Open Writing

The local C of E Junior School catered for both boys and girls aged from seven to eleven years of age, each strictly segregated from the other on its outdoor premises.

Thinking back to those times, who amongst us does not recall the clamour within the schoolyard, the incessant chatter, shouts, screams and yells? Yet, how many of us remember what was actually said? What was the topic considered to be of such import that it had to be conveyed to another even after silence had been demanded by the teacher? Disobedience in this inevitably resulted in some form of punishment. I don’t suppose we considered whether the passing of whatever the information was should justify the penalty incurred when caught out in the process. If we thought about the situation at all, it was that we wouldn’t be seen, but in that we underestimated the teacher’s well-practised eyes.

It seems strange to me that from all the clatter and chatter of those times only rare memories remain of what individual voices sounded like. In my mind’s eye the characters themselves appear clear, but the sounds of their voices elude me. It is some characteristic about some individual or some event that keeps the person in my mind.

There was Jimmy, a boy with fair, curly hair who proferred to laugh and play rather than read and learn. An indelible mental picture of that lad remains with me, one which was formed as we shared a desk during one wet and windy morning milk break, when we were confined to the schoolroom. The image is of my then ever-cheerful neighbour laughing uproariously with mouth agape, thus revealing a cavity loaded with milk and a masticated arrowroot biscuit. What a mushy memory!

Another boy was also known to us as Jimmy, but to his parents he was James. They lived on the outskirts of our village on an avenue, whereas ‘biscuit Jimmy’ lived in a terrace house. Such things mattered in those days. The avenue dwellers owned a bakery business.

We boys attended a weekly class of handwork, during which time we made various models from cardboard -- always blue cardboard -- which was glued into the required positions by means of a milky paste which smelled decidedly fishy. For James, however, the glue held no terrors of a ticky-tacky nature. His products replicated the drawings exhibited in the instruction book. Be it a gondola, a windmill or a Tudor style house, his turnout was immaculate, whereas mine looked ready for the scrap yard or a demolition squad.

In his later years James The Immaculate took to making model aircraft, the balsa wood, rayon-fabricated, elastic-banded propelled types. With natural inventiveness he designed and built his own hand-cranked rev counter, thus ensuring the input of twist in the elastic band was the constant required to propel his flimsy structures over given distances.

The war years saw him in the RAF sporting sergeant’s stripes, but from then onwards time engulfed him, and he vanished from local ken.

George played the piano as we juniors marched out of school at the end of lessons each day. He only played one tune. Rather, he only played part of one tune, Schubert’s ‘Marche Militaire,’ since, he confided in me, he had not mastered the middle bit. He too served his country in its hour of need and was banged about a bit in the process, an experience from which he has ever since been subject in a mental capacity.

There was one boy who fell from social esteem because of his tendency towards theft. Indeed, he was eventually dispatched to a reformatory school for his misdeeds. Yet today his name graces the local roll of honours, testimony to his last act on this earth, the sacrifice of his life in defence of his country.

Then there was Norman. Norman with a voice sufficiently rough to have sanded smooth the bark of a tree. Even at the age of nine or ten the lad was possessed with a religious zeal, one which caused his peers to notify him of any dead bird which had been found. Norman would then create an altar upon which he would lay the deceased, surrounded by whatever wild flowers, blossoms or greenery that came to hand. After a few spontaneous, yet well-chosen, words of devotion, he would commit the bird’s spirit to its maker and the body to the ground. The ‘mourners’ would then silently file away with uplifted souls but heavy at heart, though feeling full reverence had been paid to one of God’s creatures.

Norman, like so many from those days, became swallowed up in the passage of time, although without doubt he would spend his days endeavouring to bring joy, happiness and tranquillity to all who sought his ministrations.

There was a second Norman. He was of a different disposition to his namesake of the religious leaning. This time the natural gift was a vivid imagination coupled with an aptitude as a creator of tales, stories which held his listeners in rapt attention.

Like his fellow schoolboys, that weaver of yarns was familiar with cowboy films and tales of derring-do as related in boys’ papers of the day. It was from such raw material that Norman created his own adventure epics. All it took was a united request to “Tell us a story, Norman,” and away he would go, taking his listeners along with him on his flights of exciting fancy: shoot-outs, knock-outs, hold-ups and blow-ups. Hollywood never knew what it missed by way of a film scriptwriter.

