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| A much younger Mr C, left, with choristers rehearsing for a December, 1969 event. |
As a youngster, I liked to sing.
At the age of 16, my family and I moved from Sydney, Australia to Christchurch, New Zealand, and my brother and I joined a private boys school.
My sisters enrolled at a private girls' school not far away.
The private school I left behind was a good 40 minutes away by car; for my two sisters, likewise.
Living as far away from school as we were in Sydney, my brother, sisters and I had little in the way of a social life. Weekends were spent playing sport or doing homework rather than spending time with friends.
In Christchurch, by contrast, our family home was just across the road from the school my brother and I attended - my social prospects were looking up!
One of the first teachers I met was the music master, a bachelor in his late 50s, who was renowned for his ability to train young voices.
When I met Mr C, a small, dapper man fond of double breasted suits, also worn with a pocket watch and rose lapel from his sister's renowned rose garden, he’d been running school choirs more than 30 years, including at another well-known boys school in the city.
He also directed an elite group for the best singers, the school chorale, and had trained young men who had gone on to be opera singers of international renown. One student was a friend of mine, "K", who went on to sing opera overseas and now lives in the US.
Anyway, I would often meet Mr C by the school chapel, which ran by a little stream across the road from my home.
The bridge across the stream was usually iced over in winter and treacherous to attempt. I would cross that bridge on my travels to school and back every day, and could often hear Mr C playing the organ in the chapel.
One day, shortly after starting at the school, I passed him outside the chapel as I was heading home. ‘Can you sing for me, boy?’ he asked, staring at my face with his odd, crossed eyes.
Mr C routinely referred to boys that way, as a sergeant major would his young troops on the parade ground. No doubt he could not remember our names, but he was known nonetheless for his warm heart and eccentric personality.
Our only audience was the ducks who swam nearby. But no one had taught me to project or handle notes in the confident way my friend K could do; I could not see myself bellowing out a song for Mr C's amusement as I stood by the babbling stream.
As boys we made fun of Mr C, but we also knew that he was a unique identity on staff, and among choirmasters, one of the best. If memory serves, he drove a burgundy Daimler; lucky students might be offered a ride home.
‘Can I sing for you in the chapel some time?’ I asked.
He agreed.
I never did have to sing one-on-one for Mr C.
However, I did join the choir. He never threw me out, so I must have had a passable voice.
I remember the song sheets with musical notation which he handed out every Monday (a new song every week), which I could not read.
The private school I left behind was a good 40 minutes away by car; for my two sisters, likewise.
Living as far away from school as we were in Sydney, my brother, sisters and I had little in the way of a social life. Weekends were spent playing sport or doing homework rather than spending time with friends.
In Christchurch, by contrast, our family home was just across the road from the school my brother and I attended - my social prospects were looking up!
One of the first teachers I met was the music master, a bachelor in his late 50s, who was renowned for his ability to train young voices.
When I met Mr C, a small, dapper man fond of double breasted suits, also worn with a pocket watch and rose lapel from his sister's renowned rose garden, he’d been running school choirs more than 30 years, including at another well-known boys school in the city.
He also directed an elite group for the best singers, the school chorale, and had trained young men who had gone on to be opera singers of international renown. One student was a friend of mine, "K", who went on to sing opera overseas and now lives in the US.
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| The school chapel, as it was in Mr C's day |
The bridge across the stream was usually iced over in winter and treacherous to attempt. I would cross that bridge on my travels to school and back every day, and could often hear Mr C playing the organ in the chapel.
One day, shortly after starting at the school, I passed him outside the chapel as I was heading home. ‘Can you sing for me, boy?’ he asked, staring at my face with his odd, crossed eyes.
Mr C routinely referred to boys that way, as a sergeant major would his young troops on the parade ground. No doubt he could not remember our names, but he was known nonetheless for his warm heart and eccentric personality.
He wanted to see if the new boy sounded any good. But right then and there?
Our only audience was the ducks who swam nearby. But no one had taught me to project or handle notes in the confident way my friend K could do; I could not see myself bellowing out a song for Mr C's amusement as I stood by the babbling stream.
As boys we made fun of Mr C, but we also knew that he was a unique identity on staff, and among choirmasters, one of the best. If memory serves, he drove a burgundy Daimler; lucky students might be offered a ride home.
‘Can I sing for you in the chapel some time?’ I asked.
He agreed.
I never did have to sing one-on-one for Mr C.
However, I did join the choir. He never threw me out, so I must have had a passable voice.
I remember the song sheets with musical notation which he handed out every Monday (a new song every week), which I could not read.
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| The chapel undergoing repairs after Christchurch's earthquake |
I recall also the rehearsals, in his acoustically designed music rooms; and the concerts, once we were good enough for an audience, at the city’s town hall.
Occasionally we would also get to train with choristers from my sisters' school.
Mr C played the organ for school chapel services. He also liked to invite members of the choir back to his place for an occasional evening supper.
He put on a grand affair, helped by his sister, a wonderful cook. They lived next to each other, close to the playing fields of the other boys school where Mr C had taught music for many years.
We suspected Mr C, a lifelong bachelor, was gay.
He knew my parents. He would drop in to see us in our crumbling character home, which like the bridge across the road from school froze up bitterly in winter. He brought goodies from the local bakery, or cooking treats which his sister had made.
Once, I filed a story about him for my local newspaper. He brought out huge files of news clippings which he had kept over the years to help my research. It did not surprise me that Mr C would keep such extensive records of himself; he knew he was good, and didn't mind mind telling everyone.
We drew closer to each other, I thought, as he talked about his life.
I left school in the mid-1980s, went to university.
Years later, my parents told me that Mr C had entered an old person’s home. Former students, his favourite pupils, would visit him.
Soon afterwards, in June 1999, at the age of 78, he was dead.
They held a funeral service for him at the school, and named Mr C after that little bridge which I crossed every day. The bridge still bears his name, even if today’s students will barely know him.
Occasionally we would also get to train with choristers from my sisters' school.
Mr C played the organ for school chapel services. He also liked to invite members of the choir back to his place for an occasional evening supper.
He put on a grand affair, helped by his sister, a wonderful cook. They lived next to each other, close to the playing fields of the other boys school where Mr C had taught music for many years.
We suspected Mr C, a lifelong bachelor, was gay.
He knew my parents. He would drop in to see us in our crumbling character home, which like the bridge across the road from school froze up bitterly in winter. He brought goodies from the local bakery, or cooking treats which his sister had made.
Once, I filed a story about him for my local newspaper. He brought out huge files of news clippings which he had kept over the years to help my research. It did not surprise me that Mr C would keep such extensive records of himself; he knew he was good, and didn't mind mind telling everyone.
We drew closer to each other, I thought, as he talked about his life.
I left school in the mid-1980s, went to university.
Years later, my parents told me that Mr C had entered an old person’s home. Former students, his favourite pupils, would visit him.
Soon afterwards, in June 1999, at the age of 78, he was dead.
They held a funeral service for him at the school, and named Mr C after that little bridge which I crossed every day. The bridge still bears his name, even if today’s students will barely know him.
PS: Forgive me if I do not identify the school, or Mr C by name.
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