Memorial for Mug
Margaret Lyttle and pupils
Margaret Lyttle, the niece of the founder of Preshil, and the Principal from 1944 to 1994, died in 2014. At her Memorial Service in the Hall at Arlington, there were many moving speeches. Cressida Batterham-Wilson spoke of her experiences with Mug, as she was known to later generations of children. Cressida is now Head of Arlington Campus.
Memorial for Mug
My name is Cressida. I attended Preshil from 4 year old Kindergarten in 1975 to the ground-breaking Year 12 year called STC in 1988. I have taught here, I send my two girls here and now work here as the Registrar. The memories I would like to share are drawn from my time here at Preshil as a student during the 70s and 80s.
It is often said of people that they are a 'Walking Contradiction'. I recall Mug in this way. She is remembered as both stern and wonderfully warm, exhausted and with endless energy, impatient with us kids, yet never rushed. A solitary figure, but with a constant canine companion. And it seems fitting that remembrances of Mug tip the hat to her dogs, because Mug always had her dog; at her side, in the case of Randy, or lagging some way behind, in the case of Seamus. And her dogs, in many ways, tell the story of Mug, and her funny school Preshil.
In the 70s I was little, and I found Mug quite fierce. Her dog Randy did nothing to soften her stern appearance to us kids. He seemed to embody Fierce in a way few dogs do, and Mug was no apologist for this. We were all pretty wary of him, and given his enduring close proximity to Mug, we were pretty wary of the package. Rumour had it that Randy was the Yay or Nay for prospective students: one growl and you’re never coming to Preshil!
During my years at Arlington Mug and Randy attended lots of meetings. 'Shoosh People' she would say in her rather tired way. And Randy would flop down on the mat at Mug’s feet. At Mug’s insistence, those hapless children who happened to be near him would be obliged to tickle his rather portly belly. With the fixed expression of the hunted prey, we would obediently tickle Randy, ready to snatch back our hands at the first hint of movement. The whispers of Randy having bitten children didn’t need to be true.
Tired and impatient is how I remember Mug’s face if any of us dared to snigger at one of Randy’s inevitable farts let off during these meetings. Mug’s love of Randy was far too loyal to allow us any room to giggle; his honour and dignity was fiercely protected by her. On reflection, for all that he was, and his considerable shortcomings, Randy showed us what Mug was really about, what she really believed. To Mug, Randy was just another 'bothered child'. The hardships he endured before he became her dog gave rise to his temperament, his behaviour had meaning, and he was the embodiment of what we did at Preshil. We loved others even if we couldn’t like them.
Randy died when I was in middle school at Yallambie. Perhaps I had grown up a bit, but my image ofMug at this time is very different. In fact, after Randy’s death, Mug’s image went through quite a reinvention as Seamus became her constant companion. A lovely gentle dog. Perhaps that was why she took to brandishing a machete to chop up his bones on an upturned log at the back door ofArlington.
Seamus embodied a different aspect of Preshil, the wonderful warmth of the place. For all his gentleness, Mug was never sentimental toward him, as she was never sentimental toward us. Seamus was like all of us kids, fully realised. His own person. He existed alongside us, sharing the community, his place and ours warmly assured. And he was able to take part in the long tradition of being with kids who needed to be 'made special'; those kids would go with Mug and Seamus for 'a walk by the river', a healing, unhurried, stroll. Unlike Randy, children didn’t need to be prompted to tickle his belly, and he was doted on, tolerating the endless pats, patient, taking all in his rather slow stride. Seamus brought children closer to Mug. He made it easier to reach her.
Even though Seamus’s companionship softened Mug somewhat, I recall her as appearing in turn stern & rather fierce or tired and impatient especially in response to us teenagers. We didn’t see a lot of her at Yallambie, but if she and Seamus did come across she might grab your arm, in what can only be described as a vice like grip, in order to pierce you with her blue eyed stare. Perhaps you might have erred in some typical teenage way – heaven knows I did. While being caught in her grip may sound like it would end badly, once you locked eyes with her, in a rather uncomfortably long stare, you knew without any doubt at all that she loved you. Always. And if you were naughty, then seemingly she loved you all the more. 'Wicked' was one of the words she would use about us, 'you’re wicked' was a kind of badge of honour she would bestow. To me, and perhaps to many other Preshil kids, the word wicked has come to mean naughty and lovely. And I now thank that she might once have been the wicked child she so readily recognised in us.
We did some pretty awful things, but she was our staunchest defender, our champion in all our deeds. Yes we were an annoyance with our wicked ways, but one she readily welcomed. We all lived on inside her in a kind of Collective Preshil Legend. Not so much a Gallery of Fools as A Gallery of Wicked Preshil Kids there for the re-telling. It was in the re-telling of your failings and deeds that you were forever remembered. Sometimes I was confused with other naughty students, and misattributions were common. But it didn’t matter, in essence she was affirming for you all the time, that even though you were awful, you were lovely. You were a wonderful contradiction to her.
If you were lucky enough to have a parent attend Preshil ahead of you, as I had Mondie pave the way for me, then your wickedness could be traced back to the things done by your forebears. And while I certainly heard from Mug about Mondie, I heard from Mondie about Mug! Touché.
When Mondie was in what must have been about the 6s & 7s legend has it that he presented some work to Mug after dutifully lining up. When she looked at it she said 'I can’t read this! Can you?' When Mondie discovered that he couldn’t read his own writing he turned to go and was punched in the back for his trouble. But I bet if he had turned around, she would have grabbed his arm, locked him in her gaze and he would have known that he was loved. Always.
One of the last times I sat and chatted with Mug was at Mondie’s former church St Phillips where both Mug and Seamus had been parishioners. I was excited to introduce Mug to my daughter who, at the time, was just a baby. 'Mug, this is Clementine'. Her response? 'Clementine! What a dreadful name, well you would wouldn’t you!' She was still loving me.
Cressida Batterham-Wilson
Alumna and Arlington Head of Campus