Open Writing

A scent, a sound, the mention of a name or a particular quality of sunlight is often all it takes to unleash a flood of memories. Recently, a faded copy of a church magazine, mailed to me from England, was all it took to open the floodgates of my subconscious. The magazine, dating from World War II, had the usual contents: a message from the vicar, times of services, and names of volunteers required for the coming month. What triggered my memories was a photograph of the choir, including the vicar and choirmaster.

My family had a long, and I confess, not very devout association with what for many years was our parish church, Holy Trinity, in Sheffield, England. My parents were married there in December 1932, and my sister was christened there five years later. My wedding bans were read at Holy Trinity. Other than those times, I don’t think my parents ever set foot inside the church. But my father belonged to the “do as I say, not as I do” school of child rearing; so I was directed to attend Sunday school and to audition for the choir “for my own good.”

Sunday school was initially held in the church hall, but was later transferred to the Church premises to save fuel in time of war. I cannot remember when my period as a chorister started, other than that it was during the early years of World War II, but it continued until 1945 when my voice thankfully broke. I say “thankfully” because I was never a willing or talented member of the choir and couldn’t wait for the day when I could leave.

I was not, at the time, musically inclined, and was so painfully shy that the very idea of performing in public was quite an uncomfortable prospect. The thought of singing solo, as I was occasionally required to do, was sufficient to give me sleepless nights for a week beforehand, and make my knees shake so badly during my performance that I thought I would collapse. I was sure that the congregation could see the motion of my knocking knees through my cassock.

If these factors were not enough to dampen my enthusiasm, during the winter months the times of the services were compressed into the daylight hours from around 8am to 3pm. “Blacking out” the church by covering the windows to prevent the lights being seen by enemy aircraft was impracticable. The reduced day of worship meant that I stayed at church all day from Communion through Matins and Sunday school to Evensong, because my home was too far away to walk back and forth in the time available between services.

Despite my diffidence, I remember with great fondness certain events, experiences and people. I will never forget Cyril “Fitz” Fawcett who was the very dedicated and talented choirmaster and organist. Ironically, the one thing he couldn’t do musically was sing! He had been a tank driver in World War I, and had suffered damage to his vocal chords when his tank was hit by German artillery.

This did not prevent him from trying to sing however, but it became something of a joke if he demonstrated to the choir how he wanted us to sound, when the best he could do was a reedy, tuneless croak. He would also sing along loudly when playing the organ, which was rather disconcerting if one’s position in the choir stalls was within earshot. Fortunately the congregation could not hear him.

Aside from his patient dedication as a choirmaster, he also played a very significant morale boosting role for the children of the parish when he would put on a movie show of cartoons at the Christmas parties for us kids, held in the church hall. He would also play the movies backwards, much to our hilarious delight. It seemed like such a rich treat during the gray and lean war years.

Looking at the photograph brought choristers names back to life for me, though I must confess I had not thought of them in all these years. I see my childhood friend Basil Grandfield, and his older brother Geoffrey who was a choir member until he was drafted into the Navy. Yet another contemporary of mine, whose name I cannot recall, suffered terribly with asthma. His wheezing was so pronounced and his breathing so labored I often worried that he would collapse during a service. It’s a miracle he had enough breath to sing at all, but the effort was probably good for his lungs.

One of my happy memories is of Christmas caroling. A group of us boys from the choir would get together two or three evenings a week, in the period immediately before Christmas, and work our way through the palpable darkness of the blacked-out neighborhood. I’m embarrassed to admit that we did it for personal gain, not for any, more noble, purpose. We concentrated on the bigger houses in the affluent parts of the parish, and were often invited inside to entertain a family gathering.

One of the boys knew the German version of Silent Night, and taught the rest of us to sing it phonetically. It didn’t strike us as ironic at the time, and none of our audiences ever complained, despite the vehemence of anti-German feeling at the time. Another boy could play the flute pretty well, so this further enhanced our repertoire. People were very generous, and the proceeds from our singing went a long way towards the purchase of Christmas gifts, such as were available.

Included in our itinerary was a nursing home that had been commandeered by the military as a hospital/rehabilitation center for the wounded. Each Christmas we would be invited to sing carols from ward to ward. The patients were very appreciative, both in their applause and in the money they gave us. The hospital was only about half a mile from an anti-aircraft battery and I have to wonder now how the wounded must have reacted to the deafening noise from the guns when there was an air raid.

One of the distractions that helped to relieve the tedium of my journeys to and from choir practice and services was, of all things, a water tank that I had to pass. It was one of several steel tanks about 12 feet wide by 20 feet long and perhaps 4 feet deep, placed strategically by the National Fire Service to provide fire fighting water when water mains had been destroyed by bombing.

The stagnant water teemed with aquatic life of many types, and provided a fascinating source of entertainment for my friends and I. I have no idea how the creatures got into the water, but in writing this, I realize how ludicrous our fascination must sound to today’s young people, in an age when they are overwhelmed by sophisticated entertainment of all kinds. Watching Water Boatmen insects glide across the mirror surface of the stagnant water gave us quite a thrill.

The Reverend Oliver Tomkins, the vicar at that time, was a kindly and scholarly man who went on to a Bishopric in South Africa. The only time I remember him being anything but pleasant and urbane was one winter’s night when we choristers were waiting for Mr. Fawcett to arrive for choir practice. In a closet next to the vestry we stumbled on some bottles containing the dregs of communion wine and decided to sample them. The same closet also held the electrical control panel. Emboldened by our slight but instant inebriation, we thought it would be a lark to switch a few lights on and off in the church.

Apparently Rev. Tomkins was doing parish rounds on his bicycle when he saw the flashing lights in the otherwise blacked out streets. He must have raced to the church because it seemed only seconds between initiating our prank and the vicar bursting through the vestry door, followed closely by a helmeted air raid warden who also had seen the light-show. The vicar was so furious he could hardly speak, and we were appropriately chagrined. I can’t remember what punishment we received, if any, but it was probably the loss of our stipend for a week or two.

Though I was such an unwilling and, I think, unsuitable candidate to be a choir boy, and though my contribution to the choir was marginal at best, I have concluded that the experience must have provided me with the foundation for my subsequent and enduring love of classical music. In my late teenage years and after, I attended orchestral concerts regularly.

As with most people, my musical tastes have matured and changed over time, and though it has taken many years, now I find that my greatest joy is in listening to liturgical music, particularly choral. It’s a turn of events that I would never have predicted, but I will always credit Mr. Fawcett with sowing the seeds in what must have seemed like very arid soil.

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