it. To the uninitiated this means that I am a Lincolnshire-born person. Such people are always called "Yellowbellies", and are supposed to have a mark like a guinea piece on their stomachs.
'Oaklands' was owned by the Long family. It was about seventy acres in extent, and to me, always an impressionable child, it was paradise. Here, in the most beautiful surroundings my aesthetic tastes were born, developed and expanded.
If ever I dream, I am always back at 'Oaklands', or at college. It is a pleasant thought that our dreams often take us back to where we have been happy. It is as though happiness crystallises a three-dimensional picture in our minds, and there we can return to draw strength when the cares of the world, for the time being, become too much for us.
When I was very small, we left the cottage, and went to live in the Hall with the only member left of the family, Miss Lilian Jane Long.
My father was in charge of the outside workers, and my mother controlled the inside staff.
I was allowed to choose my own bedroom, and settled on an attic room, with a wonderful view of our magnificent walled kitchen garden, part of the ornamental garden, and the rolling wolds farmland beyond. This bedroom was my little sanctum. Surrounded by my books, with paints, crayons, stamps, birds' eggs, and all the myriad things dear to the heart of a boy, I was blissfully happy.
I was rather lonely at times. My sister was over eleven years older than I, and more like a second mother to me. We shared many things, but I dwelt most of the time in a dream world of my own.
The woods, fields, orchards, and gardens filled with magnificent plants and trees, were my kingdom. In the dell, a jungle of foreign trees and caves, which had originally been a chalk pit, I spent hours, hunting bears, chasing spies, and climbing trees on my desert island. No boy had a more wonderful playground. I never tired of exploring those fascinating surroundings.
In the greenhouses, apart from the exotic flowers, we grew grapes, peaches, nectarines and even figs. In the orchards were apples, pears, cherries, nuts and plums of the most luscious varieties. When I think of them as I munch the dry biscuits allowed on my present diet, my mouth waters.
Being a sensitive child, I revelled in the glories of the changing seasons and, absorbing natural beauty in my daily contact with it, I grew up with a deep consciousness of being completely at one with nature. Exploring, climbing and playing in the woods with my terrier Pip, I was utterly absorbed. Every day was a new adventure.
I admired my father's country skills and appreciated my mother's cooking. Always a good trencherman, from my earliest days I was nurtured on the fat of the land.
Vividly I can recall our blackberrying expeditions. Usually these came at the end of the summer holidays. Three or four of us would go out to selected spots and spend the whole day filling large baskets with blackberries of such succulence that my very soul yearns at the memory. Returning home about four o'clock in the afternoon, the berries would be handed over to Cook, who was with pastry ready. Whilst we were washing and changing, the 'Bramble Cake', as we called it would be cooking. In a very short time we would be sitting down to one of the most delectable dishes that the skill of man has devised. Packed with fruit, encased in the lightest of pastry, now soaked with purple nectar, and covered in fresh cream, it would make anyone moan with ecstasy at the first taste.
Long's Hall, as the house was called locally, was a typical country house, and was built in 1876. The Long family had loved culture, and there signs of culture and good taste throughout the house. The pictures, oil and water colour, fascinated me. Certain pieces of furniture held a great attraction. The books in the library were the lodestones of my juvenile existence.
I recall, in the drawing room, were some antique stone vases. One in particular drew me, a child of four, like a magnet. I always experienced a genuine thrill when I touched part of a raised pattern around the neck. In the morning room was a dark oak desk, with grotesque faces projecting from the front of each drawer, forming the handles. You put your hands in the mouths to open the drawers. I used to say that when I grew up I would save and buy such a desk. Fortune favoured me. I am sitting at that very desk writing these words. It is my most treasured possession.
Miss Long usually had visitors to stay the summer. Each evening after dinner, the party used to gather in the long hall, which was heated from the greenhouses. They would play the gramophone. I would creep down from my bedroom in my pyjamas, my heart beating because I feared discovery. I would crouch in the shadow of a large cupboard standing outside one of the bedroom doors. There i would remain, soaking in the beauty of Clara Butts glorious voice, the vibrant clarity of Caruso's golden notes, and other stars whose names I never knew. Orchestral pieces thrilled me. It was there I became familiar with Beethoven's mighty Fifth Symphony. Among the Morcaux de Salon, I particularly liked Elgar's 'Salut d'Amour'.
