First days at School

[StephenFord 866]

I was always a shy sort of lad so I suppose school ought to have held terror for me. Funnily enough I don’t remember that being the case. (I had a cousin who was five years older than me, and lived next door, and he used to regale me with exciting tales of the things that he and his school mates got up to). I started at Whitemoor Infants school in January 1954 (actually, thinking about it, it might have been 1 February, which was the Monday after my 5^th birthday – and I don’t think I started at the beginning of term). Mum took me round – a long traipse, especially on a cold wet morning, from Aslockton Drive, along Nuthall Road, High Street (now Basford Road) and Hayling Drive to the school on Bracknell Crescent.

I only have a vague recollection of the classroom. The teacher was the elderly Miss Maltby who retired when I left, although as far as I am aware the two events were not related. Someone else on here remembered her with less than enthusiasm! I don’t recall ever getting the wrong side of her. However I do remember one lad doing something that was “strengst verboten” – possibly involving much water in the cloakroom – and being put across her knee for a couple of good slaps – this was a 5 year old. Mind you, he didn’t seem unduly put out about it.

Names of other kids that come to mind : Janice Gough (she used to button me into my gabardine mac to go home!), Gail Brownlow who was related to one of my aunts in a way I have never quite worked out, Janice Glascoe (or possibly Glasgow), John Frearson (lived at or over the bike shop on Nuthall Road) and Robert Starkey.

I was only at Whitemoor for 6 months, as we moved to Long Eaton in August, and I transferred to Mikado Road infants. Everyone there already knew each other, so I was the new boy and odd one out all over again. After being there a few days, I realised that one of the lads lived up our street. Although he was the same age as me, he was a lot bigger. I enquired timidly if I could walk home with him. His reply was “If yer do I’ll kick y’up the be’ind all the way ‘ome.” We remained friends and in the same class right through school, and are still in contact today 58 years later.

On the whole my school days right through were pretty happy ones. I have read a lot here and elsewhere about intimidating teachers and vicious corporal punishment in those days. With very few exceptions the teachers I knew at Mikado Road, Brooklands Junior and then Long Eaton Grammar School were fair, human, good at their job and interesting to talk to. I remember them with great respect and affection.

[Jill Sparrow 10,304]

In the snug little study of Miss E A Smith (Headmistress) burned a perennial, roaring coal fire and I recall queuing up on a cold day for what turned out to be a lump of sugar with some livid, greenish, putrid-smelling liquid on it. Made me feel nauseous. Queuing up again a few weeks later, I winced at the thought of more of the same but this time it turned out to be a painful jab in the upper arm instead. I screamed blue murder (needle-phobia: still suffer from it) and was callously told not to be such a baby.

Life at Berridge Road Infants was generally a miserable time for me. The kindly (unless you'd fallen foul of the self-flushing toilets) Miss Walters soon handed me on to her older, more business-like colleague in the next room. I think her name was Miss Newlyn. Things were on the downward slide.

After a bit of a run-in over available reading matter (I averred that Janet and John was rubbish because it lack any discernible plot and why didn't they have any Alison Uttley?) Miss Newlyn looked me stright in the eye and hissed: "I just knew you'd be trouble!"

Disppearing for a moment or two, she returned with a linen-bound copy of "David Copperfield" (not a child's version either). Snapping: "That'll keep you quiet!" she slapped a linen-bound dictionary on top of it, told me basically to look up the words I did not understand and not to darken her door again.

Great! Took me years to overcome my aversion to Dickens- I love him now, of course.

So, when my peers gathered round Miss Newlyn in a cosy circle for a flash-card game, the icy finger inevitably pointed at me with a peremptory "Not you!"

A child off-task (or with no task in my case) is a disruptive child. Bored and unchallenged, I resorted to mischief, such as hiding the PE bag of a little lad I'd taken a dislike to (he had dirty, wart-covered knees). Lads wore short trousers in those days. I buried his PE kit at the bottom of the wooden brick box and invented such a convincing story about the deadly tarantula who lived in there that no child would go near it for weeks. Hence the poor lad's parents probably cuffed him testily about the ears for failing to find his PE togs and putting them to the expense of buying new plimsolls, shorts, etc.

Well...I felt unvalued, superfluous to requirements and...what's that modern buzzword..."excluded"! Am I too late for counselling?

Thus, the highlight of my day was a visit from the Nit Nurse - ("Haven't you got beautiful curls?") - she never found any livestock in' em. Or failing that, someone being sick when, not really wanted in the classroom, I'd be despatched to fetch David the caretaker who'd trundle along with his vomit-stained mop and a bucket of sawdust.

