Reminiscences: Max Emory Lake (pupil, 1936-1940)

I received a superb, lower case ‘e’ education from a group of truly dedicated and able teachers and mentors. Although the garden was late bearing, it was well tilled and planted. Four Bs in the Leaving Certificate, topped the year in Clinical Surgery at the Medical Finals and I can still swear in French.

Three friends and I, well away from the prefects, had a prominent part in the running of many non scholastic aspects of the School. We used Rudyard Kipling’s Stalky and Co as a training manual. We had the keys to the tennis court and in the afternoon after school always had first crack at it. We were all rankers in the cadets, had the keys to the storeroom on the girls’ school side of the gym, where we reflectively puffed the occasional pipe, Temple Bar granulated tobacco, for elevenses. I think the masters let us run because they were amused, no real harm came of it and we saved them some bother, as they must have pondered our exploits at their own bar at the “Bat and Ball”.

World War II had started and there were lunch-time concerts and films, admission one penny, proceeds to the School soldiers’ comforts fund. Geoff Lunsdaine and I planned a diversion. Over some weeks we accumulated a large bag of torn paper fragments in the loft above the stage. The plan was to shower the performers with confetti and make our escape across the tiled roof to the science lab where we were due first period after lunch. Should be a piece of cake inserting ourselves into the general melee the science class usually generated.

The best-laid plans. It all went swimmingly. We dropped the confetti on to Ian Thomas, solo clarinet raised skyward in an impassioned moment in Traumerei. He was not pleased, in fact it was some years before we were forgiven. Observers told us later the Boss was convulsed with laughter. Geoff and I had our handkerchiefs tucked in our gobs to try and make less racket ourselves. Now to escape. The damn window on to the outside roof was jammed! We weren’t too upset. Keep mum for half an hour and we could get down to the quadrangle and creep into the science experiment class. Terrific.

We could scarcely believe our eyes. Seated at a desk parked at the foot of the stairs, detention book open, was the Boss, Jas H Killip, formally attired in executioner’s garb complete with mortar board. He rolled our surnames over his tongue repeatedly, savouring them like lollies. We were summarily sentenced to a month’s afternoon detention. This was suspended the second afternoon when we were bid to go and sin no more.