Eight Years Later: The Final Chapter of King Willow

The final chapter of King Willow by George Mills is entitled "Eight Years Later," and it puts the finishing touches on the first two novels of Mills, including his very first, Meredith and Co.

The chapter begins: "It was late on a Wednesday afternoon, and the last day of the Oxford and Cambridge match at Lord's. The ground looked beautiful, the blue sky and green grass combining with the gay colours of the dresses in the crowded stands to make a wonderful splash of colour."

Oxford and Cambridge became the universities where the main schoolboy characters of Mills ended up.

After the match, the three main characters of King Willow—Pongo, Finch, and Falconer, better known as Hawk—end up in the car of Pongo, whom you may recall started as a timid and tearful young boy with a speech impediment at the beginning of Meredith and Co. They begin to discuss their former headmaster, "Peter" Stone, at fictional Leadham House School.

It is here we'll pick up Mill's narrative.


Shortly after the match, the three friends entered a large car that was waiting outside the pavilion. Pongo jumped into the driver's seat, while Finch and Hawk made themselves comfortable at the back. Pongo was on his way down to Sussex, to a small village where he now lived during vacation. He was going to drop the Hawk and Finch at their London hotels before going home…

There was a long traffic hold-up, and Pongo turned around.

'What about coming down and seeing Peter on Saturday? You know he's retired, and living quite near us, in the same village. You'd better come down to lunch, and we'll drop in to tea with Peter. By the way, Hawk, you've got to come see Uggles.'

'Uggles!' cried Finch. 'Is he still alive?'

'Yes,' answered Pongo, 'but he's very shaky on his pins, poor old chap! He'll go nearly mad when he sees the Hawk! There's quite a good train at 10.45 from Victoria. I'll meet you at the other end.'

As Pongo drove off from the traffic block, his mind went back some ten years, and he saw himself once again as a trembling new boy on his mother's arm, as he had waited for the train on the platform of Victoria Station. He addressed his two friends once more.

'I've not seen much of Peter yet, but I'll tell him we're coming. He'll probably give us tea in the garden. He's got a nice little place, and the last time I saw him he was very well.'

By this time the Hawk and Finch had reached their destinations, and Pongo dropped them off with a wave of his hand and a cheery 'Well, don't forget. The 10.45 from Victoria. I'll meet you.'


Longtime readers of this site will recall a message once received from Dr. Tom Houston of Windlesham House School, where George Mills had his first teaching job in 1925-1926. Let's review some of what Dr. Houston revealed about George.


G.R.A. Mills, BA Oxon, taught 4 terms at Windlesham House School [left] from Lent 1925 until Easter 1926, and maybe part or all of the summer, but his name was taken off the staff list by end of summer term 1926…

In 1925 Windlesham was at “Southern Cross”, Portslade, near Brighton; principal Mr Charles Scott Malden; headmaster Mr H D L Paterson; and the dog, Tubby.

In April George Mills married Miss Vera Beauclerc [sic]; they bought a house on Benfield Way, Portslade…

We have no record relating to his sudden (?) departure. He could, like a handful of other prep school masters, have been excited by the General Strike (that term)…

During summer 1935 he visited Mrs Charles [Malden], then in Springwells, Steyning, W. Sussex, and told her he had written a book “largely about Windlesham”, published by O.U.P. “He had been at 2 or 3 schools since, but is very faithful to Windlesham”, she said…

Uggles may have been related to Tubby, the Malden’s popular and heroic dog. The portrait of the headmaster Peter Stone has something of Christopher Malden, who had been in effect joint head for some years; he became principal in 1927. Mills evidently had a gift for befriending boys and learning their secrets; Meredith & Co. captures the idiom of pupils during the interwar period more accurately than any other novel.


There is certainly a wealth of information in those few paragraphs.

The excerpt from King Willow above notes that Pongo had a vacation home in a small village in Sussex. Mills, during the late 1920s and early 1930s was a rather itinerant teacher who had taught not only in Sussex, but in Windermere, London, and Glion, Switzerland, during the time. This home of Pongo's, used during vacations from school, could clearly have been based on Mills's own home in Portslade.