The thrill of being out of the classroom was quite intoxicating and on one occasion I was even given a guided tour of the boiler room down in the Berridge bowels. Bet not many pupils have been down there. Very informative it was too and all perfectly innocent. It certainly outshone Janet and stultifying John,

On such perambulations around the empty corridors, I formulated my first career fantasy: serving behind the biscuit counter at Woolworth's in Radford Road. I coveted the 1930s-style cream cap and overall. Delving into shiny metal tins of caramel-coated shortbread and wrapping them in long, crisp, white, gusseted paper bags...all day long. Utter Bliss! Sadly, it wasn't to be. By the time I escaped the clutches of the Education Authority, Woolworth's was mainly self-service and the biscuit counter long gone, leaving my long-held dreams in crumbs. Life can be so cruel.

[Jill Sparrow 10,304]

After Mrs Price (who left, I believe, left to have a baby) came Miss Barks (1966). We didn't hit it off at all. Having already covered the work for second year juniors with Mrs Price (hadn't they ever heard of differentiation?) I was once again bored, fractious and took to feigning illness in a bid to stay at home. It didn't work- my mum was far too astute to fall for that one. If I persisted or 'cut up awkward', she'd counter with the devastating: "If you don't go, they'll send Daddy and I to prison. Then you'll be in the orphanage and you'll still have to go to school!" The lies they tell children...

At best, I'd be able to wangle a couple of weeks with a hacking, bronchial cough, the legacy of a serious dose of measles in 1962. After a visit to Drs McGrath or Halley in Alfreton Road (whose consulting room was so full of choking cigarette smoke you'd vicariously inhaled the equivalent of 20 Woodbines by the time he'd written out your prescription). there'd be a trip to Forest Dene (Gregory Boulevard) for a chest X-Ray. Finally, someone in a white coat would utter those glorious words: "Keep her at home for two weeks" YIPPEEEEE!!!!!

Of course, if you were too ill to attend school, you were too ill to be out of doors but I didn't care. There'd be a pile of books from the library on Gregory Boulevard, Listen with Mother courtesy of Rediffusion and, since it was usually November, my birthday to look forward to.

True, there would also be two bottles of medicine from Eric Hobson MPS of Alfreton Road: a thick, pink, pleasant-tasting concoction and a sticky brown linctus (his own recipe) which was rather less wholesome, but I gamely swallowed both, at least trying to give the impression that I wanted to get better...but not too quickly!

[Jill Sparrow 10,304]

Major alterations were ongoing in the Berridge main building for most of 1967, with the upshot that come September, my peers and I started the third junior year camped out in the wooden hut nearest the railings, sited in the playground facing Oakland Street. These edificies dated from 1929 and were dark, clattery and not very warm in winter. Our new teacher sat on a dais at the front (shades of the Manning School yet to come) and for the first time in my formal educational experience, I was taught by a male, name of Mr G O Chandler.

We got off to a rocky start, Mr C and I. I'd missed the first week of the Autumn term because we'd been on holiday to Scarborough where my mother had been rushed to hospital, victim of an ectopic pregnancy. Seriously ill, she almost died and we were detained a further week before she could travel home.

Mr peers had already spent a week with Mr C and the consensus appeared to be that every man-jack of 'em was frightened of him. He began by ticking me off for going on holiday in term time. Obviously, he didn't know what had befallen my mother and, because it was plain as the nose on your face that he wasn't amenable to backchat, remonstrations, explanations or excuses, I didn't enlighten him.

However, it was merely the old teachers' ruse of establishing authority. Once we knew who was boss, he turned out to be a thoroughly good egg. Effective teacher, wicked sense of humour, appreciative of effort but couldn't abide shirkers. He suited me.

Mr C genuinely wanted his pupils to do well but he was keen on discipline (now there's a dirty word these days). If you disrupted his lesson, you'd "reap the whirlwind" which would strike with pin-point accuracy around the backsides of a select band of truculent boys (mainly).

Come to think of it, Mr C was not unlike a much younger version of Bomber Harris: short, brusque, not easily impressed and a much more powerful version of Miss Smith (top infants), who didn't need to resort to roller-towels.

Discipline was the aim. The dictionary defines it as "training in orderliness and self-control". Self-control was Mr C's mantra: without it no one learns or achieves anything. I could see that but for the unenlightened, the whirlwind (in the guise of a multiplicity of wooden rulers) continued to howl about their nether regions, with the full approbation of their parents.

Horizons began to widen around this time. The excellent Mr C gave generously of his own time in taking us to local churches, discovering history, brass-rubbing and a sense of the past. He also taught those who wanted to learn the basics of photography, setting up an enlarger,developing and printing facilities in a makeshift darkroom at one end of our wooden hut. All in his own time. Fascinating stuff. He also loved poetry, as did I.

Miss Stockhill taught us Scottish Country Dancing after school, even taking a group to an inter-schools' competition. Us girls, kitted out in white dresses with tartan sashes, crammed like excited sardines into her tiny Hillman Imp for the journey. No seatbelts and it didn't occur to us to ask whether she was insured to carry pupils. Who cared? We all had tremendous fun and a sense of achievement.

