We’re still at Sevenoaks but need to go back a bit. In the autumn of 1978 I gave notice to leave St Wilfrid’s Prep School. This was foolish as I had no job to move on to; it was selfish as I was about to be wed and this meant embarking on married life in a state of complete uncertainty; it was arrogant as I assumed the world of work in senior schools would be waiting to welcome me with inviting excitement and a commensurate salary. As we endured that long winter and even more protracted spring with increasing nervousness and devoid of job joy, by May 1979 it was clear that, if I was sufficiently fortunate to receive any sort of job offer, I should agree to do anything and everything however challenging that might make life afterwards. So, when the sniff of a job at Sevenoaks appeared, I assured the authorities there; O yes, I can certainly assist with rugby coaching and I would be pleased to teach a special course on contemporary political trends in sothern Africa as part of the enrichment of General Studies. When a position on the staff there came to fruition some Mohammed Ali style footwork and even a gentle sleight of hand were required to extricate myself from embarrassing revelation.
The one new responsibility I felt I could shoulder despite its being in the realms of the novel and the nerve wracking was the administration of the School’s annual arts festival.
This field of endeavour for one whose knowledge of the arts was limited to a general appreciation of Shakespeare and the enjoyment of Beatles films in the Seaford cinema, was fascinating as it opened the then customarily hermetically sealed doors of an independent school to the world outside. As I assumed control of the whole operation during the next three years, I found myself dealing with artists, performers, agents, local authorities [ we became the largest town and gown arts festival in the country ] and sponsors, even rising to the dizzy heights of the committee of the regional arts authority. There were challenges of course:
A Festival’s quite a fine thing;
Have fun as you act, dance and sing;
But tickets don’t sell,
The star’s none too well,
Why don’t you just stick to teaching?
However, we hosted over the years a marvellous array of artistic experts and performers, amongst whom was sir Hugh Casson, recently retired as President of the Royal Academy. He gave us ten pieces of advice which I incorporated into a piece about the workings and happenings of the Festival in 1988.
Sevenoaks Summer Festival 1988 ( reproduced from The Sennockian 1988 )
Sir Hugh Casson, invigorated by a spell of cruising in the Med. on the Royal Yacht Britannia, came to share his wisdom with us. His Festival appearance was a quietly stimulating affair, much food for thought presented without glamour or fuss. As the 1988 Festival slipped over the horizon, the Festival Director looked back appreciatively and philosophically, with the help of Sir Hugh's Ten Commandments for those involved in the arts.
'Tis the morning after the opening and the ship of state seems in fine fettle. The Adler concert received topping notices, the Reception which preceded it was a congenial affair, Toni Arthur has arrived to entertain the very young (atoning for her absence the previous year), ticket sales are healthy, the populus satisfied with the fare provided. The Director's shoulders make tentative but satisfied contact with the back of his semi- executive swivel chair for the first time in weeks.
But with the nectar of doubly caffeinated Maxwell House nearing his lips, the telephone-that rude and crude interrupter of so many dreams - does its worst. One of the Sponsors requires us to provide a special brand of champagne for a reception at short notice and on a slightly parsimonious sale or return basis too; the Sackville Theatre has taken on a festive appearance with bunting and straw hats but, demands a second caller, "Is this really art?" Thankfully, following Pontius Pilate's lead after posing a similarly profound question on the nature of truth, this contemporary philosopher does not wait for an answer. James Mason's film "Odd Man Out" has been inadvertently incinerated by the distributors and is not after all available for showing in Sevenoaks 48 hours hence but, they reassure us, "The Verdict" would make a good substitute. Who knows, perhaps the next call will be from John Ogdon informing us that he is indisposed but the pianist who plays Russ Conway-style every other Thursday at the Green Man is happy to take his place. Let us therefore be open-minded or as Sir Hugh Casson advises us, 'Reason should be the slave of passion'.
The day draws on and it is time to look in on a sponsor's reception given before the opening night of the local blockbuster production of "Oliver!" A charming setting and some polished clientele here. A striking female glides in my direction, looking as if she means pleasure. She is one of those women who, if ever she sat in a barge, the poop would be made of only the best beaten gold. "I gather," she start, "you are connected with this production. You must be Lionel Blair." On (rapidly) to the Sackville Theatre, flags and all; passing, with a momentary concern, two members of Sevenoaks School staff who toil all day on their normal duties and, with a versatility of which Galileo would have been proud, run the front of house at night; to the lawn where a wine bar is not providing what it should, at the price it should, for the hairdresser of the School drama production. Gevrey Chambertin would presumably be acceptable, but would it be pronounceable? As Sir Hugh Casson says: 'Every service and advantage brings a disservice. Watch for the latter'.