Despite Mills having left Sussex to continue to teach, he seems always to have kept ties there, which explains the repetitive nature of locations in Sussex continually cropping up in the later life of George Mills.

1935, incidentally, was the year during which Windlesham "moved to 60 acres in the Sussex downs north of Worthing," according to a more recent correspondence from Dr. Houston. That event may have occasioned some nostalgia on the part of Mills.

By the way, Charles Scott Malden, mentioned above, had died in 1896, the year of Mills's birth, and could not have been at Windlesham during George's tenure there, although the elder Malden still may have been a legend around campus.


However, it is the actual visit to Springwells, Steyning [right], that is of greater interest here. While what follows is not in any way a non-fiction account of that visit, the occasion must have meant a great deal to George Mills.



It was Saturday afternoon at about four o'clock, and three young men might have been seen walking slowly through the street of a beautiful little village in Sussex. They were arm-in-arm and talking excitedly.

'You know,' one of them was saying, 'Peter doesn't look much older. A bit grayer, that's all.'

The three young men went on talking until they reached a short drive entered by a wide gate that had been fixed against a post. They turned in through the gate and walked up the drive. Sitting outside the house, on a balcony, was Peter, with Mrs Stone. The tea things were laid, and Peter was on the look-out. When he saw his visitors he rose and hastened down the drive to meet them. He shook each hand cordially, his eyes sparkling with joy.

'Well, Falconer and Finch, this is a pleasure. Ogilvie [Pongo] told me you were coming down, and we were expecting you.'

The Hawk kept on looking at Peter. The grand old man had changed but slightly. He was as erect as ever, but perhaps somewhat more portly. He led the way up to the house, where Mrs Stone gave them all a very warm welcome.

Peter certainly had found a beautiful home. The house, an old farmstead, stood in a small but perfect garden. A little lawn stretched away from it, and a kitchen garden was at the back. Rose trees dotted about and well-kept flower-beds made the scene from the little balcony one of great beauty. Peter indicated some comfortable wicker chairs and Mrs Stone began to pour out the tea.

When the young men had settled themselves down, Peter talked about the match.

'I wish I had been there. That must have been a hot catch of yours, Falconer. The papers were full of it.'

'Oh, yes, sir,' laughed the Hawk. 'I told Finch that it was a bit of a fluke. He hit it straight at me, sir.'

During the serious business of tea there was little conversation. Peter kept glancing at the three boys, now grown to men, and he was very proud of them. Soon after tea Mrs Stone excused herself and left the men together. They produced their pipes and settled down to talking. They had eight years to bridge—eight years of ups and downs, of successes and failures at their public schools. Peter listened intently, allowing them to talk on.

After a while the conversation turned to the future and the careers they intended to adopt. The boys asked Peter's advice on all manner of subjects, and he did his best to answer them. Gradually, however, the as was only natural, the talk reverted to Leadham House, but this time Peter did not listen. As he sat back in his chair, blowing clouds of tobacco from his pipe, he was gazing into the future. He saw the three boys, now on the threshold of manhood, all making names for themselves and doing credit to their professions.

He knew their characters and feared nothing. He saw Finch destined for the Bar, a just and fearless judge, honoured by all men. Ogilvie, who was going into the army after his university career, Peter saw as a great soldier and administrator. But when he thought of Hawk, Peter smiled to himself. Falconer had been his favorite pupil, but Peter would not have admitted it to anybody. He knew that the hawk was to reach great heights, and he saw him as a priest in one of the poorest London parishes, cheerful and smiling, with a horde of ragged children clinging joyfully to the skirts of his cassock. He saw him in the midst of squalor and poverty going on his splendid way of radiating love and happiness. As he sat on the balcony that afternoon, entirely unconscious of the conversation going on around him, Peter's mind sped back through the years, and saw the Hawk, once more the grubby, laughing schoolboy devoted to sport and animals…


In this paragraph, filled with Peter's fictional reveries, we find some hidden real-life tributes.

First, Finch had earlier in the chapter been the batsman for Cambridge referred to by Falconer.