Half way through the year, we were decanted back into a newly refurbished classroom in the main building, a whole section of which had been transmogrified to include modern, indoor toilets (manual flush, thankfully), flourescent lights, new wash basins, soft toilet paper and a gloriously- stocked library on the first floor, filled with the intoxicating aroma of new books by the vanload, well designed tables and chairs, offering a peaceful haven in which to immerse yourself in the printed page.

How much better could it get? For the first time in six years, school was enjoyable!

[Cliff Ton 10,457]

Country dancing….that's something I'd forgotten about from school, and I absolutely hated it. Who thought it was a good idea to teach that to kids on a council housing estate? None of the boys liked it, and only a few girls were slightly enthusiastic.

It was compulsory in Junior School, half an hour a week, and considering how much I've done of it in later life, it was probably the biggest waste of my time in school years. The most disliked and pointless subject in school in those days.

It also included Morris Dancing. Gawd elp us.

[Fynger 841]

Most folk say i'm old enough to know 'Morris' personnally

[tomlinson 879]

I remember being taken to William Crane Infants' School when I was 5 years old. (1948). The first day was spent splashing paint around as I recall. The only teachers' names I can bring to mind are those of Miss Mitchell and Miss Killer who taught the very basics of the 3 Rs and we were occasionally taken into 'the hall' to listen to Rediffusion and react to things like, 'You Are An Aeroplane' or 'You Are A Tree' and so on. In those days, we had an afternoon nap on camp beds, in the open air if the weather was fine. (Curious the similar habits of advanced and early age)!

A frequent visitor was the 'Nit Nurse' and it is interesting to note the ailments, then common, which are rarely seen today; boils, carbuncles, severe skin complaints. Diet had much to do with this I suppose. We used to take snacks to school with us. Bread and dripping was a common staple but even more popular was cold toast. I remember one lad who used to eat candles! Diet then was pretty bland and few of us were over weight!

I remember that on our arrival at school, our christian names were printed on a card and the class stood with one child holding the printed name and others with the same name lined up behind him/her. It was a matter of pride then to be the one holding the card.

Being at the end of the war we were indoctrinated into the glories of the royal family, Winston Churchill and the Empire; we had the day off for something called 'Empire Day'.

One thing which has always stuck in my mind is that one child's parents got a divorce! This was most unusual and was only spoken of in confidential whispers by adults who thought we knew nothing of the situation, forgetting that the unfortunate offspring was one of us. How different are things today!

I think on the whole they were innocent days, although infant romances were in the air. My own early love was one Rositta Sherrard. (Doubtful as to the spelling). Her father was a doctor who held his surgery somewhere on Aspley Lane. Innocence soon disappeared however as we climbed the age ladder into the junior and then the senior schools.

Happy Days!!!

[poohbear 1,360]

I became one of the best readers and writers for my age that Whitemoor had ever seen...The reason? I absolutely refused to go to bed after lunch EVER! After many attempts the teacher gave me up as a bad job and instead while the rest snored in their camp beds...I got to sit on the teachers knee and we both read out loud 'The Adventures of Peter Rabbit.....Stood me in good stead in future years...

Good old Beatrix Potter.

[Paulus 541]

My early years were at St Theresa's RC Primary, Kingsbury Drive, Aspley. I attended from Summer 1956 to 1961, my teacher was Miss Brown, tall single lady (spinster) with long hands.

I remember she had one crooked little finger, only noticeable when she clasped her hands in prayer & I shouldn't have noticed as we should have closed our eyes when praying.

I always took a slice of buttered (Stork) toast to school, wrapped in the bread wrapper, which was put on top of the blackboard until breaktime,cold toast & a bottle of milk, bliss!! Also had to take the bread wrapping home for the next day.

We had a claypit & a sand box in one corner of the classroom, which we used once per week, our toilets had doors but no locks, I don't ever recall anyone having a poo at school, certainly not me anyway!

Our esteemed headmaster was Mr F B Grazar, who looked like Harry Corbett (Sooty fame, not Steptoe), he drove a light grey ford Consul Mark 2. School was such a happy time, as I got older I had a penny per day for a half chocolate digestive at break times, happy except for visits to 'the nit noss', or for 'jabs'.................

School meals were great, with such puddings as cornflake tart & caramel tart, with thick custard, never any chips though, it was always mash, with dishes of raw carrot/turnip on each table that all were expected to eat.

[mick2me 3,033]

I can remember cardboard cups of Hot chocolates, but that was for the 'rich kids', not me.

I also remember the jabs that they gave. One was like a circle of pin pricks?

Never had any, always had a phobia for needles, But I never caught owt for lack of em

[.... 23]

The 'circle of pin pricks' sounds like the BCG (Tuberculosis) vaccination, Mick.

[Limey 242]

The circle of pin pricks was the test - for TB. The actual "jab" came later.

