September 1958 to July 1961

Scene 1 – Student Life

went for my interview at Chester College at the end of August 1958. As I had no suit, or any other suitable clothing that would fit, I went in my uniform. I suppose that I really wanted to be seen in my nice clean and almost new khaki uniform, with three glowing white stripes on each sleeve, the shoulder flashes ‘Royal Army Educational Corps’ and, most important, the GSM medal ribbon.

My father dropped me off at the college gates, saying that he would wait in the car with his newspaper. With hindsight I now realise that he was more anxious than I was that the college should accept me. I was quite blasé about it, as all the information I had received so far seemed to refer to me as a student but with the added hand-written proviso “subject to a satisfactory interview”. I felt that this was their necessary safeguard and that I would not have any great problem in being accepted. Certainly, I had no qualms or butterflies such as one usually experiences before an interview.

I walked up to the main college entrance on a beautiful sunny morning and rang the bell. A secretary who smiled and asked, “Are you Sgt Hunt?” opened it within seconds. I affirmed that I was, and was shown to a chair in the hallway. She then went into the Principal’s room, just a couple of paces away, closing the door behind her. I could hear the muttering of their voices. No other sound. No student noises, of course, as they were still on vacation. It seemed to be just me, the secretary, and a loudly ticking grandfather clock.

I was ushered in after the briefest of pauses; after all, they had been expecting me and I was the only candidate for interview. I was introduced to the Principal, the Rev Aubrey J Price, a large bodied man with a large head. He was affable and friendly, but one was immediately in awe of him. “Good morning, Sgt Hunt!” he said, “Welcome back to Blighty!”

That was a good start, obviously it took an old soldier to recognise one. He then introduced me to the Vice-Principal, Mr John L Bradbury, an ancient white-haired man who seemed to enjoy making his own quips, which no-one else understood, and chuckling at them. Inevitably, it was only polite that one should cluck with him.

It was an easy and friendly interview. I was obviously of the right stock to be admitted; that, after all, was what they were checking out. Of course, they asked the usual questions including the one I had already been asked many times in the past and would be asked still many more times in the years ahead “Why do you want to be a teacher?” This is the usual icebreaker to put the candidate at ease. Let me hasten to add that not for one moment did I ever underestimate, either then or at any other time, the intelligence and professionalism of these two senior academic figures.

The interview concluded with them saying that they looked forward to me being on the college roll. They told me that my main subjects would be Handicrafts and Geography, with the subsidiary subjects that all students took at college, namely English, Education, Mathematics, R.E. and P.E. (Just like school!) I told them about my having taken A-Level Art, to which they responded that when I knew the result, I was to let them know and they would take another look at my timetable. I thanked them, and politely asked if they could sign a form for the M.O.D. that confirmed my place and would ensure my premature release. This was done, and in addition I was handed all the bumph from the college with reference to the new intake of students, dates and times and so on.

I joined father in the car after just barely half an hour; we were both pleased that I had been accepted. I was bemused to note as I looked quickly through the college documents, that my name was already printed amongst the list of first-year students starting in September. It confirmed my own inner feelings about the interview. There was only one other time in my life that I was to feel so certain about the outcome of an interview. The next would be under different circumstances some sixteen years later, when I went for promotion.

y first day at Chester Diocesan Training College - ‘for gentleman teachers’ - was on Wednesday 17^th September 1958. I now sported a new navy-blue blazer and grey flannel trousers, with the essential white shirt and tie. Everyone wore jacket and tie in those days. At some stage, I had been given the choice of being a Resident or a Day student. I chose the former, without a moment’s hesitation. The last thing that I wanted was to live at home, and have my entire social life curtailed, or at least observed by other members of the family at Thornton! Moreover, transport was a problem, with only one bus a day and the bicycle ride taking a good half an hour. Anyway, this was a good decision as I later observed the handful of day students who disappeared off the campus, around the middle of the afternoon, never to emerge until the next day. They therefore lost out on the camaraderie of college life, and even when they stayed on to join in, they were very much outsiders, as they had to leave early and travel home. On a few occasions like party or ‘celebration’ nights, they would find means of dossing down somewhere on the campus, but they must still have felt like outsiders. I was also lucky because in later years, with my home being just a few miles away, I would have had no say in my choice of residence.