Finch is destined for the Bar out of Cambridge—much like the well-rounded mentor of George Mills at Warren Hill School in Eastbourne, Joshua Goodland [left]. While Goodland would never become a judge—Joshua would, in fact, pass away the next year while serving as vicar of the parish of Compton Dundon—it's probable that Goodland had shared with George the thought that if he'd stayed in his law career he might have at some point. After all, becoming a judge would have been the next logical step in his legal career. That step, however, was never taken: Goodland instead bought into Warren Hill School and eventually became owner and Headmaster. Perhaps it had been with regret that Goodland spoke of it with George.


And if this fictional visit to a village in Sussex reflects Mills's own visit there in 1935, it's interesting to note that 1935 was also the year in which Fr Basil Jellicoe, the noteworthy and charismatic reformer from the parish of St Pancras, had passed way from pneumonia at just 37 years of age—but most attributed his death to overwork on behalf of the London's poor children.

We've surmised there must have been a relationship between Jellicoe and Mills before, one that would have stemmed from George attending Oxford, where Jellicoe had run the Magdalen College Mission, which was manned by volunteer students from the university.

Once again, this indicates at the very least some admiration for Jellicoe [right] on the part of Mills, and even suggests that—given the intimacy that fictional Peter Stone exhibits in his knowledge Falconer above, as the latter graduates from Oxford—that the Mills and Jellicoe had been close friends.


Lastly, Peter envisions Pongo as an army officer who would make a "great soldier and administrator." Pongo as a timid young boy with a speech impediment (a lisp), as we know, was based on Mills himself.

So here we have a great clue: Pongo's character soon would be off to the army as an officer after of Oxford.
Mills, along with most others, must have seen war brewing in Europe. Soon after the publication of King Willow in 1938, George would be named an officer in the Royal Army Pay Corps out of the officer's reserve in 1940—interestingly, something Jellicoe had done following university, when he entered the navy as an officer during the First World War.


Spending WWII as a war substitute officer [left] certainly must have appealed to Mills. With the advent of hostilities in China and Europe signaling renewed global violence, a return to the military, this time as a officer, must have been on his mind.

So, here we have some evidence that Mills was already beginning to think that he might not spend the rest of his life writing books, especially as we can see that he was sending his most popular literary characters out into the world as adults.

George had been a failure in the Army Pay Corps during WWI, and in choosing Pongo for duty as an administrator in the army, he was—perhaps unknowingly—charting the same course for himself.


As we close things out at Who Is George Mills?, it seems natural that the examination of this chapter would fall close to the end of our work here. With that in mind, I'd like to finish it out to its end, as Peter sits among his billowing smoke, contemplating the future of the boys:


Then for no apparent reason he raised his eyes, and looked down the drive. What he saw made him sit up and smile.

'Ogilvie,' he asked suddenly, 'why didn't you bring Uggles to-day? I have not seen him for some time, and I was expecting him.'

Pongo laughed.

'Well, sir, he's rather weak on his legs these days, and he was so pleased at seeing the Hawk again that I thought it might be too much for him.'

Peter smiled expansively.

'He seems to have settled that point for himself. Here he comes!'

The three young men looked down the drive and rose to their feet. Uggles was labouriously coming towards them, puffing with his exertions, and Ogilvie laughingly called over to him.

'Come along, old chap, stir those stumps of yours!'

But the old bulldog found the pace altogether too hot for him. He was in extreme old age, but radiantly happy. Every few yards he lifted his head and looked up at his lord and master with devotion streaming from his eyes now growing dimmer. He ambled along slowly towards the spot where his friends were awaiting him, and snuffled as he went.



With that ending, King Willow closes with a paean both to the past and George's love of dogs, but with eyes focused clearly on the future.

George Mills was 42 years old when the book was published and surrounded by notes for his next two texts (which would both be published in 1939), but he was, himself, looking forward as well. Mills, who had known many more failures in his life than successes to that point, would begin to turn things around and make right many of the perceived wrongs he'd endured in his past.

This last scene, with a contemplative Peter wreathed in smoke and the worthy and loyal Uggles snuffling back to his friends, is the sort of sentimental tableau that Mills must have envisioned for himself at the end of his own life.

