My Dad describes his first day at school circa 1931- unedited piece called The Learning from his memoirs. This would have been describing the walk from home in Gospel Lane to Heartfield Crescent...................
It is Monday morning.
This will be my first day at school.
I was ready and rearing to go. I edged my way cautiously but deliberately toward the door. It was as if I was willing myself to be spirited to the place of learning.
If my outward appearance gave the impression of excitement and enthusiasm then it was far from the truth. My innards had the golly-wobbles.
Whenever it was necessary to go someplace – Then like a homing pigeon; the sooner I got there the better.
If by chance I had free choice, it would be different. My starting time could then be of my own choosing.
To me – A committal is one of sacred obligation. I’d be waiting at the starting post with time to spare. My reflexes would be rearing to go and my engine at the ready.
On this occasion no time of commencement had been stated.
Unexpectedly
(before I was ready) there came a knock on the door. I couldn’t see who it was but I had a shrewd idea. It would be friends calling for Geoff.
It must surely be them.
Geoff went to the door and I followed.
(my Dads elder brother)
Mum pulled me back.
You are not to go with them. You must attend class later because it is your first day. It is customary for new pupils to report directly to the head mistress on the day of admission. This has to be a little later than normal class time.
Some time had passed before we started out - Far too much for my liking.
Second thoughts were beginning to shape in my mind.
Mum and I eventually started out. It was at a brisk pace with me tailing along holding her hand. My free hand trailed through privet hedges of every house we passed. Perhaps I was subconsciously trying to throw out an anchor to prevent the inevitable. Was my willingness to attend schooling a mistake?
Doubts were beginning to loom.
M
um had sensed my reluctance to hurry. Her pace quickened causing me to fall. My mind began calculating. It occurred to me that we might now have to return home for her to attend my injury.
No such idea had entered mum’s head. We continued.
This would be the first time that I had walked to anywhere that entailed a definite purpose. Until now it had always been in the course of play.
Usually I ambled at a carefree pace in search of whatever might attract me.
In those circumstances it was more as naturalness in pursuant of pleasure.
Whatever reason there is for walking anywhere –
There wasn’t much choice.
Walking hereabout was the only form of travel.
My family didn’t own a horse and trap -
Unless dad had been keeping secrets.
The nearest association our family had to a horse is dad’s father. He had been a groom. Dad often referred to his bike as being his trusty mare. It was also called his iron horse.
He was full of comic phrases.
We children jokingly used such phrases ourselves. It is a language that I’m more in tune with.
Dad’s quotes were many of which he had a never-ending source.
Quotations to suit any occasion were his hallmark. These he would constantly quote whenever the need arose.
Whatever and whenever the occasion there’d be a fitting quotation to suit each situation.
“FEET ARE MADE FOR WALKING” . . . . is one of many.
Had I have complained on this journey to school – Mum would surely have given me such an answer. Perhaps they may one day set that quote to music.
In the meantime mum’s pace didn’t slacken.
Whenever my steps faltered; mum would swing around in temper.
During these moments of conflict I’d realise that mum intended to be Gaffa’.
But wasn’t she always!
Mum’s eager pacing to reach school in record time took its toll. My legs ached relentlessly. This continued until our destination was finally reached.
The school was now in full view.
In no time at all we were at the entrance.
Mum paused outside the main gate. This was to be inspection time . . . of me.
She scrutinised me like a bug under a microscope. She hastily reached into her pocket. Out came a large comb. I had no illusion as to what would follow. I was to be groomed. I took precautionary measures and held on tightly to the iron rails of the school gate. If I hadn’t I would have chalked up a second fall of this day.
When mum combs hair it is with the same resilience as the maintenance workers resurfacing a road.
Stage one having been completed, there comes a review of me. She fishes into her pocket again. Out comes a hanky. My face underwent a scrub and retexture.
Fortunately; mum never used the deplorable habit that some do – This is the wetting of a hanky with spittle. Mum used the good old-fashioned dry torture with plenty of elbow grease.
If I had looked a little pale to begin with it soon changed. After a torturous rubbing there came a surge of heat to my face. Colour flushed to it like a rosy apple.
Mum wasn’t muscular but she could scrub ruthlessly.
A few adjustments to my attire followed. She eyed me with her usual half approval look. She appeared moderately satisfied. There was always reluctance for her to give top marks to whatever my condition.
Without further ado she grabbed my hand. She set off at brisk regimental pace to the head’s office with me in tow . . .
and hanging on for dear life.
A brief but welcoming introduction came from the headmistress.
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I was then taken to a classroom.