Notes from a Westminster Abbey chorister, 1947 to 1952

It was not an auspicious beginning. Dr William McKie dismissed me from my voice trial in the song school. He wouldn’t even listen to my prepared song, ‘How sweee-eeeet is the Shepherd’s sweet lot’. He had been testing my ability to distinguish one note from another, by playing an increasing number of them on the piano, and telling me to sing the middle note; or the fourth from the top. Eventually he jammed his right forearm on the keys, and challenged me to pick out the seventh note from the bottom (or something like that). This was an impossible task, but I was enjoying the game, so gave it a try. “Laaa” I ventured.

‘Get out, boy!’ he said.

My parents, who had brought me all the way from Swaffham, Norfolk, were comforting when I told them of my disastrous trial. The Abbey Choir proper had been closed during the second world war years, and the Dean and Chapter were looking for voices to help get it started up again. It seemed that mine was not to be one of them.

But early in March, 1947, I came across my parents in an excited huddle in the Vicarage drawing room. They were reading a small, brief, letter signed by E.W. Thompson (Headmaster), and Wm McKie, Organist and Master of the choristers. The letter bore the most surprising news that ‘your son has been successful at the recent voice trial’, and that ‘he is expected to enter school in the Michaelmas Term which begins on 19th September 1947.

I at first thought that perhaps the School had made a mistake – given my abrupt dismissal from the Song School. But in the bottom left-hand corner of the letter was a personal note from Dr McKie that added “I am glad about this”. Whether he welcomed all boys in this manner I still don’t know. Whatever the fact of the matter, they were five words of the greatest encouragement to me. Perhaps I had guessed that seventh note from the bottom correctly. A few years later, Dr McKie told me that he was pleased to note that I had ‘a raw musical ear’. He clearly had a strange way of expressing that pleasure.

It was the start of wonderful five years for a young boy. Two other choristers joined at the same time: Miles Shillingford and Peter Court-Hampton. We formed the second batch of entrants to the post-war choir. The main body had been selected and had joined, I believe, for the previous Term.

It would be difficult to place the wonders in order of appreciation; except that the singing was best. It was followed in random order by life in the Choir School, its teachers, the grand ceremonial occasions, the football and cricket, and the school holidays. Life can’t get better than that, for an eight or nine-year-old lad.

The Royal Wedding

The first grand ceremonial occasion took place only two months after I had joined the Abbey choir. On 20th November 1947 Princess Elizabeth and HRH The Duke of Edinburgh were married. What excitement that was! What fanfares! I was lucky to scrape into the singing choir; for I was but a probationer at the time – and the youngest chorister there. But my seat was arguably the best in the whole of the Abbey: In the organ loft, just behind the console, and looking down onto the Choir area and along to the high alter at the East end of the Abbey; around which the wedding ceremonies were focused.

The procession flowed – slowly and with much dignity – directly beneath me. Very Important People from all over the world proceeded from the Great West End, along the nave, under the arches of the organ loft, and on to their designated seats in what were normally the Choir stalls, and the transepts. Such was the splendour of the guests – especially the formal dresses of the ladies passing below me, that I started to wonder if I would know for sure when Princess Elizabeth herself appeared. I was not au fait with formal dress at a Royal Wedding. Several impressive outfits gave me a false start. But then, eventually, there was no doubt who it was who had emerged from the shadows of the organ loft. Her dress was magnificent enough. But her train went on, and on, and on. My eyes grew wider as her very royal and most beautiful Highness headed gracefully to the East End of the Abbey, with the longest train I could imagine in tow.

The music – to my mind – then took over. I can’t remember the order of service, but these are memories rather than a forensic account of a memorable event. Doctor McKie had written a motet for the occasion: “We wait for thy loving kindness Oh God”. I thought it was rather sombre; but was impressed by his achievement. The Psalm was by Bairstow (one of my eventual favourites among composers of Abbey music). “God be merciful unto us and bless us” Beautiful harmony. The anthem, by S.S.Wesley, was “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord, Jesus Christ.” This is an electric piece, with wave after wave of magnificent climax.

Crimond – the musical version sung for “The Lord’s my Shepherd” had a lovely, soaring descant to it. I had no idea there had been a last-minute rush to have it included in the wedding ceremony. I thought the descant had always been part of the hymn.

