I was sent to the boarding prep school, Holyrood School at Aber-mad, only four miles from home. My father dropped me at the top of the drive so I could walk down to the school alone, to demonstrate my supposed confidence (my trunk presumably being delivered separately). We were allowed home for two Saturday afternoons and one weekend a term. On balance, I think I probably quite enjoyed the school, or at least some aspects of it. Several of the teachers were eccentric wartime ‘dropouts’ (one disappeared suddenly, arrested as a deserter). The school had been evacuated from Brighton, and split into three, the other two smaller parts going to Lluest and Carrog a few miles away.
Our headmaster was Levi Thomas Prosser Evans, a man of interesting ideas. In history lessons he would write battles and their dates in a spiral round the blackboard, saying that the harder it is to learn something the better you remember it – it certainly worked in my case. He had been injured in the First World War and apparently had skin grafted over his back; as a result he could not bend, and when he was refereeing rugby games and was knocked over, we had to help him to get up. He claimed that he could hop half as fast as a boy could run. He preached the sermons in chapel, and one of his triumphs was to preach a boy into a faint. The miscreant had responded to an angry outburst from the matron “For two pins I’d leave”, by getting two pins and giving them to her. The sermon was on the subject of being rude to women, and when it finished and we stood up to sing the hymn, the miscreant fell down in a faint.
By far the best teacher was Ruth Liefmann, a Jewish refugee from Germany, who apparently would have been a long-jumper in the 1936 Olympics but for her race. She had come over to the Chelsea Physical Training College, but then moved to lodge at Troed-y-rhiw, a farm across the valley from Aber-mad and taught us German, a remarkable initiative for the headmaster during the war. “Guten Morgen, Fräulein Liefmann” is remembered by every ex-pupil. We learnt to write Germanic script, which later came in very useful, as for my entrance scholarship exam to Bradfield College I wrote the German dictation in it and got full marks as, I learnt later, the examiner could not read it. As a botanist, having learnt German was an enormous benefit to me later.
Some of the other teachers were very odd. I remember one who, when a boy said “Sir, you have odd socks on today”, looked down at his ankles, burst into tears and left the class. Another young man was teaching only for a short while and suddenly disappeared; we learnt later that he was an army deserter and had been tracked down. Another was haunted by his war experiences and told us horrific stories of the Germans sewing up the lips of prisoners. French and Latin teaching were, by contrast to German, abysmal. I do not remember any natural history teaching. The only book I remember in the school library though was The Advance of the Fungi by E. C. Large, which I read and which had a lasting influence on me.
Rugby and cricket were the games, both of which bored me intensely (shinty, with home-made hockey sticks, was better), but a great advantage of the school was that one could go riding two or three afternoons a week instead of playing games. The school had eleven horses, from a Shetland pony up to a retired racehorse, and one graduated up them as one got bigger and better. In summer we often bathed in the river, naked, submerging when a train passed, sometimes curiously watched by one or two of the headmaster’s four daughters. We made rafts on the stream, and tickled for trout. A boy called Gollup found a Bronze Age axe mould in the stream, afterwards always referred to as “Gollup’s Find”.
At home, a great friend was a Peter Sperring from Penparcau with whom I used to go butterfly hunting. My other playmates included some among the eleven children of the Walker family at the bottom of the road. They were Roman Catholics, and my mother forbade me to play there on days when the nuns visited “in case they convert you”. My father took me to Llanbadarn church on Sundays, where a vivid memory is of the elderly Mrs Powell of Nanteos who was deaf and sat at the back; at Holy Communion she would wait until everyone else had participated and returned to their seats and then she would walk slowly down the immense length of the nave and chancel with her antique brass ear-trumpet jangling loudly.
