Fergus Daly, M.A., Ph.D., Honorary Professor of Medicine at the University of St Andrews, is an authority on Bell’s Palsy. He is the classic erudite, unassuming Tormorian and, though our paths never crossed, I am delighted to publish his memories of the school, not only as a boy in the 1960s but as a locum master in the late 1970s.

I was a pupil at Tormore 1961-66, “Terrier”, good at Maths but not much else (and certainly not Games or the annual sheer purgatory of Swimming). I won a scholarship to King’s Canterbury along with a couple of others that year (Andrew Chamberlin (top scholar) and David Bolam). What a stunning establishment of learning Tormore was.

I am not on Facebook and therefore have some difficulties with accessing output and can provide no input through that medium! but (briefly) like some others my memories of Myles Raven are not remotely alarming but are of a kind and energetic teacher whom I later recognised as a scholar.

I do not have the original but recall his end-of-term report (Latin) in 6B. His underlining: “This boy is idle. One day he will learn that only real hard work brings any great reward.” Witnessing receipt of that commentary at home was not at all good fun.

Michael Strevens taught German, unaccountably amused by my repeated bizarre pronunciation of the German for the number 6, which I just could not get right. And History, which I loathed but for quite other bitter reasons than Michael’s teaching. Additionally and incidentally he provided one-to-one an extensive foundation in Formal Symbolic Logic. Just astonishing, at a prep school, aged 12.

I lived locally though I was a boarder throughout. I don’t think there were such things as day boys? I remember being taken to The Yews on my first day: “Mum! Who sleeps in all these beds?” I had no notion of what was about to happen. My mother was a widow. Simon Raven greeted her affectionately and in an old-fashioned manner whenever they crossed paths in Deal. Myles Raven, David Tarran and Mike Strevens invited her to dinner in the Old House and she had a marvellous evening. She was driving; but between the three of them prodigious amounts of alcohol were consumed. She visited our former matron Miss Gardiner at a care home when the latter lost her mind. I have many memories of “bath time” with this devoted, strict, “correct” matron. (Also of her predecessor Miss Pieper and squadrons of usually Dutch under-matrons.)

When my mother heard of Myles’ stroke in 1976 she advised me of this (as I was just about to graduate from the University of St Andrews) and I offered my services to John Hare as a locum. They were accepted. I did not graduate and simply went to live on site for what remained of the summer term. I lived in what had been the Rediffusion television room. Anybody remember that? Myles died days later. For 4 years afterwards I worked there every summer term freeing John to pursue end-of-year headmasterly tasks. They were just wonderful halcyon summers. John’s wife Mo was utterly charming. My mother and I met her in Tesco years later after John’s devastating and somewhat early death from lung cancer.

In 1980 Simon gave me his black Morris Traveller regd YOB 678, the very car in which Myles drove me and others to cricket matches during two Summer terms in 1965 and 1966. (I was First XI scorer.) I recall Myles checking that the handbrake was Off roughly every 20 seconds throughout every journey. That car from another era lasted me for years.

I wonder about the current circumstances of some contemporaries and staff. Michael Strevens’ brother Pip married a school friend of my four sisters and I think Michael also married somewhat late. Pip died a while ago .. .. I am just a kick off 71 .. .. I wonder if Michael is still with us .. .. I do have some contact details not yet attempted. I met him last on the platform of Swindon railway station in 1979 and we had just time to agree our opinion that Simon’s latest book “The Roses of Picardie” was a load of rubbish before our different train schedules dictated our parting. But also: any of: the two Melville brothers Charles and David (“Glinter”) with whom I stayed one holiday – we went sailing? Richard Hollis (likewise, and I remember particularly his kind mother and sister – his father drove me about in their Daimler with a pre-selector gearbox, explaining the mechanism in detail)? I had a brief work-related correspondence with Ruairidh Milne a few years ago. I am most amiably in touch with Tim Willasey-Wilsey who was also a contemporary at St Andrews.

Blissful days interspersed with miserable moments. Sometimes it probably felt more like miserable days interspersed with slightly less miserable moments but hindsight reveals all – and as so many in this forum have agreed, Tormore was a very special institution even amongst the plethora of similar establishments dotted along the South coast of England. Happy times. Hope all well with all reading this.

Rupert Willoughby comments: honest reports such as ‘Bird’s’ are no longer permitted in schools. They have to be relentlessly positive (I speak from experience).

Day boys arrived, I think, in the early 1970s, as a response to falling numbers. They were regarded with suspicion and no little envy for their comfortable home lives.

