The event that Chris remembers most clearly, and possibly the one that supports the accusation most strongly, was the fake funeral I conducted for the Head. That in itself might not have been too terrible had I not chosen to perform on the sixth form lawn, outside the “deceased’s” office window, a spot that was also overlooked from the staff room and several classrooms. Thus my atrocity was witnessed by many Masters and Mistresses as well as members of both upper and junior schools. The Head felt that his authority was being badly, possibly fatally undermined which was, I admit my intention.

For some reason Mr Fisher had taken a dislike to me from our first encounter when I was but a lowly third former. I honestly have no idea what he found to dislike so thoroughly about me but as time passed things just got worse. Prior to the fake funeral my worst offence had been a stand-up row with him in an assembly for the whole upper school. Being in lower sixth I was standing at the back of the hall and he was on the stage with the Vicar of Midhurst who was acting in his role as School Chaplain. I shouted the length of the hall “you can’t say that!” when the Chaplain stated that fighting for one’s country was a sacred duty. The Head intervened and a full scale argument developed while the whole upper school watched agog, looking from the stage to the back of the hall like a crowd at Wimbledon.

The final straw was when I got a laugh and applause for a very witty put-down and the Head lost his temper demanding that I attend his office forthwith. After we had continued the argument in private for a while he dismissed me, threatening to call my parents and to suspend me. I possibly didn’t help the situation by shrugging my shoulders and saying “do whatever the hell you want”.

I didn’t get suspended but my parents did get a letter and a request for a meeting with the Head. I won’t detail the punishment that followed as part of the deal to avoid suspension. The school may have banned corporal punishment, much to the Head’s chagrin I suspect but no such proscription was in place at home.

Do I regret that flagrant act of provocation? Not really, it is a part of who I am.

Top Class was arranged by age and, for the first time since we’d been separated as infants, Rich and I had adjacent desks. Mindful of who was teaching us we behaved ourselves this time. Until just after half term everything was wonderful. I was being properly challenged in every subject and had access to books that were closer to my reading age. We didn’t have a library at Northchapel, each class kept its own set of “age appropriate” books. The books in second class were well below my reading age.

After half term the coughs and colds season started; not unusual or particularly worrying. One by one classmates would disappear for a couple of days and then come back as if nothing had happened. My turn would definitely come and because of my “interesting” medical history there’d be a little extra worry; probably the best part of a week in bed.

My turn came. One morning I felt pretty rotten by playtime and didn’t even want my milk. By dinner time I felt really awful and sat pushing my food around the plate until a teacher came to tell me off. Once again Rich stood up for me, when I couldn’t and told her I was ill; I reinforced this by dashing out of the room to be sick in the corridor.

Nobody doubted that I was ill now, sawdust was brought and the mess cleaned up but I was in tears. We didn’t have a nurse or anything like that so it was decided that I should be put to bed on a gym mat in the school hall with a blanket tucked round me. The hall was where the infants had their class which meant that Mrs Chalfont was there to check on me. She took my glasses away and when I protested, tartly pointed out that I was supposed to go to sleep so I wouldn’t need them.

Despite the babble of little kids I drifted off to sleep until the bell went for afternoon playtime. With all her little ones out in the playground under the watchful eye of Miss Beevis, Mrs Chalfont got her cup of tea from the staff room and then came to sit with me, first offering me a drink of water which I politely refused; I didn’t want to need the toilet which was all the way across the playground.

I dozed fitfully for the rest of the afternoon, it’s difficult to sleep through infants’ singing time. When the bell for home time finally went Mrs Chalfont brought me my glasses, got me up and helped me into my overcoat. Mr Poole came to see how I was doing but by that time I was feeling dizzy and had to sit down rather suddenly. There was a quick, worried conference about who was going to make sure I got home safely but a rather indignant voice spoke up from behind Mr Poole and declared “I’ll look after him, Sir.” Once again my best friend came to the rescue.

Moving on from the traumatic early days of wearing glasses, the next significant event was the annual school medical. This wasn’t a very pleasant experience for a little boy with so many health issues and certain aspects of the day were unpleasant for boys in general.

We didn’t have enough room in the school for the County Doctor to see us there so, class by class, we marched crocodile fashion to the working men’s club about thirty yards down the road where a side room had been hired. Once there the boys were ordered to strip to their underpants and line up while the girls got to stay fully dressed.

Loud complaints about how unfair this was fell on deaf ears and the girls all though it was terribly funny seeing us in our underwear. We did not think it was funny! it was, however typical of how boys of my generation were treated. Apparently we didn’t have feelings and so had no need of privacy or modesty.

We were called in to the doctor alphabetically so I came about half way through the list of twenty five or so names. The children in front of me all seemed to be in and out quite quickly so things didn’t look too bad. I suppose I should really have known better.

When I was called in I stood in front of the doctor’s table and there in front of him was my disturbingly thick medical record. As he read the pages his eyebrows went up, then went up a bit more then he looked at me over the top of his glasses and said “Well, you’re not a very healthy little chap, are you?” I’d been strictly taught to respect doctors so I simply responded “No, Sir”.

He checked everything and did things that I thought only my own doctor would do. I was not happy at being probed in that most intimate of places by someone I’d never even met before but it would never have occurred to me to question his actions or to object.

When I finally got out Rich, who as a ‘T’ still had quite a wait in front of him whispered “You were in there ages, Malc what was he doing?” still very uncomfortable and feeling a bit sorry for myself I whispered back “I’ll tell you later” and went to get dressed.

