NIGHTINGALE ROAD SCHOOL

Monday morning arrived far too quickly, my mother had spread my new school clothes out on the bed, my brothers jacket drowned me, the sleeves hid my hands, the new badge had been sown on but one could tell there had been another one on before, I tried pulling the strings of cotton around it out.
My mother remarked as she squeezed the shoulders in, “ You will grow into it.”
After a slice of toast she forced the new cap down on my head pushed me out of the front door and told me to be good at school. As if flatfooted in the stiff new durable shoes I walked up the avenue listening to the soles flopping on the pavement and already I could feel them making new blisters on my heels. Soon I was into our local park that had to be crossed to get to the school. To be less noticeable I struggled with the jacket sleeves trying to turn them in on themselves, I felt stupid but there was a worse problem, it was the first time I had worn a cap, it seemed to be digging in as the perspiration gathered on my forehead, I hated it. Jumping on the stand-on roundabout in the park, I felt if it went three times round at speed it might propel me faster in the direction of the school, this became a compulsive daily ritual, then with head down and hands in my pockets pressed on to the wooded part of the park, here I met up with a couple of boys I knew who were sitting on the exposed roots of a large elm tree.
“ Hi ya Rog,” they greeted, “ we’re going to the crater t’ throw our caps away, are ya coming? ”
In the woods was an old bomb crater, a mark left over from the war. The tale had been told, the German Loufwaffer had been trying to bomb the Rolls Royce factory, and one bomb had gone astray. This great hollow was now our play area; we used its sides as a slide, we had imaginary war-games here, the park keeper and corporation workers use to throw all the grass cuttings and pruned branches of trees and other rubbish into it so we had great material to make dens. The three of us stood at the top of the crater after a count of three we skimmed our caps into the air, the boys watched them hover to the bottom of the crater, while I watched my hand disappear as a sleeve of my jacket came unfolded; we then slowly and silently made our way to have our very first day in junior school.
We were apprehensive waiting to go in, we stood there hanging on to the dark green heavy wrought iron railings of the school gate. Having hated every minute of the infant school I wondered however was I going to cope. One remembered my very first day at infant school, my mother pushed me through the gates with my sister Nora who was three years older, that was the closes my mother ever got to any of my schools. She had told me to wait for my sister when school finished, as she would bring me back home. The teachers name was Miss Frost, one felt she was Herr Frost who had been working behind enemy lines for the Germans, one could believe she was taking her revenge out on as many small children she could for Britain winning the war. Her weapon was a black pointer she never let go of it, with white knuckles she would wave and waft it around as if casting a magical spells, pointing at charts pinned to the walls of the class-room with large brightly coloured spots on them, when doing simple sums she would smack the pointer on a desk if the class did not chant out the correct answer all together.
Herr Frost, pointed, poked, prodded and whacked herself across the classroom via the knuckles of every small child, whom were all wondering why they were there.
It was,
“ A,”
Poke,
“ You boy,”
“ Err.”
“ Wrong,”
Whack.
Sob, “ B Miss.”
Next prod and poke for twenty-four more times before she reached her desk again, then she would start at A again, my knuckles were sore from the constant tapping from this witch. Those many times of running home sobbing were far too frequent. Indeed I was pleased to leave that hell-hole, but was now back at the gates of hell again, Nightingale Road Junior School, a pre war built school with a concrete yard surrounded by high walls and spiked railings put there to keep people out or keep you in.
My worries now were I could not read or write and I did not know the alphabet but far worst more serious and embarrassing I still could not tie my shoelaces properly.
The school faced the Rolls Royce works offices and factory, more council houses backed right up to these works, the only bright thing around was inside the foyer of the offices, a large stained glassed window depicting a young air pilot standing on a globe of the world which had wings on, I thought this to be beautiful, when feeling low I would try to get a better view of it through the doorway but mainly bumped into the commissionaire who was dressed up in his grand black uniform, a peaked flat military cap with a white cover, his shiny black leather belt and boots, he always said the same words, “ Bugger off.”
The school bell rang, all the older children formed lines in the playground, all the new kids stood around in one big group, so we joined them. The teachers filed out of the school, the neat lines of little boys were marched into the building, the girls had already been segregated from the boys they had there own entrance their own playground they were to attend their lessons up stairs. Our names were called out, the sticks and stones and puppy dog’s tails of the little boys formed new lines. All of us were marched in to our new classrooms; we were never see the sugar or spice of the girls until we walked home after school.

