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The majority of the other boys in my age group at the school already knew each other. They had either been educated at Reed’s since the age of 7 or 8 or had attended an associated school, founded by the same benefactor, designated the Royal Wandstead School. The rest of us were outsiders, boys with strange accents and, in my case, small for my age. From being the clever child in a small school, I was now just one among a group of boys who were at least as talented. By the summer of 1952 all of the older boys and girls from the village school had decamped to the new school in the big house so I was among the oldest still in the primary school. Now I was one of the youngest in a large school a long way from home.
Those of the boys who had begun their lives at Reed’s before reaching 10 or 11 years of age had been accomodated and taught in rooms in a separate building called The Close. Now all of us ten- and eleven-year-olds were accomodated there but had to walk through the grounds to the school’s main building, which we called “The Shack”, for meals and lessons. I remember the agony of walking with chillblains on toes and fingers. One or two of my fellow pupils even had chillblains on their ears.
We were allowed visits from family members twice each term. My mother arranged for her cousin, Basil, to visit. Other friends and relatives sent the occasional postal order for half a crown (2/6, equivalent to £0.125) to supplement my pocket money which could be used in the school tuck shop to purchase sweets – although, with sugar still subjected to rationing, our pennies had to be accompanied by ‘points’ from our ration books, most of which were, of course, used in the purchase of food for our three meals and one snack per day.
The return journey to Hereford at the end of term was a reversal of the September trip, escorted by my mother’s friend. Arriving at Paddington after the Christmas holidays there was no sign of my mother’s friend. The train’s guard, in whose protection I had been placed on boarding, took me to the station master’s office. I don’t recall hearing it, but there must have been a tannoy announcement. After what seemed like a long wait my mother’s friend arrived to collect me. By this time I was extremely upset and my recollection is that I hardly stopped crying at all until I was on the south bound train the following afternoon. I have no idea what correspondence was exchanged between my mother and her friend in the following days.
When it came to the Easter holidays a new arrangement had been made: Mum’s cousin Basil would meet and accompany me and I would sleep in his sister’s apartment close by in Hammersmith. Instead of the train between London and Surrey I would travel that segment by coach. This arrangement continued for the next couple of years, until I was deemed old enough to travel alone on a journey that did not involve crossing the capital, changing trains at Reading and Guildford and completing the journey in a single day.
At the end of my first year I was rated in the bottom 3 of 33 pupils in the class. I was lucky, because, being born in November, I could start again so I remained in the first class (which was called ‘Remove’) for a second year. Now I was the boy who knew the ropes among a group of new comers. Although, once again, some already knew each other, having previously attended the Royal Wanstead School.
I very quickly formed a friendship with one of those newcomers from RWS. He was a month older than me. I gained the impression that, like me, he was somewhat introverted, not great at mixing with the other boys, even those he had known for several years. It was a friendship which would last throughout the next five years of school, and continue into adulthood.
A couple of years before I left school some of my class mates started bringing jazz records they’d purchased in specialist music shops in London. It was my introduction to a style of music that came to be known as Modern Jazz. A development from swing, this free flowing form of music was pioneered by various instrumentalists who had cut their musical teeth with one or more of the Basie, Ellington and Goodman bands of the 1940s.
Zoot Sims and his brother Ray were members of the Benny Goodman band in 1946-7, Zoot on saxophone and Ray on trombone. Afterwards Zoot joined the Woody Herman band. There he worked alongside Stan Getz and Al Cohn, establishing his reputation for an intensely melodic style of playing influenced by, and building upon, Lester Young’s laid back vocabulary. It was his work with the Gerry Mulligan sextet that I remember most fondly from that time.
I used my love of jazz in my novel Transgression. A young woman arrives in London in 1947 where, through her friendship with a medical student, she discovers live jazz in a Soho club.
The main thing, so far as Mabel was concerned, was that he appeared knowledgeable about jazz. He could talk for hours about the difference between Basie and Ellington, knew all the new combos, could explain why Monk was so much cooler than Moreton, compared Mulligan’s swinging baritone with Sims’s tenor playing, said he was looking forward to hearing the result of the latter’s partnership with Getz and Cohn now he’d left Benny Goodman and joined Woody Herman’s new line-up.
Of course, the time would come when she realised some of this was complete tosh, made up to impress her. For now, she was grateful for the opportunity to see and hear musicians performing in the flesh.
