School

Earls Colne Grammar School was built in 1520, becoming a Grammar School licensed by King Henry VIII in about 1539, only to be closed by Margaret Thatcher’s henchmen four and a half centuries later. It was a small school, just one form entry each year, with about 180 pupils in total. There were 42 boys in my year, although we were rarely all taught together after the first year. A small boarding house was attached to the school, as these were the days when colonial officers still controlled our Empire and their children came back to England to be educated.

Before going to the school I was required to attend for an interview with the Headmaster, Eric Sykes. I persuaded my parents that there was no need for either of them to attend, and can still remember Sykes peering over his desk to ask in his squeaky voice, ‘Where are your parents boy?” I gave him a positive answer, and somehow managed to find myself at the school. That small event typified my early life, my parents gave me every comfort and material support, but little practical involvement. I gently bumbled my way through life, rarely spending very much time on my homework, and my parents rarely asked.

School was 12 miles away, and that meant travelling by bus to the centre of Colchester to catch a small van that carried me and about 14 other boys along the winding country lane to Earls Colne. It was an easy enough life, the school work was not arduous, either that or I wasn’t concentrating, and I just drifted along.

After O Level I stayed on for a year in Lower Sixth, partly because I was then allowed to play croquet on the front lawn. I had no clear idea what I wanted to do, nor did I ever receive any advice. Most jobs seemed to want 5 O Levels and 2 A Levels, so I was taking biology, chemistry and geography, and the compulsory Latin, which was then required for university entrance.

Many boys from my school joined the RAF, and that seemed a possibility, but only because I’d been a member of the Air Cadet Squadron at school (1163 Squadron). It’s those parts of my teenage years I remember most: overseas trips with the school to Austria, Switzerland and Italy, obtaining a glider pilot’s licence and singing, always singing until my voice broke. I was a member of three choirs, and spent my time racing around from one event to the next. It was fun, not sure it did much for my education as I spent so much time travelling. Pictures of me at that time show darkened eyes, probably heavy from lack of sleep.

My childhood took me to many places, exploring place and mind. My sister Janet was a profound influence upon my life. Because of her my parents worked tirelessly to improve the lot of handicapped children. My father was Chairman of the local Society for Mentally Handicapped Children, and pulled off several remarkable coups. He was a steady fund-raiser, organising bazaars and variety shows at Christmas, fetes in the summer and jumble sales all the time. It’s difficult to describe how he managed to pull together all the elements, and how little discussion there seemed to be, at home, about any of these events.

He would hire the local Co-op hall for a variety show: using amateur performers. The show would start with dancers from Elsie Hatfield’s Dance School, and a piano accordion band, to be followed by a bewildering variety of solo performers: magicians, singers, comedians, dancers and more. This was not the Glasgow Empire, as even failed acts received polite applause, it was just that Dad wouldn’t invite them again. Over the years these shows became a place for young performers to display their talents.

As importantly, they raised money. Together with summer fetes, jumble sales, whist drives and other events slowly Dad and his team raised enough cash to buy a piece of land at Lexden, Colchester. They marched off to the Council to demand that they build a school for people with learning difficulties. The Council were receptive, perhaps it was already in their plans, but until then the only facilities were a day centre run in a church hall, with no equipment, trained teachers or future.

The school soon became a reality but Dad didn’t stop there, he moved on to raise cash for a residential hostel, and an Occupational Centre for people over 16, who could not go out into the wider community. As with many local authority schemes these have since been degraded over the years. The hostel has become something else, the Occupational Centre still lacks funds but has plenty of workers. In those early years the parents played a more active role, as it was new, nobody knew what they should be doing, so everyone was keen to get involved. Now, we leave such matters to the experts, who often do not really understand that love can go a lot further than health and safety, qualifications and resources. There's a message in there somewhere about community involvement.

My father never received any public recognition for his years of tireless work. He was a marvellous man, for whom I retain the deepest admiration and respect.