Pretoria Boys High – a twist in the journey
One morning in early April 1989, close to the start of the second term, my secretary at Pinelands High asked if she could put through a call from Pretoria. Intrigued, I agreed to take the call, which turned out to be from Advocate Brian Southwood, the chairman of the management council (governing body) of Pretoria Boys High School. He explained that their long-serving headmaster had decided to retire at the end of the year and that they were approaching various heads from around the country in the hope that they might show an interest in the position.
I was flattered by the call but informed him that I had been at Pinelands for only a term and any thought of applying elsewhere would be unethical and unprofessional. He said that he did not share my view, and that he would call me again in the hope that I might give the matter some thought. I did not even mention the call to Cherry and forgot about it until a few weeks later, when my secretary said that Southwood was on the line again.
Once again, I expressed my views. I was amazed at how much he seemed to know about me, and he played the traditional boys’ school card, saying that he knew I had applied for Rondebosch some years previously and that I was really a boys’ school head. A few days later, he phoned again. My inspector was in the office when the call came through. He offered to leave, but I indicated that it was not necessary, so he overheard the conversation.
After putting the phone down, the inspector said he believed that I was making a mistake. Having been the head of a top boys’ school, he knew Pretoria Boys High and felt strongly that opportunities such as this did not come often, and that I should throw my hat in the ring. He believed that the Pinelands governing body would understand, particularly as I had been approached and had not gone searching for the position. I phoned Cherry, who said that the last thing in the world she wanted was to move to Pretoria but felt that the inspector was correct.
I telephoned Brian Southwood and told him that I would get an application together within the next few days. He then informed me that the closing date was 4 pm that afternoon, that he would fax an application form to me, and that I should complete it immediately and fax it back. He said other paperwork could come later, as they had already done their homework. I informed the chairman of the Pinelands governing body, who was very kind and understanding and decided to tell no one else, as the exercise might well come to nought.
We heard nothing for more than a month, and were so sure that someone else had been appointed that we took out a further bond on our Rondebosch home, which we had bought at the end of 1987, to do some much-needed alterations. I was rather annoyed that they had not even informed me that the process had moved on. Then, quite late one evening during the mid-year holidays, the phone rang. It was Advocate Southwood to inform me that I had been shortlisted, that they were planning to interview six applicants, and that they would like us to fly up to Pretoria, all expenses paid. I realised that the bureaucratic wheels turned even more slowly in the Transvaal, hence the delay.
By that stage, I had really lost interest in the process, and therefore, after thanking him for his troubles, I informed him that I was no longer interested. He was not deterred in the slightest, told me a bit about the school and the process, and explained that I was the reason for the delay, as the Transvaal education department was not all that keen to shortlist someone from outside the province. He said that he would phone me again within 24 hours, and that I should consider the interview. When I told him that they would be wasting their money flying us up there, as I was really not interested, he retorted that it was their money to waste. Cherry and I had to admit that we were somewhat intrigued by what had transpired thus far.
We decided that should Southwood phone again, we would go for the interview, with the proviso that Cherry would like to visit a nursery in Brooklyn that she had read about, which had some plants that she could not get in Cape Town. True to his word, the advocate phoned to say our flights had been booked, a hired car would collect us from what was then Jan Smuts Airport, and we were to stay in the Burgers Park Hotel, which was very larney in those days.
My interview was the last one, and was to be held in Advocate Southwood’s chambers. His wife would collect Cherry, drive her through the school grounds, and then take her to their home, where we were to have dinner that night with some of the school governors and their wives. I arrived for the interview with about two minutes to spare as I battled to find parking in the Pretoria CBD, only to be subjected to a 45-minute psychometric test that was meant to assist the interviewers with regard to my suitability for the position. Incidentally, I was told months later that on the basis of the test results, I was the least suitable candidate for the job by some distance, which only served to reinforce my scepticism about relying too much on testing of that kind.
