Menory Lane - the schools part 5

Rounding off the Claydon years.

I was shuffling through some of the old papers which have somehow clung to my files. There were the yearly reports from Whitton, the scripture certificates from the Bible society, the swimming and gymnastics certificates and badges... and the headmaster's report at end of schooling.  It could not be said to be 'glowing', but is is certainly not poor.

In fact, having kept every reference since that time, there is a definite theme appearing. Lines such as "...pleasant, friendly and sympathetic, tempered by a degree of reserve. She is capable and most reliable and her relationship with staff and pupils has been excellent throughout..."  or, "...has always maintained high personal standards of work and behaviour with a marked degree of determination..." could have been a blueprint and surely Mr Chapman observed the emerging adult.

Memories of CMS are somehow a little more vague than those of junior years.  This could in part be due to the fact that they were happy years, more settled than much of the younger times.  It would also be because I finally had a 'group'.  

Then there were all the extra activities; school choir, recorder group, gym club, drama, sailing, fund raising, Duke of Edinburgh Awards...

Always involved and yet rarely at the forefront.  The very few occasions I recall attempting to step out of the shadows tended to result in pain of some sort.  Be it bullying by Princess Nicky and her servants (resulting in many a 'talk' about how I should not fear other folks' jealousy) or feeling the heavy hand of Mr Humby banging my head against another pupil's (try that now you oafish bombast!) or being called to headmaster's office... who would have thought a home made beaded head band would cause such a stir?  School uniform was strictly adhered to then.

Internal imprint?  Work hard, work clever, make others look good.  I have pretty much spent my life as the 2nd in command.

The other thing to consider in that, though, was my continually emerging spiritual self. For some reason, religious studies at Claydon did not impress themselves on me.  There are dim scenes in memory of an unruly class, a variety of teachers, none of whom (I suspect) held truly strong faith themselves.

The house we had to moved to in the village had a rear garden entrance which permitted entry to the church; C of E and by comparison to my Baptist experience, very 'high'. The choir there performed a lot of plain chant and I quickly found myself a member. So investigations of faith continued.

Mac1 and Mac3 were fast coming up behind me and they were getting involved with youth groups and discos.  Neither of these were of interest to me.  I preferred to stay in my room reading and writing.  Mother worried about this... there was the famous line of "you are going to end up a spinster hermit!!" Said in frustration at my lack of social adventure. Yet strangely prophetic.

I was not, of course, a hermit;  simply selective in my options.  The end of school report proves that.  I enjoyed life, but gently.

Menory Lane - the schools part 4

(Press the 'schools' label if you want to catch up...apologies to 'menoshukhi' seekers; I have started so will finish!)

After leaving Whitton Junior, I moved into Thurlstane Comprehensive School (as it was called then).  This was rather traumatic.  I have memories of schoolyard fights and detentions and such. Not for me - but seeing them happen.

It was rough and tumble.  The teachers were too...in retrospect of course, one can understand they had to respond to the prevailing student demographic.  This little lily nearly wilted though. In particular I dreaded "Home Practices".  What a name for a subject.  In theory it was inclusive to all. There was only one boy in that class. 

HP covered everything from how to iron a shirt properly to correct shopping methodology for balancing the budget... I kid you not.  Worst of all, it included sewing.

Among her many talents, mother was an excellent seamstress.  Until school uniform, everything we wore was made by her.  She was a great believer in unpicking unsatisfactory work.  As if that wasn't daunting enough, now I had to satisfy one of the most terrifying teachers ever.  We were to make our summer uniform.  A cotton shift dress.  Making the pattern from scratch.  I lost interest at the measuring part.  The whole business seemed to me to be tedious and unnecessary. This teacher shouted.  She scorned. She shamed. She gave detention.

Suddenly I was a criminal and all because of needlecraft.

That dress never got made.  It became superfluous to requirement.  Before the summer term hit, the family moved out to the country village of Henley and I was lodged into Claydon Secondary Modern.

At this place there was 'Sewing' and there was 'Domestic Science'.  The latter was great fun.  It involved the kitchen.  A favourite place of mine.

The former nearly paralyzed me.  What was it with stitching teachers?  Mrs English was nowhere near as bad as the first b****, but I certainly was not fond of her.  She was also our History teacher.

There was the option to get out of sewing if I took another technical subject.  I opted for Woodwork.  Loved it.  From that  I discovered I liked Technical Drawing and took that right up till we had to decide on exam threads.

To this day anything involving sewing needles is avoided like the plague.  I can do it.  It just makes me ill.

That first term at CSM I was shy, lacking in confidence and convinced I couldn't do anything.  Again.

It showed on that first photo taken for year ending. (Mind you, such a hair cut should have been declared a criminal offence!)

I soon settled; blossomed, you might say...Much happier - and apart from a couple of shortenings over the years, the hairstyle has remained almost exactly this ever since.

As an addendum; unbeknownst to myself, mother kept that unmade dress for years.  She offered it to me when I turned 21 in case I "should feel like finishing off business" - not one of her best judged moments...

Menory Lane - the schools part 3

Whilst at Whitton Junior School, life was pretty good.  You'll recall I trailed things off in part 1...

At that time, it was compulsory to take Religious Education.  RE fascinated me from the very beginning.  It is worth noting here that my parents always declared themselves agnostics.  Mother was certainly philosophically-minded, but I can honestly say that such subjects were NOT taken up for family discussion.  Until I attended those classes, I recall nothing of hearing any mention of bible or 'baby Jesus'; even at Christmas.  

I did have an awareness though and I think when RE came into my life I was 'primed and ready', so to speak.  It seemed to me that the world could be made sense of through such study.  It was a very short time after starting the formal study at school when I dropped the bombshell in the kitchen.

