15 minute read
Letters
Dear Jeremy,
What a pleasure to read Barry Cox (1945-50) on Sid Pask (Master 1928-66) in Atrium. I was five years junior to Barry and two below the Miller/Korn/Sacks generation, but remember the young Jonathan Miller (1947-53) horsing about in the playground doing Danny Kaye impressions, and his wonderfully surreal contributions to the Colet Club’s Review with Eric Korn (1946-52) and later John Minton (1948-53). ‘A knoblick is a long stick, heavily weighted at one end with antimony, and used for hitting squirrels’. Did he ever use this line? – I remember him trying it out on us in the tuckshop.
I was another of Sid’s students, and vividly recall the thrill of meeting for the first time the amazing littoral and sublittoral plants and animals at Millport, and the traditional haggis-hunt on the final day of the course, with Sid and senior students identifying haggis-nests (sheep hollows) “still warm”, and half convincing the first-timers that it was for real.
I have sometimes wondered whether our generation was unusual in its habit of composing songs and verses about the masters. Probably not; but two relating to Sid perhaps merit recording.
Sid Pask remembered
First, to the tune of ‘John Brown’s Body’:
There’ll be no more cricket, rugby, boxing at St Paul’s There’ll be no more cricket, rugby, boxing at St Paul’s There’ll be no more cricket, rugby, boxing at St Paul’s When Sidney becomes High Man. They’ll do away with blazers, and we’ll all wear battered tweeds Etc.
The concept of the unconforming, atheistic, sport-deriding Sid as High Master was gloriously absurd. And, to the tune of ‘Dear Lord and Father of Mankind’:
There is an aged schoolmaster, And starry are his eyes A bush beneath his nose he grows And stuttering through this growth he shows The right way to tell lies, The right way to tell lies.
Alas, poor man, he little knows How little we believe him For how can we who hear his song Of catfish half a furlong long With s-seriousness receive him? With s-seriousness receive him?
Sid, who stammered, had taken part as a student in an expedition to Lake Tanganyika, and would frequently regale us with accounts of the giant catfish to be found there.
With best wishes,
Robin Wootton (1950-55)
Honorary Fellow (Insect Biomechanics) University of Exeter
Pretentious and Ostentatious
Dear Jeremy, I wonder if I am alone in finding the magazine Atrium as being both pretentious and ostentatious. The very name Atrium (an inner courtyard) seems wholly unnecessary whereas the previous title Old Pauline News was I suggest perfectly sufficient. Moreover, I find the posed full-sized image of the new High Master on the front cover unnecessarily flashy and the contents a combination of both samey-style and just plain showy-offy.
A degree of quiet reserved humility – for want of a better choice of words – would be far more appropriate (especially for a school founded in the Christian tradition – albeit quite rightly wholly open to all creeds and multi-cultural backgrounds).
But then of course I am an old fogey who intensely dislikes the ‘Look at me how important I am’ attitude of today. Yours sincerely,
Martin French (1952-57)
Monty inspects the Cadet Force
Dear Jeremy, I was in the Cadets in 1959 and I was lucky enough to be chosen to be in the Guard of Honour for both HM The Queen and Monty’s visits.
All I remember of the Queen as she walked in front of me was seeing her hat go by. We had to look straight ahead.
I remember Monty arriving in his armoured car, with its reversed angle front windshield. He cost me some credibility and the School rather a lot of money. During the rehearsal for the inspection of the whole cadet force there were a number of boys that fainted in the heat. I think that it was about twenty or so. Some of us opened a “book” on how many boys would faint when Monty came and inspected us. No money was to be exchanged, just the pleasure of being correct. I put down twenty as my guess. But clever Monty had us turn round so that we had less sun on us, and consequently fewer boys fainted proving that he really did care for the wellbeing of the soldiers that he was inspecting.
