Some time after arriving back home, I was to experience my first day at school. There was, of course, no such thing as pre-school in those days.
This was probably my greatest horror. My grandfather had taken me to school, and, cock-a-hoop, I strode in, waving him goodbye. I had a new set of clothes and was embarking upon a new adventure. Then I turned the corner into the playground……………. It was full of screaming children, including girls, and most of them were much bigger than me…….. I got home to Raynes Park before Grandpa. There are no words to describe the absolute terror represented by these dotted lines. I was off like a shot. I suppose I must have ridden on the bus, but I really don’t remember. The next image I have is of bashing on the front door until Mum came down to me.
Naturally Mum calmed me down and returned me to the torture chamber. She may have fed me, may have accompanied me on the bus. It’s all a blank, not even a blur.
I was presented to Miss Mulvaney. Miss Mulvaney smiled, took my hand, and led me into her classroom. ‘We are having plasticine this afternoon, and here is Maureen Potter to look after you’, she said. I was flabbergasted. There, beaming in her half of our joint desk, sat the most angelic creature I had ever seen. She had a lovely round face, the image of which I cannot conjure up, but the impression of which has remained deep in my heart. As this motherly child took my hand my stomach leapt. Not for the first time that day, but this time it was a wholly different sensation. I was in love for the very first time. Miss Mulvaney knew what she was about.
We enjoyed the plasticine too. Why is it, incidentally, that however bright the original colours are, this material always turns brown?
This photograph portrays the school with extensions, as it was in 2012. Note the traffic calming additions on the road. Nick-named ‘sleeping policemen’ they were unheard of in the 1940s.
There is a modern main entrance, above which lies a bas-relief in memory of Father Rankin S.J. who was, in my day, an influential Jesuit and possibly Auntie Gwen’s favourite priest.
The schoolroom in The Priest’s House Museum in Wimbourne which we visited on November 23rd 2013 reinforced my memory of that first day of my formal education.
As we will see in good time, the cane hanging over the blackboard was an authentic touch. The previous day’s date, in fine copper plate handwriting, was inscribed on the blackboard. The plastic pencil container on the teacher’s desk was perhaps an aberration. What fascinated me was the pairs of desks, which enthralled two small children who, having visited earlier in the week, had brought their parents back for a second visit. Their eyes opened wide when I told them I had sat beside a lovely little girl in one of those very same desks when I had been but a little boy.
Our sister-in-law, Frances, is nearing the completion of her collecting and coordinating Chris’s colossal accumulation of detailed family history documentation dating back to the 17th century.
One gap she and our nephew Peter have identified is a contemporary childhood chronicle of my late brother. Who better, they decided, to create this than the sibling who shared his life from its very beginning?
Without this photograph from 1945, depicting a street party celebrating Victory in Europe at the end of that sphere of World War Two, neither of us would have any memory of the event. For anyone below the age of about 75 to imagine the jubilation of that heady, optimistic, summer is virtually impossible. Chris and I are in the centre of the front row. My chubby little brother, then not yet two, looks, as would any other toddler, as if he had no idea what was going on or why he was there.
Our mother had made our outfits, dressed us up for the occasion, and had a studio photograph taken.
It was perhaps about this time that I mangled my brother’s finger, or maybe a thumb. In mid-war London, Mum just 21, with Dad away in the army, there were none of today’s domestic appliances, or other conveniences. Without a washing machine an old fashioned mangle, as depicted in ‘Then The Tableau Spoke’ helped squeeze excessive moisture before hanging clothes up in the kitchen to dry. Chris was probably trying to help as he placed his hand between the rollers while I turned the handle.
Holidays were non-existent, unless we were staying with our maternal grandparents, as in the picture above, in which Chris plays opposite Grandma’s feet. Uncle Bill once drove us to Brighton for the day.
Mum’s iron was one that was heated up on the stove; we had no telephone; no car; neither fridge nor freezer; and used ration books into the 1950s.
