THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A SCHOOLBOY
A MEMOIR BY THOMAS TOMKINS, XIV

Presented here with his kind permission is Chapter Fourteen of the hitherto unpublished memoir of his youth of a retired English publisher written under the pen name Thomas Tomkins and finished in 2026.

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Chapter Fourteen

I spent the first two weeks of the holiday at home, once again sorting out the office work, cooking breakfasts and visiting museums. Then it was off to Allan’s with my books. For the first week I had him to myself, and a marvellous experience it was. For of course the work I was doing was something with which he was very familiar and it was a opportunity not to be missed to take advantage of his knowledge and his fresh approach. Halfway through my stay Edwin also arrived. I worked while Allan and Edwin lazed together in bed or in the garden, but joined them on expeditions. I was intrigued to find that although I still loved Allan dearly, more, indeed, than any other person in the world, and though being hugged by him still gave me exquisite pleasure, I had no remaining desire for sex with him and was delighted for him that he had Edwin to share his bed.  At home I was tolerated because I was useful; with Allan I felt secure, loved and safe.

Over the holiday I had conscientiously done the ground-work for my final year at Flamborough. I was now in the Upper Sixth and preparing for a Scholarship to Cambridge to read Classics.  This was, in a sense, something of a gamble. Cambridge would have higher entrance requirements than the Redbricks, but I was enough of my mother’s son to value the cachet of one of the ancient universities, and a Cambridge degree even then would be a passport to lucrative employment.  Not that I had, at that time, any idea what I should do upon leaving University. But my Tutor and the other masters were of the opinion that provided I continued to work steadily as I had been, a Scholarship to Cambridge would be a definite possibility. And, in the event of my not getting one, it would still be possible to apply for a place elsewhere, though it would have to be funded with a County Council grant, supported by temporary or part time work.

And so I returned for my final year. I still had some Prefectorial duties, though these were relatively light. The practice of Fagging, which had largely fallen into desuetude, was finally abolished, and corporal punishment, on the rare occasions that it was needed, was administered only by the Headmaster or Housemasters. I cannot say that discipline suffered greatly from this, though I noticed, or believed I noticed, that junior boys were more pert than those of my entry year had been.

During this year I had less formal teaching than before; Scholars were expected to be able to work alone and with concentration.  But I did find that the masters were, for the most part, happy to be asked for help and would allow us to occupy some of their free time in giving what were, in effect, individual tutorials.

So I worked away steadily on my Greek and Latin, writing – or attempting to write – elegant verses in those languages and in Classical verse forms; varying this with essays in English – somewhat in the style of Charles Lamb’s delightful pieces – and learning more of the Classical authors and philosophers.

Around this time I discovered the novels of Mary Renault, a lady I was to be privileged to meet upon one occasion. Her delightful books, set in various places and at various times in ancient Greece, brought the people and places to life in a way that no other works could do. While I was at school Fire from Heaven, the first of her three books about Alexander the Great, was published, but I did not read The Persian Boy, generally agreed to be her finest work, until I was in my last year at University.  But undoubtedly her vivid and, as proved by later archaeological research, startlingly accurate representations of life in ancient Greece, even going back to the Bronze Age, helped to paint pictures in my mind which later illuminated my literary work.

At this time I also made my first visit to the Museum of Classical Archaeology in Cambridge. I made two visits there, the first by myself, the second, during a half term exeat, in company with Allan. As a graduate of the University, of course, he was entitled to visit the Museum. His guidance and his luminous commentary on the exhibits we saw there gave me much food for thought. Like Mary Renault, he seemed to have an almost instinctive understanding of the peoples of the ancient world. More than once I urged him to write novels of the Mary Renault type, but he declined, saying – what was probably quite true – that a schoolmaster has not time to devote to serious outside pursuits.

