5. The Junior School 1: Margaret Robson

 

Mrs. Robson was one of the people who make me feel it was a privilege to be at Caldecott at that time. She taught the youngest group in the Junior school so she, together with Miss Murdin, ensured that my first year passed in firm but kindly hands.

My virtual contemporary, Tony Inwood, has also recorded his memories of Mrs. Robson in a chapter of his book, “Flying Under the Radar”, which can be read on this site. Like him, I remember her as a vivid reader and in particular, again like Tony, I remember her enthralling us with “The Hobbit” and then the entire “Lord of the Rings” trilogy.

I believe we were the first class to whom she read the “Lord of the Rings”, and it came about almost by accident. The last volume of Tolkien’s now-celebrated work had come out a few years earlier, in 1955, but was still little known. “The Hobbit” had been around longer (since 1937) and was a popular children’s book. Mrs. Robson’s reading of it aroused such enthusiasm in us, not least for her capacity to find the right voices for all the many characters, that she sought out the first book of the trilogy and then worked through them all. Unlike “The Hobbit”, they are supposed to be for adults, but she held us breathless to the end. Obviously, we took it all at face value, with no awareness of the moralistic or symbolic issues. The downside, perhaps, is that these books are so much part of my childhood that I have never returned to them, not even in the early seventies when every barefoot hippy displayed a copy of Tolkien to go with his psychedelic shirt. Nor did I walk barefoot or wear a psychedelic shirt, for that matter.

What we did not realize then was that Mrs. Robson was one of those gifted readers that can make a thrilling experience of even the telephone directory – nay even “Swallows and Amazons”. Another Arthur Ransome book she read us was “Missee Lee”. For weeks afterwards we spoke to each other in stylized pseudo-Chinese accents, to the extreme irritation of Miss Murdin and many others. But even she could not find pure gold everywhere. Of “Milly Molly Mandy”, I remember only the name. Perhaps the girls enjoyed it. I remember drifting off during Tom Sawyer, perhaps because she had not explained what an “Injun” was and I was puzzling over what an engine had to do with it. Mark Twain’s tale would be frowned on today as schoolroom material on grounds of political correctness – and more than one ethnic minority was represented in our class. Equally dubious is another book of which I remember only the name: “Little Black Sambo”. I find that this story by Helen Bannerman was welcomed in its day (1899) for its sympathetic portrayal of a little black boy as a decent human being – a far cry from Injun Joe. The problem is its title.

We enjoyed Kipling’s “Just So” stories, though all I remember now is the way each tale began “O my best beloved”, plus a few disjointed phrases such as “the greasy Limpopo River”. One book that we enjoyed and which I returned to recently, having unexpectedly come across a copy, was J. R. Reason’s “Bran the Bronzesmith”. I found I had remembered quite a lot of it, and Mrs. Robson’s voice came back to me as I read it. I am not qualified to judge the writer’s reconstruction of Bronze Age Britain, but the public school ethics of Bran and Arril seem unconvincing now in the context. More up-to-date history came with “The Dam Busters”. I see that a simplified version for children of Brickhill’s book was issued in 1958, so that is presumably what she read.

Mrs. Robson was also a fine reader of poetry. We thrilled to “The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor” as often as she was willing to read it. I find that this poem, “The Highwayman”, is by Alfred Noyes. She also read parts of “Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats”. We did not know we were being introduced to T. S. Eliot, of course. I can still hear her voice intoning “I have a Gumbie Cat in mind / Her name is Jennyanydots”, though the rest of the poem rings no bell.

Like Tony Inwood, I have difficulty in remembering anything else she taught us. I think there was something about Roman Britain and she had us writing stories ourselves. If it could be managed without embarrassment, she made us read them to the class. Outside the schoolroom, she joined the weekly trips by van to Ashford Swimming Pool and was the first of many who failed to teach me to swim. Only a swimming instructor with genius could have succeeded. The genius might have been Mr. King, who reckoned he had an infallible system and bet me a shilling he could teach me. Alas, I did not take him up. Mrs. Robson was also a stickler for people minding their own business. I remember that one day a large poster appeared in the classroom showing a man and a woman with elongated noses. “Mr. and Mrs. Long-Nose. Is this you?” was the caption.

I suppose there were things like arithmetic and geography and maybe a spot of science. If that part fell on deaf ears, no matter. Mrs. Robson taught us that books can be exciting and involving, not just stuff you read in the classroom. For this, I am eternally grateful, and I am sure I am not alone.

Photograph of cover of "Letters from a Soldier" by Walter RobsonThere was a part of Mrs. Robson we never knew. Young as we were, we did not speculate on the fact that she was Mrs. when practically all other female staff, except for the few there with their husbands (Mrs. Clover, Mrs. King) were Miss. I learnt the story many years later from Betty Rayment. Mrs. Robson had married at the beginning of 1943 and her husband, Walter, was sent abroad on military service almost immediately. For a little over two years he wrote to her assiduously. Then the letters stopped, followed by news of his death. More than ten years later, Mrs. Robson felt that a selection of these letters were worth making into a book, not least because, as she explains in her Postscript, “he himself had hoped to write some account of his experiences when he returned, and this was the only way in which I could carry out that wish”. A friend, Henry Williamson (of “Tarka the Otter” fame), offered valuable encouragement and introduced her to his publisher. “Letters from a Soldier”, by Walter Robson, came out in 1960, with an introduction by Williamson, and enjoyed considerable success, though it has since gone out of print. The Henry Williamson website reproduces letters between Mrs. Robson, Williamson and the publisher, as well as a further letter that was not included and some reviews of the first edition. Anyone who has read the book will find this extra material fascinating.

Betty Rayment told me about the book and showed me a copy. An immediate search in the second hand bookshops in Charing Cross Road was unsuccessful, but I left a request with one specializing in military history and they found a copy quite quickly.

It must be one of the best books of its kind. Robson’s writing is detailed and descriptive, lively, humorous and touching. It suggests that he was already setting down a blueprint for the book he hoped to write. Since he was unable to write it, we are fortunate he did this. The letters were sent from North Africa, Italy and Greece. My only reservation regards a matter that could not be helped in 1960. For reasons of military secrecy, the exact locations of the places described were not revealed in the letters. Probably this was still not possible in 1960. Post-2024, if a re-edition were ever contemplated, I hope a little research could be done into the movements of Robson’s division, since this would greatly enhance the historical value of the book. As a longstanding Italian resident, I would also love to know exactly where the events described in the Italian letters took place.

Mrs. Robson left the Community a few years after my time in her class. She intended to emigrate to Australia, but within a year she was back. She found it impossible to live in a country where she found no culture. She stayed at Lacton Hall for some time. I never understood if she was temporarily re-employed or whether Miss Leila simply offered a roof over her head while she sorted out her next move. She had always walked with a slight limp, but after her return from Australia this had worsened and she needed a stick. I suppose she must have been reaching retirement age by then.