C
Colin Richards
Guest
Some memories of Upper Thomas Street by Colin Richards
The early 1950’s in an austere high ceiling Victorian School built in the last quarter of the 19th century and Rock and Roll just a couple of years away. Everest Climbed and a new queen crowned. and the Second World War was fast becoming a memory. Those of us who swaggered into the playground seconds before the bell, nipping our cigarettes out to be smoked in the toilets at play time.
Me I was fourteen at the time hard on the outside, unsure on the inside. The hardness was the shell of survival in the tough inner city schools, not that they were called then, but Secondary Moderns, where discipline revolved around the cane, the blackboard ruler, Slipper, and the hand. Milder forms often included chalk or the blackboard rubber being thrown at a transgressor who dared whisper or misbehave when the teacher’s back was turned.
Detention was not on the agenda. That would have meant that the teachers would be required to stay behind to supervise.
I remember the day we were in science class sitting on the high tables with the Bunsen burners attached to the gas spigots. John Grogan deliberately yanked off the rubber hose and turned the gas tap on full; with a class of 42 it was difficult to hear the hiss of the escaping gas.
Several minutes went by and most of the other boys were already aware of what was happening, but to voice it to the teacher was certainly not the way to stay safe.
John knew just when to flip the match, and as the teacher asked about the distinct smell of gas a huge ball of flame shot towards the ceiling. The mad scramble to avoid the fireball sent boys falling everywhere.
The teacher and I forget his name totally lost control, he grabbed Grogan who still had the box of matches in his hand, even he was amazed at the result of his actions. He literally threw John to the floor lashing out at him with his feet and screaming like a banshee. John had curled himself into a ball and it wasn’t until we all ganged up on the teacher that he relented and stormed out of the lab.
The headmaster arrived to read the riot act and viscously caned John across both hands.
It had the desired affect; no one to my knowledge ever pulled the same trick again. And in those days one would never ever tell a parent, whatever punishment was doled out.
One of the memorable and different forms of corporal punishment took place during a woodwork lesson.
Being something of a bully and that was one way of surviving in those days, several of the ‘gang’ had gotten one unfortunate hand spread out on a woodwork bench, after the teacher had left us to work on our own (a big mistake) However with his hand spread I had a quarter chisel and was seeing how fast I could jab it between his fingers, everyone was cheering me on except the unfortunate boy whose fingers were at risk.
Suddenly from know where a chunk of wood bounced off my head, I screamed asking which bastard had done it. Mr Gillard the woodwork teacher stood by the open door and readily admitted it.
I was then subjected to a length of ‘two by one’ across my backside.
Tears were certainly not allowed and the shame of shedding them was far worse than the actual punishment.
Teachers then would often come scrounging the forbidden cigarettes from the smokers amongst us.
And one particular day Mr Hurford strode into the art class and promptly asked me for a cigarette, when I told him I didn’t have any, which happened to be true that day, he made me stand up and patted my pockets. An uneasy smile broke over his face as he found something heavy in my side pocket. He slipped his hand in and withdrew a homemade knuckleduster made of lead with short nails embedded.
My feet didn’t touch the ground, the headmaster laid six strokes of his especially viscous cane across each of my hands.
They were blistered and swollen and yet I was still obliged to continue to write, with the pen and ink provided, and excessive blots on one work was rewarded once more with the cane.
There were several of us who seemed unable to avoid corporal punishment, and several methods were supposed to guarantee that the pain could be avoided.
Urinating over ones hands was supposed to toughen up the skin, all we ever got was smelly hands.
Soap spread over the hands and the fingers sloped downwards so the cane would slide off.
Another failure.
Certain teachers had evil ways of inflicting pain, one particular exponent a Mr Milner would grab the short hairs of ones sideburns and twist lifting at the same time, and the desks with fitted fold up seats did not make for easy egress, consequently the pain lasted several seconds longer. Another was expert at the back of the head slap especially when one was not expecting it, he was also proficient at the feint, pretend he was about to slap your face with his left hand and when you moved away bring up his right. I am amazed a whole generation didn’t leave school with cauliflower ears.
And in spite of what seems almost like torture was not. We were not treated any differently than any other boys our own age, and many other lads were often subject to even more brutality at home. The belt was often given when a father came home from work to learn that his son had done something out of order. When a father figure wasn’t around the boiler stick came into its own.
Years later I actually worked with two of my old teachers, and still retained the respect for them. It was rare that the punishment they doled out was not justified.
