As we make one gargantuan stride from preface to tailpiece in our musings on the subject of memorials, I wonder if you have heard the news recently from Thame, that gently dignified market town not far from Oxford. There the good burghers have decided that an enthusiastic local group may not affix five red plaques [the development from time honoured blue was news to me too], denoting buildings that have played a significant role in the television series Midsomer Murders. Of course, so prolific are the instances of unnatural death in Causton [or Thame], the whole population has died several times over in the past twenty five years. In Goring [or is it Streatley?] the attitude is somewhat more liberal and prominently placed above the main door of the parish church, where people once, one presumes, worshipped the Almighty, is a blue plaque announcing to the world that Lewis Carroll preached there on one [just the one] occasion. The author of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland [Dodgson by name and potentially jolly dodgy by nature if you were a small girl] clearly has the edge on Inspector Barnaby. What an unfair world it is.
But who or what is a celebrity and can you spot one? You might at some stage have watched the television show Big Brother, now late but not much lamented, having gone the way of all flesh, after showing us rather too much of that commodity in its declining years. If you saw the 'ordinary public' version one night and a 'Celebrity' instalment the next, could you tell which is which? Some, I suppose, are born celebrated [royals et al, see below]; some achieve celebrity status [through fame or infamy]; while others have celebrity thrust upon them for no apparent reason beyond the proportions of their posteriors and the ability to promote themselves though the largely antisocial media.
If we're looking for gender equality on our plaques -- and banknotes for that matter -- it is a real challenge in a world where for thousands of years women were responsible for kuchen und kinder, achievements which don't grab the headlines but which certainly prevent you from running a marathon, blowing a trumpet or ruling the world. However, resist the temptation to lower the bar for women with a view to increasing their number on the shortlist; rather raise the bar for men so they can strive to equal the top girls. There are not many male scientists around who can equal Dorothy Hodgkin, Nobel Laureate in Chemistry whose plaque I pass almost every day, or Mother Theresa, forgotten at the end as she had the misfortune to die at the same time as Diana, Princess of Wales. And if you are still looking at a lopsided, male dominated picture, remember that there are no longer barriers between fact, fiction and fake and just vote for Peggy or Jill from The Archers, worthy contenders in a changing world.
And would you rather be remembered with a plaque or a bench? In the University Parks in Oxford you will find a plain, handsome seat given in honour of JRR Tolkien. It is as solid as it is useful and some would say more fitting than countless plaques in his memory and the memorial with his grave in the Five Mile Drive cemetery. And if you return to the deserted village of Thame, you will find next to the war memorial a bench dedicated to a courageous dog, which showed extraordinary loyalty when a house fire was raging, saving his master and another dog before perishing in the flames himself.
Our family always likes to tramp over the South Downs to Seaford Head, there to find at a most beautiful spot a bench installed by Jenny in memory of her parents. 'Grandma's bench' is a delightful memorial in a charming, though occasionally cyclonic, setting, perhaps more real and personal than a blue reverse plate about which some stranger will make the important decisions about what is writ. There are no plaques for ordinary mortals when Domesday comes but I would choose a bench in any case where family can sit and ponder.
Should your plaque be reddish or blue?
I'm really not bothered; thank you.
Just give me a bench;
Our souls there we'll quench
With tales of the things we would do.
Schools of course tend to be littered with plaques marking visitations by people of note usually opening a facility and spreading a degree of light and joy. At Gordonstoun most such occasions were carried out by members of the royal family, all of whom I found to be unreservedly interested, supportive and hard working. They say you can get things painted when a royal is coming and, when the Princess Royal opened a new hall at Aberlour House, the grass surrounding the building had not grown sufficiently so we painted it a vibrant bottle green. Her Royal Highness noticed and the grass died. You also have to look after them. Until very recently the Duke of Edinburgh had Double Diamond on his essential beverage list although I was sure it had gone out of production years before. HM The Queen also enjoys a slightly dated tipple. I was waiting once beside the Grace Gates, the main entrance to Lord's cricket ground, when a breathless young man arrived and tried to persuade the gatekeeper that he had left his pass inside, having been dispatched to fetch the Queen's Dubonnet ( to which lemonade would be added ) and this was what he was now clutching. 'And I'm the King of Siam', came the reply. Having had difficulty several years before finding that particular drink in Tesco, Elgin, for the same purpose, I found myself in deep sympathy and was able to offer support.
Daughter Sarah was three when she first met the Princess Royal [we were being vetted in our boarding house in Sevenoaks]. She took one look, burst into tears and ran out screaming; this was a fraudulent princess as she was not wearing a proper crown. After six years of intensive training, Sarah was more successful in presenting the Queen with a posy of flowers at Gordonstoun. On that day in October 1995 HM and Prince Philip were visiting, largely for the purpose of seeing their grandchildren, Peter and Zara, in action. The northerly wind was slicing through us but the loveliest of men and a tough Scot, Angus Macdonald, Chairman of Governors, was typically watching hockey with no sign of an outer garment. Sadly it was his last visit to the School for he was extremely unwell but did not know it. In any case we kept on the move and graduated to the rugby field where a school match was keenly contested. The referee had been told that we would be present for only five minutes but under no circumstances should half-time be taken when the royal party was watching. Her Majesty would want to see her grandson playing rather than chewing an orange.
