Open Writing

It was somewhat hazardous coming and going to and from school as we had feuds with the local board-school children. How and why these began I never knew. I suppose it was from jealousy in the first place. Be that as it may, we tried different ways of returning home, escaping quite often but also often being chased by tough, dirty-looking boys and girls, of whom we were really afraid. Many times I was thankful I was a good runner and able to draw away.

I still hold a recollection of returning home with Doreen and Irene Chappell, a tall, well-built girl, the three of us running madly across the tramlines at Marsh pursued by a gang of boys and girls gaining upon us.

One was at Doreen's heels, and Irene, clung desperately to the large hat upon her corkscrew curls, and cried bravely though breathlessly, "If you harm her I'll kill you. Leave her alone, don't harm her." This must have been effective, as the boy fell back and we ran safely on!

There was a small family of boys, too, who lived near us who were equally aggressive.

Bobby, full of life, and at this time given to acting the fool, developed a habit of crying out as though he were hurt, so that we came running. Then Bobby, cockily and innocently, disclaimed this happening. Daddy told him time and again that he would do this once too often. "Ware wolf," he told Bobby, "Ware wolf is a foolish prank," remembering Aesop's fable.

It happened just as Daddy had predicted. One day, returning home from school, I was well in advance of Bobby who was lingering, leaping in the squares of the pavement, when I heard a most piercing scream. Turning round, I saw Bobby's hand up to his eye but took little notice as I was sure this was a pretence to make me run back to him.

However, the cries grew so real that I rushed to him, and not until then did I notice the enemy across the road, a catapult swinging from his hand, a gleeful leer upon his face. With my arm protectingly around my small brother, I shouted angrily across the road, quite unashamedly, and quite beyond a fear of reprisals.

The stone shot at Bobby had been alarmingly close to the eye and had struck his face with great force so that it swelled and blackened. Daddy found this too much and that same evening he went to interview the father of the boy, not for the first time. But it proved to be the last.

Rex and Bobby had only a few short years at Edgefield School before attending Mr. Wild's, just beyond Highfield Chapel. Mr. Wild was a classical scholar and believed in hard work, and so the boys had a great deal of homework to tackle.

At times Daddy grew angry at the late hour Rex finished his studies, and a steady stream of notes passed between him and the headmaster, the one protesting and the other persisting. It amused me, I felt that Rex was a sort of shuttlecock between the two. It never did the slightest good and poor Rex plodded on, much to be admired, for he worked very hard indeed.

Speech days always included a cricket match, and Frank Greenwood and his brother Jack were noticeably good players.

One year Bobby had been present with us but had returned home a little early. When I arrived, Mummy turned round the bend of the stairs, her face white and grave, calling softly down that Bobby was very ill. I could not believe this; he had appeared to be quite well such a short time before.

"He has sunstroke," said Mummy. "His temperature is 105."

"Mummy," I exclaimed, shocked, "it can't be. Why, people die at that temperature."

She had come downstairs by now, and we stared at one another in mutual distress. "The doctor is coming," she assured me. "I am sure it is sunstroke."

We felt agonised, but after the doctor's visit it was quite remarkable how quickly the dangerous fever subsided. He told us that it was a fallacy that people always died at a temperature of 105 degrees Fahrenheit, but it must certainly be immediately reduced. I do not clearly remember how this was accomplished. I think it was ice to the head and cold sponges, and very soon Bobby was his usual lively self.