4.3: Activities: a modest first flowering

It was a somewhat secluded world for all of us children, at Sturford, by which I mean that we had few friends living in the immediate vicinity; and I think that I had less than the others. Chris in particular had more local chums, partly because our Wilson cousins now came to live at the Pheasantry, which was a house in the park. (My Aunt Mary was by then divorced from John, Lord Numburnholm, and had remarried to Sir Ulick Alexander.) Charlie Wilson was only slightly younger than Chris, and was now at Ludgrove after first attending the Lord Weymouth School. Nick Vivian had by then also joined them at Ludgrove, and sometimes came to stay at Sturford: plus Dickie Rawlings, the son of the local publican. So there was quite a small gang of them, in whose ranks I was never fully integrated.

On the occasions we did band together, I daresay it's true that I was a bad influence over them. It worries me to think how we used to ambush cars, from the security of the undergrowth up on top of a steep bank, overlooking the main road which bordered the water garden at Sturford, firing stones from catapults - usually directed at the rear window of a car which had passed us by. Mercifully, there were no accidents. But there was one occasion when an irate driver slammed on his brakes, and then climbed the bank to pursue us. We scattered to different hiding places within the shrubberies, and it was only Chris who got caught, to receive the full verbal blast of his wrath. It did have the salubrious effect however, of dissuading us from such activities in future.

My interests were usually of a more gentle variety. I was still fascinated by wild life, whether in the form of insects, fishes, reptiles, birds or mammals. There was a group of us at Ludgrove (consisting mainly of Iain Grahame-Wigan, Anthony Casdagli, Mark Dent-Brocklehurst and myself,) who were concerned to study nesting birds, and we kept a pet jackdaw - until it got eaten by the gardener's cat. Snakes and lizards also featured within our secret menagerie. Slow worms and grass snakes, for the most part, but there were some exciting sightings of smooth snakes within the rough terrain of what went by the name of `the wilderness'. But I hardly think the RSPCA would have approved the conditions under which the creatures we actually captured were caged.

I also acquired a small reputation within the school for what might be described as my gamekeeper skills: the art of trapping moles in particular. When Ali's front lawn was stricken with molehills, it was my services which were called upon to restore the turf to its former beauty. And I discovered in the process that there was a rare variant of mole dwelling in that district, with distinctive skewbald patches of orange upon their black pelts.

My collection of butterflies and moths was a good one for someone of my age, and I sometimes wrote home about my activities in that field - somewhat ambiguously, as the letters now read. Take this one, for example.

I have caught an old lady this week. I had a lot of trouble killing her, for she escaped several times before I was able to pinch her thorax. To my horror I saw, while I was setting her, that she was alive and wriggling, but afterwards I found that it was only nerves.

For the benefit of the uninformed, an Old Lady is the name of a moth: something which Daphne guessed of course, after the initial moment of shock.

Scouting featured prominently upon the list of approved activities at Ludgrove. It furnished a welcome break from the routine of both work and sport, and was vastly less competitive than so many of our other activities. Not entirely of course, and I was eventually appointed to be one of the Patrol Leaders, but it was the whole idea of getting back to nature which really appealed to me: not that I achieved much fulfilment in that direction.

Theatrical productions were rare at Ludgrove, and were usually operettas of the Gilbert and Sullivan genre, with the cast limited to those who took singing lessons. I was indeed one of these, so I was allotted a leading part during this my final year. My voice may have been good, but having to act as someone other than myself never came naturally to me. I can recollect but little of the storyline at this distance in time. I know that I was the captain's mate on board some ship, that was later wrecked on a Pacific island, and that (prior to this) I was bullied into plugging the hole that had appeared below the Plimsoll-line with my rear end. I remember feeling disappointed that my Thespian prowess was not singled out for praise within the end of term reports.

I might not excel as an actor, but I still enjoyed theatrical stunts like going to fancy dress parties, and there was one in Bath, which I remember with pleasure. I had the idea of going as a one-legged pirate, with both of my legs stuffed down one side of my pyjamas and then into a large stocking, with a stout walking stick protruding from the other. I growled and grimaced my way into the final selection, and was in fact awarded one of the prizes, which I valued all the more in that Chris, (as another pirate,) received no such recognition.

Where I was managing to emerge with some small degree of excellence was in my literary ability. Encouraged by Mr Borgnis, (or Borny-bug,) who was the principal teacher of English at Ludgrove, I knew that my essays were expected to match, or to better, those written by the rest of the form. I had a vivid imagination, and was prepared to experiment with questions of style. I also regarded myself as a bit of a poet, often rounding off my letters back home with verses which, for the most part, were intended to be read humorously.

There was in fact an element of humour which was now emerging, for the first time, in my approach to life - although I might hesitate to commend its quality in retrospect. For it was really a question of discovering for myself the popularity, or source of amusement, which is credited to those who learn the art of undermining the heavy seriousness of education, to ribald effect. (An apology to my teachers is belatedly on offer!)

As I see it. the real culprit was Toad Morrison. (He was probably the most erudite of our Classics masters, but he did bear a remarkable resemblance to a toad, both facially and sartorially, in that he was slovenly unkempt and perpetually blinking his eyes.) When I first moved up into his Classics division, I exercised the skills of my enquiring mind by asking a great number of questions. To the best of my retrospective belief, they were posed originally in a spirit of sincerity, that I might more quickly reach an understanding of what was being taught. But Toad regarded these interruptions as a digression which distracted the attention of others. So he endeavoured to discourage me by poking fun at my insatiable curiosity. "Twitter, twitter, twitter!" he would exclaim. "Let us all stop to listen to the greater spotted clodhopper!" And there would be peels of laughter from all and sundry.

