Book of the Month: The Loom of Youth

The Loom of Youth was written by Alec Waugh when he was still a pupil at the elite public school, Sherborne.

It was controversial when it was published in 1917 because although a work of fiction it drew on Waugh’s experiences at school. It mentioned homosexual relationships between boys.

The school, like most public schools of the time was run by the prefects; but not always successfully. In this extract Rudd, a weak Head House Prefect, is ragged by the juniors under his control.

The full book is available free-of-charge in several places online, including here.

Rudd was a bad Head; there could be no doubt about that. His dormitory made him apple-pie beds, and soaked his candle in water, so that it would not light. The day-room ragged him mercilessly. Gordon had never minded. In comparison with Rudd’s weakness his own strength shone the more. It made him so essentially the big power in the House. But things reached a limit shortly after half term, when Rudd tried to drag him in to help him in his troubles, and shelter behind the rest of the prefects.

It all arose from a most “footling” source. Rudd was taking hall, and the usual music hall performance was in full swing. Bray had asked to borrow some ink, and having once gained a pretext for walking about, was dancing up and down the floor singing What would the Seaside be without the Ladies? Everyone was, of course, talking. Now a certain Stockbrew, imagining himself a poet, immortalised the occasion with the following stirring lyric:—

“Ruddy-doodle went to town In his little suit of brown, As he could not find his purse He cried aloud, ‘Oh, where’s my nurse?’“

Like the famous quatrain The Purple Cow, this poem immediately achieved a success totally out of proportion to its merits. It was passed slowly down the table. Finally it reached Bray.

“Ah, Rudd,” he said, “I believe this is meant for you.”

Rudd read it, and flushed a dusky red.

“Who wrote this?”

Proudly the author claimed his work.

“Well—er—let me see,” said Rudd: “it is er—gross impertinence. Come and see me after breakfast to-morrow.”

The poet sat down, and his friends showered condolences on him; Bray recommenced his wanderings.

That night in second hall Rudd called a prefects’ meeting to discuss the affair. He pointed out that it was gross insolence to a prefect, and that a prefects’ beating was the recognised punishment for such an offence. Gordon protested vehemently.

“But, damn it all, Rudd, if you are such a weak-kneed ass as to be ragged by a fool like Stockbrew, you jolly well oughtn’t to be head of the House. And, by the way, we haven’t heard this masterpiece of satire read out yet.”

“I don’t think there’s any need,” said Rudd.

“Well, I think there is,” said Gordon. “I am not going to see a kid beaten for an unknown piece of cheek. Read the thing out!”

With many blushes Rudd read it out.

“Ah, jolly suitable, too,” said Foster. “What you want is a nurse. Good lord, man, can’t you look after yourself in hall. Jolly ignominious, isn’t it, having to call up a lot of prefects to back you up? Fine example to the rest of the House, isn’t it?”

“Well,” stammered Rudd, “I don’t pretend to be a strong prefect.”

“You certainly aren’t,” said Foster.

“That’s beside the point,” said Rudd. “I have been cheeked by Stockbrew, and I am a prefect. The punishment for that is a prefects’ beating. There’ll be a pre.’s meeting here to-morrow at eight, and if you have anything to grouse about, go to the Chief.”

He flounced out of the room like a heroine of melodrama.

“I don’t think we’ll go to Chief,” said Gordon, “he would be utterly fed up. But I am jolly well not going to be made an ass of by Rudd. Think what fools we shall look trotting about on Rudd’s apron strings like policemen after a cook.”

“Well, what can we do?” said Davenport.

“Do? Why, make Rudd look a bigger ass than we. We have got to give this lad a pre.’s beating. There’s no way out of it. We have got to. But if we let the House know about this, a crowd will collect; Rudd will go first and make two fairly effective shots. We shall then proceed in rotation. We will just tap him; the crowd will roar with laughter; it will be damned amusing, and Rudd will look a most sanguinary ass.”

“I see,” said Foster. “Hat’s off to the man with the brain.”

“But is it quite the game?” suggested Davenport, a stickler for etiquette.

“Is it the game for Rudd to drag us in to back him up? In this world, unfortunately, two blacks invariably make a white.”

“I suppose it’s all right,” said Davenport.

No one else made any objection. Foster and Gordon usually got their own way. The prefects dispersed. Gordon went to tell Morgan the glad tidings. The news was all round the House in a few minutes. Rudd was generally regarded as a priceless fool; it was sure to be good sport.

Then next morning Stockbrew presented himself at Rudd’s study. He was terribly overcome at the sight of so formidable a gathering. He wished he had padded. No one had told him of what was to happen. It would have spoilt the situation.

The prefects sat in chairs round the room; Rudd, terribly nervous, was perched on the table. He delivered as short a lecture as possible on the sacredness of the prefectorial dignity and the insignificance of the day-room frequenter.

In a procession they moved to the V. A green. Stockbrew led, Rudd followed, cane in hand. It was all very impressive. Round the V. A green runs a stone path; a good many people were clustered there; there were faces in the V. B class-room just opposite; in the library on the right; even in the Sixth Form class-room on the left.

“Quite an audience for this degrading business,” sighed Foster.

“‘Butchered to make a Roman holiday,’” said Davenport, who loved a stale quotation. Stockbrew bent over the chain that ran round two sides of the green. Rudd delivered two fairly accurate shots. Stockbrew stirred uncomfortably. He had dim recollections of Claremont reading a poem by Mrs Browning on “the great God Pan” and how cruel it was to “make a poet out of a man!” He saw her meaning now. Then the farce began.

Gordon went up, carefully arranged the victim’s coat, stepped back as if preparing a brutal assault, and then flicked him twice. A roar of laughter broke from all sides. Rudd shifted uneasily on his feet.

Foster went up and did the same, then Davenport, then the rest of the prefects. The very walls seemed shrieking with laughter.

Flushing dark red, Rudd strode across to his study. Such dignity as he had ever had, had been taken from him. Everyone had seen his ignominy.

The next time he took hall a pandemonium broke out such as never had been heard before. A game of cricket was played with a tennis ball and a Liddell and Scott; Gordon crossing the courts heard it, and he decided to clinch his victory. He went down to the day-room and walked straight in. There was instant silence. Gordon took no notice of Rudd whatever.

“Look here, you men, you are making a filthy row down here. I heard it right across the courts. The Chief might hear it easily. You have got to shut up. If I hear any more noise I shall give every man two hundred lines; so shut up.”

There was comparative peace after this. Rudd had ceased to count in House politics. To all intents and purposes Gordon was head of the House, and the House regarded him as such.

Originally published by Grant Richards (London: 1917).

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