Gallery 5: The Artwork of 'Vernon'

By 1957, the world had entered a Space Age that would lead to, in just a dozen more years, men walking on the surface of the Moon.

George Mills had published his first novel, Meredith and Co. less than 25 years before, but it must have seemed like a century ago in some ways, in the aftermath of a worldwide depression, the Second World War, and Britain's recovery from both under new leadership.

Instead of being alarmed as they once were by the predatory behavior of fascists, politicians worried about creeping communism, espionage, and the threat of nuclear war.

Nothing was the same. And although this change brought with it a new breed of boys' preparatory school books, the surge in the popularity of the genre meant there was still room on the shelves for one more round of the books of Mills.

The illustrative imagery of his books, though, would need some updating, making it more a part of the modern world. 1957's Meredith and Co., published behind the Iron Curtain in Czechoslovakia by Andrew Dakers, Ltd., London, featured modernized haircuts and overall appearance of the students at fictional Leadham House School.

Not only does this edition fail to have a copyright date, it also fails to name the illustrator—or illustrators—completely. The dust jacket and frontispiece contain the exact same image: A full-colour, pthalo-hued setting featuring several primary-colour clad boys being caught out of their dorm rooms at night. It's a low budget composition by an artist signing his name only as "VERNON," very reminiscent in character of the sort of cheap, colour children's book illustrations I became familiar with as a boy in the 1960s.

The frontispiece is merely a cropped version of the poorly-registered four-color-separation illustration on the cover, replete with a disembodied hand holding a flashlight at right. Expense quite obviously was spared in putting together this third edition of the text.

It's perfectly non-descript, but that belies the better quality of the artwork inside. There are four nicley done black and white plates that modernise the artwork beyond what the Brocks and John Harris had done—these aren't crafted to resemble engravings—while still capturing the nostalgic charm of the story. It's easy to see why children would have been captivated by these illustrations. [Click any image to enlarge it in a new window.]



"Percy Oliphant Naylor Gathorne Ogilvie, complete with
a nurse, red hair, and freckles, stood with his mother on
the platform at Victoria Station." [Page 9]



"There was a rending, tearing sound . . . " [Page 57]



" . . . his right forepaw clumsily bandaged, and a first eleven
blazer buttoned round his neck, a large brown bulldog was
staring stolidly at nothing!" [Page 129]



"But Finch, flashing past him and Solway, breasted the
tape first" [Page 219]


The four interior plates are unsigned, and may or may not be the work of 'Vernon.' They are as well considered and pleasant as the painting on the frontispiece is ho-hum, and could be his work.

As George Mills and his pre-WWII literary work entered a new age, it seemed as if the artwork min his books, while not quite what it had been at the peak of his popularity, was in relatively good hands.

An Afternoon at Warren Hill with George Mills and Bertram de Glanville

After spending the morning in Meads at the now defunct Warren Hill School, it just feels right to spend the afternoon there as well. It seems I'm not ready to leave as of yet.

In the last entry, we saw that Warren Hill had the use of land to the north of the school, just south of Moira House Girls' School, along Carlisle Road. That land (now part of Eastbourne College), it seems, was owned by the school.

We know that business partners Joshua Goodland and F. R. Ebden dissolved their partnership as of 31 July 1931, with Goodland becoming sole owner of the school. From the 11 August 1931 issue of the London Gazette, we can see an entry in a section, containing the addresses and owners of land about to be registered, entitled "Freehold," which reads: "7. Warren Hill, Beachy Head Road, and land in Carlisle Road, Eastbourne, by Joshua Goodland, Warren Hill, Beachy Head Road, Eastbourne."

This "land in Carlisle Road" is, we now know, where the photograph we examined in depth last time was actually captured.

Although Goodland sold the school sometime thereafter, we can surmise when the sale may have occurred based on this research, shared by friend of this site Michael Ockenden on behalf of the Eastbourne Local History Society: "According to street directories, the principals in 1925 were M A North and F R Ebden; in 1929 they were F R Ebden and J Goodland; in 1932 Joshua Goodland is the sole principal; in 1933 the sole principal is H E Glanville. (I have not seen a directory for 1930 or 1931.)"


