Escape From London In Smog And Rationing

A Memory of Frilsham.

I was at Frilsham House School from about 1947-53, when the headmaster was 'Mr Ward Clarke',* who had founded the school not many years before. There were only about 50 boys. London, where I lived, was bleak at the time, with bomb damage and - in winter - frequent fogs which could be dangerous for a bronchitic child. Although separation from parents for up to three months at a time, with only weekly letters to connect us, was cruel and unnatural, Frilsham was also an escape to a healthier more beautiful place. We spent a lot of time outdoors, not only in sports lessons, but inventing games, digging tunnels, building tree houses and watching wild-life in the grounds, which seemed huge. One year we - boys and teachers - dug a strangely-shaped hole which, when lined with an old barrage-balloon, turned into a swimming pool, where I learned to swim. In summer the morning cold bath was replaced by running down to the pool to swim one length. We sang hymns twice daily, anthems on Sundays, and carols in the hall at Christmas. The headmaster pinned up daily copies of The Mirror and The Mail for us to read the news and the comics, and at election time boys stood for election - nearly all being faithful to their Conservative parents. We ate very well - lots of fresh fruit and veg from the school gardens; some of it we had picked ourselves. But only a single square of chocolate (the ration) per day. The fox-hunt (Wilde's 'the unspeakable in pursuit of the uneatable') met at the school once a year; we had the day off to run about the countryside after them. Any boy could have a little garden of his own, and the cook would serve up whatever we grew to the right boy for dinner. Looking back, the most remarkable teacher was Joan Dunkley, who ran the choir, taught piano and music appreciation, painting, drawing, pottery, weaving, basketwork - there was no end to the range of what she introduced to our minds, ears, eyes and fingers. She called me out of class to pursue a swarm of bees, while she followed in her car with their eventual home.
It's sad and poignant to see the building, destroyed after the M4 was built across the front, which used to be wreathed in Wistaria. I'd be interested to hear from anyone still alive who was at the school at the same time.
*Father of Jennifer Ward Clarke, Baroque cellist, performer and teacher, who started her schooling with the boys.