After five minutes of freezing appreciation, I suggested to Her Majesty that we might move on as the musicians were waiting for us. ' No thank you, Mr Pyper; I am enjoying the rugby'. So we stayed for another five minutes and another and another. By now the first half of the match had run for fifty, rather than the scheduled thirty, minutes. Referee and players looked increasingly exhausted, dejected and desperate; I became concerned about health and safety issues. With a garrotte like motion I signalled to the referee to halt the proceedings; the Queen applauded so everyone else did and we moved on to the testy trombonists. The rugby players never made it back on to the field of play. I really learnt that day the true meaning of ' your humble and obedient servant '.
Advance fifteen years and the Pypers are approaching their final curtain at Gordonstoun in September 2010. HM The Queen and The Duke of Edinburgh have arrived to open the new Sports Hall, the first phase of a mighty physical education emporium, soon to be completed and superb in every way. It is to be named after George Welsh, a former Head of PE at the School, a man of diminutive stature but a giant in the history and culture of Gordonstoun. The Queen started well; her opening remark to me was ' Good heavens, Mr Pyper, are you still here?' I thought this comment on a mere twenty year stint from someone approaching her sixtieth anniversary in the seat of power was rather rich but I knew now just how to bite my lip in abject supplication. No less tact was required when HRH Prince Philip, commented with a splutter after the drama performance that he had seen nothing because of excessive use of the smoke gun. Williams N never missed an opportunity to make a lasting impression.
The royal couple, accompanied by Lord Lieutenant, Grenville Johnson [an excellent man] and Chairman of Governors, Bryan Williams [no less excellent], advanced the full length of the expansive hall, climbed the dais and sat down. The other several hundred present remained standing and this clearly baffled the Queen and she asked Bryan Williams why the populace was not following their lead. 'I think' replied Bryan 'they are waiting for Mrs Welsh and Mrs Pyper to get to their seats.' And that was exactly what was happening. Betty Welsh was somewhat infirm and she was leaning heavily on Jenny so progress down the aisle was slow but it was rather a telling moment. I always found -- and still find -- it difficult to feel pride in the accomplishments of individual students and pupils. They all have talents in different things and at different levels and, given the right support and encouragement, they should all achieve their potential for good. The brilliant flautist jolly well ought to be a brilliant flautist; if you were born to play a classic cover drive, get on and play it. Perhaps a little pride is permissible for the young person who overcomes great difficulty to achieve a goal but keep moving on to the next thing.
However, when the culture of a school achieves a shift in belief, in environment and in day to day operation; when there is a discernible change in a desired direction, that is a cause for everyone feeling a sense of pride. There was not an ounce of disrespect for the monarchy on that day at Gordonstoun but the community, through deciding to stay upright while the two senior ladies made it to their seats, was saying something significant about respect for all.
Mind you, the event had almost not materialised at all. A generous parent, Christopher Terry, an enterprising cricket loving gentleman, who dedicated his life to restoring an historic pile in Cumbria, volunteered to produce the plaque to mark the opening of the Sports Hall. This was a beautiful piece of Portland stone with the details engraved delicately and skilfully. Hugh Brown, Finance Director, and I did wait some time rather nervously as the stone failed to appear. At last, just a few days before the Opening, Christopher arrived in his aged, signature Volvo Estate and brought a substantial box up to Hugh's office where he opened it with a proud flourish.
Hugh and I looked at the plaque and then at each other for simultaneously we noticed a little snag. This Sports Hall was opened by Her Majety The Queen on ........ We had to point out to Christopher that Majesty should contain an 's' which seemed to be missing. This elicited from Christopher the not entirely helpful response ' Well, the sculptor is very good but he is Australian '. Back into the Volvo he climbed to return the plaque to the Antipodean in Cumbria. The correct version was carved on the obverse side and the finished article was delivered with just hours to spare. I sometimes wonder what archaeologists in the year 4000 will make of this double sided plaque when they rescue it from Elizabethan ruins.
Meanwhile, shortly before this little episode, royal detectives, royal attendants and royal dogs [of the sniffing variety] made their customary visits to the school. We all agreed that The Queen should exit the new hall via the old sports centre [about to be renovated] which she had opened over forty years before. She would doubtless pause at the silver plaque which she had unveiled on that occasion before moving on to watch some rugby [a practice of skills this time rather than a needle match]. As we stood in front of the plaque, a rather bouncy attendant of no little self-importance, remarked with barely disguised glee 'You do realise there's a word scratched on to the bottom left-hand corner of this plaque'. I had to confess I did not so approached to see clearly something I must have passed a thousand times: the word ' BOLLOCKS ' was scratched not without proficiency at the foot of the official message. Ah well, I mused, freedom of expression is a virtue among the young.
So this plaque too, with just four days to go to the opening ceremony, had to come down and disappear for restorative work and all was well that ended well. The new Sports Hall was the scene a few months later for our farewell dinner. Following the example of our good friends, John and Daphne Rea of Westminster School, we decided to leave at the end of a Spring Term as this meant we could creep away unnoticed and gentle into that goodnight. For better or worse, the Princess Royal had other ideas and told the Chair of Governors that there was to be an official farewell and that she would be speaking. Six hundred of us gathered; the PR thanked us for 'keeping it going' and I thought that was a rather accurate and appropriate expression of appreciation. Over dinner I told her the story of the two plaques but we agreed that we probably wouldn't share the tale with the Queen as, in common with her great-great grandmother, she might adopt an attitude of non-amusement.
Stick to benches, I say.
29th April 2019