Sadly, for me, I have no recollection of the recessional; but I suppose the choir must have been held back in the organ loft until the wedding party had retired; and all the dignitaries, before we were ushered down the winding organ loft stairs to the nave below. I have no recollection, either, of our return to the song school to disrobe: Or of our crocodile formation walk back to the Choir School in Dean’s Yard. The whole occasion, though, established choral music as the greatest love of my life: Until, that it, I met a certain young lady called Patricia.

The Choir School

I began as the most junior of all the boys. My boot number was 35. There were thirty-five boys in the school. “35” was tacked into my shoes (and my cricket and football boots) by a large, kindly, Canadian called George. I think he looked after repairs and maintenance for the school. I would often linger in his little workshop, to hear some of his stories about travels in far-off Canada. They added to my determination to travel, one day, all over the world. I had been born in Kampala, Uganda; and tantalisingly taken to England just before the second world war broke out, in 1939. I was nine months old at the time and was highly frustrated to have no memory of the land of my birth. This shortfall was one I amply corrected, in times then yet to come.

I wonder which teachers would most stand out in my peers’ memories? My selection is Edward Pine, Miss Sullivan, Mr Knightley Smith, Carol Mary Spero, and most definitely Mingon, the headmaster whose formal name was E.W.Thompson. I have no idea how he gained the nick-name of Mingon: And would much like to know. Mingon held my respect – and amazingly my affection – throughout my time at the Choir School. It cannot be easy to mentor thirty five boys who are away from home, as they pass through the changes of being little boys, to a state of puberty and a thirst for adventure. Not that all boys were difficult to mentor: Although I certainly was.

Mr Pine would read to us. Always wonderful stories. He was kind, and patient, and he had a lovely sense of humour. His readings were very often taken from Nature. Tarka the Otter springs out at me.

Mr. Pine could have us laughing and then crying during the one English lesson, as the story unfolded: So good were his readings (and so well was the book written).

Miss Sullivan was no doubt an excellent maths teacher, although I was much taken by her youth and charming personality. I think she was my first ‘crush’, and I remember hoping she would still be a single lady when I had grown up some more. She wasn’t. If my memory is correct, she went off to marry a gentleman with far more going for him than I had. However, Miss Sullivan instilled in me a fascination for maths. It has been rather useful to me throughout my career.

Mr Knightley-Smith (William?) was an automatic hero of mine, because of his sporting abilities. I believe he was a double or triple Cambridge Blue. Cricket and Football certainly. While he was a superb sporting coach, my most lasting memory of him came when he suddenly joined in with a game he was refereeing: Unfortunately, on my opponents’ side. I have never been hit harder by a football – or a rugby ball for that matter – when Mr Knightley-Smith lashed the ball at lightning speed and power, and caught me in a most delicate part of my budding anatomy. The pain was so severe that I went hopping around the field like a demented hare. Mr K-S thought I was just clowning around, and directed me to keep playing. What a brilliant sports master to have had, though.

Carol Mary Spero stands out for being the most persistent and patient teacher of all. She gave piano lessons, and it seems to me she spent the whole of my five years trying to get me to play Mozart’s piano sonata 16 in C Major, K545. We just about managed it before I left; but it was a painful journey – for Miss Spero). The harsh fact was that although I could generally produce the right notes (and in the right order) from my voice box, I could not coordinate my fingers to play the right notes at the right time. I envy those who can.

In retrospect, Mingon ran the school in a way that prepared its pupils for further education in the future, and for a productive life beyond that. That it was a choir school did not divert us from the inescapable business of growing up. That it was a boarding school allowed it to draw choristers from all over the country. Had that not been so, I would not have been able to sing in the choir. Nor would Peter Court-Hampton. I think he hailed from Plymouth. The Hewitts I seem to remember came from Sheffield. Although boys from out of London were in the minority, a very significant number of us came from afar. Boarding together also brought with it a sense of team; of family. I suppose there was the occasional unhappy little chap who suffered from something called home-sickness; but my memory tells me that even they, in time, became a part of the team as school and singing activities provided exciting distractions. These were many. Teamwork was further encouraged by lively membership of the Wolf Cubs. We used to walk to the private gardens of Lambeth Palace where, with kind permission of the Archbishop of Canterbury, we learned how to make flapjacks; and how to calculate the height of a tall tree. We were also let loose on the top floor of the choir school, where we could roller-skate the evening away. We made an awful racket, but the fun was tremendous.

