The Scadding Story 2

BACK TO NEWSLETTER 2000 CONTENTS

"Scad"

A RETROSPECTIVE - SEPTEMBER 2000

Part 2

Most of those at School knew little or nothing of the church politics behind the scenes. In the fifties the great desire was to build a new Chapel to replace the wooden shed, for such it in effect was, beside the old Squash Courts. The new Chapel would be situated at the heart of the developing campus, lying between the Main Building and the old Classroom blocks. That it was built at all, and entirely with School labour was an extraordinary achievement, which says much for Scadding's powers of persuasion, and some influential voices on the School Council, notably the late Revd David Walser. But built it was, stone replacing wood, and height replacing squatness. The old Chapel had, in many ways a remarkable feeling to it. The benches creaked, the floors groaned as one shifted on one's knees, the acoustics were as useful as a bag of cotton wool, but there was still a feeling of used holiness to the place. The new Chapel, impressive as it undoubtedly was at its inception, obviously lacked the feeling with which the old had been soaked by generations of compelled worshippers. Scad worked hard, not least with the help of the extraordinarily talented group of musicians around at that time, to create something good and worthwhile in the worshipping life of the new Chapel; but part of him always missed the old shed, tucked behind the yew trees next to the Squash Court, and surrounded by the remnant of orchard for his beloved bees. And in the end, the worship in the new building was never something he felt he fully owned.

Worship, of course, is hard to define. By Scadding's more Catholic definitions, one had always to offer in worship the best one had to God, who was the ultimate source of whatever gifts one possessed. So music, choirs, artistry, singing had to be matched by the quality of public, congregational, involvement. A hard task, that, for a School Chaplain! As the years went by, more and more questioned religious belief and any Chaplain's task became harder. As indeed has become the work of any parish priest. For many at Clayesmore in the forties and fifties, perhaps the most evocative worship took place in the tiny Crypt Chapel down in the basement of the Main Building. It was in fact Scad who had created the Crypt Chapel, and its inauguration reduced him to tears of such extreme laughter that they led to an apoplexy of purple coughing when he re-told the story, which he frequently did. The Chapel was too small for the boys to attend the Dedication, so many Members of the Council, Bunter, Senior Staff and the Bishop assembled in the basement passage outside. The Bishop impressively struck the Chapel door three times and commanded the evil spirits to come out. To universal astonishment, after a short pause the door opened, and out came some rat-like Junior with a fag behind his back! Ever thereafter going to the Crypt Chapel was a hallowed euphemism more for a Woodbine than for holy smoke!

Scad held Compline in the Crypt Chapel. A very simple, memorable, quiet, unwinding service: one of the original evening Offices used by the old monastic traditions. Eventually Appleby managed to ensure that every Junior had to attend Compline once in the first half term, in their dressing gowns. But in its early years it is likely that no more than 5% of any year's intake at Clayesmore even knew of the existence of the Crypt Chapel let alone its worship, but for that 5% it was a path to reality in encounter with the Christian God in whom Scad passionately believed. There it was indeed possible to be still and listen to God speaking in an inward way, I suppose one would say. No voices perhaps, no bright lights on a Damascene road, but very often an inner certainty that this or that action would be right or emphatically wrong.

Scadding himself could appear judgmental. His most frequently quoted expression, originally a term of abuse, which earned him one popular nickname was 'Potty!" said with a snort of derision, and a grimace of disbelief, the eyebrows arching upwards, the long nose quivering. What exactly this meant varied according to context: it could be some act of barbarism or Philistinism, where sense had been sacrificed to what was fashionably acceptable; anything in fact where common sense, as Scad saw it, had given way to expediency or current thinking. But it could also be said with affectionate amazement as when I told him that I had bought my first car for a fiver, and a Morris like his for good measure. He did not suffer fools gladly, and could become suddenly, and surprisingly, angered. Then, his room was closed to all comers, until he had recovered his usual sang-froid. He deplored lying and dishonesty, but forgave readily and gladly. He had no time for cruelty of any kind, and that included the harshness of words . For Scad, there always had to be a long view, and for many of my generation time spent quietly talking to him when things were really difficult provided answers which have seen many through the next fifty years and more. There was a work by Purcell, 'Rejoice in the Lord', always commonly known I think as 'The Bell Anthem', often sung in my day, which embodied much of what he thought. 'Be careful for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication let your requests be known unto God." That did not mean Care for nothing! Just the reverse. It meant take your cares to the God who can carry them, which was how, along with Don Camillo, Scadding managed most of his life.

