WARKLEIGH SCHOOL, NEAR UMBERLEIGH, NORTH DEVON 1941.
I attended Warkleigh Primary School until aged 10, spent one year at Hillsea College, Oakley Hall, Basingstoke, whilst awaiting a scholarship position at Queens College, Taunton, Somerset, which I attended from 1949 to 1955.
Warkleigh school was a 3km walk from home. When I was just 4 years old, the Education Dept let me start school 1 year early (normally at age 5) because my cousin, Kenny, aged 29, was living in a wooden cabin in our flower garden which Dad had built for him because he was gradually dying from Tuberculosis. His family couldn’t get him into a Special TB Unit and they had no room at their house. Kenny was very infectious and I, from when I was three years old, had taken his meals to him, put them on his cabin step, waved to him and waited at the garden gate to make sure he got the food.
When Kenny finished, he would put his empty dishes on his cabin step and Mum would wash them carefully with hose pipe water. I always kept out of his way and followed our treating GP’s instructions.
Every time I came home from school, Monday to Friday, I performed my little ritual and Kenny would wave and grin gratefully. One day after school, when I was 4 and a bit years old, I told Mum that I was ready to take Kenny his dinner. Mum said “Kenny isn’t there anymore, Alan”.
“Where’s he gone?”, I whimpered.
”He’s gone to live with Jesus”, she said tearfully.
We had always been told that Gran and Grandad were living with Jesus, so though I knew I would miss my friend Kenny and was disappointed that he’d left without saying goodbye, I was really pleased for him that his new place would be very comfortable.
It was not until 10 years after I had qualified as a doctor that I was searching for an answer to all of my friends’ and relatives’ question
throughout the years, from age 9, always the same one: “Why did you decide to become a doctor, Alan? All of the Tuckers have always been farmers.” I’m sure that Kenny knows, and perhaps he will have told Gran and Grandad too.
Warkleigh school attendees diminished considerably from 30+ students in my first year to only 4 in my last term, due to an impending closure.
My teacher,’Old Mother’ Harding was an earthly Saint, having spent 35 years in the same little school and touched the lives of many hundreds of local children and their families without having had any children herself.
A life of selfless, disciplined, untainted service and a veritable dispenser of ‘The Three R’s’.
Life on the farm continued at a relatively slow pace educationally due to the virtual absence of books at home but my old Bakelite BBC radio continued, post war, to broadcast excellent comedy shows, great music and all of the Cricket Test matches (Don Bradman et al). Most of my time was occupied feeding a plethora of farm cats, chickens, ducks and horses and hunting for rabbits, pigeons and pheasants with an ever- obedient trio of dogs. I dare to mention that at age 8 years, I was allowed to hunt alone with a 22 calibre Winchester Repeater rifle and at age 10 years, owned a 20 gauge double- barrelled shot gun!! Farmers’ sons were well taught, careful and accurate and everyone was happy because the war was finally over.
HILLSEA COLLEGE,OAKLEY HALL, BASINGSTOKE, HAMPSHIRE
At age 10, I was fortunate to gain a scholarship to Queen’s College Taunton, 50 miles from home, which would commence when I turned 11, but there were no other available schools near our farm for that interim year. Uncle Tom came to the financial rescue and I was scuttled off to Basingstoke, 50 miles from London, to a boarding school for the children of British and Overseas Serving Officers and Diplomats who needed a stopgap educational repository. To say that I was miserable and unhappy most of the time is a gross understatement.
The five hour steam train journey in scumbag class with 20 stops and two changes of train between start and finish, the carriages filled with filth, cigarette and pipe smoke, were a burden that I endured at the beginning and end of each of 4 terms. One of Jane Austen’s country homes provided our educational rooms and accommodation, a beautiful setting with it’s own church, complete with small cannon balls embedded in some outer walls as a result of skirmishes with Oliver Cromwell’s army in the 17th Century.
The teaching was supervised but badly presented to a motley crew
of mainly international students who were as ambivalent as to what they
needed to learn as the teachers were to what sort of potpourri of stuff their parents would be happy with at the end of the day. I decided to try to shine but never reached stardom.
Two events had profound effects on me which I recall, one with absolute long lasting fear and trepidation and the other with gratitude and thanks.
Firstly, a Master, an ex-Army man, bullied a number of children in such ways as would be socially intolerable in 2020. He was, however, friends of many of the world’s finest table tennis players. He obtained a Government sports grant for the school to have a number of keen younger and older students be taught to play table tennis by Johnny Leach and Jack Carrington (who were the current British Singles and Doubles Champions) and Victor Barna (World Singles Champ). I was among the lucky chosen ones and spent many, many days for many, many years honing those skills fastidiously but with gradual ever decreasing success in later decades.
The same Master also taught swimming and I trotted along to learn one morning. The bottom of the pool was full of slippery algae, the water was cold and murky and his attention span sparse. He delighted in pushing learners under water with a stout pole if you tried to surface, in the mistaken belief that you would eventually thrash out and swim. Regrettably, I slipped on the algae which delineated the shallow end from the steep area leading to the deep end.
I recall my drowning moments as if they were yesterday. My life flashing past, thoughts that Mum and Dad would be disappointed with me. The feeling, however was of immense calm as narcotisation took over. Events must have overtaken other events, however, as resuscitation and unpleasant bodily awareness feelings were returning.
