Xaverian College Manchester

Mr Lackey taught me geography at Xaverian and it was no small feat to actually get me a GCE ‘o’ level as a result. He was an intelligent mentor and had the key to success in exams. His particular method was to produce mnemonics for all the facts that we would need to regurgitate to be successful in the exam. Somehow these worked for me and the rest of the class. I would be surprised if anyone in the class failed as I held last position in class (Upper V 3) at that time. He also introduced boxing lessons to the school which I attended on occasions, never enough to develop the necessary skills but I did live a considerable distance from Rusholme, in Blackley.

He once asked me to deliver some tickets to a boxing event at St Clare’s secondary which I did. I trudged along in my school uniform and made my way to the Staff Room encountering some pretty awful language on the way which shocked my delicate sensibilities at that time. It all seemed so different from Xavs. As I had attended the primary school years before, I was even more grateful that my dad had the foresight (and was good enough to make sacrifices to pay) to move me to the prep school, I wouldn’t have thrived at St Clare’s…

At one point he was dating my cousin and this lasted a number of years. I got the impression from other relatives that she had been heart broken to realise that he was perfectly happy remaining a bachelor. In those far off days that seemed almost eccentric.  He was a truly nice bloke and probably the best teacher I had during my time at the school.

Bernard Lackey died  4th June 2018 aged 89.

Now this might sound a bit odd at first glance but I can assure you it’s true – another side to the enigmatic Brother Cyril Birtles. Brother Cyril occasionally took my class for music. There was an old piano in the conservatory attached to the back of St Anne’s Prep. We would gather round the piano and practise – usually hymns in Latin such as ‘Tantem Ergo’ which would be sung in church later. One day someone asked (probably me) whether Brother Cyril knew any other music apart from what we were all used to hearing, the rather dirge-like aforementioned hymns. He said ‘oh, you mean something like this:’ and proceeded to play a boogie woogie in the style of Jelly Roll Morton. I assure you that I didn’t dream this, it actually happened.

If anyone else out there witnessed this or similar events, please get in touch. Thinking back, this may have triggered my lifelong love of the blues which still lasts to this day. Another thank you to Brother Cyril Birtles!

A few years ago I visited Xaverian College with a couple of colleagues to view one of their student data systems – this was when I was developing IT systems in Further Education. The department we were visiting was in the Mayfield building at the far end of what used to be the cricket field but now appears to be a quad. This building used to be a seminary type establishment where future and existing brothers were domiciled. It was an odd feeling to be in the holy of holies, the beautiful wood bannisters and stained glass still visible and as dark and dramatic as I remembered it from over 40 odd years previously. It brought to mind a memory that I had completely forgotten.

We had a newcomer to our class from Huddersfield – his name has completely vanished unfortunately which is a shame as he became one of my very best school chums at the time. He joined our class because he had decided to become a Xaverian brother and stayed at Mayfield for probably about six months or so. I remember him telling me about a new batsman that had just started playing for Yorkshire, a young lad with glasses. He was very impressive – Geoffrey Boycott. For whatever reason, he decided that being a novitiate was not where his future lay and had some fairly scandalous opinions as to his fellow would-be brothers. I was incredibly naïve at the time and not sure what his issues were. He very much wanted to stay at college but just as a student. However, it was made clear to him that this was not a possibility – if he lost his vocation, he lost his school place. Off he trudged back to Huddersfield.

The visit to the college was rewarding. I remember going into the side entrance of what had formerly been the gym. The recessed handle was still the same one I had used many times in the past and conjured up many memories of house meetings that took place in that room. Mr Arklass was our house master. I was a member of Xaviers – the chosen ones. Every meeting seemed to be an excuse for telling us how rubbish we were, how other houses had accumulated more house points than we had etc etc. One day an older boy came in to the meeting without his school tie – oh what a an eruption that caused! Arklass was definitely old school – much shouting and a face that rapidly changed colour from sallow to dangerous red in a remarkably short period of time.

He once gave a speech that I never forgot. He said that there are boys who will waste their time at Xaverian and live to regret it. That some of them have come back and told him how much they wished they had worked harder. I knew at this particular time that I was about to have a car crash result from my forthcoming O levels. I also remembered saying to myself that I wouldn’t have regrets. Ha! He was right but I also discovered that you can only learn when you are ready to learn. In my case, it was round about 35…Here he is – the way I will always remember him ‘I’ve got my eye on you Cummings!’.

Tom Arklass

 

Having been a teacher myself, I’m not over keen on criticising others in my profession, but as the victim of the inadequacies apparent in the staff at Xavs in the 60s, I feel in a position to objectively pass comment. The recruitment policy, if there was one, was to play ultra safe… no women, no young inspirational firebrands… stick to middle aged white males, regardless of any ability to communicate. Mr CROTTY was one such member of staff. As noted by Bob, his methods were somewhat unorthodox. He would set a task… draw a map / copy from the blackboard or a book / dictate notes… then sit down and read The Times. When the inevitable noise broke out, he would walk the aisles between desks striking the heads of any boy who wasn’t bent over his book. He carried a ruler not only for striking purposes, but to actually measure the distance of head from book… 12″ was the recommended gap!

The rumour was that Crotty was suffering shell shock, but whatever the cause of his inability to teach… he just shouldn’t have been there… for his sake, or for ours. By year two we were fed up with his methods and delighted in taunting him. As he patrolled one side of the class, the opposite rows would sit bolt upright… Crotty would race across, ruler in hand only to discover on arrival that both rows had now got noses touching desks… meanwhile back in the other two rows, all were sitting up … this game would then continue for the whole of the lesson like some real life version of whack-a-mole.

In that second year, our form room was closest to the playing field and all the paraphernalia used for the Summer Show was temporarily stored there… including multiple sets of darts! Several targets were chalked onto the blackboard and every boy had at least one dart… Crotty arrived, saw the targets, turned his back on the class to erase them and on the shout of NOW, the blackboard was peppered with a blitz of darts. By the time he had turned round, every head was nose to desk… somehow that position of submission seemed to render the adopter immune to any form of punishment.

