OLD GEORGIAN
UNION
Founded 1906
Mike (Johnny) Downes (OG 1951)
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RIP Mike (Johnny) Downes (OG 1951) sadly passed away on Friday, 18 December in Hermanus after a long battle with cancer. He was 86. Mike as many will remember him was a great friend to the school and attended many of the Old Georgian Union function. Mike attended the 170th Celebration dinner joining the vintage table of contemporise form his time at SGGS.
I chatted to Mike during the early part of the lockdown in May, he shared with me that he has enjoyed a long and very happy life; thanks to 62 years of marriage to a wonderful lady, loving children, and not regretting one minute what SGGS has done for him.
Mike started work on his memoires sometime back, he shared the chapter with me of his time at SGGS. It was a wonderful insight to the life and times of a 12-year old in the late 1940s.
Boarding School. 1946/47. The Agony and the Ecstasy.
A new phase of my life was due to commence. On a previous shopping expedition to Cape Town Mom had taken me into Lawleys and Markhams to kit me out in my new School Uniform. Black blazer with the gold cross of St. George to be stitched onto it. This was to be worn to and in class at all times, and only to be removed in the classroom with the teacher’s permission. Canon Aubrey took us for Divinity. He was a stickler for etiquette, and only allowed us to remove our jackets on the hottest days. Winter and formal uniform comprised of grey shorts in junior classes and grey longs for seniors. Grey long socks with the grey shorts, and long grey or navy blue socks which had to be up at all times. Shoes had to be black lace-ups.
Summer uniform was khaki shorts and shirt, with brown sandals. Juniors wore black knitted ties with gold stripes, and seniors, silk fabric ties with diagonal black and gold stripes. As I was to be a boarder I had to have extra khakis, as this was our after-school wear. No informal clothing other than khaki was allowed on boarding school property, Bloemendal Estate on the banks of the Liesbeeck river in Mowbray.
Mom and Dad and little brother Keith deposited brave little me at Bloemendal House on the Sunday before school commenced late January, 1946. Being one of perhaps two dozen new boys I was not alone. As a 11 year old I had to put on a brave face, as there was a fair sprinkling of six to nine year olds who were probably feeling positively miserable. Besides, I was really looking forward to meeting so many new friends. In retrospect I can say that I was bountifully rewarded.
We were of all shapes and sizes. Equally so was the variety of emotion displayed on the sixty odd faces. Hell, the little guys looked pretty vulnerable, and the seniors, the big guys, were positively enormous! The Head Prefect, “Gulla” Reynolds, was a prime example.
St. Georges was modeled along English Public School lines. “ Standards” were Forms, Masters wore gowns and expected to be treated with the utmost respect, and corporal punishment was standard practice. Even senior prefects were allowed to wield the cane.
So it was into this completely novel atmosphere and physical surrounds that I found myself plonked! I was billeted with fourteen others of the same age group in the aptly named Big Dorm. Beyond the showers down the passage was the “Pikkie” Dorm, the home of the First and Second Formers. Immediately alongside the Big Dorm was the Choir Dorm, with its six beds. Historically, St. Georges provided the boy sopranos for the Cathedral Choir. The boarder choirboys performed in the Sunday Evensong and arrived back at Bloemendal after nine at night, which was after Lights Out in the other 2 dorms. Hence the allocation of this elite little group of six to their own dormitory.
All the seniors, those beyond Remove, and hence Lower Four upwards, lived up the road from Bloemendal, in the Old Priory, a rather ramshackled but historic old building. The Prefects had their own accommodation either downstairs at Bloemendal or at the Priory. The senior housemaster had his large room at the Priory, and Matron Dryden-Diemond had her rooms in the Sick Bay wing downstairs. That left the Cuckow family to be looked after. And thereby hangs a tale, which partly has led me to describe the boarding facilities in precise detail.
Philip and Marian Cuckow had a grown up son in Johannesburg, whom we seldom saw, AND twin daughters roughly my age. Audrey and Dorothy were identical in looks to passers by.
