first day at school

At the tender age of five, freedom and a carefree lifestyle were about to end. My parents tried to ease me into the prospect of school, by taking me to see the classroom where my older sister attended. Presumably they thought I would find it acceptable, knowing that she returned home each day in one piece! They pointed out the fun elements: the children’s paintings; colourful numbers and alphabet decorating the walls; Janet and John books; a tank of water containing small toy boats; a bucket of modelling clay etc. It certainly looked promising but I had a heavy feeling in my gut that forewarned of things to come. My enduring memory is one of desks. Neatly placed on each was a small blackboard. On that were a knitted, square, board rubber and a piece of chalk.

Inevitably, the day arrived that would herald the start of an eleven-year nightmare. Suitably primed for the experience by mother, we walked the quarter mile to the infant school for my ‘first day’. Smells of polish, disinfectant and unidentifiable food greeted me. In the corridor were rows of coat hooks - we called them pegs – and each child was allocated one for their coat and ‘pump bag’. Under each peg was a small picture of a piece of fruit to help us remember which was ours. Mine was a banana.

The mothers and children fussed around in the classroom. Some children were crying by now, but some seemed excited. As soon as mum informed me that she was leaving me there, I joined the first category and bawled my eyes out. I pleaded with her not to go. I don’t remember much more of that first day except we were allocated a desk and chair each. They were arranged in groups of four and I was seated with three girls. Two of them were non-identical twins – Pat and Angela. Angela was the quiet one and had a sweet, pretty face that befitted her name. I fell slightly in love with her eventually and decided I wanted to marry an Angela when I grew up. Nearly twenty years later, I did (but not the same one)!

Initially I think I settled in quite well, but before long an incident occurred that mentally scarred me for many years. At break times we were instructed to visit the toilets. Five-year olds don’t have full bladder control. I entered the communal boys’ room one day, to find one character wielding a knotted towel. He was swinging it around and whacking everyone about the head as they entered. He seemed like the devil incarnate and gave me a hefty blow. My young, impressionable mind imagined he would be there every time. I decided it was not a place for me in future and avoided it at all costs. The price to pay was having a bladder that felt like bursting. The benefit was it taught me some control, though there was the occasional embarrassing accident.

The first teacher was a placid and skinny, mouse-like lady, called Mrs Osmond. She seemed ancient but probably no more than 50 years old. She always wore a long, flowery, housecoat type of overall. It hung straight down off her bony shoulders, showing no hint of a womanly figure beneath. I distinctly remember that from the back she looked like our ironing board.

Lessons consisted mainly of learning numbers and the alphabet. With the aid of flashcards, we learned basic words like: the, and, it, to, for etc. There were a few long or difficult words that I liked because they made me feel knowledgeable: aeroplane, zebra and xylophone. Great to have in your vocabulary! We had stories read to us such as: Chicken Licken; Hansel and Gretel; Three Little Pigs; Red Riding Hood etc. Sometimes we painted pictures of: a house; a cat; the sun; a tree or our mummy. In the afternoons we had a short rest period when we laid our heads on the desks and closed our eyes. Whether that was for our benefit of Mrs Osmond’s, I’m not sure!

Discipline was drummed into us in two ways. Folding our arms across our chests whilst sitting bolt upright was a call for stillness and attention. A shout of ‘QUIET CHILDREN’ and ‘HANDS ON HEADS’ was all that was necessary to restore order in those days.

Much more about school to come later.