High School Memories
I started in 1939, following two elder brothers, who had made their name as untidy users of pen and ink. So Mickey Watt, brother of the more frequently ridiculed Dreamy Watt, asked me if I was therefore Inky No. 3. I so proved to be!
I was good at Maths and Languages, but hopeless at Science, which I could never fathom out, so was caned by Blobs Anderson for failing in two or three consecutive Science tests. Blobs was not respected as a teacher, but I remember him warning us not to experiment with explosive mixtures of chemicals like KNO3 and Sulphur (?), or we might end up like Cumberpatch, a boy who ignored such warnings. Blobs would point ominously at an orange stain on the white plaster ceiling, saying'”That's Cumberpatch!”
Our renowned Gym teacher J P Northey was a legend indeed. When a new boy Alister Sword, from Scotland, joined our 4th form, JP wrongly perceived him as a country village lad, and tried to impress him by quoting the population of Dunedin (c. 80000), saying, “How many in your village boy?” Sword's answer “Two million, sir.” floored JP completely.
On a later occasion, Midda Nordey (sic) used Don Ashton, one of our form's stronger and more mature boys, as his model opponent in boxing instruction. “Hit me boy!” said Northey several times, getting in response a weak straight left from Ashton, who was reluctant to hit a teacher with any venom. Northey put down both hands on the last occasion, but Ashton, riled by the abuse and humiliation, led with his token left, then swung hard with his right, almost knocking the teacher to the ground. At this, Northey boxed Ashton seriously all round the gym, with the rest of us standing like a sheepish mob in the centre aghast at this dreadful spectacle. A teacher would lose his job for such an action today.
When I was in the Lower 6th (today's 6th Form), I was saved from a caning by a boy called J B H Fitzwilliam. We had all been chatting away, while Dreamy Watt droned on from a textbook, when suddenly he shouted at me to come out for punishment, calling me the “ring-leader”. Dreamy grabbed his cane from behind the cupboard, when Fitzwilliam, all 6 feet of him, strode to the front, crying out, “You leave him alone! You're only picking on him because he's the smallest!” Dreamy retreated in confusion with “All right, boy. Sit down. Sit down. “ .. and to me “Don't do it again, Jelley.”
The two best teachers I had were Ivan “Grub” Garden, my French teacher for five years, and W J “Nigger” Martyn, my maths teacher for almost as long. Known by his nickname, Mr Martyn was the subject of boy-published booklets entitled “Niggerisms”, which were collections of Nigger's most memorable sayings, delivered in the deepest of bass voices often imitated by the class clowns. Once when the Lower Sixth staged a feigned lack of all knowledge and understanding, his questions became easier and easier, but not a hand went up, until Pickering in the front row gave a pre-arranged signal, and we all knew all the answers. During the mental strike, Nigger would say things in his deep deep voice like “It seems that some mysterious wave of stupidity has passed over the class.” How right he was.
Nigger used to go home to Roslyn for lunch, and just as he emerged from the long shelter shed onto Littlebourne Ground, he was seen to press his stopwatch; then again on his return. We often wondered what his record time was!
Years later, when I alighted from a Dunedin-bound train at Oamaru, I saw Nigger, much older and very frail, standing by the station. I approached him, and he recognized me immediately. I had the greatest respect for him.
“Grub” Garden was way ahead of his time as a foreign language teacher. He came into our IIIA class in February 1939, and said, “Bonjour, mes élèves.” Our mumbled incorrect answer was so bad that he merely walked out, and tried again, this time, writing the sentence on the blackboard as well. He then wrote “Bonjour Monsieur le professeur”, which we repeated with wrong pronunciations. Very soon we got it right, and for the next five years, he hardly ever spoke to us in English. He gave us French names like M. la gelée, M. le rouge-gorge (Robertson), M. la brèche (Gapper), M. le maréchal (Marshall), etc. I have retained my French, which I practise regularly on a chat room on the internet, and was thrilled to meet Grub again when he turned up, in his eighties, as a relieving teacher at Burnside High School, where our children and grandchildren attended. He gave me the same knowing grin that I remembered so well.
Our Rector was H P (Percy) Kidson, a highly-principled but stern man who apparently found it very hard to smile or laugh. When amused by my sudden withdrawal from the Speech Contest after losing all my top teeth to caries, he almost smirked as he intoned, “Ah, Jelley, what could be described as an unforeseen contingency.”
On another occasion he descended almost to absurdity when berating the whole school assembly for some bad behaviour reported from the town, when he declared; “After all, this is a school for the sons of gentlemen!”
But in our 6th Form year (7th form today), the six of us, including Alister Sword and Ted McCoy, really enjoyed our weekly hour with the Rector, as he shared with us his love for and knowledge of English Literature, and poetry in particular. He spoke of “vowel music”, the poet's gift for varying the vowel sounds in a phrase or line for greater effect. It's a nice concept.
Other teachers had nicknames like Creeper Bailey, whose soft shoes would allow him to walk up the aisle behind you when you were not paying attention; Bo Botting, famous for his rounds system in class; Queenie Cox for his perceived effeminacy; and Doc Sheen, a good Latin and English teacher who later became Director of Education.
In sport, Rugby and cricket were given ridiculous priority, with prefects often being chosen from people who had made the 1st XV and the 1st XI. Being so small in stature, I was often in my final two years, appointed captain of the lowest weight Rugby grade, with my team mates being all 3rd and 4th formers. It didn't make me any better at the game. My real opportunity in sport came after I came 3rd in the Half-mile Walk, later becoming a track walker for a year or two, before taking up running seriously.