Once the test was done, I was ushered into an austere boardroom, where the full management council was gathered, and grilled for about 80 minutes. I quite enjoyed the experience, as I was relaxed, not believing, after all that had transpired between Advocate Southwood and me, that there was any chance of business being transacted from either side. We had a most pleasant dinner at the Southwoods, with a great deal of good wine and liqueurs, and returned to our hotel well after midnight. We overslept, had to skip breakfast, and just made it to the school by 8 am to meet the headmaster, Malcolm Armstrong, who was to show us around.
As we drew up in front of the school, the bell in the bell tower chimed the Westminster chimes and then 8 am. Cherry’s door was opened by a very smart, very polite young man who escorted us to the headmaster’s study. Although she said nothing to me at the time, Cherry said she knew then that if I was offered the position, I would grab it, as this was my kind of school – beautiful and breathing tradition. After a fairly cursory trip around the school, including the site of the new headmaster’s house – at that stage barely at foundation level – we visited the nursery. Cherry did not find the plants she was hoping for, and so we drove back to the airport and flew home. We both agreed that it had been an interesting experience. The people were very pleasant and the school spectacular, but I had learned my lesson with the Rondebosch job, so we did not really discuss what we would do if an offer came.
The offer did come and, as with so many of my career moves, it was not an ideal time. Tracey was at college, Glenn was in matric and Bradley was in Standard 8 (Grade 10). We had been in our Rondebosch home for only 18 months and we loved it. After much discussion and a stoic acceptance from Cherry that it was the right move for me, I accepted the offer with very ambivalent feelings. No die-hard Capetonian believes there is a life of consequence beyond the Hex River Mountains. With only about four months of the year left, much planning and a considerable amount of upheaval ensued.
The first thing to do was to inform my governing body. Regrettably, the chairman was overseas, so I went to see the deputy chairman, who knew nothing about the process that had transpired. He accused me of using Pinelands as a stepping stone and harshly questioned my professional integrity. I found this upsetting, but he agreed to wait until the chairman returned a few days later before making my move public. Once the chairman returned, he handled the whole issue superbly, fully supporting the move.
The remaining months of the year were extremely tough, as I was determined not to renege on any Pinelands activity while planning how we were going to cope as a family and resisting pressure from Pretoria to give time to them. I refused the invitation to attend their annual Old Boys’ Dinner, which was a farewell to Armstrong, but did accept a weekend visit to meet the senior staff and take a closer look at the school.
Although it happened nearly 30 years ago, I still have feelings of guilt at the shortness of my tenure at Pinelands, and the fact that I embarked on a number of important projects during that year that I never saw to fruition. In the main, the staff, governing body, pupils and parents were understanding, sympathetic and supportive of my move, although it would inevitably put pressure on many people and be disruptive for a time. I have no doubt there were also a few who must have breathed a great sigh of relief!
As was inevitably the case, a heavy burden fell on Cherry’s shoulders, as we realised that it would be impossible for her to move up to Pretoria on 1 January with Bradley and me. There was just too much to do. We decided to let the house. Tracey and Glenn would remain in Cape Town, Tracey to continue at college and university, and Glenn, who had been rejected for national service because of a severe rugby injury, to find a job. Both had to find accommodation and wheels. The house had to be packed up, and our furniture would have to go into storage, as the new headmaster’s house was unlikely to be completed for at least another year. In the interim, we would have to live in School House, the traditional headmaster’s residence. Reflecting on what I put my family through – and in particular Cherry – in furthering my career, I am in total awe of their loyalty, support and love.
After quite a hectic New Year’s Eve party, Bradley and I flew to Johannesburg to start a new venture – him excited and me tearful and apprehensive. We agreed that I would fly down to Cape Town and fetch Cherry at the beginning of March, as I had accepted an invitation to speak at a Rondebosch Old Boys’ Dinner, which was to be a tribute to my old headmaster, Alec Clarke, and also to propose the toast at the marriage of the daughter of one of our close friends. Cherry and I had never been apart for more than a few days in 22 years of marriage, so this two-month separation was a major challenge for us both.