Sexually I was by now quite mature. Of course, I masturbated from time to time, as every young man must, if only to release accumulated sexual tension. I flatter myself that I was not a bad-looking youth; I had my father’s height and build as well as his fair hair and blue eyes. Although I was no games player, I took enough exercise to keep myself slim and healthy, and still enjoyed cross-country running on occasion. And upon one occasion I tripped over a root whilst out running. I did not sustain any serious injury, but I did get a nasty gash in my thigh which was quite dirty. I therefore turned around and made my way to the Sanatorium to have it seen to.

As it turned out, the duty Matron for that day had been called away for some emergency or other, leaving the young Sanatorium Maid, Camilla Gray, in charge. She was a competent girl, with no formal qualifications as yet but perfectly well able to deal with minor injuries such as mine. So I sat upon the examination chair while she  

As she kneeled before me, working on my leg, her blouse fell forward and gave me an uninterrupted view of her brassiere and the upper part of her breasts. Without any intention on my part, my penis immediately, and inevitably, sprang to attention.  Given that she was kneeling in front of me, looking at my left leg, there was no way in which she could possibly have missed what was going on in my shorts, the more so as in those days we did not wear underpants beneath games kit.

Camilla was no great beauty – bless her! – but to sex-obsessed adolescents she was attractive enough to be the focus for much juvenile lust, despite her plump figure and homely face. However, the few tentative suggestions that had been made to her received such unmistakable rejection that she had been labelled as what, in those days, we called a “ball-shriveller” and her assumed virginity went unchallenged.

However, on this occasion it seemed that things might be different. She allowed the side of her hand to brush, as if by chance, against the by now considerable swelling in my running shorts. Her next action was unmistakable; she took my hand in hers and pressed it against her breast. This, of course, excited me even more. I moved my hand, feeling the nipple and cupping the breast and was about to move the other hand to do the same office on the opposite side when she pushed my hand away and whispered "Not here... someone might come in. Come to the groundsman's shed after Prep". 

Very plainly, this was not an opportunity I was prepared to miss and, indeed, how I got through the rest of the afternoon I do not know. But the moment the bell rang for the end of Prep I walked down to the shed where all the games kit was kept, pushed open the door and went in. The shed appeared to be empty, but Camilla appeared from behind a massive pile of cricket nets and other impedimenta. She had taken off her uniform and was wearing denim jeans and a floral shirt.

I confess that I was both very excited and very nervous. I had no idea whether Camilla was expecting just "petting" or anything up to full intercourse. But I had the sense to let her take the lead. This she did with great aplomb. She clasped my hand and took me round behind the pile of nets to where there was a partitioned-off space which was equipped with a battered sofa and tea-making facilities; clearly this was where the groundsmen lurked when not on the field.  But the sofa was covered with a couple of clean blankets (I later discovered that Camilla had borrowed these from the Matrons' stock) and some cushions. A naked electric lamp hung from the ceiling. Camilla switched this off, leaving only dim light filtering through from the opposite end of the shed.

We sat side by side on the sofa and we began to kiss. Although I knew about what was then called French kissing in theory, this was the first time I had experienced it and I have no doubt that I was thoroughly awkward. However, I had a gentle and patient teacher. Camilla began to unbutton my shirt, while my hands slid around her breasts. By now I was very excited indeed and I feared that a touch on my penis would tip me over into orgasm. Nevertheless, I undid her brassiere and for the first time saw a woman’s breasts. They were full and rounded, for Camilla was a plump girl, but my overriding impression was of their softness. The only other torso I knew from experience was Allan’s, which of course was very much firmer. 

Camilla undid my trousers and slid her hand inside. She took out my penis and began to stroke it gently; this was more than my self-restraint could cope with and I exploded, ejecting semen all over her hand, the sofa and even the floor.  Even this did not discompose Camilla, though.  She fished out a handkerchief – from goodness knows where – and mopped up the mess I had made, then pushed me onto my back and continued to kiss and stroke me. In less time than I could have imagined possible, I was erect again and this time more able to control myself.

