1953...............onwards
The photograph shows the excellent 1959 vintage of ordinands at St. John’s Seminary,
Wonersh, with the Rector. The six handsome young men in the front row are all still
alive. The sixth from the left in the back row is now the Bishop of Gibraltar. The rest
have, sadly, died; the one on the extreme left – one of the best - tragically within a year
of his ordination.
This tale of 50 years ago is fact. The world was very different then - whether better or
worse is impossible to judge. But it is not a tale of misery; just utterly unlike anything to
be expected and accepted now .It is offered in sections since the whole story is far too
long and tedious to be digested in one go. [ Apparently, also, my web site guru tells
me, a huge chunk of text would take ages to download and would require true
dedication from any potential reader.]
Part 1
On the 23rd of May 1959 the Bishop of Southwark ordained nine young men at
Wonersh in a long ceremony - all in Latin, lasting nearly four hours and prefaced by
the solemn admonition ( also in Latin) that anyone leaving during the ceremony for
any cause whatever would be excommunicated! The culmination of six years of very
full-time study at the seminary and a launching forth into the parishes up and down
the country of fresh curates to face a life which in this new century few would believe
possible and even fewer would accept as tolerable.
I was one of these young men and the life and experience in the seminary and out in
the parish as a curate was not, in most ways, extraordinary for the time. It was
accepted, it was customary, it even helped to form and train men for the future and
was not a life of misery and unhappiness.
It is essential to remember that the world was very different. The ‘permissive sixties’
had not yet dawned, the Beatles had not been invented and the Second Vatican
Council was but an idea eternally enshrined in the Holy Spirit and shortly to be infused
into the mind of Pope John XXIII who himself had only been enthroned five or six
months. Vocations to the priesthood were plentiful enough to enable Bishops to be
able to foresee the future with some confidence and learning, study, formation of the
individual, was generally done by listening rather than the use of visual aids, electronic
gadgets or virtual reality experience.
In the Diocese of Northampton few men were considered for seminary training if they
were over the age of 22 or 23. Many went straight from school or, even more horrific,
junior seminaries into whatever senior seminary had space to take them. Not having a
seminary of our own, Diocesan candidates were sent mainly to Oscott near
Birmingham. Others found their way to Rome, Spain, Ware, Upholland or Ushaw in the
north or - just a few - to Wonersh near Guildford which served the Diocese of
Southwark and allowed spaces to be filled from Brentwood, Nottingham or
Northampton; in that order of priority. It was only partly jocularly known as a seminary
for gentlemen who allowed a few scruffs to enter to make up the numbers. It was also,
reputedly, one of the more strict establishments which made Oscott look like a holiday
camp where the only rule was, so it was said, not to light one’s pipe from the sanctuary
light! Added to all this, it was based on the very French and puritanical spirituality of
St. Sulpice so that students were still half expecting to be taught to tuck in their shirt
with a knife and fork and there was an unhealthy and irritating fear that any friendship
would inevitably teeter on the verge of being ‘particular’ - a pseudonym for
homosexual. In fact, nothing was further from the mind of students and there was
never any shadow of scandal in that respect.
The pecking order having been established according to the source of one’s education
and the diocese for which a student was destined, it then affected the whole of the six
years of a student’s existence. The year list started with those who had been to the
local junior seminary of Mark Cross and continued with those who were to be ordained
for Southwark ( the sub-division into Arundel and Brighton had not taken place). Next
came those for Brentwood followed by those for Nottingham. Northampton came last
unless there was some poor sinner for Gibraltar or some other genuinely foreign
diocese. Seating in chapel and refectory, choice of available rooms, calling of
attendance rota at the start of the year, reading out examination results, the circulation
of lists for bath times and preferences of relaxation in the afternoons ( gardening,
woodwork, jogging, sports, work in the printing and binding shop etc), even the pick of
seating in chapel for relatives at ordinations of minor and major orders - all depended
on this hierarchy cast in stone by the original list. The effect may not have been
particularly far reaching and traumatic, but the system did have some psychological
effect even if it also helped the smooth running of the whole establishment.
