I was seven years old, had moved to the second block of the class and had already secured my place at the back right hand desk. Nobody was going to take that away from me, ever!

One morning just after term started I almost saw a funny wiggly thing in my eyes and then, when I looked up I couldn’t read the blackboard. My first reaction was to rub my eyes and have another go but the board was still a vague blur.

Worried, I put my hand up to tell Miss Beevis but at first she thought I was messing around and threatened to send me to the headmaster; desperate and very frightened I took refuge in tears.

Maybe persuaded by Rich’s earnest “I think there’s really something wrong with Malc, Miss” or perhaps just realising that I was in genuine distress, Miss Beevis came to my desk and then led me by the hand to the front of the class.

Even that close to the blackboard and utterly humiliated by having to sit with the six year olds, I still couldn’t make out any writing and started crying again. Accepting that I wouldn’t be able to do any work Miss Beevis took me back to my real place and told me to read quietly until playtime.

I had to literally put my nose on the page to see the words in my book but at least the effort kept me occupied. When morning milk arrived Rich was allowed to bring mine to me, rather than me having to queue up as usual, then we went out for playtime.

I didn’t want to play and sat miserably in a corner of the playground; Rich loyally sat with me and held my hand telling me that everything would be alright. For the rest of the morning I sat at my desk doing my best to read but it gave me a headache.

When dinner time finally came round I got waited on by Rich and two of our friends. The dinner ladies decided that the best way to cheer up a distressed little boy was an extra big helping of pudding. I ate the lot; it took more than not being able to see to ruin my appetite.

After dinner the Headmaster put me in his car, drove me back to Lurgashall and led me by hand all the way to the front door to hand me over to Mummy. For the first time in my life I discovered there were things she couldn’t make better.

All she could do was give me a kiss and a cuddle and tell me that I had to be brave for now; we’d go and see the doctor in the morning. On his way home Rich came round to see how I was feeling so we played together for a while, indoors because I wasn’t allowed out in case I hurt myself.

Rich stayed as long as he could and by the time he left I’d managed to cheer up a bit. I went to bed early that evening because I wasn’t allowed to read so there wasn’t much point in staying up. I was also hoping that a good night’s sleep would make my eyes better again.

Love

That cheekiness got me a quick smack on the leg but it made all our classmates laugh so we kept doing it until Mrs Chalfont threatened the ultimate punishment. Not wanting to lose my shorts and pants in front of the class I called it a day.

Mrs Chalfont decided that Richard and Malcolm needed to be seated as far apart as possible after that; we were a bad influence on each other or rather I was a bad influence on Rich. I didn’t mean to cause trouble but I found lessons too easy and got bored.

Looking at the solemn little chap over to your right you might find it hard to believe that he was such a mischievous little scamp but appearances really can be deceptive.

Everything changed when we moved up to second class. Miss Beevis, our new teacher was a stern, forbidding woman who brooked no nonsense from naughty little boys. We were all so frightened of her that within a few weeks most of us had wet our pants at least once because we were scared to ask if we could be excused.

The school had several pairs of shorts for loan to unfortunately damp boys until they got home; they’d be washed by our mothers and returned a couple of days later ready for the next accident. I hated having to borrow a pair of shorts, mostly because it felt really strange having no pants on; it was a bit chilly as well.

Rich joined the other boys in laughing at me when I had my accident but justice was served a few days later when he tried and failed to make it to playtime without asking to be excused. Naturally I joined all the other boys when they laughed at him; fair’s fair.

We got separated again but not because of naughtiness. Miss Beevis had a system which had served her for years and she wasn’t about to change it to accommodate two best friends.

As she had six and seven year olds to teach she divided the room into two halves, front and back with the new children at the front. on the day we started in second class each of us found our name on a desk and that’s where we sat for the first week; arranged alphabetically.

Based on work during the week and after a reading test on Friday afternoon we were moved around with the best performer going to the back, right hand desk of the block. That’s where I ended up on Friday of my first week and that’s where I intended to stay.

Rich was in the row in front of me but wasn’t jealous of my achievement, quite the opposite. He was my biggest supporter and was responsible for my first nickname ‘Brain Box’ which all the other children adopted immediately, even the older ones.

Away from school, when we were racing around the village green I was just Malc again.

Love

We moved to Lurgashall in 1956 when I was three and my Mother was pregnant with my little sister. One morning, not long after the last little McLachlan entered the world Mummy took us to the village shop. My baby sister was in her pram and I was attached securely to Mummy by toddler reins.

There was a lot of attention around the pram as various ladies fussed and cooed over my baby sister but my attention was diverted by a dark haired boy who, like me was secured to his Mummy by reins.

We were introduced and told that we should shake hands like ‘proper little gentlemen’ but after appraising each other for a few moments decided that a hug would be much nicer. The other boy’s name was Richard which we both thought was very special as that’s also my middle name.