Bloemendal, one of the original farm houses at the foot of Devils Peak, was double storied and H shaped. The upper front level facing the playing fields and Devil’s Peak was Headmaster Cuckow territory, separated from the dormitory section by a landing at the top of a rather rickety but lovely wooden stairway. At the foot of this stairway was a large entrance hallway. Leading off from this was the Cuckow lounge to the right and the boys’ dining room to the left. Directly behind this whole lot were the main kitchen, masters’ dining room and staff common room. Not too complicated!, I hope? The nub is that the headmaster’s quarters were a veritable fortress!
Every little boy and little girl’s first night away from home is no doubt memorable and somewhat heart-wrenching. I wonder whether one can completely banish that primeval loneliness which develops in unfamiliar surroundings, without the comfort of a loved one nearby. I am sure I heard a few quiet sobs eminating from a number of beds nearby. It was almost comforting to know I was not alone in my grief.
But I had already met many of my new mates. The old hands who had returned for a new year displayed a certain bravado, and were eager to share their holiday experiences with all and sundry, raising their voices above others to be heard. We new boys were closely questioned.
“Where do you come from? What was your previous school? What sport do you play? Do you have a sister?”
Whatever shyness either evaporated, or was hidden, as we for the first time leapt under the showers for our evening ablutions. A schoolboy’s ambition is to be endowed with an above average-sized tubular tassel; otherwise a lifetime of shame ensued. Fortunately for most there is some improvement once testosterone developes.
We had one of those stainless steel clad urinals, a single bath which protocol required we utilize according to a weekly roster, and a single toilet to cater for all 40 of us. I don’t remember anyone being caught short, but there was an intimidating legend that if you had the urge to perform a number two at the dead of night you might encounter a ghostly headless schoolboy, with his separated head resting on his lap-----------squatting on the loo.
The wakeup bell sounded far too early at 6.30 on my first morning at boarding school. I joined the rest of the boarding house in getting out of bed, performing our ablutions, and making beds. Also, there was the challenge of tying my school tie, completely on my own.
The second bell sounded a short half hour later, signaling the call to First Chapel. Down the wooden stairway we trooped, and across the Quad to the little Chapel. This process was to be repeated every school day for the next six years.
It also signaled my introduction to Anglicanism. Being a boarder meant that we would be subjected to three church sessions a day and another three longer visits every Sunday.
Morning prayer was conducted by either Robert Forrester, the School Chaplain, or Cuckow.
Then it was off to breakfast, where we were treated to one of three forms of porridge; also for the next six years of our schooldays. We had either white mielie meal, brown maltabele, or traditional oatmeal. Consistency of the end product depended on the mental and physical state of the duty cook. I preferred the runny variety to the charred, overcooked, or superglue form. Boarders were permanently hungry. Each table of six was allocated a centrally located plate piled with a dozen slices of bread. Each side plate was preset with a minute square dab of butter, which was expertly spread over whatever slices we could lay our hands on. Everything was washed down with a mug of very weak tea.
I recall that everything was done at a great pace, because survival demanded sufficient food to still those hunger pains. Thereafter, the house full of boarders, from the smallest to the largest, Form One to upper Five (matric) formed a crocodile to walk to Mowbray Station to catch the train into Cape Town. Yes. This we did, come rain or shine, for my first year and a half at school. Must have been quite a sight, 60 plus boys, all shapes and sizes, shepherded by prefects and a couple of masters, lugging their schoolbooks up Durban Road to catch the 7.55 All Stations to the foot of Adderley Street. Once we arrived in the city I seem to remember that it was only the pikkies who were crocodiled up to school.
The first day at any school, particularly arriving at a new one right in the centre of a big city so far from home was an overwhelming experience for this eleven and three-quarter year old. Upper Adderley Street is little changed in looks from its appearance in 1946. The foot of Government Avenue separated the houses of Parliament from St. Georges Cathedral. And directly behind the cathedral lay the school.
The quadrangle facing Parliament was our daily assembly point, as well as our playground at morning break. But before entering our classrooms we filed into the cathedral for a hymn and morning prayer, number two for us boarders. Cuckow would read the lesson and the beloved but much-rawffed (schoolboy slang for “take the mickey-out-of”) Percy Piek , Afrikaans Master, provided piano accompaniment for the hymn.
There were about 20 of us in Upper Three. Robert Forrester, the newly-appointed School Chaplain and Bloemendal Hose Master, was also our Class Master and English Teacher. He was a recent English immigrant, having served as a chaplain in the RAF. Quite a fearsome fellow and wielder of the stick. We immediately dubbed him Forrefish, a nickname he appeared to dislike, as he immediately applied 4 of the best to those using it within earshot. But he speedily acquainted me with verbs finite and in finite, qualified by adverbs, and nouns described by adjectives.
