PERSONAL MEMORIES OF AN EXTREMELY FINE INDIVIDUAL
I first encountered Fordyce Maxwell in 1956 when, aged eleven, and both of us sporting short trousers we travelled with trepidation on the school bus for our first day at Berwick Grammar, a seat of learning where assaults by pupils and brutality by some teachers formed part of the curriculum.
Fordyce's death earlier this month robbed me of a lifelong friend and a revered colleague. I'm left with a hoard of memories collected over the course of 66 years.
Those memories were uppermost in my mind today when we gathered to say farewell to an all-round good guy who faced death with the same stoicism that marked him out all through his 77 years. The huge turnout of folks wishing to pay their respects spoke volumes.
But for now let us return to that day we met on the school charabanc.
Fordyce and I had both enjoyed our early schooling in the relatively tranquil village primaries of Cornhill and Norham even though the post-war school dinners left much to be desired. It was here where largely benign tutors treated us firmly but fairly, and prepared us for the ghastly Eleven Plus (11+) exam.
Those of us who passed - scraped through after a recount in my case - were said to have avoided the trapdoor which led to life in a Secondary Modern by qualifying for a grammar school education. But I have my doubts to this day.
The testing system was extremely unfair on those kids who failed to perform to their true potential on just a single day in the school year. I witnessed some being almost physically sick as they stared blankly at the test paper for they could not cope with the pressure of the examination despite their abilities. Thankfully, many of the so-called 'failures' went on to achieve in later life.
On a windswept September day back in '56 the two of us and the rest of that year's new intake passed through the gates of BGS on our way to an introductory helping of physical torture. For the path to the main block was lined by much bigger boys armed with coshes made from knotted handkerchiefs.
Soon blows rained down on our heads from all directions, and we were branded 'coward' if we tried to shield our skulls by raising our arms. Our school caps - part of the compulsory BGS uniform - offered little protection from the treatment being dished out to us first formers.
Apparently this form of sadistic sport was tolerated by the school management because it was regarded as a 'traditional initiation'. I'm convinced some of those hankies were fortified with nuts and bolts or marbles to magnify our pain.
I recall Fordyce suffering the ordeal with courage and fortitude while I burst into tears. The same morning ritual was to continue throughout that first week until the perpetrators - supposedly North Northumberland's finest - eventually tired of their horrible game and allowed us free passage. I just wished I'd failed the exam!
It wasn't long before a few of the teachers replaced our fellow pupils as our tormentors. Where was Health & Safety when you needed them?
It cannot have been right that youngsters like us were the recipients of physical violence from Mr Sharp, Mr Brady or Mr Bligh, often for the most paltry of misdemeanours. Our heads were once more often targets for their indiscriminate blows which they dished out with obvious relish.
Thankfully we survived to tell the tale. But had that trio been teaching nowadays they would certainly have been struck off or prosecuted.
My friendship with classmate Fordyce flourished as we progressed through the school. In the summer holidays I'd cycle from my home up to Cramond Hill, the farm where the Maxwell clan - Fordyce eventually had eight siblings - were in residence. In those days the sun always shone, and we made the most of the weather to indulge in endless games of football or cricket.
The sports field at BGS was my favourite school haunt. So, it was always disappointing when, during particularly inclement weather our PE teacher, the aforementioned Mr Bligh - a man of few words - would announce "Pitch Unfit, Match Off".
But while most members of the class were happy to settle for a couple of hours cooped up indoors, Fordyce and I would seek permission to set out on a cross country run across Berwick through the driving rain. We would return soaked to the skin before the bus journey home. Anything was preferable to extra academic study!
I couldn't wait to leave BGS in 1961 after somehow managing to land a job as a trainee newspaper reporter in Berwick. But the two of us promised to keep in touch.
Soon I met up with Fordyce again when we both played at right fullback for Wark FC; he was a tough tackling regular in the first eleven while I plied my limited and much more timid skills in the Reserves. It was commonplace in the 1960s for tiny villages like Wark to field two full teams each weekend. Just as well, otherwise I wouldn't have got a game.
We parted company again when I left the Borders to work for The Scotsman. But it wasn't long before Fordyce joined the paper too, and later he became its distinguished and award winning Farming Editor. It seemed we were destined to get in each other's hair all through life, and I'm extremely glad that we did.
For many years we met up for Saturday afternoon therapy sessions at Shielfield Park where we got rid of the working week's frustrations by cheering or (more often) cursing our much loved Berwick Rangers. Fordyce even managed to persuade his son Tom to become a Wee Rangers addict.
I was particularly touched that when I ended my Scotsman career early due to ill health Fordyce penned a flattering and totally undeserved tribute which appeared in the paper. His writing skills, like his prowess at soccer, outshone mine by a country mile.
We had maintained our friendship long into retirement, and I was devastated when Fordyce told me a few months ago that he would not recover from the prostate cancer that had blighted him for the previous couple of years.
Our last emotional exchange of emails clearly demonstrated that his bravery and inner calm remained with him right to the end. I can never recall a time when Fordyce appeared flustered, even in the most trying of circumstances.
Since his passing the generous tributes have flowed in from near and far, from the farming community which was the subject for many of his published articles, and from the world of journalism where he was something of a colossus.
As far as I'm concerned I count it an honour and a privilege to have had Fordyce Maxwell as a dear friend for virtually all of my life.
B.C.
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