Another incident, this time in year 5, comes to mind… Crotty hadn’t changed but we were a lot more adventurous in our methods of disruption. By now he was regularly 5 minutes late in arriving for lessons which gave us a chance to be more creative. It was a hot Summer’s day and the windows were open… there were building works taking place on the new science block behind the classroom, so lots of building materials were to hand. We hauled in several lengths of scaffolding along with dozens of bricks and distributed them around the room at desk height… which cut the desks off from the front and blocked access to the aisles… all the boys along the back row then lit up and were billowing out smoke when Crotty entered the room. Incredibly, he didn’t appear to notice that anything was amiss and continued to deliver his lesson amid total mayhem…. Somehow, incredibly, maybe because I loved drawing maps with a fine nibbed pen and inks… I was one of the very few to pass Geography O Level.

Probably the most painful experience I can remember from all my time at Xaverian is the one relating to Mr Archdeacon. It probably contributed more to the reason my academic achievements slid off the scale and my earlier promise evaporated. It still fills me with mixed emotions over fifty years later.

I enjoyed being taught by Archie. I was very good at English Language – I was an avid reader of virtually anything I could get my hands on, my father was deputy Head Reader at the Daily Express who constantly corrected my grammar if I made the slightest error. I was only an average student when it came to English Literature – I wasn’t a big fan of Shakespeare and I think our set book was ‘The Memoirs of a Fox Hunting Man’ by Siegfried Sassoon which didn’t capture my imagination at all. George Orwell would have been a different story.

I think every student passed both subjects in my year, apart from myself who failed English Lit. I can’t verify this but it may well have been the case. Now the incident that set me on the wrong path:

We went on an evening trip to the Library Theatre, Manchester to watch Henry IV Part II which was our set Shakespeare play. Archie arranged to meet us in the foyer before the performance and I remember him saying “and don’t wear any teddy boy gear” in the lesson that afternoon. I thought this was just his joke – wrong! I had recently bought what I thought was a very smart jacket – five guineas from a gentleman’s outfitters on Oxford Road, Manchester. This had a small velvet collar and part lapel which I had associated more with the Beatles than anything else. I decided it would be the right thing to wear for an evening at the theatre.

When I got there Archie whispered in my ear: “I said no teddy boy gear!” I tried to convince him that this wasn’t what I was wearing and thought no more about it. The next week we submitted our homework based on a question asked about the play and my essay was probably a bit below par. When Mr Archdeacon returned my homework to me he began to berate me severely, not mentioning the ‘teddy boy gear’. What he did say was this: “Cummings, as far as I am concerned, you are no longer part of my English Literature class. You can submit homework but I will not mark it.” That is as much as I can remember as my emotions at that point prevented my from taking in anything else he said. Needless to say, I told no one, particularly not my parents nor Brother Cyril. I do remember becoming what these days is called ‘depressed’ and from being a promising student finished the year bottom of my class. I can’t blame Archie completely for this but I do wonder whether the level of shame I felt and lack of confidence that I had at that time were already present and the incident just hatched them. What made it worse for me was that I respected him as a teacher and his opinion meant a great deal. Schooldays weren’t always happy ones.

Mr Charles Sellars was our music teacher. For some reason he didn’t like me. This sometimes happens and I don’t remember the phenomenon mentioned in any of my further education teaching manuals when I eventually became one myself. I really tried to get myself liked but it was no use and I dropped music as soon as was possible. A shame really because I desperately wanted to be able to play bassoon like one of my friends Mike Smith – it would never have been practical as I lived too far away  from Xavs anyway.

He raised his voice a lot I seem to remember but his love of music can’t be denied. Once he played ‘Hall of the Mountain King’ for us on the music room gramophone. He introduced it by saying that this piece tended to ‘send’ people. I am not quite sure what he meant but I did love it. Once he appeared with his family at a garden party and we were amazed at how many children were in tow, each one smaller than the other. They looked for all the world like the intervals in a scale.

Mr Sellars used to organise the school concerts which became more and more grandiose. Gilbert and Sullivan (Iolanthe)  gave way to Mozart and The Magic Flute was enacted on our somewhat cramped gym stage. The school orchestra manfully struggled through the score and it was judged to be a masterpiece. I have a vision of a diminutive boy with soprano voice (I think his surname was Thornley) dressed in a feathered costume and the whispered comments among the boys when he had to kiss the male lead. The rumours abounded. I can also remember a rather large class mate, John Doyle, banging his heart out on the kettle drums, totally caught up in the excitement. Heady stuff.

Mr Connolly was a big man, tall, somewhat stout and wore glasses. I think he may have taken English but for a time he was our Religious Instruction teacher. For what ever reason, he and I did not get on. At that time I was questioning the whole religion thing, not because I didn’t believe in a creator but because I found so many holes in the set of beliefs we were obliged to swallow without question. As an example, we were asked to submit written questions about concerns we might have about anything to do with sex. We may have been told the basic mechanics in one lesson or other but we might have other issues of a theological nature.

I submitted the question which I genuinely did not know the answer to (in fact, I still don’t, over fifty years later):

‘If a woman is married and turns out to be barren (unable to conceive in modern terminology) would sexual intercourse be wrong?’

Now bear in mind, we had been told that sex was designed purely for procreation and in a time before IVF treatment there was no way  for a woman who could not conceive to have children other than by adoption.  Anyway, all the questions we had written anonymously were put into a dish and given to Mr Connolly at the front of the class. I can’t remember the other questions that were pulled out of the dish but when it came to my question Mr Connolly read it out and said “Well we all know the answer to that stupid question!”. Mr Connolly sir – I STILL DON’T!!!

He may have suspected who was the source of the ‘stupid’ question because I had become someone who asked several questions which, truth to tell, may have been designed a little bit to get under his skin. I once asked him that if God was all merciful and would forgive anyone who expressed genuine remorse, why confession to a priest was necessary. Mr Connolly told me that not only did we need to be forgiven by God, we also needed to be forgiven by the church. I could never really get me head round that one. I really wanted to know the answer because at the age of fourteen I considered I was committing sins I would NEVER confess to anyone, let alone a priest!

Because I was having  doubts about many of the beliefs of the catholic church, I thought seriously about questions I was having genuine difficulties with and was not shy in coming forward with these to my R.I. teachers. My one remaining Xaverian report shows that this was well known. My teacher in 1962 was Brother Sylvester, a bespectacled highly strung Xaverian Brother. His comment of ‘Fairly good, always ready to ask questions’ is accurate although only he and I were aware of the under current of cynicism.

