ARCHIVE THREAD: “Big School”

A more recent arrival is Kevin PRINCE (1979-87), embarking on a plum overseas posting at consulting firm Arthur Andersen. A school first XI cricket captain (and indeed Editor of the student rag), Prince writes with a colourful account of his first meeting with our former South Africa "bureau chief," the late Colonel Malcolm TOMBS (1938-44), whose tragic obituary readers will remember from the Spring issue of The Old Wyndhamian. Prince's letter, much delayed in the post, was apparently sent before Tombs tragically took his own life. "I was delighted to receive a letter enclosing a lunch invitation from an old business acquaintance of my father (Derek PRINCE, 1950-57)," Prince the younger writes, "just a few days before I embarked upon my new adventure from London Heathrow. I'd never heard my father speak about Colonel Tombs before, but safe in the knowledge that he too was an Old Wyndhamian, I assumed I would be in good hands. Prince continues: "I was pleasantly surprised to arrive at a charming English-style street in bucolic surroundings (reminding me very much of Guildford), to be welcomed by the most athletic sexagenarian I’ve seen since the Fourth Form did that Fun Run in aid of the Ethiopian famine with Jimmy Saville! Tombs is your quintessential old-school kind of chap. I could have sworn I recognised him from one of those gloomy portraits of our hallowed alumni that watched over us disapprovingly from the walls of Big School during Assembly. He has a wonderfully deep and leathery tan, and that sort of gemstone twinkle in one of his eyes, suggesting a life very well lived. When he handed me a glass of the old “Cape Smoke” the moment I got through the front door, I knew we were off to a good start. "The colonel was a lively host, and insisted I call him by his nickname, ‘Stones’ – as in tombstones – (groan – Ed.) a holdover from his school years which evidently still amused him. Although he was almost old enough to be my grandfather, we hit it off warmly. It was a gloriously hot day in January; midsummer in Africa, of course. I sat down for a pre-lunch drink feeling pleasantly giddy from the shock of escaping the grim and dreary winter weather of deepest, darkest Surrey. As I relayed news to the colonel of all the familiar places and people connected with the school, his eyes danced with delight as his old haunts came back to him. Meanwhile, Mrs Tombs oversaw her staff preparing lunch like a virtuoso conductor with a stern but fair hand, as they served us a sumptuous summer harvest feast. "Later, the colonel and I went to sit on the pool terrace to sample a series of local beers that were not bad by half. We were alone except for small group – an unkindness? A murder? – of ravens or crows standing quite still in a regimented row on the branch of a tree. Stones became unduly bothered by these dark sentinels, stamping their feet and hissing at one another right above our heads, and threatened to fetch his hunting rifle. Meanwhile, I grilled him about his memories of my late father, who used to travel to these parts on business in the seventies and eighties. Stones had nothing much of interest to say about these trips, other than to mention a few uneventful meetings he’d brokered with the government. "A few cold ones later, Stones and I found ourselves in high spirits, spontaneously breaking out into a raucous rendition of the old school hymn. Oh, if you could have heard us belting out Adeste Laetis Animis at the top of two drunken voices in the heart of Africa! Stones then got a touch maudlin and told me that the anthem actually meant a great deal to him, as did the school motto. He opened his blazer and showed me the words Vincit Qui Patitur embroidered in jet-black script on his inside pocket. "He regained his humour when I began telling him about my new role as a Change Manager ('a very zeitgeisty term', he scoffed) driving a restructuring of one of the Eudora sites that was having dreadful trouble with its workers, who had become rather testy in the years after all that dreadful business at Deep Six. When I expressed some sympathy for the plight of the African mineworkers, Stones’s cheeks turned red and he started puffing indignantly, so I decided to change the subject. He then, after some encouragement from your humble correspondent, took the opportunity to reveal a few details about his own fascinating history. I must confess I was absolutely sozzled by that stage, attempting to revive myself with several large glasses of water. "'My family has a long history with this part of the world, you see,' Stones went on. My grandfather came here when he was working for Scotland Yard back at the turn of the century, when this place was no more than a shanty-town full of prospectors and disease. “After my military service, I was still only in my thirties when, facing early retirement, I joined the Yeoman Guards – sometimes referred to as the Beefeaters – and became one of the youngest to do so. The truth was, I had been angling for the role. I should explain that my grandfather had been one of the men assigned to transport the Colossus diamond from here to London. You must know the story?' I confessed that I did not. 'One of the largest rough diamonds ever found,' Stones told me, warming to his theme. 