Chris might have been a touch disaster prone. I forget exactly when he scalded himself by reaching up for a boiling kettle or saucepan, but his family will know that it scarred him for life – as did picking his chicken pox scabs.
The next accident came early in 1947. I don’t remember how he did it, but he managed to break his leg in our garden at 29a Stanton Road. Photographic evidence and an explanation of our attire appears in ‘Pink Petticoats’. I rushed upstairs to tell our mother. “Don’t be silly. He can’t have”, she replied, and yanked him to his feet to find that he had. There was no National Health Service in those days. The treatment was paid for from public funds because Dad was still in the army.
Ten years later, Mum stands with Jacqueline on the exact spot from which she tried to heave Chris to his feet. The steps behind continued up to our kitchen where we spent much of our indoor time. The kitchen range was similar to the one illustrated in ‘Then The Tableau Spoke’, highlighted above. We lived beside the railway which we could see clearly from the kitchen window and collect train numbers and the names of Pulman carriages drawn by steam engines. Always eager to “get down”, or leave the table after a meal, the rule was that we had to wait for six trains to go by before we could do so.
As mentioned in the also highlighted ‘Pink Petticoats’, Chris and I spent several months with our maternal grandparents in Durham while Mum was struggling with Jacqueline’s gestation.
We all attended St Mary’s Primary School in Russell Road, Wimbledon. It is essentially my experiences that are related in ‘Maureen Potter And Plasticene‘, but, although my brother was far too well behaved to warrant any of the punishments described, he would undoubtedly have witnessed their administration.
In those days it was a mortal sin to miss mass on a Sunday. Mum was not a Catholic and Dad was not practising. We, however, were expected to do so because our mother had vowed on her wedding day that any offspring should be raised Catholic. We were therefore sent off alone to church every Sunday with a penny each for the collection plate, before continuing to Auntie Gwen’s for breakfast. We had, however, worked out that the crucial section was the stretch between the reading of the gospel and the distribution of communion. We would therefore arrive late and leave early so we had fulfilled the compulsory requirement and wouldn’t go to Hell. What we didn’t know was that my class teacher was also a member of the congregation and had spotted our little scam. She tackled me about this at school, which seemed a bit sneaky to us.
We travelled to school by trolley bus along Worple Road. Often we would spend our bus fare on such as a bag of broken biscuits from the old style grocers in Wimbledon Broadway, and walk home. It was on one such perambulation that we climbed into a wasp’s nest.
We made dens on waste land beside the railway path that ran beside Wimbledon and Raynes Park. There is more about this and about our childhood home in ‘Cricket In The Street’.
As we became old enough we travelled further afield, and would walk up to Cannon Hill Common attempting to catch newts.
Chris followed me to Wimbledon College where he excelled at maths and cricket. It was here that we learned some of our basic differences. I really struggled with new concepts such as algebra and geometry with which he was happy; my forté was English.
Neither of us had played cricket before, so I may have been considered to have led the way, having started a year ahead of him. It was he, however, who spent two years in the 1st eleven while I captained the 2nd in my final year. We were both allegedly fast bowlers. Chris, although less accurate, was a great deal faster. This he achieved by swinging his delivery arm over twice. He would, no doubt, question my accuracy statement, given that his favourite sporting story concerned his feat of bowling five victims in successive balls. When I once mentioned that this was in a school practice match, Peter quipped that he had thought it was a Test Match. In the only school game in which we played against each other, he also bowled me, which was more than somewhat chastening. While on the subject I would add that he played for a short time with me for Trinity Cricket Club where his bowling was less successful, but, some 50 years later, he remained very high on the list of six hitters. The club had an annual single wicket knockout competition. Both our names are on the cup, although Chris managed it first.
I indicated earlier that Chris kept himself out of trouble at primary school. He did the same at The College. Whereas I was quite a regular recipient of stinging strokes of the ferula pictured above, my brother spent his whole career there pain free, prompting me to call him a creep.