From that moment we were playmates and soon became best friends. Richard’s big sister often looked after my sisters and I if Mummy had to go out; she always brought my best friend with her as it was the easiest way to keep me occupied.

Very soon Richard and Malcolm became Rich and Malc, despite Mummy’s best efforts to stop the name shortening and as we got a little older those names became synonymous with mischief.

We didn’t do nasty things and never caused any real damage; mostly we took really silly risks with our own safety by playing too near the brook and falling in. The result of that would usually be a telling off for Rich from his Mummy and a big spanking for me from mine.

In September 1958 we started at Northchapel County Primary School together and while I was really excited at the idea of school I was also quite nervous; I wasn’t used to meeting new children and was worried how they’d treat a skinny little waif like me.

There was some light teasing about my hair colour from other boys but Rich soon put a stop to it. He was bigger and stronger than me and appointed himself my protector from the beginning of our first coach journey to school.

I’m going to tell you more tales of Rich and Malc as we were best friends for many years and he really was a very special person to me.

Love

It could have easily been a tragic story but fate, or whatever controls these things, intervened and there was a happy outcome.

My mother worked up at Hillgrove for a few more years just taking my little sister with her; I was in primary school by then.

One day my older sisters and I got off the school coach to be met by the lady who played the church organ. We were to go to her house for tea and stay there until Mummy came to collect us.

Apparently my little sister had been rushed to hospital and everyone was quite worried. I didn’t mind having to stay at the Webber’s, Mrs Webber believed in cooked tea and we had sausages.

Naturally we were all very upset about our little sister and waited on tenterhooks until Mummy finally arrived to take us home. We were assured that everything was fine but our sister was being kept in overnight for observation.

It transpired that a certain little girl had gone for a wander in the big garden at Hillgrove and had come back to the house with a big smile on her face. Asked what she’d been up to she announced that she’d found some ‘pretty’ berries to eat.

Instantly alert to danger Mummy and Mrs Tobin asked her to show them the berries and she happily trotted back into the garden. When she pointed to a deadly nightshade plant there was uproar.

Calling an ambulance would have taken ages in such an isolated place so Mrs Tobin immediately got the car out and off they all sped to Petworth Cottage Hospital where a powerful emetic was administered.

My little sister thoroughly enjoyed all the attention she got at the hospital but wasn’t at all happy about being made violently sick. The doctors were fairly confident that they’d got all the poison out but, just for safety’s sake, decided she should stay in.

The next day when we got home from school there she was, her usual smiling self and apparently none the worse for her experience. A valuable lesson had been learned about not eating ‘pretty’ berries without asking Mummy first.

The sweetest part of this tale is the retribution that befell the evil plant. The Tobin boys were home from school at the time and they adored my little sister. When their mother told them about the incident they were incensed that a mere plant could cause so much trouble and threaten the life of a little girl.

Donning their sheath knives, they marched down the garden and slashed the deadly nightshade plant to pieces before digging up the roots. They then gathered all the bits together, found some twigs to use as kindling and started a little bonfire to utterly destroy the horrible thing so that it couldn’t hurt anyone again.

Love

When the alcoholic disaster that was my biological father abandoned us my Mother was left completely in the lurch. To help make ends meet she cleaned house for a wealthy family who lived in what was essentially a small mansion at the top of Hillgrove.

That in itself presented a challenge as Mum had to push my baby sister’s pram up the steep hill while grimly restraining a terminally inquisitive four year old.

The family whose house we went to had two boys who were a few years older than me and their mother used to give me some really good quality hand-me-down clothes. I was quite possibly the best dressed little boy in the village.

I didn’t see much of the boys as they were both at prep school and only home during the holidays. They were a bit too old to find the company of a four year old entertaining but too young to be given the task of babysitting.

One day when we arrived I was presented with a green plastic toy racing car. There was a label on the bottom of the car so I asked Mummy what it said which turned out to be “Virtually Indestructible”. I asked what that meant and was told I probably couldn’t break it.

I didn’t take that as a challenge, honestly but while I was playing I got distracted by something and put the car on top of a radiator. When it was time to go I remembered the car and ran back to get it.

What I found was an amorphous green lump that no longer looked at all racing car shaped. Surprisingly I didn’t cry, I thought it was funny; so did Mummy and the lady who’d given me the car.

The “virtually indestructible” incident became a standing joke in the family and was mentioned whenever I was given a new toy. Still, on the plus side I learned that plastic melts when it gets hot which is probably a good thing to know.

To illustrate my point I’d like to tell you about the relationship I had with my Music Master from the first week of Grammar school until I left in 1971. I invite you to consider how this relationship would be viewed today.

