Go on then, what was Boarding School in the 70’s really like

Happy time…… I remember hair!

Those bastions of privilege, private schools are in the news again….. I have my own views, not to mention first-hand experience…

But before we go a step further, yes I know these days the schools think of themselves as models of care and compassion and that may be so. But the fundamental fact of boarding hasn’t changed. Children leave their homes and families for prolonged periods to be placed in a group environment with other children of a similar age.

In 1968 my Dad learned that the authorities funded places at Boarding Schools for RAF officer’s sons. He was desperate for me to have the education that he had been denied as the son of a farm labourer. Additionally, he was conscious that I had already changed schools four times by the age of 9 as a result of his career. Going to Boarding School would kill those two birds with one stone.

And so, with unimpeachable logic I was asked if I would like to go away to school. Being an avid reader of the Jennings books of Anthony Buckeridge I was happy to agree, imagining midnight feasts and 24-hour fun with my friends. With that I was “put down for” several schools. I failed the entrance to Monmouth School the following year but passed the Entrance exam to Hereford Cathedral School and a couple of others in the west of England early in 1970.

So, in September 1970 aged 11, off I went to Hereford.

Now rather than give you a blow-by-blow account of the next 7 years it might be more interesting to answer the questions that people often ask when I tell them I was ‘sent away’ to school. Additionally, a few years ago I wrote a longer piece about my first day which I can remember in detail even now. You can read that from the link after the Q & A.

Here we go:

How could your parents have done it to a little boy?

I know, I know… but as I mentioned my Dad hated the fact that he had left school at 14 and felt his lack of formal education very keenly. The narrative about Williams Minor was that he was bright, but lazy and so despite loving me dearly, they decided that the best thing for me on all counts would be to go away to school.

Dad was a reserved man with an iron determination to achieve. As a result, he thought my absence from home was a price worth paying. I knew then and know now that he did it with the best of motives. On that basis the worst that can be said is that he may have had his priorities (more than) a little skew-whiff.  

My Mum doted on me but doted on my Dad too. She trusted him implicitly to make the big decisions and always deferred to him, so while I know she hated the idea she followed along.

Was there bullying?

Yes there was, but I honestly don’t think it was worse that it was at any school in the 70’s. Me, I was never bullied because I was tall and fit and when the fists flew could I acquit myself well enough. A much more interesting question would be, did I actually do any bullying myself.

Well, I did. I remember I challenged a boy from the year above me to a fight. I reasoned that I could not be bullying him if he was older than me. It was an unfair fight and I knew it, but I went ahead. In the changing rooms where such events always happened, there were about 15 observers as I hit him once on his ear and I immediately felt so abjectly terrible that I stopped. I should never have done it and even today still feel bad thinking about it.

I hate bullies but can’t ever claim that the impulse isn’t buried in there somewhere.

Was it posh?

No! A common picture of public schools is of strangely-suited toffs looking down on the locals. That didn’t apply at all. The Old Deanery, was my boarding house and it overlooks Hereford Cathedral Close. It looks absolutely beautiful. Inside though in the early 70’s it was a decrepit pit. For some years we slept on horsehair mattresses in dorms, some of which were unheated. The furniture was always falling apart. I visited many other boarding schools for sports fixtures and I didn’t see any that were materially better.

The boys (when I went it was boys only, but went co-ed shortly after. Only boys in my year though ‘til the 6^th form) were the sons of the middle classes, junior officers, accountants, solicitor’s boys. There were no rich children from overseas either, a staple income source for Private schools these days. The facilities were not great. The food was so appalling initially that the school made national headlines when we went on strike for better food in 1971.

When I went in 1970 I caught the tail end of the “fagging” era. The youngest boys were basically the unpaid servants of the senior Monitors, (but the word has no links with it's modern meaning). In practice this meant cleaning their studies and doing their washing up at lunchtime. It wasn’t particularly onerous, but it reinforced the rigid hierarchy of the school. It stopped the year after I had done my two years servitude. I was livid!

Where the school was good was in the quality of it's teaching. There was a core of teachers who were genuinely excellent at their job.

Was there sexual abuse?

I was never abused. Likewise, I don’t know of any boys who were either. But that doesn’t necessarily mean it didn’t happen. A much-lauded author who was a master at the school, was imprisoned after being caught in bed outside of school with an under-aged boy (not from the school). Likewise, on Facebook groups recently there have been comments about masters present at the same time as me being a bit ‘handsy’ with the boys.