At one point I made the mistake of asking Mr Connolly whether the Book of Revelations which appears at the end of the New Testament was supposed to be believed or whether it was just a dream of St John which anyone of us could experience, possibly accompanying a bout of flu.

“Well Cummings”, he said with a gleam in his eye behind his horn-rimmed spectacles, “as you are so interested, I would like you to investigate the question and present it to the whole class in two week’s time!” I actually did this – I got hold of large hard bound exercise book and spent many hours finding out as much as I could about Revelations. As I was reading about the exploits of Aleister Crowley at the time, I may even have made reference to his assumed title of The Great Beast which figures large in the epistle but I cannot be sure. I certainly made frequent referrals to the ‘Whore of Babylon’ which was obviously expected by the rest of the class. I sometimes think if I had put as much effort into my homework as I did into my deliberations concerning the Book of Revelations I may have achieved more than two ‘O’ levels but that is pointless speculation now.

I do remember standing in front of the class and starting my lecture. It overran the lesson and for some reason no one was interested in hearing the rest by the time of the next lesson so I think we should call that a draw.

 

 

 

My very last day at Xavs arrived – sometime in May 1965. It had already become obvious to me (and to anyone who would listen) that I was going to flop in my GCE’s. I had taken a J.I.C. aptitude exam to discover whether I had the makings to be a printer of some sort. Printing was in the family – my grandfather was a stereotyper, my father a compositor, my uncle Wilfred a linotype operator on the Manchester Evening News – the slug was cast. Actually, I was in good company, John Cooper Clark also took the same exam – see ‘I wanna be yours’ – his autobiography.

I am in the classroom I had spent the last year with an acquaintance – Paul McAndrew. For some reason we got a bit giddy and started throwing gym pumps at each other, like you do at sixteen and can see that your schooldays are over for ever. I took a shot at Paul, he ducked and I unfortunately hit a statue of the Virgin Mary which stood in the corner of the room at the exact second Mr Connolly walked it. “Ah Cummings!” he shouted “At last! I’ve got you!”. We were both accompanied by Mr Connolly to Brother Cyril’s office. He knocked on the door and Bro Cyril called out: “Enter.”. Mr Connolly had a raised voice at this point “Brother Cyril, these boys have just hit the Virgin Mary!”. In retrospect, I think I detected a hint of exasperation in Brother Cyril’s voice when he called us into his office. It may have been for us but could easily have aimed at Mr Connolly. We both received ‘six of the best’. I distinctly remembered that I was amazed at how much effort Brother Cyril put into the down strokes – quite stunning. Thinking back, we had actually finished school and technically this could have been regarded as assault. It’s no good looking at the past with today’s judicial standards and besides, it has given me one of those memories I daresay will flash past my eyes when my time has come. It still raises chuckle, even though it didn’t half hurt!

 

 

Mr Crotty took me for Geography at Ward Hall, my first year at Xaverian. His teaching technique was, shall we be kind and say, somewhat old fashioned. As far as I can recall it consisted entirely of dictation. He would write some headlines on the blackboard and then proceed to dictate to the class so the whole lesson was spent writing his notes. One or two of my classmates became a bit restless and the usual technique of distraction was employed to dispel the boredom. It was widely believed that he was shell-shocked from his experiences in World War II but it could equally have been as a result of manning the teaching trenches for too long – who knows?

He always wore a trilby hat and would occasionally umpire cricket matches. I remember once when the assembled team saw him in the distance while we were preparing to take on one of the local grammar schools. Instead of walking round the perimeter of the field to find the entrance, he decided it made more sense to attempt to climb over a six foot fence, complete with his trilby firmly on his head and dressed in his best Gannex coat looking for all the world like the bumbling comedian, Harry Worth. We could hardly concentrate on the game for quite a long time afterwards.

On another occasion, several of the remedial members of the class decided to liven the lesson somewhat, putting a dead mouse in the teacher’s desk at the front of the class would be a spiffing idea. A good ten minutes were spent attempting to get Mr Crotty to open the desk. When he did and saw the deceased rodent, he appeared to jump vertically a good foot in the air. Having said that, he took the jape well and gained a lot of respect from the future delinquents that made up my class. God bless Mr Crotty!

Mr Newton took us for Physical Education. I suppose he was in his mid forties although I have often been surprised that teachers were inevitably much younger than the age we would imagine. My mental image of him always includes a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth and a dark blue track suit. I remember his favourite form of punishment was making pupils hang from the wall bars and hitting them on the backside with the end of the gym ropes which were bound with leather. We had one classmate who was from London and of course his accent drew much abuse – his name was Matthews. Actually, he was extremely annoying and the only boy I remember every having a fight with (twice). Mr Newton was doling out the Rusholme Rope Trick to Matthews which gave him so much pain that he started crying. He turned round, shouted that the teacher had no right to be hitting him and left the gym. Not long after, I am fairly sure he was expelled. Didn’t fit in, you understand.

Mr Newton was also responsible for the Duke of Edinburgh Award Scheme at the college. I remember that I managed to achieve the bronze award. I always thought I wouldn’t receive the medal as I hadn’t filled in all entries in my log book and had only camped in my back garden (and then only for a couple of hours) but Mr Newton must have stepped into the breach and filled in the missing entries himself. I remember the medal came to an unfortunate end when I dropped into a beaker of acid in a chemistry lesson – it partially dissolved proving to me at least, that it had a copper content.

Thanks to Phil Blinkhorn for his amazing memory dredge, the level of detail is stunning. I was on the junior trip and remember Phil and his brother from that time. The mystery departure of Bro Finbar is solved for once and for all and can only admire Phil’s gumption for managing a quick snog with the gorgeous oriental guide – well done!

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Now this is going to be a long confession ? In the summer of 1962 I had just finished in Lower Five Three, there being four forms as my year of birth, 1947, was known as a “bulge” year, possibly because of the large number of ladies sporting pregnancies that year.

The Paris trip was split in two. The first three years travelled in mid July, the rest of the school in early August. I should have gone on the second trip but I had joined the Air Training Corps and the summer camp at RAF Kinloss clashed with the senior trip. My brother, two years younger, was going on the junior trip and it was arranged that I would go too. There were rumours that the trips would be cancelled as the OAS were active in their campaign to prevent Algerian independence but, eventually, the go-ahead was given. The senior trip went directly to Paris but it was thought the juniors would need a break so a night was planned at Xaverian College, Mayfield, which was both a day and boarding school.