'They needed to get it back to England safely, so they came up with a plan to send a detail over from the Yard to personally escort it back. These men collected a parcel from the Standard Bank vault in Johannesburg and boarded a steamboat. They locked the parcel in the captain's safe and kept watch night and day until it arrived safely in the possession of the Crown. Ingeniously, however, the whole caper was simply a decoy. The real diamond was sent back by normal post in an innocuous package, arriving without incident. It was then dispatched for cutting, and two of the resulting rocks became centrepieces to Her Majesty’s royal regalia. I've sure you've been to visit them at the Tower?' I eagerly nodded and said that I had been on a tour when I was a boy. "'In any case,' Stones continued, 'I knew that by becoming a Yeoman Guard, my duties would include watching over the Crown Jewels. My grandfather, on his last legs, managed to grease the palm of someone in the top brass who owed him a favour. Soon after, I got the call. We moved into the Tower at the beginning of the sixties, with a cottage in The Casemates. We used to do our washing up looking out onto the very spot where Anne Boleyn and all the rest were executed.' "At this point of Stones's story, evidently still half-cut, I couldn't contain myself. 'I have to ask,' I said gauchely, 'did you ever have any strange encounters with Boleyn’s ghost, carrying her own severed head?' Stones gave me a withering look. 'It was a very difficult time,' he said quietly. I was grateful when Judy, his wife, then appeared in her apron brandishing a big pot of coffee. ‘Come on Mal’, she said, sensing the mood, ‘have you told him about the time you left the handbrake off our brand-new car in Sydney Harbour and it rolled into the sea?’ "The sun was dipping and turning orange, filtering through the canopy of the tall, alien oak trees which grew everywhere in this part of the city. I was feeling a tad woozy still and was relieved, therefore, when Stones sprang to his feet, his convivial spirit suddenly reawakened, and suggested he take me on a tour of his 'palace'. "I was astounded at how grand the gaff was. Set on a plot of several acres, it had steep stone walls covered in creepers on all sides. The main building sprawled along the compound's western edge, its rear bedroom windows facing north. The architecture resembled something terribly familiar: a sort of jumbo two-storey cottage, like one of those old, leafy mock-Tudor places down a lane somewhere in Godalming. A separate guest annexe had been converted from an old chapel, apparently still bearing a striking resemblance to its original form. "Stones led me briskly through the house itself, with its typically English furniture and fittings. There was a large, formal dining room with a huge table; a dark sitting room of stone, velvet and wood-panelling; a sprawling kitchen and pantry, and even a billiards room. He explained some of the house's history: ‘the product of that dangerous combination of an ambitious architect and a woman with imagination.’ It had apparently once housed a barracks for the Imperial Light Brigade. "Clouds had gathered over the city for one of the ‘gloomily inevitable downpours’, as Stones put it, that were almost a daily occurrence throughout summer. Since the temperature had dropped, we went inside to sit on two grand old leather armchairs in his cosy but cramped library, and Stones squeaked the lid off a decanter of frightfully expensive Scotch. "'Bums up, and may God preserve Her Maj,' he said with a grim look. I heard the distant roiling of the storm he’d warned me about. "'We spent five years living at the Tower,' he told me, his voice dropping to a whisper. 'As Yeoman Guards, our duties there were partly ceremonial and partly for the tourists. We spent most of our time giving directions to the loos or telling children off for climbing up the battlements. Every night, without fail, we performed the Ceremony of the Keys, which I always thoroughly enjoyed, feeling like I was preserving the most ancient of traditions. It became so embedded in my daily routine, in fact, that I still find myself checking my watch with some sense of anticipation as ten o'clock in England approaches, whatever time zone I may be in. We were also required to patrol the estate at night, but apart from chasing off a few foxes, there was seldom any action. It was just a few years before they created the official post of the Ravenmaster. For some time, I was gunning for the role before I discovered that the ravens did not take to me, nor I to them. "'But the most solemn and important duty, the deadliest undertaking, was when I was assigned to the Jewel House to assist the Tower Guards. We had thousands of visitors coming through there every day. And, of course, there were the times when the regalia would need to be removed for State Openings or pageants. Whenever I was in the company of those diamonds, I would feel the presence of my grandfather. I took every chance I could to examine the jewels, paying particular attention to those derived from the Colossus. Day after day, as part of my tours, I would describe the position and provenance of every jewel to the visitors. I felt a great personal burden attached to keeping these precious gems safe. Aside from the clamouring from all the lefties, there was always the very real threat of some convoluted plot to steal them. But there was only really once when I had to deal with something disturbing.' "Telling this story was clearly fatiguing the colonel. He slouched, gripping his empty tumbler with both hands, and sighed heavily. Then he gathered himself once again and mischievously suggested he ‘might take the opportunity to annihilate me at the billiard table.’ "The billiards room was poorly lit by a low, rectangular-shaded light over the table. Stones offered me a Cuban, which I accepted and struggled manfully over, even though I absolutely despise the smell of cigars. He made short shrift of me in the first game, but I proceeded to beat him in no time at all in the second. When I sunk the winning ball, Stones roared as if he were mortally wounded and punched the air below his waist in despair. "We were midway through our third game, honours even, when Stones rested his cue on the opposite edge of the table from where I was standing. He stood back a few paces, his face now in shadow. 'I was glad to leave the place in the end,' he said gravely. 'In my last year there, I was forced to deal with some events which troubled me greatly. It began when I was on duty outside the Jewel Room on a normal working weekday, and I became aware of a commotion. At that time, the jewels were in a display case, of course, but the general public was only held back by a velvet rope. I was the first to arrive on the scene, and came upon the astonishing sight of a madwoman who had breached the rope and was banging furiously on the display case, attempting to break the glass with her bare hands. "'It was almost closing time, and the place was emptying, but I still had to clear the crowd with a few stern commands. I vaulted the velvet rope and grabbed this lunatic by her shoulders, my hat falling off in the process. By this time, she was clawing at the cabinet, her long fingernails cracking against the glass. They made an unthinkable noise. As idiotic and futile as her efforts were, I was astonished by her rage. I managed to spin her around and wrestle her away. "'This lunatic thrashed around wildly as I dragged her off, and I got a good look at her. In my statement, days later, I described her as tall and olive-skinned, with long, straight black hair, a prominent nose, dark, hate-filled eyes, with a black wen on the front of her neck. Her strength seemed to be unnaturally amplified by her determination to get at the jewels. She was clearly insane; hellbent on destroying everything that was inside that case. And as we struggled and the Tower Guards arrived, one of her half-broken nails gouged my right eye. I let go of her and stumbled backwards over the velvet rope, landing squarely on the base of my skull. "'What happened next remains something of a mystery. I became aware of the woman being dragged up some stairs, now screaming like a banshee, and one of my colleagues helping me to my feet. Perhaps my military training and general bloody-mindedness kicked in, because I insisted on carrying on with my duties on evening watch. I believe that my right eye had closed up, and I must have fought off the suggestion of being taken to the infirmary. "'It was February, and dark outside. The Tower and its grounds empty out quickly after visiting hours, and the place suddenly becomes quiet and almost desolate; only the sounds of the city can be heard, beyond the walls. I found myself lurching through the darkness in the direction of one of the guardhouses, soon becoming disorientated. I kept moving, but the truth was, I had lost my bearings completely, even though I knew the grounds intimately. I always trod carefully, superstitious of walking over the remains of the queens and princes or bears and lions buried here and there, but now I was stumbling half-blindly. I believe I may have been approaching Tower Green, near the Beauchamp Tower. I remember thinking I could see the twinkling of the diamond-leaded lights in the chapel royal of St. Peter ad Vincula, and the onion-shaped cupolas of the White Tower silhouetted against the sky. The truth was I could not see very well at all. My eyes were streaming, and I had to wipe them with my sleeve. A veil of darkness then descended over me. I became morbidly confused. I decided I must have gone blind. Still on my feet, I foolishly decided to plod on in the direction I was going, but soon tripped over some stone or rock and ended up in a heap on the grass. "'I don't know how long I lay there. I remember turning onto my back, quite winded, hoping I would see the stars appear above me as my vision returned. I thought I could hear the cumbrous grind of the bascules of Tower Bridge descending; a deep vibration as if all the undiscovered bones in the castle walls might be shifting in their cavities. Then the volume of the silence increased, and I wondered if the streets beyond the battlements had come to a standstill. I felt I must be close to The Casemates, and home. I felt distinctly, desperately alone. "'I could not see. Yet the images appearing in my mind as I lay there still burn brightly in my memory. The blackness. It was a black I cannot describe. Not a coal-black, not a burnt black, nor a frying-pan black, nor a volcanic rock black; but a rainbow of black, made up of greens and purples and electric blues. It was