that the Student Union then circulated for signing. We addressed it to the vice-chancellor of London University . My first draft petition was a cry from the heart and not too well expressed. Before it had gone too far, a copy fell into the hands of the Principal of the John Cass College, another evening-class college in London. The Principal’s name was E de Barry Barnett. He asked if I would come to see him and he received me, a young student, most courteously. He asked if I would mind reading his revision of my text. He said he agreed with the general tone of what I was saying and that it was a most unfair and insensitive action by the government, but he wanted to be sure that we presented the best possible case. His revision was three pages of carefully drafted wisdom. He converted my two paragraphs into a plea that would stop a charging lawyer. I welcomed gladly his intervention, but not his request that I left him out of it. I was not happy to pretend that I had composed his wise words. We finally agreed that I would say that I had taken advice before drafting the second version of the petition. The Student Union at Birkbeck was delighted with it. The President at that time was Lena Chivers, now Lady Jeger, a Labour Peer. She gave her unstinted support and sent copies to all of the evening-class colleges of London.
Many of the students signed, and the large bundle made its way to the Vice-Chancellor. Soon afterwards, he invited me to see him. It is not usual for a vice-chancellor to invite a part-time first-year student to have sherry with him and I was nervous, but he soon put me at ease and listened. He agreed to present our case to the government. Butthis was by now August 1939 and, whatever was his intention, the invasion of Poland took the matter from our hands. The intense activity of this piece of politics did not seem to affect my studies at Birkbeck and luckily for me, as it happened, the end-of-term summer examinations produced a far better result than I had expected. Soon after the declaration of war, the government announced that all London colleges, evening and daytime, would close and the students would be evacuated to other universities. This of course was not an option for evening-class students. It was clear to me that my efforts for part-time students, although appropriate in peacetime, would not succeed now that we were at war.
During my childhood in Brixton, I attended Quaker meetings and they led me to let my conscience dictate my actions. Or, as the Quakers put it, ‘Listen to the still small voice within.’ A wonderful family named Street ran the Brixton Friends Meeting House. The men among them had been conscientious objectors to national service in the 1914 war, and their transparent honesty and decency made their pacifism honourable. Their example made me believe that it was right and proper to register as a conscientious objector. I was prepared for unpleasantness and shame. In the First World War, conscientious objectors had had a tough ride, and I expected that something similar would happen during the coming war. To those who find it difficult to understand how I could hold pacifist and warlike views—such as my feelings about the Spanish Civil War—in my mind simultaneously, I can only say it often seems to happen in wartime. We are by nature tribal carnivores, and at such times it is difficult to be rational. At the same time, I knew it would be at least one, if not more, years before my time of testing began, so I applied to enrol as a full-time student at a university outside London. I chose Manchester solely because I had fallen for a girl I met when staying at a youth hostel in the Lake District in July 1939. She was taking a degree in chemistry at Manchester University and was one year ahead of me. Even before I arrived in Manchester to enrol I had discovered that she had no interest in me whatsoever. But at that time I was young enough to hope that perhaps she would change her
Many of the students signed, and the large bundle made its way to the Vice-Chancellor. Soon afterwards, he invited me to see him. It is not usual for a vice-chancellor to invite a part-time first-year student to have sherry with him and I was nervous, but he soon put me at ease and listened. He agreed to present our case to the government. Butthis was by now August 1939 and, whatever was his intention, the invasion of Poland took the matter from our hands. The intense activity of this piece of politics did not seem to affect my studies at Birkbeck and luckily for me, as it happened, the end-of-term summer examinations produced a far better result than I had expected. Soon after the declaration of war, the government announced that all London colleges, evening and daytime, would close and the students would be evacuated to other universities. This of course was not an option for evening-class students. It was clear to me that my efforts for part-time students, although appropriate in peacetime, would not succeed now that we were at war.
During my childhood in Brixton, I attended Quaker meetings and they led me to let my conscience dictate my actions. Or, as the Quakers put it, ‘Listen to the still small voice within.’ A wonderful family named Street ran the Brixton Friends Meeting House. The men among them had been conscientious objectors to national service in the 1914 war, and their transparent honesty and decency made their pacifism honourable. Their example made me believe that it was right and proper to register as a conscientious objector. I was prepared for unpleasantness and shame. In the First World War, conscientious objectors had had a tough ride, and I expected that something similar would happen during the coming war. To those who find it difficult to understand how I could hold pacifist and warlike views—such as my feelings about the Spanish Civil War—in my mind simultaneously, I can only say it often seems to happen in wartime. We are by nature tribal carnivores, and at such times it is difficult to be rational. At the same time, I knew it would be at least one, if not more, years before my time of testing began, so I applied to enrol as a full-time student at a university outside London. I chose Manchester solely because I had fallen for a girl I met when staying at a youth hostel in the Lake District in July 1939. She was taking a degree in chemistry at Manchester University and was one year ahead of me. Even before I arrived in Manchester to enrol I had discovered that she had no interest in me whatsoever. But at that time I was young enough to hope that perhaps she would change her
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