Open Writing

I presume my experiences in primary school were few since I have no recall of any episode which caused a change in my lifestyle -- that is, after the wrestling match to get me into the establishment on my first day. A struggle which, needless to say, I lost.

I can still picture the scuff marks from my boots on the lisle stockings of the teacher, Miss Bailes.

I remember the headmistress, Miss Jarvis, a tall, stern-countenanced, grey haired lady, dedicated to her calling.

In one of her classes we were given small, multi-coloured sticks of wood to play with. We also had afternoon sleep-time, when we would rest heads on our arms across the desk tops and were expected to take a nap. I never did, the only dreams I achieved were daydreams.

During one of those siestas a memory was created before my watchful eyes. The boy sharing the desk with me was called Willie, a dark-haired lad with a collier crop hairstyle. I clearly remember from somewhere around his neck area there crept a bug of some description which wandered across the desk top. What species it belonged to I have no idea. Being only about six years of age at the time, entomology was not part of our curriculum. I do remember using one of the aforementioned sticks to crush the insect, and there time draws a veil over any subsequent action.

Whether it was from Buggy Willie or from some other source that I made my first contact with nits I don’t know. Yet I do remember the application of a fine-toothed comb and the results of the trawlings through my hair being deposited on the surface of a white dinner plate held against my head for the purpose.

The process was deemed satisfactory, and I did not have to undergo a shampoo of sassafras with its tell-tale aromatic aroma, revealing to all within sniffing distance what had taken place and why.

There were only two occasions when I was subjected to such serious combing, and I always passed muster on the nit nurse’s inspection throughout my school years.

At the age of seven I moved to the Junior School. There we boys sported the official badge on our caps, the crossed keys of St. Peters, since the school was associated with the local church of that style. The angles created by the crossed keys contained the letters EJM, Earlsheaton Junior Mixed, readily translated by some as Earlsheaton Jumping Monkeys.

The headmaster of the Junior School was Mr. Stubley, of medium height, rotund in figure and respected in person. He was also a pipe smoker, a habit -- he told us his pupils -- forsaken each Lenten period. Rattling loose coins in his trouser pockets was a further trait of his.

As a pipe smoker, the headmaster’s study-cum-classroom bore the constant aroma of pipe tobacco. A further content was a glass-fronted bookcase, on the top shelf of which resided that master’s cane. Many are the times I have seen him reach down that instrument of punishment, fully aware of what was to follow. Each time I would be told to hold out my hand, and each time I would proffer my left one, which was calloused intentionally, having encouraged such growth by rubbing with a stone, and we sported them like medals -- so macho.

The headmaster, however, always demanded my right hand, his intention to impair one’s handwriting besides inflicting pain. Unaware of my left-handedness, he missed out on me, and I never enlightened him.

There were three schoolyards to that school, two for girls and one for boys. One of the girls’ yards was behind the school, and one evening we were running around the area when we were discovered by the school caretaker and ejected.

Some idea of the period in time may be judged when I say that from there we proceeded along High Street to a recently installed Belisha Beacon, a new innovation. There we made good sport checking its efficiency by crossing and re-crossing, causing motor vehicles to stop, much to the annoyance of the drivers.

Next day, being summoned to the headmaster’s room, I promptly apologised for my disturbing behaviour on the Belisha crossing. That in reply to the head’s question, “What were you doing yesterday evening?”

However, it transpired he knew nothing of the crossing affair. The caretaker had reported our antics in the schoolyard, and it was that which I received chastisement for. The incident does seem to bear out the adage, ‘Look before you leap’, or in that instance, ‘Listen before you speak’.

I don’t recall receiving two strokes of the cane. I suppose I was lucky.

Mr. White, another master, also stored his cane` on top of a cupboard. Whereas Mr. Stubley’s cane was a bamboo rod of one inch diameter, Mr. White wielded one half that thickness, a willowy type bought for a penny from the local newsagents. Indeed, when one such broke he would send a pupil out for a replacement, although there was never any rush to be the one to christen it.

Mr. White possessed a sweet tooth, and when white chocolate came onto the market, he became a chocoholic, despatching children on a regular basis for more supplies of chocolate. The white stuff got him eventually. I recall seeing him holding his cheek when in the throes of toothache.

Mr. White also played the piano as we marched out of school to such tunes as ‘The Teddy Bear’s Picnic’ and ‘The Wedding of the Painted Doll’.

Miss Senior never used a cane. The open-handed crack was sufficient to vent her displeasure. She was kind-hearted really and very popular, especially with the girls. A good general teacher who enjoyed her profession.

Yet I had to disagree with her on one point -- silently of course. In those days one did not contradict one’s teacher.

Miss Senior would persist in telling us that Jesus, when on the cross, had a nail driven through his brow, and I never read that in the Bible.

I did follow the Bible. In fact it was my knowledge drawn from that book which was held as a mitigating source when anyone enquired after my academic progress. “’ees not very good at sums but ‘e knows ‘is Bible.” The most obvious reply to that would be, “Is ‘e goin’ to be a parson?”

As if to demonstrate the shock and horror such a suggestion had upon the Anglican fraternity, St. Peter’s Church, mentioned earlier, went into liquidation and the structure was demolished. I didn’t take offence at this. I went into industry.

Back to school though, and in particular, when aged 11 years, the Senior School, or as it was known to older generation t’ Board School.

It was the custom in those days that if a pupil was sufficiently bright on a particular day of a particular year then he or she might pass an examination which would open the gates to higher education. I wasn’t sufficiently bright enough, nor was my schoolmate. We both failed the exam.

I still maintain it was his fault. I cribbed most of his answers, and they were wrong -- outcome, a comparison of papers by the examiner, and the foul deed was revealed. Sequel, a public exposure before the whole school. What would today’s psychiatrists make of that?

Thus we were both relegated to the lower orders of the non-bright, and were brought under the hand of our next headmaster.

Mr. Saville Knowles -- Nobby to us subordinates, a chubby chap with pince-nez, waxed moustache, a bronchitic laugh -- wheeze more like, and highly polished boots. He always walked as if treading barefooted over broken glass, gout being the cause I learned later.

That gentleman’s boast was that in his 20 years of headship no cane had been employed in his school. What he didn’t boast about was the use of his hand on the backs of the heads of recalcitrant pupils.

Monotony of a lesson would often be broken by that teacher relating his experiences in earlier life. These were amusing at first, but after hearing them over and over throughout the years they somehow lost their humour.

One such anecdote involved a pocket microscope given to our tutor when a boy by his father. Amongst the children to whom he demonstrated the power of that instrument was an Irish lad. He was most intrigued by the microscope’s revelations and demanded that they “…look at something we can’t see and then look at it through the telescope.” That would be followed by Nobby’s wheezing, chuckled gasps and a reddening of his face.

I remember him predicting he wouldn’t live long after he retired. He was true to his word.