The headmaster’s house that was attached to School House had been built in 1915. It was big and marvellous for entertaining, with an enormous lounge (and a fireplace that worked), a large dining room and a big kitchen, though with awful cupboards and chipped melamine surfaces. As food was provided from the boarders’ kitchen, catering for ourselves during holidays was going to be a challenge. An enclosed stoep led off the dining room and into the garden. The upstairs consisted of four bedrooms, two of which were really big, and one-and-a-half bathrooms. The half consisted of a basin and toilet, while the main bathroom had a large old-fashioned bath.
One intriguing, if somewhat revolting, feature was an open furrow that ran next to the bath and carried the soapsuds or globules of toothpaste from the basin next door. Thank goodness Cherry had not seen this aspect of the accommodation. We told her about the beautiful pressed ceilings and Victorian fireplaces, as well as some of the old Transvaal education department antiques that had been in the house for 70-odd years. There were also some ghastly bits of old furniture, such as couches with springs protruding and very uncomfortable beds.
There was no shower, so if Brad and I wanted to shower we had to wait until the boarders had gone to bed, go through the upstairs interleading door and use the communal showers. The mind boggled at how my predecessors had lived in these conditions for long periods. After our brief ten months in School House, the first of my major undertakings was to improve the accommodation of all housemasters, in particular the bathrooms and kitchens.
Living in School House gave me a very useful insight into the modus operandi and the traditions of the three boarding houses. Each house had 75 boarders, a senior housemaster, three assistant housemasters and three matrons. The houses were run separately and were under the control of the education department in terms of staffing, procurement, maintenance and even admissions. I did not pay much attention to the last-mentioned, feigning ignorance. I believed strongly that preference should be given to sons of Old Boys, and that interviews were critical, as not all boys were necessarily suited to boarding-school life. I decided in the first month that I would interview personally all applicants for boarding, and continued to do so for 20 years. It was a time-consuming exercise, as we had, in most years, three times as many applicants for the 45 available places, which later became 69 places once I increased the size of the houses.
The importance of the headmaster’s conducting the interviews himself was certainly vindicated within the first couple of months when interviewing sons of Old Boys. In one case, the little boy had been so brainwashed by his father for about ten years, and so primed to answer the anticipated questions, that when I asked him how he felt about boarding, he burst into tears and sobbed throughout the interview and was unable to answer any questions. The parents were mortified, but I did accept him and he proved to be a highly successful and happy boy.
In a second case, I made the necessary comment that while I would like to be able to help all Old Boys, it must be noted that demand greatly outstripped our ability to supply, and that I hoped they would understand the problem. The father, an imposing figure, folded his arms, leaned over my desk, and informed me that I did not understand. If I did not accept his son into the school and into School House, the boy would just not go to school at all. Needless to say, I took the boy, hopefully not because I was intimidated. There were two further outstanding younger brothers who came later, and the father became a great friend, a governor and a major benefactor.
I mention these two cases because I learned within the first few months just how passionate Old Boys were about their school. This passion, if properly harnessed, could be a tremendous asset in taking the school to another level. I have never doubted that the difference between a good school and a great school is the loyalty and support of its alumni.
The other matter to which I had to give attention early on were some unacceptable initiation practices that had become entrenched in the name of tradition. I was unhappy to learn that in some cases the boarding-house staff members were not only aware of these practices but certainly in one case actually participated. When confronted, after the event, I was informed that they were involved to ensure that nothing went wrong.