But before that could be, Mills had some unfinished business. First, his failed relationship with the military would need to be mended, leaving him with a point of pride there instead of a closeted shame.

We'll take a look at the ways in which Mills began to work steadily to vindicate what he perceived to be his failures next time.

A Few Headmasters and Ronald Searle

It's a sunny day here in the rolling hills of horse country of Ocala, Florida, during what constitutes our rainy season. The forecast is remarkably similar every day, as you can see, especially in the afternoons and early evenings. The only thing that can prevent rain from falling during this time is if one absolutely counts on it. Failure to water outside plants, for example, can somehow steer clouds right around the entire area, which is how I'm sure the Sahara was created—soon-to-be Bedouins continually procrastinating about watering their foxgloves!

While we wait to see what our skies will become, I've been looking over the last couple of entries here and considering headmasters. Here's an amusing snippet on the subject [click to enlarge] sent recently by the indefatigable Barry McAleenan:



As always, thanks very much, Barry!

One wonders which of these stereotypes might resemble the headmasters we've met along the way here: Charles Scott Malden and Mr. H. D. L. Patterson of Windlesham House School; A. Max Wilkinson, F. R. Ebden, Joshua Goodland, and Bertram de Glanville of Warren Hill, William Snow of The Craig; Capt. William E. Mocatta of the English Preparatory School in Glion; E. A. F. "Tony" Roper of Ladycross School in Seaford; A. H. B. Bishop of Magdalen College School and Warwick; H. F. and David Chittenden of Newlands School in Seaford; and the fictional Dr. Howell "Peter" Stone of Leadham House School, the creation of author George Mills.

By the way, I love the work of Ronald Searle, and know I'll see it at least once a year, during the credits of the film version of the musical, Scrooge.

Searle's vision [below] of the classic tale, the characters and the setting, is what makes the art direction and cinematography so stunning. It's a must-see in my home every Christmas, even if I am usually the only one who actually must see it!

Seeking Mr. A. Bishop and Mr. H. E. Howell

As long as we are fishing for information in 1933's Meredith and Co., the first published work by George Mills, we might as well backtrack for a moment and take a peek at his preface to the volume. Some of it will relate to upcoming adventures at fictional Leadham House School, but other aspects will be germane to my last few posts, and to a thread that's been running through all of this "Millsness." This, then, would seem to be a good time to take look.


PREFACE
ALTHOUGH all the incidents in this book, with the exception of the 'bait charts,' are imaginary, the book gives an accurate impression of life in a Boys' Preparatory School.

I wish to acknowledge, with much gratitude, the help and encouragement received from many friends; particularly from Mr. A. Bishop, the Head Master of Magdalen College School, Brackley, and from my old friend, Mr. H. E. Howell, who have read the book in manuscript form. I am also very much indebted to that splendid specimen of boyhood, the British Schoolboy, who has given me such wonderful material.

------------------------------------------------------------------------ G.M.

The first paragraph above would seem to confirm that the events described by Mills in the 1933 text are an amalgam created using elements of many similar situations Mills had experienced in class-rooms between 1925 and 1933. That seemed evident as he described the first day of teaching—ever—of Mr. Mead.

Mead was idealized in that situation and able to perceive things that a nervous novice simply would not have been able to. Mills has idealized the first day of teaching, at least as far as its outcome might go. He may not have learned that "registering" laziness trick until years later, for example. Still, there is palpable anxiety regarding new routines and how a room full of children may react to a strange teacher. It's especially interesting regarding the grandstand play we saw Mr. Mead pull yesterday, ordering the time-wasting boys back for a Saturday night class. As he gathers up his books and stalked out of the classroom, we're privy to the reaction of the boys and immediately know it "worked." Mead, however, waited to have its success confirmed by Peter (Dr. Howell Stone), the Head Master.

Also of some interest are the two gentlemen named as having helped and encouraged Mills as he worked on the manuscript for Meredith and Co. With only initials to work with, it is difficult to track down individuals with the unremarkable surnames Bishop and Howell, especially since almost 80 years have intervened.

