But such matters shouldn't detract from Dartington's real strengths. There were some excellent teachers at the school, particularly in my two main subjects, English and history. I don't suppose their approach differed greatly from that of good teachers in "non-progressive" schools. They focused on teaching us to think for ourselves, to look at all sides of a question, not to accept anything at face value, to check everything we said or read against the evidence, to discriminate between the genuine and the phoney. And they taught us how to write English prose. Exams were, in those days, almost entirely based on essays. Multiple choice questions had yet to arrive from America. So we had to master the art of essay writing, and we had to get the hang of "exam technique" — the ability to present such facts as we had learned in a way that would make them appear to be merely well-chosen examples from among our vast range of knowledge.
Essay questions were sometimes astonishingly sophisticated. One in particular, part of an O-level history exam on the English Civil War, seemed so mind-bogglingly difficult that it has stuck in my mind to this day: "Is Puritanism recurrent?" My first reaction when confronted with this was that I couldn't in a million years write an essay on such a theme. But on further reflection I realised that it presented an ideal opportunity for applying "exam technique" — and for indulging in generalised waffle.
It was our English teacher, Raymond O'Malley, whom I most admired and who taught me most, not just about literature but also about morality and about the connections between the two. He had written a much-praised book about his experiences as a crofter in the Scottish Highlands where, because he was a conscientious objector, he had been sent during the Second World War. Malley, as he was known at school, was a person of great sweetness and patience, with a passion for literature and a strong belief in the merits of simplicity. He would often make us try to re-write a passage of prose in fewer words, without losing complexity or comprehensibility. It was a joy to be taught by him.
Most pupils left the school after taking O- or A-level exams. Girls, however, if they wanted to go to Oxford or Cambridge, in those days had to take entrance exams. In my year, three of us (whose A-level results were much better than those of boys who had already been accepted) stayed on for another few weeks. I and another girl were trying to get into Cambridge to study English. Another was trying for History at Oxford. There were very few places for women at Oxbridge at that time (I think the ratio was 11 to one) so the competition was fierce. Malley, though, who had managed to get several former students into Cambridge, was so convinced that we would both succeed, that he discouraged us from even trying any other university — certainly not Oxford, about whose English department he was very disparaging.
As it turned out, I was the only one who failed to get in, or even to get an interview. I was bitterly disappointed (particularly as I had achieved the best A-level results of the three of us). Malley too seemed genuinely upset. On the day the results were announced, I lay on my bed for most of the afternoon, feeling miserable. Every half an hour or so Malley would interrupt his lessons and come to my room to comfort me.
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