Sometimes I would fall asleep. On one occasion I woke, icy cold, crept back to my room, and found it was 4 am Several of the guests had had to pass me on the way to their rooms, but had not seen the sleeping boy in the corner.
I possess many photographs of 'Oaklands', and I often nostalgically thumb through them. I visited the house in the summer of 1963, just after my mother died. The park and kitchen garden are ploughed up. The greenhouses have been turned into pig sties. The house is now a gaming club. Ichabod! Ichabod!
At five years of age I went to the village school in Laceby, known as the Stanford Charity School, so named after its founder. School, from the very start, was a pleasure to me, chiefly because it meant books and reading.
Coupled with my school life, the church and its various activities now loomed conspicuously in my little world. At seven I was enrolled in the Church choir.
Although I was a normal boy in most ways, I had not the slightest interest in the usual games boys revel in. I found the whole idea of hitting or chasing a ball fatuous, and boring to the point of nausea. I did then, and I do now. To me, the wasted energy, both mental and physical, at football matches in England, is nothing short of a national disaster. Occasionally, I would kick a ball, or brandish a bat, but I had no heart in it.
The music in church fascinated me, and I found great interest in the sonorous poetry of the Old Testament. I remember how the word 'peradventure' pleased me, and after hearing the story of Lot and the angels read in the lesson for the day, I would say it over and over to myself as I walked home after the service. The condensed purity of the Parables gave me a sensuous pleasure. Those who sneer at the Church and its services, have never been swept into the beautiful rituals of Christmas, Passiontide, Easter and Whitsun as I was. These festivals were, to my young mind, pregnant with mystery, colour, beauty, and music. The solemn austerity of Good Friday, with its hymns in the minor key, thrilled me as I personally felt the 'darkness over all the land'.
The spoken word had hypnotised me ever since I could remember, and from a very early age, the written word gripped my interest, and daily increased its power over me.
As long as I could get a book, I was happy. Being on my own so much at home, I quickly built up a world of fantasy as I read my stories. I peopled the woods and fields around 'Oaklands' with fawns, demons, and playmates so real, that every day was an exciting adventure.
I used to be filled with a glorious glow as I went to church on Easter morning. As I approached the village, I would hear the mad, joyous pealing of the Easter bells being rung by the united efforts of brawny country men and lads, perspiring as the scarlet sallies on the ropes slid through their horny hands.
I walked with particular pride on Easter Sunday morning because, as was customary, every stitch of clothing I wore was new, down to the handkerchief peeping out of my breast pocket.
How we chatted and examined new ties, shirts and suits as we donned our newly starched surplices, boasting of the new coin which had been put into our pockets that morning by doting parents.
The interior of the church and each part of the service were a delight to me. Flowers, lilies predominant, were massed in the windows, round the font on the altar. The subtle scent of the narcissi mingled with the odour of mysteriously pungent hair-oil on the heads of my fellow choristers.
Our organist, normally staid in the choice of music, played a joyful voluntary as the congregation filled the church to capacity. Then, as the Ringing In Bell stopped, out rolled the Processional Hymn, and our young throats throbbed like the thrushes' outside in their spring paean, to the soaring phrases as we proudly and jubilantly breasted our way down the aisle to our stalls in the choir.
The rector's surplice glistened white, due, not to the latest plus-white detergent, but to honest labour, prompted by affection and respect. As the squire stepped to the lectern, his Easter linen and buttonhole were a picture to see. As he read the lessons, I listened with rapt attention, the words having a mantramistic effect on me. Glorious days, these, filled with thrills and pure delight. How anaemic seem the surroundings today.
I began to study the piano when I was about ten. My teacher was the leading soprano in the church choir. The lesson lasted an hour, and cost ninepence. They progressed with a swing, and soon I could play simple tunes. I well remember my first was 'Nelly Bly'. This accomplishment gave me a thrill. Conceit was never consciously present.
I was just exhilarated because I could do things. This great thrill of achievement remains with me to this day. I pray to God it will never leave me. I do not think it will. Our young members with their zest and enthusiasm keep it in a healthy state.