The first practice, in which I believe all houses participated, but separately, consisted of introducing the little boys to Gamtoos, the school ghost. There were various stories doing the rounds as to the origin of Gamtoos. Some said he was a labourer who had died during the building of the East Bell Tower and his bones were buried in the tower. Another story was that Gamtoos had been a convict working in the grounds who had killed the guard who was supervising him and another. He had been wounded in the leg, which turned septic, and while hiding in the Bell Tower, his fellow convict stole a saw from the woodwork room and cut off Gamtoos’s leg. He fashioned a wooden replacement, and the sound of his walking with the wooden leg could be clearly heard.
I have no doubt that the stories were embellished further. New boys would be taken into the school buildings, all lights would be switched off, and they would be guided through the buildings, bumping into skeletons and people in black cloaks, and made to touch bits of raw meat, all the while accompanied by appropriate sound effects. I am sure most of the boys would have seen this as innocent fun, but my first exposure to the Gamtoos evening involved dealing with a boy who had broken his nose when he took fright, tried to run outside, and smacked into a pillar. It is difficult to explain convincingly to a concerned mother that her son was merely running away from the school ghost, or to another mother that her son spent a week sleeping on the floor in the head prefect’s cubicle because he could not get over the trauma of his Gamtoos experience.
A rather barbaric practice was the burial of the moth. Each of the boys had to capture a moth, kill it, and, using a matchbox as a hearse, push the hearse with his nose to the burial ground on the koppie behind School House. Once there, he had to dig a grave and bury his moth. If he was not seen to be mourning appropriately, he would receive a beating until he did so. There was also an unsupervised ‘boss-skiv’ system in place whereby junior boys were not only allocated a boss but also had to perform duties for any other matric student as well. I would hear loud shouts of ‘Form I’ and little boys would appear from anywhere to satisfy the whim of the senior. I was also told that prefects were allowed to cane the juniors, which was totally unacceptable, particularly as legislation against the use of corporal punishment was being mooted at that time.
The whole scenario of the boss-skiv system, form privilege, initiation practices and related issues were things that, as the new head, I needed to get involved in, and for which I had to find solutions. Having been a boarder, and having worked in and run boarding houses, I had an understanding of how teenage boys thought, but I had never come across quite such unacceptable situations. I knew that these issues would have to be solved through a process rather than by banning them, which always carried the risk of sending unacceptable practices even further underground.
A number of things were certain: whatever I did was never going to be easily accepted by all parties; I was up against a history of this sort of behaviour; the abused or bullied individual almost invariably becomes the abuser or the bully; the line between orientation, initiation and bullying is a very thin one and frequently is not easily differentiated in the adolescent mind; there is an enormous amount of spare testosterone around in these environments that needs to be acceptably channelled; and one of the most difficult things to counter is the time-honoured code of silence. I also knew that the process could take years, which in fact it did. Even at the end of my tenure, I was aware that the process I initiated had not achieved, and probably would never achieve, the level of success for which I had hoped.
What I did know with certainty was that I needed to play a significant and leading role in this process, not only because I was the de facto head or superintendent of the boarding department but also because I had a wealth of experience and needed to be seen by all constituents to be serious about the problem. I also knew that it would take years for all parties – the staff, the senior boys, the junior boys and the parents – to identify with my motives and to trust me.
The first group with whom to engage was the staff of all three boarding houses, particularly as I was not going to be in School House beyond the end of the first year. I could not ascertain clearly just how much the staff knew of, and how seriously they understood, my unhappiness with the initiation practices, although superficially they agreed with me. The most important thing was that when they were on duty they had to be visible and available, they had to support fully what I was ultimately to prescribe to the boys, and they had to report to their senior housemasters any deviation from this. I did get the impression that the assistant housemasters, who were a mixture of mainly junior staff and students, saw their role as a bit of a sinecure, and the challenge was to get them fully on board.