A carriage had been reserved on a Manchester to London train. Living in Stockport it was agreed we would join at Edgeley where we were met by Mr Price, who lived in Heald Green and was also joining there. The journey to Euston was long, punctuated by frequent slow running due to the electrification work being carried out on the line. At Euston we embarked on a couple of dark maroon coaches supplied by Rickards, who held the royal warrant. They took us on a sightseeing tour of London before heading into the Kent and Sussex countryside on a route I would regularly drive a quarter of a century and more later when I lived in Crowborough. A singsong inevitably started. Watneys had been heavily advertising their Red Barrel brand and sight of the pub signs started a repetitive chant of their “what we want is what we want and what we want is Watneys” promo line followed by their “Roll out Red Barrel” ditty. Advertising beer to pre-pubescent boys obviously paid dividends.

Xaverian Mayfield was large, drably decorated but set in far more beautiful srroundings than Rusholme. I was the eldest on the trip and, as the rest were put to bed, Mr Price walked me round the grounds and said I would be given more freedom during the trip in return for helping with head counts, keeping order in the dormitory and keeping a diary. This I was to take advantage of in different ways.

Next day we set off for Folkstone, visiting Battle and Hastings on the way, again courtesy of Rickards. As I remember the crossing was smooth and, we cleared customs as a group, joining a steam hauled train at Calais Maritime. The carriages, which we gained by climbing steps on the carriage continental style, were totally different to British Railways with green plastic covered seats. We arrived at Paris Gard du Nord after dark and were transported to the girls school in Les Lilas by coaches which had five seats across, the fifth seats in each row folding down across the gangway.

It soon became apparent that an English girls school was in residence on a lower floor. Much to the apparent disgust of Bro Finbar (whose interests were elsewhere) many of these girls were able to be seen in the evening as we passed their floor, in the then very fashionable baby doll nighties.

Paris was an amazing experience. For most it was the first time abroad. The different shops, posters stuck everywhere on walls, a certain shabbiness in Les Lilas, different drinks – remember Pschitt which caused great hilarity – the smell of French cigarettes, the old fashioned buses with long bonnets and the open rear platform and the metro trains running on rubber tyres. We did all the sites, not a few churches of course and out to Versailles.

Then of course there were our guides. Two lovely Vietnamese girls. One had one hand having lost the other one in either an accident or some act of war. I was just fifteen but tall. The younger guide was just nineteen and had aspirations to be an airline stewardess when she got to twenty one. She was studying in France and had the job as she could not afford to travel home for the summer. I told her I was seventeen. In those days you could walk down the whole length of the Eiffel Tower and, on the fifth day in Paris she and I did, stopping on the second stage for breath and my first real kiss. As part of the freedom promised by Mr Price, I was allowed to go into Le Lilas in the evening so long as I was back by nine. I met the girl a couple of times, had my first glass of wine and a few more kisses! To my shame I cannot remember her name and I wonder did she ever get to be a stewardess or did she return home to be caught up in the years of war which were to follow.

We were generally blessed with good weather. Towards the end of the trip I found there were two second years on the trip who, like me, were aircraft enthusiasts. I persuaded Mr Price that, having done the Louvre and not being interested in another art gallery, I should take the two youngsters to Orly Airport for a day of plane spotting. Imagine that in today’s world. We set off by Metro, got to Les Invalides where we bought tickets on the Air France express bus to Orly where we spent a good few hours watching the early jets mixed with piston engined airliners. We arrived back at the promised time, probably much to the relief of a seemingly unconcerned Mr P.

We slept in a dormitory and, inevitably there were some disruptions. Bro Finbar seemed to make every excuse for settling the younger boys and after the trip there were allegations and he quickly disappeared.

For the journey back to Calais we were handed lunch packs including boiled eggs still in their shells. These were used by some to bombard a station we passed. The boat trip back to Dover was followed by a trip on the boat train to London and another long journey back by train to Stockport.

I’ve been to Paris many times since and know the city well but that first trip will always rank as the most memorable.

Pete Burrows took me for physics and maths in Lower Five Three. He was a great guy, an all round sportsman and occasionally took us for football. As a result of his recommendation I played for a cricket team  called The Crusaders based round the Longsight area for a short period until we had a disagreement about not turning up when it was pouring down.

He was married to a lovely lady and they lived not far away on the other side of Victoria Park. However, I think even he would agree, maths was not his strong point and physics not a lot better. When we had been at Xaverian for a year we were selected for the level of class that would last for the rest of our time until A levels. The top class had consistently good teachers where ours were patchy to say the least. I know that Pete Burrows was not entirely happy with his experience of teaching at the college and left while I was there to teach at Pope Pius X school, I think. When my parents realised that I was going to fail my maths O level, they decided a maths tutor was needed. I duly used to go every Sunday morning to a flat just off Middleton Road, Rhodes, where a youngish graduate would run me through all the things I should have learnt during the week in between cleaning up from the parties the night before. Unfortunately the damage was done and I failed. It was 1983 at the age of 35 that I managed to get a B grade which became extremely important for my future academic career.

One day our class were encouraged to bring in caged pets (don’t ask me why). One boy, Gregory Esplin, brought in his pet mouse. Another boy brought in his pet rat. Now I am not clear why this happened, but it was decided that it would be a good idea to introduce the two into the same cage during Mr Burrows’ lesson. There was an inevitable result. Someone shouted out from the back of the classroom “What’s it doing?” to  which the class wag replied “Its S***ing it!” . It’s funny the things you remember. Not so funny for Esplin who was heartbroken.

It was decided that a ten day trip to Paris would be a wonderful opportunity to help with our grasp of the French language. The fact that it meant that the luckier of the Xaverian Brothers would have a free holiday was obviously immaterial. It was decided that we would all spend the first night close to the south coast and it just so happened that the Xaverian Brothers had a boarding school, Mayfield nearby to Hastings being in Sussex. This meant that we could all share the dorm facilities and be refreshed the next day for our journey to Hastings and from there over the channel. I have very little recollection of that stay at Mayfield apart from remembering a very scummy dirty green outdoor swimming pool and a spartan bed.