I did tell Rich on the coach going home that afternoon and he was appalled at what the doctor had done to me but in an effort to comfort me said “Be fair, Malc you are ill a lot, he was just making sure you’re OK”. With that dubious comfort I had to be content.

Love

Miss Beevis laughed, all my classmates laughed and I, according to Rich went bright pink. By home time that afternoon I’d started to believe that my fears were baseless; nobody really cared. Perhaps being condemned to wearing glasses for the rest of my life wasn’t going to be the end of the world after all.

A good part of having such strong specs was that everyone wanted to try them on and everybody had a laugh when people promptly got dizzy or tripped over things on the floor. Not me, of course I couldn’t see a thing!

I made a tactical error in telling my mother how much fun it had been letting people try my glasses and feared the worst when she reminded me that I’d been told I wasn’t to take them off. Mercy was granted, however no doubt inspired by my apparent acceptance of my fate.

I was, however given a stern lecture on the dangers of other children trying on glasses that weren’t made for them; especially glasses as mind bogglingly high powered as mine. I dutifully promised to make sure it didn’t happen again.

There was one boy who was determined to make life difficult and despite several threats from Rich and others he continued to call me nasty names, his favourite being “goggle face” which I found particularly offensive.

Eventually he managed to corner me on my own on a day when Rich was off school; the taunts began in earnest. I wasn’t putting up with his nonsense and told him so in no uncertain terms but he simply ignored me.

My trademark temper got the better of me and, careless of the risk I flew at him in an uncoordinated but quite vicious attack. By the time witnesses arrived I’d lost the fight convincingly, had a bloody nose and my glasses were broken.

I got three punishments that day. The first was from my teacher for fighting and my mitigating plea of provocation was dismissed. When I got home there were punishments for fighting and for getting my glasses broken.

Wailing about how unfair that was got me nowhere and all three punishments hurt, as usual. I also had to have another couple of days off school while my glasses were being mended and that was effectively another punishment.

Rich took revenge on the other boy, waiting until we were outside the school gates and the taunts finally stopped. Not long after that, in the way of seven year olds everyone lost interest in glasses and we all turned our attention to something new.

Love

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

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

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

That holiday was quite an adventure itself so I’m not going to dwell on it here, that will keep for another day. I’ll just say that I had the best 3 weeks I could remember and really didn’t want to come home so I stayed at my friend’s house for a few days and his Mum did all our accumulated laundry.

By the time I got home it was well into August and time was running out. If things didn’t pick up very soon I’d be doomed to going into the Sixth Form at Midhurst and the thought of that made me feel physically sick.

My results arrived with a note from the Head of Year congratulating me on the 100% pass rate and asking me to go in and discuss my A level choices, not something I’d anticipated doing. I dutifully took the bus into Midhurst and went in to see him.

My choices were predictable and he was quite happy with them. Music was inevitable, English Literature was predictable and French Literature was perfectly logical. He just wanted to be sure I understood the workload that Music would bring, the equivalent of an extra 2 subjects.

I reminded him that this was an academic discussion and that all being well the subjects I studied wouldn’t be his concern or that of anybody else at Midhurst. He just looked non-committal.

Worried and beginning to get angry I took the bus home. Once both of my parents were available I demanded answers yes, I demanded them.

Finally some sort of truth came out, they told me there was a concern that if I got the grant for Dartington it might adversely affect my University grant in 2 years time.

I was incandescent and a row started immediately, rapidly reaching the decibel level that guaranteed a painful ending. Desperate to maintain some sort of peace Mum dragged me out of the room and banished me upstairs to calm down.

I didn’t calm down and when I was called back to talk about things I flat out accused them of lying to me, they just didn’t want me to go! They’d just strung me along so I’d achieve exceptional exam results. Well that row ended predictably; I went back to my room subdued and sore.

I faced the ghastly reality that I wasn’t going to get out of Midhurst, I was doomed to spend another 2 years there. I made myself a promise before I eventually went to sleep. If I had to stay at that hideous place then they were going to remember me!

I did go back to Midhurst, into Lower Sixth and at the end of assembly on the first day of term the Headmaster asked if Mr McLachlan would attend him in his office immediately.

I already felt like an utter prick, we didn’t have to wear uniform in Sixth Form and the dress code was pretty loose but Dad had said quite adamantly ‘you’re not going to school looking like a hippie’ and I might as well have been in uniform, I’d had to dress that smartly.

It was obvious that every one was jumping to conclusions, only half an hour into the first day back and I was in trouble already. Throwing my best glare at anybody in range I stalked out of the hall.

He actually tried to be nice, offered his sympathy on the failure of the Dartington plan and hoped that we could develop a rather more amenable relationship over the coming 2 years. I accepted his olive branch with as much grace as I could muster.

At home a few weeks later I demanded an answer. Why didn’t they want me to go to Dartington, why were they so intent on screwing up my life? I finally got the honest, if sickening truth ‘Music isn’t a proper career is it?’ The subtext was all to clear, Music wasn’t a proper career for Me, it didn’t fit with their plans.

I was sent to my room before I had a chance to say anything, probably just as well and I stomped upstairs slamming every door behind me, deliberately inviting retaliation.

Quivering with rage I picked up my music stand and was about to hurl it through the closed window when I thought if I did that then my next move had better be cutting myself so badly with one of the glass shards that an ambulance would be needed.

If the window was opened though, something could go through it quite easily.

Me.

Love