good-humoured but never coarse, ever helpful and kind, he swam in the college as though it were his natural element. I liked him, and he quickly became my friend, although there was an aspect of his character that on reflection I found embarrassing. I had yet to learn the meaning of the word ‘priggish’, but it was a quality that I was beginning to recognise occasionally in myself as well; I sometimes found the former tough boy, Cornwell, sneering at his new self.
It was obvious that some of us had brought personal problems to Cotton. I thought I saw these tensions in the haunted expressions of several boys in my class: anxiety beyond their years, as if they were straining to curb their inclinations. Much as they wanted to be in the college, it went against the grain. Many, it was obvious, came like me from modest and poorhomes. Although the uniformity of our ‘best’ wear – the black suit – might have ironed out the differences, the texture, cut and fit were invariably a give-away. My own black suit was several sizes too big for me, ‘so that it will last you a couple of years,’ Mum had said.
In the remedial Latin class there was a boy called Charles House whose parents lived abroad. His well-made footwear, the beautiful cut of his blazer, the fit of his shirts, and the way he wore them, singled him out. He walked with a loose-ankled swagger, his right hand inside his jacket pocket. He wore an expression of bored amusement beyond his thirteen years. He had peerless skin; high cheek-bones that gave him an almost oriental look; even, very white teeth; and a head of silken, honey-blond hair. His confident voice came from the back of his throat as if he was mocking the world. He would rub his hands together vigorously before Father Gavin’s arrival in class. ‘Very good for the mind all this Latin, Fru,’ he would say, singling me out for such remarks. ‘Keeps us mentally on our toes!’ It took me some time to realise that he was mocking me.
Charles had a way of giving the profs knowing looks, and an occasional chortle in class; he even engaged in a little quiet banter. Was it just the stylishness of Charles House that prompted the profs to direct their quips and jests in his direction? Charles had this effect, I noticed, on some of the older boys, too, and coolly played up to it. One such was Bursley, a morose senior boy whom I had got to know in the choir. Bursley had a leathery face with pit marks on his cheeks. He looked old enough to be a man, but he tended to hang around with younger boys at break. One morning, after Father McCartie’s routine distribution of letters, I saw Bursley giving Charles a soft, playful punch on the arm. Charles not so softly punched him back and said: ‘Bursley, has anyone ever told you that you have a head like a dehydrated beehive?’ I thought that Bursley would be furious, but he just smiled at the insult as if happy that Charles had spoken to him.
Charles’s odd humour provided occasional light relief from the misery of Latin lessons, but it was Peter Gladden, a tall, stooped youth with a startling Roman nose, who helped me overcome my difficulties. Learning of my plight through James, who had become concerned on my behalf, Gladden took me by the arm one evening after Rosary and said: ‘Let’s try to sort out this Latin, Fru!’ The nickname had caught on.
He led me down to a piano practice room underneath the stage in the assembly hall. With a Latin primer propped up on the music stand he began to take me through the basics. For a start, he explained the cases: nominative, vocative, accusative. As the light dawned, he said: ‘You’re not unintelligent, Fru. Nobody taught you how to learn.’
Gladden, a born teacher at the age of nearly fourteen, advised me how to learn by rote, by repetition and rhythm. ‘Sway slightly to the rhythm,’ he said, ‘as if it’s music. You can do it. Memory and music, don’t you know.’ That was one of Gladden’s favourite
It was obvious that some of us had brought personal problems to Cotton. I thought I saw these tensions in the haunted expressions of several boys in my class: anxiety beyond their years, as if they were straining to curb their inclinations. Much as they wanted to be in the college, it went against the grain. Many, it was obvious, came like me from modest and poorhomes. Although the uniformity of our ‘best’ wear – the black suit – might have ironed out the differences, the texture, cut and fit were invariably a give-away. My own black suit was several sizes too big for me, ‘so that it will last you a couple of years,’ Mum had said.
In the remedial Latin class there was a boy called Charles House whose parents lived abroad. His well-made footwear, the beautiful cut of his blazer, the fit of his shirts, and the way he wore them, singled him out. He walked with a loose-ankled swagger, his right hand inside his jacket pocket. He wore an expression of bored amusement beyond his thirteen years. He had peerless skin; high cheek-bones that gave him an almost oriental look; even, very white teeth; and a head of silken, honey-blond hair. His confident voice came from the back of his throat as if he was mocking the world. He would rub his hands together vigorously before Father Gavin’s arrival in class. ‘Very good for the mind all this Latin, Fru,’ he would say, singling me out for such remarks. ‘Keeps us mentally on our toes!’ It took me some time to realise that he was mocking me.
Charles had a way of giving the profs knowing looks, and an occasional chortle in class; he even engaged in a little quiet banter. Was it just the stylishness of Charles House that prompted the profs to direct their quips and jests in his direction? Charles had this effect, I noticed, on some of the older boys, too, and coolly played up to it. One such was Bursley, a morose senior boy whom I had got to know in the choir. Bursley had a leathery face with pit marks on his cheeks. He looked old enough to be a man, but he tended to hang around with younger boys at break. One morning, after Father McCartie’s routine distribution of letters, I saw Bursley giving Charles a soft, playful punch on the arm. Charles not so softly punched him back and said: ‘Bursley, has anyone ever told you that you have a head like a dehydrated beehive?’ I thought that Bursley would be furious, but he just smiled at the insult as if happy that Charles had spoken to him.
Charles’s odd humour provided occasional light relief from the misery of Latin lessons, but it was Peter Gladden, a tall, stooped youth with a startling Roman nose, who helped me overcome my difficulties. Learning of my plight through James, who had become concerned on my behalf, Gladden took me by the arm one evening after Rosary and said: ‘Let’s try to sort out this Latin, Fru!’ The nickname had caught on.
He led me down to a piano practice room underneath the stage in the assembly hall. With a Latin primer propped up on the music stand he began to take me through the basics. For a start, he explained the cases: nominative, vocative, accusative. As the light dawned, he said: ‘You’re not unintelligent, Fru. Nobody taught you how to learn.’
Gladden, a born teacher at the age of nearly fourteen, advised me how to learn by rote, by repetition and rhythm. ‘Sway slightly to the rhythm,’ he said, ‘as if it’s music. You can do it. Memory and music, don’t you know.’ That was one of Gladden’s favourite
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