In sending my brother and I to a boarding choir school in post-war London our parents had hoped that we would enjoy a broad-based education centred largely round the pursuit of choral excellence but under-pinned by a range of challenges and experiences. What they actually achieved was to place us into the hands of a cruel, unstable genius whose mood was as unpredictable as his behaviour was unforgivable.
Each set of parents would have had their own vision as to how their child might benefit from what was being promised, but what each child actually experienced along the journey towards fulfilment of that vision varied according to how useful he could be to the headmaster in the pursuit of his own purpose and the extent to which he was viewed by him as being worthy or otherwise. In our case, my brother’s journey was smoothed by the oils of favouritism so blatant it was embarrassing, while mine was perpetually buffeted by some of the head’s worst excesses. Though we did receive an excellent grounding in choral matters, many of the promises made were never realised. We did face challenges and these were met with stoicism and determination. We certainly had a range of strange and bizarre experiences, some we could have well done without.
My narrative charts my personal journey through the eight years of my schooling from 1948 to 1956, but it is our evil headmaster who emerges as the central character of the piece. What baffles me to this day is how he was able to escape censure for so much inappropriate behaviour. Once the school moved to the Northamptonshire countryside in 1952 the head’s divergent attitudes towards the Butler siblings began to polarise in dramatic fashion. He became over-dependant on the contribution that my brother was making to the welfare of the school while his relationship with me deteriorated into irretrievable breakdown.
In the years that followed, my brother and I rarely spoke of our times together at the school; we shared an unspoken understanding that some of the more painful memories were best left undisturbed: this accounts for the virtual absence in my tale of any reference to his views about the head and his methodology. I have attempted to maintain a balanced perspective in my writing – not a word of which is fiction – though it is, of course, strongly subjective. I trust that the moments of humour are not too forcibly obliterated by the darker tones which permeate throughout and that my narrative remains faithful and true to my brother’s memory.
Each set of parents would have had their own vision as to how their child might benefit from what was being promised, but what each child actually experienced along the journey towards fulfilment of that vision varied according to how useful he could be to the headmaster in the pursuit of his own purpose and the extent to which he was viewed by him as being worthy or otherwise. In our case, my brother’s journey was smoothed by the oils of favouritism so blatant it was embarrassing, while mine was perpetually buffeted by some of the head’s worst excesses. Though we did receive an excellent grounding in choral matters, many of the promises made were never realised. We did face challenges and these were met with stoicism and determination. We certainly had a range of strange and bizarre experiences, some we could have well done without.
My narrative charts my personal journey through the eight years of my schooling from 1948 to 1956, but it is our evil headmaster who emerges as the central character of the piece. What baffles me to this day is how he was able to escape censure for so much inappropriate behaviour. Once the school moved to the Northamptonshire countryside in 1952 the head’s divergent attitudes towards the Butler siblings began to polarise in dramatic fashion. He became over-dependant on the contribution that my brother was making to the welfare of the school while his relationship with me deteriorated into irretrievable breakdown.
In the years that followed, my brother and I rarely spoke of our times together at the school; we shared an unspoken understanding that some of the more painful memories were best left undisturbed: this accounts for the virtual absence in my tale of any reference to his views about the head and his methodology. I have attempted to maintain a balanced perspective in my writing – not a word of which is fiction – though it is, of course, strongly subjective. I trust that the moments of humour are not too forcibly obliterated by the darker tones which permeate throughout and that my narrative remains faithful and true to my brother’s memory.