Once I had worked out what was to be outlawed and what could remain, I met with the senior boys of all three houses, together with the masters. Any practices that could be viewed as hurtful (both physical and emotional), or that in any way instilled fear into the younger boys, were not acceptable. Provided that the lines I had drawn were not crossed, I was prepared to keep the tradition of form privilege and the boss-skiv system, but on my terms. I detected a fairly cold and slightly hostile atmosphere but ploughed on. I allowed questions, provided answers where I could, and encouraged the boys to discuss these issues further with me or their housemasters. I also emphasised that any ideas they might have about further orientation had to be cleared with the housemaster. If, in his opinion, it did not fit into the structure we were creating, it was not allowed to happen.
In my second year, I had a regularly scheduled meeting with the three boarder housemasters so that we could keep in touch on a weekly basis and deal with purely boarding-house issues. In addition, with the housemaster’s permission, I did the odd duty or part-duty so that the boys could see me in another context. They soon learned that I knew and understood a fair amount about boarding practices.
One of the traditions with which I battled, and never really felt that I had the staff on my side, was the eating arrangements in the three separate dining rooms. All the tables had mixed forms, supervised by a prefect who served the boys on a form-privileged basis, so that, in most cases, particularly with popular dishes, by the time Form I’s (Grade 8’s) turn came, there was very little left or else just bits that no one wanted. I suggested various alternatives to this arrangement but never really had buy-in from the respective staff members. To me, this was a form of bullying, which faded away only once we built the central dining room, where the food was dispensed on a self-service basis monitored by the catering staff.
This attitude carried over to the sandwiches that were given to the boarders at first break. Once again, if the fillings were popular, the seniors would take three or four sandwiches or buns each, leaving nothing for the lower forms. This negative aspect of form privilege manifested itself in other areas as well, one of the worst being showering, where the seniors would often use up all the hot water. We got around this to a degree by having different shower times for the different forms, but this had to be strictly implemented for it to work, and I doubt whether we really won that battle.
I was determined to keep the boss-skiv system, and over the years the housemasters and I developed various strategies that made abuse of the system more difficult. Towards the end of the year, once the admissions were completed, the housemasters and the prefects worked at matching the new boys with the seniors, as far as possible taking into account common interests. Once this was done, the senior would write to the parents, introducing himself and undertaking to mentor their son. A function was arranged for the parents and new boys to meet the staff and seniors before the end of the year, where the duties that the new boys were permitted to undertake and mentoring responsibilities were outlined. On the first day of the new year, the boss was on hand to meet his skiv and his parents and to assist with the luggage and taking them up to the dormitory, and to help generally with the settling-in.
In addition, I believed there had to be a degree of visibility from me, which resulted in my wife and I having the Form I’s (Grade 8’s) for cake, cooldrinks and a swim in their respective house groups. These visits were so popular, thanks largely to Cherry, who had the most amazing ability to make the boys feel at home, that we struggled to get them to leave, having nearly emptied the swimming pool with their antics. They played with our pets and talked animatedly about their first couple of weeks, and even organised groups to come and walk our dog on free afternoons.
From the side of the seniors, I arranged early on to have a headmaster’s period timetabled fortnightly, during which I met with each Form IV (Grade 11) class. It served a useful purpose in that they could interact with me in a different context, I could get to know and identify the following year’s leaders, and we could discuss issues of initiation, bullying, mentoring and leadership. I also took over the running of the prefect group, as well as having a weekly meeting with the head prefect and his deputy. Feedback over the years indicated that this interaction with both seniors and juniors was viewed very positively and was valued by the boys.
I am not so naive to believe that these interventions and strategies solved all the problems associated with the boss-skiv system. One of the aspects of this relationship that was impossible to conquer was the code of silence, or the code of honour, that was quickly and effectively inculcated into the new boys. As much as I advocate openness, honesty and the need for relationships based on trust, there has always been, and I guess always will be, a code of silence that exists between peers and in these mentoring relationships to a greater or lesser degree. There is certainly a sinister side to it, in some cases, yet I know that I was party to it as an adolescent. Were my mother to have known all I did at that time of my life, she would not have reached a ripe old age! I certainly do not have an answer to this – except to encourage openness and honesty, while acknowledging that there have always been, and always will be, certain things that are closely guarded by most boys.