I was two from the bottom on the 1953 year list of 23. Of the 13 eventually ordained in
1959 a Nottingham student was ordained in his diocese, a Gibraltarian brought up the
rear and eventually got ordained back at home (and is now the Bishop of Gibraltar)
and two went back to their home parishes in Ireland. Which left me as the last of nine
having the Bishop lay his hands upon me and making me 'a priest for ever according
to the order of Melchisedech' - and forgetting to change the Latin formula of swearing
obedience to him and his successors. The result being that, technically, I owe no
obedience to the Bishop of Northampton! A detail I did not mention to our then Bishop
Leo but have reported to bishops ever since with very little apparent concern on their
part.
The purpose of these memoirs is not to lament the past or complain of one’s lot.
Rather to show to the modern generation of priests – and anyone else who might be
interested - how things have changed and let them judge whether this has been for
good or bad. It is not that students and priests were better then nor that we were in any
way hard done by. It was a different world; things were accepted then which now would
be considered outrageous in any walk of life. One’s expectations were different but
one’s acceptance and even happiness and contentment were on a par with those
expectations. No doubt the training and manner of study, the whole system in
seminary, parish and diocese have had an effect on a priest of that vintage and may
help to explain - perhaps even partly excuse - the man that is now. Just as reading a
personal account of a seaman who served ‘before the mast’ in Nelson’s time and even
a century or so ago fills us with wonder and even some horror but gives us a valuable
history lesson, so some insight into a system which did not change for many years but
has now changed beyond all recognition can give modern man and even woman (!)
some idea of the speed and degree of that change. The experiences of a priest
ordained let’s say in 1935 and one ordained 25 years later are very much the same;
differing only in details of transport, the cost of living and various other aspects of life
in general. But all that a priest ordained in 1990 seems to share with a crumblie of the
1959 vintage is the grace of the sacrament.
Having, therefore, at the tender age of 12 or 13 expressed the wish to become a priest
I was provisionally accepted by Bishop Leo Parker for the diocese and went to the
Franciscan boarding school at Buckingham as a ‘Bishop’s Boy’ in contrast to those
who were earmarked for the Franciscans or the vast majority who were simply there
because it was a Catholic school and their ambition was to become a butcher, a baker,
a candlestick maker, doctor, chemist or educated safe-cracker.
All were taught and treated in exactly the same way but the difference from today
was that all did want to become something, even if few achieved it. If asked in public
they expressed their various and individual and budding ambitions and some even put
their hands up to wanting to become priests. The later stages of their education were
affected by their choice of a career so that some did Chemistry and Science while
others specialised in English and Latin and what would now be called ‘humanities’.
Most did as little work as possible according to the immutable nature of school boys
and all were equally well or badly behaved and caught and punished according to the
practices at that time. It was not a junior seminary and no special treatment was given
to those who were thinking of the priesthood. In fact, there was a healthy scepticism
that they probably would change their minds at the appearance of the first attractive
‘chick’, as young ladies were then called, or the prospect of some different career.
Leaving school at very nearly the age of 19 I was still considering going on for the
priesthood and left my future in the Bishop’s capable hands while I did my normal
holiday stint of working for the princely sum of 1 shilling and six pence an hour (7 ½
new pence) in the Nestles soup factory. By the end of August 1953 it began to dawn
on me that either the Bishop had forgotten me or the decision had been made
somewhere in a smoke-filled Episcopal palace that I had no vocation after all.
The definition of a vocation - then, as now - is not what a chap wants to do or feels that
a mysterious voice is telling him to do. It is the calling or acceptance by a bishop or a
religious superior. This calling seemed to be lacking by that time but on gently agitating
the bishop’s secretary (through a supportive Parish Priest) it was cheerfully made
known to me in a short note from Bishop’s House - on September 4th - that my
presence would be required on September 8th at Wonersh. The letter also added that
I would need to have a cassock, a clerical collar, a black suit and six towels. I had the
towels, Wonersh was located on the map after some difficulty as being in Surrey, a
Green Line coach would get me there via London and the clerical garb would just have
to follow in due time.