We know Glanville's exact name is Bertram G. de Glanville. The ELHS has also graciously provided a promotional leaflet created by de Glanville after assuming the reins at Warren Hill. It contains some interesting information, available nowhere else that I know of. Let's take a look at it!


Initially, we find that Warren Hill was founded in 1885, telling us that its demise came shortly after the celebration of its 50th anniversary. The first page continues, "The school stands on high ground at the edge of the South Downs on the western side of Eastbourne. It is within a few minutes [sic] walk of the sea and from the house and grounds there are fine views of the English Channel and the Downs."

This is noteworthy. In two novels of George Mills, Meredith and Co. (1933) and King Willow (1938), prep school boys venture out onto the nearby Downs to play and sometimes engage in perilous escapades. Wikipedia notes that Brighton and Hove are remarkable in their residential encroachment into the South Downs, and as we are not now exactly sure where Windlesham House School (another school at which Mills taught) was located when it was in Portslade at the time, it would appear that Warren Hill, not Windlesham, would have offered the easily walkable access to the Downs enjoyed by his books' schoolboy characters.

This page of the document also adds that "There is a capacious sick wing which has its own kitchens, bathrooms, etc., and can be completely isolated from the main building in case of need."

Might we assume that sick wing is adjacent to the main building, abutting it at the southwest corner, as seen on the 1930 map [below, left]? Or could it be the outlying rectangular building to the west, near Beachy Head Road?


The second page of the document continues: "In the grounds there is a large concrete playground, a gymnasium, five squash racquet courts, a miniature rifle range and a carpentry workshop."

On the 1930 map, it appears we can see what are likely the squash courts to the left of the main building. It's also likely that the concrete playground is in that area as well. Since the gymnasium is listed above as having been "in the grounds," we can reasonably assume it, too was some sort of outlying structure. Unless either the sick wing or the gymnasium had been constructed after 1930, we may well assume that they are the buildings to the left of the main structure.

In addition, it makes sense to have both the gym and the infirmary close to an area that included athletic pursuits engaged in upon concrete and amid gunfire.

In a private photograph previously provided by the ELHS [click HERE to view it], seemingly from this time, we can see a new building at the left that is not in older photographs of the school taken from the south. A game of cricket is being played on that field, and we can see no signs of squash courts or a rifle range from this angle, again leading us to believe those are enclosed in an area behind that new addition to the school at left.

Regarding the playing field in that image we learn: "The playing fields consist of a large level cricket field of over 2½ acres and two other fields adjoining the school."

The "two other fields" are obviously the ones we see next to Carlisle Road, over which Moira House Girls' School looks. They are divided by a wall that was once covered with ivy, and are now owned by Eastbourne College, as we can see in the image.

In an archival photograph taken from another angle, again provided by the ELHS, we see Warren Hill towering at left [click HERE for the image]. We learned from Ockenden at the time: "[This image] is probably from a postcard and shows the view looking up what is now Beachy Head Road with the school on the left. It's hard to date precisely but one can suppose that it is pre 1900. The masters' residence must be the house on the right. The girls walking down the hill are almost level with a group of flint cottages which still stand. One of these was rented during various summers by Arthur Conan Doyle."

It would be interesting to know on which side of the road that unknown number of "flint cottages" mentioned here actually rests.

Figuring that the building on the right hand side of the postcard image is, indeed, the master's residence, Goodland, we can see, owned quite a bit of land in Meads. If the cottages mentioned face Denton Road, behind the supposed masters' residence on Beach Head [as seen today, above], and it was all in possession of the principal of the school, Goodland was, indeed, quite a landholder. One wonders what that entire tract of land as a whole would be worth today!



I do wonder if the current building across from Warren Hill School's location [above] is the same one referred to above as the "residence" of the schoolmaster's. We can do a drive-by via Google today, but we again notice its adorning ivy is no longer in place. Does the ivy in that postcard image obscure some of what we would need to positively identify the currently standing structure as being the same as the one to the right-hand side of the postcard image from the ELHS?