Magdalen College School and their 'Old Brackleians Society' failed to respond to an enquiry related to the identity of "Mr. A. Bishop." I'll prod them again today to see if I can turn up any information on someone who may not have been merely a sage proofreader of this text, but an older friend who may actually have helped steer the 29-year-old George Mills into taking a stab at the career in education we've been reading about the last few days.

Regarding Mr. H. E. Howell, I found a reference to such a person in the 1913 edition of The Devonian Yearbook, and a newspaper obituary regarding his attendance at a well-attended funeral. On 5 April of this year, I sent the following message to All Saints, Margaret Street:

Hello! I am an American researching a British author of children's books named George Ramsay Acland Mills. Two of his novels about preparatory schools acknowledged the help of a dear friend, Mr. H. E. Howell, and a main character was named "Howell" in both, I suspect in tribute.

In trying to discover the identity of the actual Mr. Howell, I happened upon a Times obituary from 26 August, 1935. In it, a "Mr. H. E. Howell" represented "All Saints', Margaret Street" at the funeral that was held for Revd J. B. L. Jellicoe.

While obviously not a reverend himself, did an H. E. Howell have any connection with All Saints, Margaret Street? Also, is there any way of knowing if the author, Mr. George R. A. Mills, was a member of the congregation? Mr. Mills was also a schoolmaster at Warren Hill School in Eastbourne and Eaton Gate Preparatory School in London during the 1930s.

Lastly, did Revd Barton R. V. Mills have any association with All Saints? Interestingly, the Revd Mills held the distinction of being a holy cleric in the Anglican Church while at the same time having converted to Roman Catholicism. That is what I would consider to be an unusual combination for a man who served as a vicar in Cornwall and served as an assistant chaplain in the Chapel Royal of the Savoy after his conversion. I found it particularly interesting when I read that your church is considered Anglican Catholic.

Revd Mills passed away in 1932. He was the father of George R. A. Mills, and he had daughters named Agnes Edith and Violet Eleanor.

Any small bit of information you may be able to provide may lead me to more, so may I please enlist your assistance? It would be greatly appreciated. Thank you very much for your time, patience, and consideration, and I look forward to hearing from you!

The next day I received this reply:

Dear Mr. Williams,

I will get our archivist on the trail of the people you mention. Fr. Basil Jellicoe was a famous at St. Mary's, Somers Town, next to Euston Station between the wars. He was a crusader for decent housing and started the housing association movement to provide it for the poor. He certainly had connections with All Saints.

with best wishes,

yours,
Fr. Alan Moses
Vicar

Once again, we find a connection between the ostensibly Anglican Mills family and Catholicism. Howell is described in Meredith and Co.'s preface as being an "old friend," so there is the implication that Mills was connected with Howell before the death of his father, Rev. Barton Mills. Knowing that Howell was so well-connected with All Saints Church that he represented that entire institution at the funeral of a well-known and heroic public figure, Fr. Basil Jellicoe [pictured, from left: Charles Eddington, Prince George, and Jellicoe], it's hard for me to believe that it was simply coincidental that Mills became a trusted friend of such an important church figure with no regard whatsoever given to either's faith.

And one wonders if uncertainty of faith isn't at least part of the reason that so many of the surviving relations of Mills and his nuclear family have been so distanced from Mills, et al, for so long that they no longer remember much about Barton, Edith, Arthur, George, Agnes, and Violet—despite the relative fame of some of them as authors—if they, indeed, even know them to have existed at all. They even seem to have been somewhat distanced from each other: Half-brother Arthur F. H. Mills, a published author himself, neither helped nor encouraged George with his 1933 manuscript.

And that's the odd part of all of this: Relatives of the nuclear Mills family of my interest here seem to have little interest in that same extinct little clan of their own relations headed by Barton R. V. Mills—again, that's if they even know who those people are. That's not necessarily a knock on the descendants I've found; it's just a fact. One does wonder why that's the case, though.

So I'll continue, at least for a while longer, poking at institutions that may have some bit of information about members of a family that have been cut adrift in time, culturally and genealogically.