The early 1950’s in an austere high ceiling Victorian School built in the last quarter of the 19th century and Rock and Roll just a couple of years away. Everest Climbed and a new queen crowned. and the Second World War was fast becoming a memory. Those of us who swaggered into the playground seconds before the bell, nipping our cigarettes out to be smoked in the toilets at play time.
Me I was fourteen at the time hard on the outside, unsure on the inside. The hardness was the shell of survival in the tough inner city schools, not that they were called then, but Secondary Moderns, where discipline revolved around the cane, the blackboard ruler, Slipper, and the hand. Milder forms often included chalk or the blackboard rubber being thrown at a transgressor who dared whisper or misbehave when the teacher’s back was turned.
Detention was not on the agenda. That would have meant that the teachers would be required to stay behind to supervise.
I remember the day we were in science class sitting on the high tables with the Bunsen burners attached to the gas spigots. John Grogan deliberately yanked off the rubber hose and turned the gas tap on full; with a class of 42 it was difficult to hear the hiss of the escaping gas.
Several minutes went by and most of the other boys were already aware of what was happening, but to voice it to the teacher was certainly not the way to stay safe.
John knew just when to flip the match, and as the teacher asked about the distinct smell of gas a huge ball of flame shot towards the ceiling. The mad scramble to avoid the fireball sent boys falling everywhere.
The teacher and I forget his name totally lost control, he grabbed Grogan who still had the box of matches in his hand, even he was amazed at the result of his actions. He literally threw John to the floor lashing out at him with his feet and screaming like a banshee. John had curled himself into a ball and it wasn’t until we all ganged up on the teacher that he relented and stormed out of the lab.
The headmaster arrived to read the riot act and viscously caned John across both hands.
It had the desired affect; no one to my knowledge ever pulled the same trick again. And in those days one would never ever tell a parent, whatever punishment was doled out.
One of the memorable and different forms of corporal punishment took place during a woodwork lesson.
Being something of a bully and that was one way of surviving in those days, several of the ‘gang’ had gotten one unfortunate hand spread out on a woodwork bench, after the teacher had left us to work on our own (a big mistake) However with his hand spread I had a quarter chisel and was seeing how fast I could jab it between his fingers, everyone was cheering me on except the unfortunate boy whose fingers were at risk.
Suddenly from know where a chunk of wood bounced off my head, I screamed asking which bastard had done it. Mr Gillard the woodwork teacher stood by the open door and readily admitted it.
I was then subjected to a length of ‘two by one’ across my backside.
Tears were certainly not allowed and the shame of shedding them was far worse than the actual punishment.
Teachers then would often come scrounging the forbidden cigarettes from the smokers amongst us.
And one particular day Mr Hurford strode into the art class and promptly asked me for a cigarette, when I told him I didn’t have any, which happened to be true that day, he made me stand up and patted my pockets. An uneasy smile broke over his face as he found something heavy in my side pocket. He slipped his hand in and withdrew a homemade knuckleduster made of lead with short nails embedded.
My feet didn’t touch the ground, the headmaster laid six strokes of his especially viscous cane across each of my hands.
They were blistered and swollen and yet I was still obliged to continue to write, with the pen and ink provided, and excessive blots on one work was rewarded once more with the cane.
There were several of us who seemed unable to avoid corporal punishment, and several methods were supposed to guarantee that the pain could be avoided.
Urinating over ones hands was supposed to toughen up the skin, all we ever got was smelly hands.
Soap spread over the hands and the fingers sloped downwards so the cane would slide off.
Another failure.
Certain teachers had evil ways of inflicting pain, one particular exponent a Mr Milner would grab the short hairs of ones sideburns and twist lifting at the same time, and the desks with fitted fold up seats did not make for easy egress, consequently the pain lasted several seconds longer. Another was expert at the back of the head slap especially when one was not expecting it, he was also proficient at the feint, pretend he was about to slap your face with his left hand and when you moved away bring up his right. I am amazed a whole generation didn’t leave school with cauliflower ears.
And in spite of what seems almost like torture was not. We were not treated any differently than any other boys our own age, and many other lads were often subject to even more brutality at home. The belt was often given when a father came home from work to learn that his son had done something out of order. When a father figure wasn’t around the boiler stick came into its own.
Years later I actually worked with two of my old teachers, and still retained the respect for them. It was rare that the punishment they doled out was not justified.
Hi Chris, I was a late monitor when a prefect in the seniors at UTS.We would have to take the names of any one who came late & they would be recorded in the Head Masters (Mr York) book. to be acted upon if more than three times late in a week.:|