My fellow students and I were known as the First Year; shades of school that I was to see so much at college. The seniors, who had been there for a year were, naturally enough, the Second Year. An arrangement peculiar to Chester College, was a Mid-Year, who joined each January. There were about a hundred students in each year.

ll First Years, except for the afore-mentioned day students, were in Halls of Residence. This was good news as it brought us all together and, of course, helped our newness to the whole scenario of college life. Apart from just a handful in my year, the vast majority had done National Service and were therefore aged around twenty or twenty-one. This was significant, as we must have been the last intake at college to consist almost wholly of ex-Conscripts. From next January, the new Mid-Year students would show a majority of eighteen-year olds, and a few who, unlike me, had been unable to obtain early release. The date for the phasing out of National Service, still two or three years away, had already been announced, so there was a general relaxation of the rules, particularly for those going into further or higher education.

The Hall of Residence was a three-storey building with adequate single rooms on each floor. I was on the middle floor, which was better than the bottom floor as one tended to be knocked-up at all sorts of hours by those who arrived back late. If they saw your light on you did not get much rest after 11pm. This was the another amazing thing that I discovered about college life - the doors were locked at that time, when everyone was expected to be in! It still never ceases to amaze me that, even in those days, the chaps who had been defending the Realm for the previous two years, many of them Overseas in Germany, the Mediterranean and the Far East, were now to obey dormitory rules of having a curfew time. No visitors of course, and a member of the opposite sex seen anywhere on the campus may just as well have walked around with a loud klaxon announcing her whereabouts. In addition, the two main halls of residence each had a single lecturer who lived in a suite on the ground floor. He was interpreted as some kind of a Housemaster, but to my knowledge, no one ever consulted him for pastoral advice.

Anyway, I must confess that, in those early days before I had really got to know anyone, I found myself back on the campus about ten minutes after eleven, with the main door firmly shut. I had been back to Thornton to collect essential supplies, and went via the Oakes’s in Stocks Lane to leave my bicycle with them. I had rushed through the streets of Chester, knowing that time was getting short. Therefore, I had to think about what to do next. There were only a few lights on, perhaps because it was a weeknight, and being right at the start of term the students were no doubt still in a state of shock. I just could not bring myself to tap at some-body’s window. To me it seemed such an intrusion. Later, when I had got to know some of them, and when I got to know the college system better, I realised I had been unduly sensitive to their non-existent feelings. However, at that time I just could not do it.

I wondered whether to go back to the Oakes’s, but similarly I realised it was a dreadful imposition, particularly as they would be in bed. Therefore, I decided to stay up all night. That, of course, was no sweat to an ex-serviceman who had done guard duties. A mere seven hours was nothing. I was not the least bit worried about the lack of sleep, and it was a warm evening so there was no worry about the weather. I therefore set off for the centre of Chester. My first move was to walk round the City Walls for the umpteenth time in my life.

t would have been past midnight when I found myself at the Groves, down by the River Dee. The advantage of this spot was that it had many benches, on which one could sit, rest or sleep. I stayed here for quite some time; the only thing I can remember is that I did not sleep, although I would have had my eyes closed. I was completely alone by the riverside, no noise apart from the lapping water and the occasional nocturnal movement from the swans on the river, and the birds in the trees.

It was about two in the morning when I decided to make a move. I thought I would walk around the city streets, just to see what signs of life there were. I went past the ice-cream kiosk and noticed the crate full of one-pint bottles of milk. The only thing that struck me as strange was that I had not heard the milkman. I was very tempted to take a swig from one of the bottles; no one would ever know. I can only assume that part of my inner self - we all have it - told me that it is wrong to take something that does not belong to you. At any rate, I convinced myself that it was now quite cool and that I did not really fancy a cold drink.

So back on the city walls, I made my way to the Eastgate Bridge. My shoes were obviously soft-soled, as without them hearing me, I came across the two police officers on the Newgate Bridge. I stopped for two or three seconds. They were leaning over the parapet looking away from me. I wondered whether to creep back in the hope of not being seen, but discounted this, as it would have appeared as though I were guilty. Therefore, I continued walking across the bridge, and in fact made a noise with my feet merely to confirm that I had nothing to hide. They turned as one, immediately shone their torches in my face and spoke; they were not unfriendly but were obviously on their guard.

