September 1966
After at least one full uniform rehearsal, I was
getting ready for real. Grey shirt; charcoal grey trousers; black shoes; tomato
red v-necked pullover; black blazer; light grey cap.
Tomato
red and charcoal grey? Yes, as described in the official booklet for Upbury
Manor, a secondary modern school of 1,050 thousand pupils. Once Mam had fixed
my tie and handed over my bus fare and dinner money, I was ready to go.
The sun shone brightly that morning as I strolled up Milsted Road with
a brand new leather satchel slung over my shoulder. At the bus stop on Waltham Road,
practically opposite the home of ex-friend Kevin Garlick, I met a
similarly attired Paul, Clive and John. Being keen and apprehensive we were
early, and a good thing too, for once the initial amusement of seeing each
other in uniform had passed, I was aghast to be told that a penny increase in bus
fares had come into effect that morning. In times of need good friends rally
round and mine were no exception. To a man they kept their hands in their
pockets and promised to wait while I dashed home for an extra tuppence.
I returned to find the lads true to their word. I
don’t know if their loyalty had been tested in my absence but thankfully, they
were still there. I was relieved too, that there was still no sign of Garlick, who I'd fallen out with just before we left the juniors.
Once on the bus, the thrill of a new beginning was
tempered by the fear of the unknown. Our big kid status at Twydall counted for
nothing now. Tales of disturbing initiation ceremonies played on my mind, as
did rumours of savage rivalries with other schools, especially when the bus
rumbled its way through the badlands of Woodlands Road.
Arriving in one piece at our stop near the bus depot, we
spilled off the back of the bus with other kids in Upbury uniform. From there
we followed the crowd. A handful of kids on Copenhagen Road became a steady trickle beyond
Canterbury Street,
which became dozens as we streamed up the alleyways to Marlborough Road. So
far so good, but I felt my nerves wobbling when we passed through a gate and an
officious youth directed us to the lower school playground.
As the old hands of the second year exchanged greetings
with laughter and smiles, and reacquainted themselves in familiar surroundings,
we anxious newcomers, intimidated by the school’s enormity, stuck closely together
in a neutral space in the centre of the playground, believing safety in numbers
lessened the chances of being singled out for something nasty.
A shrill whistle blew, bringing attention to a middle-aged
man in an old-aged suit. Bespectacled; short back and sides; tidy moustache. An
authoritarian figure, he stood straight backed and rigid. This was Mister
Potts, bristling and scowling across the playground like he was the master of all
he surveyed. Unfortunately for us, as head of the lower school, he was.
The second year classes were quickly formed and led into
school, whereupon Mister Potts invited the new half of the multitude to sit on the grass.
Green turned to red and grey as two hundred or so fresh faced boys and girls, each
a credit to their mothers, in uniforms with enough growing room to last some of
them till they were eighteen, settled on the grass. Few boys had a cap, I
noticed, though I was impressed to see a briefcase here and there. Boffins, I
decided. Then I spotted Garlick. Must have come in his Dad’s car, I thought, as
I quickly looked away.
Half a dozen teachers strolled out of the building as Mister Potts, exuding charm and wit, welcomed everyone to Upbury Manor. Once he’d
finished emphasising how lucky we were to be at such a prestigious school, he
read out a list of names and the first batch of kids rose to follow their appointed teacher into the building. Assuming that to be the top
class, I anticipated me and my friends would be in the second class, just like
we’d been at Twydall. When none of us made it, my heart sank.
We didn’t make the next class either; or the next; or
the next.
With sixty or so kids left scattered on the grass, and
just one lady teacher standing by, Mister Potts called a set of names that
included Paul Parker, Clive Ward and Kevin Garlick. I looked on helplessly as
they joined the line that filed into school behind their appointed teacher, Mrs
Chamberlain. What a kick in the teeth. That left me in the dunce class. Though
it was some consolation that John was still there with me, John was useless at
football and had no interest in the game.
But then…
Mister Potts looked very smug. ‘And you…’ he said to
those remaining, ‘…are 1A1, my class.
Mister Potts led
us into the school and up the staircase to his classroom. So I wasn’t in the
bottom class after all. I was in the top class with the brain boxes. Blimey.
Our nice friendly teacher put us at ease with a smile as
he directed us to sit in rows, alphabetically, across the classroom. This
arrangement put Brian Lodge on my right and Helene Martin on my left. In the
spirit of a new beginning I made the effort to be grown up and sensible and
talk to Helene. I didn’t particularly want to talk to a girl, but as she was stuck on the end
of the row, I felt I should. I don’t suppose she particularly wanted to talk to
me either, but as it was me or the window, she talked back.
