Pete Widdowson sways from side to side, then steps slightly backwards and a little forwards. ‘Come on, have none of you been to bed with a good Trollope?’ he says. He is lecturing on The Novel, the swaying and stepping a way to manage the pain of his gout. He has made The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy sound exciting, the epistolary novel unmissable. I guess the Anthony Trollope joke is one he's doled out to every year of the BA (Hons) Humanities students who have opted for English for their Part Two. In my case, English and American Literature with American History as a secondary subject. I love Pete Widdowson's lectures. He is full of enthusiasm, entertaining and lively. The books themselves, when I come to read them, are never as interesting as his lectures on them.
His name came up in Nina Stibbe's epistolary memoir, Love, Nina, built around letters to her sister. Stibbe was taught by Pete Widdowson at Thames Polytechnic a few years after me. I was there from 1978 to 1981. When I looked him up, after reading Stibbe’s book, I found an obituary from the Guardian. He died in 2009, aged 66, the same age as I am now. In his obituary, Widdowson is lauded as a great innovator in the teaching of English at polytechnics and the new universities.
It's a problem when names of old pop into your head, and you wonder what became of them. All too often they have died before their time. A few years ago, I went in search of Dave Eyre, a friend from Thames Poly days, only to discover his last posting on Facebook, telling his friends and followers that the cancer had won, and he was dying. Perhaps it's best to let sleeping Petes and Daves lie.
I was reminded of Pete Widdowson after learning that my great-nephew is to study English Literature and Creative Writing at the University of Surrey. It looks like a good course, a combination of the English Literature content of my Humanities degree, and the Certificate and MA courses in Creative Writing that I took at the University of Kent, two and a half decades after my first degree. I've also discovered recently that the universities of Greenwich and Kent have merged into LASE, London and South East University Group. Apart from wondering why they haven't included the UG to make it LASEUG (which sounds like a super-villain), I realised it marks the merging of my alma maters: Thames Polytechnic became the University of Greenwich, so I am now an alumna of Thames Poly, the Universities of Greenwich, Kent and LASE.
With Alex, my great-nephew, about to embark on the same journey as I did in 1978, I wondered if he would be taught by any Petes, with a few Daves thrown in. At Thames, I was taught by three Petes and a Dave or two. I've no doubt there will be more female lecturers on Alex’s course than on mine. At Thames I only had one, the brilliant Wendy Mulford. I was in awe of her, and not a little scared. In a seminar group of only four students (they probably don’t run seminar groups that small these days) I was sure I would sound stupid and stumble over my words in the discussion of Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse. It went well, after all, but I'm sure I blushed in the face of her intensive stare as I spoke.
I was in another small seminar group with Pete Humm, who taught American Literature. I'd successfully delivered a paper on Faulkner's As I Lay Dying the week before, receiving praise from Pete H on tackling a difficult novel. I never quite knew where I stood with Humm. He was a cool guy, and I wasn't one of the would-be cool kids that clung to him. I was mortified during one seminar when he mocked my nervous laugh, repeating it back to me. I had clearly irritated him, and I became painfully self-aware around him after that.
This week, it was someone else's turn to deliver a paper. The seminar had overrun, and I was keen to join my boyfriend in the Student Union bar. It was during my short few months as a smoker, and yes, you were allowed to smoke in seminars in those days. I had long wavy hair with a centre parting. I tended to lean forward, often to mask sleepiness after a late night, my hair hanging over my face. I struck a match to light a cigarette, and suddenly noticed there were flames shooting out from the side of my head. I froze, noting to myself silently, ‘Oh, my hair's on fire’. The student next to me jumped up and batted the side of my head with a ring binder. The flames were extinguished, but with an acrid smell of singed hair in the room, the seminar drew quickly to a close.
Come to think of it, that wasn't Pete Humm leading the seminar where I set fire to my hair, but another lecturer whose name escapes me. But it definitely wasn't Pete. I think he took us for Rhetoric, which I did quite well in. Memory is a faulty thing. Some names and events stick, whilst others remain as vague. This chap was tall, had receding hair, and was well spoken. What was his name?
Pete Humm redeemed himself from the mocking of my nervous laugh, a year and a half after I left Thames. I had unexpectedly had a child (how did that happen?), and was wandering around Plumstead pushing my baby in the pram, for the want of anything else to do, when I encountered Pete Humm. I was shell-shocked by the experience of suddenly caring for this helpless being, who I was sure didn't like me, and seemed to cry all the time when she wasn't feeding or sleeping. Pete stopped to talk to me. He said something really kind, looking back on his own period as a young parent. I felt terribly comforted and no longer alone.
Decades later, I attended an open day at the University of Greenwich with my younger daughter, Rachel. At 18, she looked much as I had when I was at Thames Poly. Pete Humm walked past us, as we waited on a bench in the lobby. Without breaking his stride, he looked at Rachel, looked at me, then looked at Rachel again. I didn’t have the courage to speak to him, in case he didn’t remember me. I still felt like the uncool kid in his seminar group.
The third Pete that lectured at Thames Polytechnic, though never actually taught me, was Pete Mendes, father of Sam Mendes, the filmmaker. Pete Mendes was the supervisor for my dissertation; a supervisor in name only. I arrived at the agreed time one day and sat in his office, unlocked but devoid of Pete Mendes. To entertain myself as I waited, I read some of the papers on his desk, spread higgledy-piggledy in a manner that reflected the lecturer's character and demeanour. Uppermost on a pile was a sheet outlining marks given for various aspects of dissertations. I noted that a hefty 20 % would be given to presentation, never mind the contents. Mendes arrived half an hour late, having forgotten about our appointment, and had to leave after ten minutes. He appeared distracted, the model of the absent-minded professor. He didn't pass on the sheet on the desk, or mention its contents. I think it was for his eyes only, but it was the best thing I gleaned from that supervision.
Back then, all coursework was presented handwritten. I would make rough drafts, then present a handwritten fair copy. I had never used a typewriter, and computers were not to be seen in the library, at least for student use, or anywhere else in the Department of English. My sister was a legal secretary and she agreed to type up my dissertation during her lunch hours, and to bind it using her office's supplies and equipment. I included some high-quality colour photocopies, very expensive in those days, after obtaining permission from the publisher of the books concerned. The bound dissertation looked great. It may have gained me a few percentage points on my final grade.
Pete Mendes did not redeem himself after I left Thames Poly. He was supposed to be my personal tutor in my final year, but never saw me. He would not have been the person I went to if I needed support of any kind. I applied for a job after graduating, which seemed to be in the bag at the interview. Then I received a letter saying I had not been offered the job. I asked for feedback, and was told I should be careful who I named as a referee. Pete Mendes had written a non-committal reference, which stated that I handed in my work on time and was punctual for lectures, and that's about all.
I suppose Pete Mendes has redeemed himself in that he spawned Sam Mendes; but Pete Mendes never did me any good.
I read an article last week about how to manage money as a new student. It described laptops and software needed, as well as all the accoutrements for cooking and bedding. I left home in September 1978 with a bag of clothes and a radio cassette, and equipped myself with loose leaf A4 pads, pens, pencils and ringbinders. I was in Halls of Residence where food was served twice a day, bedding supplied, and the cleaner took the sheets to wash once a week. I only had to deal with my own laundry. Alex, my great-nephew, will no doubt be moving a car full of stuff into his Halls. I envy him his reading list, the things he'll be learning. I wonder if he'll be taught by any Petes.
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