Features
From Teddy
Boys to the Tardy Book: What Eton was really like in the Good Old Days
Nicky
Haslam, who attended Eton in the Fifties, recalls the days of beaks,
fag-masters and dames
By Tatler
13 August
2018
Eton in the
Fifties
https://www.tatler.com/article/obsoletonians-eton-in-the-fifties
We were a
fairly uniform lot, the intake to Eton in the first years of the 1950s. Echoes
– even visions – of the war shaped our youthful minds. Bomb damage still
blighted cities, tattered blackouts still flapped on buildings, rationing was
still in force. The angular modernity of the Festival of Britain had barely
pierced our teen consciousness. Perhaps, assimilated from our elders, we hoped
against hope that the future would return to a version of a not-yet-forgotten
past.
So there we
were, fresh out of boys’ school, overawed by the size and splendour and age of
our new surroundings, by a sense of self, of horizons and of space – your own
room, from day one, after regimented, dingy confines in sandy Surrey. One might
be scared or lonely, miss Nanny or one’s dog, but soon came a visceral
challenge, to grapple with emerging adulthood.
We quickly
learned the rules, or rather customs. We dutifully prepared our Saying Lesson
before Lights Out, we got up at seven for Early School, went to Absence (in
fact, presence), then Chapel. We ate revolting Boys Dinner in the allotted 20
minutes before doing battle on the Playing Fields of Sixpenny, or dragged
padded grey-flannel shorts down to Boats. We noted the swagger of sixth-form
boys, seemingly wildly grown-up, and were careful to do nothing that might
single one out to the gods of Pop. We skeltered to Boy-Calls, we skivvied for
Fag-Masters, we cleaned their Corps boots, we flattered Tutors, we oiled up to
dames, we ‘capped’ all beaks. And we were drunk with relief on graduating from
Remove to Upper School.
What all
this taught us was to be polite, have good manners, to show respect. Even so
vast an institution was essentially intimate: we formed a mutual bond, didn’t
feel superior, although we scoffed slightly at Tugs (scholarship boys), jealous
of their cleverness rather than snobbism. This bonding was essential as there
was almost no recreation besides sports – except, thank God, the Drawing
Schools. There were no foreigners, though one raven-haired beauty was rumoured
to be half-Egyptian. ‘Crumbs! Egyptian!’ we whispered as he passed. There was
no swimming pool, no theatre (concerts, or plays, usually Shakespeare, were
desultory affairs in School Hall), no cinema, no medicines (my dame believed in
a scant thimble of brandy as a cure-all), no cameras or Coca-Cola, no radios,
TV or gramophones, and most certainly no drinking or smoking – sackable
offences.
These
privations weren’t exclusively because we were at Eton. There wasn’t, anywhere,
pop music, nor young singing idols (though we knew girls who swooned at Johnny
Ray and later jiggled about to Bill Haley), no new humour, no dark Nouvelle
Vague films, no Going Abroad, put paid to by a £50 take-abroad limit: the
theatre was Anna Neagle comedies, artists were in Paris; nightclubs were for
one’s parents’ friends, smooching to Edmundo Ros; clothes hadn’t changed in
decades, jeans were unheard of. There was no street life we yearned to emulate
(though Teddy boys did have a certain allure), no social level to step down to.
Drugs were unknown; Du Maurier cork-tips made one dizzy; whisky in quantity
unexpectedly made one sick, putting a sticky end to that fumble with the deb we
were trying to delight. Thus we had no good reason to believe holidays would be
a panacea of excitement, just more huntin’/shootin’/fishin’ and going to the
circus at Christmas, along with finding out that we were even more tongue-tied
with girls, Nanny wasn’t indispensable, and your sister had adopted your dog.
And beyond?
There was no gap year. Instead National Service loomed, then Oxford or
Cambridge beckoned the brainier, a Guards regiment the rest, and – to the very
few – the unmentionable thrall of a more lilac life in an almost club-like gay
milieu. For four or five years, Eton consumed our whole being. But some of us
understood that we had a lifetime ahead in which to roll, and rock, in the
gutter.