Grammarians

The last week has been about old boys. During half term, the Grammarians held their annual Bangor Dinner, a convivial, inevitably somewhat bibulous evening. On the afternoon preceding the dinner, I had the pleasure of showing two 'reunited' year groups around such part of the School as interested them, which really meant  only Crosby. The nomenclature of the year groups was confusing. The 'Year of 51' dated their time from their collective entry to BGS; the 'Year of 71' dated themselves from their leaving. The fifty-one-ers were energetic and exceedingly spry, a wonder given that it is sixty years since they were short-trousered Form Ones. Those who had left in 1971 were a remarkably consoling sight since they looked bloomingly young, in the pink and at their peak. I say 'consoling' because I left school in 1970.

Anyway, their pilgrimage was a very jolly one and as they made their way around the rather depressing Crosby environment, the memories came a-flooding: being told of the death of George VI in Assembly; the sight of 'the Bird', AL Hawtin, gown hoicked up, warming his posterior against the fire; sitting at  the back of class, viewing the games piches by way of a strategically placed mirror... and so on.

At the dinner, I asked a provocative question: what, from a school's point of view, are old boys for? If an accountant were to ask for a cost benefit analysis, could one be provided? Well, I think it probably could. Take into account, at least from the perspective of BGS, the money which the Grammarians donate, say to support sports and games; then there are the prizes which the Grammarians sponsor, or the trophies, scholarships and awards which they present in their own names; many send their sons to BGS; and last, but of the utmost importance, there are the old boys who become governors and invest their time, energy and professional experience to our great benefit, without any reward, pecuniary or otherwise. We simply could not afford to pay for their collective expertise at  the market rate.

So, yes, I think old boys add enormously to the school in ways which can be quantified. But there is something more and something which I think is just as important, but utterly unquantifiable, so much so that I'm not sure that I can articulate it with adequate precision. I read a reference recently to Edmund Burke's comment about society; it is, he said, "a partnership not only between those who are living, but between those who are dead and those who are to be born". Heavy stuff, but it is relevant to what I'm trying to say and perhaps I can explain it in this way.

This morning at our moving Remembrance Service, the wreath on behalf of the Grammarians was laid by Geoffrey Alexander Bowman. One of the 39 names on the World War Two memorial board is another Geoffrey Alexander Bowman, lost in action, flying for the RAF in 1943. He was one of two Bowman brothers killed and the uncle of the living Geoffrey. As many will by now know, my predecessor, Maurice Wilkins, wrote an obituary of each former pupil killed in action, and trudged round to Main Street, through the blacked-out streets of Bangor from his home in Crosby House, to deliver them to the Spectator offices. He remembers Bowman's close friendship with Bertie Hannay, also killed, and his "happy nature and exuberant energy of mind and body", exemplified in the whole school photograph of 1934 when he is shown, as Wilkins describes him, "repressing his mirth with obvious difficulty". After the service, with the help of  Geoffrey and his brother, Terence, I was able to identify him in that photograph; there he was, responding I suspect to a rude noise or a wicked comment, caught in freeze-frame, his laughter a permanent memorial, an expression of vibrant, irrepressible, evanescent humanity.

'Time like an ever-rolling stream / Bears all its sons away,' we sing in one of the remembrance hymns. In this curious moment, I am conscious of the School as a continuum, an ever flowing stream, constantly changing, constantly renewing itself, but, somehow, always, quintessentially, itself. I stand in 2011 looking at this tiny expression of mischief  caught in a school photograph and I am connected to Maurice Wilkins, also looking at that photograph with darker and deeper feelings. Geoffrey Alexander Bowman, uncle, connected to Geoffrey Alexander Bowman, nephew. Those boys, that generation, connected to my boys, this generation: it's a connection which enriches our sense of ourselves, since we live in the same streets and learn in some of the same rooms, as part of Bangor, part of a place, part of a school of which we are merely the latest representatives, stewards of its name and reputation. Tradition, as TS Eliot pointed out, is a living thing, always changing, always being added to, not a dead weight. We serve this school with pride, humility and a sense of responsibility, drawing strength from the past while we prepare to hand it on to the next generation. Remembrance is about the future.