From Dennis Silk's address at Paul Crowson's Memorial Service at Radley.

If ever a man was born to teach, in the fullest sense of that word, that man was Paul Spiller Crowson. I recently asked one of his earliest pupils, who had taken to schoolmastering and become a Headmaster, what he thought Paulss chief qualities were. He did not hesitate. "He was wise, he was modest, he was gentle and he was kind. He was also innovative, exciting and civilised". I asked a colleague who had known him for most of his 30 years of service to Radley, what he thought Paul would be remembered for here. He said: "For his courage, his intellect and, above all, his integrity."

I have had the privilege of reading the testimonials sent to Warden Wilkes by those who were Paul's referees for his job here. The very first sentence I read said it all. It began: "Paul Crowson is first class." Everything that followed was equally crisp and true. It was written by one of the most respected headmasters I have ever known: John Mackay of Bristol Grammar School. He had been a young master at Whitgift when Paul was a boy there in 1931. "He was, in my opinion, the best head of school that I have ever known, and his Headmaster, Ronald Gurner, owed an enormous debt to him in that first year in the grand new Haling Park building".

It was thought that Paul had worked so hard in that final year as Head of School that he wore himself out and succumbed to the T.B. germ which dogged him for the rest of his life. It certainly surprised me to know that he had been a 1st XV rugger player at Whitgift, a 1st XI hockey player and a 2nd XI cricketer. I never heard him speak of his games-playing prowess, though I was deeply impressed by his dedication to the junior teams he coached at Radley. When the great Oundle coach, Frank Spragg, came at the invitation of the Radley Master in charge of rugger, David Skipper, to talk to the men who took games, Paul turned up and asked a searching question. "How do I stop the Midgets 4th XV front row collapsing every time they have a set scrum?" Spragg's answer is not recorded. Paul never shirked his share of cricket umpiring, and when winter arrived, out came the longest pair of faded blue rugger shorts any of us had ever seen.

The engine room of Paul's early teaching career was in the classroom at Watford Grammar School. He had come down from Exeter College, Oxford, where he was a History Exhibitioner, with a good degree (he in fact just missed a first). He had done extremely well in a teaching practice term at Blundell's and then had gone to Chillon College in Switzerland to run the History and recover from T.B. In every lesson Paul believed in a healthy mixture of tradition and novelty. In each history period in the lower school at Watford he came in with a fresh quotation, and when that had been discussed, the boys had to find the square root of a long number. He produced a form newspaper and gave them all a history project, and that in 1944. "It was a continuing excitement to be taught by Paul", said one pupil. "He shone out like a beacon".

His successes in the Watford History Department were legion and he soon acquired an enviable reputation with history dons at Oxford and Cambridge for producing sparky pupils who were fun to teach. After six years at Watford he applied for, and was accepted, to teach History at Radley in 1945, and embarked on a 30 year stint that was to immortalise him in Radleian folklore.

After five years he took over as F Social Tutor from Tiny Southam and slowly and steadily acquired the trust and affection that he never consciously sought. The more the boys got to know him the more they valued him. The older and more mature they became the more they realised that they were under the wing of a man who cared deeply about their well being.

He was much imitated, a sure sign of popularity. They discovered his sense of humour, exemplified in an incident in which a senior boy, sitting on duty in his Tutor's study when Paul was away, answered the phone and decided to pretend he was the Tutor. He gave a deprecating cough followed by: "Crowson here." "That's strange", said the other voice, "It's Crowson here, too".

It is worth mentioning that Paul's sense of duty was such that he was reputed to have been away from Radley for only three nights in term time in his 15 years as a Tutor. He had no personal ambition save to do his duty, and that rubbed off on those who went through his hands. Being basically a rather shy man he was not a fluent communicator with unlimited small talk, and interviews with parents were often punctuated with long periods of silence. He seldom, if ever, spoke without much thought. However, he could be very funny when required, witness his hilarious performance in Peter Way's wonderful Dons' Plays. I remember in particular his playing an Indian Squaw in "Horse Play or Up the Totem Pole" in which his stage name was White Feather, an un-brave, to contrast with Richard Morgan's Top Scalp Slicing Iron, a brave. In the first Dons' Play I ever saw, "Peter Panto", Paul played Peter Pop Picker, a disc jockey.

When he announced at the end of the last Social Prayers of the Winter term in December 1955 that he was about to be married to the widowed mother of the three Morris brothers in his Social, the boys were astonished. It is, of course, not unknown for dedicated schoolmaster bachelors to overthrow the habits of a lifetime and marry, and this was to prove a wonderfully happy and successful match. Not even inadequate married quarters in an ancient classroom between the Octagon and F Social Hall, surrounded by boys on all sides, could produce a murmur of a complaint from Joan and Paul. They entertained generously and were a perfectly complementary team. Paul soon won the hearts of his three "ready made" sons and became a devoted and ever tactful father to them. Culain, Deigan and Sean got on very well with their new step-father and there was real respect and affection on both sides. No father could have been more solicitous for their success in their chosen careers.

