Fragment 7: The Life & Times of a Social Experiment

In the run-up to 'The 11 Plus' an inspiring teacher continues to influence my life for the better, and I also learn a great deal from some excruciating temperance meetings.

Aug 16, 2023

Image: from the original cover of The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame, published 1908. Illustration: W. Graham Robertson.

From the time we arrived in Leicester, Nellie and George were able to recommence regular Methodist chapel attendance. Approaching 10 years old, I was included without the option. Sundays were spent attending morning Sunday School and evening service at the Methodist church at the top of Hartington Road. Sundays were monochrome. Play was discouraged. The only light relief came from the lunchtime comedy programmes on the radio.

Earlier in these fragments, I mentioned what I suppose we would today call the basic proposition of Wesleyan Methodism which is something like this: God has given us free will, to follow or deny his existence, which means we are free to choose to do the right thing. I am an atheist but I still think this is a valuable message. Although my little family unit lived in poverty Nellie never complained. As far as she was concerned, the situation was what it was and there was no point complaining about it. She would frequently remind me, “There are a lot of people worse off than we are.”

An example of her stoicism: at that time, via the Methodist church, there were periodic collections for ‘poor children in Africa’. I know, I know, to today’s minds and ears this is hideously patronizing but, at the time, I guess it was better than completely ignoring the problems of inequality. I recall sheets of stickers, perforated like postage stamps, each featuring a smiling child’s face, said faces being of children of colour. The campaigns were titled Sunny Smiles. I would be asked to pick six of the images and one penny per image would be donated. [Note: Six old (pre-decimalisation) pennies were equal to 2.5 new pence. There were 240 old pennies to a pound but, axiomatically, 100 new pence to a metric pound.]

At this time, too, George and Nellie recommenced their activities with an organization called the International Order of Good Templars (IOGT). Closely associated with the Methodist church (although I think, originally, it came from the United States), it was dedicated to total abstinence and evangelizing the message that drinking alcohol is evil.

At the weekly meetings, which took place at the Methodist church, the members would go through a ritual reaffirmation of their pledge, which forbade both alcohol and the use of ‘strong language’, and then embark on quizzes, beetle drives and the like. Bizarrely, the whole thing was organized along the lines of a masonic society: members were ‘brothers’ and ‘sisters’ and the officers, with titles like Grand Marshall, wore velvet and brocade regalia around their necks. “Hello everyone, I bring fraternal greetings from the lodge at Derby Central Methodist Church.” “With your leave, Brother Smith, I think the point that Sister Brown has just made is very sound.” Only later did the incongruity of a quasi-masonic order embarking on spelling bees occur to me - like the Ku Klux Klan playing musical chairs.

And they were all so old! All adults look old to a child, but I’m sure these really were. And all so unattractive. For the women, including Nellie, the rule seemed to be that make-up, hairdos, bras and any other enhancements were signs of the devil. My recollection is of elderly ladies whose breasts flowed into their laps. Their floral print frocks smelt musty. The men dressed in dark suits rubbed shiny through wear, with frayed shirt collars and uncoordinated ties.

Over the years, I have kept a journal, but sporadically, most assiduously when things were not going as well as I would have hoped. So, revisiting the entries, it’s mostly a catalogue of misery. Don’t worry, I will include some of the horrors in this memoir. But, also over the years, I have attempted some fictionalized versions of events, usually trying to find the humour in situations. So it is with a piece that I have found about one of these meetings. When was this attempted satire written? I can’t say for sure but it has to be around fifty years ago. Here it is, exactly as drafted.

An Evening’s Entertainment

The small knot of people struggled up the hill, pushing, heads bowed against the driving sleet. An occasional car passed them, its headlights reflecting shinily on the rutted wet tarmac, momentarily augmenting the dim pools of light cast by the sparse street lamps. Tightly packed rows of terraced red-brick slums with grey slate roofs were on either side. A child of seven or eight ran down the hill, past the group, clutching a bottle of brown ale purchased from the corner off-licence.