[Jill Sparrow 10,304]

September 1968 marked the start of my final year at Berridge. The previous year with Mr Chandler had served somewhat to ameliorate my opinions about the dubious merits of schooling and, at some point during that academic year, I had even ceased to emulate a sloth on our banister rails at home of a morning, having to be prised off and pushed out of the door by my mother!

This last junior year was presided over by Mr T T Williams in the first floor corner classroom of the main building, overlooking the playground, corner of Berridge Road and Brushfield Street. If you leaned sufficiently far out of the window, it was possible to see the former domain of Miss Smith (top infants). She was still whacking, caning and slippering upcoming, serried ranks of obstreperous 7 year olds and doubtless wearing out countless roller-towels in the process but was now doing so on the floor beneath us. It gave a nice sense of continuity!

Mr Williams lacked the gravitas of Mr Chandler due to his slight build: in fact, so spare was his frame at that time that he gave the impression of being in need of a good, square meal. Speaking of which, most of these teachers returned each evening to their flats in West Bridgford. Not being Nottinghamians by birth (Williams was betrayed by his Wigan-esque vowels) they were unfamiliar with the phrase 'bread and lard island', until I explained it to them. Mr C, I recall, seemed affronted but Mr W merely grinned, removed his black, winkle-picker shoes and earnestly pointed out the holes in their soles.

Mr W often pleaded penury and, since he was only 23 at this time (actually, he was only 12 years' my senior), Berridge was probably one of his first teaching posts and his salary would not have amounted to much.

Let me not give the impression that Mr W was a push-over: he wasn't. He might have cut a dash as being a tad on the intellectual side with his leanness, corduroy jacetk complete with elbow patches, swarthy good looks and boyish grin but, step out of line friend and he'd persuade you in his own inimitable way not to do so again.

This final year in the Juniors was the zenith of my schooll experience. Never again would I feel so settled in an educational setting. If there was a special task to be performed, it was usually I who was chosen to undertake it and, instead of shivering in the playground at breaktimes, I'd often sit chatting to Mr Baugh in his nice, warm office, discussing poetry, books, history or music. School secretary Mrs J A Davies would beam at me as I departed when the bell went, sending me scuttling back to the classroom where my frozen peers were breaking the icicles off their noses and hissing: "Teacher's pet!" Water off a Sparrow's back, friends!

Mr W was a great encourager of the written word and it was during this time that I discovered the poetry of local-ish lad David Herbert Lawrence. Transfixed is the only way to describe my reaction. So taken was I with D. H. that I cut straight along to the library on Gregory Boulevard and (with my father's tickets, for I had long since exhausted the junior sections) tried to borrow a selection of his novels. The staff were well used to me sifting the Adult Library shelves but they drew the line at D. H. "You can't have these," (shock and horror in their intonation) "You're only eleven."

Many years later, I bought a house in Lawrence country and swiftly discovered that the most effective way to alienate my neighbours was to extol the virtue of D H's writings. "Him's a dirty pervert," came the unvarying response. "We don't talk about him!"

A great proponent of words was Mr W and I liked the way Mr Baugh would often throw out a word for us to define during assemblies: 'superlative', 'facetious' (I liked that one) and 'happiness' among them. Some wag the following morning informed him that 'happiness is egg-shaped." Oh, the power of advertising. What he was actually doing was encouraging us to consider the meaning and even the philosophical aspects of these terms.

If Mr W had a downside it was, for me, his obsession with sport, whether it be netball, swimming or the enigmatic (and seemingly unknown outside the confines of Berridge) game of Stoolball. He was a beggar for it and, really, it proved the only fly in the ointment during that final year. I was, still am, and ever shall be sport-averse. As to swimming, trekking to and from Noel Street baths, I am proud to say I resisted all attempts to teach me. I've been hydro-phobic ever since Miss Walters allowed me to fall face- first into a bucket of water whilst playing 'bob-apple' at Hallowe'en 1962. Given the toilets episode, I often wonder whether she was trying to drown me. Even paranoid 5 year olds have enemies, you know.

At some point around May 69, we all marched into Mr Parr's room and were entreated to grapple with a pile of papers snappily entitled 'The 11 Plus Examination'. Better than stoolball but ye gods and little fishes... why did no one warn me not to write anything on it or, better still, fashion a model of a DC 9 with it. Origami would have been so much better than the Hara-kiri of Grammar School. I've said it before: the test of the truly intelligent is their artfulness in feigning dimness. I was not among their number...but I'm learning!

So, here endeth a potted history of Berridge Road Schools as experienced by me between being 'flushed with success' in 1962 and chief pencil monitor in July 1969. Apart from the last 2 years, it was all rather akin to banging your head against a brick wall: bliss when you stop!

Although Mr Baugh, Miss Smiths (both) and sundry colleagues are now beyond the reaches of Nottstalgia, others who taught at Berridge Road Schools in the 1950s/60s must still be around to tell their tale(s). So, let's hear it from your viewpoint. Go on...I DARE YOU!

