The School Years

Dad's school years...

...In the main (junior) school, we were introduced to paper, notebooks, dip pens, and inkwells. Those dip pens were treacherous. Excessive pressure would cross the nib and make it useless. Nibs were expected to last a long time so breaking a nib was a crime. Too heavy a dip in the well and an overloaded pen made a blot that could not be eradicated as we could with the slate we’d left behind. Mistakes were recorded for all time and could not be hidden. Now that we were recording all our work, accuracy and neatness were all-important.

            Handwriting, spelling, and arithmetic (much mental) were daily exercises. Reading around the class (an activity that is now derided) took a whole lesson every week. It kept you awake and concentrating because you might be the next child called upon to continue the narrative. Woe betide the child whose attention had wandered and who could not continue when called upon. He spent his playtime writing lines.
 

            What did I learn in my years at Shedfield? Being a Church of England School meant frequent visits from the local vicar and, in the infants’ school, we had a short religious service to start the day. We learned how life began – we saw pictures of Adam and Eve with the serpent lurking in the grass. No Darwinian theory of evolution for us; that came later in the grammar school. We did not question how Noah made it to the North and South poles to round up polar bears and penguins. They were clearly shown entering the Ark, along with elephants and giraffes solemnly walking up the gang plank. The teacher backed up the vicar so it must be true. We did not question how one man’s lunch stretched to feed 5000. I suppose we swallowed all these myths as true. I have wondered since if the teacher and vicar really believed all those miracles they fed us or whether they were merely doing their duty as Christians.

           The teacher had to be a complete all-rounder. The day started with arithmetic; long division was especially tricky. The bell rang. Then it was history: Julius Caesar; King Henry and his bevy of wives; Oliver Cromwell – we had them all. The bell rang. Now it’s geography. Each classroom had a large wall map and sometimes a globe, “All that red is our Empire”. We learned to pinpoint countries, rivers, and towns. 

There was an emphasis on patriotism. The school had a tall flagpole. On special nationwide days, the flag was solemnly hoisted. A day known as Empire Day was most special. The whole school gathered around the pole, the flag was raised, the headmaster gave an address, we sang the National Anthem, and gave three cheers for the King. The headmaster allowed us to stage battles; I used to enter the fray with an old bayonet. Goodness knows what would have happened if I’d put out someone’s eye, or inflicted serious damage on the enemy.

           We played football during the midday break and there were few rules. While tackling an opposing player, I had the misfortune to knock him down and break his leg. Poor Henry, he was carried into school and the doctor was called. Rumours spread: Henry might die, Sidney broke Henry’s leg; Sidney is a killer, keep away from him. I was ostracised for days. Then Henry turned up at school with his leg in plaster to be the hero of the day. We became friends again.

The playground adjoined a large area of heather common land on which was a rudimentary golf course. Finding a lost ball was an event. At the other end of the common was a small sweetshop where a half penny (old money) would buy a bag of aniseed balls which our little group would share and we’d see who could get the reddest tongue.

There was a large wood next to the common and we would make primitive bows and fire silly little arrows at passing cars. That game came to an end when a motorist stopped his car and caught us. We were too scared to run. He took our names and must have then met with the local policeman. He caught up with us as we returned to school, gave us a good lecture, and said, “Tell your Dad to give you a good thrashing.” I did not do this! Had I done so Dad, humiliated that his son had been so naughty, would have well and truly thrashed me. He was generally easy going but to be involved with a policeman was unforgivable. I think on the whole, the school did not do so badly....

.... Reading this again, with fresh insight, I see now that my daughter Sid, christened of course for her grandfather, was more than aptly named.