From cock crow on Day Three it is clear that this will be the year of the hairdresser, as an eminent international coiffeur is on the doorstep seeking explanation for the absence of acknowledgement of his expertise and generosity in the styling of "Oliver" scalps. A satisfying wigging having been delivered, he crosses on the threshold an irate Housemaster whose evening has been disturbed by one of his charges, left with the weighty responsibility of tidying up after the opening reception, suffering the ill- effects of over-indulgence of the cup that cheers, or at least the dregs of the Piat d'Or bottle. Had it been Gevrey Chambertin again would his constitution have objected? Would his Housemaster have displayed a more liberal attitude? No time to worry about that, for the King's Singers, in obvious anticipation of their celebratory champagne, have left their music in Germany and search the Green Room in vain for a towel. Meanwhile the tennis sets on the lower car park have not been removed as promised. Sir Hugh Casson, him say: 'Go and see for yourself' but on on this occasion it is more a case of go and do for yourself.
Friday is due to be a quiet day of youthful domestic performance. Its full richness is to be savoured by a mildly intemperate dispute between two friends over responsibility for locking the Aisher Hall. One realises that the most impassioned Festival drama takes place off-stage, back-stage, or even in heartfelt attempts to up-stage and that to the twin banes of booze and barbers one must add bolts and bins, for litter overfloweth from every elegant receptacle. As the Director struggles with a black sack (how does one individual hold these things open and pour rubbish in simultaneously?), reports are coming in that the sound system for films in the Little Theatre has finally become exhausted by a life exercising a will of its own and is laying itself quietly to rest. (Just as well, he muses, that the audience were watching a James Mason film which maybe they did not wish to see anyway.) To the Stag Theatre, where the front of house team has found the early matinée stint beyond their contractual responsibilities, so there is a quick crisis of identity while standing rather awkwardly, but one hopes usefully, on the stairs: to be a local front of house worthy, risk embarrassment if you are recognised as something else; or to be an obvious Festival Director-garrulous, charming, slightly superior- and be thought a complete idiot. While he contemplates Alexander Pope's succinct insight, "In doubt to deem himself a God or beast," relief comes in the form of a message from the soundless Little Theatre, where the lecturer has arrived and looks in vain for the carousel projector which has been promised. Ah well, it was to be a quiet day and now it is an invisible one too. Who's responsible?.... On second thoughts, perhaps not. As Sir Hugh Casson opines: 'Always expect to be misunderstood'
By Saturday a ten year old Oliver, finding the task of throwing his treble voice across the cavernous Stag Theatre too much for him, joins the distinguished James Mason as part of the inaudible Festival, while one of the orchestra who may have been conspiring to drown his every syllable, has suffered a burn to the shirt at the hands of the Theatre's iron. It is in truth a gentle evening, with the Roman food expert, finally provided with a projector of appropriate classical antiquity on the previous night, now finds himself without a food mixture as the burghers of Sevenoaks (perhaps that is what he will be reduced to serving them) arrive for their Devil's Dung. There are no student helpers for a sponsor's reception (have they all been locked in their boarding houses rather than tempt fate with exploring the world of Bacchanalian extravagance?). The dependence of James Mason's success on that rich, distinguished voice is proved by the fact that by now only two relish the challenge of guessing the soundtrack of the Blue Max, and 50% of the audience departs rather smartly; supplies of soft drink are non-existent on the Sackville lawn-but there isn't a hairdresser in sight. Come, let us climb from this morass of detailed bits and pieces. Hugh Casson would have said: 'Facts are the enemies of imagination'.
With predictable lack of charity the weather gods ensure a damp Sunday morning when we need Mediterranean conditions for our alfresco events. Nothing daunted, we sally forth with faith and hope to greet a breathless representative from the Stag Theatre who has spotted the unforgiveable- a phantom programme Insert pusher who materialises as the secretary of the local Symphony Orchestra. Meanwhile the father of a young lady on gate duty at the Children's Extravaganza is less than enchanted by the carping eyeball-to-eyeball criticism at the hands of a dissatisfied customer. (Don't put your daughter backstage either, Mrs Worthington.) Word is coming in that main car park may be rendered inoperable for the last two nights of the Festival by the erection of monumental tripods for the annual Sevenoaks School Open Day gun run-Festival versus the Falklands factor is a contest many would relish from a distance - but we are reminded that catastrophes invariably occur in threes and Sir Hugh Casson is, we advised, not to be heard at the back of the Alsher Hall. James Mason and Oliver at least may feel privileged at the company they now share. Sir Hugh has instructed: Keep your eyes open'. Strange perhaps that he did not refer to the aural apertures as well.
