Scotch College

Harold Blenkiron stops here

'Stop there!' - Mr Blenkiron's famous edict was the first thing that came to mind when I heard of his passing. As Graham McInnes has written, 'The great figures of our schooldays hold Jovian proportions in the recollections of middle age.'

Every school has its share of characters, but surely very few could claim the indelible collective impact of the likes of '45' Clayton, 'Froggy' Orton, 'Ginner' Davidson, 'Chesty' Bond, 'Gunner' Owen, George Logie-Smith and Harold Blenkiron.

Almost everyone in the class had a go at impersonating him; the best half-dozen staged a regular lunchtime floorshow in the Quad. His fiendishly difficult detention assignment, '123456789 and prove by long division', produced copybook working papers which Tony Bell kept in a biscuit tin and auctioned to desperate incumbents of Room 19. (Harold was on to this, of course, and the next detainee got '123456798').

The stories were legion, and probably embellished beyond all recognition: measuring two alternative routes to school from his home in Illawarra Road with a one-foot ruler to determine the shorter; a boy suddenly leaping on to the window-sill of a second-floor room crying, "Mr Blenkiron, I can't take it any more - you've made me do this!" and leaping to what Mr Blenkiron thought was certain doom but in fact was a strategically placed pile of builder's sand (by the time a distraught Harold had run down to investigate and returned, the boy was back in his seat pretending to wonder what all the fuss was about).

My personal favourite was the lad who, on a very hot day, "borrowed" a light-switch from the maintenance shed, screwed it into the pin-up board in the classroom and asked Mr Blenkiron if he'd like the 'new air-conditioning system turned on'. On a grateful nod, our enterprising engineer threw the switch, which was the cue for the whole class to emit a low hum. 'Oh, thank you', said Mr Blenkiron.' That feels much better!' One wonders how long the class kept up the hum. One also wonders if Harold suspected all along and simply played the game.

Yes, he was a figure of constant and sometimes cruel fun; none so wholly eccentric could have escaped such merciless treatment. But he was also utterly dedicated to his task. His insistence on accuracy and relentless pursuit of the truth seemed pedantic at the time, but are now recognised as a central lesson in life.

Aged 82 and resplendent in white tie and tails, he spoke brilliantly at the Class of '69's 20 year reunion. For a record 160 of us, he was the main drawcard, and he was as moved as we were by two prolonged standing ovations. Now he has indeed 'stopped there'; but from the banging down of the desk-lids to the shouting through the ventilators, we shall remember him. My son is as enthralled and entertained by all the stories, as I was. I have no hesitation in deeming Harold Clarence Blenkiron one of the supreme Scotch legends of the 20th Century. To quote McInnes again: 'By such men ... and the memories of their work are nations built and loyalties created.'

Campbell McComas