Truro Schooldays by John Daniel

TRURO SCHOOLDAYS

John Daniel has kindly shared some of his written memoir

John Exelby CO50 and I became friends our first day at Truro. What frightened little eleven-year-olds we were then! My mother brought me, handed me over to Mr KWD James (TS 1942-1971) the Epworth Housemaster, and left to get the train back to St Ives. I managed to avoid a farewell kiss; there were boys looking. I went into the common room, already quite full of boys, and found a seat next to a pale, thin fellow with glasses. He spoke to me.

“What’s your name?” “John.” “That’s funny; so’s mine.”

We both laughed. He told me he was John Exelby. He lived in Redruth. He had two elder sisters and a younger brother. After a pause, he asked, “Do you know what we’re supposed to do next?”

I said, “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

Years later he told me how impressed he had been with my reply, and with the apparent nonchalance with which I said it. It was then he decided he would like us to be friends. I had already decided.

We both came from comfortable middle-class homes. Our mothers were stay-at-home mums. His father ran a local estate agency; mine had been away with the army since I was seven. He had three siblings at home; my grown-up sister Mary was in the Women’s Air Force. These were minor differences; we had a lot in common. Most of all we were scared: scared to be away from home for the first time, scared of being bullied by the other boys, scared of breaking the rules, scared of getting into trouble.

Freddy Wilkes (TS 1935-1974) Within the first few weeks at Truro we learned a lot, about the school and about ourselves. We found that the actual classroom lessons were not a problem: the teachers were pleasant, they didn’t expect too much of us, and some of them were even fun.

Within days we knew all their nicknames. We knew which of them were strict and which were easy-going. We liked ‘Boozy’ Worthington (TS 1941-1968), the rotund, jolly maths master; we enjoyed classes with Freddy Wilkes (TS 1935-1974) who animatedly introduced us to French, and we were careful not to annoy Mr Spicer (Kent College Teacher), whose geography lessons were enlivened by pieces of chalk launched with deadly accuracy at any boy not paying attention.

Our favourite teacher by far was Bert Willday (TS 1922-1960). His English lessons were the highlight of our week.

He never raised his voice, seldom smiled. He challenged us. Childish stories were a thing of the past. With him we read Charlotte Brontë. I understood for the first time that grown-up books could be for me.

On our first games afternoon, shivering out on the cold, windy field in our shorts and football shirts, with hard, unfamiliar boots on our feet, we were introduced to rugby. It did not go well.

“What did you think of that?” I asked Exelby after the game as we clumped back down the hill towards Epworth for the mandatory shower.

“I hate it. It’s a rough game.

And nobody passed me the ball.” “Nor me. Maybe it’ll get better.” “I doubt it.”

In a boys’ school, athletic prowess was the quickest, surest way to achieve status. This was not going to be one of my strengths. I was surprised and disappointed. I had been told how keen and successful my father was at sport, especially rugby, though he had never had time to play a ball game with me. I had never played any kind of team sport. I didn’t like being thrown to the ground. I didn’t like getting muddy. I didn’t like rugby. I avoided the rough stuff as much as I could. So did Exelby. When the time came for picking teams, he and I were always the last to be chosen.

What we could do was sing. I’d been taking piano lessons for four years; I could sight-read and sing in tune. Exelby never learned to read music, but he had a good memory and an excellent ear, and one of those pure treble voices that old ladies swoon over. Within a few weeks ‘Sammy’ Way, the music master, had us at the front of the school choir. By the end of our first year Exelby was singing most of the soprano and tenor arias in Messiah. In our second term, at Prizegiving in front of the whole school, we sang the duet in Mendelssohn’s I Waited for the Lord. During our first Easter holidays, Exelby’s mother brought him to St Ives and we sang it in my home church, Bedford Road Methodist. It was the highlight of the Sunday evening service. The church was packed. Mother was very proud.

“That was really good,” she said to us afterwards. “Well done, you two Johns!”

Exelby and I stood and waited while our mothers chatted for a long time. Finally Mrs Exelby said goodbye and they went to catch their bus back to Redruth. Mother and I walked home.

“He’s a nice boy, that John Exelby. I liked meeting his Mum.” “Yes, he’s my best friend.” “Your father would love to have been here today. Why not write him a letter and tell him all about it?” “Okay, Mother. I can do that.” My friendship with Exelby helped me a lot as I settled in at boarding school. So did music. With music, I knew what I was doing, and I knew I could do it. But I was soon to find another, new interest.