Family Of Four: 35 - The Aunts' School
...I liked it best of all in the winter time when thick snow lay on the ground and very few children, many of the pupils coming from long distances, managed to make their way to school. Then we gathered round the fire and Auntie Flo would take reading, spelling, history and lessons at which we need not write, and it was all so cosy and friendly it was not a bit like school, and I loved it...
Mrs Vivien Hirst recalls her school days.
Mrs Hirst's memories of childhood were gathered into a book, Family Of Four, by her nephew Raymond Prior. To read earlier chapters of her story please click on that title in the menu on this page.
It was natural that we should attend the aunts' school at Edgefield. This was only ten minutes' walk away from home, going up a private road where, in early summer, the horse-chestnuts proudly held their white and pink candles high above our heads, and the may tree spread her blossom giving off a heady scent. We passed Hobson's Bakery and came to the old stables at the end of the road, where we could watch horses being harnessed to the cabs, and let into the wall was a pit from which steam arose, hot and pungent, where the fresh manure was thrown, and we ran past there to avoid the overpowering smell.
Frequently I met the former owner of "The Hollies", a Mr. Moxon, who delighted me by drawing off his top hat in a sweep, bending with it as it reached down to his ankles, which I found theatrical and very flattering, and in response to this expansive gesture I slowed down my usual hop, skip and jump, walking sedately past him, nodding in a grown-up fashion, for how else could I accept such honour? Oh! it was very flattering.
What normally would have been a large bedroom at Edgefield was turned into a schoolroom for the beginners. I am very vague about my time there, only remembering vividly coloured beads sliding along wires, and the plasticine with its peculiar smell, and going frequently into the bathroom next door to collect the paint pots. There were dozens and dozens of them, potted meat and paste jars, some plain, some patterned, and they interested me, and had me wondering how so much paste could have ever been eaten to provide so many empty jars!
In time I was promoted, to use a contradiction of terms, downstairs to the long schoolroom. Edgefield and the adjacent house belonged to Daddy and this added room was very suitable for its purpose, different classes being formed according to the position of the long desks, which had inkwells fitted along the top. At each end sat a mistress, Miss Fidler or Miss Greenwood, and Auntie Flo and Auntie Elsie. Everything took place here, communal singing, sewing, painting, and, of course, the different lessons at the several desks. At one end of the room a fire burned, and at the other end was an oil stove.
I liked it best of all in the winter time when thick snow lay on the ground and very few children, many of the pupils coming from long distances, managed to make their way to school. Then we gathered round the fire and Auntie Flo would take reading, spelling, history and lessons at which we need not write, and it was all so cosy and friendly it was not a bit like school, and I loved it.
I best remember Auntie Flo who taught me. She was quite the most precise, prim individual I have ever met. With a bosom pouting somewhat like a pigeon's, soft white hair drawn up on to her head, topped by a flat bun, pince-nez dropping off her nose at unexpected moments, sitting very straight and placid, she calmly taught me practically all I was to know before going away to school. We sat for the mental part of lesson with our elbows clasped behind our backs, straight as ramrods, but thankful that we were past the days of backboards which earlier generations had bound to their backs, for the elbow discipline was not unpleasant.
I took school in my stride, never at all seriously but happily, the only two flaws in my days being mental arithmetic, which I most thoroughly disliked, and the sewing of a thick, unwashed piece of calico which, through my labours, must be turned into a pillowcase. This was indeed laborious work. I struggled to push the needle through the resisting material, and I declare that wretched piece stayed with me for years, growing more and more dirty looking, liberally sprinkled with drops of my life's blood! In vain I pleaded to be given more interesting sewing for I was told it must be finished, nothing must be left undone, so I persevered. No wonder I have never felt an urge to undertake plain sewing and to make my own clothes. What a foolish way to teach a child her stitches