I do remember that one of the boys was probably the world’s worse traveller. On every journey during the next ten days he would inevitably have to stop to be sick. Boys are never very sympathetic at the best of times and our patience wore thin very quickly. ‘Not again!’ was our usual grumble.

Once we arrived in Paris we were billeted in a girl’s boarding school which we shared with a couple of other schools who were on a similar trip. There was even a girl’s school. As a single sex catholic grammar school we had had very little contact with the opposite sex and there was the inevitable gossip and rumours concerning laviscious behaviour with some of the older prefects who accompanied the eleven and twelve year olds to keep us in order. Whether the rumours were true or not I had no idea but our imaginations were excessively fertile in those days. There was a teenage dance club in the basement – ‘Le Twist Club’ as it was labelled (the French language idea paying dividends) and I remember the ‘YaYa Twist’ record being played constantly.

The trip consisted of visits to all the main tourist attractions in Paris – too many as far as we were concerned although looking back I realise a developed a fondness for them which has remained. We went up the Eiffel Tower, visited Versailles and Fontainbleu as well as the Louvre, Notre Dame and even the suspiciously waxy looking bodies of two nuns who were preserved by a miracle due to their wonderfully pure lives – amazing.

We were accompanied by the brothers Plunkett and Finbar. Our class was taught French by Brother Finbar, later to disappear from Xavs under mysterious circumstances as outlined elsewhere. On each of the trips we were accompanied by two charming French Vietnam girls who acted as our guides. One always had a light rain mac draped over her arm. On one occasion it slipped off and I was horrified to see that her hand was missing. It had obviously been cut off judging from the way the end of her wrist terminated. I often wondered later in life what ordeals these girls had been through before making it to France at a turbulent time in both French and Vietnam history. On my first shy exchange with the other girl she asked me who Brother Finbar was. When I told her he was our French teacher she laughed. “He’s not very good! That must be the worse accent I have ever heard!”

We were told that our religious education was not going to suffer during this trip and that any boy who wanted to get up at 7.00 am to attend mass merely had to tie a towel to the end rail of his dormitory bed to be woken by one of the brothers so that he could attend. Ha! This proved a perfect excuse for some of the more humorous among us to tie the towels to the beds of unwilling participants for a bit of fun. Needless to say, they in turn got their revenge and 7.30 mass proved popular but unpopular at one and the same time.

Rumours that circulated included one that Bro Plunkett had become roaring drunk in a nearby tabac and on return to the UK he also disappeared quite soon after. Other rumours of course included shenanigans of a lustful nature between the boys and the girls but nothing of any tangible nature arose except the prefects were banned from ‘Le Twist Club’ after a couple of days.

My major concern in those days was always to do with toilet facilities. Having experience horrendous chemical toilets that were never emptied when on camping trips with my parents (the levels of effluent being so high as to virtually touching the unhappy victim’s posterior) that I had become completely traumatised by the whole rigmarole of toilets which impinged on my enjoyment of any time spent away from home. I can’t remember too much unhappiness regarding this but there again, I may have just erased it from my memory in a kind of post toilet stress disorder…

 

 

 

My brother, Bernard Cummings, attended Xaverian College from 1956-62 approx. He attended the sixth form and left with ‘A’ levels and took a degree in geography at Manchester University. That meant in effect that he was on the same bus route, just had to get off a few stops earlier. He told me the following story which may or may not have appeared in the Manchester Evening News when the lid came off the story.

Bernard was stood in assembly which took place in the ‘quad’ (playground to us younger scholars). He was in line with the rest of his class as prayers were being taken by the teacher unlucky enough to have been assigned assembly duty. On this particular day it was Mr Halsted (Latin?). Bernard’s best friend was A.W. (he may still be alive for all I know) who kept repeating ‘I’m going to get him, I’m going to get him’. My brother looked in amazement as A.W. brought out a Webley from under his gabardine and took aim. He shot Mr Halsted in the neck. From what I can remember, A.W. was expelled, the police weren’t called and he was allowed back in school to take his ‘O’ levels.

Mike Ramsey remembers…

Who can forget one of the teachers being fired at by a lad with an air rifle? We were all lined up after lunch time outside in the playground. The teacher was taking us through the usual prayers when he suddenly grasped his forehead and staggered off towards the door.

We later discovered that a lad with a bit of a grudge ,had entered the sixth form block and from an open window used an air rifle to shoot at the teacher. I never heard what happened but I think the teacher was OK and the boy expelled.

Some Reflections on the Xaverian College Orchestra 1959 – Bob Postlethwaite

My first experience of ‘Chuck’ Sellars’ ‘ambition’ for the orchestra was Speech Day 1958.  The programme included the chorus ‘The heavens are telling the glory of God’ from Haydn’s Creation.   This was well above my pay grade in more than one way and it was many years before I came to realise what a magnificent piece it is.  In many ways, this is a paradigm of Mr Sellars approach to introducing students to music.  We bashed through (massacred) all manner of sublime pieces, held together by Mr Sellars sitting at the piano and filling in the parts.  But what an experience and how it sowed the seeds for the later enjoyment of music.  There is nothing to compare with playing a piece, no matter how badly (and often it was worse than badly), to get you into the music.   I am always grateful for the foundation that ‘Chuck’ Sellars gave me to enrich my life with the enjoyment of music.

Mr Sellars had another profound effect on my life.  In Autumn 1964, the Royal Opera House came to Manchester for a season, this never happened again.   You could pay on the night to stand at the back of the stalls for £5.00.  On one of the nights I attended Mr Sellars was there and he talked me through Verdi’s Othello.  We also discussed my plans for university.   I had always had an ambition to do chemistry and that is what I had put on my UCCA form.  A number of experiences were inclining me to something medically related and I was considering changing to biochemistry.  For some reason I don’t understand, Mr Sellars was very strongly of the opinion that I should change to medicine. I revised my UCCA form and went to see Brother Cyril.  He advised that as I had done no biology and had no family connections in medicine there was no chance of getting into medical school.  He informed me that very few pupils had got into medical school and they all came from medical families.  His clinching argument is that I had spelt medicine wrong on the UCCA form which was a fair point!!  I followed Mr Sellars advice and the rest is history.