Sadly, Norman is no longer around. He long since joined the ‘riders in the sky’ but those who were members in his audiences of old remember him well.

One teacher, Mr. Bedford, was a firm favourite amongst junior pupils, both boys and girls alike. He possessed an artistic bent which was displayed on the blackboard. Standing with feet astride, he would produce a multi-coloured drawing of the internal organs of the human body or any other picture representative of whatever the topic might be at the time. His stance in such circumstances served him well when he sensed a pupil lacking in attention, since the good master’s balance was ideally distributed, allowing him to swivel round and hurl either chalk or wooden blackboard dusters at the offending pupil. The good master’s aim was consistently accurate. He rarely missed his target, and recipients of the projectiles boast in their later lives of having been singled out for such treatment. It is a considered honour to have been smitten in such a manner. So it is that Mr. Bedford’s aim remains a claim to his fame still amongst his now adult ex-pupils, albeit he is no longer amongst us.

With Miss Lee it was her weekly readings of the then favourite story of all who heard it at the time, namely that of ‘Hop, Skip and Jump,’ elfin characters and their escapades. Why Miss Lee needed to read the story is puzzling, since it appears she did so over many years to a variety of school children. So one would imagine she could have recited the entire book from memory.

It was different with Mr. White, since by the time his reading aloud classes had been reached, a higher degree of literature had been attained. Then the attention of the class was secured in listening to the exploits of Twain’s ‘Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn,’ along with Kingsley’s ‘Westward Ho,’ Marryat’s ‘Mr. Midshipman Easy’ and Stevenson’s ‘Treasure Island.’ Keen enthusiasm always existed for the following week’s episode. Come to think of it, that was one topic of playground conversation.

Situated just inside the junior school main gates were the boys’ lavatories -- toilets in those times were non-existent. These consisted of three or four WCs and a urinal, the wall of which, in keeping with the decorative principle of the day sported a lime-washed upper section and a lower portion, fortified against infection, it was believed, by an application of annually renewed bitumen, whilst trough and drain received a weekly anointing of the indispensable Jeyes Fluid.

Although having passed through the phase, it is nevertheless perplexing with hindsight to analyse and comprehend the ramifications of boys’ minds during their pre-pubescent years. Let any lad of that period find the necessity to make use of the aforementioned WCs -- all of which, it might be noted, possessed doors lacking means of securing privacy, which is understandable -- and word of his occupation sped around the community like wildfire. Thus, the poor unfortunate found himself acting the leading role in a one-act performance, before a laughing, jeering, sniggering audience, which commented loudly and descriptively at the feet swinging clear of the floor with ankles swathed in stockings and short trousers -- underpants were a rarity at the time, trousers usually being lined -- whilst their owner sat bent double in an attempt to present a modicum of modesty.

The most mystifying part of that entire episode, however, were the practices occurring against the limed and bitumened wall situated some two yards from the WC stage play.

Competitiveness is a natural instinct in some boys, an instinct in this instance which manifested itself by competitors attempting to leave their highest water-mark on the wall of the urinal. Warm weather brought with it a heightening of sportsmanship, since flies then made their appearance, and these served as targets to be jetted at by young marksmen.

Reference was made earlier in this dissertation to the puzzling behaviour of young boys, and the above descriptions bear this out. A lad using a WC for its intended purpose provided his audience with a spectacle of considered comedy, even though the difference between him being where he was and sitting at his schoolroom desk was that his trousers were around his ankles. Meanwhile, the ‘sporting fraternity’ competing against the wall was obliged to fully expose themselves to all present in order that they might demonstrate their prowess in watery discharges. Yet there was neither embarrassment nor humorous comment with regard to such exhibitionism, only pride for the winner and envy for the loser.

Incidentally, the individual heights of each competitor never seemed to be taken into consideration. Thus the taller boys had the greater advantage.

Inevitably there came the day when the final whistle was blown, ending what was to be the last play period. At that day’s end the strains of Schubert’s ‘Marche Militaire,’ were sounded for the final time as our junior crocodile tramped its wiggling way out of school.

This was the period of watershed, a time when young minds and bodies were to be channelled along courses of academic and religious journeying which would guide them towards adult life. Regrettably, however, as we have heard, it was a journey which proved to be all too short for some.