Glengorse - 2

I cannot describe how utterly miserable, how lost and abandoned I felt, when I first arrived at Glengorse. It was January, bitterly cold and torture for someone accustomed to Mombasa's climate. To cry publicly was to be reviled, so I cried myself to sleep at night, in a bed with a lumpy mattress where the only coverings were a sheet, blanket and thin quilt. The younger pupils were bullied. The regime was regimental. The lessons were in very small classes taught by men most of whom had been through the war - Maths was taken by a hideously disfigured and very bitter man who had 'brewed up' in a tank in the North African desert. Some of the staff were kind, fun even; some were cheerless, and one, a Mr Urch, was a bully.

One incident encapsulates my sense of abandonment. Every Sunday morning, after breakfast and before the school walked down in a 'crocodile' to Battle parish church for morning service, we sat in silence in our common room to write home. Our letters were corrected by the master on duty. If they weren't good enough, he would tear them up, but he couldn't tear up mine as I used an aerogramme. The very first time I wrote home I realised I didn't know my home address. The master stood over me. "Well, Haylett, what's the name of the road?" "Cliff Avenue, Sir." "Okay. Now what number is your house?" Number? We didn't have a number. We had a board outside which said 'Haylett'. The letter did reach home but it brought a cable to the school from my father. Our address was PO Box 110, Mombasa. I didn't know it.

Yet we survived. Small children learn to control their feelings, to bottle up emotion, to adapt to their environment, to keep their heads down and make the best of those things they can enjoy. Friendship was one of them. This group is pictured in front of the chapel, where we had a service twice a day; on Sundays we had three, including the walk down to the parish church.

Because my parents were abroad, I often had nowhere to go when pupils went home for half terms. Sometimes I would stay at the school and was allowed to spend my days wandering in the woodlands that surrounded the school. Roger Soole (left) took me to his home near Welwyn Garden City, a large farm where he, his parents and sister were warm and welcoming.

Occasionally, my Aunt Noel would drive down from London on a Sunday and do what other pupils' parents did on a fairly regular basis: take me out for a hearty lunch. These parents unwittingly gave their son some food to take back to school - a fruit cake, a jar of jam. This was taken away, and had to be shared around the table with the other pupils.

We were fairly obsessive about food. Some puddings were rather good, including a chocolate semolina pudding. One boy who was serving at table was asked what was for pudding, to which he replied 'Thames Mud', which is what we called this pudding. The headmaster overheard him and took him straight to his office and caned him. At mid-morning break we had a cup of tea and half a slice of white bread, with a sweet. After lunch on Sundays, as a treat, we had two Cadbury's 'Quality Street' chocolates.

Sport helped. I wasn't particularly good but good enough to play in the first eleven/fifteen in soccer, rugby and cricket, and good enough in all to earn the accolade of 'getting my colours'. In cricket, which I didn't really enjoy, I kept wicket and batted towards the end of the order. This is a picture of the cricket first eleven, probably in 1958. I stand, as in so many pictures, slightly away from the group.

In my last year, 1958, I was made a prefect. In Art, a subject taken by Mr Stainton, the headmaster, I won the annual prize - and upset him by choosing scuba diver Hans Hass' 'Under the Red Sea' as my prize rather than a book about great artists. I left the school without any regrets.