Small Boy in the Sunshine

Foreword

The original object of this autobiography was to cover the period from my earliest recollections up to the time I left school. Indeed, this was achieved in 1988, and the initial volume bore the appropriate title Small Boy in the Sunshine.

However, the urge to write drove me to extend this period, and the second edition was born; later on, further editions appeared.

Recently the book was brought completely up to date, but the original title remained unchanged. Perhaps it should have been amended to Old Bloke in the Drizzle, or What it was Like Before Global Warming. Ultimately, the original title prevailed, and the book was printed off for the bookbinder.

Inevitably, I had second thoughts. There is mention in that bound copy of a trip made from Rhodesia to England and Europe in 1959 (p. 89) that I had produced as a separate document called The Great Adventure. During the progress of this exploit, I kept a daily diary that subsequently my mother kindly typed out for me. I suggested to her that she leave blank spaces in which I could insert pen-and-wash illustrations. That book has remained a nostalgic reminder of that time; now I felt that as an important event in my life, the whole episode should have been incorporated in my autobiography for the sake of completeness. I therefore typed out the diary, making a number of amendments and abbreviating it in parts, and inserted photographs actually taken at the time, and this appeared in the edition (v.2). An even further edition (v.3) has been made to accommodate my daughters’ requests for a copy, and this contains a few more corrections, one or two additions and amendments.

Enjoy Small Boy in the Sunshine - although I suspect that it will be of greater interest to those who read it some way off in the future. But even at my present age of 78, I am one of a dwindling number who can say that my father was born not in the last century, but in the century before that. And that will surely raise a curiosity about the times through which I have lived.

R F B

January 2008

By the same author:

Model Sailing Ships: B T Batsford 1986

Model Scenic Railways: B T Batsford 1988

Take One At Bedtime 2012

First printed March 1988

Revised and reprinted: January 1994

Revised and reprinted: February 1997

Revised, illustrated and reprinted: December 1997

Revised, extended, and reprinted and professionally bound July 2007

V2 Revised, extended and reprinted and professionally bound September 2007

V3 Revised, extended and reprinted and professionally bound January 2008

1. Early days

I paused in the absorbing activity of scuffing my shoes along the dusty surface of the dirt road to watch two beetles industriously rolling a tennis ball sized sphere of cow dung across my path. Their efforts carried them to the roadside, where they were soon lost in the dry long grass, a sporadic rustling being the only means of detecting their subsequent progress. I looked across at the tennis courts and recollected that I had almost reached my destination, Mrs Bower's Infant School.

There was at that time nothing unusual about a five-year-old walking unaccompanied a distance of nearly a mile each way to and from school. Frequently I met up with two colleagues on the way, but today I had been entirely on my own. Crime, it seems, was also in its infancy, and there was still a respect for both person and property. Indeed, the Good Old Days.

This infant school was to some extent a baby-sitting arrangement to give harassed parents a little time to themselves during the morning. But a modicum of education was also provided for the dozen or so children who attended; and one of the rooms in Mrs Bower's home was set aside for this purpose, with blackboards and posters on the walls. I was never quite clear about it at the time, but it seemed for some reason I was periodically required to stand facing the wall in a corner of the room. The paint had a scented smell, and there were little cracks in the plaster. I had no particular objection to carrying out this requirement, reasoning that as adults generally know best, or so I had been told, I might as well get on with it.

Mrs Bower had three children: a boy who was very old, perhaps ten or eleven, and a son Trevor and his sister Shirley, both of whom were about my age. Trevor was a companion of considerable interest to the rest of us: he was crippled, possibly with poliomyelitis, which at that time had not been officially discovered. He was obliged to get about on crutches, something we were only too keen to try out for ourselves. His disability was accepted without question or compassion, in the same way we might accept a yellow jersey or having red hair. He would make little meaningless scribbles on the blackboard illustrating the deformity of his spine, which we studied with admiration.

The elder brother had constructed a hide-out at the far end of the garden. This was a four or five foot deep pit over which he had laid sheets of corrugated iron covered with earth and turfs. Access was through a small hole in one corner of the roof; and on special occasions we were permitted to enter this private domain. It smelt strongly of earth and paraffin, the latter from and old lamp suspended from the ceiling, which provided a conspiratorial light. There was a small table and a couple of chairs, and shelves had been dug into the walls, and on these were displayed a number of prized possessions. My immediate reaction was to want such a hideout for myself, but Mother was unaccountably firm in her denial of this modest request.