Eventually, the group – a man, two women and a child – reached their destination. The Thorpe Road Methodist Church, perched atop the hill, was an equally unprepossessing sight. A tall red-brick building, its main doors were locked and bolted securely shut against any marauding souls in search of Christian shelter. A wooden notice board announced ‘Family Worship’ in faded, peeling letters and listed among its many delights, ‘Children’s Sunny Hour’.

The little snake of souls turned the corner of the building, entered through an unmarked side door, and walked along a winding corridor, all brown and cream paint, illumined by an occasional naked light bulb. A notice board poster enquired: “Have you got what it takes to join the Boys’ Brigade?” Underneath, someone had scrawled “Big Feet and No Brains”.

“Hello, Brother Prentice, Sister Prentice, Sister Grimley”: a smiling face, under tightly permed hair, under a felt hat with lace trimmings, welcomed the little troupe as they filed into a side room.

“Hello, Sister Hanwell,” responded Brother Prentice. The party unbuttoned their raincoats and hung them on a bentwood stand.

“Terrible night, isn’t it,” Sister Hanwell said. Sister Prentice, a small dumpy woman in her mid-fifties tut-tutted in agreement. The removal of her coat revealed a shapeless cotton print frock draped over her shapeless shape. She pulled numerous long pins from her felt hat and patted her severe greying bun when the task was completed.

“Brother Johnson’s come all the way from Nottingham and he says the bus ride was awful.”

“Oh, Brother Johnson’s already here is he?” Brother Prentice looked around the dismal room.

The new arrivals brought the total number present to twelve so there was no great difficulty spotting the visitor.

Brother Prentice moved across the room, his hand outstretched: “Hello, Brother Johnson,”

“Brother Prentice, hello.”

“I hear you had an awful bus ride.”

“My gosh, yes. The bus was twenty minutes late. Terrible weather. And it took me ages to get a Number 12 to get up here from the bus station. Unusual for Leicester buses, they’re usually pretty prompt.”

The boy who had accompanied Brother and Sister Prentice sat on one of the bentwood chairs that were arranged in a U-shape in front of a small table draped with a green baize cloth. He was eleven years old, still young enough to swing his legs without scraping the floor.

“If everybody’s here …” Sister Hanwell called out. The group shuffled into their positions with much chair scraping on bare floorboards.

Sister Hanwell, along with a few others, had donned an item of regalia around her neck. Red velvet, fringed with gold thread and embroidered with the words Chief Templar, it hung down in two basset ears over her chest. The other liveried personages were labelled Treasurer, Secretary, and Marshall.

“Brothers and Sisters,” began Sister Hanwell reading from a small booklet, “I hereby declare this meeting of the Thorpe Road Lodge of the International Order of Good Templars open. Has anyone permitted alcohol to pass their lips or used profane language since last we met? If so, they should stand and confess their sin now.” She paused for a moment, then continued: “I now call upon Brother Swingler to lead us in a few moments of devotion.”

Brother Swingler, short, fat, white-haired, sixtyish, with pebble glasses, stood up. “Brothers and Sisters, let us pray.”

The assembled group bowed their heads and closed their eyes, save only for the boy who just kept swinging his legs.

“Oh, Lord,” Brother Swingler adopted his devotional variant of the East Midlands dialect. “We pray for those less fortunate than ourselves. Those who are slaves to the demon drink. Those who blaspheme and mock thy name. Those who will not open their hearts to your saving grace. Those who shun thy holy word. Give us strength, oh Lord, to offer help to these poor souls by our own shining example. Protect us from the temptations of the flesh and may we live in thy grace. Now and forever more. Amen.”

A pause and then, “Let us now say together the prayer that our Father taught us. Our father …”

The group recited the words of The Lord’s Prayer, down to a mumbled “Amen”.

Sister Hanwell was back on her feet: “Now we’ll sing Hymn No. 134 … .”

The group flicked through their hymn books and Sister Grimley waddled over to an ancient upright piano.

“… onward Christian Soldiers.”

The group stood. After a few notes and a false start, the rendition began.

“Onward Christian so…o…o…o…ldiers,
Marching as to war …”

The boy looked embarrassedly about, conscious that his beginning-to-break voice might not function reliably. He worried too that the jokes he heard at school might be profane, and he’d said ‘fuck’ to Graham Smith It was a piece of bravado, intended to shock so he didn’t think it merited a public humiliation in this meeting.