My progress in school was rapid, not because I was a genius, but mainly, I'm sure, because I could read well. When I was twelve, the headmaster of the village school persuaded my parents to allow me to sit for the scholarship examination for the Clee Grammar School, near Cleethorpes. Great was my jubilation when I secured third place in the list of ten scholarships offered. Scholarship boys were rather looked down upon in those days, and, although, being sensitive, I felt this, nevertheless my work here meant I increased my enjoyment of life. The door to a wider horizon was opened. Of my great good fortune in the person of my English teacher, I tell in detail in another chapter of this story.
Since I had some eight miles to cycle to school, and the return journey uphill all the way, frequently with a head wind as well, it always seemed senseless to me that I was compelled to play games. I hated every minute of the sports periods, and furthermore was tired after my journey. It was crucifixion to me to be picked for my House Team.
In football I only once scored a goal, and that was against my own side. At cricket I did manage to score a few runs, but when I had to field, I suffered such boredom that it seared my very soul.
When I decided to become a teacher, I vowed I would always do my utmost to ease the agony of the artistic child. Our hidebound system of education, even in these so called enlightened days, still compels all boys to endure 'Sport' whether they enjoy it or not.
I am longing to see the time when the arts are not sneered at in school, and when a boy who prefers to paint, act, or write rather than stand shivering in misery on the touch-line, being shouted at by a senseless mountain of flesh whose only achievement is that he can score goals, will be allowed to do so, and not suffer the public humiliation because of his choice.
The next village travelling due west from Laceby is the small picturesque village of Irby on Humber.
When I was fourteen, the rector of this village invited me to become his organist. I was excited at the offer, and eager to accept. My own rector was consulted, and although I am sure he was not too pleased, as it meant a choirboy less in his choir, he saw how keen I was, and gave me his reluctant blessing. So, for four years I trudged in all weathers to play the organ in Irby Church. It had an 'Ivy-mantled tow'r', which always reminded me of Gray's Elegy.
I became very friendly with the Rector of Irby, the Rev. W. Brydges-Sayers, and his family. He took a great interest in my welfare and every Sunday evening, after Evensong, I was invited into the rectory for supper. Over the meal we would discuss every topic in my ever-widening thirst for knowledge, I would often stay long after midnight, and walk the two miles home, revelling in the beauty of a shimmering moonlit night, or laboriously making my way through snowdrifts, dreaming of the future.
The rector had an extensive library, and he would allow me to borrow any volume I wished. He would spend hours showing me the wonders of the pond and plant life through his microscope, and those of the heavens through a fine telescope mounted in the attic. In the lounge on a large table was an orrery. Although I was not scientifically minded, these instruments, disclosing the hidden wonders of nature gave me much food for thought.
I had one great regret. At this stage of my development when I was bursting with joyful ambitions, with schemes chasing one another through my bursting brain, I had no one to who could vaguely understand my thoughts, with whom I could discuss my plans. I wandered round 'Oaklands' in a feverish mental turmoil.
At any mention of my fiery dreams, I was likely to meet with one of two receptions: anger or ridicule, both torture to anyone in my state. I am still of the mind, as then, that few if any adult fully appreciates the latent potential of a spiritually inclined adolescent. They pretend they do, but it is self-deception.
Ours was an agricultural community, and in those days, the wages of the workers were disgustingly low. To offset this a little, there were perquisites. Most workers had a cottage, rent free, a garden and a pig. They were given a piglet. This they nurtured until it was a lusty size, and then they killed and salted it. This would often be the only meat the workers' families had during the whole year. Obviously this pig was a very valuable part of the family supplies. Consequently to help the workers, there had arisen a sort of insurance society in miniature, known as the Pig Club.
For a modest annual premium, the owner of the pig was covered in the event of his pig being ill. The veterinary surgeon was called in and the club paid at least part of the fee. Should the pig die, the owner received a cash payment, which, if not equal to the domestic value of the animal, was at least some compensation for the loss.
As the yearly subscription was so small, in order to keep the finances of the Pig Club in a healthy state, various functions were held in the village. Whist Drives, Dances, Socials, and, Concerts in the winter, and Garden Fêtes in the summer were popular ways of making money.
