My name is William Richard Kelly and I began at Tudor House in 1956, leaving in 1961. I arrived in Quarter Deck, where Miss Rutherford who was fondly known as “Gypsy”—was our House Mum as well as a school teacher. I believe there were only five boys in Quarter Deck at the time. Later, I moved into Inman House under the firm but memorable Housemaster Mr Bob Darke. His discipline was unmistakable. I remember his swinging adult sand shoe all too well. By Year 5, I was in Meyer House, where Mr Paine was the Housemaster. We slept in a large dormitory of around 10 to 12 beds. One boy had a habit of sleepwalking and in a strange nightly ritual, another to the Illawarra Highway and into the frosty night, then return to bed and lock the door. The sleepwalker would eventually wake from his trance, find the Housemaster and be escorted back to bed, none of us ever admitted knowing a thing.
Eventually, I moved into Medley, under the care of Mr John Maffey. The showers were memorable not for comfort, but for their cold, bracing water and the watchful eye of the Housemaster who ensured we did not dash through too quickly, even in the depths of winter.
The Headmaster at the time was Mr Dixon, a man of great presence. He was not only our principal and part-time chaplain but also taught leatherwork. He had a particularly long thumbnail on his right hand, which he used, together with a finely sharpened penknife, to cut strips of kangaroo leather for plaiting faster and more precise than any commercial tool. I remember learning how to plait belts and pen covers, complete with a Turks head and tasselled end, skills also used in whip and keyring making. His well-worn sports coat with leather elbow patches and the ever-present pipe in his top pocket made him an instantly recognisable figure.
Some of my best memories come from the workshops. Mr Cheetham known affectionately as “Old Cheeto” was a house builder by trade and one of the kindest men I have ever known. His carpentry shop was a chaotic delight, filled with timber in every state and very little room to move. He let us boys experiment freely, bending nails and hacking away at wood. At the end of each class, he would quietly tally up our efforts in a little notebook, awarding us points that later translated into end-of-year gifts like a nail punch, eggbeater drill, hammer or plane. One of the great highlights was the Carpenter’s Picnic. We would climb aboard his Morris Commercial Truck, heading out to Robertson Rainforest or Fitzroy Falls, the tray full of pastries—cream puffs, jam rolls, lamingtons, chocolate eclairs and crates of fizzy drinks. He would play his piano accordion and we would feast and laugh. I felt especially honoured when I was chosen to present him with his retirement gift.
Mr Kearney’s workshop was the opposite — neat, modern and well-equipped. There were power tools, a Shopsmith machine that transformed from lathe to saw bench to drill press and more. Older boys used it on an honour system. Outside, we crafted baskets from cane, softened in a pond nearby. We would cut and drill masonite bases, then weave the cane into fruit bowls, trays and wastepaper baskets. Mr Kearney later went to The King’s School and Mr Mann took his place.
Physical education with Mr Turner “Razz” was a highlight. With his slick beeswaxed hair and BMW motorcycle, he was a character. A few lucky boys got to ride pillion into Moss Vale or out to the distant ovals. His family was in the brush-making business and we learned to make all sorts of brushes for scrubbing, hair, and otherwise—as part of our curriculum.
Tudor House went up to Year 7 during my time and in those senior years, a few of us were allowed to collect snacks from Mrs Darling in the school kitchen and head off on our bikes with two shillings each to Robertson or Fitzroy Falls for a picnic. We always saved a penny to flatten under the train tracks placing it on the rail and watching a steam engine pass over it, doubling its size to nearly 60mm. No WHS back then! We would pass only the occasional coal truck rumbling toward Moss Vale.
High Tea in the dining room was something to look forward to—trifles, pastries and a sense of occasion. Fancy dress days were just as memorable, letting our imaginations run free. Some boys took horse riding lessons at Throsby Park with Del Throsby.
I also enjoyed Cubs with Miss Rutherford, collecting badges and later Scouts with
Mr Maffey, learning knots, Morse code, semaphore, first aid and camping skills. On an overnight trip to Mount Keira, most of us shared cooked rabbit, but I will never forget Nick Paspaley cooking a copperhead snake which was a bold move, even then.