As I understand it, women are the multi-taskers. Chris, at 17, was able to play his guitar; listen to music, not necessarily Hank Marvin or Buddy Holly; and do his homework, apparently simultaneously.
I will leave the rest of his life story in Frances’s capable hands.
This afternoon I watched the Six Nations rugby match between Ireland and Scotland.
For dinner tonight Jackie produced her tasty sausages in red wine; creamy mashed potatoes; crunchy carrots; and firm Brussels sprouts, with which she drank Hoegaarden whilst I opened another bottle of the Malbec and drank some of it.
First thing this morning, Jackie drove me to New Milton for me to do some banking. After this she continued with planting and repairing storm damage in the garden where I carried out minimal tidying and dead-heading.
This afternoon I worked on the next section of ‘A Knight’s Tale’.
This evening we dined at The Smugglers Inn in Milford on Sea.
Having made the mistake of ordering two belly-busting courses last time we were here, we each just had one tonight. Jackie enjoyed ginormous lemon chicken, chips, and salad.
My choice was superb sizzling sirloin steak served on a bed of onions, mushrooms, and tomatoes set on a steaming dish alongside the plentiful chips, onion rings, and salad on another enormous plate. I drank Doom Bar and Jackie drank Amstel. This time we consumed everything except a few of Jackie’s chips. The lady behind the steam thought this an artistic portrait.
I spent the morning clearing the garage. First I finished removing the IKEA wardrobes;
then garden tools went to the orange shed; then various other items went into the house. There are still a few tidy boxes of items from which younger homemakers may wish to take their pick.
Otherwise the room is ready for the books to be unpacked from storage boxes and settled on the IKEA Billy bookshelves. Probably about another dozen should suffice.
We now have two piles of debris for a skip. This afternoon Jackie drove us to Milford on Sea. The haze leant an atmospheric quality to the beach.
Flo was unaware of the black-headed gull which I had panned as it flew towards her. She raised her head, across which blew her hair at the most opportune moment. This evening all seemed right with the world. Jackie plucked up the courage to produce a full meal on the Neff hobs. This was her spaghetti bolognese, except for spaghetti read linguine. It was of her usual superb standard, and followed by microwaved lemon drizzle pudding courtesy of Waitrose, served with Jackie’s own custard. I finished the Isla Negra. During the past fortnight I have learned a new meaning for the word ‘triangle’. Martin Taylor had observed that there was no triangle in the kitchen. Jackie had concurred, and has, at moments of stress since, mentioned the fact in her usual calm, collected, way. I was a little bemused at this, for to me a triangle belonged in a primary school band. This was the instrument entrusted to me at St Mary’s on some auspicious occasion in my early years, possibly because it was considered I could do least damage to the performance with it, and they didn’t want me to suffer the ignominy of being left out. I remember being rather puzzled when I was told to bash it with a metal rod thingy at certain regular intervals. I’m not sure my sense of timing was particularly unerring. Surely there was no place for one in a kitchen? I was, of course on the wrong track altogether. The triangle in a kitchen, you see, is composed of lines linking cooker, cupboards, and sink. You are meant to be able to stand in the middle and reach any one of these easily from the same spot. In our kitchen, by swivelling at will, you can just about reach cooker or hobs and a selection of cupboards rather too low for the elderly. Water is, however, a problem. To get to that from either of the other two sides of the triangle you must walk around the island. Jackie doesn’t appreciate the exercise. And refers to the fact. Quite often.
This morning I took the Kindor Gardens route to South Wimbledon, turned left into Kingston Road, right into Russell Road, left into the Broadway, and back to Links Avenue by the Mostyn Road route.
From a balcony in a block of flats in Morden Road, a pair of foxes and their cubs were surveying the traffic. A little further on I passed Watch Me, our favourite Sri Lankan restaurant.