I don't feel qualified, sitting here half a world away, to discern that.


Another aspect of Warren Hill School that figures into the books of George Mills is related in this excerpt from the third page of de Glanville's leaflet: "Unless parents specially desire it, pocket money is not issued regularly to the boys, as it is felt that this practise tends to lead the boys to spend money for the sake of spending and encouraging waste. Any money sent with, or to, the boys is put in a special boys' bank and they may draw upon it in reasonable amounts. It is suggested that the amount sent with or to a boy in any one term should not ordinarily exceed £1."

Hijinks involving the need, or simply the desire, for money from that "bank" figures in many chapters of the stories told by Mills. Whether or not Windlesham House had a similar arrangement at the time, withdrawals from which could only be made under the watchful and thrifty eye of the Head Master, is unknown, and we may reasonably conclude that the yarns Mills spins regarding it were given rise at Warren Hill.

The last sentence on that third page is pertinent to the novels of George Mills as well: "Accomodation is reserved to take the boys to and from Victoria Station at the end and beginning of term, and boys are met at and conveyed to that station."

Not meaning to imply that Windlesham did not offer a similar service, we have no like ephemera or other evidence to conclude that they did. Warren Hill, however, offered such a convenience, and Mills used it to his advantage in designing his plots. Both Meredith and Co. and King Willow, begin at Victoria Station, and it is mentioned as the locale of the very first sentence Mills ever published in 1933:

"Percy Oliphant Naylor Gathorne Ogilvie, complete with a nurse, red hair, and freckles, stood with his mother on the platform at Victoria Station."

There is every reason to believe that Percy, who would soon be nicknamed "Pongo"—a spoilt, unattractive, sheltered nine-year-old—is autobiographically based on George Ramsay Acland Mills himself. Percy is described in this first lad-to-lad exchange after finally arriving at fictional Leadham House School by the Downs:

When his mother had gone, Percy felt the feeling of utter loneliness and physical emptiness which all new boys experience. He walked sadly into the school, and entered an empty form-room. Finding a convenient desk, he sat thereat and wept. He seemed to have sat there a long time, with his face in his hands, when he suddenly looked up and beheld, standing in front of him, the ugliest small boy on whom he had ever set eyes.

The new-comer was first to speak.

'Are you a new boy?'

Percy, who lisped when he was excited, answered, 'Yeth.'


This tender scene simply may reflect Mills's ability to observe and empathisize with young boys, but it more likely additionally reflects Mills own experience, to some degree, upon leaving home to attend Parkfield School in Haywards Heath around 1905.

Mills, as we know from his WWI records, suffered from a speech impediment, and the brief scene above may describe intimately Mills's first anxious experience talking to another child without the comfort and support of having members of his family nearby.

Small, tender, and genuine observations such as these are truly the strength of Mills's prose. Perhaps it's natural that a child so aware of his own language pathology would have painstakingly studied the oral language used by those around him, allowing him to replicate it in a way completely unique to the genre of children's literature of that era.


Returning to de Glanville's leaflet, we find on the last page a list of costs for boys attending Warren Hill.

A boy whose program included all of the extracurriculars offered would have accumulated a tab of over 70 guineas per term, payable in advance. Riding then cost an additional 8 shillings per lesson.

de Glanville acquired Warren Hill from Goodland around 1933, a year deep within the period known as the Great Depression. Michael O. of the ELHS weighs in with this insight:

The school was still in existence in Beachy Head Road in May 1934 because there's a reference to a scholarship in the Times of 29 May 1934.

The prevailing economic situation in the 1930s meant that private schools were having a hard time. Some were forced to close in Eastbourne and I guess this it could have been the reason for the demise of Warren Hill. However, the owner (headmaster) would have been sitting on some valuable real estate and would have been able to sell for a good sum.

