Dear Philippa

I recently came across a copy of the 1958 issue of my school magazine. Looking back, it was a strange place. We were urged to venerate distinguished old boys, of whom Wilberforce (William, not Soapy Sam) was one. As was Andrew Marvell, though reading To His Coy Mistress was not encouraged.

Reading through the magazine brought back many memories, mostly happy. The headmaster was fond of orotund phrases. His deputy saw his role as interpreter of the great man’s words. Once before speech day the head lectured us about appropriate behaviour, with the final injunction “no masticating oleaginous comestibles!”, swept majestically out of the hall. Up stepped his deputy and in his broad Yorkshire accent translated “Think on, boys. No gum!”.

I am now a governor of a school of similar vintage and similar history, a very fine comprehensive school. My old head would be appalled on both counts; me a governor, the school a comprehensive. As I read the magazine I was struck by how much things have changed. The absence of Latin and Greek today, for example. It is not possible to read my school magazine with full understanding without knowing some Latin, and indeed some of my schoolmasters would revert to it under stress. Today, at Malton School, the teachers are pretty much cast from the same mould but more stressed, and none of them carries a stick. Science in my day was secondary, the choice for boys of low imagination and bad haircuts, but it is through science that Malton School most notably expresses its excellence. Plenty of bad haircuts still.

It is hard not to feel nostalgia for one’s own schooldays at this distance, and grateful as I am to the school for what it gave me I am aware that pupils are much better served now in important ways, especially I think in the expressive arts. In my day, if you had no artistic or musical ability you were pretty much ignored, and the focus was all on those who could draw, or paint or play the violin.

Or sing. In my first music lesson aged eleven my asthmatic music master, the legendary Mr “Wheezy” Graydon, set about discovering a song we had all memorised at primary schools (Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill,I remember), accompanied us on a couple of run-throughs on his Steinway, and then set us off singing unaccompanied while he crept along the rows listening to us over our shoulders. I never understood why he listened from behind; was it to avoid the halitosis, that by-product of the bad dentistry of the day? Anyway, he tapped the occasional boy on the shoulder, including me. Good, I’m in the choir, I thought. Not a bit of it. The boys so touched were, he said, tone deaf and henceforth would in school be known as Non-singers, obliged to mime. And a Non-singer I remain.

And that was it for me, musically speaking. I was never taught to be, what most of us after all are, a consumer of music, an informed listener. Same thing in art; I was never shown how intelligently to look at paintings, nor taught any art history. The only grounding I was given, and that incidentally, was from Bible Studies, which enabled me to identify themes and episodes so prevalent in classical art and music. To this day I feel short changed, especially as far as music goes. Actually, I am not tone deaf, just not a very good singer; who knows what I might have achieved had I been given some attention and not misdiagnosed. Even with poor hearing. Look at Beethoven.

Such a brutal approach would not be tolerated today, even though few schools can boast a Steinway. I am, however, glad of the Latin and Greek; very useful when solving crossword puzzles.

Regards

Howard