Clutching my hard-earned wages from the holiday job I set out with a suitcase
containing the towels plus other obvious necessities but dressed in grey flannels and
blue blazer with a white shirt and a funereal black tie as the only concession to clerical
fashion. Being rather fortunate to meet a young man in a dog collar - a genuine ‘cleric’
starting his fourth year - on the last stages of the coach trip I at least was guided on to
a local bus and found the seminary in his company.
Surprisingly, my name appeared on a typed list of new entrants posted at the main
door; but inserted in ink before a certain Caruana C. who is the Gibraltarian mentioned
above and thus remained on the bottom of that list for the next six years. A room
number - which turned out to be a cubicle with a door but walls not reaching the ceiling
- in the high 90’s was eventually found to be on the third floor and became ‘home’ for
the next year. It had a bed, a chair and small table, a chest of drawers and a lamp.
6.30 p.m. having been mentioned on the list downstairs as being the time for being in
the assembly room I followed the general drift of students and was directed by some of
my elders and betters to the front bench - with some misgivings from my guides since
I was the only one present not wearing a cassock and clerical collar but glaringly
obvious in the equivalent of Bermuda shorts - light grey trousers etc as described
above.
A short and tubby but very venerable gentleman entered the hall wearing a red-
trimmed cassock and purple bellyband followed by an assortment of priests of all
shapes and sizes and mostly advanced ages. Everyone stood solemnly to receive the
Rector and staff. With no greeting nor introduction the Rector proceeded to call the
names of some hundred or so students all preceded by the title of ‘Mr.’ If present there
was a clear reply of ‘adsum’ which even this civilian knew was the Latin for ‘I am
present’. The occasional name not bringing forth this reply meant that either someone
had changed their mind and not returned or illness or travel delay (neither of them
advisable) occasioned their absence. It was a tradition that if someone had decided
not to continue their studies after the holidays (or been advised not to do so or even
been excluded for some misdemeanour) the name would still be announced and their
absence marked by a hollow silence.
A ‘Mr. Capstick’ was eventually called out in the list of newcomers and with no
response forthcoming the Rector looked up, gave the required time for an answer and
was still fixing the front bench with a far from benevolent eye when he called my name,
received an answer and also noticed the unorthodox garb which nearly, but not quite,
put him off finishing the list with ‘Mr. Caruana’. [The Mr. Capstick appeared on the list
and was duly called for the next two years but nobody actually ever found out who he
was or why he was not there.]
The venerable Rector nobly rose above the distraction caused by my sartorial
aberration to read - as was done every year - a long Papal instruction on the nature of
a vocation and the duties and responsibilities of a seminary student. For the benefit of
the newcomers it was then announced that supper would be followed by Night Prayers
and the ‘Magnum Silentium’ until 6.00 a.m. next morning.
Fortunately, talking was allowed during supper so all kinds of helpful tips were asked
for and received from either more senior students or those who had already been to
the local junior seminary, were near the head of the immutable year list and were
immersed in the folklore and practice of a seminary.
After Night Prayers it was an offence punishable with expulsion to talk to anyone except
oneself or God (and then only silently) unless dire need or charity required it. Both the
need and the charity would only be considered and judged by the Rector in the very
unlikely event that either should arise. An exception was made that very night by the
Rector pouncing on this quaintly dressed character and, having been shown the letter
from Bishop’s House giving me all of five days to obtain a wardrobe, he decided that
this constituted a lawful excuse to speak. He then summoned a similarly vertically
challenged but more senior student and ordered him to lend me his second best
cassock and collar. The result was that next morning I was at least properly dressed for
6.30 a.m. church parade.
The system required that one unfortunate student, in the second year, be appointed to
be bell ringer for a whole year. At 6.00 a.m. every morning, weekdays or Sundays, it
was his solemn duty to go up and down every corridor on every floor and energetically
ring a handbell to wake people up. Still in the total silence imposed from the end of
prayers the night before the keen students burst forth from their rooms to wash and
shave and be down in chapel within minutes. The rest of the student body emerged in
various states of wakefulness to do the same in due time so that by 6.30 a.m.
everyone had to be conscious, washed, shaved, dressed in full cassock and in their
rightful place in chapel to start a half hour of meditation or mental prayer.