Trevor explained to his mother one day, in my presence, how a jug had become broken in the schoolroom. He used an expression new to me, saying, I thought, something about one of us having done it ‘on purpose’. This I took to mean the same as ‘accidental.’ It was therefore something of a shock when on the next occasion my clumsiness caused a breakage at home; I received a smart clip when I explained that I had done it on purpose. An example, I suppose, of learning the hard way.

One of the girls had a fancy dress birthday party, to which we were all invited. My mother had a Pierrot costume that had once belonged to an aunt and this was cut down to suit me. Great trouble was taken to make my face up properly, and a conical white hat with pom-poms was added to complete the outfit. I was a little uneasy about the whole thing, but disinclined to make a fuss after all the trouble that had been taken. I was certainly aware that I looked as bit of a sight, and I was concerned that my father intended to take me by bus to the house, a couple of miles away. I suspected that looking as I did, he would have preferred to disown me in public, but he gave no sign of this. Instead, we set off, and on the crowded bus he sat me on his knee. For the entire journey I felt sorry for causing him the embarrassment he surely must be feeling, but he never showed any sign other than pleasure at taking me out. When we reached our destination, he took me to the gate, and announced that he was going to walk back home, a distance of almost two miles. This was too much for me, and I stood watching him stride away down the road, the tears running down my face and ruining my make-up.

* * * * *

The next period of my education took place at Mrs Hastie's school. Now this was something like a school. There were fifty or sixty pupils and four or five teachers; and the premises had been specially built as a school. There was a large general-purpose room and three smaller classrooms, and even special toilets. Outside, there were sand tables, swings and seesaws. A year at this establishment went some way in preparing me for my first taste of school, which I entered soon after my seventh birthday.

Durban Preparatory High School catered for about 450 boys between the ages of seven and twelve or thirteen, from Standard One to Standard Six. There were about twenty teachers and a headmaster, Mr Neville Haysom, a tall, white-haired, military-looking gentleman who commanded instant respect. The school was built in red brick with a red-tiled roof, and had large classrooms with noisy corridors, a big assembly hall, woodwork and science rooms and a separate outside toilet building of indescribable squalor. To some extent, I suppose, this was due to the frequent competitions held by the lads to see who could pee through the louvres fitted above the urinals, some five feet above the floor.

My report from Mrs Hastie's school secured me a place in Standard 1A. The class mistress was Miss Miller, a forbidding elderly spinster reminiscent of illustrations of the Duchess in Alice in Wonderland, who wore her long grey hair in a formidable plait wound round her head. She carried a stout wooden ruler with her at all times, with which she dispensed instant justice by beating the hands of those who caused her displeasure. There was no doubt that she was successful in her attempts to instil discipline.

The first task each morning was to call the register. We were obliged to call out our names in alphabetical order while Miss Miller marked them off. I remember the names to this day: the first four had a marked metre to them, which suggested that some further line might be added to them:

Aberdein, Albertyne, Bolton, Brien,

Went for a walk on a railway li-en ...

Miss Halfins’s class: Standard 2a

Mr Dunn was our PE (Physical Exercise) instructor, and his period involved going first to the change rooms where we donned white shorts before trotting onto the playing fields. If PE was at the end of the school day, sometimes some of us felt disinclined to change back into our navy-blue school uniform shorts, so we went home as we were. This laziness won for me an unwanted notoriety early in my sojourn at the school. At assembly one morning Mr Haysom, after prayers and a hymn, gave out the morning's notices. "We have all manner of items left behind by our more forgetful boys. Every day I have gym-shoes, raincoats and the like brought to my office, all looking for their owners. Today we break new ground and establish a new record. Would the boy who yesterday went home without his trousers please raise his hand." The entire school and teaching staff broke into uncontrollable mirth at this, matched only by my extreme discomfiture.

Most of the class moved up to Standard 2 the following year. This establishment was presided over by a curiously named Miss Halfin - neither the one thing nor the other - a lady of indeterminate age. Her shiny straight black hair worn in a fringe belied the impression given by her face, which was heavily covered in thick powdery make-up, in the manner of very elderly women. So heavy was this veneer that she hesitated to change her expression for fear that the entire surface might crack and fall off. Her thin lips formed permanently an inscrutable straight line. She carried no stout ruler, we were relieved to see; but it soon became apparent that she maintained discipline by seizing her victim by the short hair at the temple and twisting it firmly. This treatment was enough to bring water to the eyes; and if anything, her class was even better behaved than Miss Miller's. I recall one incident when I was afforded the opportunity of experiencing the Halfin Twist first-hand: We had been set the task of illustrating a scene we had encountered on the way to school, and I had selected a view of the hill on the way up from the bus stop. There was the street, the shop, a brick wall enclosing some houses, and various vehicles including a tram. I was industriously painting this masterpiece when I became aware of La Halfin at my elbow. Don't use up and down strokes for water-colour, she said. You're not painting a wall. But I am, I retorted, which was true, if unwise. Oh, the pain....

