One | Beginnings

1944 was an important year for my family. My father was in France, serving as an engineer on the staff of Field Marshall Montgomery, having landed at Normandy on D+10. His letters home reveal negotiations to buy his older brother Strachan’s house in Leopold Road, Wimbledon. Mum and we three small boys were then living in North Wales, and when the sale was finalized, we took the train to London and finally by taxi, drew up outside a three-storied Victorian family home. My initial memory was the paper tape stuck on the windows to minimize bomb damage, and the stressed faces of a family of Polish refugees my uncle had given shelter to. I was five years old. The V1 and V2 rockets were then assailing London, and the parade of shops at the bottom of our road were bombed and boarded up. I began my schooling at Wimbledon Park County Primary School. I was throughout an average pupil, and ended up in the top of two classes that had to go through the first major test, long since abandoned, known as the 11+ exam. My older brother Richard had already passed his, and was in his first year at Raynes Park County Grammar School for boys. This examination divided young boys and girls into two groups. Those who passed were given entry to a grammar school, those who did not went to a secondary modern school. The former were academic and played rugby, the latter trained more for manual careers and played football.

I sat my 11+ exam in morning and afternoon sessions at nearby Wimbledon College. This was a Catholic boys school, run by Jesuit priests. One of these, my invigilator, declared over lunch break that a boy had forgotten to put his name on the exam script during the morning. He then singled me out as the culprit. I felt I had no chance of passing, and when, six weeks later, the headmaster announced the half dozen or so who had passed, my name was missing. I strongly suspect that my Mum took up action stations behind the scenes, because I was soon summoned to the Grammar School for an interview. I nervously waited in the secretary’s office until ushered in to be confronted by the Headmaster, Mr Henry Porter, and two officials from County Hall. They asked me a few questions, I cannot recall any of them, and I then took the bus home. About a week later my headmaster, Mr Shrive, called for me and said, “well, you are a Grammar School boy now”. I rushed home elated to tell Mum, but she was not at home. I knew that she would be out for a walk and ran down Dora Road to find her pushing my new young brother in a pram. We shared the exciting news, but, of course, she already knew, Mr Shrive had rung her.

In 1950, in my new school uniform, I nervously arrived for my first day at Raynes Park Grammar School. I was about a year younger on average than my peers, and school reports during my first few years varied from average to awful. In one particularly devastating return my mathematics teacher recorded that I was 32nd in a class of 32, with the comment “He is still miles behind the rest, but there is still hope”. Mum sent me to a tutor to try and help. I was placed in the less academically gifted class that was taught geography, whereas Richard was in the select group learning Greek. However, I was interested in history and this was further stimulated by my first experience at excavating.

My uncle Strachan had moved to a fine detached house on Wimbledon Hill close to the All England tennis courts. Ten years older than my father, he had met with great success as a director of Longmans Green publishers. My father was an architect, and travelled up to Westminster to work in the Department of Housing and Local Government. Post-war years were austere, and raising four young boys greatly strained his income. Uncle Strachan, however, was not only wealthy, but generous. His spare time interest was to research the history of Wimbledon House, built by William Cecil in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, owned in turn by Queen Henrietta Maria, and finally demolished and replaced with a new mansion by the first Duchess of Marlborough. He was anxious to find out where the mansion had stood, and summoned Richard and me to help. Armed with a spade each, we three went into the garden of a large house in Arthur Road, and he set us to work, digging down in a chosen spot. Before long we encountered fragments of Tudor brick, then bricks in situ, forming the corner of a building. He was delighted, declaring that this must be part of the orangery from which he could reconstruct the location of the entire palace (Higham C.S.S. 1962). I think I must have been about 13 when this took place.

At about this same time, the BBC initiated a programme on television called “Animal, Vegetable, Mineral”. Chaired by Dr Glyn Daniel, a Cambridge archaeology don, it involved three visiting experts challenged by various museums to identify a succession of objects in their collections. One prominent expert was Sir Mortimer Wheeler, who seemed to have an uncanny knack of getting things right. The programme took off in popularity and was a regular feature until 1959. Sir Mortimer was voted TV personality of the year in 1954, and Glyn Daniel had the same award a year later. The programme was thus very popular and we at home were avid viewers. In 1955, Richard came across a call for volunteers to join a dig at a place called Snail Down, near Upavon in Wiltshire. It was to be directed by Nicholas Thomas from the Birmingham Museum, and Charles Thomas from Cornwall. Our application was accepted, and Dad delivered us to an ex-army Nissen Hut that was to be our accommodation.

The site turned out to be one of a row of Bronze Age round barrows on the Salisbury Plain about 12 km north of Stonehenge (Thomas and Thomas 2005). They were located in a military zone used for tank training, and the barrows were excellent mounds for tanks to rumble over. It was one of those memorably hot summers, and we reveled in the new experience of digging. Nick and Charles were excellent company and always ready to offer advice as we learned the ropes and grew in confidence. The plan was to strip the entire barrow down to the natural chalk, leaving baulks in place to record the stratigraphy. It was one of those summers of long since when every day was sunny and hot, and I recall to this day discovering my first of many thousand post holes. I found a potsherd that Vincent Megaw identified as being Iron Age. On our return to school in the autumn, Richard gave a talk to the school history society, and he and I hatched a plan for further diggings.

St John’s Lodge, where I began my studies of Roman archaeology in October, 1957.