This first year however surprisingly turned out to become my best ever year in all my schooling life, for fortunately I had found this one teacher who seemed to understand my learning problem, she knew what was required. The teachers name was Mrs. Draper, although she will now be long gone, I will always be grateful for the time she gave me that year.
“ Be neat Roger,” she said, over and over again.
“ If you are neat you will escape,” at that time I did not know what she meant.
“ Build on your artistic flare” she told me, “ you’ll be all right.”
I did become neat with my work even though I did not produce much of it. The year was a happy one; winning the only prize I ever won in any school, a progress prize, a small tin plate globe of the world. Mrs Draper said, “ Roger you will find this more interesting than a book.” She was right.

Over the half term holiday a girl had also come to my rescue, she showed me how to tie my shoe laces in another way by making two loops out of the laces and tie another knot with them, she explain it was not the proper way but nobody would notice. From that day onwards as we held hands I noticed girls were softer to touch and unexpectedly had started to appear very pretty.
The school labelled me as slow but it was a happy abuse free year; I felt I had achieved something.

All too soon it was over, I was to leave Mrs Drapers class and shortly would learn the next two teachers at this school were to make my life miserable, the dread of going to school quickly returned. My English was appalling, my maths much worse, I was to find out I could no longer do the sums in my head as the calculations were getting longer and one had to start recording numbers down on paper. Chastisement was received for putting 6 and 9 the wrong way around and for not knowing b from d. I was having difficulties pronouncing words, these would be practised on the way home, saying them over and over again, if I could not get them right, I tried to stop using those words.
My family used to laugh at my farther he always-mispronounced words, they would correct him time and time again, on occasions I could see him get angered with frustration. I did not want people to do that to me, they said it was because my farther was partualy deaf that he pronounced words incorrectly, today I wonder if he was inflicted with the same problem. I continued practicing.
The only things I hung on to at this school was my art and neatness, the only areas I excelled at.
Having reached the age of realization, I found myself different from the majority of boys and had written thousands of lines out on reams of paper to prove it.
I am a stupid boy who does not know his d from his b, b is for ball, and d is for drum and other such lines.
Each day I joined the classroom clown to do lines, his lines were ‘I must not fool around in the classroom,’ he enjoyed lines he always did extra for the next time, he seemed to have exercise books full of them.
For me lines were a serious punishment for I was a very slow writer and the concentration to get them correct was tiring.
One teacher known as Old man Butler was the worst of my nightmares, he was ex RAF, he wore his obligatory wings under his nose and would twist the ends of them with his finger tips, he would call me out to check on the lines, as I walked up to his desk he would hum and play the dam busters march on his teeth with his finger nails, all the class would laugh. He would take my very neat lines tear them up in front of me then throw them straight in his waste paper bin at his feet without even looking at them.
I would return to my desk and write.
The douncing dome dlew up the bam, in yet another essay, then I would repeat yet another hours exercise in line writing.
I somehow managed to escape corporal punishment in this school, as only the headmaster administered this, I had been sent to see him many times. Fortunately for me the head masters office was opposite Mrs Drapers class room, if she saw me while I was standing waiting to see the head master she always came out of her classroom to enquire why had I been sent to see him yet again, I would hand her the note from Mr Butler.

This boy is distractible and he is not paying attention in class again.