I am not sure I can identify the ‘Rediffusion Room’. In my day (early 1970s) there was a black and white telly in the Mem Room, to which we had limited exposure. As an occasional treat we would be allowed into the Headmaster’s drawing room, where I remember seeing Princess Anne’s wedding and also being introduced one Saturday evening to ‘Candid Camera’ . To be able to sit on a comfortable chair or even a carpet was a rare treat.

A lot of people speak better of ‘Bird’ in his younger days. He must have been very jaded by the time I knew him. I think the detail about his nervously checking the brake is very telling – quite an insecure and unconfident fellow.

Fergus describes what I think was our common experience as boarders; he also highlights the brilliance of the teaching. More memories in this vein will be very welcome.

See also http://www.rupertwilloughby.co.uk/gleanings/simon-ravens-younger-brother-myles-raven-the-terror-of-tormore-school/.

The remarkable story of John Garrett Bussell (1802 – 1875), one of the pioneering settlers of south-western Australia, is included in my new book, Basingstoke and its Contribution to World Culture. Margaret Whicher of Petersfield, the young cousin whom Bussell hoped to marry, was to live in Basingstoke for fifty years, in the fine house on Church Street that was later known as Queen Anne House. Jan Matthews and John Alferink of the Margaret River District Historical Society have established that, under other circumstances, the river that Bussell named after her might well have been called ‘Sophia River’. Jan here describes the quest for Sophy Hayward, Bussell’s other lost love.

Margaret River, in the south-west corner of Western Australia, is a beautiful place, named after the river on which it sits. And the river in turn was named by early settler and explorer John Garrett Bussell after Margaret Whicher of Petersfield.

The Historical Society in Margaret River was interested in researching the facts behind this naming, and have indeed found them to our satisfaction, but the story we wished to present had an untidy thread dangling and we thought it should be neatly tied off.

And there began a fascinating and – so far – totally frustrating search which we have come to think of as “Whatever Happened to Sophy Hayward?” 

Sophia (Sophy) Hayward was the childhood sweetheart and heiress whom John Garrett Bussell left behind when he sailed for Western Australia in 1829, and it was a long eight years later that he made a return trip to England with the intention of marrying his Sophy and bringing her back to Australia. It can be seen from extant letters that the reunion was less than a success and neither Sophy nor John’s friends at the time saw the match as propitious. John wrote one letter to Sophy in which he states that he no longer loves her as he once did, but is still prepared to marry her, which does rather sound like a defence against a breach-of-promise suit and hardly likely to set a maiden’s heart a-flutter. The relationship foundered.

John Garrett Bussell went on to marry Charlotte Cookworthy and sail back to Western Australia and it has to be said that Charlotte was an excellent and highly suitable wife. But Sophy?

One of the most poignant letters that we unearthed in our search was one written by Sophy to a cousin and friend, asking her if she would offer a batch of visiting cards to her friend Mrs W. Bussell. These cards Sophy had had printed, she wrote, at a time when she had expectations of becoming a Mrs Bussell and, as “Mrs Bussell” was all they had inscribed on them, they could in fact be put to use by Mrs. W. Bussell.  This was in 1841 and is the last we can find of Sophy.

Investigations have turned up the surprising information that Sophy was the illegitimate daughter of one James Morgan, himself the son of an impressively wealthy James Morgan senior, of Bath, details of whose Will we have accessed. Sophia was born in 1806 and her brother James in 1810 and their father died in 1809. It would seem that both children were born, and their father died, in India. James-the-most-Junior states his birthplace as Bengal on a later census, and information from a family tree on the web indicates that his father spent extended time in India on more than one occasion. Whether this was government, trade or military we have been unable to elicit, but we fancy not military.

When Sophia and James’ grandfather died in 1810 they were mentioned in his will (actually the will mentioned three children, but we have only found trace of two) and baldly described as the illegitimate children of his late son James. They are commended to the care of their Aunt Elizabeth Morgan who indeed cares for them until her death in 1825. Elizabeth bought Loudwater House in Rickmansworth (still existing as luxury flats; one does wonder at the thought of Sophy swapping this for a slab hut in the Australian wilderness!) and James inherited it when Elizabeth died. It is here in the 1841 census that we find Sophy living with her brother and his family. We have traced brother James to his death in London in 1875, but of Sophy there is not a single footprint.

Sweet reason would have her marrying, of course, but using the resources available to us on the web we have assiduously pursued all the likely records to prove each of them inapplicable, one after another. Ditto the deaths.