The Box Office reports we have sold tickets for John Ogdon's recital well over the maximum. Allah be praised for the versatile elasticity which the bench seating affords in the Aisher Hall. SOS from Finchcocks - programmes have failed to arrive. Frank Delaney, in no conscious attempt to emulate Dr. Foster and certainly we trust without the same effect, perhaps momentarily thrown by the unscheduled pounding vibrations emanating from the 6th Form Common Room, steps in a sizeable puddle. The search for a towel is hampered by the redoubtable Mrs. Zwagermann from Holland who is staying locally for the Festival and wishes, understandably, to present her suggestions for 1989 - Vera Lynn downwards.
Every Festival has its clutch of challenging requests. The actress, Fenella Fielding, fancies a three foot octagonal table "which is not round". When furnished with said item, it does not prevent her from sustaining a hurt to the shoe and causing the start of the interminable Chaucer evening to be unfortunately delayed. The Pasadena Roof Orchestra would like their eleven suppers, as requested some time before, but the Catering Manager, accustomed to the extreme punctuality of ravenous teenagers, has, on noting the lacking of adherence to the schedule, consigned them (the suppers not the PRO men) to the bin. The audience in the Sackville has been thrown more than a soupçon by being deprived of the opportunity to applaud at the end of Penda's Fen. We are asking £1.50 for the programmes but as time and demand dwindles, the cost has been reduced to 50p. But supplies are now running out so, with a pragmatism not easily grasped by the consumer, back up the price has to go. Joshua Rifkin wants showers all day as well as a babysitter, but then Hugh Casson did warn that: 'Artistic problems are often moral and social as well as aesthetic or historical.' The Prometheus Ensemble can give only muted approval to the version of Walton's Façade (Sitwell's words not the music) which is about to be issued to the audience. The Library is frequently locked, it is claimed, when it should be welcoming the exhibition gazers. Perhaps one should set such momentous Issues on one side and visit Richard Stilgoe, an old friend, during the interval of his one man show in the Stag Theatre. Even in the apparently subterranean ambiance of the Green Room in the Stag, however, the atmosphere seems to be chilly and the entertainer reluctant to chew the cud for more than a fleeting moment over the meaning of life. Then one recalls that in the small break in his show Richard improvises what is invariably a stunning composition, consisting of remarks and suggestions flung at him by his audience. We retreat with apologetic stumbling, remembering that: 'Artists are splendid advisers and pointers out but tyrants in command.'
The last day starts with a jolt which presages a whimper rather than a bang-type finale, as the Scottish Chamber Orchestra seems to have left its tympani in Finland. While frantic phone calls to suitable hiring firms ensue, the Director finds himself standing alone - very much alone - in the Marley Sports Centre. It should be an occasion of apprehensive excitement, for Rory Bremner, ace mimic, is due to have them rolling in the aisles that evening, but there are only a few hours to curtain up, the chairs and stage have not been delivered, and slowly it dawns that, in his enthusiasm to pack 'em in, he has moved the show to a new venue but has failed to obtain all the necessary licences to hold a public performance. Suppose the fire officer should appear and close the show down; suppose, worse horror still, fire itself rather than the fire officer should cause a hasty exodus. Thoughts wander to Milton's bottomless perdition and destruction complete with adamantine chains and, most appropriately, penal fire. But what is this monstrous scaffolding structure replete with theatre lights straddling the hall?
An undertaking has been given to the Headmaster that the hall will be clear by 2.30 for a prize-giving rehearsal; it is now 2.15; the Theatre's technicians are all apparently (and wisely) in a field near a village called Leigh; desperate cries for assistance from caretakers, passers-by, anyone, are in vain (thus proving that inaudibility is an infectious complaint). There is nothing else for it but grasp the slippery pole firmly and tug the edifice into the wings. Inch by inch it moves but only one stanchion. It teeters precariously, uncertain not so much whether but how to take the plunge and great-Samson would have stood proud amongst the ruins of shattered glass, dented floor and twisted metal - was the fall of it.
So the Director, in a pique of self-pity, jumps a few Old Testament Books to that of Job and remembers the sage's words: 'God is love but get it in writing'. And mindful that plans for the following year's Festival are already under way and that there is therefore no escape, he takes comfort in Sir Hugh's final piece of advice: 'Never despair.'
I hope I have given some explanation why Sevenoaks in the ‘80s was such a rewarding time for me. I would not wish to draw too close a comparison with my time at Gordonstoun, which was of course immensely fulfilling, as the nature of work in the two was so different. As a Head you have overall responsibility for everything and direct control over almost nothing; as a Deputy Head you will have enjoyed the almost exact reverse of that situation. Perhaps a testy, waspish governor at Gordonstoun was right when, at an early stage of my twenty one years there, he expressed the opinion that I was no more than ‘ a glorified housemaster ‘. Various appraisals were slightly more generous but I could have lived reasonably happily with that description.