Each time Mrs Drapper would speak to the headmaster, I would return unscathed to the classroom to the annoyance of the fight lieutenant Butler, he to be not out beaten would make me stand on top of the desk until the end of the lesson, I can imagine I must have been very frustrating for him.
Mrs Draper was rewarded every time with a bag of apples from the trees in our back garden when in season, at other times I made a home made card with a picture I had drawn for her.
Once I did manage to get some recompense with Battler Butler. Britain was having a very busy period, we had seen the death of the King, at his funeral we had pomp and pageantry this country is never of the likes to see ever again in our history. We had Kings, Queens, Heads of States, Presidents, Prime Ministers, Princes, Princesses, Ambassadors, Earls, Barons, Counts, Countesses, Lords and Ladies, Knights of the round table and all the military entourage plus all the hanger on’s of each one of them who turned up mostly supporting greying beards and moustaches in their dress uniforms of gold braid, fancy feathered headgear, medals and swords. Flags were called for; they placed the Kings Coffin on a gun carriage covered it over with a flag of the union jack and dragged him through the streets of London. All followed him on foot or in fine horse drawn carriages, all of them seemed to have popped out of our history books from yesteryear and will never ever reappear again.
Then we had the conquest of Everest, followed by the Crowning of Queen Elizabeth the second. For this we had a street party, we were given at school a half crown as well as a spoon with the queen’s head on the handle. Later in the year we had some time out of the classroom to be taken to the cinema to watch two films, The Conquest of Everest followed by the Coronation, a three an a half hour marathon sitting. Every child in the county was to go, ours was a morning slot, after which we arrived late back at school, our school dinners were plated up for us to save the kitchen staff time. We were handed our plates, they had put swedes on mine which I hated intensely, I ate around these leaving them on my plate, I stood up to hand my plate back in,
“ Eat your swedes Sharp,” Butler bellowed,
“ I don’t like em, Sir.”
“ Eat them;” he yelled again,
“ I‘ll be sick if I eat em Sir” I protested.
“ I do not care, eat them,”
So I stuck my fork gingerly into them, heaved and heaved then took a mouth full, swallowed then immediately did a projectile vomit, which hit him square in the stomach then ran down his front. He took a swing at me, I ducked down low behind my plate, which he caught with his hand sending it hurtling down the dinning room hitting another boy on the head, he immediately started crying out in pain. The remaining Swedes on my plate mixed in well with the blood coming from the wound on the boy’s forehead.
The following day I picked up 500 extra lines, I must not waste food. I was getting to be very good at neat lines, so the school entered me in a national good hand writing style competition.
Relief from the classroom came at break times or when the health visitors came to check out every child in the school. We were called out of our normal lesson, to line up in the hall. The nit nurse had arrived, she was examining every ones hair; we waited patiently for our turn. No sooner as one child was out of the seat another took his place, his head would be pushed backward and forward, then to one side then the other as the nit nurse pulled at their hair as if plucking feathers from a turkey. By the time it was your turn you had convinced yourself you had head lice, the line of boys were all scratching their heads. Robert Ormsley a school bully whispered, “ If you've got um ya get your ead shaved then they give ya a bath in disinfectant.”
On return to our classroom I was told to immediately report to the headmaster’s office, the classroom murmured as I left. Surly I thought they were not going to cut my hair off and give me a bath.
Baths at home consisted of getting into the dolly tub after the weeks washing was done, I could sit in the bottom of the tub then spin round and round in the soapy grey mixture clicking the groves on the sides of the tub with a wooden clothes peg. I wondered why the block of carbolic soap my mother used on my hair had not have killed the nits.
I was to join six other lads standing outside the headmasters office, some younger some older.
An older lad said, “ If ya joining this group ya ad not better laugh at me or I’ll do ya,” he showed me his fist.
The lad already had short hair; I thought they might have cut it off the week before and that he was only to have a bath this time. I will protest, I will tell the headmaster I have one bath a week, on every Sunday night. I was getting worried and would certainly not laugh at this big boy.
The headmaster’s door opened, we were all called in, we were handed different reading books. I was given an Old Lob reading book others were given different coloured books of Dick and Dora. I thought we had left these books behind in infant school. I liked Old Lob the artists work in them was great as the pictures told the story, all one had to do was remember the names of the animals, Dobbin the horse, Percy the pig and so on. All the other lads read aloud to the headmaster, now it was my turn. I started, got stuck on a word, glanced at the picture and guessed what came next. I looked up at the Headmaster, he was leaning on his desk with his head buried in his hands; he raised one hand to wave us all out of his office without saying a word.
I think my class was surprised to see me return with a full head of hair. I told Ormy that I had been to sort out the nits but they had made a mistake, I had a tick next to my name but I had noticed his name had a cross against it, also adding, “ They don’t cut your hair off, they use a chemical to kill the nits but it dyes your hair bright green.” Orme looked horrified, he was a bully but I was bigger than him, I knew one day I would have to fight him so it might as well be today.
Our other health visitor was the dentist; we followed the same procedures but this time you were attacked with a dental mirror along with a sharp pointed instrument that was dipped into the same solution each time a new boy sat down in the chair. To pass this exam all you had to do was not flinch as they poked your teeth, very few past this test of nerves, green cards were issued to take home to our mother’s to attend Mill Hill Dental Clinic.