As soon as JB (my Music Master) realised that I had genuine potential he began giving me informal one to one tuition during breaks and lunchtimes. I’d meet him in the school hall and he’d play the Steinway Grand while I practiced my singing. Anyone who had proper vocal training as a child will know that it’s a very ‘hands on’ process as tightening the abdominal muscles while singing isn’t a natural action; it has to be taught and involves physical contact.

When I was twelve I decided to write a descant for a well known Christmas carol and after a lot of scribbled out pages in my manuscript book finally had what I thought was a decent effort so I asked for a private session to discuss it rather than have the rest of the Form giving me a hard time. JB played it through while I sang the carol in its original form and then he spent half an hour explaining to me just how much was wrong with it. All of the criticism was completely constructive and he made sure that I understood where I’d broken accepted rules on chordal progression and why it just simply didn’t work. He also went out of his way to praise me for having the courage to write the piece in the first place.

When I was thirteen JB gave me, as a personal gift, a copy of the Oxford Companion to Music which is the musical equivalent of the OED; it’s an essential reference work for anyone studying Music theory and history. I didn’t know what that tome cost and would never have been so crass as to ask but it certainly wasn’t cheap.

Once I started learning to play the organ, when I was fourteen a significant number of my music lessons were spent with just JB and I in the organ loft of the otherwise deserted Midhurst Parish church. I was too short to reach the pedal board in those days so I’d concentrate on the three keyboards while JB played the pedals; once again physical contact was inevitable.

Just after I finished my mock O Levels JB invited me to a piano recital by Ashkenazy at Brighton pavilion; it was a post exam treat and nothing to do with school at all. I had tea at his house before he drove us to Brighton and after the concert he delivered me back to Lurgashall. I got home just after midnight on a school night and fell asleep while telling my parents what a fantastic concert it had been.

While I was in Lower Sixth Form JB invited me to another concert; this time to hear Itzhak Perlman. Again it was just the two of us and it was a completely unofficial and private event.

Neither of those concerts cost me a penny and on both occasions we had very expensive seats so that we could get the best of the acoustics and a good view of the performers.

I can only imagine how a teacher lavishing such attention on a single pupil would be viewed now but I can assure you that despite a plethora of opportunities no inappropriate behaviour occurred. if JB ever had any designs in that direction, which I don’t believe for a moment he did, he was clearly too reticent to pursue things.

Love

In lower Sixth Form those of us studying French Literature for A Level were invited to the University of Sussex at Brighton for a day of study along side first year undergraduates.

The first session was to be watching a film adaptation of Jean Paul Sartre’s Huis clos followed by a seminar to discuss what we’d just seen. After lunch there was to be a lecture on Sartre and Existentialism.

While I was filling in the form at home I noticed that there were two options for the seminar; English speaking or French speaking. Without hesitation I ticked the French speaking option and next lesson handed the form in.

It didn’t occur to me that I might be the only representative from my school in the seminar; I blithely assumed that everybody else would relish the challenge. It didn’t occur to me to mention my choice to any of my contemporaries either.

On the day we travelled to Brighton in the school’s recently acquired and, frankly ramshackle minibus but somehow we arrived safely. After a brief introductory talk and coffee we went into the main theatre to watch the film.

As we were leaving the theatre I followed the directions for the seminar and a puzzled voice called out “where are you off to, Mac?” Looking back I just said “the seminar, of course; aren’t you lot coming?” and carried on walking.

I was the only one who’d opted to attend the French speaking seminar and for a brief moment I regretted it. Then, deciding that I’d have to live with my choice I tossed a casual “À bientôt” over my shoulder and sauntered off.

The seminar was incredibly tough going and I found myself struggling to put my insights across. The students I was working with were exceptionally helpful and seemed willing to tolerate a rather hubristic sixteen year old. The Lecturer conducting the seminar was very patient as well.

In the end I decided that I’d made the right choice and had gained a great deal from the experience. Reading in French was one thing but thinking in French was a completely different matter.

The journey back to Midhurst was interesting. Opinion seemed to be divided as to whether I was incredibly brave or just astoundingly arrogant. Eventually I grew bored of the whole matter and retreated into a book after muttering the famous words of Sartre.

“L’enfer; c’est les autres.”

Love

My primary school had a very small and rather predictable selection of books but I’d already read all the so called Children’s Classics by the time I was ten. A six volume set had been a Christmas present when I was nine; it was one of my most prized possessions.

There was a mobile library that came to Lurgashall every week but they carried a very limited selection and catered mostly for adults with a preponderance of authors such as Agatha Christie; the sort of thing that held no interest for me. I did find a few useful reference books which I absorbed just for the sake of knowing new things.

The library at school was a completely new adventure and my first discovery was the hitherto unknown world of Science Fiction. Completely at random I selected “Childhood’s End” by Arthur C. Clarke and an obsession was born.