I know I'd want someone—anyone—to posthumously look for and remember me if I were to end up in the same situation: Essentially forgotten. I guess that's why it will be so difficult on the day—and I believe it may be coming soon—that I finally decide to abandon the Mills family myself. Meanwhile, I'll still be trying to find what "A." And "H. E." stand for in the names above...

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…

Houston, We Have Lift Off!

Imagine my excitement when I opened up my mailbox first thing yesterday morning and found this message from Dr. Tom Houston, Secretary to the Windlesham House Association, stamped just three hours before on Tuesday, March 16, 2010, at 4:32 AM:


G.R.A. Mills, BA Oxon, taught 4 terms at Windlesham House School from Lent 1925 until Easter 1926, and maybe part or all of the summer, but his name was taken off the staff list by end of summer term 1926. As acknowledged in the dedication to Meredith & Co he taught at three other schools probably after Windlesham; viz; at Warren Hall, Eastbourne (a 19th century school closed in 1930s or 1940s); at The Craig, Windermere (founded 1899); and at the English Preparatory, GLION.

In 1925 Windlesham was at “Southern Cross”, Portslade, near Brighton; principal Mr Charles Scott Malden; headmaster Mr H D L Paterson; and the dog, Tubby.

In April George Mills married Miss Vera Beauclerc; they bought a house on Benfield Way, Portslade.

During summer term he may have contributed to a pastoral play featuring Boadicea, Julius Caesar and a Brontosaurus done by the A.A.A. (Amateur Acting Association).

In the Michaelmas term 1925 he wrote pieces (a prologue and songs) for a staff concert, and wrote that up in the magazine. He made people laugh, a lot.

He might have had a hand in the AAA production in summer 26 called “Spanish Courtesy” or “A Knife between the Shoulder Blades”. We have no record relating to his sudden (?) departure. He could, like a handful of other prep school masters, have been excited by the General Strike (that term).

During summer 1935 he visited Mrs Charles, then in Springwells, Steyning, W. Sussex, and told her he had written a book “largely about Windlesham”, published by O.U.P. “He had been at 2 or 3 schools since, but is very faithful to Windlesham”, she said.

His novel drew upon both Windlesham and Warren Hill. The unfortunate maths master, Lloyd, was almost certainly drawn from J.G. Drummond (WH 1923-35), who took his own life shortly after leaving in disgrace. Uggles may have been related to Tubby, the Malden’s popular and heroic dog. The portrait of the headmaster Peter Stone has something of Christopher Malden, who had been in effect joint head for some years; he became principal in 1927. Mills evidently had a gift for befriending boys and learning their secrets; Meredith & Co. captures the idiom of pupils during the interwar period more accurately than any other novel.

My guess is that Mills came to the school soon after leaving university to teach English or “English subjects”; that was a junior appointment, seldom held for long.

That is about it. Sorry we have no more.

Tom H.

After receiving seemingly an avalanche of information, I was simply overwhelmed by it all. I had the middle initials I'd been so desperate for! I had a university and a degree! I had a date of employment! I had a wife, Vera, for cryin' out loud, and a house, and an extracurricular life: plays, songs, concerts, and typing up articles for the magazine. Somehow, I'd even ended up with an extremely unexpected brontosaurus!

And I found a real, apparently well-liked man who'd "made people laugh, a lot" …

All morning long, this mysterious George Mills seemed to have some of his obscurity steadily ebb away for me.

Of the characters in his wonderful first book, Meredith and Co., we find thumbnail sketches of the living individuals that Mills crafted into the staunch headmaster Howell Stone, known to his charges as "Peter", Mrs. Stone [No first name given!], Uggles, and the now regrettably tragic figure of Mr. Lloyd, the brilliant but somewhat misanthropic master of maths.

Sorry not to have more? Thank you so much, Dr. Houston—What an absolute treasure trove this message was for me. I could hardly fall sleep last night, as strange as that may sound: George Mills had suddenly become very real!

I immediately contacted Oxford's [Oxon's] Archives, and my heart raced when, amazingly, I was deluged with even more information within an hour or two.

And some of it came as quite a surprise…