Juvenilia

The Pudding brothers: Paul, Yorkshire, Simon and Robin in 1967

Following the summer of love, in the autumn of 1967, "Baby Now That I've Found You" by The Foundations topped the singles charts, soon to be overtaken first by Long John Baldry's "Let The Heartaches Begin" and then The Beatles with "Hello Goodbye". Meanwhile, in East Yorkshire, a thirteen year old boy was reading Robert Falcon Scott's Diary of his fateful and blundering attempt to lead the very first expedition to the South Pole in 1912. Not only was he narrowly beaten by Norwegian competitors led by Roald Amunsden but his ill-conceived organisation led to the tragic deaths of all in the lead party.

Soon after my fourteenth birthday I created a poem inspired by that diary. To be honest, it was a task set by my bearded student English teacher - Mr Spratley. I rediscovered it while rooting around in our attic yesterday afternoon. Here's the first page:-

In honour of that fiercely independent yet sensitive lad of long ago, the boy from whom I grew, I give you the poem in its entirety. Frankly, I'm quite pleased that all those years ago I could produce a poem of this quality though I cringe at my juvenile patriotic chauvinism...

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And Now, The South!

Five Englishmen, five men of honour,

Wrestled with the elements.

Wilson, Scott, Oates, Evans, Bowers,

Five Englishmen, five men of ours.

And the land was white

And the sky was grey

As they struggled up that icy way

And they pulled that sledge though thick and thin,

Those honourable Englishmen.

With half a hundred miles to go

They spied dogs' footprints in the snow.

Alas! The men from the fijord land

Had beaten Scott's weathered little band.

So to The Pole they trudged along,

To lose that prize they'd done no wrong.

And a canvas cairn appeared in sight

Amid the never-ending white.

Despondent, back the Britons walked

And still of "Merry England" talked.

Old Titus' foot was pretty bad,

To watch him dying was so sad.

The food was scanty, cold and rare

Their stomachs moaned for they were bare.

The oil had long since petered out

No help for Soldier's crippling gout.

The end seemed not so long away,

Came closer every freezing day

And so to keep the rations well,

Old Titus marched into the hell,

And to his death the hero ran

That honourable Englishman.

With miles to fight for the next depot

Scott's men lay ill and full of woe.

In such a little tent they sat

Such a little tent, such a little band

In such a huge unthanking land

The pride and joy of the lion's face

Had lost the South Pole's gruelling race

But from mankind they won acclaim

Acclaim for the honourable English name.

And at the South they died in peace

With blistered, sore, untended feet,

They died as heroes always should

They died without a drop of blood.

For the weather claimed those English lives

From their Tilbury friends

And their Tilbury wives:

Wilson, Scott, Oates, Evans, Bowers,

Five Englishmen, five men of ours.

________________________________________

I remember handing my exercise book in, believing that this poem would attract the teacher's praise and perhaps an elusive A grade. Instead, Mr Spratley had simply written "See me" in the margin. I stayed behind and basically he accused me of cheating. It wasn't my poem. Where had I got if from?

I was angry and upset. I told my father and he telephoned our fearsome headmaster to complain. A couple of days later, the snivelling Mr Spratley amended his comment, grudgingly writing "Quite good" with a B grade. He'd been ticked off. I have sometimes wondered what Mr Spratley's first name might have been. Ebenezer, Silas, Reginald? If perchance you are reading this Reginald Spratley, you'll be pleased to know that forty three years after the event, you are now officially famous!

Scott and the "Terra Nova". He sent this postcard before departing New Zealand in 1911.