Because of his polio, my father was not called up, and became a part-time air-raid warden for our part of Aberystwyth. Part of his job was to provide gasmasks and check the blackouts for the Trefechan area, but there were no air raids in the county and, apart from occasional mines washed up along the coast, no contact with enemy action. We would hear German bombers coming up over Cardigan Bay and turning inland at Aberystwyth to go and bomb Birmingham, and a few bombs were jettisoned in the countryside. There was a strange legend that Hitler had been in the Criccieth area or even at Aberystwyth university at some stage, and was very fond of the Welsh. For that reason he hated the satirical short story writer Caradoc Evans who lived out at New Cross; a bomb that was jettisoned near there was said to have been aimed at him. There is still a swastika graffiti on a beech tree trunk near New Cross on the former Nanteos estate. Who did it?
Tan-y-bwlch beach near us was closed for a long time and used for training, as were the Ynys-las dunes. Professor Newton was organising research into the use of seaweeds for agar production, and my father was given a petrol allowance to go down to Cornwall to collect the relevant species. The material was kept for a time in our bath in seawater, and I vividly remember the bioluminescence in it. He had a makeshift laboratory in our loft, with little home-made balances hanging from the beams with which he measured the weight of the specimens during their drying. I have a vague recollection that he said it was top secret work, which was presumably why he did not do the work in the laboratory in the botany department. A by-product of the war was the Wardens’ Dramatic Society that gave performances of Gilbert and Sullivan operettas, to which my father took me and of which he was very fond; the Society still exists.
We had a primitive air raid shelter dug into the bank behind the garage in the garden, covered with a sheet of corrugated iron, but we never had to use it. Windover [Arthur's home] was built on a slope, and under the front rooms of the house there was a tapering space deep enough at the front to stand up in. Before the front rooms were re-floored I used occasionally to clamber down there. My father kept a barrel of petrol there all through the war, in case we needed the car to escape from the Germans, and when at the end of the war my mother discovered that we had been living over this fire bomb for five years she understandably had a fit of hysterics.
At Miss Trotter’s school we knitted khaki scarves and gloves for the troops, gloves being done only by the cleverer girls. I was hopeless at scarves, the results having wavy edges and holes, so mine were allowed to get absurdly long before they were unpicked and started again. We had on separate occasions two girl refugees from Birmingham at Windover. All I remember of them is that one regularly used to say: “I’m going to sulk”, and she would stand in the corner of the sitting room facing the wall with her hands behind her back. Neither lasted long with us.
At some time during the war my father bought for £100 Penyrhen-rhiw, a house near Ystumtuen, ten miles inland, with five acres of hill land. We used to spend a month or more there in the summer, my father going down to Aberystwyth once a week by bus to buy provisions (petrol rationing making the car impractical). I kept an aquarium there, with water-spiders, Polynema natans (the underwater-swimming chalcid fly that parasitizes dragonfly eggs) and various water beetles. In a corner of the sitting room we nursed meadow pipits that had injured themselves on the telephone wires, something that happened surprisingly often then.
My father had peat-cutting rights on a little bog a cross the road. One evening the kettle fell off the chain holding it over the fire, the burning peat exploded and we had to rush out as the room filled with steam and burning peat. It took days to clean up. A drain ran diagonally under the slates on the sitting room floor, and we used to lift the slates up to show the toads that lived there to our visitors. My father used to say that the presence of frogs on the well reservoir on the slope above the house showed that our drinking water was safe, though my mother was not so sure.
On one occasion a family of refugees from the bombing of Birmingham were brought to a disused lead miners’ house in the village. The following morning they all passed us going back up the road, shouting: “Bombs are better than that hovel, we’re going home!” and threw a loaf over the fence to us. We kept the house well into the 1950s, and then sold it to Ian Fleming-Williams, art master at Charterhouse School, whose family later became great friends
Arthur Chater
Many thanks to Arthur Chater, the botanist, for sharing his wartime memories with the project. These came via Helen Palmer at Archifdy Ceredigion Archives, where Mr Chater's recollections have recently been deposited.
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