To this very day, I have never learned to swim, except on my back in shallow water and I sense impending panic if I venture into deep water.
Relaxation, Mindfulness, CBT, Hypnosis haven’t worked! Alas, it is my problem and I will have to stick with it!!
QUEEN’S COLLEGE TAUNTON, SOMERSET
My first impressions of Queen’s College at Taunton were ones of awe. The College was situated in the lovely tree-lined suburb of Trull, it’s majestic castle-like buildings hidden between two 19th Century Lodge entrances along a spick and span drive. Everything was manicured to perfection. The vast green playing fields, cricket pavilion, indoor swimming centre, athletics track and massive gymnasium stood in a tree lined area with magic panoramic views overlooking Taunton.
Everything was programmed to provide a new boy with the very best of attention to settle in and get used to daily routines, systems, housekeeping, new friendships etc. I simply loved it from the moment I arrived and quickly decided that this was something I would be inspired by and a place where my deepest aspirations could be achieved by creating and taking opportunities whenever they presented themselves.
I recall amazing energy and fitness, great lasting friendships, absolute loyalty to the school and very few disappointments as I worked my way towards winning a place at a London Uni Medical College in 1955 after 6 years at Queen’s.
During those next 6 years, I was fortunate enough to represent the school
for 3 years in the First Rugby XV, 2 Years in the First Cricket XI, 2 Years in the First Tennis Team, including School colours in all three. Add Inter School Athletics, Table Tennis and Badminton to the list and I also managed to put aside a little time for the annual Shakespeare School Play, the Choir and multiple Prefectorial duties.
Notwithstanding, the end-of-term reports were almost always pretty favourable when Mum and Dad fetched them from the post box, and my final exams did not discourage Devon Education Department from awarding me an encouraging scholarship to London University for a 6 year
degree.
IN 1952,WHILST I WAS AT QUEEN’S, MY BROTHER HAD A PHOTO OF HIMSELF ON THE FRONT PAGE OF THE NATIONAL SUNDAY NEWSPAPERS WITH AN INTERESTING FEATURE STORY!!
Yes you read it here first!
Most of our local farmers in North Devon, shot foxes ,because they killed our chickens at night and foxes were considered a pest…no problem. Occasionally an odd deer roamed around the farm, having come in from the woods. We didn’t shoot them and simply put up with them because they were really no problem.
Unfortunately, even if you owned the farm, you didn’t own the hunting rights. These rights had been passed down, immemorium ,through centuries of Aristocratic rights ownership .This resulted in regular hunting, on your land of either the foxes , or the deer, seeking, especially the trophy multi -crowned Stags’ heads(seen regularly in Posh peoples houses and pubs).
The huntsmen and women would arrive ,unannounced on your property, having groomed their fine horses (and themselves) .Dressed in traditional finery, they blast their hunting horns, and, after drinking a toast to the foraging and games that were about to take place, race across your land, whether grassed, or tilled for wheat or barley. Jolly, Jolly hockey sticks!!!
About thirty fast and hungry hounds were then let loose in a somewhat disorderly fashion and the Hunt, to find a kill, would begin.
On this particular day Ian was tending to his normal daily duties ,driving his Ferguson tractor and feeding the sheep.
Suddenly, he heard ”Tally Ho” calls in the distance, and frantic hounds barking ,somewhat closer. He was in a large apple orchard when a large Stag staggered under a tree, exhausted from the Hunters chase and fearfully foaming at the mouth. It collapsed in front of him, seemingly surrendering itself to its’ immediate fate.
Ian recognised that the game was over, for the poor beast, and realised that the arrival of hounds ,well ahead of the Hunters meant that the hounds were about to tear into the Stag and kill it. He shot the stag dead with his rifle, covered it over with a tarpaulin, and dragged it towards the farm house for protection from the baying hounds and furious Hunters.
A mass of verbal altercations and immediate and long term physical threats were directed towards Ian, (a stalwart for remaining calm in all situations). The Police were called , showed precious little interest, other than making sure that the matter did not get out of hand, and Ian handed over the carcass inviting the Hunters to remove it from his land.
England has a reputation for being very divided on the rights and wrongs of Fox hunting and Stag hunting and the arguments persist “Ad infinitum ad nauseandum” inside and outside of Parliament.
This was 1952, I was 15 years old and Ian was 20years old, In 2020 the Social media would have revelled on this story and Instagram and twitter would have gone bananas.
The Sunday Newspapers in England, ran with the story. Ian became a 48 hour hero.
In 2020, Wokeness and Cancel culture would probably have won the day. Ian may have got fewer, or, many more buyers, for his small flock of sheep and sheaves of wheat and barley ,and it is unlikely that an 18 part Netflix Miniseries would have emerged as a result of the (NOT) overwhelming response to the Lord Beaverbrook Newspapers front page story.
Queen’s College Motto ?
“NON SCHOLAE SED VITAE DISCIMUS”
(“WE WORK,NOT FOR OUR SCHOOL BUT FOR OUR LIFE”)……Cheers!
Queen’s College’s Motto?
“Non Scholae sed Vitae Discimus”
“We work not for school but for our life”
Seems to work eh?
Fi