Undoubtedly.

de Glanville's bankruptcy was the second one filed in Eastbourne in 1937, with all petitions entirely settled before the end of the calendar year. Given the value of the land, as mentioned, it seems unlikely that he had lost everything.

With this particular entry having grown to an almost unwieldy length, next time we'll take a look at some additional information on de Glanville gleaned by the ubiquitous Barry McAleenan. Don't miss it…

Armed for the Fray

No matter what sort of 'breakfast' one might have with the boys—and Mr. Mead seems to have had a good one to start his first day—the real adventures begin, as they say, once the class-room door actually closes. How much of the following text is actually based on the first day George Mills ever taught, and how much is a pastiche constructed from bits of many of his subsequent first days, is open to conjecture.

See what you think as we proceed into Mills's Meredith and Co. (1933):


Mr. Mead spent the first hour of school in the common room, smoking. He was wondering how he should meet his first class. He was not looking forward to the ordeal. He remembered Peter's advice.

'I'll give them a good deal of work to do, and keep them busy. I won't do more talking than I can help,' he said to himself. Five minutes before the second lesson was due, he stood in the corridor, waiting.

The Head Master came along, and smiled.

'Well, Mead, armed for the fray?'

The boys were changing over, and several of them ran past into their class-rooms.

'Yes,' Mr. Mead answered.

'Ah, well, your boys are waiting for you now. That is the room, the one facing you. Let them have it! Good luck!'

Mr. Mead walked along the corridor to his room. The door was being held open by a boy who was wearing tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles.

'Thank you,' said Mr. Mead as he swept past Headlights [Dimmer]; 'now go and sit down.'

Dimmer shut the door, and went to his place. Mr. Mead lost no time. He walked to his desk, sat down, and produced his mark book.

'Just give me your names,' he said.

While he was taking names he looked at the boys. They were sitting like angels, with expressions of complete guilelessness upon their faces. They stared at him as much to say, 'Well, you may try it if you don't believe us, but butter wouldn't melt in our mouths!' Mr. Mead had the uncomfortable sensation that he was being summed up. And so he was! No one sees through a man quicker than a boy, and Mr. Mead put an abrupt end to the mental X-raying process.


Even after 28 years of teaching, the first day of school—like Opening Day of baseball—is still a powerful event, a rebirth for both the children and for the teacher. At least, that is, when I have been the teacher. I've heard that Laurence Olivier often vomited before performing on stage, but that's likely a legend that has its roots in a panic attack he had before going on stage at the age of 57. Still, he apparently was nervous before a live performance. Likewise, my next restful night before the initial day of school will be my first one!

As mentioned in yesterday's post, children often have an extremely accurate sense of which adults can be trusted and which can't. They can frequently spot a phony from a mile off. I can't say that Mills would have been aware of this on his first day at Windlesham. It's far more probable that those initial moments with his first class went by in a blur, and time would have seemed to be moving much more quickly for him than he describes it here due to anxiety.

This passage is a collage of first day experiences at Windlesham, Warren Hill, The Craig, and at Glion, acquired over time. One does not have the ability to anxiously do paperwork while surmising the inner workings of the minds of a group of students through careful observation. That sort of inference just isn't made by a new instructor, fresh out of university, facing a group of strange faces, angelic though they may be!

Let's return to this Leadham House class-room:


'Open your exercise books, and your Translations. Page 32. French into English. If you do not know a word, look it up. Go straight on until you are told to stop.'

Having said this, Mr. Mead sat back in his chair and surveyed the class. Peter had been quite correct, and there was no attempt at open ragging, but the master noticed the boys were not really working. Dimmer opened his desk, and produced a piece of blotting paper; Meredith dropped his pen, and stooped slowly down to pick it up. He tried it, found that it would not function, so changed the nib. Renton was frowning at the inkpot, from which he had fished a large piece of blotting-paper. The only two boys who were working were Murray and Potter I. Mr. Mead smiled to himself. The boys were trying it on! He was no fool, and started on a plan of campaign. Leaning forward, he took up a pencil and continued his watch. Every few seconds he would make a little tick on the paper in front of him. Murray and Potter, who both sat at the same desk, looked up from under their eyelids and observed what he was doing. They nudged each other and smiled. Mr. Mead made no comment, but he was busy with the pencil. he could not help thinking what poor economists boys are. The Sixth formers were giving themselves a great deal of trouble to get out of work. They went to endless pains to waste time.