But the big problem for the School came when he addressed us. He stood on the exterior Chapel steps and he had us all sit down on the asphalt parade ground while he talked. The problem was that due to the heat, the tar in the asphalt melted and most of us cadets got tar on our uniforms. We all had to bring our uniforms into school to be cleaned. That must have cost a pretty penny. With best wishes,
Andrew Silbiger (1956-59)
Tom Howarth – a Different Perspective
Dear Jeremy, I was interested in reading Bob Phillips’ (1964-68) benign appreciation of Tom Howarth (High Master 1962-73) in Atrium. In terms of his leadership of the School during a period of considerable cultural and educational change, I recognise unreservedly his undoubted achievement in leading the School and its community from West Kensington into the ‘promised land’ of Barnes despite the major problems posed by the then Government and GLC regarding the future of the old school site in W14.
However, unlike Bob, for me and many others who were at the School in the 1960s, Howarth was a remote figure, primarily interested in the ‘high flyers’ of the time, with only limited interest in the average Pauline. In one brief meeting with him during his time as Senior Tutor at Magdalene, I probably had a longer conversation with him than in all my five years at the School.
Although never a member of any of the three sections myself, I would certainly criticise Howarth for his entirely unjustified abolition of the CCF and for his failing to recognise the architectural, historical and wider cultural value and significance of many of the very fine features left behind in the West Kensington building – such as the excellent stained glass, colourful mosaics and beautifully carved oak fittings from the Chapel and the Walker Library that were subsequently sold off to dealers or otherwise disposed of, rather than being intelligently and sensitively incorporated into the new, Clasp Mark IV buildings at Barnes, providing continuity thereby.
I am also surprised by Bob’s comments about Folio for which I wrote occasionally. Folio was certainly not ‘the official school magazine’ as Bob suggests in his article; it was produced by Paulines for Paulines unlike the official The Pauline magazine. Yours ever,
Paul Velluet (1962-67)
Don Pirkis – Rock Thrower
Dear Jeremy, My choice of “A” levels gave me two years of the inspirational Don Pirkis (Master 1955-86). Geomorphology was his forte, rather than Human, Economic or Regional Geography. He showed us lots of landscape slides on ancient epidiascope. If we dozed off in the darkness, he had a supply of tennis ball sized bits of granite to throw at us. (Is that allowed now?)
On a family trip to the Lake District, I remember the joy of seeing my first “U-shaped” glaciated valley in real life (Langdale) and some striations on a roche moutonnée, and thinking “Pirkis was telling the truth.” There were no residential field trips in those days, but we did have a day’s fossil hunting in a chalk quarry near Box Hill.
I subsequently had a very happy working life – as a Geography Master – at St Clement Danes School. All best wishes,
Tim Venner (1954-59)
Sid Pask’s teaching career book-ended by Ecology Professors
Dear Jeremy, I read Barry Cox's (1945-50) article about Sid Pask (Master 1926-66) and found one thing particularly notable – Sid's tremendous concentration on an ecological context for all he taught. This is very surprising, really, for a London school in which the main biological concentration would naturally be on medicine or some other ‘townie’ sort of biology.
Sid had so much influence on the subsequent development of his pupils’ studies of ecology. Several very significant professors and directors in this subject started with Sid at St Paul's. Of particular note are Professors David Goodall (1927-32) and Paul Dowding (1957-62). The first of these, was, until his death in 2018 (in that Zurich clinic) the most influential mathematical plant ecologist of the last century.
And it is a very curious thing that both Sid's very first year at St Paul's, and his last, produced a professor of ecology. Both of these (the first being Goodall) changed from other subjects to Biology as a result of Sid's inspiration. I was the second of these, though I would hardly put myself in the same category of influence as David Goodall.
Best wishes,
Mark Anderson (1961-65)
“Oh, were you in Dad’s Army?”
Dear Jeremy, Last week I received the latest edition of Atrium at my home in Connecticut, USA.
When I was an editor at Fine Woodworking magazine the publisher once said magazines had three types of readers: those who swam through the issue glancing briefly at articles; those who snorkelled and read perhaps one or two articles; and finally those who dived and read the whole issue in depth. I read every page of Atrium and learnt that rabbis could be Masons, and that the birds that eat out of my hand each morning have passerine feet.