a blackness that contained multitudes, as if I had my face buried in the mane of a cavalry horse, or the feathers of a night bird; or I was peering into the unknowable fabric of the walls of the castle itself. It was while I was lying on the grass, lost in this bewildering vision, behind eyes that could not see, when I felt a sudden shift in the air; a change in temperature and an object or body in flight. Some violent force touched my face. To this day, I could not tell you who or what it was. I heard no one approach. But I will admit to becoming frozen in terror as I felt something pushing down on my face, and then my body. Very quickly, very forcefully. Too strong to be a small animal, but too soundless, too immediate, to be another person. I heard no footsteps come or go. I must have blacked out at that point because I remember nothing after it. I woke up in the infirmary, and the sight in my left eye had returned. I needed surgery on the other for a corneal abrasion. The madwoman apparently disappeared from custody that very same evening and was never seen again. I resigned my post only a few weeks later.' "Stones fell silent. Our game had stopped. I had no bloody clue what to say in response to all of this. I was grateful for the semi-darkness of the room, as I'd been stifling a laugh, half-convinced the old bugger was having me on. But when he moved forward, almost faltering, the dim light fell on his face and I saw he had his head bowed. He was rubbing his eyes with one hand, his fingers bent and knuckles twisted. In the gloom, his weathered features suddenly betrayed a frailty beyond his years, as if he hadn't slept for an eternity. "He eventually lifted his face, his eyes level with mine, the rest of his body in shadow. 'Why did you want to come here?' Stones said quietly. I had been silent for so long that my voice cracked as I replied. 'My aim is to become the youngest partner at the firm,' I said brightly. 'I figured some international experience would stand me in good stead. Since my father had done a lot of business here, it felt like the most natural choice.' "Stones nodded slowly, and I thought I saw his face loosening back towards its former congenial state. But he said nothing; wanting more from me. 'I also want to help,' I said, thinking back to some of the pledges I had made to myself on the flight over. 'You know, volunteering and all that. Try and help out in one of these community programmes I've heard about. I feel like one owes it to the country, particularly after all the exploitation, all the mess that’s been made on this continent.' "I thought this remark might break the ice, so I was quite astonished when the old devil immediately dropped his cue and leapt forward, his hands clutching the edge of the green baize, his head thrusting over the table towards me. 'It's not our bloody fault what's gone wrong here!' he snarled, baring his teeth, spittle spraying onto the green baize. 'If we left, this place would crumble! And your father would thrash you if he heard you talking like that. You have a lot to learn, my boy… You'll find out soon enough how things are done!' "After a brief and somewhat awkward silence, Stones's shoulders relaxed. The colonel had stirred himself up into quite a tizz with his strange tale. He seemed to realise that he had gone a tad over the top, and came around the table to chuck me on the shoulder, mumbling an apology for ‘losing my rag like that.’ I had been so engrossed in the game, and Stones's story, that I had hardly noticed the thunderstorm had already passed over us. He said it was probably time to call it a night; that he may have had one too many. I asked him if he wouldn't mind phoning a taxi, but he laughed and said there weren't any minicab services in Johannesburg at this late hour. He told me I must stay the night. 'There are plenty of rooms to choose from', he said. "I was eager to show that I was unruffled by the strange altercation over the billiard table, and as we made our way out into the dark downstairs hallway, I decided to return Stones's earlier question. 'And why did you come here then?' I said jovially. 'You never fully explained.' "The old colonel winked at me as we made our way up the grand staircase. 'No ghosts here, you see,' he said. "I don't remember going to bed. I also don't recall what ungodly hour it was when an extremely loud noise woke me. Once I was awake, I couldn't tell if it had been a final passing thunderclap of the fading storm or the sound of a large object grinding across a floor. It was brutally dark in the room, and I was parched. I fumbled around for a glass of water on the bedside table but must have forgotten to bring one to bed. I was still clothed in my short-sleeved shirt and chinos but could not locate my loafers. I managed to find the door to the room after much groping around in the darkness. There was a faint light coming from the end of the corridor, and I thought I could hear a low murmur of voices somewhere below. "I padded along the corridor towards the light and went down the stairs. I was hoping to find a route to the kitchen to fetch water without being discovered by whoever was still alive at this hour. I certainly didn't fancy being seen in such a ghastly state. When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I saw the silhouette of