Umtata HS Past Pupils

A GLIMPSE AT THE PAST

By Dave Baker

My dad, Francis George (Frank, ‘Bok’ or ‘Chief’) Baker, was born near the dockland area of  Bristol in 1897.  Sadly his father, a master mason who became a building contractor, died when  my dad was only nine. There was no life insurance and no pension fund.

Frank spent the next few years in a Quaker orphanage in Bristol. His brother and sister were not eligible, as they were over ten. Bill was taken in by friends of the family. ‘Sis’ remained with her mother and later remarried.

When my dad was ready for high school he was sent to a larger Quaker school at Leominster. When we were children he often spoke about a Quaker lawyer who took a great interest in the pupils he felt had potential. He became their mentor and assisted some with their  tertiary education. But it was my older brother John who discovered that he had also been a victor ludorum at athletics and head boy of the school.

Leominster is close to the Welsh border. On several occasions dad and his classmates were taken to watch football matches in Cardiff. He loved the singing of the Welsh crowds that always accompanied such games. He was also impressed, understandably, by the Quakers and often spoke with fondness about Quaker meetings he attended.

Frank was seventeen when the First World War broke out in 1914. When he turned eighteen he volunteered for active service and joined the Inns of Court regiment. This presented a problem for his Quaker mentor, an avowed pacifist. Initially he told Frank that he would be forced to walk away from him if he persisted with service in the army. However, he later relented and bought my dad a commission in the fledgling Royal Flying Corps, the forerunner of the RAF. Prior to that it had been virtually impossible for anyone other than sons of the gentry to aspire to a commission in any of the British armed forces. 

Dad  always played down his skill as a pilot, saying that he damaged a few planes while in training. However, this was quite common. A number of pilots were killed in practice landings. At least one of the training airfields doubled as the fairways of a links golf course! He was less modest about his appearance in his flying kit, which included jodhpurs, riding boots and leather flying jacket and helmet. I can picture him smiling when he said that in that getup they looked ‘just the goods’!

Frank often spoke with fondness of the planes they flew. These included Sopwith Pups, SE5s and Bristol Fighters. Sadly, his flying career came to a sudden end when his engine failed over France. He crash-landed in a field and within a few minutes was staring down the barrels of two German rifles. As a result he spent the rest of the War in German prisoner-of-war camps.

As an ex-serviceman dad was granted a bursary to Bristol University, where he graduated with a BSc. He represented his university in many athletics meeting in the 120 yards high hurdles. At one meeting he was beaten into second place by a student by name of Butcher. When it came for the result, the announcer read out, ‘First Butcher, second Baker.....’ Before he could continue the small crowd shouted out in unison, ‘and third Candlestick Maker!’

Dad took up the post of science and maths master at a grammar school in High Wycombe, not far North of London. There he met my mother Winifred Marion (‘Win’ or ‘Winnie’) Theed, who had qualified as a licentiate of the Royal College of Music in London. Win’s father had died when she was twelve, leaving a wife and four children, of whom my mother was the oldest. Strict discipline was applied concerning courting couples and until they became engaged, when they went anywhere together my parents were always chaperoned by one of Win’s brothers.

Britain was devastated financially by the War and my parents decided to emigrate to one of the ‘new countries’. Among the countries they considered were New Zealand, the Bahamas and South Africa. Dad applied for a post as science and maths master at a high school in South Africa that was advertised in a local paper. It had been placed by the brother of the Principal of the school, Mr A G Richardson, who lived in Southampton. The request to recruit a suitable candidate in Britain was conveyed by train from Umtata to East London, then by mailship to Southampton.

Frank learnt by mail that he’d been placed on the short list and travelled by train to Southampton for an interview. Following protracted correspondence between the brothers Richardson he was offered the job. He sailed from Southampton in a Union-Castle mailship, leaving my mother to assemble her trousseau and follow him. The voyages in those days took about three weeks and from all accounts were great fun.

Win’s ship arrived off East London a few months later, in I think 1925. I say ‘off’, because at that time there was no dredger to deepen the mouth of the Buffalo River. Vessels anchored in the roadstead offshore and both passengers and cargo were taken ashore in lighters. Dad had yet to buy his first car – a Model T Ford, known as a ‘Tin Lizzie’. Friends drove him down to meet the ship and they were married in East London that afternoon.

Umtata was very colonial in those days. The Chief Magistrate had the largest home set in park like surroundings and the local hostesses extended themselves with dinner parties during the fortnight when the Circuit Court was in town. ‘God Save the Queen’ was played at all important functions, including film shows, known as ‘bioscopes’, in the City Hall.  An ex choir master from a well-known church in London, Willie Harborn, produced and directed Gilbert and Sullivan operettas in the city hall from time to time. Dad usually took the part of the funny guy, like Koko in the Mikado and Jack Point in The Yeoman of the Guard (I think). My mother normally appeared in the chorus, during one ‘season’, accompanied by a younger sister who was visiting from England.

A few years after their arrival in Umtata, the Principal of Umtata High School, Mr Richardson, passed away and my dad was appointed headmaster. The Richardson family was very talented and interesting. Mr Richardson was  a Cambridge don and Mrs Richardson a  German music teacher. I believe their older daughter Jean ended up in East Africa. Her younger sister ‘Kitten’ was a brilliant English teacher and was much loved by us. Shortly before I matriculated she became headmistress of Victoria Girls’ High School in Grahamstown (VGHS). John Gordon-Davis, Alan Lester and I visited her once for tea in Grahamstown and it was quite evident that she was very popular there as well. We were generally very fortunate with our teachers. Our history and English master, Ken Kirby was the national chess champion for a while and became headmaster of Westerford High in Cape Town.