The hymn finished and everyone sat down.

Sister Hanwell said: “The minutes of the last meeting, please, Sister Bellamy.”

The elderly lady labelled Secretary stood, noisily cleared her throat, and read from a notebook: “Minutes of the meeting of the Thorpe Road Lodge – Number 28 – held on the 20^th November. The meeting was opened at 7.30pm by Sister Hanwell. Brother Swingler led the devotions and the meeting paid its respects to Sister Tooley who passed away the previous week.

“The programme for the evening was given by Brother Prentice who gave an illustrated talk about his experiences in India during the war. The brass candlesticks that he showed the meeting were greatly admired. There being no other business the meeting was closed at 8.45pm when tea and biscuits were served.”

Sister Bellamy sat down.

“Does everyone agree those minutes as a true and accurate record?” asked Sister Hanwell. “May I have a proposer and seconder?”

Two people obliged.

“This evening,” continued Sister Hanwell, “our old friend Brother Johnson has come all the way from Nottingham to give us one of his splendid quiz evenings. I’m sure you’ll all wish to join me in thanking him for making such a journey on such an awful night.”

Brother Johnson smiled self-importantly and acknowledged the ripple of applause.

Sister Hanwell continued: “Then without further ado I’ll hand the floor …”

“Chief Templar!” Brother Prentice was on his feet, “before you do, may I have the floor?”

Surprised by the interjection, Sister Hanwell nodded.

Brother Prentice stuck out his ample stomach and surveyed the room: “Before we conclude the business part of our meeting, I would like to draw everyone’s attention to a newspaper article that struck me as showing our battle against the demon drink is no easy thing.”

He paused and rootled around in the pockets of his worn, grey suit jacket. Unfolding a piece of paper that he retrieved from one of them, he continued: “This article is from a popular Sunday newspaper, only last Sunday. Forgive me for reading something that may not be in good taste to some of you ladies, but I think it’s important that we face up to the horrors we are confronting.”

He coughed, held up the piece of paper and, with obvious self-satisfaction, declaimed the headline: “Orgy of Wife Swapping in Guildford.” A pause for effect and then on into the meat of it all: “A jury at Guildford Crown Court heard, on Tuesday, how six couples had indulged in an orgy at a party at one of their houses. It started when Mr Kenneth Livermore (32) invited Mrs Sylvia Purvis (33) to go upstairs to their host’s bedroom. There they undressed and engaged in sexual congress. When their host, Mr Peter Brady (38) walked in, he did nothing to stop them. On the contrary, he took off his own clothes and proceeded to sodomize Mrs Purvis while Livermore was still engaged in intercourse with her. When all three fell off the bed in a heap, the noise caused the rest of the party to investigate. Mr Keith Purvis (35) then undressed Mrs Stephanie … .”

“George!” Sister Prentice’s loud interjection stung Brother Prentice into silence. “George,” she repeated more quietly, “is this filth really necessary?”

Brother Prentice was a little chagrined: “I’m sorry, my dear, if it offends you. Ladies, I regret having had to subject you to this. Out of respect for your sensibilities I will move to the end of the piece to make my point.”

He cleared his throat again and continued: “It appears that, following a substantial orgy, two of the men began to fight over one of the women, each claiming it was, and I quote, ‘my turn’. As a result, Mr Tom Stratton (41) was hurled through the bedroom window onto the front lawn beneath. At which point, a neighbour called the police. But …” he paused for effect, “but … in court, Mrs Sylvia Purvis said, and again I quote, ‘I wouldn’t have done all that stuff if I hadn’t had so much to drink’”.

Brother Prentice surveyed those present. “You see what we’re up against, Brothers and Sisters. I do not think we should flinch from the unpleasant task of reading this sort of thing in order to remind ourselves of the evil we face.”

There was silence around the room. The boy, still swinging his legs, wondered what sodomizing entailed and made a mental note to look it up in the dictionary.

Sister Hanwell was on her feet again, with her usual smile: “Brother Johnson, would you like to start?”

Somebody sniggered.