When Diana and I arrived at Radley in September 1968 we had already got to know Paul and Joan, thanks to their typically kind gesture of allowing us to live in their lovely flat in the Mansion while the Warden's House was being re-wired. No effort was spared to make us feel welcome and at home, but these were not easy days. Most people have forgotten how uncomfortable the late 1960s and early 70s were in schools. Student revolution was the order of the day in virtually every university and school in Europe and the United States. Common Rooms were under considerable pressure for change. Hair was long, dress was scruffy, representation of pupils on the School Council was being sought everywhere and the threat of drugs kept headmasters on their toes throughout the land. Some, in fact, went out feet first under the strain.

It would be hard to convey to you just what a perfect Sub-Warden's job Paul did in this maelstrom. We used to meet each morning at 7.45 a.m. No one had his finger more surely on the pulse of College than Paul as we discussed difficult decisions, recalcitrant boys and what lay ahead of us each day. His cheerfulness and optimism were a tonic to a raw, new, inexperienced Warden. He positively blossomed in his new and highly responsible role. I can remember that great Headmaster, Frank Fisher, saying at a Rugby Group Meeting at that time: "When the revolution comes it will come in Hall". Paul monitored Hall with a sureness of touch that ensured good order and calm and cheerfulness.

At Tutors' meetings he was a tower of strength, defusing misunderstandings, foreseeing possible difficulties, always meticulous in his administration and courteous and helpful to every colleague who needed advice. He was especially good with new Dons, letting them know what was expected of them without frightening them. I will never forget an occasion when the Beagle pack came under threat from the anti blood sports lobby, and some well intentioned young Tutors tried to bring about their abolition to sweeten our neighbours in liberal Oxford. I knew in my heart that the Beagle pack did a wonderful job for many country-loving Radleians who didn't shine particularly at games, but loved the freedom and the protocol of a day's hunting. I blustered and argued ineffectually against the tide of opinion at the Tutors' meeting and in desperation turned to Paul who, after a couple of coughs, said: "Well, Warden, I don't think I have much to say of importance except that beagling is the one activity in which we ask boys to work very closely with animals, and as such I believe it is an important activity at Radley". There was a stunned silence, and the young Turks admitted that they hadn't thought of that, and of course we must keep the Beagles. What a wonderful thing it was for Radley to have a man with such a good head and such a warm heart at the controls.

A few of you will remember my first Gaudy in 1969 when an impish boy posted notices all over Oxford in the week before Gaudy inviting anyone who wished to come, to an all-day Pop Concert at Radley on Gaudy day itself starting at 10.00 a.m. My heart sank when I heard of this and I spent most of that Friday rushing round Oxford tearing down as many of the notices as I could. However, it was Paul who saved the day. The motley group of very hairy and ill-clad takers for the Pop Concert found him awaiting them at the front entrance of College. With great courtesy he told them that he felt sure they would enjoy a tour of the College first, and somewhat awkwardly and a trifle mystified they fell in behind him and were marched to Hall, to the Music School, to the running track, to the workshops, round the classrooms and finally to the Chapel. By this time they were exhausted and longing to escape, but Paul went meticulously on telling them all about our Founders, Sewell and Singleton, and the organ and the gallery and the reredos. Eventually they were allowed to escape. Paul had, once more, saved the day.

It was his invariable practice, when the flak was flying, to protect me from criticism, which was, properly, mine. When things had gone well, thanks to his arrangements and thinking, he was nowhere to be found to receive the congratulations that were properly his, though often he would start a false rumour that it had been my planning and my idea. I don't think many people were fooled!

Looking back over the years a host of memories come flooding back. He was invited, when he left Radley, to sit on Council and the quality of his input was first class. He listened intently, said little, but what he did say was invaluable. I remember chuckling at his advice to a young Tutor. "When a boy comes to you and asks to go out with his uncle ask him if the uncle is his father's brother or his mother's brother. If he says neither, you say no". More serious was his advice to all Tutors:

"If your Prefects aren't running the Social, no one is". What a privilege it was to close the Chapel Doors with Paul each evening, and how my heart leaped up when he whispered, as the doors closed, a word or two of encouragement and reassurance to me. "The boys are looking cheerful tonight, Warden" or, "Your words to the parents were well received, Warden" or, best of all: "The school feels very steady, Warden". His lovely smile lit up many a dark day and on certain special occasions he would give me a big wink and that set me up for a week.

The secret of this quietly inspiring man was that he was a God-fearing Christian man. The Chapel was his inspiration - never ostentatiously, but humbly and with the integrity that informed all that he did. Radley will, I hope, flourish for another thousand years, but it will never have a more good and faithful servant than Paul Spiller Crowson.

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