My overall impression of OBHS was of an institution half-paralysed by tradition and rules. Thank goodness for the warmth and humanity of Flo and her mother at the tuckshop!
I was good at Maths and Languages, but hopeless at Science, which I could never fathom out, so was caned by Blobs Anderson for failing in two or three consecutive Science tests. Blobs was not respected as a teacher, but I remember him warning us not to experiment with explosive mixtures of chemicals like KNO3 and Sulphur (?), or we might end up like Cumberpatch, a boy who ignored such warnings. Blobs would point ominously at an orange stain on the white plaster ceiling, saying'”That's Cumberpatch!”
Our renowned Gym teacher J P Northey was a legend indeed. When a new boy Alister Sword, from Scotland, joined our 4th form, JP wrongly perceived him as a country village lad, and tried to impress him by quoting the population of Dunedin (c. 80000), saying, “How many in your village boy?” Sword's answer “Two million, sir.” floored JP completely.
On a later occasion, Midda Nordey (sic) used Don Ashton, one of our form's stronger and more mature boys, as his model opponent in boxing instruction. “Hit me boy!” said Northey several times, getting in response a weak straight left from Ashton, who was reluctant to hit a teacher with any venom. Northey put down both hands on the last occasion, but Ashton, riled by the abuse and humiliation, led with his token left, then swung hard with his right, almost knocking the teacher to the ground. At this, Northey boxed Ashton seriously all round the gym, with the rest of us standing like a sheepish mob in the centre aghast at this dreadful spectacle. A teacher would lose his job for such an action today.
When I was in the Lower 6th (today's 6th Form), I was saved from a caning by a boy called J B H Fitzwilliam. We had all been chatting away, while Dreamy Watt droned on from a textbook, when suddenly he shouted at me to come out for punishment, calling me the “ring-leader”. Dreamy grabbed his cane from behind the cupboard, when Fitzwilliam, all 6 feet of him, strode to the front, crying out, “You leave him alone! You're only picking on him because he's the smallest!” Dreamy retreated in confusion with “All right, boy. Sit down. Sit down. “ .. and to me “Don't do it again, Jelley.”
The two best teachers I had were Ivan “Grub” Garden, my French teacher for five years, and W J “Nigger” Martyn, my maths teacher for almost as long. Known by his nickname, Mr Martyn was the subject of boy-published booklets entitled “Niggerisms”, which were collections of Nigger's most memorable sayings, delivered in the deepest of bass voices often imitated by the class clowns. Once when the Lower Sixth staged a feigned lack of all knowledge and understanding, his questions became easier and easier, but not a hand went up, until Pickering in the front row gave a pre-arranged signal, and we all knew all the answers. During the mental strike, Nigger would say things in his deep deep voice like “It seems that some mysterious wave of stupidity has passed over the class.” How right he was.
Nigger used to go home to Roslyn for lunch, and just as he emerged from the long shelter shed onto Littlebourne Ground, he was seen to press his stopwatch; then again on his return. We often wondered what his record time was!
Years later, when I alighted from a Dunedin-bound train at Oamaru, I saw Nigger, much older and very frail, standing by the station. I approached him, and he recognized me immediately. I had the greatest respect for him.
“Grub” Garden was way ahead of his time as a foreign language teacher. He came into our IIIA class in February 1939, and said, “Bonjour, mes élèves.” Our mumbled incorrect answer was so bad that he merely walked out, and tried again, this time, writing the sentence on the blackboard as well. He then wrote “Bonjour Monsieur le professeur”, which we repeated with wrong pronunciations. Very soon we got it right, and for the next five years, he hardly ever spoke to us in English. He gave us French names like M. la gelée, M. le rouge-gorge (Robertson), M. la brèche (Gapper), M. le maréchal (Marshall), etc. I have retained my French, which I practise regularly on a chat room on the internet, and was thrilled to meet Grub again when he turned up, in his eighties, as a relieving teacher at Burnside High School, where our children and grandchildren attended. He gave me the same knowing grin that I remembered so well.
Our Rector was H P (Percy) Kidson, a highly-principled but stern man who apparently found it very hard to smile or laugh. When amused by my sudden withdrawal from the Speech Contest after losing all my top teeth to caries, he almost smirked as he intoned, “Ah, Jelley, what could be described as an unforeseen contingency.”
On another occasion he descended almost to absurdity when berating the whole school assembly for some bad behaviour reported from the town, when he declared; “After all, this is a school for the sons of gentlemen!”
But in our 6th Form year (7th form today), the six of us, including Alister Sword and Ted McCoy, really enjoyed our weekly hour with the Rector, as he shared with us his love for and knowledge of English Literature, and poetry in particular. He spoke of “vowel music”, the poet's gift for varying the vowel sounds in a phrase or line for greater effect. It's a nice concept.
Other teachers had nicknames like Creeper Bailey, whose soft shoes would allow him to walk up the aisle behind you when you were not paying attention; Bo Botting, famous for his rounds system in class; Queenie Cox for his perceived effeminacy; and Doc Sheen, a good Latin and English teacher who later became Director of Education.
In sport, Rugby and cricket were given ridiculous priority, with prefects often being chosen from people who had made the 1st XV and the 1st XI. Being so small in stature, I was often in my final two years, appointed captain of the lowest weight Rugby grade, with my team mates being all 3rd and 4th formers. It didn't make me any better at the game. My real opportunity in sport came after I came 3rd in the Half-mile Walk, later becoming a track walker for a year or two, before taking up running seriously.
My overall impression of OBHS was of an institution half-paralysed by tradition and rules. Thank goodness for the warmth and humanity of Flo and her mother at the tuckshop!
posted by Slidge at 11:09 AM
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