This exercise is not easy at the best of times but is even more difficult at crack of dawn
when sitting down for any length of time can too easily lead to continuing one’s
slumbers. This did sometimes happen and a charitable neighbour would dig a sharp
elbow into the ribs of a nodding meditator to prevent a snore or, even worse, total
collapse. Less charitable but more righteous and conscientious characters just ignored
the plight of a sleeper and let him take the consequences.
At 7.00 a.m., promptly, the Rector said a final prayer and a general movement of
priests and students marked the beginning of Mass. One Mass was said at the high
altar for the student body. Other Masses were said by every priest on the staff at side
altars with their designated servers. All, of course at that time, in Latin. On festival days
- not high holydays but feasts of some importance - the Mass was sung; amazingly well
by the cantors but notably badly (in comparison to Sunday High Mass at a more
civilised hour) by the rest. Mass was followed by a brief time of thanksgiving and a
silent trooping into the refectory for breakfast. In Advent and Lent this silence
continued through breakfast itself but for the rest of the year the period of silence was
lifted at that point.
The food was good enough. Institutional, predictable no doubt, but sufficient and with a
reasonable choice so that one could have coffee rather than tea and cornflakes rather
than porridge. Breakfast was also an informal meal which one could start and end
according to one’s speed of eating. Quite an important factor, this, since immediately
after breakfast one was allowed to smoke!
This smoking rule was one of those set up as a test; an artificial law to shape one’s
character and to be obeyed for its own sake. A duly registered smoker was allowed to
smoke three times a day at certain periods and in designated places. Nobody had to
smoke; but a non registered smoker could not smoke. The times were for half an hour
after breakfast, lunch and supper. The places were outside (if not dark) in the common
rooms or lavatories. Infringement of any of these details brought about instant
dismissal from the seminary on being found out. No appeal, no warning, no extenuating
circumstances or diminished responsibility. It was not all that uncommon to lose a
student apparently good in all other spheres but overcome by the nicotine habit or just
criminally careless about time and place. The first his colleagues were aware of was a
vacant place in chapel or refectory or the sight of a fellow trudging down the drive with
his suitcase to catch a bus to Guildford and the evil world beyond.
The reason for this rule was in no way directed at the evil of smoking. At that time the
risk to health was hardly ever mentioned and non-smokers cheerfully inhaled the
polluted air in common rooms, cinemas, theatres, railway compartments as well as in
their own homes. The rule was a test case, completely artificial and based on the
premise that if a student could not keep such a simple rule which involved no moral
decrepitude or infringement of the Decalogue then how could he be expected to keep
the commandments and rules and way of life of a future priest. Some may now think
this brutal, simplistic and even counter-productive; and they may be right. At the time
we all accepted the rules, accepted some as being pointless in themselves but a test
worth trying to live up to for the sake of the end we desired. Many students at that time
were more advanced in years, some coming in from the Forces and even having given
up years of a worthy and successful career. We younger ones admired their
obedience and the added difficulty they had in doing this. Smokers simply had to adapt
and live in the hope that on most Sundays there would be an extension of smoking
after supper if one attended a gramophone concert or lecture or educational film show
in the common room. Many a nicotine addict acquired a love of classical music - and
often for life - by chain-smoking through two hours or more of such a concert.
I registered as a smoker on my first Christmas Day in the Seminary; 1953. A Capstan
full strength cigarette lasted me for the whole two days of Christmas – one or two puffs
at a time - while helping to be a scene shifter at the customary Christmas concert. I
then became a pipe smoker and kept to the rules until the Christmas of 1957 when I
spectacularly broke this law but was never found out! The advantage of a pipe was
that it could, and did, serve as a dummy since sucking an empty one during the hours
of study could not be construed as smoking and yet gave one a certain simple and
pathetic satisfaction. By Christmas 1957 I was a sub-Deacon and head sacristan and
after the midnight Mass, having locked up the church and prepared everything for the
next morning I decided that nothing drastic could be done to me at that stage even if
caught smoking. I went up into the bell tower and admired the moonlit night while
smoking a whole pipe with everyone safely tucked up in bed and myself at great risk of
frostbite. I did not have any sense of guilt about it but suspected next day that
someone, somehow, somewhere would discover my dark secret. Presumably nobody
did and so this is my first public confession of this dastardly deed.