With a deft movement of one hand Camilla unbuttoned her trousers and slid them down over her knees. She was naked except for her knickers; I quickly took off my remaining clothes. She leaned back to get a good view of my body, then leaned over me again. Now she removed her remaining garment and I saw, briefly, the triangle of dark hair and the pink lips beneath it. She swung my legs, none too gently now, away from her so that I was leaning back with my feet on the floor; then slowly straddled my thighs. I felt her hand slide down my belly to my penis, then guide it into her. She began to bounce, her hands on my chest and her breasts performing a crazy dance before my eyes. Suddenly she gasped, and I felt her internal muscles grasp my penis. I instantly ejaculated again. Camilla lifted herself away from me and mopped both herself and me with the handkerchief. Slowly we straightened ourselves and put on our clothes. We had to walk back separately in order to avoid any prying eyes. 

Such was my first sexual encounter with a woman. I found out later that she was nearer thirty than twenty, and had indeed given several other boys their initiation into heterosexual intercourse. Whether she was just a warm-hearted and generous girl, or whether she really needed the thrill of illicit sex I have never discovered, but I remain grateful to her to this day.

When I saw Camilla again, in a couple of days’ time, she was demure and professional as ever.  Over the next term I did make love with her again twice. It did not occur to me to boast about this to my friends; her warning to say nothing to anyone was not necessary in my case, though it may have been needed with some of the boys she favoured over the years.

I recently read about an 'affair' between a boy of seventeen and an older woman, a 'teacher' (as they seem to call schoolmasters and mistresses nowadays) in the school which he attended. They were discovered to be 'having sex' on a more or less regular basis.  There was, of course, a sumptuous uproar; the unfortunate woman was dismissed instantly and I believe imprisoned for some years; the boy must have suffered agonies of guilt and loss, all because some self-righteous busybody chose to meddle in what was not his – or her – affair. My experiences with Camilla Gray harmed no-one and gave great pleasure to both of us, as well as introducing me to heterosexual intercourse. As she was sexually experienced it also allowed me to learn good “sex manners” (to quote the title of a recent book on the subject) which have stood me in good stead ever since.  Once again I plead: what harms no-one and gives pleasure to all parties concerned should be allowed to flourish without meddlesome intrusion.

But these episodes, delightful and indeed edifying as they were, were the icing upon the cake of my academic work. This had to be attended to with care and concentration. (It occurs to me now that my three evenings in Camilla’s stimulating company sent me back to my work refreshed and ready anew to tackle my studies.)

My earliest memories of childhood were of endless reading; my memories of the end of my childhood were of endless writing. “Reading maketh a full man,“ quoth Francis Bacon, “Writing an exact man, and conference a ready man”. How right he was. In the first I had been diligent all my life; in the second I had by now had much practice. In the third, I was fortunate that I was able to spend occasional weekends – and longer periods during holidays – with Allan.  We talked endlessly. He would invariably correct errors in my Latin or Greek; other, more subtle errors in my knowledge or thought processes he would challenge with a probing question. I became, if not adept, at least reasonably proficient in discussion with him and, by extension, my friends and the masters at Flamborough.

And so the time came when I was to sit the Scholarship examination. I had spent the previous weekend with Allan, my books left behind in my study at school, but just talking and thinking the Classics.

For the examinations I had to go to Cambridge, to my chosen College, where I was to stay for the three days of the examination.  It was my first taste of Collegiate life and I found, though I was horribly nervous of the examination papers, that I liked it. There were six papers in all, covering the whole range of the Classics, and including one more general paper inviting opinions upon historical topics and even one modern controversy.

It amazes me now, looking back, at the breadth and depth of the knowledge I had. My early reading, my teachers at St Mark’s and at Flamborough, my discoveries in museums and above all my rigorous tutoring by Allan Pascoe, all furnished me with knowledge which I poured out onto sheets of lined foolscap in that College room, supervised by a gowned and capped don. 

Finally came the interview and viva voce examination. I was invited to sit in front of a table behind which were lined up the Master of the College, one of the dons (who achieved celebrity as the author of a number of remarkable works of fiction) and a representative of the University Chest (who would be responsible for any financial arrangements concerned with Scholarships).

