Freddy Jones

RECOLLECTIONS OF AN OLD BOY AT BLAISDON HALL.

My name is Frederick Jones. I was one of the boys residing at Blaisdon Hall between 1953 and 1956. When I went home to my mother's house for Christmas 1956, I was told I would not be returning to Blaisdon after the Christmas holidays. The news came with mixed emotions; part of me was glad, for I had missed being away from London and all it had to offer, but at the same time I can recall many happy times during my stay at Blaisdon and the spirit of camaraderie that prevailed in this small school of just 80 boys.

I did however keep in touch with Father Hilton by letter, and was pleased to do my little bit towards raising funds by selling the Christmas raffle tickets he sent me. In time, with my mother moving house a few times over the following years, I failed to keep up correspondence with Father Hilton, and the rust set in.

I believe it was about the mid seventies when, on impulse, I drove to Blaisdon and was surprised to find that all the boys and most of the staff were away. I did however meet up with Father Hilton and Brother Joe, and one or two of the other priests and brothers who were not there during my stay.

Father Hilton kindly took me on a 'tour of remembrance' and although structurally the place seemed not to have changed much, I was struck by a collection of acoustic guitars and other musical instruments lying in a bay window of the chapel. I was however slightly disappointed to note, that the 'T' shaped carpet on the altar and its steps that I had helped Father Hilton to weave, was no longer there. Father explained that it had worn away with the passage of some 20 odd years.

I was allowed to meander about freely on my own for an hour or so, and as I did the memories came back to me, and this is where I commit myself to recalling some of those memories in keeping with the request made in the correspondence on the website to do so.

My first sight of Blaisdon Hall loomed up as a foreboding place, with walls built from granite blocks, and its imposing bell tower, it seemed altogether the last place on earth I wanted to be. In the main hall, massive portraits of stern-looking men glared down upon us, leaving me and the other boys who had stepped off the bus with me, spellbound. We had no time to ponder over this; the dormitory monitor saw to that. 'All right, you Newgies,' he shouted, follow me.' He turned sharply and led the way up a grand curving staircase.

In the 'dorm' we were allocated our beds and a small locker into which everything we possessed was stowed at double time, and then off to the refectory for tea, or was it supper? Although I didn't know much about Charles Dickens and Oliver Twist at the time, the refectory, which was now called the 'ref.' might have come from Oliver's tales; four long, heavy wooden tables, and backless wooden benches occupied most of the space and we were 'pointed' to our places, where we sheepishly sat down. Hardly were we seated, than in marched Father Wilson, a huge man who moved like a tornado for his rostrum and raised his hands. We all stood up and followed him with Grace before meals. Down went his hands, and the next thing there was a mad rush for the Servery counter, and food. Good food, as I remember, full of the kind of nutritious content of carbohydrates, vegetables, and meat for the main course, and something like treacle pie and custard for pudding. The babble then began to rise, and it was at these tables we Newgies learnt a thing or two, including a new language. Slices of bread were called, 'dorks', short trousers were referred to as 'uxters' or was that 'huxters? Long trousers were 'longies', and before long we were introduced to other items of nomenclature that could not be found in the thickest dictionary.

The babble was brought to a hush and all eyes went to Father Wilson who was holding a book aloft. We Newgies had no idea what this was all about, and Father Wilson gave us no clue beyond the book being waved aloft. Suddenly hands began to strike the air, and a dig in the ribs from the boy next to me indicated that I should do the same. I acquiesced, though having little idea what I was letting myself in for. I noticed the other Newgies sticking up there hands, so whatever it was we were all in the same boat now. Father did a quick count of the hands, and, smiling triumphantly, opened the book and began to read. 'The Female of The Species' he boomed. 'Chapter five.'

Over the following weeks we gradually became accustomed to the routine at Blaisdon, and shortly we were no longer referred to as 'Newgies'.

We learned how to clean our bedrooms and other offices throughout the building, we were taught how to dress properly – an early morning inspection parade saw to that. We soon learned to respect the rules, and our companions; unruly behaviour would not be tolerated. All boys were expected to be on time for everything we were expected to be on time for, such as Mass, lessons in the classrooms, PT in the playground, Benediction, meals, and bedtime.