Lectures started at 9.00 am and each lasted for 45 minutes. The first two years were
set aside for Philosophy but shared with the older students for Scripture and Church
History. We sat in serried ranks on hard benches and listened non-stop and as
attentively as human nature would allow, making notes, to a professor going on about
Aristotle and Plato, the purpose of philosophy in all its branches and the impossibility
of studying Theology later on - or even think cogently - without a deep grounding in
this science. Students did not ask questions. They listened, they took notes, they then
consulted text books and/or original writings in the long periods of private study every
night of the week. They did not write essays nor formally have any discussions unless
they chose to do so with their fellow students on walks or while having their cherished
smokes in times of recreation. They then expanded their lecture notes into volumes of
their own and three times a year they poured out their acquired knowledge in three
hour written examinations plus oral or vocal tests. If an exam was not passed then it
had to be re-taken and failure to pass eventually meant another body trudging off to
catch a bus.
This, however, was more flexible than the smoking rule. The professors soon got to
know their students and their capabilities. A clever but lazy student could well be
required to retake an examination even if, on sheer marks, he passed but did not
excel. Another man could be judged to have worked hard and done his best but not to
be sufficiently academic to shine or even to gain a pass mark. Repeated and abject
academic failures would be given help and could, eventually, be advised to leave since
it was accepted that future priests had to have something to keep their ears apart but
did not have to be intellectually brilliant. St. John Vianney was an accepted warning to
the authorities that an academic lame duck could turn out to be a good priest; and he
was a great source of comfort and consolation to most of us in the first year or so when
Philosophy remained more or less a closed book; partly because of the manner in
which it was being taught.
Three morning lectures with a short break were the order of the day followed by lunch,
a short prayer session and the half hour of recreation during which smoking was
allowed and solitary swanning off was not tolerated. We were supposed to converse,
get to know each other or try to keep up with the world by reading the one copy of the
Daily Telegraph pinned up in the common room or listening to an old and solitary
steam radio in the lower common room which was known as the ‘den’. It was 'lower'
because it was in the basement but 'the den' because it catered for the less snooty
members of the student body. Most smokers made their way into it to listen to the
news, play at the one bald billiard table and generally behave less sedately than did
the intellectuals up above.
Afternoons were not recreation time but periods for physical exercise in one form or
another according to the old principle that a healthy body houses a healthy mind! -
‘mens sana in corpore sano’ as Juvenal said a long time ago. Football, tennis in
season, hand-ball, a vicious game played against a wall with a hard ball which, as the
name implies, was clouted with the hand (bare or gloved) and is probably responsible
for the fact that my right hand is large than my left, hockey and an esoteric game with
bat and soft ball, unique to that seminary and which I never even tried to play or
understand - all these could take up one or two afternoons during the week. One day
could be spent on a profitable hobby such as gardening, leatherwork, book-binding or
woodwork. Otherwise it meant either going for a run or for a walk; more of which later.
With luck a game of football or tennis or handball covered two or three of the
afternoons each week. At least one afternoon could be spent legally doing some
woodwork. Two if one’s memory was bad and conscience elastic. Gardening was out of
the question in no time since, having acquired a strip round the back of the house (no
mean feat this for a first year man since there was a waiting list) it soon became
apparent that I knew nothing about it, had no idea what to plant and, having planted
flowers or vegetables, they dramatically withered and died. One or two afternoons had
to be killed by either running or going for a walk.
Both of these activities involved leaving the boundaries of the seminary and so had to
be performed in groups of three or, at most, four. Each group led by at least one cleric,
i.e. a man who not only had done two years in the place but was also at least on the
lowest rung of the clergy - he had been tonsured. One signed out in a book which was
carefully scrutinised so that the groups would not consist of the same individuals more
often than now and again. Keeping the same company anywhere near too often was
construed as ‘particular friendships’ and sternly frowned upon as not only essentially
dangerous but also not conducive to training one to be able to mix with all and sundry.
