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2020
THE BOMBS ARE GONE, BUT THE SCARS OF WAR REMAIN.
competition. Swimming was another strongly supported activity but was mostly confined to inter house competition. Tennis was available, as was Gymnastics and Boxing, but they were not a competitive option, and there was no hint of Basketball, or Hockey, or Soccer. The big game of each sport was against Bedford College, especially if it came to Rugby, but the annual calendar included a number of other schools from Christ’s Hospital and Bedford to Haileybury and Mill Hill. In the sporting arena, it remains a matter of enormous satisfaction that I escaped being compelled to get in the boxing ring as most of the boys did, not even once. It is tempting to say that there was something after school for everyone, from debating, madrigal group and theatre, to cadets (army, navy and air force) and boy scouts (two troops), but dominating all of them were sports practice on Monday and Thursday after school, to competitive inter house games on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons, in place of academic activity. There was also a two hour long lunch hour on Fridays to allow the school choir (me again) to rehearse for the Founder’s Day concert. The first of several highlights of my years at the College was the funeral procession of King George VI in February 1952, a public holiday for which we were given a day off school. We were halfway through a chemistry class when the news of his death came through. I went with some of the boys frommy boarding house to watch the funeral procession in Hyde Park (my first trip ever to central London, despite living so close to it), a sombre and highly memorable occasion.
Michael Palmer (47-54) The test to come to the College was on a multi-fold single sheet of paper, comprising maybe eight or nine separate pages full of multiple-choice questions. The candidates were assembled at desks in the Great Hall, and had maybe half an hour to complete their answers. After reading an excerpt from Black Beauty to a nice woman, I was eventually informed that I had been accepted. I was part of the “Dulwich Experiment”, set up to accept state funded scholars by the mighty Christopher Gilkes when he was Master, and was allocated to what was initially called Elm Lawn junior boarding house, which was housed in the cricket pavilion – no sign of any sandbags by that time. We were eventually renamed Bell House when we moved off the school grounds to the eponymous building further down College Road near to the Chapel and the Art Gallery. Classes started at 9.30 and continued until one o’clock, with a break of half an hour that included ten minutes of formal aerobic exercises in shirtsleeves in the school yard – regardless of the weather, unless it was actually raining at the time. This would be followed by drinking the free bottle of milk (one third of a pint), and a visit to the bathroom – a very necessary precaution as such visits were simply not allowed during classes. If the weather was exceptionally cold, the exercise regime was replaced by a run round half the grounds outside the fence, out by the library, and back in past the cricket pavilion – some people actually preferred the formal exercise regime as taking less time and being less energetic. The only two sports that were played against other schools, were Rugby in winter (Michaelmas Term) and Cricket in summer (Summer Term), with the hated Athletics in the Lent Term, which was limited to internal
Kent, Surrey, and so forth. They find themselves in a strange environment, and I can identify. Beyond, in my time, across from the College Road toll, a new sports field emerges. It’s a large rectangular area, replete with an oval racetrack, long and high jump pits, and measured 100- and 220-yard races. And, next to the Covered Courts, grass hockey is introduced as a sport. The Buttery or “Butt”, has its own routines, all rigorously enforced by personable Mrs. Crisp, who brooks no-nonsense. She and her dutiful assistant serve at the counter which extends the length of the room. Behind them is an array of delectable goodies – Chelsea buns, crispy cheese-filled rolls, Smith’s potato chips, and the like. If a boy tries to jump the queue there are cries of “oil out!” Each takes his turn; save the Prefects who have their own table in the corner, beside the Out door. Perish that any boy should try to enter there! Or leave by the In door. Each month, I surrender the Ration Book coupons that support my buying a quarter-pound of bullseyes. It’s now the Lent Term of 1948, and I’m in Class 3G and, according to H.M. Evans, my Form Master, I’m still trying hard but have yet to make a sustained effort to concentrate. So, it comes as a pleasant relief when classmate Robin May (45- 53) suggests I might be interested in attending a Boy Scout Group meeting run at the College by a number of Old Alleynians. I agree, and we attend together. The meeting is held in an old woodwork room; close to Shackleton’s secluded boat; secure behind iron bars. It’s my first exposure to Scouting, which is to serve as a lifebelt in preserving, indeed framing, my sense of self- worth over my time at Dulwich. And beyond.
John Townesend, (47-54) It’s post-war Britain: ne’er an iron railing to be found, but well- thumbed ration books, compact pre-fab homes, and weed-ridden scenes of destruction abound. And, like everywhere else in Britain, Dulwich College is rising imaginatively to meet the challenge of renewal. It’s January of 1947. My father’s just de-mobbed from the RAF, and we’ve moved to Beckenham; close to London for his new government work, and close to Dulwich for my schooling – his own school back in 1909-11. Like everywhere else, Dulwich is a grimy scene. The North, Centre and South blocks are greyed with London soot, but at least they stand undamaged. I’m with the other boys awaiting admittance to the North block, where my home classroom awaits on the fourth floor. The room is austere, with dark green plaster walls and about 25 desks aligned in rows. At the front is a chalk-dust laden dais for the class’s master desk and chair, backed by a blackboard. Its left-hand side is ruled off for more enduring information, such as prep work and the time and place of the next extra lesson. I learn to rise as the Form Master strides in, to a loud communal creak as the hinged seats rise as one. Roll-call is followed by announcements, and then it’s over to the Great Hall to join the whole school of about 1,000. On the stage, the Music Master sits at the piano to the left, and the boys' choir is centre stage. I join the smallest boys at the front, looking at the Master’s feet as he leads in morning prayer. Post-war Dulwich is engaging in an important social experiment. Boys who might not otherwise afford it, are being admitted on scholarships awarded by the various local counties—London,
As you will see from the contributions
below, a number of Old Alleynians who were at the College in the 1940’s and early 1950’s responded to a request for their stories and we are delighted to share excerpts of these memories here. Both Michael Palmer and John Townesend wrote at considerable length and their full accounts can be read on the website.
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