As a parting shot, I apologise that I haven't managed to upload any of my school photos but (for those who want to see the poor little mites who went through these years with me) they can be viewed in Jill Sparrow's memory box at Friends Reunited under Berridge Road Schools. Have fun and if it makes you feel all Nottstalgic and emotional, I recommend listening to 'Dolly'.

Until next time, goodnight children everywhere!

[piggy and babs 544]

WELLCOME JILL AND WELL DONE YOUR POSTS MAKE GREAT READING AS MANY OF THE OLDER NOTTALLGIANS ALREADY KNOW I AM DYSLEXIC AND MY WRITING AND SPELLING OR MY GRAMA ARE SOMETIMES NOT THE EASIEST TO READ MY HUSBAND USED TO SAY WHEN HE WAS IN THE RAF HE USED TO TAKE MY LETTERS DOWN TO THE INTELLIGENCE DEPARTMENT TO GET THEM TO DECIPHER THEM FOR HIM..

BUT MY FIRST MEMORIES OF GOING TO SCHOOL AT NETHERFIELD ASHWELL ST INFANTS TWO AFTERNOONS A WEEK IN THE EARLY 50S WHEN I WAS ABOUT THREE YEARS OLD MY MUM HAD TO TAKE MY YOUNGER BROTHER TO THE CRIPPLES GUILD ON CHAUSER ST IN NOTTINGHAM TWICE A WEEK, AS HE HAD SOME PROBLEMS WITH HIS LEGS. HE HAD TO HAVE QUITE A LARGE PUSH CHAIR AND MUM COULD NOT MANAGE TO TAKE ME WITH HER AS WELL AS HIM THE PUSH CHAIR AND ROBERT THE DOWNS SYNDROME LITTLE BOY SHE LOOKED AFTER IN THE DAY TIME , SO WITH THE PERMISITION OF THE HEAD MISTRESS FUNNILY ENOUGH A MISS SMITH I WAS TOOK INTO MRS STARBUCKS CLASS WHO WAS MY SUNDAY SCHOOL TEACHER SHE TAUGHT 2ND YEAR INFANTS I LOVED BOOKS AND SPEND MY TIME LOOKING AT PICTURE BOOKS AND PLAYING IN THE SAND TRAY OR THE WENDY HOUSEHAVING BEEN OUT OF NAPPIES AT THAT TIME FOR A LONG WHILE IF I NEEDED TO GO TO THE TOILET I WHOULD JUST ASK MRS STARBUCK AND SHE WHOULD GET ONE OF THE OLDER CHILDREN TO TAKE ME TO THE OUTSIDE TOILETS NOTHING NEW TO ME AS WE ONLY HAD AN OUTSIDE LOO AT HOMETHEN BACK TO THE CLASS ROOM AND I LOVED TO LISTEN TO THE STORIES JUST BEFORE IT WAS TIME FOR MY OLDER SISTERS TO PICK ME UP AND WALK ME HOME THEY BY THAT TIME WERE IN JUNIOR SCHOOL NEXT DOOR. ALL WELL AND GOOD I LOVED ITTHIS CARRIED ON UNTILL IT WAS TIME FFOR ME TO START MY SCHOOL LIFE PROPER IN SEP 1955 THE START OF THE NEW SCHOOL YEAR 5 MONTHS BEFORE MY 5TH BIRTHDAY I THINK THEY STARTED ME EARLY BECAUSE OF MUM HAVING TO BE BACKWARDS AND FORWARDS ALL THE TIME WITH MY BROTHER.CART REMEMBER MUCH ABOUT IT UNTILL MY 5TH BIRTHDAY IN FEBRUARY SO ALL MUST HAVE GONE WELL UNTILL THEN . THEN THINGS JUST WENT DOWN HILL . IN THE AFTERNOON OF MY BIRTHDAY AS I HAVE SAID I WAS TOILET TRAIN FROM QUITE A YOUNG AGE ACORDING TO MY MUM AND SISTERS WELL BEFORE I WAS TWO YEARS OLD SO NO PROBLEM UNTIL THAT DAY. I REMEMBER GETTING TO MID AFTERNOON AND SUDDENLY FELT THE NEED TO GO FOR A WEE PUTTING MY HAND UP TO ASK TO GO TO THE LOO AND BEING TOLD TO PUTT MY HAND DOWN A LITTLE LATER AS IT WAS GETTING A BIT MORE URGENT PUTTING IT UP SEVERAL TIMES BETOLD PUT YOUR HAND DOWN OR BEING COMPLETELY INGNORED BY THE TEACHER. IN THE END I COULD WAIT NO LONGER AND ENDED UP WETTING MYSELF AND BEING REALLY EMBARISSED AT THIS THE TEACHER STARTED SHOUTING AT ME AND SMACKED ME ACROSS THE BACK OF MY LEGS SENT TO THE SCHOOL SECRETARY WHO FOUND MY SOME CLEAN PANTS AND A DRESS TO CHANGE INTO SENDING MY BACK TO THE CLASS ROOM WHEN MY SISTERS CAME TO PICK ME UP THE TEACHER STARTED MOANING TO THEM ABOUT IT NEEDLESS TO SAY I ALWAYS SAY SHE PUT ME OFF SCHOOL FOR MANY YEARS TO COME AND HATED GOING TO SCHOOL ALL THE TIME I WAS IN HER CLASS. MY MUM WENT INTO SCHOOL WITH ME THE NEXT DAY AND COMPLAINED TO MISS SMITH THE HEAD AND THE TEACHER AND SAID IF ONLY SHE HAD TOOK NOTICE OF ME AND NOT IGNORED ME AND LET ME GO TO THE TOILET IN THE FIRST PLACE IT WOULD NEVER HAVE HAPPENED. NOW I AM ALMOST 62 YEARS OLD AND I CAN STILL REMEMBER THAT DAY AS PLAIN AS IF IT WAS YESTERDAY AND THE EFFECT IT HAD ON MY SCHOOL LIFE SCARRING ME FOR EVER. ONE WOULD HOPE THAT IN THIS DAY AND AGE IT WOULD NEVER HAPPEN NOW BUT IN LIGHT OF THINGS I HAVE READ AND HEARD ITS IS STILL HAPENING TODAY I KNOW IN SOME CASES CHILDREN ARE NOT BEING TOILET TRAINED BEFORE SCHOOL AGE BUT THATS NOT THE CHILDS FAULT.

