The following tale in five chapters hardly constitutes a story but rather a series of reminiscences arranged in more or less chronological order. It is true, indeed it is autobiographical -- it actually happened to me. Although names have been changed to protect the guilty and the location has been slightly disguised, anyone who was there would have no difficulty identifying people and putting real names to them. Sadly, with each passing year there are fewer of us left who might be in that position. I hope that the reader will enjoy these tales of school in an age now long gone. If you do, please don't forget to make a contribution to Nifty, so enable people to enjoy this wonderful website for many years to come.
Note: in the Scottish Episcopal Church, congregations always have a rector, rather than a vicar or minister. Confusingly, in large secondary schools in Scotland, especially if the name includes the word "academy" it is common for the head teacher also to be called the rector.
The Good Die Young, by Scotnat
Chapter 1
First day at secondary school, and I felt very far from home and lonely. The fact that my father was at his place of work just the other side of the harbour, and that home was only five miles away, made no difference. I was the only pupil from my little village school to pass the Eleven Plus (or "the qually" as it used to be called) and so here I was in a blue blazer among hundreds of kids, none of whom I knew, and about to find out about life at that venerable institute of education known as "the Academy."
No induction days at that time, no orientation visits, no attempt whatsoever to ease new kids in. One could have been forgiven for thinking that the plan was to frighten us as much as possible before we even started. Prefects resplendent in blazers adorned with white braid herded us little ones into an anonymous crowd at the very front of the assembly hall, boys on the left, girls on the right, and never the twain shall meet. I looked around, totally bemused by the size of the place and by the combined sounds of a string orchestra tuning up and a thousand pupils of various ages chattering.
Suddenly I became aware of a rather severe looking gentleman standing at the rostrum glaring at the assembled school. I hadn't seen him arrive. I knew this must be the legendary J D Cummings, Rector of the Academy, always known to generations of pupils as "the Beak." Silence fell eventually.
"From tomorrow, you are all expected to have a hymn book with you every morning. For today we shall sing the 23rd Psalm, which I imagine you all know."
The orchestra played over Crimond, that best known of all Scottish Psalm tunes. A thousand voices belted out the words of The Lord's my Shepherd, more or less together and in tune.
"The Lord's Prayer," announced the Rector. "Our Father . . ."
Announcements followed. First year pupils were to remain behind while the rest of the school dismissed to classes. We would then be allocated to classes ourselves and taken to our registration teacher's room for timetables and so on. It turned out that there were six first year classes in total, and I was to be in 1B. From tomorrow we would line up in our classes for assembly (which happened every morning.) 1A would be nearest the front, 1B next and so on.
The rest of that first day passed in a blur of new experiences. It was on the second day that two things happened that were to change my life for ever.
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Day 2, and assembly happened just as before. I remembered the names of one or two of my classmates from the previous day and found myself saying hello and being greeted in return. Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad after all. As class 1B we were in the second row, with the boys of 1A standing right in front of us (no seats were provided.) As I looked along the row of 1A boys, who all looked as if they were town boys, unlike me (and that was in fact the case,) my eye was taken by one particular lad who was standing two or three places to my right. He was taller than most of the others by an inch or so, which meant he was almost five inches taller than me, since I was small for my age. He seemed very self-assured. He stood still, waiting for the Rector to appear. He had sandy blonde hair which was tightly curled although cut quite short in the fashion of the day. For some reason I couldn't take my eyes off him. Assembly proceeded much as it had the previous day, except that a prefect (the head boy, I wondered?) came up to the rostrum to read a short Bible passage while the Rector stood aside.
It was as assembly was being dismissed that it happened. The orchestra struck up some merry tune or other as the classes started to file out, first years first. The boys of 1A turned to walk out past us. I was still looking at that boy and his eyes met mine. He smiled at me. I think I fell in love with him at that very moment.
