It was a mid-September day in 1983 when I was sent away. It was my second boarding school, which was in West Sussex. My first school was a place I could cope with – because I was with boys I had grown up with who lived near my home in Surrey.
My parents were very upwardly mobile, especially my mother. Both were ex-boarders. I have researched the founder of my second school. He was a depressive and submissive man, who believed that the improvement of society depended on him. He passed his values on to his pupils. Clearly, a man on a mission. So many Victorian clergymen were like this, in the days of Empire.
And Empire was the operative word here, despite the fact that it had ended in 1968, when Britain withdrew from her colonies east of Suez.
At my first school, I was a large fish in a small pond. At my second, I was a very small fish in a very large pond. It was way too much for me. What Nick Duffell says about being overwhelmed was totally true for me.
I had to cope, and I had to survive. Me being a total idealist (and, having seen the film Gandhi in 1982) I, in my 13 year-old way, thought the way to go was: “Be like Gandhi – non-violence – don’t hit back.” But Gandhi was a somewhat deficient as a role model. I wasn’t talking this through with anyone. Any fool knows that teenagers are often secretive.
I (and all my peer group) saw the teachers as the enemy. At least I did. They were the oppressors, and I was the hero. I would be like Gandhi. No-one would hurt me. I would not cry because it is not allowed (now though, I can). I would be brave and definitely would not be vulnerable. Vulnerability is for wimps.
I arrived. I still remember that first day. I was very young, very naive and totally terrified. All through the journey I was telling my parents that I definitely did not want to do this. They ignored me. It would be the Making of Me. Of course it would be.
The first term went O.K. There was school sickness with some the other boys. There was a 15 year-old boy who kept control in the dormitory, so that worked OK. But in the second term it all unravelled. My diary was discovered and stolen by another boy, who discovered private medical information. How humiliating it was! I was upset.
This condition was turned into a chant which they chanted around my bed. A year later, it was actually recorded onto a tape and played in the dormitory. (Thankfully, the bully told me in 2006 that the tape has now been lost.)
At other times, in the dormitory, there was a running the gauntlet – where one boy would have to run through the punches and kicks of the others. At another time, the smallest boy was dangled by his feet from the dormitory window. He was ten metres from the ground, and shouting.
In early 1985 there was another dormitory where “the cage” was devised. I was not there, but the cage consisted of stripping a boy naked and putting him there. He would then be physically and emotionally abused. Boys can be disgusting sometimes.
There was a ringleader – a bully – who led the boys. His methods were extremely manipulative and he worked through secrecy and divide and rule. He was into power games and what we would now understand as gaslighting. One boy who was there said: “It entertained him to kick up some shit.” I saw him as a pathological liar.
I remember how his lies used to infuriate me. I did not feel able to challenge him, because not enough of the boys were on my side. I was trapped. And the bullying continued. Day by remorseless day. Week by remorseless week. I was so isolated, so lonely.
But my survival technique was my work. I was a clever boy – and somewhat proud. I couldn’t admit that things weren’t so great. I went back to church in my home village every two weeks. My secrets were killing me. I just could not open up to anyone there about what was happening. It must have been the shame which the bully had projected onto me. “How are things at school?”, an old family friend asked. “Yes, fine”, I lied. The whole school was based on lying anyway – what difference did my lies make?
But as Byron Katie says: “When you fight reality, you’ll lose. But only 100% of the time.” And the reality of life was that I needed self-esteem. By the spring of 1985 I had really had enough. My survival tactic of working very hard had worked. But emotionally I was not well.
One day in May, back at school, the bully said something outrageous and I became extremely angry. I hit him with a right hook and cut his lip. He needed to be taught a lesson. His massive ego had taken a dent. He ran after me, whining, for about 50 metres. But it was break, and I had to get to the next lesson. He went back to the House and I went to the lesson. Although he bothered other boys after this in 1985, he did not bother me. I finally left the school when I was 17, after ‘A’ levels. I might well have left earlier, but did not have the confidence or the courage. I vowed to myself many years later that I would fight to protect children’s rights.