The annual Concert was the most important function of all. It was of a pretty high standard, considering most of the items were by local amateur performers. This occasion was a great leveller. Religious and political differences were temporarily forgotten and everyone co-operated to the full.
Year in, year out, the same artists appeared, offering the same numbers, and were assured of a tumultuous welcome. Dick Wilson, the local cobbler, and leading bass in the Church choir, invariably offered 'The Trumpeter', and 'Let Me Like a Soldier Fall'. We boys irreverently used to add a line to the latter song. 'For I'm as bald as a billiard ball'. He was too. A tenor specially imported for the occasion, usually rendered 'Because', 'Somewhere a Voice is Calling' and 'Take a Pair of Sparkling Eyes'.
Bill Drury, the local comic, provided the humour with 'Widdecombe Fair' and a neat song with a chorus in which we all joined. It was 'The Village Pump'. If you visited our headquarters, you would be likely to hear 'The Pump'. One of our boys sang it in our production of Rumpelstiltskin.
As I progressed with my music, I eventually gave monologues at the piano. Later I teamed up with a clever ventriloquist and we travelled around the district extensively. When I was fifteen I formed a concert party. There were seven of us, all teenagers, and we called ourselves 'The Gay Goblins'. This venture was short-lived. Four of the party came from Grimsby and one from Cleethorpes. As the bus service was rather erratic, it was awkward for them to attend rehearsals. My zeal, even at that age, was vigorous, and in spite of obstacles, I was not daunted. My native grit has never deserted me, and all through my life, if one venture has folded up, there has always been another exciting one peeping round the corner.
All this time I was reading voraciously. My tastes were being developed in the right direction, under the sympathetic guidance of my English master.
Having passed my School Certificate Examination with five credits, I began to think seriously of my future. My father had an interview with my headmaster, one of the kindest and most understanding of gentlemen, who suggested I was suited to the teaching profession. It was left to the Head to discuss it with me.
There was no chance for me to go to a university as my father had not the means. I vividly remember the morning my father discussed it with me. Living in my dream world, I had cherished a great ambition - to go to Oxford. I was realistic enough to know this was impossible. Nevertheless I had dreamed, and when my father assured me that even a training college would mean sacrifice, I of course accepted the inevitable.
After my father has quietly explained the whole position, I left him and sauntered through the woods with unseeing eyes. I eventually found myself in my favourite haunt, where I used to sit dreaming by the hour. It was a rustic summerhouse in the woods. As a tiny boy I had named it Robinson Crusoe's Hut. Here I sat on that eventful morning, sobbing my heart out.
When I hear students today, grumbling and often misusing their grants, I think of that morning.
My parents sacrificed a great deal for me to go to college. They did all in their power to ensure I had a good opportunity to make something of my life. I always think of their efforts on my behalf with the deepest gratitude.
When it was settled that I should become a teacher, I was very ignorant about what would actually happen. The headmaster explained that he would make all the necessary arrangements with the Education Authorities. Accordingly I found myself a Student Teacher at The Bursar Street Boys' School in Cleethorpes. I was here for a year before I went to college. In the autumn of 1923 I went to the City of Leeds Training College. Here I spent two of the happiest years of my life.
I met new friends, new ideas, glimpsed alluring, exciting horizons. I absorbed everything as a sponge absorbs water. Although I had a worthy, happy home, I was never really homesick. Too much was happening around me. So many exhilarating and magnetic ideas were fomenting in my brain, and they kept me arrestingly alert.
The daily discussions in the Common Room-I was in Fairfax Hostel-were stimulating. Often we talked unceasingly into the night behind shaded lights, which should have been dowsed, at ten-thirty.
Delighted to return home for the holidays and enjoy my home and roam and roam around 'Oaklands' with our dogs, I was always ready to return to college and its stimulating atmosphere.
In college I was introduced to Gilbert and Sullivan. In my senior year we produced Iolanthe, in which I was a humble member of the chorus. I developed a love of the Savoy Operas, perfect examples of the wedding of imperishable melodies and brilliant words. My admiration has never blinded to a serious defect, which they possess. They are utterly sexless. This robs them of a warmth which would have improved them.
