Philip Hoare - Spike Island - The Memory of a Military Hospital

The shadow of loss lay over us, but I can only remember the funeral, which I insisted on attending, dressing myself and running round to Andrew’s house to join the cortège. Shortly afterwards, my eldest brother – still only in his twenties – separated from his wife and came with his two young daughters to live with us. It became crowded in our three-bedroom semi. My mother had to cook for two families: big aluminium saucepans held pounds of peeled potatoes, sitting in their starchy water ready to be boiled like blind white fish. Life was as normal as my parents could make it, but I was a different boy.

From Lance’s Hill in Bitterne, Sholing’s neighbouring suburb, you can look across the dual carriageway to an opposing rise in the land and the tree-surrounded site of St Mary’s College. Its white stucco mansion, with bay windows like the bows of a man-o’-war, is the last great house of the estates which once studded the banks of Southampton Water. Like many of its counterparts, the house reacted to the social changes of the twentieth century by becoming an institution, a seminary for Catholic monks expelled from France; they added a slate mansard roof, giving the building the air of a Normandy chateau. In 1922, a new order, the De la Mennais brothers, took over, adding a utilitarian four-storey brick block to accommodate their school, with a chapel between marking the religious transition from the house in which they lived to the secular block in which they worked.

I’d won a scholarship to St Mary’s in my last year at primary school. All three of my brothers had been there, and in the wake of Andrew’s loss, a sense of tradition, if not duty, settled on me. After a summer of freedom came the day in September when my brother, who wore gold crushed velvet flares and had met his girlfriend at the Isle of Wight festival, drove me in his pre-war Austin, complete with running boards, to my new school.

At the end of a long gravel drive shouldered by rhododendron was the playground, a desert of grey tarmac surrounded by high chain-link fencing. Inside this giant cage was a teeming horde in a strange new uniform of brown and gold. With his hand on my shoulder, assuming his appointed role just as I must assume mine, my brother introduced me to the deputy headmaster. Dressed in a cassock edged and elbowed in black leather, the monk regarded me through his steel-rimmed spectacles: he had the raw, overshaved face of the early-rising religious, Brylcreemed hair and a wide toothy grin that belied his school nickname – ‘Crippen’. I was left in the playground, waiting for the whistle, abandoned to my fate. It was a recurring nightmare, of being lost in some unknown place, not knowing how to get home; it was the same sense of abandonment I felt when, lying in my top bunk in the bedroom I now shared with my two grown-up brothers, I heard in my head ‘The Green, Green Grass of Home’, and realised for the first time, with a sudden and sharp pain, the reality of loss.

Marshalled into lines and into the building that was to be home for half my waking life, we filed into long glazed corridors of creaking floorboards smelling of polish and chalk and ink and leather. At the end was the hallway to the chapel, and as we trooped down to Mass we would catch sight of the dark interior of the old house beyond. To cross this point was forbidden. Occasionally, a monk would pass through the connecting door, allowing a glimpse of a stark domesticity. I imagined the monks’ bedrooms to be bare, with iron bedsteads, crucifixes and bedside tracts – whereas the prosaic truth was probably the deputy headmaster with his feet up, reading Sporting Life over a glass of whisky.

Crippen was said to have tailor-made leather straps hanging on the wall of his office, each whimsically named after his ‘girlfriends’ and ready to punish any transgression. He was the most worldly in an eccentric staffroom of characters easily baited by the ingenious cruelty of schoolboys: the shell-shocked language teacher whom we’d tease by imitating exploding bombs; another well-meaning brother who taught maths and whose fury was kept under control only by his undoubted devotion; and a physics master who, it was claimed, had helped invent the aerosol. He may have been a genius, but we could hardly care less. It was our duty, like prisoners of war, to taunt a chalky-cassocked and leather-patched cast who would not have been out of place in Nicholas Nickleby . The sense of them and us, of prisoners and wardens, was emphasised by our uniforms and their cassocks. The wooded grounds provided cover for our transgressions, a place to smoke illicit cigarettes and conduct other experiments, not all of them the kind that even the deputy’s girlfriends could dissuade.

In front of the school buildings, once gracious but now shaggy lawns sloped down to a series of turf banks dividing the school from its playing fields below. We were barred from the manicured grass in front of the White House itself, under which it was rumoured tunnels ran. One came out under the library; others we could only speculate about in our prisoner-of-war fantasies. As my best friend, Peter, and I trespassed in the cellars, he told me – and I had no reason to doubt him – that one tunnel led far out under the playing fields, down and down until it reached the distant shore of Netley.

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