Ballroom dancing, taught by Miss Beaumont, was taken seriously but was also great fun. I still remember the thrill of the day Mr Crichton-Brown donated
a television set and it was placed on the stage in the hall and felt like a marvel of the modern world, even though it was only 500mm wide.
There were seasonal crazes among the boys like marbles and hopscotch in first term, spinning tops in second, yo-yos in third. Our bikes were our pride and joy. I will never forget being woken in the night to lie on the front lawn and watch Sputnik pass overhead. In 1956, we were bussed into Moss Vale to see the Olympic Torch pass through town on its way to the Melbourne Games, a crisp, frosty morning. Decades later, in 2000, I stood in the same place with my son Peter then a Tudor boy watching the torch pass again on its way to Sydney.
Some memories are more unusual. Bill Robson, a classmate, had a passion for ducks. The School helped build a duck yard and pond, and soon his small flock became a crowd. Immunisation days were feared by all. We would line up at the hospital for polio shots, where just a few reusable syringes were used for all the boys that wiped between uses and sometimes lapped with an oilstone when dull. Boys would hide in blackberry bushes or even make it as far as the Fitzroy Falls turnoff to escape the dreaded needles, only to be brought back and ticked off the roll.
The School Hospital had just six beds, so during outbreaks of measles, mumps or flu, overflow would sleep in Medley House. The Matron overworked and adored, was being quietly courted by Mr Maffey at the time. They later married.
I was fascinated by the bore drilling that took place near the creek. The wooden percussion rig was something out of another era, dropping a steel shaft into the ground for days on end. The dam east of the School was built with a donated dozer from Mr John Pearce, whose sons Tony and Roy were also students.
We boys had our duties sweeping, filling coke scuttles, maintaining the boiler. I remember the excitement of walking out after Saturday night movies to find snow falling thickly, enough to delay bedtime and fill us with wonder.
Tuck shop “tuck,” as we called it was held on the bricks outside the chapel near the library. On Tuesday and Saturday mornings, two shillings could buy a lot of sweets.
Our excursions were extraordinary. We toured Australian Iron and Steel witnessing the blast furnaces, coke ovens and rolling mills and eating lunch in the workers’ canteen, with no fences or warning lines, just common sense. I was on the last trip to the Morton Bay Whaling Station, where we went out on a chaser boat and watched a whale be harpooned, inflated and tagged. The next day we boarded the mother ship and saw the whale brought aboard, winched up and processed fascinating and unforgettable, despite the smell.
At the Moss Vale Show, some of us led livestock in the parade. I was behind a classmate, Miller, who was leading a Friesian bull when a lightning bolt struck it dead. Miller was knocked unconscious, the ground alive with static. We were lucky it wasn’t worse.
Tudor House is deeply embedded in my family’s history. My father Richard (Dick) Kelly and his brothers Bill and Rodger all attended. Dad and Uncle Bill used to tell the tale of wrapping a parcel, tying it to a string, and leaving it on the highway to fool passing truck drivers, who would stop only to see the parcel whipped away into the blackberry bushes. The irate drivers, having lost precious momentum, would have to grind up the hill again in low gear. Uncle Rodger once tried to run away on his very first day. My grandfather, Willie Kelly, had dropped him off and gone shopping in Goulburn, only to find Rodger hiding in the boot.
I am proud to be part of four generations of Tudor House boys. My father Richard (OT 1930), and his brothers Bill (OT 1930) and Rodger (OT 1945); myself William Richard (OT 1969) and my brother Michael (OT 1967); my sons William Andrew (OT 1991) and Peter (OT 2001); and now my grandson William (Bill) (OT 2025), with the possibility of Freddie, Archie, Arabella, Torie, Alfie and Millie still to come.
Tudor House gave me far more than an education. It gave me memories rich with colour, mischief, learning and tradition. I carry them with pride and pass them on with love.