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It was after lunchtime that the other thing happened. We had music on our timetable for the first period after lunch, and somehow or other I managed to get separated from all the others of my class and I realised I was lost. I had no idea where to go for music. I was hesitating in the main hall wondering what to do when a passing teacher stopped.
"Where are you supposed to be?"
"Music, sir, but I don't know where it is."
He turned to the senior pupil who was with him.
"Take him up to music, please, Johnston."
Johnston was quite pleasant and we chatted as we went up two flights of stairs. Johnston eventually knocked on a door to what appeared to be a small tutorial room. A grand piano took up most of the floor space.
"A lost sheep, Mr Gordon!"
"What class are you in, son?"
"1B, sir."
"Oh, they're with Mr Thomson in the basement, Johnston. Would you mind showing him?"
So Johnston and I retraced our steps down three flights of stairs this time, to a basement in the modern extension building whose existence I had been totally unaware of. Johnston knocked on another door and ushered me in.
And the whole class burst out laughing. I was mortified.
The teacher, a middle aged man, was sitting at an old fashioned teacher's desk to one side. He was obviously just getting to know the new first year pupils before doing any singing. He smiled at me sympathetically and asked my name. I told him and he pointed to an empty seat. I sat down, hoping that the floor would open and swallow me up.
That was my first encounter with another legendary member of the Academy staff, Robert Thomson, whom I already knew by reputation. He was universally admired as the best choir trainer in the town and was the organist of a large local church, where the choir had quite a high profile.
Having said a few words to each pupil in the class in turn, Mr Thomson turned to the piano and we sang a couple of folk songs. I already knew that I liked singing and I thought I had a good voice, so I enjoyed the rest of that period after I had got over my embarrassment.
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Life settled down into routine. Assembly every morning, when I spent the whole ten minutes fascinated by that tall boy whom I already idolised, even although I knew nothing about him, not even his name. I discovered a whole raft of new subjects which I had not experienced in primary school, science, Latin and French being the most notable. We only had music one period a week, so it was a week later before I found myself in Mr Thomson's classroom again. This time the work was getting more intense. School music for junior classes in those days consisted entirely of singing, and it was taken very seriously. We all had to audition on our own in front of the rest of the class. Some of us, including myself, were quite good singers and did our best. I'm sorry to say however that the majority, certainly the majority of the boys (we were a mixed class) treated it as a big joke. Mr Thomson soldiered on nonetheless, and all the better singers were made to sit together (but boys and girls still separately, of course.) The also-rans were put to the back of the room and pretty much ignored for the rest of the term. That was how things were in those days.
It was a couple of weeks later that Mr Thomson asked me to stay back as the class were leaving his room.
"You're really quite a good singer, Andy," he said. (He was the only teacher who habitually called pupils, some of them at least, by their first names.) "How would you like to sing in the church choir?"
I was delighted. Although there were no choirboys in the little village church where I grew up, I was already feeling drawn to that sort of thing, and to hear Mr Thomson say that was a real dream come true for me.
"I'd love to, sir, but I'll have to discuss it at home. Can you please tell me what's involved?"
"Boys practise for an hour after school on Tuesdays, then the full choir on Fridays from 7.00 till 9.00pm. On Sundays we sing Matins at 11.00am and Evensong at 6.30pm. Do you think you could manage all that?"
"I hope so, sir, George can do it and I can probably get the same bus as he does."
"Oh, you know George, do you? That must mean you live out of town like him."
"Yes sir, our families are friends." I knew that George, three years older than me, was the head chorister in the church choir.
"That sounds very hopeful then, talk to your parents about it and let me know soon."
Thus it was that the following Friday I attended my first choir practice at St Kevoca's church. I didn't travel with George on that occasion, for my father drove me there since he wanted to see me in and have a word with Mr Thomson, whom he apparently knew slightly. The whole choir were already assembled in the church hall when we walked in. Oooooh!! There he was, sitting among the dozen or so choirboys! My tall sandy haired idol from class 1A! I nearly fainted.