I suppose it wouldn’t surprise me if it did happen and the opportunity, as with all schools of its type, was certainly there. But I would say probably not. In this regard I count myself extremely lucky and I have huge sympathy for the poor sods at other schools who were abused. In this regard at least it could have been so much worse for me.

Did you enjoy it?

There were some aspects of it I loved. I built my life around rugby for several years (See photo above) and was fortunate enough to be in a year with a bunch of really, very good players. My happiest times were when I was on the pitch. But I truly hated the first few years at HCS. Especially the times at the end of holidays when back to school day would loom ever larger on the horizon.

Psychologists point to a logical bind for the boarder which runs: I know that my parents love me, but even so they believe it best for me to be here at school. It feels like a punishment and I must have done something really bad to deserve this terrible experience….. I didn’t feel like that at the time, but there is something in it, looking back with this much perspective.

But in my own case there was another issue.

As a boy I was always desperate for approval from the grown-ups and became so well-behaved and adept at an outward display of maturity that I seemed to become the default choice at school for leader-type roles. Basically, I was Captain of Rugby, Head of House, Head of School, the lot. But this, truthfully wasn’t something I wanted (I even attempted to refuse one title but was told not to be so stupid by my Housemaster).

Much more than the titles, I wanted above all to be liked by my peers. The titles, together with my perception of my responsibility for rule enforcement etc, created resentment. I was very unpopular indeed. To the point where several years after I left I remember being taken aside in a club in Cardiff by a drunk ex-pupil to be told at length how much I was loathed by all. This wasn’t solely the school’s fault though. My inexhaustible desire for popularity and approval started earlier, closer to home. All I can say is, to quote Dylan… I was older then, I’m much younger than that now.

Surely there must have been some good things

Aside from Rugby I would cite the music. Having the privilege of access to the noise of a professional choir giving it the full beans on a regular basis in the Cathedral was something I only appreciated after I’d left.

More than that though, was the informal exposure to the music of the early 70’s via the senior boys in the Deanery. It became an intrinsic part of the fabric of my character, which has never diminished. I can remember the first time I heard almost all of the big albums between 1970 and ’74. I often caught them by eavesdropping outside the monitor’s studies. Some of my more ‘esoteric’ musical loves happened there too. Van der Graaf Generator’s magnum opus “Pawn Hearts” was, and still is, a major passion, but I acknowledge that this isn’t a universally held perspective.

Were you scarred by the experience?

Boarding School in the 70’s was a tribal, sometimes even violent, place where displays of emotional weakness were dangerous. Having a cycle of family life, followed by the complete opposite was a disturbing experience, certainly for this adolescent. Consequently, one learned very rapidly to have a steel-strong shell wrapped around one’s feelings. That became the default way for dealing with relationships and pain.

However, the impact of this dissociation from one’s own feelings was enormous. It has been observed in numerous psychological studies, and it took me about 15 years to allow the barrier to drop at all. Even today, like many boarding school attendees, I am frequently unmoved by some emotions. Departures from loved ones especially are still greeted almost with equanimity. The school was one factor in this behaviour, though not necessarily the only one.

And of course, I have never spoken to any of my male contemporaries at school about any of this (I mean - after all I’ve said are you in the least bit surprised?)

Would you send your children?

Are you mad?

Anyway, I should introduce the longer piece.

It’s about a ten-minute read. It describes my arrival at the school. An event which, to put it mildly left its mark on me. Today I can recall every single detail with complete clarity, so none of it is fictionalised and there are no gaps I’ve filled in or made up..

My oldest friend who has read it wondered why I used the 3^rd party to tell the tale. I should explain that when I wrote it some years ago I wanted it to be like reportage, a series of events. Misery memoirs were a big thing at the time and I didn’t (and still don’t) want that poor-me vibe. The point of view may be a distraction, but hey ho.

Finally, I have included a pictorial Dramatis Personae in the form of the House photograph taken that first term, together with one of my tuck box, which had a huge symbolic importance for me and which remains with me still.

The piece is here

Finally, I don’t think I’m unkind to any boys in the piece (they were inmates, like me!) and the adults are all gone. However if anybody would rather this were not on public view contact me and I’ll sort it.