Open Writing

Tonbridge School is one of England's older public schools (in Australia, called a 'private school'), which was founded in 1553 and,'wherein be brought up and nourished in learning great store of youth, as well bred in that shire as brought from other countries adioning.'

The 'schoolemaister' was to be paid 20 pounds a year and responsible also, to see that boarders were placed in houses, 'not likely to be an occasion of scholars to follow idleness, gaming and other vain postures not becoming students.'

With such auspicious maxims, what Tonbridgian could ever go astray? Idleness? Gaming? Vain postures? — Never!

Entering Tonbridge School as a new boy, or 'Novi', as we were called, with its traditions and customs, was like migrating to another country. The school was divided up into a number of 'Houses', and so I entered 'Manor House', in 1938, with five other Novi; my feelings a mixture of curiosity and mild apprehension.

There was a definite pecking order of authority; both the House Rules and the discipline were enforced by the boys themselves, according to their seniority level in the hierarchy. We Novi were the lowest of the low and accommodated in the Prep-Room, being a common room shared by about twelve of us, the first, second and third-term boys. Promotion was then to a shared two-boy study, then up the ladder; Lowers, Middles, Uppers, Seniors, then the Holy Ones — the Prefects.

As one progressed, certain privileges were bestowed upon the blessed; thus a second-term boy was allowed to have the bottom button of his jacket left undone; a third-term boy was in bliss, being allowed to have two buttons left undone, which was quickly pointed out to us Novi, with not a single button permitted to be undone at all, in keeping with our peasant status.

When I asked how many terms I would have to wait before being allowed to leave all my fly-buttons undone, they all descended upon me, en masse.

"Don't you give us any of your bloody lip," shouted the senior prep-room boy, "you're just a damned Novi, that's all. Understand?"

"How on earth did they let him in?" asked another. "Oh! It's just another TTAA Novi," said a third.

"What's a TTAA?" I asked.

"That's you. Trying To Attract Attention, TTAA. Get up on the table."

"Why? What for?"

"Don't argue! Get up on the table when you're told. Get up there and sing."

"Sing?" I queried, as I obeyed my Lords and Superiors, and climbed up onto the table.

"Yes, sing!" The chorus shouted, "Sing! Sing, you bloody Novi, sing when you're told."

As soon as I started, a barrage of text books hurtled towards me; I ducked some, received painful blows from others, dodged others, caught some and hurled them back.

From somewhere in the bowels of the building came a yell, "ONE PREP-ROOM BOYEEEEE!"

There was a wild stampede out of the door; a prefect was calling and the last boy to arrive would get the 'fagging duty'. It could be anything: 'clean my rugger boots...go to the Grubber (the school canteen), and bring me two cream buns...prepare my bath for me... go to the science lab and bring my books to my study...' and other, similar, imperious commands.

The school and Houses were thus controlled with the strict authority of a South American junta after a coup d'etat.

Positions of authority were appointed by seniority. Disciplinary punishments and the compliance with rules and regulations were supervised by the prefects or their delegation to lower ranks. Only very seldom were the Housemaster or the Headmaster involved.
Punishments were varied but usually of a physical nature: a run was a common one, where a prefect rode a bicycle alongside the criminal, yelling at him to sprint for fifty yard bursts and adding his threats that the duration of the run would be extended unless more effort was displayed.

More serious crimes were punished by a beating. When I was seen coming out of a sweet shop on a Sunday, which was strictly against House Rules, I was summoned to the 'Praes' Room' and placed on trial.

Unfortunately, the Head Prefect was Peter Curry, who later became a QC, and my defence crumbled. More unfortunately, he was also a fine squash player, later representing the Army. He had a very accurate eye and aim. The Prep-Room was cleared; the prefects went in to witness the beating; then, I was called in to receive it.

Peter Curry stood there, bending the thin, whippy cane stick backwards and forwards between his hands; then he took several practice forehand drives, with a loud swishing noise, before telling me to bend over the table. Swish-whack! It was so fast that I had no time to feel pain; then came the second, with deadly accuracy, right on top of the first — it was agony. Then came the third, again on top of the others. I was in considerable pain; tears came to my eyes.

"Don't do it again, Powell, or next time it will be six."

I hurried from the room then, once outside, clutched my backside in agony. I did not break that law again.

School life was a succession of events; daily chapel, House life, lessons, more lessons, sports, laughter, pranks, discussions both amicable and heated, tests and exams. Our teachers were very competent and knew their subjects extremely well; they could explain well, were always approachable and showed us what to study and our future path.

In my particular case, the only let-down was that not one of them ever showed me how to study, how to set about it, how to approach the subjects; the methodology of studying. If the pundit was correct who said, 'education is that which you remember after you have forgotten everything you ever learnt', then my academic education must be considered a resounding success, for I fit in with the definition perfectly.

It was a good system; as we progressed in the pecking order, having learnt to be good servants and how to receive and accept discipline and onerous duties, we, in our turn, leamt how to accept responsibility and be in charge of others, with complete confidence and self-reliance. It also taught us loyalty to others, the House and the school.