Xaverian teachers who joined the choir

Mr Crotty has featured in some of the previous posts and his teaching ‘method’ has been very accurately described.   Remarkably he was singing at the front of the choir on the above occasion but I never saw him take part in any other musical event.  He was form master of 3B when I started in 1958.  The first thing he said was, ‘my name is Crotty, don’t call me potty’.  A little later in the lesson, he ceremoniously took the black board off the wall and lo and behold, ‘Mr Crotty is potty’ was inscribed on the wall.  I am sure this routine had been repeated year after year.  I think this is all I learnt from Mr Crotty.

The operas that Mr Sellars staged have already been commented on. As have ‘Chuck’s’ explosions which erupted with increasing frequency and vehemence the closer the performances loomed.  His tortures even extended into the first night of the Magic Flute.  The person singing Tamino was laid low with what was termed a ‘grumbling appendix’.  He was being revived in Mr Newton’s office at the back of the stage and eventually was deemed to be recovered sufficiently to start the performance.  In the Magic Flute after the overture there is a long introduction to the first aria when Tamino runs on to the stage chased by a dragon.  This commenced with Tamino running on to the stage in front of the curtain which should have opened to reveal the dragon at the appropriate time.  The cues were missed and the dragon wasn’t revealed!  Mr Sellars, furious with rage, had no option but to stop the music and start again!!   The curtain opened on cue at the second attempt.

A teacher who contributed considerably to music was ‘Lippy’ Marsden.  He seemed to have the title of geology teacher, though I never saw much evidence of geology on the curriculum.  He, however, had the most amazing bass voice almost a basso profundo.  I am sure he sang Sarastro in the Magic Flute.

Another teacher seemed to have attended the same (non)-teaching finishing school as Mr Crotty.  Jeff (don’t call me Hitler) Finan goose-stepped into the laboratory, flung his briefcase onto the bench top with a unique flourish and then uttered the only words he would in the whole lesson, ‘Weaver where were we up to the last day?’ He then turned to the board and wrote continuously in what seemed like Joycean stream of consciousness, though Joyce is easier to follow.

Pupils who joined the Xaverian Orchestra

John Weaver’s name appears on the orchestra list for 1959.  Inevitably, as he seemed about the only one to pay close attention to Mr Finan, he read physics at university and then did a PhD in Physics.  I think he worked then for a company who established the network for cash machines outside banks.  He maintained some contact with the Circus Troupe (another story).  He died suddenly over 10 years ago.  Tony Smith (the Ring Master of the Circus Troupe), who was closest to John, only learnt of his death some months later and John’s wife did not respond to his messages.

John was one of three pupils from Warrington in the orchestra at that time.  I was the second (with name spelt incorrectly!)  The third was James Higgins who played double bass.  He might have left in 1958.  He won a place at Christ Church College Oxford. It was very rare for somebody from Xaverian to win a place at Oxbridge in those days. He hit the national press in 1963 when he was rusticated, and permanently, not just for a term.   The story was that he had been caught with a young lady in his room.  Not surprisingly he was not unique in this and often the ‘scouts’ would just overlook the event.  It was not clear why Jimmy had been singled out for such draconian punishment. It might be that he had got on the wrong side of the ‘scouts’.   Another postulated explanation is that he had become the president of the JCR, the first grammar school boy to achieve this, and there was perhaps resentment in the establishment at such an incursion.  Jimmy resumed his university education at LSE and I have no further news of him.

It is frightening how many of the orchestral players I have forgotten and how many are just vague faces.  I had forgotten that two other boys from the same year were also in the orchestra, Kevin (?) McKeown and Chris Ryder, the latter a very good footballer.  Frank Lennon has made a number of contributions to this website. 

Peter Larkin was 1^st Bassoon when I joined in 1958.  As the lowest of the clarinets, I sat next to Peter who, despite his position in the remote heights of the sixth form, was always very friendly and supportive.  He spent most of his time as a music teacher at Cardinal Langley. This tribute to him was included in an article in the MEN in 2005 about a multitalented professional musician:

‘I had a really great music teacher at Cardinal Langley, Peter Larkin, who got me my first ever pro gig when I was 14. I was playing double bass in the pit band for Rose Marie, staged by the Salford Amateur Operatic and Dramatic Society. I got £14 for the week, which was untold wealth at the time and I thought I would be able to retire before I was 25!’

I guess from this that Peter was active in Salford Amateur Operatic and Dramatic Society.  He was also prominent in choral and acting groups round Summerseat and Ramsbottom.  He lived in Greenmount.  When my children were young, I bumped into Peter occasionally at school musical events round Bury.  I also remember that Peter was a fine sprinter, starring in the summer athletic games.

Michael Hill was also very friendly and supportive.  His wonderful oboe playing has been noted before.  He was a member of the National Youth Orchestra and I think another member of the orchestra was also a member of the NYO (D Howell?).  It was a remarkable achievement to have two pupils from the same grammar school in this prestigious orchestra.

J Telford had aspirations to be a composer and the orchestra performed  a composition of his  at a concert, Winds of Change.  I not sure if anything came of his ambition.

Antony Constantine has also been mentioned previously and like other contributors I have not been able to find any report of subsequent musical activities amateur or professional.  It was rumoured at one of the Gilbert and Sullivan Operas (I guess The Gondoliers in 1963) somebody from the D’Oyly Carte Opera Company, who still held the copyright to all the G&S Operas then, attended a performance to run their eye over Constantine.   I am not sure if this was anything more than Chinese whispers.

Peter Maxwell Davies

Some of the senior members of the orchestra would talk in hushed, reverential, whispers about ‘Max’ and what he had said and done.  As over the years I became more informed about the Manchester music scene I began to wonder if they were referring to Peter Maxwell Davies, the foremost of the Manchester School of Composers (cf. the First and Second Viennese Schools).

