No White Feather

No White Feather

Randall Hillis (In Memoriam)

The news arrived late, through my daughter. The e-mail with the school newsletter must have been delayed. Here is what I should like to say.

Randall was in charge during the second half of the sixties, until the end of 1970. It was the time when the School turned into something that it had never quite been: a quasi-academic powerhouse. It only happened because the sort of leadership was exercised, without much ado, that drew the best out of everybody. And there was a clear sense of purpose at the top.

As Headmaster, Randall never made a display of himself as an intellectual. The boys had the benefit of his lessons for that. The junior school also benefited from early morning assembly, in which he told a different story from the Bible every day, to give everybody something to think about without having to try very hard. It was none the worse for anybody that he should have admitted, in private, that he was not a Presbyterian, nor actually a believer, and he was only complying with a request from the Board of Governorsto include something for all, that would offend no one.

In his dealings with others, he let everybody know where he stood. The oft endured rule by clique was not a part of his repertoire. Randall was never close to those who worked under him; he kept “amiguismo” neatly at bay, in the interest of the School. Yet, he managed to cut a fine figure, even in the eyes of colleagues at other schools, who never worked under him. As a leader, he resorted to his wartime experience, when he learnt at an early stage that it was not required to share a tradition, nor even a language, to do honour to a worthy cause. To illustrate the point, he once told the story of a Chinaman who had volunteered with the Canadian Army, as he himself had done before he was old enough to be considered an adult. The Chinaman could not express himself properly in English; but he kept pace with everybody else playing in the band.

Mr Hillis belonged to the generation that responded to the call of duty with all it had. Those of us who grew up during and after the War were only able to phantasize about what we might have wanted to do, or what we might have done. Later, the only thing that was left for the most idealistic among the young was to oppose war categorically, which was probably what made people too squeamish to take a stand and what fostered unlimited self-interest alongside the much vaunted economic take off, that had taken priority at the time.

He kept to the cult of the low profile. I was fortunate to have been asked to go over for tea, at his home in York, in October 2007. Randall pulled out a bundle of papers, neatly arranged, complete with the names and records of all his pupils and their parents, at St. Andrew’s, and he could remember every single one. I had to apologize for being unable to follow, only having had slight, perfunctory contact with the parents. But it was easy to realize what it all meant to him.

There was a train to catch and there were no taxis; because everybody was watching a rugger match. Randall walked me to the bus stop and then took his chances, riding all the way to the station, without having warned his wife about his whereabouts. On the bus, he kindly turned down the offer of a seat, made by a rangy young fellow, who could obviously see, considering Randall’s vintage and his walking stick, that he was not entitled to any white feather.