On the day in question, mothers would wrap up their children then make their way to the dreaded hill. On one side of the road was a stream of parents dragging the kids up by their arms, on the other side coming down was a stream of kids who had their mothers arms around them, each kid had a scarf wrapped round their head or mouth. I knew why that day I just happened to be wearing one.
Mill Hill Clinic was always packed solid, nearly every kid in Derbyshire some time or other must have been sent there. There was queuing up the stairs in the stark passage to get into the waiting room. Children would be tumbling past you on their way out with their mothers, all were pale some were crying others looked in shock, all were holding handkerchiefs or scarf’s to their mouths. The surgery waiting room was worse; long rows of mothers and children, their height varying on the seats, from some of the lower levels sobbing could be heard. Two seats were kept vacant near the surgery door for those coming out after treatment. Those coming out had protruding rolls of cotton wool sticking out of their mouths they would flop into these seats with vacant expressions on their pale faces, then start to make strange faces as they tried to count with their tongue how many teeth they had got left.
Two kids at a time went in, you were made to climb up into the big black dentist chairs that had a plank of wood across the arms for you to sit on. Your head was yanked back and held in place by an assistant, the dentist would screw a clamp to your upper front and lower teeth, and then he would turn another screw to jack your mouth wide open until it hurt your jaw where it connects to your skull. The next you know is this hissing mask heading your way and someone is saying count to ten, which is impossible, the huge horrible indescribable smelling rubber mask was forced on to your face, the gas hits your nose and throat, in seconds you are out cold. Next someone is slapping you round the face telling you to wake up, you don’t know where you are, but you do know you are falling. Your picked up off the surgery floor then dragged to the waiting room recovery chair, you would have a cold sweat with two pieces of cotton wool sticking out of each side of your mouth, you are unable to control the saliva and blood, and it over-flows over ones bottom lip as you stare blankly at all the rows of strange faces looking at you, you try as you twist your head and tongue round to count how many teeth you have got left.
The daily relief at school was the dinner break or play times, we all played the usual games of marbles, some owning glass ones, others have clay ones, those who’s fathers worked in engineering turn up with huge steel balls from bearings called steely's but some of us played with aniseed balls. For one big steely you could swap it for ten glass or twenty clay marballs. Fag cards games became the craze, everybody would raid the new Kellogg’s packet or have the pre-war cigarette cards which we would skim against the wall to land on someone else’s in order to enlarge our collections, snobs or jacks and other playground games were going on in each corner of the school playground. We also became experts in the making of small hand weapons, we had a list of arson from pea shooters, dobbers or catapults, throwing arrows, an arrow we could throw with a piece of string, sling shots, bows and arrows, wooden guns that fired elastic bands, to staffs and spears, the majority of which we hid in someone’s privet hedge close to the school before entering the play ground but on occasions we hand grafted new ones with a little pen knife somewhere out of sight in the school yard shelter. In today’s world young people will find it surprising we had knives at eight years old, all I can say they were as common as snake buckle belts and everybody wanted a snake belt. I clearly remember one teacher saying, “All boys should carry a pen knife, a piece of string and one shilling.” As we moved on up to senior school the size of the pen knife increased along with the skill of using it, at 12 years old the craze was to intricately whittle pieces of square hard wood three eighth of an inch square by six inches long into chain links, miniature totem poles, cages with carved balls inside, animals and other pieces of art work. Groups of us would stand around during breaks addicted to the pass time.
We were quite fit kids to be attending school, others who never made it there were in isolation hospitals suffering with illnesses there was not a real cure for at that time. Due to rationing our diet was controlled, but we did suffer from some vitamin deficiency as we did have many boils, warts, chilblains, sty’s and cold sores, most were taken control of by the school clinic on Friday afternoons, we would line up for a mouth full of malt extract, be given a bottle of cod liver oil to take home or supplied with a bottle of concentrated orange juice. For warts or other marks on our skin we were dabbed with blue iodine, most small boys had grazes or scratches all over so we left for home looking like a bright blue alien race.
Boils became a playground pastime, for those of us who had been referred to the family doctor; had no desire to return again with another one. The doctor had a quick way of getting rid of these; he lanced them ready or not. He would jab in a hollow needle then suck the puss out, it felt like it had taken half your face or any other part the boil happened to be growing on with it. So the boys were in to do it yourself, we would sit around in the playground inspecting each other’s boils. That one is not ready yet it is only pink, that one is coming on nicely its turned red, that one is ready it has turned a bluey red and has got a nice yellowy white head in the middle. Everyone would gather round to have a look. Should you have one that was ripe and everybody agreed you were instructed to peel the head off with your fingernails; you hooked your fingernails on the top then pulled as hard and as quick as you could. Your best mate would take his two thumbs place them either side of your boil and squeeze, the others would gather round to watch as the puss coiling out,
“ Ya gota get blood ort of it,” some enthusiastic kid would shout,
“ If ya dun’na get blood it will grow again.”
The worst dread was to have one on your nose as this operation made your eyes water, this could be easily mistaken as you crying and that was not on in our boys world