Most of his life, but not quite all, Scad was prone, as many are, to depression. One thing which particularly got him down was if the desire to paint dried up, as, from time to time, it did. He was, and it has only subsequently been fully appreciated - a consummate artist. The great Dorset landscapes which he painted breathe the countryside off canvas and paper. The thrusting strokes of the palette knife with which he depicted Hambledon Hill, Stourpaine, Childe Okeford and the electric Mediterranean skies and seas which he loved for their warmth have a vigour and freshness which stirs memories of the later Impressionists. His Dorset water-colours capture movement of water, trees in the landscape and the scudding clouds over downland as well as any of his generation. It is a great sadness that so many of his pictures now prove hard to trace. He was often reluctant to sell when parents or friends asked to buy, though when he needed the money he sold freely, and usually away. And he had a considerable gift for portraiture, portraying many a face which interested him in the old Art Room behind the original theatre.

He did not like to paint to order. Sometimes pushing parents requested a sitting for their son, regardless of whether the sitter wanted it. Carl Verrinder cast me as St Joan in the Shaw play which, if the critics are to believed, was not bad. We took it to the Toynbee Hall in London, as was the habit in those days, and played to full houses. I was a green thirteen at the time, and Scad asked me if I would sit for a portrait. While I sat, usually an hour at a time in the turpentine-eyed art room, Scad painted and interposed comments about modesty, humility and the dangers of responding too easily to praise. These comments were not, apparently, directed at me, but as asides 'I remember I knew an actor once, who." And so on. He was, ever so discreetly warning against becoming conceited. And it was appreciated. The picture was, as I can now see, good. My mother did not like it. "Your eyes look as though you've seen the world" she said 'and you're only thirteen. You'll look like that in twenty years from now." In some ways, she was right, but I think that is what Scad often said in his portraiture. "Look beyond the outward image."

So it was always a sadness when he found, for whatever reasons, that he could not paint. Usually, it did not last, and then out would come the easels and the palette and the paints, and OY, that wonderful Morris with its silent starter and tip up dickey seat would chug away to the Stour again, and off he would go once more. I often wondered what would happen if he decided to paint no more, or if the muse, if such it was, dried up for ever. In a way, I suspect that happened. His parting from Clayesmore was not entirely happy, but times and people had moved on. Retirement called to him as it did to Appleby living in the shadow of the Hill, and Spinney with his wondrous timbered house in Iwerne. In his later days Scad returned to parish ministry. But of course, a lifetime spent in School Chaplaincy ill prepares for the humdrum life of a rural parish. He missed the intellectual stimulation when he moved to the Marlborough Downs. I remember calling on my way from a Conference, and finding him sadly thin, almost emaciated. The long slender hands seemed more vein than bone, and the fine features had become almost like those of an El Greco, thin, narrowed, piercing. There was a notable absence of pictures, and I wanted to acquire one. After some persuading he took me upstairs to a room full of framed pictures, all faces to the wall. As we turned them round, the skies filled the darkness of the room, the trees rustled off the canvases. "They're not really any good" he said. 'I'm thinking they have to go." I chose a picture and we went downstairs and sat in the October twilight and talked. He was depressed by the Church of England, sad to talk of the School, so weary of the world he said, putting those long fingers together, almost in an image of prayer. 'You'd better go," he said suddenly. "You've got a life to live. I'm glad of that".

Thanks to Scad, many of those who passed through Clayesmore in his time have indeed got a life. A life fuller, broader and hopefully more securely based than might have been without his quiet influence. The paintings of this Exhibition* mirror much of the diversity of his life, his delight in light, in reflection, cloud patterns and colour. Paintings of this kind do not portray humour, any more than they reflect the zany landscape that is a Wodehouse manuscript, or the quiet listening of a Guareschi crucifix. There is much about Scad for which Clayesmorians can be thankful, not least that he rejoiced in a God of joy, and that a man may, justifiably, cry with laughter.

Jeremy Dowling(51/56) August 2000

* This article was written to accompany the �Scadding Exhibition� of September 2000, and cancelled due to the fuel shortages. It is now planned for 15th September 2001

BACK TO NEWSLETTER 2000 CONTENTS

HOME