Mother held her peace and ensured that Daughter No. 1 had the opportunity to explore this avenue.  The nearest available Sunday School happened to be that provided at the Baptist Church.

For three years I attended, missing only those weeks when the family headed North for summer holidays.  I thrived on scriptural study, excelling in the Bible Society exams and being presented with a bible for coming first in that final year.  The very bible which sits across the room from me now, which has travelled the globe with me.  I own other bibles.  That one will adorn my casket.

During this time the school class studies covered not just the bible, but made us aware of the varying practices and interpretations of spiritual acitivity. Our teacher was Mr Sleath. A bachelor man and a Jehovah's Witness.

He realised I had questions deeper than most teachers were prepared to answer - at least to a pre-teenager.  He asked my mother if she would allow me to visit his house on a weekly basis to hold more intense discussion.  Now - I know mother was very cautious, but these were more innocent times and trust still stood for much.  Permission was granted. For a period of six months I spent Saturday afternoons with Mr Sleath learning all sorts of wonderful things about scripture which were never addressed at school or the Sunday School.

This stopped for the same reason the Sunday School did - junior school ended.  Senior school began.

I have never forgotten Mrs Cotton at the Baptist Church, or Mr Sleath.  They took me seriously. They guided me well.  Each had definite faith structure, but never sought to press me into those structures.  They encouraged enquiry. A long search had begun.

Menosukhi/Menory Lane - the schools...part 2

On Friday I began an autobiographical chapter - it continues here, but also focuses on a particular memory which is still held fondly in memory.

The School Trip.  The one where we went to the Isle of Wight. It was the the first time Whitton School had attempted anything more than a weekend bus tour and it was also the first time I had slept away from home, not having previously been able to join in.

Can you see me there - stuck in the middle of the huddle on the deck?  The trip across the water on a big boat was the source of much mirth.  The boy beside me is Charlie Brown. Truth!  He was a good pal and it was from him I received my first kiss.  Not then, not here - much later... before moving schools again.  A timing which saved me from having to say no!  Perched in front is Jackie Kerrigan who was a good friend and fellow Guide... lost touch at end of Junior school.

Here's the whole bunch of us on the grounds of the Hotel - don't recall it's name, but I rather think the town was Shanklin and I have clear memories of visiting Ventnor for its botanic gardens and Alum Bay for the coloured sands.  We all made up little souvenir jars to take home to our parents of course!

That must be the hotel up behind me.  Can't match it to any I see advertised now, but this was 45 years ago remember!!!  That's Kenny Johnson on the right - our class clown. He was a very clever lad who went on to become a civil engineer, if I recall correctly.

It was a tremendous holiday and I don't think there were any negative incidents or serious misdemeanors.  This either means we were a particularly well mannered group, or the teachers knew exactly what they were doing!

Mum kept that little vial of coloured sand for decades.  It finally succumbed to breakage, as all glass things must.  Thus a piece of history was swept away...

Menory Lane - the schools...part 1

As mentioned yesterday, mum had a bit of a battle getting me into school. Not from lack of readiness; I was reading quite proficiently for my age and could already count and do very simple arithmetic.  

Wickham Market government school, however, was driven by rules in place at the time. Schooling began at 5 years (no kindergarten going on there or then) and to have allowed me in when my mother wanted meant I would have been 4 years of age for the majority of the year.  This could not be permitted. They said.

One of the reasons mum wanted this was that I clearly wanted and was ready for school. The other was that when Mac2 arrived in June of 1963, our larger caravan was suddenly looking a little small.  It would have helped mum out a lot to have had me off her hands for a portion of each weekday. I can quite clearly recall visiting the headmaster's office with her on a number of occasions as she put forward the case and I even sat an entrance test.  Which I am told was completed with full marks.

This swung the argument and I began the adventure of education that September.  It soon became apparent why age mattered somewhat.  As it turned out I was the youngest in the class and being of a quiet and studious personality, was soon the subject of schoolyard teasing.  Was it bullying at that tender age? 

Probably not truly so, but I do have memories of seeking to be as close as I could be to the yard monitor. Mum had to make a visit or two to talk to teachers.

It was not to be endured for long however, as the growing family, improved work placement of the father and a mother who was always thinking ahead meant that the first bricks and mortar property was purchased.  On the outskirts of Ipswich (semi-rural then but not now!), 682 Norwich Road was to be our home for about 6 years.  From that bungalow, I attended Whitton Junior School.  My first year there was problematic.  I had turned inwards after the Wickham experience and did not make pals easily.  My grades dropped and there is one horrific, still very alive memory, of being in the headmaster's office with mother.  In my presence he said to her, '...so we are wondering if perhaps she is a dunce.'

Can you imagine those terms being used now??!!!  My mother went into fix-it mode and I endured many years of at-home extra-curricular tutoring.  The only thing was that I most certainly was not a dunce.  I kept acing the tests given.

What I was, though, was a sensitive, intelligent kid who got easily bored as the class was mostly behind my own standard and I tended to fall into staring out the window.  Never a good look to the teacher out front.  Further, I had been the subject of serious peer criticism and scorn.  

Then, in my second year there, I was put in Mrs Mack's class.  Here was the first of the teachers to be remembered.  What a wonderful lady.  I was picked for special duties.  I was used to do things in front of class and I was listened to. I became happy, settled and productive.  I still have the reports from those days and the marks, whilst not brilliant, stand up well and show the improvement.

Aspects which helped me along at this time were; joining the Girl Guides, going to dancing and piano classes, taking riding lessons and finding my Spirit.  It was when I was seven years old that I nearly floored mother with the request to attend Sunday School...

Me, Mac2 and Mac1 in the back yard of the Norwich Road home.  1969 I think... You will note that I was already falling behind in the growth stakes!