Larry Lerner taught History, and the one-and-only Tinkie Heyns, Maths. Sorry, Rondebosch Boys, we had at least 2 years of Tinkie before he moved on to R.B.H.S. Tinkie was, and remained an icon to the thousands of the schoolboys who were taught by him, in the classroom and on the playing fields. Very often more boyish than those he taught, but always our hero! A wonderful story-teller: when he was on dorm duty he would enthrall us with his homespun yarns. I remember one in particular of the Springboks playing South America-no, neither Argentina or Brazil or Uruguay-it had to be South America.
The two teams were level at 3-all with 30 seconds to go when South Africa was awarded a penalty from an acute angle at 50 yards. Gerry Brand took the kick. The ball went high, and carried well, but headed straight for the left hand upright. A puff of wind slowed the passage of the ball, which caused it to land on the very top of the upright. The wind evaporated. The linesmen’s flags lay limp. Miraculously the ball balanced, unwavering, for what seemed to be an eternity. The 30 players, the referee, and all who were there, stared upwards in utter disbelief.
Fourteen Big Dormers, jaws agape, stared at Tinkie in irrepressible curiousosity. “What happened sir,” one of us managed to squeak.
“Sorry. Lights out boys.” Tinkie flipped the switch and left the dorm. He never disclosed the result.
Corporal punishment in most boys schools was fairly- common practice in the 1940s. All masters could use their discretion when it came to dishing out whacks (cuts), which varied between one, for a minor offence eg. Talking in line before entering Cathedral for morning prayer, to six-of –the-best, for a really major offence such as being caught smoking in the loo, or applying golden syrup to the seat of the house masters dining room chair. Four of the best was the norm for any one of a group of offences such as full scale raids on other dorms, or, as I well remember, everyone in the dining room being caned by Gerald Coney, a later House Master, for overdoing the celebrations in the dining room after School House (the boarders) won at the athletics day. We deserved the beating, as we had pelted one another with food.
Senior (House) Prefects were also allowed to whack, but limited to a 15 or 18 inch ruler in their armoury. Now, a flat-sided ruler inflicts less pain than a cane. But some sadistic prefect had invented the awesome Baconslice method. The offender would be forced to bend forward with his backside just touching a wall. The executioner would slice briskly downwards with his 15 incher flat against the wall, where it would make stinging contact with the targeted buttock. Eina!
The closing bell at school was sounded at 1.45 p.m. by Goldfish, the school janitor. Goldfish was responsible for ringing the bell to mark the commencement and end of 40 minute school periods. He also dished out boarder buns at break. A large box-full was placed by Goldfish on the low wall at the school front entrance. Under his watery, but watchful eye it was emptied by ravenous boarders. For many of us this marked our introduction to entrepreneurship. With this lowly Raisin Bun could we trade! I reckon a hungry boarder could easily devour far in excess of his single raisoin bun, but the sight of dayboys unpacking the delectable treats their Moms had lovingly placed in their lunch boxes, awakened their yearning for Variety. So, armed with my precious commodity, I would prowl the Quad in search of dayboys who harboured both variety and scrumptious cuisine. An easy swop was 4 sandwiches or other legal tender for one raisin bun. I think it was on Mondays that Brian de Groot traded the most tasty peanut butter sarmies, Tuesdays his twin brother Mike parted with Mom’s delicious home made white bread and Redro Fishpaste, Wednesdays, Terry Herst’s wholesome apricot jam specials, Thursdays was one of the Wannenburg brother’s turns, and by Friday a chap by the name of Goodrich handed over virtually the entire contents of his box, often without accepting the bun! By that time he was no doubt tired of sarmies, and I required carbo-loading for Saturday’s efforts on the rugby field.