NEXT CLASS MRS STARBUCKS FOR A WHOLE YEAR CARNT EVER REMEMBER HAVING ANY PROBLEMS WITH HER BUT AFTER THE PREVIOUSE INCIDENT I NEVER REALLY ENJOYED SCHOOL AGAIN. AFTER THAT I WENT UP TO MISS BOSTON EACH YEAR IN OUR SCHOOL HAD TWO CLASSES THE BRIGHT ONES OR SO WE THOUGH AND THOSE WHO WERE NOT SO CLEVER. AND FUNNILY ENOUGH THE ONLY TEACHER WHO NAME I CAN NOT REMMEMBER IS THAT FIRST TEACHER WHO SMACKED ME.

[Paulus 541]

Stoolball!!

Not confined to Berridge school, wse also had it at St Teresa's, one of the least interesting games I've ever had the misfortune to partake of, it seemed to have little skill, but relied on luck & how lousy the 'bowler' was..................

[MargieH 7,599]

I've just found these fascinating accounts of the first years of school, so I thought I'd just add my two penn'orth. My first school when I was four, was a little one in a house at the top of Westdale Lane in Mapperley. Mum and Dad thought I need some extra stimulation they said later. It was run by a lady called Miss Lee and was called Astenholme Preparatory School. There was a badge with the letters A P S on it. I remember my Dad asking me what the letters stood for and I said Apple Pussy Sock because they were the first things I thought of as I looked round our room. It became known as this in our house from then on! Miss Lee was nice but quite strict... One of her phrases was "woe betide you if ...." Never knew what it meant exactly but I think I got the gist of it. We learned our letters and numbers here. One day my Mum wasn't able to meet me - can't remember why - and so Miss Lee put me on the number 25 bus and asked the conductor to put me off at Maitland Road. I then walked the last few hundred yards home by myself. And I was still only four!! I can remember it vividly so it obviously made an impression on me.

I started 'proper' school at Arno Vale when I was five and had my first experience of someone who DID'NT praise me and say what a clever little girl I was!! The teacher was Mrs Lockwood and one day she gave us a little slate and told us to write on it the numbers 1 - 10 which she'd just taught us. As I've just said, I'd always been praised for whatever I did, so I thought I'd write the numbers 1 - 50 then she'd be extra pleased with me. I did tiny little numbers to get it all in but when she saw what I was doing, she shouted at me in front of the whole class. I was too shocked to cry but it made me feel really ill. I toed the line after that but she never really liked me.

In those first days there was no school dinner, so sometimes I walked home and then back again for the afternoon. It was 3/4 of a mile each way so I got plenty of exercise. When school dinners did start, Mum said I had to stay even though I was a very fussy eater. I remember we were supposed to eat everything on our plate and the fatty, gristly meat was horrible, so I used to try and cut it up so small it would be invisible. Of course that never worked, and one particular day, Mrs Lockwood stood over me and told me to eat it. I really tried but had to run outside as I thought I was going to be sick. I actually DIDN'T vomit, but I went back in and told her I had been sick in the toilets. I think that was the first lie I'd ever told.

My next class teacher was Miss Lee and she was lovely. From then on, I loved school and have many happy memories, apart from one incident in my last year at Juniors when I had to stand on a bench because I put an apostrophe in the wrong place! Actually I think it was because I argued with the teacher.... We were writing about a house and its roof, and I said it should be it's roof because the roof belonged to the house. I still think I was being logical even though I now accept that the teacher was right!