We did a fair amount of play reading. Hear again I was fortunate in my English tutor. He helped and guided my steps in literature with an avuncular concern. During my senior year we presented an evening of one-act plays. I recall I played the Doctor in Jerry Blundler's Ghost by W. W. Jacobs.
Apart from pantomime, and that of an inferior standard, I had up to this seen few full-length plays. When I was about twelve I was staying with friends near Sheffield. As a birthday treat they had taken me to see Julia Neilson and Fred Terry in The Scarlet Pimpernel. However some of our callow young theatregoers may smile, I was enraptured at the experience, and for weeks I was Sir Percy Blakeney, rescuing beautiful girls in spite of the most hair-raising odds out of the hands of ferocious revolutionaries.
When I succeeded in passing my School Certificate, Miss Long arranged a theatre party. We saw the then popular comedy, Lord Richard in the Pantry, at the now defunct Prince of Wales Theatre in Grimsby. The star was the well-loved Connie Ediss.
I had not been in college long, when our senior students gave Barrie's The Admirable Crichton. I vividly recall my bitter disappointment at the end of the play. It went very much against my idea of fair play. To see Crichton allowed to slip back to below stairs, after his efficient handling of everyone on the island, galled me. I had still to learn that the endings in the drama of life are not all happy ones.
I left college in the summer of 1925, after taking my Finals. When I thought of what the results might easily be I suffered, not butterflies, but elephants in my stomach.
At this time, posts in the educational world were scarce. I had the idea that I must get to London. I felt it was the hub of the world and wanted to be there. Several of us had the same idea.
We applied all over the country. To get a post was our first aim. Having got one, we could look around, and change to a more congenial area later.
My first offer came from Salford. All I knew about this place was that it was in Lancashire. There were cotton mills there and many of the people wore clogs. In the autumn of 1925 I started as an assistant teacher on the staff of St. Bartholomew's Church of England School, Tatton Street, Salford, and lodged in Old Trafford, Manchester. My salary was £180 per annum.
I soon found, that, although I was in the midst of Blake's 'satanic mills', and compared to 'Oaklands' it was hell, the youngsters I taught were fascinating human beings, even if a little grubby.
My first class consisted of fifty-nine little devils. I soon had them play-reading and presenting classroom plays. Literature lessons were unadulterated joy. Some of the roughest of them had real natural talent.
My playgoing now started in real earnest. The first Wednesday I was in Manchester, I went to the Palace Theatre to see Matheson Lang in Rafael Sabatini's The Tyrant.
A fellow lodger was a journalist, and he frequently reviewed the professional theatre. He took me to the old Prince's Theatre. The first show I saw with him was a production of Shaw's Man and Superman by that very fine company, The Macdona Players. I was enthralled, Esmė Percy took the part of John Tanner. They played the full show, including the Don Juan in Hell scene.
Meeting other teachers interested in the theatre, I began to visit shows, both amateur and professional. I went to schools where plays were being presented. I was horrified at the appalling standard generally offered. I could not understand why heads and staff were so smugly satisfied. Knowing what we had done in our own little way in our own school, I was confident that youngsters could reach a much higher standard.
I was taken to see an amateur production of The Mikado. This show was well done and both story and tunes charmed me. I got a score and libretto, and after studying them came to the conclusion, with my accustomed enthusiasm, that with careful rehearsal, this show could be successfully produced by teenagers. When I mentioned this to my colleagues, I was ridiculed and called insane.
All this time I was devouring books, plays and poetry. I was glutted with good reading.
In 1926 I became resident supervisor at Henshaw's Blind School in Old Trafford. Here I became acquainted with a different kind of youngster. To them, stories and music were of paramount importance. I used to read to them by the hour, and play records. We discussed their attitude to life. Handicapped as they were, I was amazed at their happy natures. I took groups of children from my school to entertain them with short plays. They were thrilled, and so was I. In the meantime, I had met Joyce. She was a gifted pianist, and a lover of literature, as well as being attractive, and with a warm and lively personality. I was fully aware of my good fortune. There was never any doubt in my mind from the moment I met her and I was conceited enough to think too that she had no doubts. We were engaged, and all my enthusiasms were multiplied a thousandfold.