The article about Tom Howarth (High Master 1962-73) and the move to Barnes reminded me of a couple of stories. When Tom came to lunch at our house one day he was recounting his days on Montgomery’s staff during WW2. My sister Charlotte (1980), then aged 6 or 7, brightly asked, “Oh, were you in Dad's Army?” Luckily Tom took it well!
You might also recall that the playing fields at Barnes were not originally prepared properly so that chunks of concrete and rubble kept coming to the surface, to the detriment of rugger players. So for the first several years the fields were repeatedly ploughed and harrowed prompting the granddaughter of Henry Collis to say to Mrs Collis, “Granny, I didn't know you lived on a farm.” My very best wishes,
Mark Schofield (1973-77)
Michael Manning – a Pauline Life Cut Short
Dear Jeremy, A recent virtual tour of the new buildings prompted me to enquire about the library, which the parents of Michael Manning (1962-66) founded in his memory. Michael was a brilliant student in the History Eighth and an enthusiastic cox in the Boat Club and scrum half on the rugby field and had many other interests. He left St Paul’s in December 1966 prior to taking up his award of a History Scholarship at Magdalen College Oxford the following October, but on 25 June 1967, aged 18, he was tragically drowned in the Thames at Goring whilst participating as a cox for the London Rowing Club in the Henley Regatta. Neither the School nor Magdalen nor the LRC have any record of a memorial library, or indeed any record now of Michael himself apart from the attached 4th XV photograph taken in 1965. He seems set to be forgotten forever but deserves to be remembered.
As was written in some tributes at the time, “Michael’s scholarship was exceptional even by Pauline standards, but it was his distinctive personality which will be remembered by those fortunate to have known him. The variety and explosiveness of his non-academic interests made him a delightful and engaging person to talk to. Few people have ever tried to excel in so many fields and managed to make their mark.”
If any alumni have information about the memorial library or recollections of Michael himself I would be pleased to know. He was the only son of the family and it has not been possible to trace any relatives. There is probably little more that can be done to commemorate him but in the absence of anything else perhaps this can serve as a brief obituary, memorial and epitaph for this Pauline born 71 years ago who would undoubtedly have risen to fame and fortune, and to golden years, had Isis not claimed him for her own. “So wise so young, they say, do never live long”. With best wishes,
Rupert Birtles (1963-66)
Michael Ian Manning: 1965 4th XV Rugby Team
Patrick Neate (1984-89) writes from Zimbabwe
Before our daughter was born in 2010, my Zimbabwean partner declared her intention to move home. She had never much liked London, loathing the weather, cult of the sandwich, and embedded sarcasm. “Brilliant” I said.
I didn’t take her announcement too seriously. I considered it a manifesto promise, a half-baked idea that could later be kicked into the long grass; like, say, a referendum on UK membership of the EU. It was a surprise, therefore, when I found myself house hunting in Harare within six months. I have come and gone ever since, living the fabled jet set lifestyle of the moderately successful novelist. Initially, I was mostly coming, latterly mostly going. For the last year, I have been gone, thanks to the coronavirus.
You may have heard of Zimbabwe. Greatest hits include Robert Mugabe, land reform (retitled “the land grab” in some territories), a three-decade HIV epidemic, deep-seated institutional corruption, hyperinflation, and “the coup that wasn’t a coup” (but was definitely a coup); to say nothing of two England cricket coaches, Makosi from Big Brother Six, and Waitrose mangetout (check the label).
I won’t comment in detail on the thornier issues above; partly because I imagine the powers that be are avid readers of Atrium and prone to touchiness, and partly because everything you already think you know about Zimbabwe is probably both completely true and utterly wrong at the same time. It is a “both/and” kind of place – the more contradictory the better. Land reform, for example, is both an overdue attempt to rectify the structural inequities of a racist, colonial history, and a free-for-all for greedy kleptocrats. Likewise, Robert Mugabe was both an erudite, progressive, hero of African liberation, and a tin pot dictator who would sacrifice almost anything (and anyone) to retain power. Perhaps more pertinently (and contrary to the prevailing, western narrative), he was always both those things. He was both when knighted by HM the Queen in 1994 and remained so when stripped of that knighthood after refusing to accept election defeat in 2008. Mugabe didn’t change, we did.