Well, there you have it. An early attempt of mine at satire. When I read it back I really do recognize George and Nellie (a.k.a. the Prentices). It’s exaggerated, but not much! On a Sunday, George would often read salacious stories out loud from the News of the World, with Nellie tut-tutting and telling him to shut up. And I just swung my feet and observed it all.

It would be hard to overstate the stifling nature of the hours and hours and hours and hours spent in these temperance meetings, sitting on uncomfortable bentwood chairs, scraping over bare floorboards in dusty, bare-light-bulb-lit church rooms. Mind you, perhaps something rubbed off, apart from the dust, because the word- and quiz-based ‘entertainments’ fed me some esoteric facts and figures, and honed my spelling skill.

Share Aargh! (Age-activated rage, grumpiness and humour) by David Pinder.

Meanwhile, back at school things went smoothly, aided by encouragement that went beyond the normal from Mr Dowling. For example, he had a collection of books titled Aircraft of the Fighting Powers, which had been published annually from 1940 for the duration of the Second World War. To an aircraft obsessive, as I had become, these were wonderful, providing details, photographs and fold-out plans of the wartime aircraft of Great Britain, Canada, Australia, U.S.A., Germany, Italy, France, Belgium, Poland, U.S.S.R., Japan and the Netherlands. One day he told me to choose one of them as a gift. I chose the 1941 edition (Volume 2) because it featured the Spitfire III and Spitfire V. I treasured it until ten years later when, bizarrely, it was stolen from me by, f all people, a girlfriend’s father! Many years after that, thanks to the internet, I was able to acquire a copy of the 1942 edition (volume 3).

I have Mr Dowling to thank, too, for the copy of The Wind in the Willows that was awarded to me in the school year 1955-56 for ‘Work on Topics’, whatever that was.

I found the book quite challenging. It all started off well enough with the accessible and appealing tale of Mole, Ratty, Badger and Mr Toad. I particularly love the Dulce Domum chapter where Mole and Ratty pay a Christmastide visit to Mole’s home. But shortly after that, during the search for little Portly Otter, it all becomes rather strange. Mole and Ratty, you may recall, have been searching the river and its byways all night for Portly. Then, as dawn arrives, they become aware of ‘the piper at the gates of dawn’, the great god Pan:

“[Mole] looked in the very eyes of the Friend and Helper; saw the backward sweep of the curved horns, gleaming in the growing daylight; saw the stern, hooked nose between the kindly eyes that were looking down on them humorously, while the bearded mouth broke into a half-smile at the corners; saw the rippling muscles on the arm that lay across the broad chest, the long supple hand still holding the pan-pipes only just fallen away from the parted lips; saw the splendid curves of the shaggy limbs disposed in majestic ease on the sward; saw, last of all, nestling between his very hooves, sleeping soundly in entire peace and contentment, the little, round, podgy, childish form of the baby otter.”1

This was strange and confusing to an earnest young chap like me because the whole incident deployed the language of religion, but in relation to a deity quite different from the one I was being told to believe in. It would take me some time to resolve this conundrum.

Much later I discovered more of Kenneth Grahame’s fascination with Pan. Grahame’s Pagan Papers, published 1893, contains a story titled The Rural Pan. It includes this:

[N]or launches or lawns tempt him that pursueth the rural Pan. In the hushed recesses of Hurley backwater where the canoe may be paddled almost under the tumbling comb of the weir, he is to be looked for; there the god pipes with freest abandonment. Or under the great shadow of Streatley Hill, ‘annihilating all that’s made to a green thought in a green shade’; or better yet, pushing an explorer’s prow up the remote untravelled Thame, till Dorchester’s stately roof broods over the quiet fields. In solitudes such as these Pan sits and dabbles, and all the air is full of the music of his piping.2

What an old Romantic! But I go along with him. Being privileged to now live in the Chilterns, Hurley, Streatley and Dorchester are quite accessible and although more than a century has elapsed since Grahame’s telling of his tale – a century during which infrastructure has etched itself ever more across the surface of the land – there are still the quiet places, Earth’s gardens, where one can hear Pan’s pipes with a clarity that is all too rare these days.

Aargh! by David Pinder

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