Most of our football we played in Dean’s Yard, while the more competitive matches were played in St Vincent’s Square (the home playing fields of Westminster School). I have a memory of the first football match we played against Saint Paul’s boys, Their choir had not closed during the war, and they must have been a well-knit team when they annihilated ours. They won by eighteen goals to one. If my memory is correct, we lost by six goals to one when we repeated the confrontation the next year. But I THINK we won 2-1 at our third attempt. We played our cricket at St Vincent’s Square, too. I remember the time when Guy Wolfenden won a cricket bat from one of the Daily Newspapers, for taking all ten opposing wickets. He went on to distinguish himself even more off the cricket pitch, however. Swimming was a regular even for us. We used to walk down to the Great Smith Street Baths. Long gone by now, I suppose. I mention these things to illustrate the wide range of activities that were organised by Mingon and his team of teachers.

The most exciting extra-curricular event was the annual Christmas party, thrown by Field Marshall Lord Viscount Montgomery. He was a regular attendant at the Abbey services, and a great supporter of the choir. He was fascinated by conjuring tricks, and the highlight of his Christmas party was a performance by an expert practitioner in that trade. It was difficult to imagine that it was Monty who had planned and executed the North African campaign during the war; for he would become so excited during the conjuring show. Constantly laughing at full throttle, and challenging the artist on how the tricks were being done.

At the big tea party itself, Monty sat at the head of boy’s table, leaving the teachers to their own devices. On his right, the oldest visiting senior chorister was placed; and on his left would be the current incumbent. Again, Monty was a very different man from the one who faced a fairly recent enemy and who had contributed so greatly to the allied victory.

The Field Marshall had donated a pendant to the choir. It was worn by the senior chorister during his tenure. On one side were the five Abbey songbirds, and on the other was Monty’s own coat of arms. It was stressed how important it was to be wearing the pendant with Monty’s crest showing, each time the great man attended a service. Indeed, he did lean slightly forward as the choir reached its stalls, to check. I never did know what the punishment might be for failing to show the “right” side of the pendant.

I was to meet Monty again – in Mingon’s study – a few years later. Monty was Chairman of the Board of Governors at St John’s School Leatherhead (my school after the Choir School). He had been told that there was an ex-Abbey chorister now at St John’s. He called for me during the next Abbey Christmas party. What he wanted to know was that his beneficence had reached the lower echelons of ‘J’- school life. Unfortunately, I wasn’t aware of that.

“How are you getting on at St John’s?” Monty asked.

“Very well, thank you Sir”.

“How is the food?”

“There is very little of it, Sir”

“But I’ve added soup to the menu!”

“Yes Sir, but I’m afraid it’s not very good soup”.

“Get out, Boy”

It was the second time I had been dismissed from Abbey premises.

Discipline at the Abbey Choir School was strict. 1947 to 1952 fell well within the era of corporal punishment); but it was fair. Everybody knew the rules and if a pupil chose to break them (as I did frequently during my earlier years); he was ‘for it’. That meant Mingon saying ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to tickle you up a bit’, followed by a few sharp cracks from the back of his hair brush. It was excellent training for the really intense caning that was to come at St John’s Leatherhead. That pupils no longer receive corporal punishment must be a step forward in terms of social human behaviour; although in my case I was only ever punished when I deserved to be, and I have never felt I picked up mental scarring as a result of the regimes of the time.

The guardian angel at the choir school was Mrs Thompson – Mingon’s wife. Peggy. Should any of the boys need medical attention or a soft, kind word, Mrs Thompson was there. I suppose she was Matron, although I thought of her as my term-time mother. I have a feeling that she died prematurely; and if that is so she would have been terribly missed by all at the school.

The Song School

This was Dr McKie’s domain – although he occasionally left it in the enormous hands of Dr Peasgood. Dr Peasgood was a wonderful, brilliant organist; although I could never understand how his fingers could fit between the notes of the organ. He was by nature in complete contrast to Dr McKie. Peasgood was NOT highly strung. Neither did he have a fiery temper, He was a most genial gentleman, who made choir practices fun. Neither will I be the only person to have admired the noisy, smelly motor-cycle he would use as his transport between the Abbey and his various other destinations.