I read the book in one session; at great personal risk because it meant my reading light was still on at well past eleven o’clock at night. My perfidy went undiscovered and I spent some time afterwards pondering the new world, or should I say universe that had opened up for me.

The book went back the next day and, attracted by the bright yellow cover I selected a Gollanz anthology entitled “New Writings In SF”; I think it was the 1959 edition. That book introduced me to such authors as Robert Silverberg, Clifford D. Simak and Ray Bradbury amongst many others.

Ultimately I discovered the incredible work of Philip K. Dick and immediately related to the Cold War intensity of his plots. I still consider Dick to be one of the giants of his generation. I also pursued my new found love for the works of Arthur C. Clarke and read everything of his I could find.

Mum wasn’t too happy about my choices as much SF was considered subversive but with my usual insouciance I continued to read as much as I could; often carelessly leaving books in the living room or on my bed knowing that they’d be read.

In my more introspective moments, especially after bad Saturdays when I’d been waylaid on my way to perform a weekly chore, I used to sit by my bedroom window with one curtain open so that I could stare up into the night sky.

How wonderful it would be, I used to think to travel to those unthinkably distant points of light; just me with no older boy abusing me and no boys of my own age calling me names or worse. I could travel forever and never get tired of my own company.

Love

There were some good times though, I had a few wonderful masters and mistresses; I also achieved some pretty memorable things.

My most notable achievements were in music which was my great love. From my first term I performed with the school orchestra and choir as well as doing a fair few solo performances, both instrumental and vocal.

While I may have been something of a social pariah, nobody could deny my willingness to sound forth on topics that aroused my passion. I was flattered and excited when my English Master asked me to take up public speaking and debate.

In Fourth Form I represented the school at an after dinner public speaking competition and came second to a Fifth Form girl from a nearby Convent School. I got a mention in assembly the next morning, some genuinely warm applause and had a trophy to take home; it went straight onto the sideboard in the living room so any visitors could see it.

I still think I could have won had I chosen a slightly less contentious topic for my speech. “Democracy – Why it doesn’t work” didn’t go over quite as well as I’d hoped at Midhurst Rotary Club. The dinner, however was excellent although I wasn’t allowed a glass of wine to my disappointment.

When I was in Fifth Form a new inter-schools public speaking competition was started in the County. The format was based on the increasingly popular armchair debates shown by the BBC. I agreed to be part of this with one caveat; I was not going to be Chair, neutrality was not my forte. Fortunately one of my few friends enjoyed the role of arbiter and volunteered for the job.

The way the competition worked was that we’d take our places on stage and our Chairman would be offered a choice of three sealed envelopes containing unknown topics. Once the choice was made we had five minutes to consider who would take what stance then a twenty minute discussion would begin.

The whole thing was very elegantly staged; we had comfortable chairs, a coffee table in front of us and some potted plants scattered around. The perfect setting for a trio of self-absorbed teenagers to dazzle the audience and judges with stunning insights.

We didn’t have any sound reinforcement of course so not only did we have to speak well, we had to project throughout whichever school hall we were in. If you’re surprised to learn that we had a basic operating principal of Malcolm takes the most controversial stance then you must be new here.

Everything culminated in a final at the Lodge Hill centre and my parents came along to watch, listen and hopefully enjoy the spectacle of their “erratic genius” doing something at which he was, to be honest very good.

From my perspective it was a welcome change to be able to discuss controversial issues without everything degenerating into a blazing row ending with me being punished. In this competition I was scoring points for being controversial as long as I could present a rational argument. That’s quite a challenge when you don’t know what the topic is going to be.

We won and my parents were extremely proud of me although neither of them was comfortable with some of the views I’d expressed. It was 1968 and my highly developed political awareness together with strongly held Liberal views had already caused some awful arguments at home. Airing my views on Vietnam had been a major tactical blunder; that evening did not end well.

By the time the whole competition was over I’d collected about half a dozen trophies and was taking over a respectable portion of the sideboard. It seemed that I’d discovered something that could engender pride at home and respect at school. It didn’t stop most of the boys in my year considering me weird, eccentric and pretentious but by Fifth Form I no longer gave a damn what they thought.

Love

Actually it was a bomb crater which had been created when a plane was forced to jettison it’s payload during World War II; local wisdom was that it had been a Luftwaffe bomber.

We were under the strictest instructions to be careful around the pond because it was deep and, being a bomb crater had very steep sides. Being a non-swimmer and somewhat afraid of the water I always obeyed that rule.

When I was still only 10, on bad days when someone had made me do things that I didn’t want to; I used to kneel at the side of the water and just stare at my reflection for a while.

The boy I saw in the water was usually very sad and often had tears on his cheeks; I used to talk very quietly to him in an effort to cheer him up. Eventually I would leave and head back home with my best smile firmly in place.

Some nights, while I was waiting for sleep to come I used to wonder; was the boy in the water still weeping?

Love