achievement gave him the pick of several excellent grammar schools in central and suburban Liverpool. Mimi’s choice was Quarry Bank High School in Harthill Road, an easy bicycle ride from Mendips via the path across Calderstones Park. He started there at the beginning of the 1952 autumn term, shortly before his twelfth birthday.
Quarry Bank’s designation as a ‘high school’ implied no affinity with the mixed-gender informality of American high schools but rather was a subtle hint of elevation above other boys’ grammar schools in the vicinity. Founded in 1922, it took its name from the local sandstone quarries that had begotten so many major Liverpool buildings, including the Anglican cathedral. The school itself was housed in an ornately neo-Gothic sandstone mansion, built in 1867 by a wealthy merchant named John Bland. Although part of the state system, and charging no fees, it modelled itself on a public school like Harrow or Winchester, with black-gowned masters, a house system and a general air of tradition and antiquity.
Tuition might be gratis, but each pupil’s family was expected to supply the compulsory uniform of black blazer and cap and black-and-gold striped tie. The blazer was an especially natty affair, with its breast-pocket badge of a gold stag’s head above the Latin motto Ex Hoc Metallo Virtutem—‘from this rough metal [comes forth] manhood.’ The cuffs were decorated like those of a junior naval officer, with a raised black stripe surmounted by a ring of gold stags’ heads. The blazers were costly enough when bought from the school’s official outfitter, Wareings in Smithdown Road. Mimi, however, preferred to have John’s made to measure by his Uncle George’s tailor for the whopping sum of £12 apiece, nearly as much as George had paid for the new bike. No real parents could have been more dotingly insistent that he had the best of everything.
The start of a new academic epoch scattered the Woolton Outlaws in widely different directions. Academically gifted and hardworking Ivy Vaughan had won a place at Liverpool Institute, the most renowned of the inner city’s grammar schools. Nigel Walley was bound for the Bluecoat School, near Penny Lane, the former Bluecoat Hospital where Alf Lennon had been a pupil 30 years earlier. But happily for John, his arch crony Pete Shotton also had got into Quarry Bank. ‘We went through it like Siamese twins,’ Pete would remember. ‘We started together in our first year at the top and gradually sank together into the sub-basement.’
John himself later maintained that he arrived at grammar school determined to do well and be a credit to Mimi and Uncle George. All such good resolutions melted away at his first sight of his new classmates, tearing and whooping around Quarry Bank’s playground. ‘I thought “Christ, I’ll have to fight my way through this lot,” having just made it at Dovedale. There were some real heavies there. The first fight I got in, I lost. I lost my nerve when I really got hurt. If there was a bit of blood, then you packed it in. After that, if I thought someone could punch harder than me, I said, “OK, we’ll have wrestling instead.”…I was aggressive because I wanted to be popular. I wanted to be the leader. It seemed more attractive than just being one of the toffees. I wanted everyone to do what I told them to do, to laugh at my jokes and let me be the boss.’
Quarry Bank’s founding head, R F Bailey, had been an outstanding educator with a special talent for spotting the potential in offbeat or eccentric boys. He had retired five years before John’s arrival, handing over the reins to an austere ex-serviceman and Methodist lay preacher named Ernest R Taylor. Quarry Bank pupils of ‘Ernie’ Taylor’s era remember him as an unapproachable figure, striding along corridors lost in aloof, headmasterly thought, his black gown billowing out behind him.
As at most boys’ school of that era, corporal punishment was routinely administered. Pete Shotton never forgot the first time John and he were called to the head’s study to be caned. While they waited outside together, John reduced the nervous Pete to tucks by speculating that the head’s cane might be produced like some royal regalia from a case studded with jewels and lined with velvet. They were called in separately to receive their punishment, John going first. A few moments later, the door opened and he emerged on his hands and knees, groaning melodramatically. What Pete didn’t realise was that a small lobby lay between the head’s study and the corridor, so Ernie was quite unaware of this performance. ‘I was laughing so much when I went in that I got [the cane] even harder than John had.’