I sat cross-legged on the grass with my back up against the perimeter fence. Ten or twelve pairs of eyes were riveted upon me, their owners crouched in a ring about me. The stage-coach bounced over the rough road as Joe leaned from the window, both 44's blazing at the Indians, who were getting closer every second. I savoured the tension for a moment. The man beside the driver raised his head to take aim with his Winchester, when an arrow hit him right in the eye. Two of the less sturdy boys put their hands to their faces in dismay. In the distance I could see the bell-boy going up the steps to signal the end of the lunch break, and I considered rapidly how I could leave the story in mid-air, so that I would have a guaranteed audience the following day. Two or three times a week there would be another instalment, and my talent for inventing entertaining yarns appealed to many of the boys in the first and second years.

Dad in the Western Desert

Miss O'Connor the following year set a totally different standard in educational levels. She was obviously young, had soft wavy brown hair framing a pretty face. She had china-blue eyes and a smiling mouth; and like the rest of the boys, I fell instantly in love with her. This was her rather more pleasant means of instilling discipline and gaining attention, and there was little we would not do to win a smile and a comment of appreciation from her. The year showed good progress for all of us.

The major incident in that year was the outbreak of the Second World War, which Miss O'Connor reported to us just before the lunch break. To this crowd of nine-year-olds it was no more than an excuse to rush around the playground more noisily than ever before, chanting meaningless slogans, until the headmaster came out and silenced us with some comments on the possible consequences the event might have on us, based on his own experiences of World War One just twenty-one years before, the War to end all Wars.

By the time we moved up to Mrs Edwards' class the following January, the first effects of the war were beginning to be felt. There was a general exodus of all able-bodied men to join the Army, including my own father. The absence of any form of conscription was enough to bring down the accusation of cowardice upon any who held back, and it is likely that the percentage of men who remained behind was far lower than in countries where conscription was used. I saw my father only two or three times again before he was sent 'up North' with his armoured car regiment, part of The Royal Natal Carbineers.

Mrs Edwards had a reputation for being a fierce old harridan, yet I found her fair in her dealings with us. She was at least prepared to offer praise when good work was done, and effort was generally well rewarded. It was a good class on the whole, and we all began to grow up a little. Friendships were started, and we tended to go about in small exclusive groups that were difficult to break into once formed. I suppose it was simply a matter of common interests that held these groups together - the sporty ones, the more intelligent, the collectors, and so on. Some of the groups became gangs that ruled activities in the playground in a Mafia-like way, beating up those who invoked their displeasure; but eventually the headmaster, who took a firm stand against them, disbanded these.

Miss Beanland in Standard 5 was a frail old white-haired lady who had stepped in to replace one of the men who had joined the army. She kept discipline indirectly, sending all who annoyed her to the headmaster with a quickly understood imperious gesture towards the door. The head must have found this tiresome, because in the end the routine was simply to knock on his door, and when he called Come! one entered and said Miss Beanland, bent over without further discussion, and received three or four sharp strokes of the cane. One then left promptly, biting the lower lip and breathing heavily to prevent the tears, and resumed one's place in the class. If the punishment had received been particularly severe, the class would adjourn to the toilet block at the next break to admire the weals and discuss their merits in comparison with those seen on previous occasions.

I scribbled industriously on the inside of the cover of my geography book, putting the final touches to a caricature of the Beanland. A little more white hair, perhaps ..... I became aware of the slight figure standing beside me, and the sudden silence in the class. I raised my eyes to see The Gesture, and rose miserably. It was my Aunt's book, I explained. True. She did the drawings. False. The Gesture repeated, rather more firmly. And take the book with you.Mr Haysom flipped through the pages of the book as I took up a toe-touching attitude before him. Quite good, he said "but - whack! - you must confine your story-telling to - whack! - your own circle of friends - whack! - and not extend it to the staff." Whack! I left aching but impressed that he liked the pictures, and had heard of my stories.

My final year at DPHS was a pleasurable experience in the class of Mr Durrant, or Pop Durrant as he was known to boys and staff alike. An elderly, round, bald-headed man with a pince-nez, he was a delight in the way he taught us. His favourite subject was the English language, and I believe that much of what I remember today about it stemmed from his patient teaching. He injected an interest in poetry by reciting verses of widely ranging appeal to us, even encouraging us to write ourselves. Many of these verses remain in my memory, particularly the more graphic ones:

Aunt Jane who went to make munitions

Worked under hazardous conditions,

Failing to understand quite what would

Detonate and what would not.