“Good morning, Constables” I said. In those days, that was the correct form of address.

“Good morning, sir” they said, “And may we ask where you are going?”

Of course, they really wanted to know where I had been, who I was, and what I was doing.

I told them my full tale of woe, all the while their torches blinding me. It was a sign of the times that they did not even bother to frisk me. Admittedly I was wearing only my blazer and slacks, but in later years, as we all know, any person regardless of sex or age would, at the very least, have been more thoroughly checked out for stolen credit cards, money, tools, weapons or drugs. After a while, one of them said “Shall we all go for a stroll then?” and with that we all retraced the steps I had taken back to the riverside.

They asked me where I had rested; as one seat looks pretty much the same as another I pointed out the general direction, but obviously couldn’t be sure exactly which one it was. I need not have worried about that small detail, as it was the general direction that they were interested in. My heart thumped as we went straight to the kiosk and the crate full of milk bottles! They shone their torches on the crate; every bottle intact!

“They seem to be alright,” said one policeman to the other.

“Why, what’s the matter?” I asked.

“Some-one’s been taking the milk, so we thought we ought to check it out,” said the other.

I just could not believe it! I felt guilty - I had almost broken one of the cardboard milk-bottle tops to have a free gulp. It would have cost me dear. My whole future would have ended that very day. Any pleas of innocence would have been discounted. “Gentlemen Schoolmasters” I was to hear the Principal preach to all and sundry over and over again, “Are not expected to behave in such a questionable manner,” and “The future of our young citizens rests with you.”

I have no doubt that I would have been expelled from college just three days after starting, and with a criminal record. As it was, I was seen to be innocent. However, the police did not want to let me go, so they slowly walked me back to the police station, right next door to the Town Hall, and across the road from the Cathedral. In we went and I was left on my own in the entrance, but by a desk, whilst they reported to their sergeant. They all kept looking over at me. Eventually the sergeant, a kindly looking moustachioed man with a shining pate fetched me, took me behind the counter and gave me a cup of tea. In those days, one just did not drink cups of coffee as one does these days. He wrote down all the details again, my name and address and so on. Somehow, I managed to persuade him that he did not really need to contact my parents, at such an unearthly hour, but to my horror, he did telephone the Principal to establish my identity. I clearly heard him say “There are no charges sir, no offence has been committed.”

He then told me “Your Principal wants to see you first thing in the morning, as soon as you get back.” He then barked at me, “ Now take my advice and go and get some rest in the sports room. Here, follow me.” He then took me to a dark, stuffy, smoky room, which contained a covered-over billiard table, darts, board and so on. The police rest room.

“Get yourself in that armchair, and get some rest” he ordered. It was not a request.

Left alone I reassessed the whole venture. Phew! How awful it could have been - but was I off the hook yet? What would the Principal have to say? It was now about four in the morning, and there was no question of me sleeping. At about six o’clock I left the police station, letting the person on the desk know that I was going - although no interest was shown in me - and entered the daylight of Chester City, which was bustling with life and activity.

t took only a few minutes to reach the college, but no way could I go and see the Principal in my rather dishevelled state. Anyway, I reasoned he would not know what time I had left the police station. So I went to my hall of residence, the front door of which was now wide open. (In all my three years at the college, as both a residential and non-residential student I never discovered, nor ever spoke to anyone who knew who actually opened the door every morning, or at what time).

After a shower and a complete change of clothing, I went to the Principal’s house at just on seven o’clock. He opened the door and took me into his study. We went over the evening’s events - at which he interrupted to say that my first mistake was not to knock up the resident tutor. He then asked “Why didn’t you come and see me as soon as you arrived back?” I told him that I wanted to get tidied up, at which he responded that he had not been back to bed since being disturbed by the police. “You are not in the army now, Sgt Hunt!” he said sharply. It was a sticky session which ended when he told me that I was to report to the residential tutor “And let’s see what he has to say about one of his students who chooses to roam the streets of Chester at night.”

