Low life
Old school ties
Jeffrey Bernard
Alast I have laid the ghost that had haunted me for 45 years. My return visit to Pangbourne College to speak to the sixth formers went very well, as far as I was con- cerned, and I don't think the boys were too bored by our question and answer session. The atmosphere of the place has changed beyond all recognition since my days there and my hosts were charming and I even felt some warmth in their company. The boys I spoke to were very pleasant and I
may have to rethink my attitude toward teenagers.
It is all something of a puzzle. Could it all have been as terrible as I have always remembered it or did I bring my own unhappiness to school with me at the start of every term? It could have had its roots at home where there was always some ten- sion and some danger of a row or drama of some sort, my mother and even my sis- ter being what they were. I am no longer sure that I can go on blaming Pangbourne for my being such a miserable bore, although the masters did not serve me vodka and Perrier as they did last week. How odd it seemed somehow to be sitting in a classroom and the headmaster's quar- ters sipping and smoking.
The day started badly enough. It was the coldest I can remember this winter and in my rush to catch the right train from Paddington, I left my flat having forgotten to take my insulin. I was met by a master at Reading by which time I felt at death's door and yet could not feel my legs or feet. A master with diabetes later saved me from crashing out by kindly getting me some insulin from the village, and after the headmaster's wife had given me a couple of drinks without looking shocked at my request for them I was almost back on course.
What a friendly bunch they are. The Captain Superintendent when I was a boy, Commander Skinner, could have put ice in a vodka just by looking at it, or maybe that is one more thing that is in my imagina- tion. Anyway, the chat with the boys and four girls went on for a little more than an hour. There were about 60 of them and they kindly refrained from trying to shoot me down in flames. I can't remember now much of what I said, but I do remember unwittingly slightly depressing one girl when I said that it is slightly odds against ever being really happy. I shall attempt to make amends by sending her a copy of John Cowper Powys's The Art of Happiness. Sorry about that, Liz.
I later discovered that they had videoed the whole proceedings and they will proba- bly show it to boys of the future as a warn- ing as to how you can end up looking on 50 cigarettes and a few vodkas every day. After a good buffet lunch, a vast improve- ment on the cabbage of 1947, we said goodbye and to my astonishment I was genuinely sorry to be going. I could have hung about all day. I felt comfortable and at ease and all the way home to Soho I kept wondering whether it could all have been so awful all those years ago. If it was, perhaps it was just as well if it toughened up that miserable boy who was so reluc- tant to stray far from his mother's apron strings. Not that the diva of Holland Park would be seen dead wearing an apron unless it had been designed by Chanel. I think I shall go back to Pangbourne this summer, and maybe watch them play some cricket or row on that so pretty stretch of
the river. In my present mood I may even start recommending the college to the par- ents of 14-year-olds.
What I do now, though, is to extend an invitation to the boys and girls to drop into the Coach and Horses some time during the holidays. Norman needs their pocket money.
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