They thought that it was well worth while. The man was too good to be true! He said not anything, and they were having a glorious slack, and could look forward to a term of leisure. Three minutes before the end of the lesson Mr. Mead suddenly spoke, and the boys stopped work.

'I have here,' Mr. Mead announced, 'a little piece of paper on which I registered a mark whenever a boy wasted time. There has been a great deal of time wasted. Blotting-paper has been dropped; pens which should have been overhauled before school, have had to be replaced. Only two boys in the room have been working properly. They are,' here Mr. Mead consulted his register, 'Murray and Potter I. On my paper there are twenty marks, representing an unnecessary waste of time. I am wasting time now, but that is your fault. The time must, unfortunately, be made up, and you will come here on Saturday evening for half and hour. That is to say, all except Murray and Potter I.'

Mr. Mead had been horribly nervous during this pronouncement. At the end of it he gathered up his books and left the room. For some seconds there was complete silence. The boys looked at each other, and disgust, surprise, and bewilderment were depicted on their faces. Headlights was the first to speak.

'Well!' he said, 'of all the dirty tricks, that takes the cake. It seemed so easy, too!' He stabbed at the desk viciously with his pen, and added, 'That man is the sticky limit! Shut up, you two idiots, it's not funny!' This remark was addressed to Murray and Potter I. They were sitting at their desk hugging each other with rapture, and laughing loudly.

That afternoon, as they were walking to the cricket field, Mr. Mead told Peter all about it.

'That's right!' said Peter, laughing. 'I thought they might try it on. Well, you have won your victory, and should have no further trouble.'


No further trouble getting adolescent boys to do class work? Windlesham and Warren Hill must have been very special places, indeed!

That aside, I think it's interesting how many terms from the military are applied here to teaching: "armed for the fray," "a plan of campaign," and "won your victory." Some may say that those metaphors are improper, and that the relationship between a teacher and his or her charges should be one of a community working together, rather than adversarial. I couldn't argue about those sentiments in any way.

In reality, though, there are many situations during the course of a lesson, a day, a week, or a term, in which a teacher and a student, or even a teacher and an entire class, each digs in the proverbial heels in a mighty struggle against the other. War? A wild west showdown? A duel in the sun? Characterize those moments any way you wish—they happen and those confrontations often need to be "won" by a teacher who intends to last the rest of the term.

Teachers who intend to last an entire career, however, tend to come out ahead in these situations without causing the students to "lose face" in the aftermath, and that's not something the Mr. Mead accomplished above. I wonder if Mills ever mastered that trick, or could it have been one of the reasons he moved around a bit as an educator?

Anyway, let's check back in one more time, later in Mr. Mead's first day of classes and extra-curriculars:

Uggles followed the Hawk along the corridor. He found it rather trying, poor dog, as the afternoon was a hot one. The Hawk opened his desk, and sat Uggles beside him on the seat.

It chanced that Mr. Mead was on his way to the master's cottage for a cold shower. He was still in flannels and tennis shoes, and he walked noiselessly down the corridor. The sound of a boy's voice made him stop at the open door of a class-room, and he saw the Hawk seated at his desk, the lid of which was raised and rested against his head. The boy, having his head inside the desk, was utterly unaware of the master's presence, and was talking to Uggles.

'Yes, old chap,' the Hawk was saying, 'I am quite sure you will like him. He likes dogs, too; he told me so at breakfast!'


The reality working for Mr. Mead—and probably Mills—in this situation is that he has won over a key boy in the school. While the Hawk is not a Sixth former, nor a scholarly boy, he's athletic, honest, and extremely likable. His status among the boys of the school is near the top, and having the Hawk as a powerful ally will pay off for Mr. Mead, despite the master's perceived "dirty trick."