For all the problems and subsequent strategies that we adopted to minimise unacceptable behaviour emanating from the boss-skiv system, I still believe that the good and special relationships derived from this practice far outweigh the negative and unacceptable behaviours. I believe that the vast majority of boys would support the system and benefited from it. The stories of these relationships, and of friendships that continued far into adult life, are legendary.
I had been at Boys High for only a few weeks when the ANC, among other organisations, was unbanned and Nelson Mandela was released. As the country began to move towards becoming a democracy, there was a realisation in the corridors of power that dramatic changes were likely to take place in the separate and unequal education system. It was inevitable that the 13 education departments would become one and that equal education for all races should be the aim.
In 1988, a group of schools in the Cape had declared that they were in favour of an admission policy not based on race. It was thought that a request from a state school might offer an opportunity for an open admission policy to succeed. The Pretoria Boys High management council decided to put the question to the school community in the form of a referendum. The referendum took place in August 1988, and 70 per cent of the staff and 69 per cent of the parents expressed their support for a policy of admission to Boys High regardless of race. I believe that the Old Boys were also invited to participate in the referendum, but no figures seem to be available as to their choice.
The proposal was taken to the director of education in the Transvaal, who refused to entertain it, as Pretoria Boys High fell under the white education department. It then went on appeal to the minister, who rejected it as well. With the cracks now beginning to develop in the apartheid system, on my arrival at Boys High the management council decided that a delegation consisting of the chairman, the vice chairman and the headmaster would seek an interview with the minister of education and reopen the request for a non-racial admission policy.
Before the meeting could take place, the national education authorities introduced two options for admission: Model A would retain the separate-development policy as then applied; Model B would give the parent body the right to opt for an open admission policy but under very strict conditions. A further poll would have to be taken, a minimum of 80 per cent of the parent body would be required to participate, and 72 per cent of the participants had to be in favour of the open admission policy. This would be a major logistical exercise, but it was important, once again, to test the community. I was delighted when we not only achieved the poll percentage but 76 per cent of the parents voted in favour.
We then began the fascinating task of formulating our admission policy. On the one hand, we needed to provide opportunities for previously disadvantaged boys to be able to come to Boys High; on the other hand, we had to maintain the high holistic educational standards to which our constituency was accustomed and which we viewed as non-negotiable. Issues such as entrance examinations, age limits and acceptance on the basis of interviews were mooted, but I was concerned that such measures might in fact prevent boys of other races from attending Boys High.
While we were still grappling with these problems, the government offered a third option: Model C. Without going into too much detail here, this model would require the state to continue to employ staff, but the school would be responsible for all maintenance and development and would essentially become self-financing. The prospect of greater autonomy was attractive, but there were enormous financial implications that had to be considered. I felt strongly that the more autonomous we could become, the better our chances were of maintaining standards, so the possibility of yet another referendum loomed as we pondered this third option.
Before we made a final decision, the government announced that unless the parents were opposed to the idea, Boys High and other schools that were following a similar path would be given Model C status. Change had come at a blistering pace. Not only would we now be able to admit boys of other races, but we would also be totally self-financing, apart from the staff salaries, with the obvious implications of compulsory school fees, fundraising, sponsorship and bursary requirements, and the need to appoint a bursar or financial manager, as there needed to be supervision and proper financial controls over a burgeoning budget.
It seemed to me as though a panic situation had developed in the education departments as they envisaged the changes that were likely to come under a post-apartheid government, and that possibly by opening some previously closed doors, the enormity of the changes could be ameliorated. Whatever the motives may have been, these initiatives certainly suited our long-term aims. We now had to plan how to manage the changes, and, even more importantly, to plan for the transformation process that inevitably lay ahead.