Another institution at St.G. was The Walk. During mid-morning break, ahead of the distribution of Raisin Buns, the entire school took itself into Government Avenue, where we were required, in an orderly manner, to walk to the top of the Avenue, then execute an about- turn, and return after detouringdog-legging past the front of the National Art Gallery. Prefects were to maintain dignity and order; no one was allowed to run; punishment for that was an immediate 50 lines, “I may not run on the Walk,” Any form of hooliganism was not tolerated. As mentioned, hard-pressed prefects were in control, especially as we skirted the fish ponds in front of the Art Gallery. We were required to walk in rows 4-5 abreast, with a prefect flanking every 4th or 5th row. As row upon row approached the fish ponds we engineered a maneuver which caused 2 rows to merge into 8-10 abreast, with a prefect on the extreme inside. This placed him dangerously close to the edge of the fish ponds. A domino move on the outer flank created a tsunami effect which, during my school career, placed at least one prefect in the pond!
I return to that closing 1.45 pm bell; and corporal punishment. Boarders had to get themselves to Cape Town Station, at the bottom of Adderley Street, to catch the 2.05 pm train to Mowbray. Twenty critical minutes. Once we had completed that train journey we crocodiled down Durban road to Bloemendal, and having washed our hands, scrambled into the dining room for lunch. Protocol however dictated a further, stressful angle. We were required to be clean and all-over tidy on entering the dining room. To ensure that this protocol was met we were subjected to inspection by the duty prefect.
I suppose the majority of the prefects were reasonably humane. Pete Stubbs, Edwin Sands, Ernie Lovegrove, Erroll Haynes, Alex de Villiers; they were sort-of O.K. But there was our Head Prefect, and also Head of House, Gulla Reynolds. And Gulla he was- Enormous! He reminded little me of Gulliver of Travels fame. He dislayed a presence and a growl that struck fear, not only at St. G but amongst all rivals on the rugby field. Played fly-half for St.G.1st-indubitally the largest schoolboy fly-half since the ball was picked up and ran. He won games for us single-handed. Having played for St.G on a Saturday morning he took himself off to Maitland in the afternoon, and played for Maitland 1sts in the Town Challenge Competition.
Anyway, I think I have set the scene for pre-lunch Inspection. Gulla was on duty probably once every 10 days. In Afrikaans we have the expression, ”poep-bang”. Shit - scared.
At least a dozen of us took off like startled road-runners at the sound of the 1.45 bell, and dashed down Adderley Street, dodging startled pedestrians in our rush to Stuttafords Deparment Store, where we took the lift to the Gentlemen’s Cloakroom on the 2nd Floor. Possible salvation lay in the dispensers of liquid soap, a post-war novelty, at the sparkling wash basins lining one wall. Some of us arrived with nail brushes. Others, who were virgin smokers, produced small pumice stones. For a few precious minutes we scrubbed away. The dash then continued to catch the 2.05 to Mowbray.
At Bloemendal all 60 of us had access to an outside wash room with only 2 hand wash- basins, and NO soap. Gulla inspected not only for dirty hands and knees, grimy finger nails, and unkept hair, but garterless or holey socks and dirty shoes as well. I don’t remember ever being found wanting, thanks to the kindly Mr. Stuttaford.
I cannot remember Gates’s first name, but he was one of those pale post-war English immigrants. He stood out from others in that he wore long black socks as opposed to the regular grey. Markhams might have been out of stock when his Mom took him to be kitted out for St.G. Nothing exceptional, but for the fact that he tended to very quickly wear them through at the heel, just above the shoe line. Gulla would have slaughtered him if his “potatoes” were revealed. So, Gates took himself to his shoe locker, removed his shoe, and polished the offending “potato” and surrounding sock a shiny “Nugget Black”. For once, Gulla was duped. (Or, I wonder, he might have silently rewarded Gates for his ingenuity. Besides, I never saw Gulla ever have to resort to Baconslicing!)