We all wore the regulation grey short trousers, in the winter months we tried to keep our long woollen socks pulled up but inevitably the elastic in tops was worn out so we used elastic bands to do the job, these however tended to cut your blood circulation down giving you pins and needles in your toes and you would see an occasional kid as they stood up to cross the classroom hobbling to the point of nearly collapsing.
This time of year we had the additional chaps on our bare legs, mostly this was our own fault as when visits to the cold outside toilets we could not be bothered to undo our buttoned fly’s, we would yank up our trouser legs to go, inevitably the drips would run down your leg to be dried out by the frosty air, the course grey material of the short trousers would irritate the area leaving sore red blotches on our upper legs.

On occasions at add hock times we also escaped the classroom for a short time when the factories tested their air-raid sirens or the schools fire alarm was set off, but back in the classroom we tried to keep our heads down and out of trouble, you would at times be lulled in to a false sense of security then you would receive a clout on the back of your head for sucking the end of your pen. One poor lad with leg irons who used to constantly chew the end of his pen was a challenge to Battler Butler, the end of his pen was wrapped in elastic bands dipped in mustard; the boy grew fond of rubber and mustard.
You would glance up from your book at times to watch the teachers favourite blue eyed boy, go to ring the school bell, fetch the milk, hand out papers, fill the ink wells up, attend to the nature table that was usually full of dead leaves and acorns then watch him receive another gold star to put on the chart for doing so. At the end of the term Butler would announce he had got nineteen gold stars, fifteen silver stars and was given a book voucher, I had only got three blue ones and one green, I believed he announced this for the stupid boys like me who he thought that we couldn’t see the large chart with them all on. The lads farther owned the bookie shop down the end of the road.

I still did not know the alphabet, I knew there was 26 letters but did not know what order they came in, I would write all the letters I could think of down, then count them then spend the next fifteen minutes figuring out the ones that had been missed.
I still did not know my times tables. Exams and tests came and went. I was informed that if I did not pass the eleven plus exam I would be moving on after my schooling here to Allenton Secondary Modern School, a school with a reputation, of being hard on its pupils, where the teachers ruled by the fear of the cane and the school was said to be filled with very hard-nosed bullyboys. I couldn’t say I was looking forward to it.