I departed, and eventually went for breakfast and then all my lessons for the day. (‘Lessons!’ – Did you notice that I did not say ‘lecture’ or ‘tutorial’?) There is no doubt that the lack of sleep was creeping up on me, but I had to go at some stage and see the dammed resident tutor. I put off going at lunchtime, although I saw him going to his room, and finally plucked up courage some time before the evening meal. He invited me in, bade me sit down, and said, “Well, what can I do for you, young man?” I thought “Jeez, does he know about all this, or is he having me on?” Obviously, the Principal had appropriately briefed him, but he heard me out in silence. He then said, “What do you think I should do about you now?” With head hung in shame I declared that I did not know. Anyway, after a - thankfully short - lecture he warned me that I could have been rusticated, and that he would be watching me in the future “To make sure that you have settled in satisfactorily.”

I went back to my room and looked up the word ‘rusticated’; not having been to a boarding school I was unfamiliar with such words. I was relieved to see that it meant I would be kept on the campus, rather than meaning that I would be excommunicated from the college.

The incident was never referred to again, and I never mentioned it to anybody either; partly a feeling of guilt that I had ‘let the side down’ and partly because I felt a bit of a prick. What an issue over nothing. How differently it would all have been a generation later.

Actually just barely a week later I sent the Principal the post card I had received informing me that I had passed my A-Level Art Examination, along with the English Language O-Level (for the second time). I also asked whether this meant that I could now do Art with Handicrafts, instead of Geography. A couple of days later back came the reply.

“Dear David, well done on your A-Level Art success; regret that Art with Handicrafts is not a good combination, and feel that you would do well to stick with Geography”.

So that was that; no discussion and no argument. I now looked forward to settling down to a full, uninhibited college life. I wanted no more worries.

t college one quickly teamed up with fellow aspirants; usually students in your group for many of the lectures. So it was that I befriended Gordon Hebden from Blackburn, Roy Watmough from Accrington, and Dave Airey from Ormskirk. Gordon suffered from asthma, and so did not do national service; I can’t remember what Dave’s back ground was, except that he was the biggest boozer of all time; and Roy who had been in the RAF and in Singapore. So I was not alone in having the general service medal.

We cemented our friendship by exploring all the public houses of Chester. In those days the pubs did not open until six in the evening, and closed at ten-thirty. We soon became something of ‘a gang’ particularly when we inaugurated ‘the Dee mile.’ Being the only Cestrian at college, I had often boasted to my fellow students about my prowess at swimming this event, the local grammar school tradition. So was born the idea of a non-nautical event, an unlikely rival to my swimming career of the past. This Dee mile required one to have a drink in each pub between the Northgate and the Bridgegate.

Now Chester was a Roman fortress city. Gates or bridges at the usual compass points, and wherever else they needed one, had long been established. Between the two gates mentioned above, the first being nearest to the college, there were something like fifteen pubs – on the right-hand side of the road only. Had we used the pubs on both sides the task would have been impossible.

The Dee mile required one to have a drink in each pub. Being sensible types, we set the rules to be a half of beer. In those days, it would either be bitter, or mild, or a combination of the two known as ‘mixed.’ The latter was the most popular.

Dressed smartly – no one ever thought of going out without a shirt and tie, blazer and slacks – we would proceed with the mission. Now, drinking half-pints is a bit like drinking through a straw. The increased oxygen has a remarkable intoxicating effect. Consequently, we appeared in each public house as a very chatty group. Our leader would then place our order with the hapless governor, with something like “Two halves of mild, a half of bitter, seven halves of mixed, and we’ll all pay for our own, please.”

However, we had no problems. They were happy for our custom. Nevertheless, as the evening progressed, one or two of our number began to show signs of ‘not keeping the pace.’ The Bear & Billet was the last pub before the Bridgegate, and only the hardiest reached it, having consumed the correct amount in each. Many would reach it having cheated – by surreptitiously swopping drinks, or pouring some away – and the resultant crawl back to college left us a sorry looking, dishevelled bunch. The next day’s hangover, followed by a quiet night in our rooms, seemed to be a necessary part of the ritual. We often spoke about producing a certificate to commemorate the feat, but we never did. I must emphasise that the Dee mile was not a regular occurrence, but we certainly did it once or twice a term.

n their very early days at least, the most popular public house for college students had to be The George & Dragon. Apart from the fact that it was large, with room for plenty of students, and the fact that it was of a robust pseudo-Mediaeval appearance, it had one other important attribute. It was the nearest pub to college, being just a couple of hundred yards up the road.

