A Somerset Lad

Of course, the work was always presented as an act of charity, a great kindness on the part of the trustees who had invested their own money in the establishment of the schools. It would have seemed almost querulous to have pointed out that the fees paid for each pupil by local education authorities up and down the country equated to the annual pay of an ordinary worker, around £2,000 p.a. in the mid-1970s.

The principal, (who was also the principal trustee) was someone for whom we were expected to demonstrate a constant deference and gratitude, she lived in a pleasant detached residence in the school grounds. Her munificence towards those of us sent to the remote cluster of buildings in a Dartmoor valley seemed generously rewarded – every two years there was a new Saab car. A member of the staff said this was an economical way of having such a car – changing it regularly meant it did not lose too much money from its price when it was new. It was a piece of logic that escaped me then and escapes me now; spending a large sum of money instead of a very large sum of money was not how “economical” would have been interpreted in our family.

Perhaps the worst thing of all was not the new house and car, but the obeisance we were expected to demonstrate. The principal’s nickname was “ Queenie,” probably because her name was “Elizabeth,” perhaps also because she assumed an almost regal air.

The worst moment of all was always when you had to go to her office about some trifling matter and at the end of the conversation she would stand and say, “now, give me a kiss,” and there was an expectation that you would step forward and give her a peck on the cheek.

The staff seemed always content to play their part in the exultation of the principal. There is an abiding memory of one of her birthdays. Every pupil had their pocket money levied to make a “contribution” toward a birthday present from the boys. On the morning of the birthday itself, we would be marched up the lane that led to her house and formed into lines to sing “happy birthday.” The principal would come to her front door and say how lovely it was and what good boys we were.

The particular birthday is memorable because, in the large card which we were all expected to sign, a boy had written his name and added his nickname in brackets, as if the card were intended for a classmate. The teacher responsible for the card was incandescent, showing the nickname to everyone in the room, as if some great act of desecration had been committed.

Decades later, there is a lingering admiration for the boy concerned, a wish to have had the bravery required for such a piece of casual iconoclasm.

Alphanumeric passwords have become a challenge, particularly as the university log in seems to demand that the password be changed every month and I cannot remember which of my stock passwords I have already used. And how many different PIN numbers are people expected to remember?

Long gone are the days when a single PIN was all I needed, and it to take money from a cashtill.

In 1979, having a card to take out money was something new and exciting.

The National Westminster bank on the Aldwych in London had a till which was a fascinating combination of the mechanical and the electronic. The “menus” were printed on a black rubber roll and rolled backwards and forwards behind a glass screen, like the destination boards on London buses. The choices would be aligned with buttons that were pressed to make one’s selection. 4785, the PIN number still remains in the memory.

The tills dispensed £5, £10 and £20 notes, though it would be rare to have occasion to need a £20 note. Tickets for Wembley to watch England play in the European Nations Cup qualifying group matches were £2 each; a pint of beer was 32p, and on half-price nights it was possible to get six pints for a pound.

The reason the card and PIN remain so strongly in the memory is that there seemed a never ending supply of £5 notes. The student grant in those days was exceedingly generous. Even half board in a hall of residence cost only £350 a term and the full student grant was £2,000 for the year, £700 for each of the first two terms and £600 for the third, plus travelling expenses incurred above £50 per year.

Unless one was completely profligate, the full grant was sometimes hard to spend. Go to see the Royal Shakespeare Company on a Monday night and student seats were £1.10 instead of £6.60. The two most extravagant nights out were going to see Woody Allen in  Manhattan at a Leicester Square Cinema, which cost £3 – half as much again as a ticket for Wembley – and going to a Leicester Square disco for students from all over London, which had a reduced entrance charge, but charged 60p for drinks.

Not only were they days of having cash to spare, they were days when being a student was a passport to reduced prices. Good old British Rail still had fares that people could afford and while the student railcard could not reduce fares below a certain minimum during the week, the 50% reduction was subject to no minimum at weekends. Visiting a friend in Brighton one weekend, a single ticket out to Falmer, where the university was located, cost only 8p or 12p, or something so small it was hardly worth requesting the reduction.

Money has never been so plentiful since. Sometimes I wonder if National Westminster Bank would give me one of their cards again – and a large bank balance to access with a single PIN.