A Choirboy at the Warneford, by Owen Bentley
Read about the memories of previous service users across the ages
How did it come about that on a cold dark night in the winter of 1952/53 a small group of 10 and 11 year old boys could be found roaming the extensive grounds of the Warneford hospital? They had got there on their bikes through a narrow entrance in the surrounding walls and were now playing hide and seek games, their torches illuminating the tennis and cricket pavilions and the many paths leading from them.
The answer is that they and I were all members of the Warneford Chapel Choir and had arrived there early for some fun and games before entering the chapel for the regular weeknight rehearsal for the following Sunday’s service of Matins where they would sing the appointed hymns and recite the responses.
We were recruited to the choir by my class teacher at Summertown Mixed School, long since closed. He, Mr Dunkley, (I never knew his first name) was the chapel organist and choirmaster. Dunkley was a brilliant teacher and his class regularly sang English folk songs and took part in the Oxford Schools Music Festival in the Town Hall. We did not need much persuading to join his choir as we saw it as a passport to adventure in the walled grounds of a place of real mystery, a mental hospital! Besides we were also to be paid a few shillings. Not only could we run wild, scrumping the gooseberries, peas and soft fruit on the farm but after our weekly rehearsal Mr Dunkley would produce his airgun and we would lie down on the chancel steps and shoot tiny darts at targets at the far end of the short nave of the chapel. After that excitement there was the cycle ride home through the dark woods where Oxford Brookes university now stands and on through South Park stopping off for a small bag of chips at the fish and chip shop in St Clements before going our various ways home.
Sunday mornings we far more decorous. We would put on our cassocks and surplices in the tiny vestry before processing to the front pews facing the altar. Mt Dunkley would ascend the organ loft where old Albert, an ancient bent figure, (to my mind our own Quasimodo), hand-pumped the organ and the service began. We were instructed never to glance behind us at the congregation lest we witnessed the occasional untoward happening. Instead we were to concentrate on our singing and listen attentively to the priest, a pleasant old cleric who combined his chaplaincy at the Warneford with his parish duties at Horton-cum-Studley to the best of my recollection.
At Christmas we made our annual foray into the hospital itself to sing carols round the wards. It was a rare experience of the workings of the hospital and whilst we sensed the Warneford a warm and relaxed place for the patients we did get to see at least one secure ward from the inside and, if memory can be trusted, a padded room. When our singing tour was over the high spot was the groaning table of refreshments and some words of thanks from the Matron who to us boys was a formidable figure.
We always felt welcome at the Waneford. In the grounds we would chat to the patients out enjoying the gardens. We would watch a few overs at the cricket match before haring of on our bikes for more adventure. One year we were invited to join the audience for a memorable performance by the dramatic society of Sheridan’s “She Stoops to Conquer”. We really felt we belonged to and were a part of the hospital.
My time in the Warneford Choir was a true highlight of my childhood from the age of 11-15 I enjoyed the comradeship of the choir, the adventures and the singing under our charismatic choirmaster but most of all I loved that amazing place behind its high walls.
Owen Bentley