There'll be even more about Mr. Mead and Mills next time…

Breakfast with the Hawk and the Boys

It's a lovely, hot, early summer day here in the Sunshine State. The lawn is unruly after some recent rain, and I'm putting off going out to do battle with it. Instead, I think we'll check in on George Mills's fictional alter ego, Mr. Mead, at Leadham House School. Let's thumb ahead to Chapter XVII of Meredith and Co., and recall that last time, Mead was off to bed, anxiously awaiting his first day of teaching French.

MR. MEAD arose early in the morning, and walked across to the school with the Jewel [Mr. Gold]. He was anxious to see as much of the school routine as possible, and stood by the side of Gold as he read the roll call. Mr. Mead stood looking at the row of strange faces, and wondered what sort of task he would make of teaching. All the boys were perfect strangers, and he was thinking how best to break the ice during breakfast. As they were going downstairs the Jewel told him that his table was the one next to his own.

'You will have several members of the Third and Fourth forms. they are quite well-behaved, but rather talkative.'

After grace had been said, Mr. Mead sat down. He was not quite certain of the correct procedure. Should he help himself from the sideboard, or would he be waited on? He noticed the Jewel helping himself to coffee, so he joined him.

'Sorry, Mead, I ought to have told you that we help ourselves. If you want a second cup send a boy for it.'

Mr. Mead took a cup of coffee, and a plate of porridge. When he sat down, he looked at the boys who were seated at his table. He noticed particularly the boy to his right. He was a small, dark boy, with a happy care-free expression. Conversation was limited, as it often is in the presence of a stranger. Mr. Mead had just finished his porridge when the boy on his right spoke.

'Er, sir, do you like dogs?'

'Yes, very much. Do you have a dog at home?'

The boy became quite talkative.

'Rather, sir; hundreds! At least, not exactly hundreds, sir. But there's a topping dog here, sir. He belongs to one of the boy's maters, sir. He's a bulldog, and is called Uggles. Shall I get you some eggs and bacon, sir?'

My hunch is that this is an idealized first conversation with a student, invested with a great deal of "I-wish-it-really-had-been-that-easy." Upon the publication of Meredith and Co., Mills had already experienced at least four "meet and greets" with boys, having taught at Windlesham House, Warren Hill, The Craig, and the seemingly completely forgotten English Preparatory School in Glion, Switzerland between 1925 and 1933.

With so much movement from place to place, it's no wonder that Mills focuses on Mr. Mead's desire to quickly learn the "correct procedure."

Also despite Dr. Howell (Peter) Stone's advice the night before—all of which revolved around the classroom—Mills is letting us know in no uncertain terms here that the first true hurdle to be cleared is meeting the boys and establishing himself quickly. It's open to conjecture how long it may have taken Mills, at first, to win over the boys at Windlesham House, but as he was apparently a very personable fellow who enjoyed making people laugh, my hunch is that it must not have taken too awfully long.

Interestingly, we find that a real ice breaker here is the subject of dogs. Mr. Mead is immediately presented with an opportunity to win over a key boy in his form by simply admitting to a fondness for canines. I'd better dollars to doughnuts that it all didn't come off so readily in reality, but that once Mills knew man's best friend was a metaphorical foot-in-the-door with his charges, he used dogs to his advantage in all of his new teaching locales.

This isn't to imply that Mills exaggerates his fondness for dogs here simply for social gain. We do know already of his propensity to share a family story from well before he was born about his father's family taking their dogs along to church, and having one actually take in the service from a pew on one occasion.

Yesterday, we also learned that Mills's love of cricket could have helped him land at least one teaching job as Mr. Mead is welcomed by Mr. Marshall as an assistant with the Leadham House eleven. And, here, his love of dogs helps him open lines of communication with the boys.

Let's see how that breakfast conversation comes out:

Mr. Mead gave his plate over to the boy, and asked his name.