We had little or no wealth as the world counts such things. We were deeply in love, and bubbling over with the confidence of youth and the arrogance of optimistic natures. We decided that as soon as I could get a post in one of the new type of school then being built, we would be married. I had noticed such a school then being erected in Old Trafford, and wondered if I had any chance of getting on the staff.
Once more providence was kind. This school was opened in January 1930 and in March of that year I saw in the Manchester Guardian a notice advertising the post of English and Music specialist in that very school. Specialist posts were just coming into being. I applied, was successful, and started my duties on April 1st. I am still on the staff of that school, now Head of the English Department.
I was now in the position to do more serious drama. Each Christmas we put on a show. Our reputation as a school where drama was tackled in a serious manner grew. We certainly produced shows of a satisfactory standard. I wrote one or two short plays, which we produced with keen enjoyment. All the time I was gaining very valuable experience, and the idea of a real children's theatre developed more clearly.
Then came the war. Even that catastrophic event did not seriously interfere with my dramatic activities. It certainly closed down the Stretford Teachers' Amateur Dramatic Society. We had got nicely into our stride. I had produced an evening of one-act plays, a comedy called, Dying to Live, and a strong thriller Suspect. Now with depleted membership, blackouts, and all the difficulties of rationing, we decided to fold up, at least for the duration.
After the Manchester blitz of December 1941, we had to share our school buildings with a girl's school. Their building was being used as a Red Cross Centre, so we accommodated them in one half of our school. Though we were somewhat crowded, the experiment worked well. Each school retained its own individuality, yet at the same time we shared many activities.
Both head teachers were enlightened people, and were fully alive to the value of dramatic work. We gave several dramatic entertainments of high standard to the public.
Early in the war, professional repertory company, The Maxwell Colborne-David Erskine Company, took over the Garrick Playhouse in Altrincham, where I live. I became actively interested in this company. For a considerable time I was chairman of the First Nighters' Club held in the lounge of the theatre every Sunday evening. My wife was employed in the box office and was deputy pianist. When I could manage it I took part in their productions.
Among the professionals I met at this time, and with whom I became friendly, was Mr Maurice Browne, of Journey's End fame. His friendship was a great beneficial influence. His marvellous intelligence and personal philosophy deeply impressed me. I discussed at length with him my plans for a children's theatre. Instead of the usual "You can't do it', I received enthusiastic encouragement and many valuable tips.
My dream had developed into one of a centre where youngsters who were interested in drama and all that goes with it, could come along and revel in creative work-read, act, paint scenery, design and make costumes, and do all the things we have done during the last twenty-one years, often under difficulties.
Well, here I was in 1945, with no support, but burning with a firm determination to do something about it. But what? I felt completely frustrated. All my friends were being very kind, but offering no practical assistance. They began to avoid me when they saw me coming, as they knew that within seconds I would be battering them with my plans.
The pioneer is often submerged under the reasoned arguments of the so- called practical man, but it is only a fool who looks upon him as a fool. Once again in my life, I had usually one of two receptions whenever I rode my hobbyhorse. My listeners, often teachers, became furiously angry or roared with laughter. Both of these answers to my pleas were bitter to a sensitive person.
The idea having taken firm root, I set to work to canvass opinion and practical help. I could not conduct this plan on my own. Remember, I was a 'Yellowbelly'. Grim determination in the face of opposition is one of the main traits of the Lincolnshire native.
I recall visiting the only councillor I knew personally to discuss my plans. He was kind but pessimistic. In his view, the idea was good, but impractical.
I spoke to some head teachers in the borough. The reaction was the same. I begged them to come in on the ground floor, because to give up on the idea never entered my head. Vacillating, ineffective, even antagonistic, they always finished the discussion with the same question. "Where is the money coming from?"
I would not wish to convey the impression that I consider myself a wonderful person. I was, and still am, a stubborn enthusiast. I am sure these head teachers thought I was an insufferable bounder. How dare I ruffle the smooth mill-pond of their suburban existence!
So, for the moment I was bloodied but certainly not bowed.