Most of us new boys became quickly accustomed to boarding school life. There were the unfortunate few who had varying degrees of difficulty. The bed-wetters, the asthmatics, those who were chronically homesick, and those whose homes were too far away to get home for Sundays, or mid-term weekends, or even the two annual short, ten day hols. They were lucky to make it home for the mid-year four week break, and only see Mom and Dad and family for the long six week Christmas hols. They were the children from the Katangese Copper Belt, East Africans, Rhodesians and South West Africans. A very limited air service connected these far away colonies in the early post-war decade. I cannot remember any lucky ones arriving at the new Cape Town Airport, which had only recently been relocated from Wingfield aerodrome. The long four to five day train journey was the only means of guaranteeing regular transport to and fro. On the odd occasion, for those living in Kenya, there was the Union Castle Intermediate service which plied the east coast which provided a suitable connection. Not that I ever heard any complaints about that long train journey. Cape school term dates were common to most, whether they were boys’ or girls’. A vast majority of the chaps, particular the seniors, took full advantage of their time on the Rhodesian Express acquainting themselves with the Rustenburg, St. Cyprians, Wynberg, and Herschel girls on board. Much fun was had as the old steam train chugged southwards through Victoria Falls, Bulawayo, Plumtree, Mahalhape, Kimberley on its way to Cape Town. Passionate love letters flowed in the wake of these long journeys through the temperate zone of Africa. With regard to letter-writing, it was mandatory to write our parents every Sunday evening, despite the fact that they might have taken us out that very day. This was a real bind, but Cuckow insisted. You can well imagine the message was brief, such as, “Dear Mom and Dad. Hope you are well. I am fine, but not enough pocket money. Love. Johnny.” Many years later, By the time we were in Matric, nothing had changed. My best friend and Study Mate, Arthur Brown, had met and was head over heels in love with Cynthia Hare. Therefore, in a display of ga-ga courtship, Arthur wrote two Sunday letters; the routine compulsory message to his parents, the very staid Reverend Kenneth and Madelaine Hepburn- Brown, Rector of St. Mary’s on the Braak, Stellenbosch; another to Cynthia, in which he expressed his unending love and burning passion. As fate so unraveled, he mistakenly popped the wrong letters into the wrong envelopes. The only aspect that impressed a bemused Mrs. Hep-Brown was the length, all six pages her son had written home, but the content convinced her that the child needed serious counseling. Cynthia thereafter shunned Art’s intentions, leaving him to seek alternative talent.
Week-ends were always a welcome break in boarding school life. No prep for two days, with sport on Saturdays, and the opportunity on Sundays to be taken out by family and friends.
Pocket money was distributed on Saturday mornings. The Pikkies were allowed ninepence, Big Dormers a shilling, and the older guys had a heady two shillings to squander. In those early days our tuck shop had not yet been opened, but Big Dormers upwards were allowed to report out to the (Portugese) Corner Café on Durban road, where I judiciously spent my first sixpence on a tickey ice cream and a tickey bottle of Coke. The first Pepsis appeared in 1946, but they cost fourpence, which left one to buy eight sugar balls for a penny and perhaps a small slab of Nestle’s for the other penny change out of sixpence. I conserved the other sixpence to buy myself a couple of wafer A1 ice creams from the vendor at the bottom of the Avenue at school break during the week.
There was always sport to watch or participate in on Saturday mornings. In the summer months we had cricket, a game to which I was never drawn (probably because I was useless) and in the winter, of course we had Rugby. Yet some of the games most enjoyed by all were those that we made up: “Skop die Blik”, “Kennekie”, tennis-ball soccer, Marbles, Dinky Toy Races, and “Bok-bok, were but a few which come to mind. They waxed and waned in popularity for no specific reason or season. Nor were they exactly bloodless. In a memorable game of Bok-bok (get any battle-hardened schoolboy to explain the barbaric rules to you), John Waddington charged the crouching caterpillar of defenders-five guys, bent over, with head and shoulders rammed squarely between the thighs of the guy in front . This caterpillar pinned its “head”, an insanely fearless guy who had the head of the foremost caterpillar segment firmly wedged between his braced thighs, against the unyielding Chapel wall. John took off at top speed, and swallow-dived over the backs of the braced human caterpillar. He, and his five team mates were to follow, landing as heavily as possible on the back of the human caterpillar. The intention of John’s team was to collapse the opposing caterpillar. If unsuccessful he would yell, “Bok-bok, staan styf. Hoeveel fingers op jou lyf!” The opposition was required to guess the number of fingers (on one hand) that he secretly displayed to his team. If they miss-guessed, they had to re-caterpillar until they correctly guessed, or collapse in exhaustion.
On this particular occasion, number three segment in the caterpillar was wearing a Boy Scout belt with one of those springy metal clips to which one attached keys and suchlike. John flew onto the caterpillar’s back, and scraped forward over number three, settling heavily on number four. “Bok-bok, he yelled,--- oh sh-t, something’s torn my ball-bag!” From thereon thence he was known as “Snybal (Scarred nacker) Waddington.”