In any event a postscript to finish the Sevenoaks story. Experienced readers of these musings will have detected a tendency for me to flirt -- at times outrageously -- with artificial, self-deprecating modesty. Now, for a brief nanosecond, the truth is laid bare. ‘ Vanity, all is vanity ‘ says the teacher and he doesn’t even apologise.
By way of evidence I reproduce a reference written by Richard Barker in 1987 when I made my first application to move to the next stage as Warden [ Head ] of St Edward’s School, Oxford . The reference was unduly flattering [ but expertly constructed ] ; the interview was an appalling, humiliating shambles; I was [ in the light of what eventually transpired ] blessedly unsuccessful and learnt how much I did not know. Thirty six years later I am extremely pleased to be living in retirement next to this excellent school.
8th May, 1987
Secretary to the Governors,
St. Edward's School,
OXFORD. 0X2 7NN.
Dear Colonel Bramble,
Mark Pyper
Mark Pyper is an unusual young man who has qualities which are rarely found in schoolmasters and experience which is given to few outside head- mastering. I am pleased to support his application for the Wardenship of St. Edward's. This will be his first application for a Headship (although a new independent school in London had head-hunted him, and offered him the job, had they been able to proceed with plans).
Mark came to us in 1979 from a Preparatory School where he was joint headmaster. In 8 years he has taken over many of the major roles in a large school and his present responsibilities are those normally given to deputy heads. He is Registrar, Office Manager, a Boarding Housemaster and the Director of our Sevenoaks Summer Festival of the Arts. Along with his teaching, these roles require unusual personal and administrative skills. He is dealing with Preparatory Schools, prospective parents, parents, staff, boys and girls, as well as many individuals and organisations in the local community. There are few schoolmasters I can remember who could have taken a load so varied and creative, innovating and administering to the highest level. If there is a concern it might be that he only teaches a few periods a week, but he is centrally involved in matters of curriculum, timetabling and staffing, and respected by all the Heads of Departments for his appreciation of their problems and his ability to make timetables work.
Mark's achievements come from his facility to administrate and to get on with people. In administration he has learnt to clarify the purpose of any activity, of looking forward, of being meticulous in his research, thoughtful in decision, clear and concise in his communication and increasingly to accept the unexpected or the whimsical ways of his colleagues with a smile and a defusing phrase! His successes in the Festival have been partly due to his great love for the theatre and for music but equally his ability to raise finance, to budget and to market the Festival to the School and to the locality. Knowing the previous history of our Festival and the fate of many regional festivals, I do not look forward to the day when Mark drops the reins. He alone has built this up (for your interest last year's festival programme is enclosed). In registration and within the office he has tidied up affairs to such an extent that I believe others can follow with reasonable ease so clear are his paperwork and his new computer systems; again they reflect his clarity of mind, his sense of purpose, his willingness to adopt new techniques and his tremendous drive. We are an unusually complicated school and it is substantially to Mark's credit that Sevenoaks is administered with a serenity which belies its complexity.
5 years ago Mark took over a depressed boarding house and has changed this into one highly esteemed by both boys and parents. Mark is renowned for his ability to take on difficult boys, to care for individual problems and allow scope for personal initiatives. The House is known for its sport, its hospitality, its fund-raising and rigorous expectations on the scholastic front. His wife, Jenny, has contributed much to this. She is a most personable young lady, easy to talk to, full of ideas, and a good listener. She strongly supports her husband and is much-loved in the community.
There are few of the qualities you have mentioned which Mark does not hold in abundance. It would be unnecessary for me to touch on each but I should touch on a few. He is a practised and skilled chairman who is always master of his brief and has the gift of moving forward a meeting whilst apparently giving space to members and allowing a relaxed atmosphere; he is particularly good at following up the committee's decisions. He hes often spoken in the Festival or on the Festival and does this with style, a good classicist's turn of phrase and he is never boring to listen to. He has shown courage in his willingness to press ahead with tough initiatives but, even more, in his unwillingness to show any sign of his injuries which can sometimes pain him. Above all, he has unbelievable energy and a quiet confidence in his own ability. He structures his life with precision, disciplining himself to get things done to a level of detail and in a shortness of time which constantly impresses us all. He needs Little sleep and works both late and early and my constant attempts to slow down his pace and reduce his workload have fallen on deaf ears. He is simply a man in love with his job as a schoolmaster, an administrator, and as an entrepreneur. I should finish by saying that he is a man of traditional views and values. He is loyal, discreet, compassionate and absolutely honest. He has been a pleasure to work with over six years and his c.v. will illustrate the responsibilities that I have willingly delegated to him.
Mark is now ready for a headship. I believe that he has outstanding qualities to offer and that he will soon find the post that he seeks. If I can help further, please do let me know.
Yours sincerely,
Richard Barker
28th August 2023
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