In Days of Yore

It had been erected as a temporary block of four classrooms after the war, but when I arrived there in September 1969 it was still in use and set away from the main school building; a sort of embarrassing oversight now well past its sell by date. 

It housed the four classes of the fourth year juniors in what was, at the time, said to be the largest junior school in the country in Huddersfield in the West Riding of Yorkshire. In effect, it was a giant wooden shed divided into four, with a corridor running along the front and partitioned by strawboard walls. It was musty, hot and noisy in the Summer and musty, cold and noisy in the Winter and the four of us who worked in it referred to it affectionately as Stalag Luft IV. Today we would be horrified at such conditions, but then we got by. 

Behind the Stalag lay an elevated grass bank, bound by a perimeter fence looking out across a huge post war housing estate; the relentless supplier of our annual allocation of vacant innocence. The Bradley estate was notorious for lawlessness and neglect; where policemen went in twos and single parent families were the majority...single parent being a euphemism for the period after which the feckless male partner had walked out in search of a more commitment free existence.

Each classroom was equipped with rows of double-seat desks, Victorian in appearance and constructed of heavy metal frames with wooden lids, under which you kept your stuff... 'Sir, is this where we keep our stuff?' ...'Spot on Milton, that's exactly where we keep our stuff.' In the five years I was there, I never once had fewer than forty three children in my class, with an extra two or three regularly arriving as today's mystery guests. If a member of staff was absent, that class would be split into bite sized chunks and farmed out across those of us who weren't. The non-teaching head or non-teaching deputy having their time allocated to more important issues such as counting the crisp money or charging the batteries of the camper van ready for the week-end getaway.

Over all, we were a happy bunch, doing what was required with what we had, slowly converting vacant innocence into more informed worldliness....'it's budget day tomorrow Gloria, what happens on budget day?'...'er, is it when we let them out for a right good fly round, sir?'

Discipline was not the issue it is today and very rarely was anything other than a look or a stern word required. Discipline begins at home and in spite of many difficult circumstances, we always felt we had the support of parents when it came to acceptable behaviour. Any threat to the smooth running of our fiefdom would inevitably come from outside, from disaffected teenagers in the process of the inevitable transition to outright criminality. Break-ins were not infrequent, when anything of a comestible, valuable or easily disposable nature would be targeted, but occasionally they were of a more sinister nature. Walls daubed with obscenities, surprisingly often correctly spelled, items smashed and on one memorable occasion, the occupants of the school aquarium stapled to a notice board by their fins. Not so much vandalism, as more of a cry for help I always thought. Such incidents aside, we wanted for little, often achieved more than ever anticipated and always found a way. 

Attendance was never an issue either, except when illness struck of course, but communication from helpful mums was always a joy to receive. My all time favourite being...'Derek missed school yesterday because he had diarrhoea through a hole in his shoe.' This note arrived scribbled on a piece of torn off sugar bag and it was such an exquisite enigma that I suggested to my mate Malcolm, who taught Class 4C at the other side of our strawboard divide, that we send it down to Bletchley Park and let them have a go at it. He thought that such a Kohinoor of a sick note was far too precious to trust to the Post Office. He'd worked for them as a student one Christmas holiday and said it had more chance of being found forty-seven years later behind their giant sifter, than being delivered. We decided that he was probably right and the little gem took pride of place on the staffroom noticeboard, next to the playground duty rota where we'd once found the crucified Siamese fighting fish.

One glorious Summer afternoon, with every window wide open venting the heat and industry of my class 4B's encounters with punctuation, I noticed one of my band of miscreants doing things he shouldn't and called him out for a quiet word. He was seated next to the window and seeing the displeasure on my face, carefully weighed his options. To my immense surprise, he plumped for gymnastic defenestration and in one agile motion he stepped up onto his seat, onto the desk and dived straight out of the open window onto the grass banking below. His wide eyed classmates squealed with delight as he jumped the perimeter fence and sprinted towards the safety of the infamous Bradley estate. Without a second thought, rational or otherwise, and to the amazement of the whole class, I did exactly the same.

I think it must have been the shock of him turning and seeing me charging down the road that rooted him to the spot, because to my surprise, he stood motionless, looking resigned and defeated, until I took him by the arm and led him back from whence we came. In a matter of five minutes we were safely back amongst the commas, full stops and apostrophes.

The incident quickly became legend, because the following afternoon the window in my classroom door suddenly darkened and there, out in the corridor stood a huge Brunhilda of a woman dressed in apron and rolled up sleeves, revealing a pair of tattooed arms that would have shamed Popeye. It was my escapee Chris Lockwood's mum, with an expression on her face that would frighten gremlins...and she wanted an explanation. I think she must have seen the fear in my eyes, because to my great relief she listened without interruption to my account of the previous afternoon's entertainment, smiled, thanked me and said..'if the little bugger gives you any more trouble, just you let me know and I'll knock his block off.' 

I returned to my flock and sat at my desk trying to look totally composed. 'Chris's mum's right scary int she, sir.' said Milton, with a huge grin on his face. You could always rely on Milton to reaffirm the obvious with such fabulous enthusiasm.