Recollections of an Old (but young at heart) Oswestrian, circa 1952 - EPISODE 1

David Pickup, and his brother Bernard, joined Oswestry School as boarders in 1952. Each week David shares a recollection from his time at school when the world was a very different place and there were no girls!

Episode 1, News!

It was a wet, miserable day in the Autumn of 1952 when the Armstrong Siddeley, driven by our uncle and carrying two excited boys, turned onto the drive and, wheels crunching over the gleaming white gravel, drove slowly up the slight incline and came to a halt in front of the impressively pillared house of The Headmaster.

We had arrived at Oswestry School; founded by David Holbache in 1407 it is one of the oldest schools of its kind in England.

But, I am ahead of myself! Let me take you back to explain where, how, and why our extraordinary journey began.

Bernard (left) and David (right) Pickup

My younger brother Bernard and I were born in Haslingden, a small bustling town nestling in the foothills of the Pennines amidst the smoking stacks of Lancashire cotton mills. Our parents were hard-working people who ran a bakery and general store serving nearby factories. Standing just a short distance away at the bottom of a steep hill that ran alongside the bakery and the local community, it was this enterprise that paid for our schooling.

Sundays were definitely a day of rest, not recreation, and the church was the centre of social activities. The whole community turned out, suited and booted, in their best clothes, and after church trudged home to spend the rest of the afternoon sat in the front room, used only on Sundays, special occasions and Christmas, looking at one another, twiddling their fingers, while hoping and praying that some brave soul would break the silence and suggest that maybe a little glass of sherry would go down quite well. After a suitable interlude the person who was 'thirstier' than the rest would eventually enquire discreetly where the key to the sideboard was kept, precipitating a stampede towards the mantelpiece to retrieve the key from underneath the bakelite clock.

David (right) with his parents, brother Bernard, and pet dog.

It was our paternal grandfather who was the driving force behind us going to boarding school as he wanted us to have a good education, and felt it would make us independent-minded people. He, along with our uncle, who owned a thriving fuel distribution business supplying local industry and domestic consumers, were well connected with several local cotton mill owners and people in the business community, many of whom sent their children to private schools. Along with members of our family we visited several schools including Giggleswick and Bedstone, and, unknown to us boys, they opted for Oswestry.

Thus it was that early in 1952, at the ages of 9 and 10 respectively, my brother and I were unceremoniously sat down in the kitchen and given a cup of tea and a dog biscuit (we had a penchant for dog biscuits, and at night used to creep down to the shop, which was over our bakery, to sample the various dog biscuits which arrived loose in large hessian sacks). My favourites were Spillars Shapes, but I think Bernard was rather fond of Winalot. I am sure he feels, even today, that his intake of substantial quantities of this, and Stamina (another favourite), helped in the development of his undoubted prowess and success in the sporting battles we fought together on the Maes-y-Llan during the 50s.

And there we were, returning to the kitchen of 1952, when I can recall, as if it were yesterday, hearing the jaw-dropping news that we were to be sent to boarding school later that year.

WOW! I thought. This is a bit radical! (as 10 year-olds do), and turning towards Bernard I saw he was grinning like the proverbial Cheshire Cat that has got the cream. The silly plonker, I said to myself, he has not thought this through. Me, being older and much wiser of course, realised some of the ramifications of this Damascene moment (even though the nearest I had ever been to Damascus was The Bab Tooma Syrian chippy in Bradford!)
"There won't be any Winalot or Stamina where we are heading", I whispered to him. That swiftly took the smile from his face and the colour drained rapidly from his cheeks. Quickly, regaining his composure, he retorted defiantly, "Well, I'm going to hide some in the tuck box along with some of that Sheba stuff that you like". Not a word passed his lips about the Bob Martins...

It was a fait accompli... destination Oswestry School.

And so it was that we arrived on that rather dreary afternoon in late Autumn at the place that was to be our home for the next 8 years.