It therefore became the first watering hole after lectures had ended for the day. And within its precincts was born a choir of doubtful melodious virtue. It happened like this.

We regularly broke into singsong mode at The George & Dragon. It was the done thing, before jukeboxes dictated the mood of the house. We would sing pop numbers, but also the popular music hall types, like ‘Roll Out The Barrel,’ and ‘She’s A Lassie From Lancashire.’ Thus it came about that one night after we had drunk up, and whilst we were in the toilet, Gordon and I chatted to this old Welsh type, who starting to break into the refrain ‘Guide Me O’er Thou Great Jehovah.’ Well, after the drinks we had consumed, we did not need much prompting, and within seconds, some ten or fifteen students – all having a leak before the walk back to college or digs - joined in. The Welsh have often claimed Chester, and this tune was particularly popular in local chapels – as well as in public houses. By the end of the hymn we were all singing lustily and, as one believes at the time, quite melodiously.

Some nights later, and weekends were our best, we had a repeat performance, with the same old crone who came with us to the loo. He told us how much he had enjoyed our singing last time. So much so that he got us started on other hymns. However, nothing could beat Cym Rhonda for boisterous singing, and it remained the all-time favourite.

Thus was born what we called the George & Dragon Shit House Choir. I was a founder member, and I did not miss many performances.

s I have previously intimated, the one thing that got me - and all my fellow students - about college life was that it seemed to be merely an extension of school life. Of course, we had no previous experience of the world of academe other than our grammar schools and sixth forms, so this could have been the norm, but somehow we felt that it was not the jolly, free and wild life we had expected. Certainly, after the adult and manly world of national service this was something of a shock.

We had even got prefects, for God’s sake! Well, not exactly, as we elected them in the student common room, but they were the ones who, on becoming members of the Students Guild, seemed to be the only ones who went out and bought the bright green college blazer with college badge. This made them stand out even further and tended to earmark them. They received few favours, certainly none from fellow students, but they had monthly meetings with the Principal, and attended his end of term sherry drink; one could not really call it a party.

In the dining room, at lunchtime and for the evening meal, the duty prefect - sorry, member of the Guild - rang the bell and said Grace. He also made any announcements, if he could be heard above the murmur of disapproval. Members of the Students Guild were rated on their pub-worthiness. If they joined the rest for a good booze session, then they scored top marks. If they went to the college chapel morning and evening, were in the chapel choir, were swots, and generally avoided pubs, then their student popularity-rating was not one to be mentioned in their memoirs.

he college had its own ancient Church, known as the college chapel, which generally seemed to have a fairly non-denominational type of service; I certainly went a couple of times in the early days. However, for most of the manly and worldly-wise students that we now thought we were, church parade was something that we could afford to miss. It was a prerequisite of dress, both for chapel and for the dining room, that we would all wear our undergraduate gowns. For many, this tended to increase the gravity and formality that they wanted to avoid; others revelled in it. For many of our lectures, we were also required to wear gowns, which I suppose they thought instilled some kind of academic air.

e all had a set timetable of lessons - one could hardly call them lectures - five days of the week from 9.30 am to 4.30 PM, and on Saturday mornings. There was little chance of skiving off these lectures; just occasionally one could ask permission to attend some other function or event that had some specific interest. I remember once being released to watch Billy Wright, well known Wolves and England soccer star, give a practical demonstration to the P.E.Course. The only thing I can remember is that his jaguar car had the registration number BEV 1 - he had married the eldest of the Beverly Sisters trio.

hester College was of course a Teachers’ Training College; it was under the auspices of the University of Liverpool, Department of Education. All students took English Language, and the subject of Education, which covered everything from Dame Schools to current Education Acts. In addition, each student studied two main subjects, which could be taken at the ‘ordinary’ or the ‘advanced’ level. I was taking Art and Geography at the advanced level. Just like school, if you failed at the advanced level you would get it at the ‘ordinary’ level. Ironically, the qualification for taking the subject at ‘advanced’ level at college was to have gained the same subject at GCE Advanced Level. This was because they claimed that the level of study was Intermediate Degree Level.