(At some point that morning there might have been a
full assembly. I can see Mister Potts leading us the full length of the main
corridor, down the stairs and through the canteen to the assembly hall. I can
hear a welcome for the first years, and applause for the appointment of
prefects, who appeared to me like adults in uniform. To my mind though, our
first assembly probably took place later in the day, or even a day later,
allowing form teachers time to organise their classes and get us settled in.)
Once Mister Potts had collected our dinner money he disappeared
into a storeroom behind his desk. He emerged wearing a spotless white overall.
After handing out some paper, he chalked a timetable on the blackboard and told
us to copy it. He himself would be teaching us for Geography and Maths, he
said. That was fine by me, but those subjects held no surprises. It was the brand
new subjects of Metalwork, Woodwork, Technical Drawing and French that caught
my eye.
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The Twydall boys were reunited at break time
when John and I caught up with Paul
and Clive under the clock. With them was a boisterous fair
haired kid with teeth like Bernie Winters. Though I didn’t know him, I knew him
by sight as the laughing scallywag who caused a lot of disruption in the Odeon on
the night Mam took me and my brothers to see Flipper. The usherette did much
shushing that night. Each time I looked over my shoulder to see what was going
on, I saw her torchlight focused upon the laughing teeth of the chief culprit.
Later sightings of those teeth in the vicinity of Twydall shops meant the
scallywag was familiar to me. A resident of Leeds Square, Twydall, and former pupil
of Featherby Juniors, this was Stanley Slaughter.
Paul, Clive and Stan laughed aloud as they explained
Mrs Chamberlain had asked their class (1A2) to call out their names out in
reverse. To the amusement of all, including Ward Clive and Parker Paul, they
did. And so did Slaughter Stanley, whose name earneded the loudest laughter of
all.
A welcome boost came when the lads said the boys of our
classes would merge for PE. The girls of 1A1 and 1A2 would do likewise.
‘How do you know?’
‘Mrs Chamberlain told us, and she ought to know,
‘cause she’s the girls’ PE teacher.’
‘Brilliant!’
Brilliant it was. The opportunity for me to play a
proper organised game of football with Paul and Clive, and now Stan, was
wonderful news.
Dinner
Dinner was dealt with in three sittings. John and I
made it to the same table on first dinner, under the supervision of a man-boy
table leader called Graham Hill. Other than sip water from scuffed plastic beakers,
we said please and thank you at the right time, and did little else. We just
sat meekly as the table leader said grace, and then sliced up a giant meat pie
brought back by in a tray by the appointed server. Though there was nothing
extraordinary about the rest of the proceedings, the scale of the operation was
amazing.
 |
| Graham Hill |
Afternoon
At break time, John and I were drawn once more to the
sound of laughter under the clock.
1A2 had just had their first French lesson. Amidst lots of
oui-ing, Monsieur Ward, Monsieur Parker and Monsieur Slaughter were addressing
each other by their freshly allocated French names. As IA1 had yet to have a
French lesson, I felt a bit left out, but I laughed as loud as anyone when they
said a girl in their class had been stuck with the name of Solange. (Its
similarity to Blancmange is hilarious when you’re eleven years old.)
Me, John, Clive, Paul and Stan were still laughing when we caught the bus home at the end of an eventful day.
Quotes
Allen Bailey: “Our
names were called out and we were told which class we were in. I was in 1B1. Our
teacher said words to the effect of you
won't forget my name-- It's Mr. Sharp with particular emphasis on Sharp. My
heart sank when he told us he taught maths. It was my worst subject.
Paul Parker: “Started the first day with all my pencils in a
brown envelope because my dad forgot to get me a satchel.”
Footnotes
Buses: In that first year of 66/67 the bus dropped
people off at a bus stop on Gillingham
Road, just before the junction with Nelson Road. The
bus then turned down Trafalgar
Street without entering the Bus Depot. Similarly
on the return journey, the bus would come up Duncan Road and turn straight into
Gillingham Road (without entering the Bus Depot), and stop at bus stop some 100
yards from the junction. These Bus Stops were removed later, in 1967, when the
depot itself became a stop.
Uniform: In reality few people wore grey shirts beyond the first year, preferring white. Though some boys
wore the official charcoal grey (light grey) trousers, most favoured darker
greys and black, just as many girls wore darker
skirts. Berets were few and far between, and like summer dresses, almost non-existent beyond the first year.
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