Early one morning she was seen

Pounding tri-nitro-toluene:

And her remains, when she blew up

Would just have filled a coffee cup.

Another favourite was the golfing one:

Golf is the game which Cousin John

Played worse and worse as time went on.

His handicap, which one was seven,

Rose to one hundred and eleven;

And as his skills grew less and less,

He gave up golf and took to chess.

It went on in this vein for some verses, until finally

One day his ball got in a bunker

As brutal as a Prussian junker;

And though he tried with might and main

To move the thing it was in vain.

Seeing his niblick’s weight alone

Would not suffice, he seized a stone

Of massive size, and with some string

To the club’s head attached the thing.

Thus armed, he then a blow delivered

At which the whole creation shivered;

And, thanks to all this paraphenalia,

The ball dropped through into Australia.

He would often recite to us patter choruses from Gilbert and Sullivan operettas, which he did extremely well, and clearly had taken part in at some time in his younger days. Although we did not realise it at the time, he was organist at St Thomas' Church. He was a much-loved character; not only at the school; and when he died some five years later considerable crowds of people of every age who had appreciated what he gave during his lifetime attended his funeral.

School commenced at 8.30 in the mornings and continued until 12.15, when there was a one-hour break for lunch. Lessons ended at 3pm, after which we were expected to take part in sports for a further hour and a half. There was also a fifteen-minute break mid-morning, which barely gave us time to get something to drink from the tuck-shop over the road. During breaks we were banned from the classrooms, and most of us sat on the edge of the wide corridors and ate our sandwiches, or wandered about the playing fields. On the rare occasions when it rained hard and continuously as the lunch hour approached, there would be an air of mounting excitement as we awaited The Message from the headmaster. This would be to the effect that there would be no lunch break, but that school would close at one, and sports were cancelled.

One of the delights of the breaks was for four of us to each contribute a penny towards the purchase of a quart-sized bottle of lemonade or Kreem Soda. This vessel was decorated with evenly spaced rings, which allowed accurate division of the contents. The first boy would hold his thumb against the appropriate ring and upend the bottle in his mouth, and each time he lowered it three other pairs of hands would grasp it to check whether the allocated amount had been consumed. When his point was reached the others. in turn, followed suit. Sometimes a more fastidious boy would wipe the neck of the bottle with a grubby handkerchief before taking his turn, but this was unusual.

There was another diversion at certain times in the year when the hedges enclosing the school grounds became alive with the larvae of the ladybird These were small spiky black creatures which we called doodlebugs, which fed off the leaves of the hedge. We would pick them off and pack them into matchboxes, competing with one another for the largest collection. Whatever the fate of these insects was I have no recollection, but our efforts must have had some effect on the population statistics of the luckless ladybird.

Sport was compulsory on two afternoons a week, unless documentary proof was available from your parents showing that you were unable to participate. We played rugby in the winter and cricket in the summer; and generally found it a pleasurable event. A good deal of training took place as the inter-school athletics event approached, and this special occasion was attended by parents and others, and was held at the City sports grounds at Kingsmead. For that age group, many of the events were at the level of egg-and-spoon and sack races; nevertheless, there were 50 and 100-yard sprints as well as high and long jumping. For those eliminated in the heats, there was coaching in the school war-cry to give encouragement to the participants.

Swimming was not actually part of the curriculum, and those who were interested, (which was most of us) were obliged to have private lessons. I vaguely remember my father handing me over to a great fat man who wore swimming goggles who, after some time, managed to teach me to swim the crawl; but at this point lessons ceased abruptly, as I was told he had 'interfered with me'. I never knew what this was supposed to mean, but to this day I still only know how to swim the crawl. I was never good enough to take part in the school's annual Swimming Gala, but this was an enjoyable, incredibly noisy affair held at the open-air beach baths as the school had no pool of its own.

These baths were a regular venue for many of us on Saturday mornings. After splashing around for a couple of hours we would dress and adjourn to the large car park next to the baths, where there was a hut known as Upton's. This establishment provided paper bags full of freshly fried and salted potato chips for the sum of three pence; and even in those days, this was a bargain. We would sit on the rocks which formed a barrier between the roadway and the sea and eat our chips, sometimes followed by a Twistee, a cylinder of ice-cream wrapped in a spiral paper covering, which was unwound as you progressed down its length. This also cost three pence; and after that we would set off for home, the final bus ride using up the remaining three pence of the shilling pocket money we had set out with.

For less serious swimming, there were great expanses of clean, white-sanded beaches up and down the coast. The North and South