The majority of students were aiming to teach in the primary sector, but most subjects were covered for the secondary sphere. In this latter respect, Chester specialised in two particular secondary subjects, namely P.E. and Handicrafts. This was because, along with Needlework and Domestic Science in female colleges, these subjects were not offered at university. Consequently Chester offered the Third Year Supplementary Course in P.E. and also in Handicraft. The general Teaching Certificate was awarded after a successful two-year course and, after a recommended five-year period of teaching, mature students would try to get back to college to take this third year Course and hope to get the Supplementary Certificate. The possession of this Certificate certainly put one far above the rest of the field of candidates.

alk about a cloistered, moral and pure existence at college. One day we were all summoned to the student common room. No one knew what it was about. The President of the Student Guild had not a clue, except that it was a three-line whip and all first year students had to be present. It was mid-morning, and the principal entered with the vice-principal in tow, gowns swirling. The members of the students’ guild, sitting just like prefects facing the rest of us, stood respectfully; the rest of us remained seated. The principal looked at us seriously, wisely ignoring our lack of respect.

“I have to speak to you on a matter of grave importance, a matter affecting each and every one of you.” he said. All one hundred and more of us were hushed, not a movement or sound. What had happened, we all wondered. Afterwards, many of us said that we had thought he had found out about The George & Dragon shit house choir, and that we were for the chop.

But no, the principal went on to deliver a lecture about the shame and disrepute into which the college had been dragged; how the reputation of each and every one of us was now irredeemable because of the actions of one of our number. What had happened was this; one of our intake had gone home for the weekend and had left the keys to his room with his mate who was living in digs. This was quite a common practice, as it gave one a base on the campus at weekends when girl friends were allowed on the premises (during the hours of daylight only, you understand).

Well, the poor bugger who lent his keys fell ill, with some kind of fever which left him delirious and unable to think straight. His do-good parents came to the college to collect his washing and his study material as, even at this early stage of his sickness it was realised he was going to be away for quite a long time. Of course, they couldn’t find his keys at home, so on arriving at the college on the Sunday afternoon, they went to see the principal, who was most sympathetic and supportive, sharing their anxieties and so on.

They probably had a quiet prayer together. If they did not need it answering just at that moment, some other poor sod did. The principal, carrying his master keys, went with the doting parents to their son’s room. After unlocking the door, he opened it “To reveal a naked member of this college, hastily trying to pull on his underclothes, and a young woman - she cannot be described as a lady - attempting to cover her nether regions under the bedclothes.”

So, that was it! What a crime! That was one potential teacher that the profession was to lose; I never knew him, and have no idea whether he might have been a good teacher or not. The whole episode certainly gave us something to talk about that night. We were united in our sympathy for the poor bloke who had been sent down “in disgrace”. We often mused, giggled and wondered what it must have been like for him, just at that moment in time when he heard the keys in the door and, a second later saw the principal framed before him.

n my First Year at the College, on the handicraft course, I made from Parana Pine a large wooden toolbox, with dovetail joints at its corners, and the corners of the two tray inserts. In addition, one made several other carpentry joints as display items, with a few items from the wood turning lathe. One also started the design for the two-year project, which, in my case was going to be a dinner trolley.

So College was a bit like school, no freedom to choose when to make the effort to attend lectures. We had two teaching practices (TP’s) a year. I can remember going to Overleigh Road secondary school in Handbridge, in Chester - the headmaster being one Nobby Scott who used to teach geography at the grammar school. Then there was the Bromborough secondary modern school, at Bebington in the Wirral- this was a particularly happy environment in which to work. A secondary school in Birkenhead was quite the opposite, and the head walked around with a cane in his hands, even for the morning assembly.

These teaching practices were very exhausting because those schools out of town required you to go on the set ‘coach tour’ every day, for three weeks. Dropping everyone off at their respective schools early in the morning, and then picking them up again at the end of the day, was a two or three hour chunk of time that we students could have put to better use by staying in bed. The morning journeys were always silent, a combination of dread, tiredness and hangover. The evening trips were livelier with everyone quite animated. The Friday evening trips were raucous, with filthy rugger songs filling the air. This put everyone in the right frame of mind for a good night’s ‘sesh.’