There were other lessons to be learned, or rather ignored, since some of them were quite disgusting. While Father Wilson recited Grace, it was the habit of a few boys to smother their fingers with saliva, and then 'bag' two or three slices of bread. Another trick was when a boy would pull a 'bogie' from his nose and flick it into your soup. Whether this action was real or staged, the thought of a bogie in one's soup was a real off-putter.

We made friends of course, and, although now he may not remember me, (or agree with me) my favourite friend was Terry Chaplin. One reason why I latched on to him was perhaps because he was small, like myself. We used to speed each other from one end of the playground to the other on roller skates, and took part in the concerts together. I was still somewhat shy at that time and was a reluctant actor going for the smallest parts, while Terry was something of a star. He played the Captain in a musical called 'Once Aboard a Lugger' in which I took a minor role as one of the chorus. I had a part as the magistrate/prompter in 'A Merchant of Venice' which between them accounted for the whole of my acting repertoire.

Terry and I were in the school choir, and, as a soloist what a beautiful contralto voice he had – mine was a close second, or so I would like to believe.

Our mentor was Father Rogers, who had great patience while putting us through our practices, and he himself was quite an accomplished musician. Some of the boys were not over keen on learning music, and even less so on hearing about the famous composers, such as Mozart, Hayden, and Beethoven, but Father Rogers had such a charming way about him, even the less enthusiastic were taken in by his melodious manner.

Terry Chaplin had other duties; at breakfast it was his job to divide a slab of butter into square segments, getting about twenty of them from the slab. He also served up dollops of jam, scooping them up on one spoon, and depositing them on plates with the other.

I have spoken of making friends. We also had 'enemies' in the form of the odd bully. In the playground one of the swings was like an open umbrella without any cover. It revolved around a thick column in the centre, and, as we rode it, it swayed to and from the centre. Great fun, until one of the boys whose name will remain a secret, decided to start calling me names from across the other side of the brolly. He was quite acerbic with it, not at all in a playful way. I was not easily riled and abhorred violence, but this boy kept it up too long. A couple in my gang saw what was going on, and read the fury building up in my eyes. 'Go on, Jonesy, give him one!' started a chorus around the swing, and other boys were attracted to the possibility of a 'punch up'. Fired by the bully's continuing jeering, and the mounting support I was receiving, I suddenly leapt from the swing, dashed over to the bully, and landed a full fist into his mouth that sent him toppling to the ground. I was shocked to discover he was clutching a mouth oozing blood, and I believe he was grasping a tooth in his palm. I was half afraid that the sight of his own blood would send him into a rage, but I stood over him, fists clenched, and ready to finish him off, as I was being egged on to do by the frantic bystanders. 'Let that be a lesson to you!' I shouted, moving from foot to foot, fists still at the ready.

The commotion aroused the attention of a couple of monitors who came briskly over, demanding what was going on. I'll give the bully some credit for not 'snitching' on me. He told the monitors he had fallen from the swing, and asked if he could go to the infirmary.

I was amazed at how quickly I rose from being a pip squeak of a boy to one that needed to be respected. Other boys held doors open for me, and wanted to be in my gang, as it had now become so famous. I'm pleased to say that serious punch-ups were a rarity, due in no small measure to the vigilance of the Brothers and monitors, and of course our education in good sportsmanship.

Brother Alan was my Dorm Master, as well as metalwork tutor. A kind and considerate man who was very approachable. I therefore suppose it was unfair to him for me and a couple of my gang to sneak out of the house in the middle of the night to go scrumping apples in Mrs. Day's orchard in the village. It was of course an act of bravado, since we were never short of apples, but there are no apples quite as sweet as the ones you've scrumped!

Other activities and pastimes included a month during the summer holidays down in Porthcawl under canvas, sleeping on straw filled mattresses, and mucking in preparing and cooking food, and clearing away afterwards. The tents were huge army type marquees that were lit by very low wattage bulbs strung like garlands along the length of the tents' roofs. After lights out, the Boogie Man would emerge from some dark corner and scare the wits out of us, but it was hilarious fun that brought the evenings to a nice close.

In September it was time for potato picking. We would be taken on a tractor/trailer to the fields and given 'allotments' from which to harvest the 'spuds' as the plough churned up the soil. We received fourpence a sack, and it was an unlucky chap whose allotment gave a poor yield. Around 11 a.m. we had Elevenses; thick 'dorks' of bread and jam and steaming mugs of tea. Most of us made enough cash from the harvest to see us through the term. The tuck shop took most of that hard-earned cash, but at least we had it to start with and do with as we pleased.