The place that Zimbabwe occupies in the western imagination has always fascinated me; likewise the place that the west occupies vice-versa.
Although never quite achieving membership of George W. Bush’s “axis of evil”, Zimbabwe did make it onto the second tier “outposts of tyranny” in 2005, alongside North Korea. Heady stuff. Believe it or not, American diplomats are granted extra leave for the hardship of their posting. I have laughed about this while drinking gin and tonics prepared by local staff in the lush gardens of said diplomats’ opulent mansions.
When I return to the UK and tell people I have a house in Zimbabwe, they look at me like I must be quite mad:
“It sounds so awful.” Sometimes, I wonder what they’re picturing. Sometimes, unforgivably, I indulge their imaginations with stories of awfulness, which make my life
sound edgy and interesting. Zimbabwe can of course be awful but tends to be much less awful, less often, for a relatively wealthy white man. Who’d have thought?
The Zimbabwean view of the west is little less puzzling; particularly the idea that we are profoundly interested in Zimbabwean affairs. Fuelled no doubt by a state media that bangs on about ongoing sanctions (only targeted at the elite) and neo-colonial ambition (indisputably a problem but one that’s largely Chinese these days), this belief is as entrenched as it is misplaced. Zimbabweans often think that their economy was first broken by the IMF’s brutal Structural Adjustment Programme in the 1990s and they are broadly (but not completely) right. However, I believe they are broadly (but not completely) wrong to consider this some fiendish plot to undermine national sovereignty. In fact, it speaks not to care and planning but the very opposite.
A friend has suggested that the UK regards Zimbabwe as its “prodigal son”. But, to me, Zimbabwe is more like a girl we once snogged who subsequently made questionable life choices and has lately taken to contacting us on Facebook. Sure, we reply sporadically from a mixture of guilt, nostalgia and schadenfreude, but we’re mostly preoccupied with the conflagrating consequences of our own mistakes. And at this moment more than ever. After all, if the UK doesn’t have bigger fish to fry right now, it certainly has a surplus of smaller fish – herring, mackerel and the like …
I have noticed attitudes towards the west begin to change over the last few years. And, what began with shock at Brexit, Trump and such, has only accelerated with the galloping pandemic.
Here, the government has responded to the challenges much as elsewhere. Like the rest of the world, we have been in some form of lockdown for a year. But, in this environment, the balance of risk and reward is an even knottier conundrum. If you resent being furloughed in a two bedroom flat in Hammersmith, try being locked down, six to a room, with no running water or state support (honestly, I have no intention of trying either). This, in a place where there is no public health service worth speaking of to protect. This, in a nation with less than 2,000 (official) Coronavirus deaths, which 20 years ago was losing that number to HIV/AIDS every week. The rules are arbitrary and incomprehensible – you can fly 700km to stay in a five star hotel in Victoria Falls but not drive seven to visit your parents. One might even suspect an unconscionable opportunism as those at the top break their own regulations and grant PPE contracts to their cronies. Imagine.
And yet, somehow (and always touching wood), Zimbabwe has thus far managed to avoid the worst ravages of the pandemic and watches the UK in horror. Under-reporting? No doubt. Demographics? Probably. After all, life expectancy here is just 61 – most people are dead before the virus could kill them. And the weather’s nice and people spend a lot of time outdoors and aren’t generally obese. But perhaps Zimbabweans have also achieved a certain spiritual immunity, built up over years burying their dead beneath a tyranny of self-serving, mendacious, incompetent crooks; both local and international. Pity those poor Brits with their quaint, outdated faith in accountable government and the rule of law …
Lately, when I told someone I hoped to return to the UK as soon as possible, he looked at me like I was quite mad. “It sounds so awful,” he said. Perhaps I’ll stay put for a bit.
