Open Writing

Finally came the time to move to a senior school, and I asked to go to Highgate because a friend of mine had gone there. So to Highgate I went. It was not difficult to gain admission at that time because, following the 1929 slump, there were not enough fathers who could afford public school fees.

My father was probably disappointed that we did not choose UCS, which had been his school when it was in Gower Street. Somehow I was put off because a couple of boys I did not care for had gone there. The selection proved good, and I was happy.

It meant one big change. Having worked a five-day week at prep school, I moved to six-day schooling with deskwork on the Saturday morning and games in the afternoon. This meant that our Saturday morning attendance at the West London Synagogue children’s service came to an end, other than in the holidays when I started to attend the main service.

It was at about this stage that our parents decided that we should be taught Bridge. They were regular players, and our father was a fine player. So at about 12 (10½ for Peter) we started our Bridge instruction and have obtained much pleasure from it ever since. None of us have ever become particularly fine players.

So, following an exam and an interview, I ended up at Highgate in the summer term of 1936. The new boys assembled in the quadrangle before the chapel. There I got chatting with a boy named Peter Phelps. To this day we remain in contact, although we do not manage to meet very often.

Then into Form 2B under the Rev. KRG Hunt. “A Reverend must be a gentle person” was my first thought. Not so. This master was a very strict, former cup final player who was still fit and wielded a strong right arm.

If, as he approached his classroom in the morning, he heard too much noise, the whole class was instructed to bend over their desks whilst he came round and wielded his ‘bim stick’ with a hearty blow. Perhaps it provided him with more satisfaction than it did us.

Poor work, a late return from swimming or similar misdemeanours also resulted in the boy concerned receiving between one and three blows with the bim stick. There were not many beaters amongst the masters. The other way to receive a whack was from the Prefects’ Court, although this was not a problem for me.

At that time my brain was probably in my backside, since for every fortnightly placing during that term I came top. This meant taking the form placing to a special Saturday morning ceremony before the headmaster, Dr. Johnston, who was on his last term after a long innings. A rather frightening-looking man in cap and gown would then congratulate me before I returned to the classroom.

About three-quarters of the way through the term, instead of my usual congratulations, the head (or Pate as he was always known), looked fiercely at me and commented, “I’m tired of seeing you here. Why don’t you give another boy a chance?” I didn’t take his advice.

The swimming pool in the old gym (that still stands) was another new experience. The water was changed over the weekend only. Thus if your time for a swim was Friday afternoon, you swam in warm, black treacle. For some of the boarders the swimming pool was the easiest way to have a bath.

Yet somehow colds and other illnesses were almost unknown. Perhaps modern society is too conscious of hygiene, and we no longer build up the same resistance to disease. My father had never let us swim in the Hampstead swimming bath after going there early one morning and seeing the attendant skimming the surface for the bits of matter floating there. The Hampstead pool was streets ahead of the school pool.

During that term on the cricket field another boy took my bat. I chased him and fought to recover it. During the scrap I gave him a black eye which lasted for some weeks. Every time he was asked how he came by it his answer was, “JM Davies hit me.” Thus I developed quite a reputation, although no one ever said anything to me about it.

A few terms later my next brother, Peter, known as PG and later as PUG because of his boxing prowess, came to Highgate, and we both were selected for the school boxing team. We then had the honour of being able to wear the school boxing cap instead of the cap worn by the other boys.

Thus we progressed steadily through the school, and both of us enjoyed it. Our father encouraged us and used to come along for house matches and boxing tournaments to support us.

On one occasion in 1938, I recall him at a house under-16 football match, when we were both playing. As he talked to our housemaster, he commented, “With this Hitler man, I wonder how many of these boys will still be alive in 10 years.” Strange how that comment remained in my mind. Eight years later I calculated, and only seven out of that team of 11 were still alive after the war deaths.

Family life was always important. Our Friday night meal and religious service to welcome in the Sabbath and Sunday lunch were occasions when we all ate together. Saturday lunch was not often possible because we were at school, and our father’s company worked a five-and-a-half day week. Even Sunday was problematic, because that was his opportunity for a round of golf, at which he had a handicap of 18.

As we grew older, we would hear comments on world and national affairs. By 1936 my father’s stated view was that, with Hitler in power in Germany, war was inevitable, and we must rearm.

We used to ask him about the 1914-18 War where he won a Military Cross. This he always told us was for saving the Colonel’s jam. It was only after his death that we learned that it was for capturing and holding a pillbox with only one uninjured soldier alongside him. He rose to the rank of Captain, and forever afterwards he was Captain Davis, rather than Mr Davis.

Out of his many tales, he used to tell us of the New Zealand Colonel Freyberg, whom he regarded as the most remarkable and bravest soldier he knew. He once came round to inspect my father’s front line company and asked one of the privates, “What would you do if you saw a Jerry put his head up?”

“I’d chuck a bloody grenade at him.”

So Freyberg told him to throw a grenade, and of course it only went a quarter of the distance. “I will return tonight and show you how near you have to be.”

As promised, he returned after dark and took the private over the top, and they crawled to within throwing distance. “Now throw.” He threw and it landed in the German front line trench. They then crawled back safely. As my father said, “He risked that private’s life. If he had been killed, Freyberg would have been court martialed.”

Freyberg was also in the landing at Gallipoli, and when signalling between the ships was unreliable, Freyberg swam from ship to ship, carrying messages. A man willing to take extreme risks. The two of them ended up in hospital together, recovering from wounds, and had a bet as to who would be out first. Our father was first out and won a lovely engraved cigarette case that was greatly treasured.

The two of them communicated together after the war until my father asked him to become involved in a dental matter, since he had been a dentist before the 1914-18 War. The reply he got was, “If ever you were a friend, please allow me to forget I was a bloody dentist.”

Freyberg remained in the army and led the New Zealand division that came to the Western Desert during the 1939-45 War. His troops loved and hated him because whenever there was a battle planning session under Montgomery and they came to a particularly difficult and dangerous part of the operation, Freyberg would be likely to suggest, “My boys can tackle that.” He had not changed and still had to be in the most risky part of the war.