Tales from the Craft Block

The boys of 2A1 and 2A2 did PE together, as did the girls of our classes. Though the union didn’t extend to the boys doing metalwork and woodwork together (2A1 had metalwork while 2A2 had woodwork, and vice versa), we still came together in the craft block. Here, in spare minutes before lessons began and in breaks in between, bonds formed on the sports pitches were strengthened with a natter and a joke. Here, birthday boys were waylaid and given the bumps. Here, news of events in the next room came hot off the press…

One piece of news from the 2A2 metalwork class turned my stomach; Clive Ward had mangled a finger in a drill accident. Thankfully, I learned later that the report had been greatly exaggerated.

Another piece of news, from 2A2’s woodwork class, was of Paul Parker’s flying fruit bowl. Made from different layers of wood stuck together for decorative effect, his fruit bowl disintegrated in the lathe, sending pieces in all directions. Luckily, nobody was injured.

Without exception, everyone wore these aprons in our early years at Upbury. This could have been us in the woodwork class…

The woodwork room was a place of benches, lathes, drills, hand tools and sawdust. Under the guidance of the grey haired Mister Coulson, boys worked diligently to produce coffee tables, bookshelves and fruit bowls of dubious quality. A gentle old soul, Mister Coulson leaned on the quiet authority of age and experience to exercise control, being calmly spoken and relaxed in everything he did. If ever he had to leave the room, he just dawdled off and left us to get on with things. And usually, we did.

Trouble was rare in Mister Coulson’s woodwork class. Gentle giant Richard Jordan was once reduced to tears when Raymond Wright clonked him on the elbow with the topside of a bench brush, but that was about it until…

‘Northern scum! Northern scum! Yeah, let’s get the northern scum.’

In Mister Coulson’s absence a bit of horseplay was getting out of hand, with me on the receiving end. Brian Lack and Raymond Wright, so often the instigators of mischief, were innocent bystanders for once as Peter Burtenshaw, Philip Spice, Eddie Adams and others ganged up to jostle me into a corner.

‘Buzz off!’ I shouted, to which the buggers started prancing around, flapping their hands and making ‘bzzz bzzz bzzz’ noises. 

Then suddenly the swarm attacked and bundled me against a cupboard, which wobbled on impact, dislodging a stack of coffee table boards piled on top of it. One by one they slid down, each striking a glancing blow to my head.

Enraged, I reached for the nearest thing to hand, a bench brush. As my assailants scattered as I threw it as hard as I could at the nearest target – the fleeing Burty. But in the very instant it left my hand, Burty stopped running and turned around. Such is fate. He let out a blood curdling wail and slumped to the floor as the spinning missile, destined for his backside, caught him in the goolies.

The lads were quick to claim the high ground and condemn me when they saw Burty writhing on the floor. This served to fire up Burty, who grabbed the brush as he staggered to his feet. He was advancing towards me with murder in his eyes when…

‘Mister Coulson!’

Thank Christ for that. We were all back at our benches when good old Sir entered the room. Tempers had cooled by the end of the lesson, and there were no recriminations. Burty and I were mates. One sore head and pair of aching knackers wasn’t going to change that, but in a few moments of madness, they almost did.