Wednesday afternoons were half-days in which we could choose to play the sport of the season (football or cricket) or go for a walk. I usually opted for a walk since I was not madly keen on either football or cricket. The walks took us out of the environment of 'discipline' and allowed for some relaxation along the way. I was a keen car-spotter, so a break from the walk up on the main highway allowed me to jot down the details of passing cars – a Sunbeam Talbot here, a Rover there, coming into view a Mayflower, followed by a Morris 8, and then there were some.

On one of the term breaks, I think Easter, for those who decided to stay on at Blaisdon, an outing to the Forest of Dean with a large bag of potatoes and tins of Spam or beef was organised. After building a bonfire and tossing in the potatoes, we dashed off into the woods to play games. There was a place called, St. Anthony's Well, which was more like two small man-made concrete reservoirs set in a stream. The smaller of these wells measured about ten feet by ten feet and it overflowed into a bigger well of some twenty feet by ten. We would drink the most beautifully chilled, sweet water from the smaller well, and, for those brave enough to plunge into the icy water of the bigger well, there was swimming. Then it was grub-up time.

The charred potatoes didn't look very appetising, but once the skin was peeled away, they were deliciously flowery and went down well with margarine and salt.. This was my first experience of outdoor cooking, and I enjoyed it immensely.

Down on the farm feeding the pigs was another diversion that allowed us an escape from routine, even if for me mucking out the pens was hardly a cherished memory.

It is said that everyone will have his or her ten minutes of fame at some stage in his or her life. For me it was more like three minutes on the occasion of the visit from the Rector Major, Don Ziggiotti in 1954. I read Tony Brady's account of this visit, but sadly found no mention of the speech I had made in the Main Hall on that special occasion, which was, incidentally, recorded on film. Unfortunately, upon enquiring about it on my mid-seventies visit, nothing was known on the whereabouts of the film.

The speech had been carefully worded by one of the Fathers who drilled me for a whole afternoon on how I should deliver it. He placed much stress on the correct Italian pronunciation of 'Ziggiotti'. I was so versed in it by the time of its delivery, that even today I can recall the opening lines, which went;

Very Reverend and dear Father Ziggioti. We wish to welcome you to this Salesian House, situated in one of the best English settings; the Forest of Dean, overlooking the Severn Valley and the distant Cotswold Hills. It also contains some of the best-willed Salesian boys….

I believe that seems a good point on which to end the recollections of my time spent at Blaisdon Hall.

Freddie, What a great recollection to add to our collection. John

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BLAISDON OLD BOY MAKES CONTACT AFTER 50+ Years.

12 September 2010

Dear Tony,

It is only recently that I decided to look up Blaisdon Hall on the Internet. This is partly because I had long since lost touch with the Hall, its residents, boys, and so forth. Another reason is because I had put my schooldays behind me, and thus the interest waned. I make no other excuses for this, but having explored the website, I became sufficiently stimulated to make a contribution in the form of my recollections of Blaisdon, as set out below.*

In the section marked 'Personal Profiles' on the website, there is no indication as to how a potential contributor might make his or her offering, so I'm addressing this to you as yours is only one of a few e-mail addresses listed elsewhere, and also because you gave such vivid accounts of your own experiences.. If I have sent this to the wrong person, could you kindly re-direct it to the proper place?

Before going on to my project, I should advise you that I have been living in Bangkok, Thailand for the past 24 years working as an English language instructor for the Royal Thai Army, and prior to that I spent 4 years working in Saudi Arabia, first as a nurse supervisor in the emergency room of a hospital, and then as a nursing officer in an oil refinery. This will indicate that not only have I been out of touch with Blaisdon, but also family and friends back in the U.K. for nearly thirty years. However, I do not wish to extend on my life's history, since this would be departing from my project, which I hope you'll find sufficiently interesting to publish on the website.

Thank you for your consideration,

Yours sincerely, Freddie Jones.

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Dear Freddy,

Many thanks for contacting us after such a long period. It is great to welcome you into our Blaisdon Brotherhood. We will add your name to our membership listing, and will ensure our Secretary, Wayne Howe is informed of your contact data.

Thank you also for an amazing Recollection of your time at Blaisdon Hall. What a memory!

Best wishes,

John

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