Back at School, I had to await the results. Camilla - may her shade drink nectar in Elysium! – took me once more to her arms and this time to her bed, though smuggling me into and out of her room took tactics worthy of Scipio Africanus.  We also had to make love quietly in order to avoid detection by the Matrons.

On the expected day came the expected summons to the Headmaster’s study. He sat in state at his desk, flanked by my Tutor and my Housemaster. In dry, unemotional tones he congratulated me upon winning a full Scholarship to my College. 

I had arranged to spend the next weekend with Allan at his cottage, where he could either congratulate or commiserate. I flew up the path to his front door, threw it open and flung myself into his arms. For the first and only time in all my long knowledge of him, I saw tears in his eyes.

That evening he opened a bottle of wine, saying that it was high time I began to know good wine from bad.  From that time, every weekend I spent with him was marked with a bottle of wine. I learned to distinguish between different grapes, even different vineyards. Even the occasional glass of Port or Madeira became part of my gastronomic education.

But of course I had to return to Flamborough for the last time. As at St Mark’s, I discovered how much I had come to love the place. Even the most dry and donnish of the masters had become, in a sense, a friend; I would keep up occasional correspondence with my Tutor and especially Housemaster for many years. Curiously, as at St Mark’s, I spent a good part of those last few weeks in helping to re-organize the Library. I was even called upon to help with some of the routine office work, due to one of the junior office staff having left unexpectedly. They were surprised to find how quickly I learned, never guessing that my periodic exercises in reducing the chaos of my mother’s office at home had given me considerable skills in this area.

Speech Day came and went, and the term ended. I bade fond farewells to my friends, with many a promise to keep in touch.  I took a last, solitary walk around the grounds, remembering the good times and the bad, the successes and the failures, and wondering how I should fare at Cambridge. I believe I even gave a little thought to wondering what I might do after leaving the University, hopefully with a good degree.

The holiday I spent much as other summer holidays. I visited my uncle Tom and his family in East Anglia. My experiences with Camilla at school had given me much greater confidence with Fenella and we spent much enjoyable time in one another‘s company. I suspect my uncle half hoped that there might be a budding romance there, but it was soon clear to both Fenella and me that although we greatly enjoyed being together, we had no mutual attraction beyond an agreeable comradeship. I would have died for her, should the necessity ever have arisen, but I would never have slept with her.

I spent, as in duty bound, a couple of weeks in London with my mother. She had at last accepted that I was now an adult who had to be allowed to live his own life, and so I was able to use the London house as a base but was not expected to carry out any chores other than those I elected to do myself.  She had, by then, acquired a competent resident housekeeper who dealt with most of the routine work of cooking, cleaning laundry and so forth. I give myself some of the credit for this in that my efforts in the office made for more efficient financial control.  Also by this time washing machines had become part of the furniture of most houses, including my mother's, and this would have reduced the laundry bill by a very considerable amount. I am also quite certain that the housekeeper's cooking was both better and more economical than my mother's.  There was now enough leeway for my mother to make me, if somewhat grudgingly, an allowance of a pound per week, which she continued up to the time I left Cambridge.

I also took, for three weeks, a job cooking in a 'Wimpy Bar'.  This provided a moderate amount of money - I was paid four shillings an hour - and kept me occupied. But I had to take a hot bath every evening to remove the grease from my hair and skin.  Since leaving this job I have never eaten another hamburger and I am sure that my health has benefited as a result.  'Wimpy' hamburgers were revolting things, accompanied by chips prepared in a deep fat fryer filled with beef tallow.

Of course, I spent time with Allan at his cottage. Edwin had by now gone on to his Public School and his affair with Allan had ended, very amicably on both sides. As he had gone on to Shrewsbury School, and his family were living in that area, I don't think he visited Allan again. But my Scholarship was now assured and I had a holiday also from study. Museum visits, however, continued; I had developed a taste for them over the years and even now, if in an unfamiliar town I will make for the local museum.  Even in the most modest of places there will be something of interest to see and knowledge to be gained.

Continue to Chapter Fifteen