Michael Hill was without a doubt the stellar musician in this orchestra.  Good as he was on the oboe, his first instrument was the piano and he played the first movement of Beethoven’s 3^rd Piano Concerto at one of the orchestral concerts.  I think it was the same concert at which the Telford piece was played but that might be a false memory. He won a scholarship to study with Peter Katin, a British pianist of international renown.  I fully expected him to burst on to the international concert scene at some time but nothing.  I bumped into Mr Sellars at a concert once and enquired about Michael.  He had no idea what he was doing and was of the impression that he had struggled with Katin’s approach to teaching.  I finally tracked him down, sadly with an obituary in Fanfare the magazine of the Birmingham Conservatory in the Autumn 2016 issue.  He had taken up the post of registrar there in 1990 and remained there until has death in 2016 (at the age of 70 years).  It was noted that he was influenced by his long-term friends Peter Maxwell Davies, John Ogden (a wonderful pianist who was part of the Manchester School) and Peter Katin. It also stated that, ’an invitation to study with Claudio Arrau in New York proved impossible to take up’.  Claudio Arrau was one of the greatest pianists of his generation and if this offer had been taken up it would really have launched and international career. I wonder what the cryptic ‘proved impossible to take up’ was referring to?  The reference to Peter Maxwell Davies confirms he was indeed the hero whispered about in the orchestra in the 1960s.  Early in his career Michael Hill made some commercial recordings with Lyn Fletcher who many years later became the Leader of the Halle Orchestra.

Xaverian College Concerts

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Xaverian College – School Orchestra 1959

Conductor: Mr Charles Sellars

1^st Violins: W. Usher, D. Howell, D Denholm, M. Brown, M. Livesey, M Duncan, O, Sleightholme

2^nd Violins: J. Woodcock, F. Lennon, P. Lawrence, T. Rawlins, P. Hopkins, J. Blodwell, M. Allen, P. Banks, J. Weaver

Violas: J. Telford,  S. Desmond, P. Banks, A. Constantine, M. Dell

Cellos: Mr Halstead, J Bayley, V, Thorp, A Clinton, M. Butler

Basses: Mr McEvoy, Mr Unsworth

Flutes: A Booth, I. Kelly, P. Geoghegan

Oboes: M. Hill, D Tipple

Clarinets: R Wright, C. Davis, P. Godfrey, R. Postlewaite, P. Broomhead

Bassoons: P. Larkin, P. Redman

Horns: P. McBride, J. Euston

Trumpets: J. Edwards, K. McKeown

Euphonium: H. Woodcock

Percussion:  C. Ryder

Although we went to Trentham Gardens on several occasions, there is only one that I remember really well. That’s because I was 15 at the time complete with raging hormones and a pair of Chelsea boots which got me off on the wrong foot with my dad  before I’d got out of the garden gate to catch the bus to Manchester. In retrospect, he was probably right – they weren’t suitable footwear for a school trip and after a few hours my feet didn’t half ache. Having said that, they were probably responsible for meeting a girl from a school in Stafford who had also made the trip. Our eyes locked across the Waltzer floor and I was instantly nailed. She liked my shoes! wow! They must have also helped her to ignore my acne which was fairly widespread at the time. Her name was Anne Ross and her friend liked my friend Mike Smith and so we joined up for a trip to the Trentham Gardens outdoor swimming pool where Mike’s spectacular simulated fall off the high  diving boards (I’d seen it before so knew it was a crowd pleaser) meant that Anne’s friend was totally impressed with his apparent bravery.

I got Anne’s address and threw her an orange from our coach as we left the car park. Not quite the golden apple but all I had left from the lunch my mother had kindly packed for me. Christine Keeler was all the rage at the time and Anne had long wavy hair and a daringly short shift dress which was the closest thing I had seen to the figure which was splashed all over the Daily Express at the time. A couple of weeks later Mike and myself made the trip to Stafford by train and spent a wonderful day in the company of these two bright young things, never to be repeated. I learned a great deal.

I never visited Trentham again, leaving Xavs the following year. I did once visit an art exhibition held in the vicinity where all the pictures were being sold at considerable sums. It turned out the the artist was quite famous – Rolf Harris in fact. I often wonder whether the value of the paintings has deteriorated of late. I have learnt recently that the outdoor swimming pool is no longer there and I believe the gardens are much improved after falling into neglect in the seventies. I prefer to have the memory unsullied so I doubt that I shall ever visit again.

 

One sunny afternoon during lunch break there was a ripple of activity round the toilets on the top floor in Ward Hall. The rumour went round that there was some female nakedness visible from the toilet window which overlooked the large Victorian building next door. This was some kind of club, definitely the seedier side of Victoria Park, Rusholme in the sixties. I expressed my disbelief as I was and still am a confirmed sceptic. However, when I looked past the scrum which had now gathered around the window, I could clearly make out a young woman’s head visible over the top of an open suitcase. The next minute she closed the case and her totally naked top half could clearly be made out by all of us. A tremendous cheer went up. Whether she heard us or not I have no idea. To the best of my recollection we were summoned back to class and certainly had a lot to occupy our fertile imaginations on that long, hot summer day.

When I try to analyse what was going on next door to Ward Hall I suspect the club was either hosting a photo shoot or even was a cover for a brothel – there were rumours that a functioning bordello was situated next to the church on Thurloe Street so it wasn’t completely out of the question.

Xaverian College – School Orchestra 1959

CONDUCTOR: MR SELLARS

If anyone was a member of the orchestra or knew any of them and would like to share their memories, please email me at the above address

1^st Violins: W. Usher, D. Howell, D Denholm, M. Brown, M. Livesey, M Duncan, O, Sleightholme

2^nd Violins: J. Woodcock, F. Lennon, P. Lawrence, T. Rawlins, P. Hopkins, J. Blodwell, M. Allen, P. Banks, J. Weaver

Violas: J. Telford,  S. Desmond, P. Banks, A. Constantine, M. Dell

Cellos: Mr Halstead, J Bayley, V, Thorp, A Clinton, M. Butler

Basses: Mr McEvoy, Mr Unsworth

Flutes: A Booth, I. Kelly, P. Geoghegan

Oboes: M. Hill, D Tipple

Clarinets: R Wright, C. Davis, P. Godfrey, R. Postlewaite, P. Broomhead

Bassoons: P. Larkin, P. Redman

Horns: P. McBride, J. Euston

Trumpets: J. Edwards, K. McKeown

Euphonium: H. Woodcock

Percussion:  C. Ryder

These would all have been in the sixties period. If you can add to the list, email me at

Xaverian Email

At the age of 14 or 15, our class had to take part in a ‘Retreat’. For those of you who have never taken part in one, I can’t be very helpful in describing what one was. I think it was a time for prayer and reflection, although for the life of me I can’t remember how long it lasted or what we actually did. I am not even sure if it replaced lessons altogether or whether it was interspersed during the normal days’ activities. If anyone out there can remember more specific details please let me know.