I feel obliged to agree that Dr McKie DID have a fiery temper, and that his explosive nature could terrify both the boys and the men in the choir, on those occasions when he was displeased with our performance. I vividly remember being narrowly missed by the toe of his highly polished shoe, after a service when the whole choir was ordered to stay behind in the song school. Dr McKie was seething about something (I cannot remember what), and worked himself up into a frenzy. “Get out!” he screamed. It is only in writing of this episode that it occurs to me that this was my third dismissal by an eminent person attached to the Abbey. This dismissal, however, was not aimed at me in particular. It was for the entire choir. Men and boys stampeded to the song-school doors: The inner of which was of a swing variety. Panic – and Dr McKie’s boots – drove us all out of the song school and into the cloisters.

On another occasion – one that has probably been noted by others before me – Dr Mckie was unhappy about our sung entry to part of an evensong. I remember not whether it was the Magnificat or the Anthem. In those days, the Organist and Master of the Choir used to play himself from the organ loft, leaving very occasional conducting to Mr Deacon down below with the choir. Mr Deacon was the senior man in the choir: And the father of Roger, a contemporary and friend of mine, Dr McKie played the introduction to the piece; and stopped playing as we started to sing. He lent over the organ loft parapet (the exact spot where I had been seated for the Royal Wedding), and issued a most fearful, spittle-flecked hissssss, that he kept up until the last of the choir had been silenced. All this was most confusing – and frightening – and embarrassing, of course. It occurred during an actual service. But to our surprise McKie then returned to his seat at the organ; re-played the introduction – and made no reference to the occasion after the service - to my knowledge or memory, that is.

But for all Mr McKie’s highly-strung temper, I was an admiring follower of his. And he did have a calmer, more avuncular side to him. Once – again – he sent word to the whole choir that we were to remain at our places in the song school, after another choral evensong. The conjecture and the anxieties arose again among us. What had we done wrong this time? The organ voluntary must have been short, because Dr McKie soon strode through the doors to the song school. He didn’t utter a word. Instead, he walked through to the wash room, in which were hung various old and discarded cassocks and surpluses: And a very, very ancient -and dusty - bowler hat. It cannot have been worn for fifty years or so. But Dr McKie reappeared from the wash room, wearing this bowler. He had a strange sort of smile on his face; the effect of which was even more terrifying than his scowl. He stood at the head of the four rows of stands, and lifted the bowler from his head. That was a most bizarre moment, for the thick dust from the bowler had made a dense circle around McKie’s forehead. More than one of us thought that perhaps he had lost his mental composure altogether.

“Gentlemen” he said, “I take my hat off to you. That was a wonderful performance!

He regularly invited two or three boys at a time, to share tea with him. I can’t remember if this was in his flat in Grey Coat Gardens, or in a similar accommodation he might have had in Dean’s Yard. The tea was always on a Sunday evening. His greatest offering was a wonderful fruit cake, that I believe he said had been made by his aunt in Australia. It was an enormous cake; and even though we had the typical appetite of fast-growing boys, that cake was destined to last through many teatimes: So large was it.

During the course of my tutelage under Dr McKie, my schoolboy mind promoted him to a pilot in the Royal Australian Air Force during world war two. That he was in fact in the RAAF Reserve, and probably an administrator, failed to dampen my enthusiasm for his hero status in my estimation.

The Choir

For all the stories that could be told about the dramatic events attended by the choir, it was mostly a peaceful life. Routine was so fixed that at times it threatened to be boring. However, routine provided us with a sense of security: A valuable commodity in a child’s life. I was never aware of any bullying in the choir school or the song school. There was healthy rivalry between Decani and Cantoris – the sides of the choir where each of us – and the men – had a permanently-allocated seat. In the choir school there were two ‘houses’ to which the boys belonged. Purcell and Blow. For a reason that I have never understood, I felt rather sorry for the boys who were assigned to Blow. Henry Purcell and John Blow were two composers of the seventeenth Century, who each held the post of Organist at Westminster Abbey. I suppose my sympathies for boys in Blow House lay somewhere in the fact that Henry Purcell seemed to be by far the more celebrated of the two.

