The Langley Boy

Slough Grammar School for Boys was administered by Dr. Long, a pompous and portly headmaster with a six o'clock shadow, thinning silvery grey hair and a pinched expression seldom disturbed by a smile.  The school’s strengths were its fantastic teaching staff, its commitment to provide a first class education and the preparation of its pupils for university and adult life.  I hated it and I loved it in that order. 

The school was a typical 1930’s architect designed brick building with an extensive front façade, serried rows of Georgian windows and an imposing stone portico over the main entrance, which gave it an air of grandeur and self-importance. A splendid wrought iron fence, massive gates and a well-manicured lawn with decorative rose beds, enhanced the Lascelles road frontage while extensive playing fields complemented the rear of the building.

I must admit that I had very mixed emotions when I put on my new outfit to start my Grammar School career.  My clothes were crisp, starchy and uncomfortable and yet despite these minor irritations I felt proud of my new maroon blazer and school uniform. I would have liked my father to have accompanied me to school for my enrolment but being  an hourly paid worker he couldn’t have the time off without losing pay  and so the responsibility fell onto my mother’s shoulders. 

We duly arrived at the school, where a prefect escorted us into the foyer to await an audience with the headmaster Dr Long.  It was decorated with cream painted Doric columns and I must admit that while we sat there, I had mixed feelings of apprehension, expectation and a sense of awe induced by the majesty of the school. 

There is no doubt that as a late entrant, I had a great handicap starting school a week after the beginning of term.  All the other boys had made new friends and had received a common introduction to the school’s procedures. My former junior school friend Keith Halstead had already told me about the initiation ceremony inflicted on the new boys and it was with great trepidation that I looked forward to the remainder of my first day at school. The first year intake was a three-form entry and we were separated into forms 2A, 2B and 2C on an alphabetical basis.  I have no idea why the first year wasn’t called 1A, etc but I was placed in class 2C.  As a result of the rapid expansion of the school, the classrooms for the first and second year pupils were not in the main buildings but situated about a hundred yards away in purpose-built temporary huts. We were accompanied there by one of the prefects and I and another couple lads were directed to our classroom to meet Mr. Harries our new form-master. I shall never forget how intimidated I felt, when he asked me to call out my name to enter it into the register and every boy in the class turned around to inspect at me. I was un-nerved by the thirty pairs of eyes scrutinising me and I croaked rather hoarsely, “My name is Tyrie.” The torture continued when I was asked for my second name, Rowland, which I had always hated and which I found acutely embarrassing to say aloud and the smirks and sniggers of my new classmates confirmed my worst fears that they too thought that it was a naff and silly name. Had I spoken it with confidence and outfaced them, I would probably have enjoyed a much happier time in form 2C but my body language and hesitancy betrayed my insecurity and labelled me a victim. During the morning milk break, Jimmy Thomas, a short dark haired lad with clear blue eyes, long black eyelashes and a wicked sense of humour, mimicked the way I had spoken my name, which produced howls of laughter from the rest of the class.  I was a marked man and it was not a good introduction to my new classmates.