A run, therefore, had to be carefully planned. You had to arrange with at least two
others who were doing it for the same reason - to have as short a run as possible,
work up a sweat, get back and have a shower and then spend the rest of the afternoon
period on the bed reading a murder book. If your group leader was a fitness fanatic
then you had to do a five or six mile run and were ruined for days. If he was a good
runner then you had to keep up or spoil the delight of the others by unduly slowing
them down. If you chose with care and, eventually, experience, then you had three or
four chaps jogging off at high speed, slowing down for a breather when out of sight
and returning at a brisk trot to perform their ablutions and flake out with Agatha
Christie.
The ultimate horror was to go for a walk. Again in group formation and depending on
the taste or length of legs of the leader but added to this the rule that one had to wear
black and wear a hat! Thus the natives, used to seeing these small groups emerge at
regular intervals and set off in straight lines into the surrounding heath and
countryside, called us ‘ The Black Beetles’. The only redeeming feature was the beauty
of the countryside surrounding Wonersh; the open heath and parkland which, on a fine
day, made the whole exercise just about bearable. Visits to a village shop were not
allowed and to stop for a drink was unthinkable. Even to think of stopping for a half
pint would bring instant dismissal. The rule was that only after having walked four
miles as the crow flies could one stop for non-alcoholic refreshments. Which, of
course, also meant having to walk the four miles back.
The result of this rule was that every student knew, to a few yards, the bee line
distance to any café or shop within that magic radius of four miles. The keen walkers
actually achieved the distance on a good afternoon. The less keen did not attempt it.
Some quickly acquired such a dislike of walking that they made a vow (which I still
keep) of never walking anywhere if at all humanly possible once the far distant date of
one’s ordination came about. As to the hat, an expensive item, I bought mine at a
seminary auction in aid of the Missions, it was the wrong size and would just perch
precariously when exiting or re-entering the compound. I always carried it and it served
to swat flies and other vermin encountered on such walks.
In the house and gardens all students wore a full cassock and collar and always wore a
biretta. This, not to be confused with a Beretta as used by Agent 007 and licensed to
kill, was - and still is - a square piece of hard headwear not designed for a round head.
When walking, it had to be worn at all times. To be lifted when sighting a Professor or
when passing a shrine or statue in corridors or garden. Another vow made was never
to wear it again after ordination unless under pain of sin or in the sight of the Bishop
during a solemn liturgy. Mine is now safely stowed in my coffin, still hard and square
and utterly unfit for a head, to be confined with me to my grave.
In general, the rule and way of life verged on that of a prison. There were no bars, no
physical restraints. What made it different from any prison was that these rules were
accepted by young and old on a voluntary basis; they were worth the bother and
tedium because of the desired purpose of one’s existence in a seminary - to be a
seedling, to be trained and grow and mature so as to be ordained after six years.
Incidentally also, to learn something.
The mind boggles as to what effect such a regime had on young men still in the
formation stage and allowing it to be imposed for six years. Perhaps it did very little
harm, in fact. The times were different, one’s expectations were different. People in
general accepted things which now seem deplorable. It certainly did train one to
accept restrictions if the end, the purpose, seemed worth while. It also separated those
who seemed to accept the rules as ends in themselves and those who saw them as a
necessary nuisance and, in all kinds of little ways, tried and managed to get around
them and keep to the letter if not always the spirit. It was only years later that the
unavoidable result became very clear: those, certainly in our year, who were fanatics
at keeping the smallest rules - they wore their hat, they walked energetically, run
frantically, gardened with utter zeal and never spent more than the allotted 20 minutes
in their bath - were the first to give up their priesthood. Those who carefully picked
their groups of like-minded lazy runners, carried their hats, dodged the column when
they could, found inside woodwork jobs which meant they could keep warm seemed, on
average, to survive the real life outside after ordination.