From our position, using only web resources we can, for instance, see the offspring of Sophy’s brother James and in some cases their offspring, but sleuthing opportunities dry up as records become more current. The privacy aspect is completely understandable, but oh! so frustrating!  We’ve even done some “shoot an arrow in the air” letters to people in the phonebook who we think might have the right name to be related to our Sophie and James, without luck.

We did find that one of James and Sophy’s uncles emigrated to the US with his family and we have as a result of enquiries an emailed copy of a lovely portrait of his son, who would have been James and Sophy’s cousin, of course.  Close, but no cigar. Actually it’s hardly close even, but it’s amazing how excited you can get at the remotest of relationships! We did fantasise that Sophy may have moved to America with her uncle, but can’t find anything that would confirm this.

One of the most intriguing aspects of the story we’re researching here is that Sophy and James are openly admitted to be illegitimate and one would have thought that a family of such obvious substance as the Morgans would move in social strata that concealed rather than revealed these things? We may be well out of touch here with the mores of the time and situation, but it does seem to us that there might well be extenuating circumstances to their illegitimacy. We’ve been unable to trace anything like a birth registration for either of them in India and are completely, completely in the dark as to the identity and situation of their mother.

Yes, this was just a loose end to be followed up and tied off. It’s been over a year of sleuthing so far but we’re not giving up…

The late Grand Duchess Vladimir of Russia was a jolly, buxom lady with dark, heavily-coiffed hair and of decidedly Asiatic appearance – she was, after all, Georgian. Peter-Gabriel de Loriol Chandieu, effortless writer and gifted flaneur, recalls the following encounter:

The recent death (23/5/2010) of Leonida Bagration-Moukhransky, the late Grand duchess Vladimir of Russia, and her subsequent obituary on the 28^th May in the Times reminded me of an event in her life that brought the reality of her situation into sharper perspective.

I was a very young (just 21) manager of a very exclusive ‘private’ hotel in Chelsea in the late 1970s. Private inasmuch as it was not classed as a hotel, but just as ’11 Cadogan Gardens’, a superior ‘Bed and Breakfast’ for patrons who were habitués or recommended by people known to the manager.

As such, the hotel was a magnet to visiting grandees of all declinations; diplomats, actors, politicians, heads of state, monarchs or elected, senior members of various professional bodies, who wished to come to London in relative anonymity to visit friends, relations or just to shop. They loved the relative cheapness of an establishment of 63 bedrooms and suites with en suite bathrooms, which catered to their every whim, in the centre of London, and with a high Victorian décor and service that put the five star hotels to shame!

On that particular Friday I was waiting impatiently to interview a new member of staff, a cleaner, sent by an agency. She was late – it wasn’t a good start! I’d seen half a dozen and they were either too young, too stupid or couldn’t speak a word of English. I sat in my pin-striped trousers, black jacket, white shirt and black tie behind my huge Victorian desk in my oak panelled office, occasionally looking out of the window onto the street. This one wouldn’t be taken on either, she was too late.

A discreet knock at the door followed by the perpetually surprised face of Antonio, the supremely efficient Spanish Head Porter (on whom, I was sure, the Fawlty Towers Manuel was based), saying that the lady had arrived. I asked him to show her in.

She was large, dressed in an almost bohemian way with swathes of tawny coloured capes and scarves carpeted around her busty carapace. She smiled perfunctorily and plonked herself into the chair opposite me. Irked, I started with the obvious questions: did she speak English, did she know London…the obligatory ‘of course’ followed my every question, at first patiently and then with marked indifference and a glimpse of what I surmised as a bad temper. Not good! I thought I’d put her off by telling her she would be working for six days a week and one Sunday in every four weeks, the times she would be expected to be at work and she would also be fitted with a uniform. It was all too much for her. She bulked up to a standing position.

“How dare you speak to me like this – don’t you realise who I am? I am the Grand Duchess Vladimir of Russia.” Her whole body trembled with rage.

“…And I’m the Emperor of France… “. This charade had gone quite far enough! She was rude, arrogant and I would speak to the agency. What agency? Just then the door opened a crack and a worried Francisco looked around the door. He told me that the lady’s husband was her and would like to introduce himself.

A slim, well dressed middle aged individual walked into the room with a smile on his face. In Spanish accented English he presented himself as Vladimir Grand Duke of Russia. You could have heard a pin drop! She broke into a smile and presented her husband to the ‘manager’ of the hotel.  I, meanwhile, couldn’t stop smiling, at myself, for having made history and put my usual two feet in it, as all Sagittarians do. We did part as friends! Francisco couldn’t stop laughing for days – Senor Peter had done it again!

Pg de Loriol