'Falconer, sir,' said the boy, and he went off, and returned with some eggs and bacon. Mr. Mead liked the Hawk. He was so natural, and his frank, open manner appealed to him. The meal proceeded most satisfactorily; Mr. Mead inquired the names of the boys, and was entertained with several stories of the holidays. he found all the boys very friendly—not the sort that tries to 'suck up' to a new master, but animated with a genuine desire to be on good terms. He found the atmosphere delightful.

[A quick aside: From this last paragraph, can we surmise that this genuine sort of student behavior was not always the way it was at Windermere and Glion?]

The Hawk looked up.

'Please, sir,' he asked, rather diffidently, 'what is your name, sir?'

Mr. Mead enlightened him, and the Hawk continued.

'What are you taking, sir?'

'French,' added Mr. Mead, shortly.

'Oh, sir, I hate French, sir. I only got seven for the exam last term.'

''Well,' said Mr. Mead, laughing, 'we shall have to improve on that!'

'Please, sir, are you taking us all in French?'

'Yes, I believe so.'

To the person who does not know the mind of the preparatory schoolboy, all his questions must appear to be rude curiosity. But in this case they served to break the ice, and enabled the boys to talk about something. The small boy is usually limited in intelligent conversation, and if he can, by asking questions, get someone else to talk, he does so.

That last paragraph is a great insight, and insight into the hearts and minds of prep students seems to have been Mills's long suit, at least early in his career.

In this scene, we see in microcosm Mills's fledgling days as a master in a preparatory school. While not the finest written lines in the history of English literature, this excerpt does display a comfortable, conversational genuineness—similar to the characteristics that Mead admires in young Falconer—full of both story-telling warmth and keen observation.

Having spent a day or two getting my feet wet at a new school now and then along my own way, Mills's concerns are real concerns. His wonder about his new students and his desire to get off on the right foot all ring perfectly true. And, despite the fact that Mr. Meads does have the ice completely broken unusually quickly in this scene, it does accurately portray the amazing speed at which children will determine whether or not an adult is trustworthy, and hence, worthy of hearing or participating in meaningful conversation among them!

So, after two excerpts from Meredith and Co., we find Mr. Mead—and Mills—possessing the 'people skills' necessary to be successful in a teaching career: He's an engaging fellow, seemingly dutiful to more experienced adults and to the needs of the boys.

Next time, let's step inside Mr. Mead's class-room as he begins his first hour teaching the Sixth form….

Mr. Mead's First Evening at School

I get the feeling that we're nearing the end of this quest for George Mills & Co. Those who've been willing to help have really helped quite a bit. Those who weren't so keen were sometimes prodded into helping. And some couldn't be bothered replying to requests for help even with a simple "no."

Oh—and there have been those whose replies have focused on me paying them for research and information. One of the funniest phrases I've bumped into: 'Our volunteers charge ₤10 per hour.'

So, feeling as if I've run out of other options, let's see what George Mills had to say about himself—or at least his first days teaching at Windlesham House, and subsequently at Warren Hill School in Meads, Eastbourne.

From Meredith and Co. (1933):

Mr. Mead enjoyed his first dinner at the school. Peter kept an excellent table, and was splendid company. Mead was given the post of honour near his hostess. He had met his future colleagues before dinner and had approved of them. After dinner there was a conference in the study.

'Make yourselves comfortable,' Peter said. 'Coffee over there; cigarettes and tobacco, too.'

When the men had settled down, Peter spoke again…

'Now you have met Mead. He is going to take French throughout the school, and help you, Marshall, with cricket. You can do with some help, I expect.'

'Yes, indeed, I can.'

Peter gave them a hint.

'Well then, we shall meet again in the morning. Good-night. Mead, if you have done all your unpacking, perhaps you will stay behind and finish your pipe.'

Remember, according to Dr. Tom Houston of Windlesham, "Peter," or Dr. Howell Stone, corresponds to Mr. Charles Scott Malden of Windlesham House, circa 1925. Malden and Mills would have worked under headmaster Mr. H. D. L. Patterson, with Malden becoming principal in 1927, after Mills had gone. Malden, however, apparently already had been considered a joint headmaster before that, however.