In Russell Road I paused outside St. Mary’s Primary School and pondered over my early years of education. It being half-term, I was unable to gain access, which was a disappointment. The school I knew, of much smaller proportions, of course, than I remembered it, has been extended and altered. The playground area, scene of the greatest horror; the greatest deviousness; and the greatest triumph of my primary school years, was now a block of rooms. To the right the main building had been extended and there was a new structure alongside it. There is a modern main entrance, above which lies a bas-relief in memory of Father Rankin S.J., who was, in my day an influential Jesuit and possibly Auntie Gwen’s favourite priest.
My greatest primary school shame occured after Mrs Chapman’s lesson at the end of the day. There had been a spate of lost coats. These were suspected to have been stolen. I went to my peg and found my coat missing. Full of trepidation, I reported this to the rather frightening teacher. I was told to sit down at my desk and wait. Off she strode to fetch the caretaker.. Together they scoured the buildings for my clothing. Whilst they were gone, and it was growing gloomy in the otherwise empty classroom, I had a terrifying thought that set me aquivering. The clouds were darkening in Mrs Chapman’s face as she returned without the coat. What I said next brought on the thunder. Bottom lip trembling, ‘Please Miss’, I blurted. All female teachers, married or not, were ‘Miss’ in those days, and Ms had not been coined. ‘Please Miss’, I repeated, ‘I’ve just remembered. I didn’t bring my coat today’…………… The calm after the storm was deadly. Mrs. Chapman never bothered to send you to Miss Bryant for the cane, she administered a few hearty slaps herself. At least they were on the palms of your hands. Perhaps it hurt her more than it hurt me. Then I had to go home and explain to my Mum why I was late.
Mr. Hyde, on the other hand; actually both of them; wouldn’t hurt himself with his method. He used the flat of a ruler on the backs of your fingers, whilst clasping them to keep them still. With his dark hair and visage; his hairy nostrils and digits; and his fearsome eyes enlarged by thick lenses, he looked every bit the alter ego of Dr. Jekyll.
Miss Flaxman favoured a barrage of energetic open-handed blows on the backs of your legs. A large red-haired amazon, I don’t think she ever took her coat off, for it always seemed to flap about when she stung your calves. She had to bend down to reach small legs, which meant her head was a bit close so you had to try not to fart. The strange thing about these latter two is that they would steam into you until they were exhausted. His nostrils would flare and flare, and she would become redder and redder in the face. Their breathing would reach a crescendo and eventually quieten, when they would stop. Rumour had it that they were what we now call an item. Perhaps these performances reflected a certain amount of sexual frustration. They were Catholics, after all.
Corporal punishment takes me to my greatest deviousness. Mrs. Braniff, unusually for her, had decided to send me to Miss Bryant to be caned. Perhaps she had dished out her own quota for the day. Well, I didn’t fancy the cane, so I nipped round into a corner of the playground and hid for what seemed a reasonable length of time, after which I returned to the classroom hugging my hands to my sides. I suppose I thought that if I was sussed I’d only get the cane anyway. Actually, to my great surprise, I got away with it. In the words of the the song, ‘I disremember what’ my misdemeanour had been.
I don’t want to give the impression that all my teachers were vicious beasts. Miss Downs deserved her own post on 25th May.
Now to my greatest horror. This was my first day. My grandfather had taken me to school, and, cock-a-hoop, I strode in, waving him goodbye. I had a new set of clothes and was embarking upon a new adventure. Then I turned the corner into the playground……………. It was full of screaming children, including girls, and most of them were much bigger than me…….. I got home to Raynes Park before Grandpa. There are no words to describe the absolute terror represented by these dotted lines. I was off like a shot. I suppose I must have got the bus, but I really don’t remember. The next image I have is of bashing on the front door until Mum came down to me.
Naturally Mum calmed me down and returned me to the torture chamber. She may have fed me, may have accompanied me on the bus. It’s all a blank, not even a blur.