someone peering out at me from the door to the dining room; they must have heard me coming down the stairs. I thought I better go and stick my head in and explain why I was roaming the house in the middle of the night. I padded down the hall. As I approached, I could hear a drone of male voices speaking in hushed and sober tones, as if they were deliberating over some grave matter. "I stepped into the room, wondering if I hadn't slept the whole night, all of the next day, and into the following evening. There was a pungent fog of tobacco in the air and only the dismal light from a few small desk lamps on the large table. I could not quite make out the faces of the figures in the room. It was set up in a conference style, with regimented notepads, pens and nameplates for each of the dozen or so men seated around the table. There was no sign of Stones. "They all glanced up briefly, but then went back to conferring with each other. So hushed were their voices, I could not even make out what they were saying. My eyes then met those of the chairman, who had lifted himself quietly out of his chair. As I opened my mouth to explain what I was doing here, he shook his head severely. He glanced over my shoulder, willing me to look. I turned to see the robed figure of a man standing behind me in the doorway. The hallway behind this figure was now illuminated, and his shadow was thrown on the ground between us. He was wearing the black cassock and surplice of an archdeacon, with a shiny, emerald-green tippet hanging diagonally from one shoulder. The archdeacon was young and pale and slightly balding, with wild feathers of dark hair floating over each of his temples. Smiling at me wanly, with his arms by his sides, he opened the palm of his left hand in a subtle gesture, indicating that I should follow him out of the room. "The archdeacon led me down the hall and out through the wide-open front door onto the gravel drive. The night air was fragrant and clear; the stones warm and wet under my feet in the wake of the storm. Cicadas and night-creatures provided a pleasantly droning chorus. The sky was broken by shards of fast-moving clouds, backlit by a bright half-moon. I followed solemnly behind the archdeacon as he passed around the side of the house to the back garden and down the path towards the chapel. He stopped beside the old well; as I approached, I could see it was overflowing from the earlier deluge, a fountain of water bubbling over its circular brick walls. The archdeacon waited until I was standing next to him. Then, in silence, he lifted a large wooden ladle from its hook on a cartwheel propped against the well. He nodded gently with his eyes closed, then scooped up a ladleful of the water and raised it towards me as high as his arm could reach. I bent my head forward and opened my dry and grateful lips. I drank the water deeply and desperately, my need being extreme. Above the archdeacon's head, I could make out the dark outlines of the black birds I had seen earlier, still standing, now silently, in their quiet row on the tree branch, the moonlight catching their swivelling eyes. I gave them a swift salute and swallowed mouthful after mouthful. The water ran over the sides of my mouth and down my chin. With a nod of my head, I demanded more, my thirst not yet slaked. The archdeacon did not deny me. I closed my eyes and drank deeply. The water was good. "I woke up late, quite shockingly so. One of the maids said the madame and her husband had gone to an appointment at their club, but they had left instructions that I should take my time and have a ‘full English’ before I left. For one reason or another," Prince then concludes, "I have not returned to the house since. Stones and I have stayed in touch, of course, and he managed to have a quiet word about my career aspirations with the country head at Andersen's, who is one of his tennis partners. I’ve made one appearance at the club in Zoo Lake, where all the old boys play bowls." Meanwhile, in Cape Town, George DE VERE (1949-57), whom I remember vaguely, has written to say he had organized a "braai" for five Old Wyndhamians (or "the Big Five", as he humorously calls them) in the Western Province. De Vere also sends his observations on the political situation: "The subject is enormously complex and largely misunderstood by people overseas… I suppose the attitude of moderates from all colour groups can thus be summed up: apartheid must go, but capitalism must stay. We hear word of secret talks between Mandela and the Nats; a precursor to something more formal, one hopes. One can't help fluctuating between feelings of triumph and despair, wondering whether one is on the side of good or evil from each day to the next. The great fear is that the whole place descends into the most rampant hotbed of corruption imaginable. I suspect by about '94 we may reach the climax of the current negotiations, and the game may finally be up for the old guard." Peter JAKOBS (1948-53), now CMG and the Acting British High Commissioner in Windhoek, is to be congratulated. He writes: "Relieved to be in Namibia after my three years in East Africa. The Germans left this place in neat order, and the relative calm makes a welcome change from Rwanda, where the old ghosts roam the land once again, clamouring to dredge up their ancient grievances."