By 3.30 p.m. all would have returned from their exercise, work, sports or dodgy
activities and, washed and cassocked, were ready for the afternoon lecture. At the end
of this there was a frugal tea followed by total silence for private study. This was done
in your room or in the library, alone, without the aid of discussions, seminars or other
such distractions. For some two and a half hours one researched the background to
notes taken at lecture, wrote up one’s notes (wonder of wonders, typewriters were
allowed!) synthesized one’s new-found knowledge and set it up in such a way that
when the end of term examination came one could regurgitate the fourteen ways of not
understanding the mystery of the Trinity in a nearly robotic fashion. Again, nobody
checked that you were working; there were no distractions of transistor radio, tape
player, and gramophone or - God forbid - a portable T.V. One could have slept for the
two hours but not only did pride forbid but the results in work not done would have
been cumulative and, eventually, catastrophic. What better training, in many ways,
could one have for the life of a priest in a parish when, in the long run, nobody actually
checks or does any kind of time and motion study of one’s work.
The day was regulated by the bell and 7.30 p.m. was thus announced to be followed
by supper, which led to a half hour of compulsory recreation in common when one
could have one’s third and last smoke of the day, or - again - read the one copy of the
‘Daily Telegraph’ displayed in an old-fashioned stand in the upper common room or
listen to the radio in the lower den. Until 9.30 p.m. time was our own - in a restricted
sort of way. We could walk outside if it was not dark; stay in one’s room or ‘visit’ other
students. The word ‘visit’ is judiciously put in inverted commas since it did not mean
actually entering someone’s room. This space was sacrosanct. You could stand at the
door and chat, one to one. No crowds of two or more at a door to gossip, discuss or
even pray; and voices had to be hushed so as not to disturb others. At 9.30 the bell
summoned one to Evening Prayers in chapel. By 10.00 p.m. all lights were out and all
slept the sleep of the just, the exhausted, the weary, desperate, those punch-drunk by
Philosophy, worried sick by fear of exams, ‘blockings’ or just happy to sleep.
And it is important to stress that this sort of regime did not lead to misery. It was, in
many ways, a happy period of structured life, no worries about the day to day living
expenses, busy with quite complicated studies, mutual support from one’s fellow
inmates and, above all, a period which was but a means to an end. It was a very
different life in the world and the Church when things were accepted in a very different
way. Each individual had made the decision to aim for ordination and was willing to
accept all sorts of hardships and even stupid rules in order to achieve this. There were
certainly periods of misery, times of doubt or rebellion, boredom and frustration.
Anyone, however, who found the regime intolerable for any length of time would
certainly either leave or become so obstreperous that he would be advised to leave.
One became institutionalised to some extent, even to the degree that when the
holidays came it was hard to re-adjust for the first day or so to a ‘normal’ way of life.
Looking back and with one’s present knowledge and attitude there are many things
which could have been done far better; especially the manner of teaching and
learning. On the other hand, the training this sort of regime gave did make one
‘bloody-minded’ in the sense that if a thing had to be done, then it was done. It was a
good preparation for what was to come when going into a parish as a curate; since
curates at that time were still the lowest form of life in the Church. The regime may well
have left traumas of all sorts; the manner of learning left a lot to be desired; six years
spent in very full time education was never acknowledged by any sort of degree and
left huge gaps in one’s body of knowledge unless they were filled from a man’s own
reading and interests. The link with the outside world was a tenuous one through those
years so that the Suez crisis had hardly any impact on us and I have no idea who won
a cup final between 1953 and 1959. On the whole, however, and with some notable
exceptions, it was a stretch of six years which did its job of formation and education
and certainly cannot be forgotten nor its effects in the rest of one’s life ignored.
This daily schedule - with slight variations for Sundays and Holydays - went on day
after day with just two weeks off after Christmas and eight weeks off in the summer.
Since it was the seminary of St. John and his feast day falls on December 27th, we had
stay to celebrate that day with due solemnity. Which meant, of course, that we could
not be at home for Christmas. Since, however, out in the parishes few priests would be
able to get ‘home’ or away on Christmas for the rest of their priestly lives this also was
good training for the future. Christmas Day was celebrated with Midnight Mass and a
very High Mass on Christmas Day itself and comparative freedom to do anything one
liked - as long as it was on the premises - for the rest of the day. Traditionally, there
was a whist drive and gramophone concert plus a Gilbert and Sullivan performed by
the students. After the solemn Mass on St. John’s Day and the lunch usually attended
by the Bishop and higher flights of ancient clergy, we were all free to go
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