So why am I referring to it all? Because it indicates my level of thinking at that early age. I remember attending a lecture of sorts by the local parish priest who was also the college chaplain. He sat us down and told us we were going to make our first ‘real’ confession. In his own words (I swear this is true, they are etched into my brain) :

“Boys. I don’t want you to tell me you have masturbated. I want you to tell me how many TIMES you have masturbated!”

This provoked in me a crisis in faith that was never subsequently overcome. An over-sensitive boy such as I was in those days was much too shy to get involved in a conversation with a priest about matters such as these. Therefore, any future partaking of the holy sacrament of the Eucharist would be sacrilegious as the sin had not been confessed. What to do? I stopped attending nine o’clock mass at St Clare’s and took up rowing a skiff on Heaton Park boating lake is what I did. One sentence uttered by a priest condemned my soul to eternal damnation!

My parents decided it would be a good idea to join the Parents/Teachers Association. I have no idea what the motivation was but for several years my mum ran the White Elephant Stall both at the Christmas Fair and the Summer Fete that were held annually. The Christmas Fair was held in the gymnasium, the Summer Fete on the cricket field which was in the school grounds. One year all the ladies of the association dressed up as medieval ladies in long dresses and elaborate headdresses and it was a glorious sunny day.

The White Elephant Stall was something I really enjoyed as I got first crack at any  unwanted toys that were sent for sale to raise school funds. I even served customers now and again. I remember that someone had the bright idea of contributing several cases of Heinz Curried Baked Beans which were still unsold at the end of the fete. One lunchtime on my way to Ward Hall for my ‘dinner’ I caught the whiff of something really pungent and not very pleasant. As I wondered what on earth it could be I had a sudden flash of insight that proved to be correct. The curried beans had found their way onto the menu…

I remember that the summer fete was the occasion of the first time I ever became intoxicated. There was a hoopla stall where the easiest prize to capture was the alcohol, being in bottles with very narrow necks of course. I managed to get one or two small bottles of that most obnoxious of all drinks ‘Cherry B’. This was often known as an aid to less scrupulous Lotharios in the sixties in the art of seduction. For me, it proved to be the first time I had felt that my arms and legs were suddenly out of my immediate control. Fortunately, Brother Cyril never witnessed the state I was in, otherwise, social occasion or not, I would have been in his office the following Monday for a taste of the cane.

I arrived at Ward Hall in 1960. Another large converted house, it doubled as the refectory at lunch time for the whole college. My teachers included Bro Finbar (French), Mr Crotty (Geography) and Mr Dewhurst (English). Those of us who had migrated from the Prep School found the new intake of 11 plus boys to be a bit of a mixed bunch. Some were well mannered as we were, having attended other Prep Schools from other areas of Manchester. Others were from areas such as Wythenshawe and Glossop and didn’t have the same social skills that had been drummed into us at St. Anne’s. One or two ‘didn’t fit in’ and disappeared within a few months. I can remember one boy called Price from Glossop who had an issue with authority, something that didn’t go down well with Brother Cyril who had followed us from the Prep to Xavs as headmaster of the senior school. I was sorry to see Price go because cricket was my number one interest at that time and he could hit a ball like no one else. Having said that, when he first tried out for the school team he was out for a duck – very sad.

Brother Finbar (Edward Mannion in real life) was a rum cove. He was the only brother (apart from Brother Bernadine who taught no one, but drove the tractor and lawn mower a great deal) who didn’t wear trousers under his cassock. He also took great delight in tickling boys round the upper thigh area which made one or two of the other more worldly boys very suspicious of his motives. I was extremely naïve and trusting at the time and never gave it much thought. However, he used to edit the School Magazine – The Xaverian – which I made contributions to – articles about ‘The Planets in our Solar System’ as I remember. I copied these word for word out of an old annual I had at home so no marks for originality but 10/10 for plagiarism. I remember the following year when our class had gone across to the main college site Brother Finbar coming into our classroom and telling us that he would no longer be editing The Xaverian. When we asked why he replied ‘You will understand when you get older’. We never saw him again. According to the Xaverian Brothers archives he was ‘dispensed’ in 1962.

 

I knew a couple of students who were expelled from Xaverian and at least one from the prep school. The boy who quietly disappeared from St Anne’s had a name similar to Morensky  and was the son of the chemist who had a shop on Wilmslow Road. This boy had a head which was definitely egg shaped which caused merriment among some of the more insensitive of his fellow students, most of whom had their own distinguishing features but life was ever thus. However, his most remarkable characteristic was his total lack of fear of authority. He just laughed when given any kind of instruction which made him unteachable  as well as disruptive. After less than one term he quietly disappeared. Another prep expulsion has just occurred to me. There was a boy called Bowyer who was supposed to be connected to the meat pie family. His father turned up to the prep one day in a Rolls Royce which naturally caused quite a stir. Again, the boy was apparently unteachable and once driven off in the Rolls was never to be seen again.

Two boys who were expelled from Xaverian were Chris Bean and a Londoner named Matthews. I later became friends with Chris who ended up working for Chubb the safe and security company who had premises on the far end of Deansgate. His father was a trade union official. In both cases the boys refused to take corporal punishment which led to their removal. Today they would be seen as class warriors no doubt!

Chris started going to the Twisted Wheel club on Brazennose Street and the Whitworth Street when it moved location. He seemed to have access to the company van at weekends – whether this was officially sanctioned I have my doubts. We lost touch many years ago which is probably just as well as I know there were times when we were sailing much to close to the wind but therein lies another story for another day…

 

 

 

 

Xaverian College Prize Night used to take place in the Free Trade Hall, Manchester. I do remember the last one I attended because I took my combat jacket and my brother’s Manchester University scarf with me. Once the event was over, I carefully brushed my hair forward, put on my jacket and scarf which were in a duffle bag, and headed over to the Twisted Wheel, Brazennose Street for a night of good music and Fanta orange. No wonder I only got two ‘O’ levels. My brother Bernard can be seen in the second row on the right hand side, fourth from the left and bespectacled.  I am fairly sure  he once received a prize, an honour which I failed to achieve.

Xaverian Speech night – Free Trade Hall, Manchester – approx 1955