On Saturday afternoons Tinkie Heyns used to run us up to Rosebank Showgrounds to watch League Baseball. He ran us everywhere, as that was his major mode of transport for his entire life. He never owned a car. Our favourite team was the Sea point Cardinals. They looked great in their fancy Yankee pajamas, plus-fours, and peaked caps. The only player’s name I can remember was Francis (I think) Mellish.
Baseball was a craze for a while. We used to play it on the sports field with pick-up equipment. Any form of discarded clothing marked the bases, a tennis ball could be “klapped” into home run territory, and a cricket stump made a reasonable bat. One late afternoon our team, the Boarder Bears, went in to bat. Fred Wilmot grabbed a cricket stump and stepped up to the plate. Brompie De Villiers was a hotshot pitcher, and Adrian Harding the Catcher. Brompie had Fred two strikes down for one ball. He released a lightning -fast ball with a deceptive curve. But Fred was up to it, and smashed the ball past second base. As he commenced his run he flung the “bat” to the rear. The spiked end flew backwards and pierced the Catcher’s forehead! We rushed a dazed and bloodied Adrian up to Matron, who lovingly bathed his wound and sealed it with Elastoplast. Fortunately, head wounds like that produce more blood than permanent damage.
A winter Saturday morning without Rugby was unimaginable. The build-up commenced at the beginning of the week, with practices every day for one of the age groups. I was in the under 13s in my first year, and we practiced on Tuesdays. It was also unimaginable without Tinkie Heyns coaching us. He was helluva strict, but in retrospect it was the sheer passion with which he strove to make us the best side in the competition, (which was of course impossible as he did not have the numbers to draw from in a school of 250 from Form One to Matric.) But he trained our small number of probably not more than 18 to choose from, to become fit little bliksems, and masters of practically every rule in the book.
He also reffed home game with passion and fairness. Heaven help us if we erroneously committed a scrum or penalty kick against ourselves. Although he could not display his anger and frustration verbally, it was visibly measured by the intensity with which he blew the whistle. A great blast of spittle-laden air produced the loudest of shrieks, freezing all 30 players in their tracks. “Penalty to Rondebosch!” he would proclaim through trembling lips, while he trotted across to show the mark. En route he would brush past the offender, often me, and smartly whack the offending bottom with his whistle strap.
If team strategy had been forgotten on the field, resulting in a loss for the team in black and gold, the post-mortem in the change room would lead to a collective team whack on the bottom. We expected nothing less, and the physical reprimand was accepted with great pride.
The venue on wintery Saturday afternoons was Newlands Rugby Ground. (We didn’t have stadiums in those days.) Passers-by registered surprise to see some 20-30 schoolboys jogging the route between Bloemendal and Newlands Rugby Ground, some 3 odd miles I guess, lead by a youthful Tinkie in his Varsity blazer. There were numerous roads and paved pathways running parallel to the railway line; so our passage was unimpeded by motor traffic. Newlands scholars’ season tickets were our standard issue, which gave entry to the 5 yard strip between the touchline and metal barrier between the field and the standing room area in front of the Railway Stand. The Grand Stand section was similarly laid out, but I don’t think we were admitted there. Nevertheless, we had a grand view, with our heroes sometimes bundled into touch on top of us.
These were the years 1946 and 1947. Our supermen were the Morkels from Somerset West, Otto van Niekerk of Bellville, Cecil Moss on the wing for Varsity, and the locks, Piet Kriel of Liesbeeck Park and Piet van Reenen from Gardens. These fellows also represented Western Province, which of course brought them close to deity.
Tinkie insisted that we carry our Rules of Rugby Football with us for reference purposes. The grownups lining the palings behind us made regular visits to the bar inside the Stand, and by the time the Main Game commenced at 3.45 many of them had become vociferous and highly critical of the referee’s decisions. When they made obvious mistakes we removed our rule books and politely explained the new 5-yard scrum rules to them. Cheeky little buggers!
At right angles to the opposing Railway and Grand Stands was the North Stand, and at the opposite end, the Coloured Stand, casually and cruelly referred to as such in those days..
Only once was the honour bestowed upon me to appear on Newlands turf, when I represented St. Georges against Jan van Riebeeck under 13s in acurtain-raiser. We lost 9-0.
