alan was thin. I did my best, but unhappily his parents were of the opinion that I did not eulogise him sufficiently. They were not pleased. That was sad. I had said honestly all I knew. Understandably they, having lost a son, wanted him highly praised.

I was invited to speak at the memorial service of T A Hill (Tubby to us). He was a New Zealander. He came to the College as a boy in 1910. Amongst his achievements was to set the record for the 100 yards sprint in 10.5 seconds, which stood for years. He returned to the College to teach after university and remained on the staff for the rest of his days. I owed a lot to him in my last burst of brain effort to pass the School Certificate. He was not a believer. He did the crossword in the Senior Common Room during morning service. He was a man of great integrity. When a house master, he attended Chapel because he respected the tradition of Chapel attendance. I wonder how many men like him are about today? Hopefully a few, because they are the salt of the earth.

Punishment in the 1930s
A word or two about corporal punishment and the less severe forms of it. I have made a slight reference to this subject in these recollections but now, after digging in my memory, it all comes back to me quite clearly.

During 1931-34, our years at Brighton College Prep School, the stick was in constant evidence. R J Manning, an Old Boy, taught English grammar, etc. There was always a pass mark for prep. Those who got below this mark queued up and marched forward and the deficit was made up – one, two and even three, and that was what was applied to one’s backside. And so back to our places and life carried on! It was the norm.

Another master, Commander Haywood R.N., always had a red setter and a spaniel with him. They followed him into the room and lay down in the corner. His method was for the offender to stand on the desk top and he would take a swipe at your calves with a stick.

J M Gaussen, one of the co-Heads (the other was J M Arnold), taught Classics. He was a charming man. He had a stick with red, white and blue colours at intervals along its length. It was about 2’ long. If he administered it – he carried it about with him – he would say, “You got the verb wrong, you got your colours!” I cannot recall any serious degree of fear, and I was NOT good at Latin, but he used it as a persuader and to keep attention. He was also a very good football coach and a caring man. Then, at the College, the stick was a means of discipline. I cannot recall any examples of it being used to excess.

The punishments for bad work or bad behaviour were:-

1. Detention – that meant Saturday afternoon in class under supervision, no games.
2. Drill – Saturday afternoon in the Quad under S M Becket. That was strenuous and it was punishment.
3. Lines – 100 or 200 times ‘I ……..’, on whatever subject. (I concocted an original: a single paragraph of any book with each letter in a different colour – red, blue or black. There were no Biros or felt pen!)

Now – if you got three drills, the Head of School beat one off in his study at 2pm (six of the best), one was run off and one was written off.

A good contemporary of mine, V A D Turner, who did very well in the Navy winning a DSC, at his own request, had two beaten off by his Housemaster (R L Farnell) and wrote one off because he wanted to play games that Saturday afternoon. He was tough. We called him ‘Bison’. He looked rather like one!

The drill list was posted by the Head of School on his board every Saturday morning. It was a public affair. I can recall H B Davison giving a member of the 1st XI a drill and insisting that it took precedence over a 1st XI match. The fellow with three drills saw on the Head of School noticeboard: Name:
1 drill
2 drills
3 drills – see me in my study at 2pm, Saturday
We all knew what that meant – six of the best!

Heads of school and school prefects could beat no more than six strokes. Also, no boy could have his hands in his trouser pockets. That was a privilege of school prefects!