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PARTISAN REVIEW
was not all-important, Sim would goad him along in a comparatively
fatherly way, with jokes and digs in the ribs and perhaps an
occasional tap with the pencil, but no hair-pulling and no caning.
It
was the poor but "clever" boys who suffered. Our brains were a
gold mine in which he had sunk money, and the dividends must
be
squeezed out of us. Long before I had grasped the nature of my
financial relationship with Sim, I had been made to understand
that I was not on the same footing as most of the other boys. In
effect there were three castes
in
the school. There was the minority
with an aristocratic or millionaire background, there were the chil–
dren of the ordinary suburban rich, who made up the bulk of the
school, and there were a few underlings like myself, the sons of
clergymen, Indian civil servants, struggling widows and the like.
These poorer ones were discouraged from going in for "extras" such
as shooting and carpentry, and were humiliated over clothes and pet–
ty possessions. I never, for instance, succeeded in getting a cricket
bat of my own, because "your parents wouldn't be able to afford
it." This phrase pursued me throughout my school days. At Cross–
gates we were not allowed to keep the money we brought back with
us, but had to "give it in" on the first day of term, and then from
time to time were allowed to spend it under supervision. I and simi–
larly-placed boys were always choked off from buying expensive toys
like model aeroplanes, even if the necessary money stood to our
credit. Bingo, in particular, seemed to aim consciously at inculcating
a humble outlook in the poorer boys. "Do you think that's the
sort of thing a boy like you should buy?" I remember her saying
to somebody-and she said this in front of the whole school; "You
know you're not going to grow up with money, don't you? Your
people aren't rich. You must learn to be sensible. Don't get above
yourself!" There was also the weekly pocket-money, which we took
out in sweets, dispensed by Bingo from a large table. The millionaires
had sixpence a week, but the normal sum was threepence. I and one
or two others were only allowed twopence. My parents had not given
instructions to this effect, and the saving of a penny a week could
not conceivably have made any difference to them: It was a mark
of status. Worse yet was the detail of the birthday cakes. It was
usual for each boy, on his birthday, to have a large iced cake with
candles, which was shared out at tea between the whole school. It