The five houses in which the boys were grouped supposedly fostered loyalty and brotherhood as well as giving a competitive edge to sporting activities. Each house was named after one of the adjacent suburbs and consisted only of pupils from that neighbourhood, so perpetuating the rivalries and social snobberies that existed between them. Woolton house, which claimed John and Pete, lay about midway in this social microcosm, not quite so select as Childwall or Allerton, but a decided cut above Wavertree and Aigburth.
Also among Quarry Bank’s 1952 intake was Rod Davis, their former classmate at St Peter’s Sunday school. All three were put into the ‘A’ stream of boys considered most intelligent and promising of the batch. From there, while Rod went from strength to strength, John and Pete were quickly downgraded to the ‘B’ and thence with minimum delay to the ‘C’ stream, stopping at that point only because there was nowhere lower to go. ‘I never really understood how that happened,’ Rod Davis says. ‘It was always obvious that John was just as bright or a good bit brighter than anyone else around. But right from the beginning it was obvious he’d made up his mind not to subscribe to the system in any way.’
A strong contributory factor was his extreme shortsightedness, coupled with his obstinate refusal to wear the glasses he so detested. Rather than risk being taunted as a ‘four-eyes’ or a ‘drip’ he preferred to walk around in a state of such mole-like myopia that he could read the number on a bus stop only by shinning halfway up the pole. Davis, it so happened, had even weaker sight but made sure he missed nothing on the blackboard by reading it through opera glasses. John, however, was content to skulk with Pete Shotton at the back of the room, letting sentences, dates, mathematical equations and chemical formulae all swim together into the same untranslatable blur.
Pete’s analogy with Siamese twins may have been more telling than he knew, for John, the one-off, the super-original, never liked acting alone. As he would prove time and again in the future, to flourish at his most individualistic he needed a partner—a kindred spirit perfectly tuned to his special wavelength, acting simultaneously as a stimulus and an audience. Wherever some school rule was most flagrantly broken, the resultant hue and cry would be after ‘Lennon and Shotton’, which John turned into ‘Shennon and Lotton’ to symbolise their inseparability and unanimity of purpose, or purposelessness. Like two chain-gang escapees handcuffed together, neither of them could do anything without the other helplessly following suit.
Over the following terms, Quarry Bank’s punishment book thronged with the diverse crimes of Shennon and Lotton: ‘Failing to report to school office’…‘Insolence’…‘Throwing backboard duster out of window’…‘Cutting class and going AWOL [Absent Without Leave]’…‘Gambling on school field during house [cricket] match…’ Sometimes their offences went off the scale even of Quarry Bank’s draconian punishments, leaving Ernie Taylor no choice but to call in their respective families. Back home at Mendips, Mimi grew to dread the peal of the telephone during school hours. ‘A voice would say, “Hello, Mrs. Smith, it’s the [head’s] secretary at Quarry Bank here…” “Oh Lord,” I’d think. “What’s he done now?” ’
The duo were more or less permanently in detention, either writing out hundreds of lines beginning ‘I must not…’ or engaged in military-style fatigues around the school grounds. It was during such a work detail that they learned the untruth of the axiom ‘Crime does not pay.’ While emptying rubbish into a trash can, Pete came upon three bulky brown envelopes addressed to the headmaster. Inside were used dinner tickets, the vouchers purchased by boys at a shilling apiece to exchange for their school lunch. Used tickets being indistinguishable from unused ones, Shennon and Lotton could resell the whole cache at sixpence each, a bargain that left the purchaser half his daily lunch allowance to spend as he pleased. ‘We had 1,500 dinner tickets up in John’s bedroom,’ Pete remembered. ‘They were worth £75, which was like almost £1,000 today. We were rich. We even gave up shoplifting while that was going on.’
Any teacher showing