I was presented to Miss Mulvaney. Miss Mulvaney smiled, took my hand, and led me into her classroom. ‘We are having plasticine this afternoon, and here is Maureen Potter to look after you’, she said. I was flabbergasted. There, beaming in her half of our joint desk, sat the most angelic creature I had ever seen. She had a lovely round face, the image of which I cannot conjure up, but the impression of which has remained deep in my heart. As this motherly child took my hand my stomach leapt. Not for the first time that day, but this time it was a wholly different sensation. I was in love for the very first time. Miss Mulvaney knew what she was about.
We enjoyed the plasticine too. Why is it, incidentally, that however bright the original colours are, this material always turns brown?
After a massive Sainsbury’s North Cheam shop in preparation for the Thompson family Firs weekend, Jackie and I returned to Morden and had Moby Dicks at the Morden Superfish. We couldn’t eat a sweet, Jackie in particular thinking that the Spotted Dick on offer would be one dick too many. I drank a glass of Pinot Grigio and Jackie a Carlsberg.
Taking advantage of the beautiful weather I walked up to Wimbledon common just before midday with a couple of books and sat reading by the pond in which I’d sailed my boat as a child. The bench I had chosen was inscribed IN MEMORY OF DOUGLAS WARD CAMPBELL.
As always when passing Wimbledon Library, situated adjacent to St. Mark’s Place, where Jack (see post of 13th. May) stood awaiting his next charge, my thoughts turn to Miss Downs. Miss Downs was a teacher at St. Mary’s Russell Rd. Roman Catholic school which I and all my siblings attended. Miss Downs was adamant that we should read three books a week. Consequently, dutifully, if not religiously, Mum took us on a regular weekly trip to the library where these treasure troves were to be found. Was anyone else out there nurtured on Patricia Lynch’s Brogeen stories?
Every Sunday morning my brother Chris and I would attend Mass in the Church of the Sacred Heart on Edge Hill and go on for breakfast at Auntie Gwen’s in Latimer Road. Auntie Gwen was my godmother, not the proprietor of yet another greasy spoon. Mum was not a Catholic and Dad, at that time, was not practising. In our case ‘attend Mass’ was a loose description. When we discovered that it was only if you missed the crucial parts of the ceremony each Sabbath that you were condemned to Hell, we started stretching it a bit. We would sneak in just before the Gospel and slide out just after Communion. What we didn’t know was that Miss Downs was part of the congregation. It was therefore something of a shock when we were summoned to her room at school to be asked to explain our behaviour and to be given what for. This seemed pretty bad luck to us, and a bit out of order. The long arm of the school was everywhere.
So…… for a lifetime’s pleasure from reading, Miss Downs and Mum, I thank you. I still read every day. For a sharp lesson in the wisdom of sussing out every possible drawback when contemplating manipulating the rules, Miss Downs, I, er, thank you.
I took the 93 bus back today, walking the long way round from Morden Station and stopping for an excellent shish kebab with a first rate salad at Morden Best Kebabs on London Road. I have not been able to eat a doner since Becky told me what went into them.
This evening Jackie and I ate at the Watch Me, our favourite Sri Lankan restaurant on Morden Road. Presumably it gets its name from the fact that, if you feel so inclined, you can watch the team of chefs performing behind a long window. The food is wonderful, especially for me as hot comes as standard. The staff are all very friendly young men, one of whom plays cricket. The atmosphere is of a family gathering. Alomost all the other customers are Sri Lankan families, the women wearing gorgeous saris, especially if there is, as often, a party going on; and really very small children running about. The fathers are very hands-on Dads. Waiters are adept at weaving in and out of darting infants whilst balancing plates of food. You are not expected to order your ‘mains’ until you have eaten your starters, and you are never approached with the bill. As far as they are concerned you are there for the evening. We are indebted to my sister Jacqueline for the introduction to this establishment.