While all these exciting and far-reaching developments were taking place, the school still fell under the Transvaal education department. Whether an inspection was due or whether it was arranged in order to see how the new headmaster was doing, I have no idea, but the reality was that Boys High was subjected to a panel inspection consisting of about ten inspectors. The inspection went off relatively well, but the amount of paperwork required from the teaching staff to facilitate it eroded a great deal of teaching time and put the staff under severe pressure. I realised that the staff generally were intimidated to a degree by the prescriptive nature of these sorts of visits, and I felt that an important part of my job was to shield them from these pressures.
Another move by the education department was the introduction of new salary scales, which required schools, in most cases, to reduce their staff complement. In our case, this meant retrenching six staff members. To facilitate this process, early retirement with attractive retrenchment packages was offered. Six of our long-service teachers opted for this, together having served the school for close on 150 years! Their value in terms of experience, expertise, professionalism and passion lost to education in general, and to Boys High in particular, was immeasurable.
With the lifting of restrictions on admission, the demand for boarding increased enormously, and I realised that I was going to lose a significant number of quality boys unless we were somehow able to increase our boarding capacity. We purchased a house in Bond Street, behind Loftus Versfeld rugby stadium, but this could house only six boys, together with a married housemaster and his family and one assistant. When a large house, a mere 100 metres from the Koppie Gate, came on the market, I persuaded the governing body to put in an offer. The house would be able to accommodate at least 12 boys plus staff; the boys would eat in the existing dining rooms and just do prep and sleep in the house. Our offer was accepted, and after a few renovations, 15 boys were accommodated, together with a married housemaster and an assistant.
My joy was short-lived, however, as it transpired that the residents of Bailey’s Muckleneuk, the surrounding suburb, jealously guarded some special zoning arrangement, about which the estate agent had not told us, and would oppose any deviation from its being used as a normal family home. The fact that the house would not have dining or laundry facilities did not deter them from taking the matter to the High Court, and we lost a fairly expensive case and had to sell the house after only a year in operation.
I will admit that I had been warned that were the case to go to court, we would lose, but I believed that those who lived near Boys High were privileged to do so, and would be disposed to turn a blind eye to the special zoning. That this did not happen was another lesson learned.
This exercise did, however, have a positive outcome in that it hastened a far more worthwhile and sustainable option, which was to build a central dining room for all three houses, with a central laundry to follow and, ultimately, a sanatorium to replace the three very inadequate sick bays in the houses. This enabled us to convert the kitchens, storerooms, pantries, laundry rooms and other small rooms into dormitories and ablutions. I was able to increase the number of boarders from 75 per house to 115 per house.
This major building operation put a great deal of strain on my governing body’s finance group, as I was spending money quicker than they were able to find it. However, we managed, and the dividend for the school was huge. The idea of building a central dining room was not without its critics. One of my illustrious predecessors telephoned me to express his concern that the boarding houses would lose their character by no longer having individual dining rooms. I explained that not only would we have more boarders, who were the heart of the school, but that it also made financial sense in terms of being able to reduce staff numbers and give better service. I promised him that the old dining rooms would be restored to their former glory and become honours rooms, where house meetings and evening prayers would take place.
The other area of concern and criticism was that the construction of the new dining room required the demolition of the old bicycle sheds. These were an eyesore and were hardly used, as few boys cycled to school any more. Their major use seemed to be as a safe haven for smokers. This criticism made me realise how conservative and reluctant to change some people are, particularly Old Boys, and how I needed to be sensitive in dealing with change if I wanted my way in the end. While the bicycle sheds were a minor interlude, the imminent major changes would need to be managed carefully and sensitively in order for them to be accepted as easily as possible.
The next set of challenges was upon us as a new government and a new president took office. We had a small part to play in the inauguration of President Nelson Mandela, as a large group of our boys were invited to be waiters at the inauguration ceremony. The Transvaal education department was replaced by the Gauteng education department, and we readied ourselves for the changes that were likely to come, to ensure that we managed change rather than have change manage us.