I write that I was not aware of any bullying at the school. I was, however, involved in the only discord that arose between two boys. For some reason, Miles Shillingford and I just could not get on with each other. I have no idea why that was so. But the level of our bickering rose to an extent that Mingon decided to take action. He had a makeshift boxing ring set up in the school gym, told the pair of us to step inside it; he fitted boxing gloves to our hands – and told us to get on with it. I don’t remember there being a referee. There was no result to the fight. We slugged it out in a whirl of amateurism, until our lungs seemed to reach bursting point. The end was as a bull must feel when he has had the last vestige of energy sapped from him by his adversaries. We could slug it out no more. We took off our boxing gloves, shook hands; and bickered never again.

Several years after the Abbey choir proper had resumed singing, Dr McKie decided that we were capable of recording some Christmas carols. I believe it was the first time we had attempted a recording session. The evening was memorable to me – for several reasons. Dr McKie was in a jolly mood, and the recording was throughout held in a relaxed – and even humorous – atmosphere. McKie had great difficulty in suppressing his regular habit of uttering a loud humming- groaning sound when he wanted good continuity between a solo verse and the chorus. During one particular carol – “See mid the Winter’s Snow “– one of Wolfenden’s solo verses ended with “Teach us to resemble Thee, In thy sweet humility”. The first chorus line was “Hail thou ever blessed morn”. The Decca recording man had to call for a re-run several times, for Dr Mckie was issuing his loud humming noise to encourage continuity between solo and chorus. The carol went something like this:-

Solo: “Teach us to resemble thee, in thy sweet humility”

Dr McKie: “MMMMMmmmmm”

Chorus: “Hail thou ever blessed morn”

Eventually the Organist and Master of the Choristers tied a handkerchief around his mouth. This measure reduced but did not deaden the “MMMMMmmmmm”. That particular recording can be found to this day; and the humming noise is still there.

At about the half-way point in the recording session, the choir was given a break. The men sat about chatting, but the boys took off to explore the Abbey as we had never seen it: In the dark. It was very scary, away from the few lights used for the singing. The statues in Poets’ corner were frightening enough. They were made more so by an impromptu game of hide and seek. Boys jumping out at other boys from behind shadowy statues of those long since dead, led to squeals in a mixture of terror and excitement. I have never forgotten that evening.

The choir was a happy one. The boys, of course, would have their special friends, but as a group we enjoyed being where we were and doing what we did. I remember particularly Guy Wolfenden: Not just for the cricket bat he won, but for his tremendous voice. His opening verse at the main Christmas Carol service procession – “Once in Royal David’s City” had the clarity and tone that I have never heard matched. Shane Kevin White sat opposite me, in Cantoris. We shared many a private joke through some of the services. And we used to share a mutual tear when singing the finale of Bach’s Matthew Passion – “We bow our heads in tears of sorrow”.

I remember most of the men. There were twelve of them – and unlike we trebles, whose voice had to break one day – they seemed to be permanent fixtures. Harry Barnes stands out in my mind. He stands out in the memory of all who knew him. His Evangelist in Bach’s St Matthew Passion, with his purity of tenor voice, fitted the emotions of that glorious work perfectly. He was for ever benign, with a kind word and a calm smile for everybody around him. I felt it most fitting that the song school should have been named after him – as I discovered during a visit to the Abbey many years after I had left the choir.

I remember the deep, rumbling voices of Mr Henderson and Mr Pearce, countered by the rich baritone voices of Mr Browne and Ken Tudor. Mr Deacon and Mr Whitworth (I think) were the Decani altos.

I have read assessments of the Abbey choir during its early years after the war. Apparently we were not all that accomplished, by present day standards. I suppose that must have been so: Although we must surely score well for the effort and enthusiasm that was a feature of that choir.

Random memories still float across my thoughts, now and then. During one evensong, a slight stiffing of movement caught my peripheral vision. Queen Mary, mother of King George VI, had taken up her seat in the eastern stalls of the Choir, (on the Decani side). My place was but a few feet away from her, at the corner of the Decani trebles. One of the Queen mother’s ladies-in-waiting had had a fainting fit, and the Queen Mother kindly gave her the use of her smelling salts. Whatever was in that bottle I do not know; but after it was passed under her nose one or two times the lady – although somewhat embarrassed by the Royal attentions, was wide awake and fully functional again.