The atmosphere inside the club was all she had expected, and more. They were able to sit close to the small platform on which the musicians played. She could see the tendons in their necks straining, their cheeks puffed out as they blew into the mouthpieces of their instruments, their fingers flying across the valves that changed the timbre of the notes they played. Sweat poured from their hair lines, dripped from their chins, and light flashed brassily from the curved surfaces of trumpets and saxophones.
And that is my final contribution to the 2016 atoz challenge. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading all 26 as much a I’ve enjoyed writing them.
I think I was in my late twenties when I first became aware of the possibility of oral sex. Does that make me unusual? On the contrary, I believe I am typical of my generation. The circumstance of my initiation into the world of oral-genital contact was the showing of a black and white porn film in a neighbour’s living room, sometime in 1969 or ’70. The wives were at a Tupperware party, or something of the kind. My immediate reaction was one of disgust. I could not believe that ordinary folk would behave like that. It seemed perverted, indecent.
You have to remember that my generation of English men and women grew up with the belief that anything to do with sex and the sexual organs was dirty. Jokes about such things were referred to as ‘dirty jokes’. You shared them furtively with your male friends. They were not regarded as suitable fare for the delicate ears of a lady. Sexual references in literature were dismissed as ‘filth’. Genitals, on the rare occasions when it was necessary to allude to them, were universally referred to as ‘private parts’, usually in a furtive whisper.
Anyone under fifty reading this might begin to think that I belonged to some strict religious sect. The truth is, my up-bringing was slightly unusual in two respects. I grew up without a father, mine having been killed whilst serving in WW2. Shortly before my eleventh birthday I was sent away to boarding school. Among my mother’s motives for this was, I am certain, the hope that I would encounter suitable male role-models there.
It was an institution in which regular church-going was obligatory. Whereas, at home, we attended church or chapel only on special occasions. It is, therefore, fair to say that religious beliefs and attitudes were a significant influence. For clarity, ‘church’ in this context refers to the Church of England, ‘chapel’ to a small Primitive Methodist establishment which was the place of worship nearest to my home in rural Herefordshire. But, if those aspects of my childhood and adolescent experience were different from those of youths growing up in the suburbs and attending neighbourhood schools, the values learned were not. How else is it possible to explain the back-lash from my parents’ generation when those values began to be questioned in the late 1960s and the 1970s?Homosexual acts were against the law in Britain until 1967 when they were de-criminalised for consenting adults over 21. (For a fascinating analysis of the background to the relevant Act, and subsequent events, see this Guardian article from 2007). Whilst the age of consent for heterosexual activity was 16, you had to be 18 in order to marry without parental consent. This did not apply in Scotland, a fact that made the small community of Gretna Green, just over the border, a popular wedding venue for couples where at least one of their number, being under 18, was denied parental permission to marry.
The possibility of two people of opposite gender living together and having children without first getting married was unthinkable. And, once married, divorce was far from easy. The most commonly used ground was adultery which had to be proven, a fact that provided steady business for private detectives, solicitors and dodgy boarding houses. Even then, if the spouse was unwilling to agree to the divorce, it could not take place until a statutory period of separation had elapsed.
Contraceptive advice was available only to married couples. There were far fewer methods of preventing conception then. For married women there was something usually referred to as a ‘Dutch Cap’, or diaphragm, which, when fitted, provided a physical barrier preventing the sperm from reaching her uterus. For men, condoms could be purchased in a discreet transaction, mostly in the barbers, where, if you looked old enough, you would be asked, as the barber brushed you down, “Something for the weekend, sir?”
Without such barriers, withdrawal before ejaculation was the only way for a man to avoid getting his partner pregnant, a most unsatisfactory and unreliable method. Abstention was the only way a couple could be certain the girl would not conceive. Note the underlying assumption that sexual activity implied penetration. The possibility that an orgasm might be achieved without actual intercourse was not entertained. Neither was the idea that a woman might achieve orgasm under any circumstance. Masturbation, another ‘dirty’ practice, was discouraged with the claim it would make you blind.
Given so much prohibition about this supposedly ‘unhealthy’ activity, the secrecy, the nudges and winks that accompanied any discussion of sexual matters, it should come as no surprise that the idea of placing one’s mouth anywhere near someone’s genital region was unthinkable.
Compare all that to the present, when all of these matters are openly discussed; where young people can view porn on their mobile phones; where masturbation is encouraged so as to discover what gives you most pleasure and pass on that information to your partner. We now live in a different world entirely. This is the background to my novel Transgression which is at the same time a reminder to those old enough to remember how things were, and an education in social history for those fortunate young people who no longer have to live with the lack of reliable information that characterised sex in the 1950s.