Did any of you have to sing those patriotic song like 'Hearts of Oak' and 'The British Grenadiers?' I suppose it wasn't long since WW2 ended so maybe there was an excuse for that

[TBI 2,351]

It seems to be so common, reading recollections like yours Margie, the vivid memories we have of our teachers. From the inspirational to the truly miserable sods. They had a lot to answer for, I wonder what made them be so awful.

[benjamin1945 16,139]

HAD a conversation only today about this very subject,then came across this Thread,........i remember very well my first days at 'The Huts' (Henry Whipple) on Bestwood estate,......loved school from day one in 1950,...Mam took me ist day ten minute walk,then never again,because lots of neighbours kids all went together and i can still recall their names.......Pete Olpin,Harry Fewkes,Charley Tacey, Michael Ham,David Green and many others Harry i still see now and then we've been lifelong Pals...........Just remember one Bully and i still see him,little old skinny bloke now......lol.

After the Huts it was Henry Whipple Juniors,again great days and great Teachers,ending in 1960 at Padstow secondary Modern,very proud of that school,again great Teachers and classmates some of whom i still see,............Love to do it all again.

[Blondie 1,392]

I am 70 but still remember my first day at school......Class 5, Mr Avairy's class at Beardall Street Infants in Hucknall - she was a vindictive snob who picked on the poor kids, thrashed them whenever she got the chance, but the rich little goodie, goodies, got away with murder.......I was somewhere in the middle....... it seemed to be the same all the way through ny school life, I am so glad the tables turned over the years and now the pupils have the upper hand - things needed to change, but, have they changed for the better, I wonder......

[benjamin1945 16,139]

Wish I could post photos,.......especially the class of 57/58 at Padstow blonde because Frank Smith is on it,.......and Tony McNichol,Roger Kinnerley,Irene Howlett,Colleena Mee,Chritine Middup,Malc Richards,John Bell,Terry Dexter,Trev Widdowson,Brian Knott,Diane Wilson,Maralin Baxter,Julie Hatfield,Kath Buckingham,Alan Millward,Charley Tacey,Valerie Keetch,Jimmy Webster,Val Biddulph,Ken Pugsley,Eilleen Rose,Trev Turton and Terry Atherton,............theres only two whose names I don't remember,and amazingly they were girls...........lol.

Any names you know ?

[BilboroughShirley 1,120]

I remember going with my mum when she went to Portland Infant School to put my name down for a place. It must have been just before Christmas because my main memory is sitting in a corridor and looking at the Nativity stable they had set up. I did not start school until the following September as my birthday was late in the academic year. On my first day my mum took me and our class teacher was Miss Moseley. She was so pretty with lovely brown wavy hair. I thought she was a good teacher. I only remember one lad who misbehaved. On the first day we were given bright yellow paper to do drawings on. I went home for lunch and then back in the afternoon. Lunch time was about an hour and a half. When I went home for tea I was expecting to go back to school again in the evening. Mum thought that was very funny!

[Cliff Ton 10,457]

Wish I could post photos,.......

Why can't you post them? Can you send them to me via PM and I'll post them ? Or some other convoluted method ?

[DJ360 6,721]

It's a bit odd really. The huts Benjamin mentions later became sports changing huts and a 'Tuck Shop' for High Pavement, which opened on the opposite side of Gainsford Crescent from the whole Padstow/Whipple complex in 1955. So presumably for about two years from when I started at Whipple Infants in 1953, Pavement was being built. But I have no recall of this at all.

My first day at Henry Whipple Infants was in 1953. I recall my Mum taking me up there and we all assembled in the playground. Then all the new kids were dragged to one end, with the parents at the other. As the awful moment approached, I suddenly panicked and broke ranks, running back to my Mum, to the accompaniment of much mirth from all concerned. Mum reassured me and I eventually resigned myself to my fate.

A lad called John Smith was assigned to 'look after' me, until I knew where I was going etc. It wasn't too long before I got used to school, but it was far from easy at times and I agree with others here that the teachers, or even the whole system, could at times be monumentally insensitive. For a while we had a poor lad in our class who was clearly not able to cope with mainstream schooling. He was completely unable to participate in class and the only thing I ever recall him doing was filling a chalk board completely white from top to bottom. He frequently wet himself. Even at my age I knew this was wrong, and it must have been hell for the teacher. One day the lad disappeared, hopefully to a more suitable school.

I don't recall having to actively learn to read, but my handwriting was, and remains, appalling.

School meals. I hated them. On reflection, I think we were probably only forced into having them when Mum was expecting my younger Brother. We only lived about 10 minutes from school so getting home for 'dinner' was no problem. Typically you got a lump of gristly 'meat', and a single scoop of grey 'mash' The rest was grated carrot or turnip or whatever. Sometimes half of a hard boiled egg. Nothing wrong with any of it in theory, but the cooking as awful. Also, it always seemed to me that some kids got more than others, but I was brought up to be well mannered, so I never asked for more. ( Oliver Twist tried that and it didn't end well..) Oh.. and they did this bloody awful rice pudding that was always served with a dark brown 'biscuit' which was like a dried cow pat. What were they thinking?