Mills had been a junior appointment at the time, a position Dr. Houston states was "seldom held for long," although Mills immediately married and purchased a home in Portslade near Windlesham, which was at the time at "Southern Cross" in Portslade, not in Brighton. Mills had come to the school to teach English or "English subjects."

Let's continue with Meredith and Co. [frontispiece, 1950 edition, right]:

When the rest of the staff had left the study, Peter turned to Mead.

'Now then,' he said, 'sit down, and make yourself at home.'

Mr. Mead sat down and waited.

'You said,' Peter started, puffing at his pipe, 'that this will be your first experience of teaching. Do you mind if I tell you a few stories of my first attempts?'

This was a delightful way of putting it, and Mr. Mead appreciated it.

'No, sir, I shall be most grateful.'

'Well,' said Peter, 'everything depends on your first hour in school. You stand or fall by that hour. I am starting you off tomorrow in the Sixth-form. It will help you to start with the bigger boys. You will be out of school the first hour. Books are given out then, and serious work starts next hour. But I want you to make those bigger boys work. Three of them, Meredith, Potter I, and Dimmer I are in for their Common Entrances this term, and will have to get down to it. You will not find that they will try to rag you; they know me too well for that; but they will see how far they can go in the way of taking things easy. Boys always do; I did so myself, and came a cropper! Let nothing pass in the way of inattention and fidgeting about. If you do, you will be at their mercy. When I first started teaching we had a young man on the staff who went into his class-room to take his first lesson, and stood in the doorway and said, "Good morning!" A chorus in the ascending scale greeted him; then he went to his desk and sat down, uncertain what to do next. The boys started playing about, and the young man never kept order at that school! I won't dictate to you how you should teach, but keep the class busy every moment of the time. If you have any trouble, send the boy to me. I shall think all the better of you if you do so, and will support your authority. If you start off by standing no nonsense the boys will respect you all the more for it."

This was very sound advice, to which Mr. Mead listened intently; and the more he saw of the head master, the more he liked him. Peter regaled him with a few funny stories about his early attempts at teaching. He then looked at his watch.

'Dear me, it is half-past eleven! Well, we shall meet again in the morning. By the way, any small thing you want to know ask Marshall, and if you are in difficulties don't hesitate to come see me. Good-night!'

It's difficult to imagine those words aren't to a great degree autobiographical. At the time, Mills was 29 years old, likely fresh from university, and engaged to be married.

Prior to that, Mills had served from 1916 through 1919 in the Great War, rising from a Private in the Rifle Brigade to a Lance Corporal in the Royal Army Service Corps. He began attending Christ Church in 1919 and Oxford in 1921. Dr. Houston speculates that Mills arrived at Windlesham shortly after departing Oxford where he did not take examinations or earn a degree—something Windlesham House believed he had done.

Mills [left] obviously respected Malden greatly, modeling the character of "Peter" on him. Seven years after leaving Windlesham, Mills wrote this book, describing Peter/Malden as "a splendid man with whom to work… as straight as a gun barrel."

It seems that George Mills loved working with Malden. Mills was engaged, just about to be married, and just about to purchase a home on Benfield Way in Portslade at the time. After just four terms, however, Mills no longer appeared on the Windlesham staff list by the end of the summer of 1926.

Houston speculates that Mills "could, like a handful of other prep school masters, have been excited by the General Strike (that term)."

The long-term ends of that work stoppage wouldn't seem to have dove-tailed very nicely with the more immediate needs of Mills's own situation in 1926, being a new husband, home-owner, and provider.

Still, it's still just the evening before the first class Mr. Mead—and I suspect Mills—would ever teach. There'[s so much more yet to happen.

Next time, let's follow Mr. Mead to his debut breakfast with the boys of fictional Leadham House School in Merdedith and Co. I have a hunch we'll find the 29-year-old George Mills sitting at that table as well…