Tinkie, later to become a youthful Professor I. De V. Heyns, was an equally proficient teacher. He even made maths sound interesting. To many of us a minus figure made no sense at all. But when he expressed the plusses as the cowboys and the minuses as the Indians; and when the cowboys out-numbered the Indians , they, the Indians required as many reinforcements as the cowboys were more than they, the reinforcements would be a minus figure-until they, the reinforcements, pitched. Hell, it doesn’t make real sense to me now, but it did then!
To cap it all, Tinkie won both the S.A. mile and half mile champs in Kimberley in 1947! Howzat!
Puberty.
The first post-war cars rolled off assembly lines in mid-1946. Dad acquired a brand new ford V8, and Studebaker produced New Look Champions and Commodores. Then there were the Kaiser-Frazers, but I don’t think any arrived in South Africa before the plant closed down. George Formby toured South Africa, as did Tommy Trinder. Dad said that somebody asked Tommy Trinder, as he stepped off the mailship gangplank, if he was in fact Tommy Trinder. His reply was, “If I’m not I’m having a damn good time with his wife!” I wondered why Dad thought it was so funny.
White bread replaced brown on dining room tables, and Pikkie Reynolds, who played full-back in the First Team, dive-tackled an opponent while sucking a Niggerball. The hardly-sucked Niggerball cannon-balled through his cheek and popped bloodily onto the turf. I suspect he still bears the scar?
I actually enjoyed Upper Three (Standard Five/Grade Seven. ) Percy Piek was our Afrikaans Master. I suppose all schools have their Most Memorable Masters. Percy was ours at St.G.G.S. He was balding, grey on the edges, had a prominent forehead, and deep-sunk, intensive blue eyes. Of athletic build for his age, he was hurried in gait and demeanour. He had a habit of hunching his shoulders while re-arranging his academic gown. This was probably because he was constantly unaware of how much of the robe was intact! Every self-respecting St.G. boy treasured a scrap, no matter how small, of Percy’s academic gown.
Percy’s hurried entrance to the classroom never varied. We welcomed him with loud applause, with hoots of delight, and loud mutterings in gobble-de-gook. Every move we made was loudly accentuated. Every word was communicated in the loudest terms. The master’s desk in the old part of the school was set on a slightly raised platform. Some mischievous creature would position it with its forelegs teetering on the edge of the platform. This ensured a sickening lurch of the desk when Percy contacted it, resulting in an avalanche of everything off its surface. If Percy moved to the back of the classroom the fellows up front would move their desks closer together, blocking his return. The trick was to have him face the blackboard immediately in front of your desk. In a flash a small pair of scissors would appear, to snip off a specimen of Percy’s gown. This highly prized treasure would remain in his Maths set until the end of the owner’s school career.
Percy retired at the end of 1949, my third-last year at school. We always prepared something special for his birthday. We pulled out all the stops for his farewell.
Our Afrikaans class was after The Walk and Break. Now, hundreds of ferule pigeons made the roof and ramparts, nooks and crannies of St. George’s Cathedral their happy home. With plenty of food generously donated by visitors to the Company Gardens, as well as crumbs dropped by boys in the school quad, they became lazy, tame, and too far trusting. They happily fed out of one’s hand; consequently easy to catch.
At least a flapping dozen captives were spirited into the Upper Four classroom after break, and hastily hidden within our desks. They had those old sloping hinged tops and circular holes to accommodate porcelain ink wells. Although ink wells were no longer in use (with the advent of ballpoint pens, at that stage known as Biros) they nevertheless proudly occupied their appointed recesses.
Percy swept into the classroom amidst much pomp and ceremony. John Viljoen stood up and commenced a stirring farewell speech. There were anxious moments when a couple of curious pigeons dislodged inkwells and popped their heads out like council workers appearing out of a Main Street manhole.
John concluded his valedictory with a pre-arranged flourish.This signaled tumultuous applause, accompanied by the release of a flight of confused ferule pigeons, which flapped around the classroom before escaping into the safety of their parliamentary environment.
Nevertheless, Mr. P.J.Piek was a much-loved and respected Master. I shall never forget his parting advice to us schoolboys. “Always respect your mother and father.”