I think my strongest memories of infants are of things like the play shop/post office in class, of teachers writing stuff on the board for us to copy. (Sometimes writing, sometimes pictures or patterns.), and of Christmas Parties. What on Earth possessed people to put bits of aluminium foil on jellies? The caretaker at Henry Whipple for a long time was called Mr Sadler and he lived in the house that still guards the entrance as far as I know. There was another school caretaker who was a lovely bloke with a kind disposition who rejoiced in the name of Stanley Blatherwick.

On the downside, I was always distracted by my own dreams. I'm still the same. Staying 'on task', unless I'm really keen and engaged, is difficult. Result was that more than once I was dragged off to the Head's room for a 'talking to'. I even recall once pleading with my teacher not to take me there, but she dragged me there anyway.

On another occasion, I opened a fresh page in my Jotter and the lad next to me scribbled on it, so I turned over and he did the same again. and so on, until the little sod had ruined my jotter. I took my jotter to the class teacher and before I could open my mouth she went ballistic and blamed me. That said, those teachers weren't always the best trained, and they were tasked with keeping order in classes of up to about 50, often not too cooperative kids.

Henry Whipple had a communicating corridor between the Infant and Junior schools, which was soon pressed into service as a teaching area and was known as the 'Black Hole of Calcutta'. We were in there one time when I was in Juniors. I was really keen on a 'science' project I was doing and dashed off to the toilets to fill a bucket with water. I was intercepted by the Head. Mr Deakin. He asked if I'd done my 'corrections' for my 12 times tables test. I replied I hadn't, but would do so immediately. (The fact that I'd got any wrong points to my lifelong 'trouble' with maths.) I dashed back, did the corrections and then set out again for my bucket of water only to be once more intercepted by Mr Deakin. " I told you to do..." " But Sir.... I've..." Shortly after I received not only the biggest injustice of my life, but the one and only stroke of the cane I ever got. On my hand.

I was, to put it mildy, absolutely livid. The bloke wouldn't listen. I'd done what he asked and he punished me. Hardly 'six of the best', but still out of order.

So, I went home and got my Dad. Some discussion, to which I was not privy, ensued. Mr Deakin admitted nothing, but I think he realised his mistake.

By the way.. at this point, for anyone else who went there, the only teachers names I recall now are Miss Belk, Mrs Ogle and the infant head, who I thought was called Towns or Townley, but Benjamin tells me was Miss Townsend.

Much of my remaining time at Whipple was dominated by the influence of the head, Mr Deakin.

For reasons unknown, he had me sat at a desk in his office every Friday afternoon for what seemed like months. He made me write. I could write, and spell. I felt victimised and was clueless as to why. His office was always suffocatingly hot, as he had a coke fire blasting away all year. He also smoked a pipe, which I imagined was filled with dead children.

One bright Spring day, a letter arrived, telling me I'd been offered a place at High Pavement Grammar. I was 'gobsmacked'. It wasn't something I'd even thought about, as my head was always in the clouds.

In school, I passed Mr Deakin and told him. He obviously already knew and told me that was why he'd been making me write.in his study. He said if my writing couldn't be read, I'd not do well in future. I simply said. "You could have told me". He said he couldn't, as he couldn't guarantee I'd get in . Another example of the way kids were treated back then. His motives were OK, but although he thought I was clever enough for Grammar School, he didn't credit me with the intellect to understand or deal wiith the uncertainty.

Last time I looked, Henry Whipple was still going. I think there was some rebuilding. I do hope they kept the lovely grassy courtyard.

I often think of writing and asking them if I could have one last wander around. Obviously you can't just walk into a school these days.

Innocence lost in so many ways.

Col

[DJ360 6,721]

# 46. Benjamin.

Recall a Turton from Teviot Road. Not Trev, possibly a younger sibling?

Widdowsons

Also Jimmy and Kenny Webster from Leybourne Drive.

All older than me.

Col

[benjamin1945 16,139]

Col...................Jimmy Webster lived on Andover,southglade end,the Websters on Leybourne were Bob and yes Kenny with older sister June and younger one Pat..............still see Jimmy he lives at Linby often visit each other.......Kenny passed away a few years ago as did June,and Pat married another old pal of mine Billy Wilson of Padstow rd ,they ran the Pear Tree on Bulwell lane in the 80s and now live in Mablethorpe.

On the subject of Henry Whipple,i remember Sadler the caretaker the other one was Bonsor (who we called Rosnob lol) the house has now gone,i think I knew your late sister Pam,name certainly rings a bell,was she a friend of Pauline Stout ?