Christmas routine at the Abbey (Wikipedia tells me it was in 1950) was disrupted greatly by the disappearance of the Stone of Scone. Dean’s Yard was agog at a most daring raid, and policemen were everywhere as we attempted our morning run of two laps around the Yard. There was a very brief rumour that the police were going to search the Choir School, and I remember feeling a few nerves at the perceived possibility that the choristers responsible for the raid. In retrospect, though, the rumour was born of wild excitement of the daring deed.

Another memory – which makes me cringe each time I call it to mind – concerns the inaugural concert in the Royal Festival Hall, in May of 1951. It had been decided to lift the spirits of the nation, following the hardships of the second world war. The Festival of Britain was a truly grand affair, marked by celebrations of many kinds. One 0f them was the opening of the Royal Festival Hall, and a whole number of concerts that followed it. The opening concert was similar to the last night of the Proms as they are today, with a jolly round of celebrating some of the most exuberant of British music. I was in fine fettle, and at the top of my game, so to speak. However, the full rehearsal that preceded the concert put me firmly in my place.

The concert was to be conducted by the two leading maestros of the day; Sir Adrian Boult and Sir Malcolm Sargent. The Abbey choir was but a small part of the choral ensemble: And the orchestra was huge.

My downfall came during the rehearsal of ‘Land of Hope and Glory’. I knew the piece well, of course, and I felt fully wound up for doing my bit towards making the Choruses unforgettable. I cannot remember who the guest soloist was, but I was in full voice for ‘Rule Britannia; Britannia rules the waves’. Each chorus was repeated. Unfortunately, after the second solo verse, I was so excited that I forgot to count the chorus repeats; and attempted to sing a third: All by myself. “Rule!!” I sang. Fortissimo. My error was immediately apparent, because of the deafening silence all around me.

Malcolm Sargent turned my embarrassment into general laughter among the choirs and orchestra, by saying something like “I hope. Ladies and gentlemen, we can reach that level of enthusiasm during our concert performance”.

I have never forgotten his kindness. Nor my stupendous blunder. I was watching the conductor’s baton like a hawk, on the concert day itself.

The final big occasion for me (although I should refer to it as a most solemn occasion) was the lyingin-state of King George VI. On Wednesday 6th February 1952, Mingon gathered the boys together in the Choir School, and told us of the passing of the King. I made a mental note of the date and the day and the year, and they have stayed with me ever since.

On 11th February (I note in trusty Google), The King was brought to Westminster Hall and, after a brief service, the doors were opened to the public, for a lengthy paying of respects. It is in writing this that my memory fails me. I cannot remember the service, nor what the Abbey choir was called upon to sing. I was aware that The King was very fond of “The Lord’s My Shepherd” (to the tune of Crimond), and I am quite certain we sang it at the Royal Wedding on November 20th 1947. However, I have a feeling that for the King’s lying-in-state, we sang “Abide with Me”. I am certain that the Abbey choir did not sing at the King’s funeral, which took place in Windsor.

After a suitably long period of quietness, excitement began to build over the music to be learned for the Coronation. It didn’t occur to me that perhaps I would not be attending: Until, that is, Dr McKie took me to a recording studio somewhere near to the Abbey. This was in no way connected to the Coronation, I should swiftly note. I was going to sing an aria from Bach’s Matthew Passion (English version). “Although mine eyes with tears o’erflow, because my saviour leaves me now”. Dr McKie was playing a piano accompaniment. All went well until the final seven words of the piece: “He loves them still until the end”. “Until the end” were four notes that descended to what should have been an easy low note. But no; a strange cracking sound came from my mouth on coming to the final note. Dr McKie simply stopped and told me to try it again: And then one more time. That was the end of my Abbey singing career. I had no idea that my voice had broken in a sudden and spectacular manner. Doctor McKie was kindness itself as he led me back to the Choir School.

But rules are rules. I sang in no further services at Westminster Abbey, and I could only envy the boys who went on to sing at the Coronation.

I felt, however – and still feel now – that it was an extraordinary run of good fortune that allowed me to sing in that choir for five fulfilling years