The Spud series by John van de Ruit is the first modern South African interpretation of the British boarding-school novel.
It has always surprised me that the South African boarding-school experience has not been explored more thoroughly, in fiction or memoir, and it would not surprise me if more books that encapsulate the experience were to follow.
It is not surprising, though, that the series has found such a wide audience, given that it conforms to a tried-and-tested formula.
Ever since Tom Brown was carted off to Rugby School in 1857, the boarding-school novel (and subsequently, the boarding-school film) has become such a staple that, despite the exclusivity of the world it depicts, audiences are largely familiar with the elements that recur throughout the genre.
The day the protagonist leaves home, the arrival, the quick bonds formed with a like-minded few, the descriptions of frightening dinner ladies serving unidentifiable meals, eccentric masters and the importance of games and team sports, the bullies and the misfits, these are all expected, and for some readers, regardless of whether they have been through a similar system, these elements are a large part of the appeal.
Films such as Dead Poets Society depend on this familiarity for success with a wide audience. Indeed, the most successful series of books published, the Harry Potter series, takes place within the confines of a British boarding school, albeit a magical one. Many of the expected features and conventions are there, placing the whole plot within a predictable, even comforting frame.
At school (and beyond), I found myself drawn to the boarding-school novel and its natural successor, the university novel. I gorged myself on autobiographical and fictional accounts of life in institutions that, geographic location and historical setting aside, were often eerily similar to my surroundings.
Sometimes this similarity was aesthetic, as I recognised the creaking wooden stairs that had been indented by a hundred years of footsteps and shiny wooden handrails polished by the hands of generations of girls reluctantly dragging themselves up to class.
More subtle — and significant — was a sense of history, not as much a result of the age of the place as much as the regular reminders, the cabinets of yellowing photographs and artefacts, the old honour boards that listed names of achievers next to their dates, that we were “A School with a Long Tradition”.
The books I read helped make sense of this, but more importantly, formed a sort of instruction manual, a “How To” guide for retaining a sense of individualism, even rebelliousness, in a system where it seemed rules were enforced, not only by teachers and prefects, but also by the faces in portraits and photographs that hung throughout the school.
I was introduced to stories set in schools similar to mine when I was given a copy of The Worst Witch (1974) as a little girl. I was still getting used to the whole idea of school and it thrilled me that at this witches’ school they also sang school songs that had been sung by generations before them and that Mildred seemed to be as clumsy and shambolic as I was. From then on I sought out books about school life.
I never read Mallory Towers (my grandmother disapproved of Enid Blyton), but by the time I was in high school I had read Roald Dahl’s Boy, his autobiography that included depictions of his time at the Repton School and, perhaps most impressively, the story of The Great Mouse Plot of 1923. I warmed to stories of pranksters, misfits and outcasts and the books that explored the humour and absurdity of the environment.
As such, and despite the fact that it was vital to the establishment of the genre, Tom Brown’s School Days never really held any appeal. It was a product of its time and the message was that conformity and acceptance of the rules is a sign of maturity and good character.
Although the novels I preferred were often equally anachronistic in their setting, they were more modern in their outlook and in their defence and celebration of the individual.
The gender (and indeed, sexual orientation) of the protagonist was never a stumbling block. Any angst-ridden and misunderstood youth would do. For a while British comedian and writer Stephen Fry’s autobiography, Moab is My Washpot (and, to a lesser extent, the semi-autobiographical novel that preceded it, The Liar) became a permanent feature in my schoolbag, as I read and reread it. It remains a favourite, maybe because it contains enough “grown-up” reflection and humour.
But at the time I appreciated that the driving force was the conflict between youth — with all its turmoil, experimentation, desire for self-discovery and sexual awakening — and a setting where rules and tradition were everything. Any misdemeanour was all the more serious because of the school’s prestige, the reputation of individuals as well as the school as a whole and the isolation of the surroundings.
Another Country, The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie and A Prayer for Owen Meanie are other works I was drawn to, but the list of films, plays and books is endless. For those who still need more, who haven’t had their fill of tortured adolescent and institutionalised relationships when they leave school, the university novel, to some extent, continues the tradition. I needed more and so I devoured The Secret History (and continued on to classics and ancient Greek at university as a result), Brideshead Revisited and Porterhouse Blue.
Some might see the appeal of school novels as a phase, some might never be drawn to a genre that perpetuates notions of stuffy conventions and some might complain that the whole concept has been done to death.
Whatever the case, there can be no denying that the Spud series has found a wide audience, especially among schoolboys who appreciate the attention to detail that the author’s experiences lend to the writing. It’s made more digestible by the humour, the Adrian Mole-esque writing, the observations of physical, sexual and social development that the protagonist candidly outlines in his diary.
It is easy reading and tailor-made for a certain audience, so the fact that it is “getting kids reading again” (to quote a mother of a Spud fan) is not surprising. Yet it has found audiences from all age groups and that does surprise me.
Unlike the other books in the genre that I love, this series does not appeal to me as an adult, now that I am removed from the experiences that made the genre appealing in the first place.
Despite the local setting and references, I have identified more strongly with and laughed harder at stories set in an entirely different time and place, but I do not think this is because I have outgrown the genre, or have finally had my fill.
Quite the opposite. Blame it on nostalgia, or just rusty sentimentality, but the genre is still one of my favourites and I still read books that make me wonder how the author must have known how I felt back then. Spud, unfortunately, is not in the same class.