In 1947 a new master by the name of Denis Twine arrived. He was quick to introduce the Scouting movement to St. G. boarders. At the age of 13 I was appointed Sixer, Puffin Patrol, of Lady Clarendon’s 14th Sea Scouts. We were drilled in marching, which I loved, plus a multitude of very useful knots, including the Sheet Bend, Bowline on a Bight, Clove Hitch, Fisherman’s and the trustee Reef Knot. The introduction of Sea Scouts coincided with the visit of King George the 6th and his queen Elizabeth, AND their 2 beautiful young princesses. The Visit was due to commence in April, which gave us some time in which to concentrate on our marching, as we had been invited to participate in the welcoming parade in Adderley Street. An added bonus was that Stork (Twines Scout name,) had secured the use of the Commodore II, a great sailing ship, which was berthed at South Arm in Duncan Dock. We were to spend our Easter hols on board. This conveniently coincided with the arrival of the royal family on board HMS Vanguard, the most modern battleship in the Royal Navy. It was great fun. I shared a small cabin with my buddy Adrian Harding. The whole troop of 36 was on board, plus Stork, and our new House Master, Robert Forrester, who was school Chaplain and my English teacher. Commodore II was the ideal training venue for aspiring matlows. We manned the galley, swabbed the decks, and learnt the basics of seamanship. There was healthy exercise aplenty, including our daily swim in the icy waters of Table Bay Harbour. The cold was not the only challenge. Entering the water was easy, as the leap off the gunwale was relatively safe and simple.But what lurked IN the water was the challenge! Understandably, ships in harbour were not allowed to pump their bilges until safely out at sea. However, a number of culprits ignored the regulation. Bobbing on the surface were numerous items of unwanted seafarers waste. The most objectionable was what flowed from the ships Heads. To the uninformed, the Heads on board ship are the toilets. In the old days of seafaring it was deemed unnecessary to provide any form of conventional toilet on board. The mighty ocean was always at hand. T’was easy to drop ones pants, perch on the ship’s rail and empty one’s bowels. While tied up alongside in port it was common courtesy to warn unsuspecting folk in skiffs on the water below of any heaven-sent missile, by hollering -“Heads!” Our daily swims were therefore not without encounters of a ‘heady’ kind. We named them “frigates.”
The mighty Vanguard docked while we proudly marched up the newly-named Kingsway, the seaward extension of Adderley Street. Vast crowds lining the street cheered wildly. My chest swelled with pride as someone with a typical Capey accent yelled, “Ag look! Here come our boys!” We halted in front of the Standard Bank building and lined the street in great anticipation.
What seemed to be thousands of marchers strode by. Soldiers, sailors, and airmen, the Red Cross, St. Johns, Girl Guides, Police contingents and lots of other Scout troops.
The crowd roared as the motorcade of specially imported Daimler cars appeared. And there, in the sleek leading limousine were King George and his Queen Elizabeth. Directly behind were the two young princesses, Elizabeth and Margaret. Gosh, there were so many famous people in those swanky black limousines! There was our Prime Minister, General Smuts, Governor General, Brand van Zyl, and Cape Town’s Mayor, Mr. Abe Bloomburg, And many more whom I would have recognized if I was a little older.
The royal family graciously waved to the crowd. South Africa, like the all its commonwealth partners had been cut off from Britain during the long six years of war. It was a great privilege to be one of the first to be paid a visit by this special family which had bravely remained in Buckingham palace throughout the heavy bombing by the Luftwaffe to hold us all together through Britain’s darkest hours.
We St. Georges boys were privileged above all others in that the royal Family spent most of their Cape Town visit in Government House off the Avenue at the top of Adderley Street. The School faced onto the Avenue. So, whenever the Daimlers with their precious passengers swept by we had a grandstand view! Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret were the target of special attention to the senior boys. For Basil Price, a bloke in Upper Four, it was love at first sight. He was absolutely convinced that Prinsess Margeret had spotted him amongst the adolescent boys lining the school railings, and had reacted in an equally passionate manner. The letters he penned to her in Percy Piek’s Afrikaans class were returned unanswered – Royal household censorship? So he bunked school for the rest of the Royal’s Cape Town stay in an effort to catch a glimpse of his newly discovered love. Fruitless, I fear, as he completed his studies and became a Bookie.
