DIARY
ROWENA WILLIAMS That brief wet spell we call 'the summer term' seems a distant memory. It began with newly polished shoes, fast becoming murky as they swarmed up trees into the 'jungle' and hurtled down the back drive on skate- boards, landing in a scattering of hay and surprised hens. Head prefect was Edward, taller and bulkier than several members of staff and a splendid boy. Another bed had to be moved into Henry's dorm as he seemed to have grown a further three inches. Emma had won a downhill race of national signifi- cance in Beaver Creek, but was far more interested in discovering what dorm she was in. Rosie and Henry bagged newborn guinea pigs. No one seemed to notice that the bur- sar's cat had eaten Freckles and Pipsqueak as an Easter treat. Since then, 148 school matches have been played. Our 3rd XI umpire has trench-foot from sticking it out through the driving rain in spite of pleading glances from the opposition. Common Entrance exams are over, and the leavers' production of Me and My Girl was all `decanters and pearls' (Cockney prose slang for 'an excellent show').
Now the rooms are silent but for the mop and duster. As the disciples did on the hills of Galilee, we have gathered the 12 bas- kets — at least — of remains. There are girlie `scrtnichy' hair-ties, single gloves and stiff socks, cricket boxes and Freddy Green- ish's hymn book. The advent of the silver scooters has left skateboards and roller-boots rotting in the cellar; there are several unclaimed Discmans and gum-guards and Beanos. Such is the scene at the end of term, at the end of many such terms in boarding preparatory schools. This time, there is a dif- ference for us — Clive, the headmaster, and me, his wife: we, too, are departing, having run the school for 26 years.
Our predecessor, the illustrious W.G. Williamson, would have had more to say than ever about the increasing number of posses- sions and scatterings of the same. He was never short of words and addressed the whole school at least twice a day every day. It was more of a harangue than an address. 'When I was six, I knew all the French regular and irregular verbs by heart, the past and future tenses, and I was considered backward by my nanny,' he would say. Money often featured: `When I started teaching at Heatherdown, I earned £60 a year and was lucky to have a job.' Whenever any staff member even hinted at feeling cold, he would launch into the description of his room, which had 'five out- side walls'. We calculated once, probably dur- ing one of these tirades, that over the five years at Ashdown a boy would spend the equivalent of an entire Lent term listening to Billie being rather cross. Just think how much longer it would have been had he experi- enced children missing his lessons for the orthodontist or glimpsed cricket helmets rust- ing in the pavilion. He would have approved, as my husband did, of the father who wrote this term: 'On no account is my son to wear a helmet. He finds it difficult enough to con- centrate when batting as it is.' Mind you, even in 1973, Billie wrote in the Bulletin (our school magazine): 'There is too much untidi- ness and carelessness in the school. The boys don't take enough pride in their form rooms. Brooms, dustpans and rubbish receptacles are provided for each room, but the brooms are mishandled, the pans are lost and the receptacles are used as footballs. Pockets of pollution keep appearing.'
Nowadays we have carpets, and the vacuum cleaners are regularly blocked with discarded faxes from parents. We struggle to find material for the old-fashioned let- ters, our bright suggestions usually greeted with 'I told them yesterday' or 'Mummy said she only wants short ones'. The weekly order cards are no more (with Latin and Greek out of 100 and English out of 30). The cane, the jokari bat, the golf club and other instruments of discipline are long for- gotten. The dawn no longer echoes to 'side down, clap down' for the majority, and Top Form no longer chants quo, lueis, luei' . Actually, the Greek bit only stopped with the end of term — though, since the new headmaster is not a classicist, I suppose it may have stopped for ever.
It was rather fitting and extremely mov- ing that last Sunday, after the end of term, YOU ARE WATCHING
BIG
2000
BIG IRONER IS WATCHING YOU 19B4 we helped to scatter the ashes of dear Harry Gabain, a teacher of French (long since retired) for 40 years, on the Chapel Lawn. We were standing on the same spot from which my husband, as a nine-year-old, watched Mr Gabain dangling out of the first-floor window while demonstrating the Davy fire-escape apparatus. 'Now watch me . . . em, it's very simple.' The dangling and errring went on for longer than expected as some wag had sneaked upstairs and jammed the pulley. Mr Gabain was not only a gentleman but could also defy gravi- ty on his scarcely moving scooter, his back ramrod straight. The stationery cupboard was his kingdom. It was practically impossi- ble to extract a ruler or exercise book after the first fortnight of term. Requests would be met with a 'No, dearie, I'm stock-taking.'
Teams of gap-year students have passed through, marking pitches and setting out hurdles or music-stands. They have fed and cleared up after the sick, matched socks and folded underwear. Their enthusiasm for Custard Creams and Bourbons has sent them back to Canada, Australia or New Zealand a lot larger than they were the pre- vious September. A lovely Canadian girl called Jahna caused much mirth when heard one frosty October morning announcing to a dormitory of puzzled eight-year-olds, 'Gee, if I'd known it was going to be this cold I'd have worn some pants.'
I was shown an advertisement recently for a Head of Pharmacovigilance, or something like that. I haven't a clue what it is, but one of the qualifications was 'experience in adverse event management'. I'm overquali- fied. The domestic side, which boasts several nationalities, is rife with ethnic cleansing. Sadly, not as much actual cleansing as is deemed proper, but we muddle along with a smile, a bucket and a bent coat-hanger for extracting orange peel from the urinals. Now that we're moving away from all this fun, I suppose I won't have to be all frosty at par- ties when normal people who go out to work invariably say, 'What, have you broken up already? I'm sure we used to go on till the end of July when I was at school.' I feel like asking them when they last had more than 200 children for a 12-week 'sleep over'.
The reports are finally done and posted. The Wellingtonia stands serene and watch- ful with no undignified scrambling among its lower branches. The guinea pigs roam free and the pig sleeps. A large Muscovy duck is eyeing me from the kitchen door. I do hope he's still around in September to welcome the new headmaster.
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