In the late twenties my folks moved to ‘School House’, an old double-storey building Immediately below the original classroom block, later known as the Science Block.

All have since been demolished. They later moved to a large flat on the ground floor of Viljoen House, as dad was also the superintendent of the boys’ hostel. The flat later housed the small boys’ dormitory, sick room, prefects’ study and ‘Gran’ (or‘Ma’) Taylor’s room. This was my first home. As children my sister Ann and I slept in the room later taken over by ‘Gran’, a motherly figure who was born at Old Morley and was loved by all of her boys.

I was four when war broke out and have only a vague recollection of Bella (my nanny and later our cook) and my parents talking about it. Less than two years later my dad joined the South African Artillery and was sent to the Artillery training camp at Potchefstroom to lecture in maths and gunnery. We visited him a few times during the school holidays. One of my vivid memories is of sitting on a box of ammunition in the back of an army truck travelling to and from the local practice range and watching gun crews of the 4^th Field Regiment firing their 25 pounders at targets on a hillside.

In 1941 the time came for the 4^th Field Regiment to join the action in North Africa. Frank was 43 and we expected him to stay behind to lecture. However, at the eleventh hour one of the young junior officers fell ill and dad took his place. I can vividly recall watching from the balcony of a flat as the whole Regiment drove in a long convoy down the main street of Potch en route to the railway station, complete with motorcycle outriders, guns drawn on gun carriages and ambulances. A very exciting event for a six year-old boy but somewhat harrowing for many wives, mothers and sweethearts.

Dad was part of the disastrous fall of Tobruk in 1942 and spent much the next three years in prisoner-of-war (POW) camps in Italy and Germany. By the time the Allies landed in Sicily most Italians had lost interest in the War and Italy was being defended mainly by German units. The Germans began to move the Allied POWs by train into Germany. Frank was one of the many POWs who managed to escape from one of these trains. In his case

the opportunity came at a small siding at the beginning of the journey across the Alps. He was accompanied by a young Captain de Wet. They spent several months walking down  Italy while ‘on the loose’. The plan was to meet up with the Allied advance. Sadly, they were eventually betrayed by a young Italian fascist, recaptured by German soldiers and sent to POW camp in Germany. 

Shortly afterward the pair’s escape my mother had a telegram from Pretoria advising her that her husband was ‘missing’. We were on holiday at The Haven at the time, at the mouth of the Bashee River. There followed a particularly stressful few months for my mom, who had no idea whether dad was dead or alive. During that period the owner of the house across the road from Viljoen House, Tommy Blacker, died and mom could have bought it for a bargain price. However, in those circumstances she thought better of it. The Department of Education bought it as the headmaster’s residence and we moved in. As children we revelled in the extra space, both indoors and out. I had it both ways, being able to hop over the road to the hostel to play whatever was on offer.

Following Germany’s unconditional surrender in 1945, Frank was taken to England, where he spent some time with mom’s relatives to recuperate before sailing for home. Another clear memory is of the train pulling into the Queenstown Station one morning and seeing my dad, in full uniform, leaning out of a carriage window. That same day he took my older brother John and me to a jeweller shop and bought us each a watch, my first. I think he bought my sister a bracelet.

The period following homecoming wasn’t always easy for ex servicemen. Many were traumatised by their experiences and in those days there was little counselling. For a while dad battled with a lack of confidence. Walking to school with John on his first day back in harness he shared that he was ‘terrified’ of taking assembly. As time went by he adjusted well but there’s no doubt that the War took its toll on him. It wasn’t great being a son of the headmaster but he could hardly have encouraged Transkeian parents to enrol their children at Umtata High if he’d sent his own children away to boarding school. In any event I believe he was justifiably proud of what the school had to offer.

I was sent to my dad’s office a few times for the dreaded ‘cuts’, each time believing, or perhaps feeling, that he’d caned me the hardest.

Frank retired in about 1962. He and mom moved to the Astra Hotel in Durban in 1960 to join two of their great friends, Bud and Edna Brownlee. (A surname with strong historical connections). They later moved to a flat in St George’s Road, East London, where Frank died in 1973. The funeral service was at St Saviours Church in Oxford Street. John, ‘Twig’ Hartwig and I were three of the pallbearers. There’s now a memorial plaque on a wall of remembrance at the church for my parents.

Mom moved to an old age home in Musgrave Road, Durban in about 1983, aged 83. While there she saw a lot of John and his wife Elizabeth and their children David and Susan, who were living in Durban North. She was remarkably fit for her age until she reached 95, walking to the shops and church and playing a great deal of bridge. We then moved her to join Ann on a farm near Piet Retief, who’d recently lost her husband Eric Winn. mom passed away there in 2005, shortly before her 105^th birthday. Many old boys and girls have paid tribute to her, generally referring to her as a gentle and kind lady. Having been dubbed a ‘mommy’s boy’ by John and Ann, I would certainly agree with such comments!

Headmasters and hostel supervisors are not always popular. However, in retrospect I’m proud of the contributions that Frank and Win Baker made to Umtata High School, Viljoen House and the Umtata and Transkeian communities.

Dave Baker (Class of 1952)

September 2010