Wolfson College Record 2021
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wolfson.ox.ac.uk<br />
Two Memories of <strong>Wolfson</strong><br />
in the 1960s<br />
25 Linton Road in 1967–68<br />
by Doug McIlroy (MCR 1967)<br />
Malcolm Douglas McIlroy, adjunct Professor of Computer Sciences at Dartmouth<br />
Colllege, is a pioneer of software engineering; a member of the team which developed<br />
Unix. He recalls ‘a top highlight of my career’, his year in Oxford working with<br />
Christopher Strachey, one of <strong>Wolfson</strong>’s Founding Fellows, in the Programming Research<br />
Group.<br />
Andrew Prentice and I were the <strong>College</strong>’s first resident members, living in an old<br />
house on Linton Road that afforded us a close-up view of the gutting of ‘Cherwell’<br />
on the <strong>Wolfson</strong> site and the blessing of the new foundation stone. My family<br />
occupied two floors and Andrew Prentice’s family lived on the top floor. Some<br />
rooms were vacant.<br />
American caricatures of British heating arrangements were confirmed by the<br />
immense boiler that (in our part of the house) heated one bathroom towel rack<br />
and a solitary radiator in the three-storey stairwell. The only other radiator – in<br />
the disused dining room – was shut off. But three electric storage heaters and the<br />
kitchen stove provided enough heat to simulate American comfort. The Domestic<br />
Bursar, Cecilia Dick, had thoughtfully furnished our quarters with everything we<br />
needed, right down to egg cups. I forget what the rent was, but I do remember it<br />
was quoted in guineas, a mythical unit so far as I was concerned, but I negotiated<br />
it down to pounds.<br />
Beside the boiler was a long-abandoned coal bin, and a coal shovel that I used to<br />
clear the driveway after a snowstorm, unaware that in England snow disappears<br />
quickly without human assistance. Near the boiler was a large electric closet<br />
whose frightening contents resembled the jumbles of wires in the streets of Indian<br />
slums.<br />
Many vignettes from Linton Road are fixed in my memory. Great tits pecking open<br />
the foil tops of milk bottles left at the door from an electric wagon; Frenchmen<br />
peddling lovely strings of onions; the rag and bone man asking my wife: ‘Any old iron,<br />
luv?’; Air Vice-Marshal McNiece-Foster, who lived next door, telling our two-year-<br />
95<br />
Memories