If his intention had been to discourage my antics, in effect it proved contrary. I suddenly discovered that I had manipulative control over their levels of mirth, and this was an entirely new experience for me. An element of clowning buffoonery now entered upon the motivation behind my questions, and I discovered that I was rather good at it, with my performance poker-faced, if mischievous. At the encouragement of Toad, they would all scream "Twitter! Twitter!" at me. But it was a rebuke that was delivered with affection, because they regarded it as some manner of enlivenment within the tedium of education. And this is a tale which needed to be told, if for no better reason that I acquired for myself, at this juncture, (and in place of `Juliet',) the nick-name of `Twitter' Thynne, which was inherited by both Christopher and Valentine in their turn.

In some ways however, the reputation of joker was an ill one to acquire. The quest for mirth in others began to pervade my attitude towards school activities in general, to an extent that I began to irritate people. I know that Borny-bug dropped me from the Ludgrove 3rd XI in soccer, after he'd observed me clowning upon the field on receiving a hack upon my shins from an opponent appropriately named Legge. But the truth of the matter is that I never really was much good at playing football, so I cannot be confident that the reason stated was why he dropped me.

I was slightly better at cricket however, and I enjoyed it more as well - if only for the reason that it was played in weather that I preferred. And during my final summer at Ludgrove, I was appointed captain of the 2nd XI: proficient more as a bowler than as a batsman, but quite a good all-rounder within a team which could match the 1st XIs from various of the local preparatory schools.

The only sporting arenas in which I excelled were the gymnasium and the boxing ring. Perhaps as a result of his recently acquired admiration for `true Ayrian' values, Henry's concern had moved in the direction of physical fitness. He performed press-ups each morning when he was at home, and it occurred to me that, in order to acquire his esteem, I ought to match (or better) his performance. It didn't take me long to do just this. But having surpassed his own best performance, with I think twenty press-ups, his own interest in the fitness spree appeared to diminish. So it turned out to be a hollow achievement.

Nonetheless, I was an agile gymnast and a stylish pugilist. I had already upset the established form by defeating Ronnie Ferguson, in an exhibition bout when the local army unit sent officers to instruct us on the techniques of judging and refereeing a contest. But it was never established whether I would in fact have dethroned Mark Jeffreys, who was the `heavyweight' school champion, during my final year - because I went down with measles and chickenpox, in quick succession, shortly after emerging victorious from the semi- finals. But there were many who thought that I would have done so, if the match had ever been held.

In point of fact, I felt badly about my omission to insist that the match be held during the final week of that Easter term, after I had emerged from the sick-room. With my reputation for guts, it might well have been expected of me - despite the comparative weakness of convalescence. I somehow supposed that the honours would be shared, in that the contest had never been resolved. It shamed me greatly when the moment of prize-giving arrived, to find that I had lost out on the championship by default.

This question of guts needs to be examined more closely, for there has always been a streak of cowardice underlying, (and perhaps inspiring,) my determination to dare what I might otherwise seek to avoid. The issue revolves around my self-confidence, or my lack of it. Having been set up, relatively, upon a pinnacle from the moment of birth, I had in some ways been brought up to believe in myself wherever some spark of talent might be revealed. But in contrast to this tendency, my father had always been fiercely repressive, pouncing upon items of behaviour which did not conform to his own sense of order. This was inhibitive to the psychology of daring, and I was always having to surmount my caution in areas of uncertainty. And here was an instance where I felt in retrospect that I had let myself down, by not insisting that the boxing match be held.

There was another failure in guts during my final year at Ludgrove, connected with scouting this time. Cabbage Reed admired the British aristocracy, believing amongst other things that they personified the element of guts within our nation. He had indicated this to me in little pep-talks, designed to encourage me in supposing that I was developing upon the right lines. And in one of these talks he had intimated that Hugh (the Marquess of) Hertford, who had now left Ludgrove for Eton, and was just two years older than myself, had done what Cabbage expected of him during the annual scouts' camp at Barewood, by being the first to plunge from the high diving board there on the lake. To be the first was the importance. Once it had been seen to be done, others followed, and I knew that Cabbage hoped that I would justify his faith in the British aristocracy by setting a similar example.

The point is that I failed. I attended the scouts' camp at Barewood, and mounted the high diving board, along with one P.G.Holcroft. We both peered with some trepidation over the edge, but it was `PG' who suddenly took the plunge - closely followed by myself of course. But this amounted to a failure in matching up to Cabbage's prediction of aristocratic leadership, and I knew in my heart that I had let him down.

During my final year at Ludgrove, my scholarly interest was slipping. I think it is relevant for me to mention that the academic reputation of Ludgrove as a preparatory school recommended to parents who wished to send their sons to Eton, had also slipped badly since the period preceding the war, largely because its team of masters had been broken up for military service. The educational standard had plummeted, as shown up in the unprecedented percentage of low performance in the Common Entrance Examinations over recent years. It is a fact that the Eton authorities withdrew their special recommendation of Ludgrove, as a preparatory school, around this time.

For whatever reason however, my own concern about scholastic prowess lapsed, over my final year: perhaps not least because I was now enjoying myself quite considerably at school, and was more concerned in savouring my mounting popularity and prestige, as a personality. Also my prolonged confinement to the sick-room with measles and chickenpox, over my penultimate term at Ludgrove, did little to sharpen my intellect at the moment when such grading was to be given. In any case I put in a disappointing performance when I came to sit the Common Entrance Exam for Eton, obtaining a strictly mediocre Middle Fourth grading, when Upper Fourth was what had been expected of me.

But this was no disappointment as far as my father or my mother were concerned. It should be recalled that Henry himself had failed for Eton completely, while Daphne had never survived the course at any of the schools she had attended. Although I was aware personally, that I should have done better, as far as my family were concerned, it was deemed that I was doing all right.

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