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Growing Up In Feltwell in the 1950s & 60s – Part 3. Infant School
I recall my 4th birthday clearly and so it is no surprise that I can recall my first day at school 10 months later in January 1955. A handful of us started school while not quite 5 years old. My older sister was then 7 years old and assigned to look after me at break and lunchtime. My mother walked me up towards the canteen and then turned sharp right into the infants’ school entrance and along the corridor, up 2 or 3 steps to where Mrs Charlesworth and another teacher were waiting to welcome me. I remember my name was already written onto a piece of card which they pinned to my green jumper. I don’t recall waving goodbye to mum but I do recall my first teacher: a not very young Mrs Munroe who looked every bit as bad tempered as I later discovered she was. I recall my sister entering the classroom and leading me out to join the “dinner” queue beside the canteen steps. Questions were fired at me. “Do you like school?” Do you like Mrs Munroe?” I shook my head; compared with being at home in my own company and doing more or less exactly as I chose, there was little to like, even in this Reception Class. I was however glad that it was not compulsory to drink the free, one third of a pint, bottle of warm milk.
As I looked up to the canteen open doors I could see an array of plastic shallow objects in various pastel colours, like tops from jars of instant coffee, except such objects did not exist then. When told they were the beakers for our drinking water and that I had to be careful not to knock any over I was concerned. Because the canteen was considerably higher than the ground on which we stood, looking up I could see only the top inch or so of each beaker and I could not imagine being able to lift one to my lips without spilling some water. I felt considerable relief when we climbed up the steps and saw the full sized beakers. So much so that it took a while to notice the less than pleasant odour of boiled bottle green cabbage…
After lunch we might play with “plasticine” which may once have consisted of several bright colours but was now a uniform hard mass of “brown”. We usually managed to get it just soft enough to mould into a long worm by rolling it under our palms, before it was time to pack up. In the afternoon the teacher read a story which she seemed to enjoy more than her class. In time though school did get better.
In September 1955 I moved up to Class 2. Our teacher, a very young and very-pleasant Miss Hamilton, arrived each morning on a blue motor scooter from outside the village. She talked to us rather than at us and quite unlike Mrs Munroe who barked at us. Mrs Munroe once woke me from a classroom daydream and gruffly called out: “Robert Walden!” I looked up and she added impatiently: “Come out here!” Obediently, I got up from my little table, wondering what on earth I had done wrong. After two steps she barked: “With your book you silly child!” I had been too lost in the text of “John can see Rover; Rover can see Kitty” to realise she just wanted me to read to her. I could not articulate my feelings at so young an age, but I instinctively understood it was better if people spoke to each other rather than at each other. So I learned something then even if I have not always practised it: I might have had to wait many years before the late Terry Wogan demonstrated the same point to anyone who cared to listen.
Miss Hamilton was all smiles without being “soppy”. We listened to her. And she left at Easter - only to return weeks later as Mrs Palmer! Mrs Charlesworth had forewarned us of the future name change but a fellow 6 year old blurted out earnestly at break time: “Mrs Palmer, you’re just like our old teacher, Miss Hamilton!” He got a warm hug and a smile for his efforts. I would like to think she had a blissfully happy life; the world needs more Miss Hamiltons.
The Charlesworths had one grown up son but I would not describe Mrs Charlesworth as maternal. But neither was she bad tempered. She liked discipline and stood no nonsense. I do not think the term “special needs” had been devised then and the withdrawn or noisy village slow-learners received little help or mentoring and were often punished for their inability to learn. The superkids of RAF officers shone amongst us however. I remember infants Linton, Fiona (whose mother briefly taught at school) and Colette who knew the words to Sur Le Pont D’Avignon (her mother was French) and could accompany Mrs Charlesworth’s classroom piano. But there was little jealousy or resentment: we accepted we were all different. After Miss Hamilton’s relaxed manner, Mrs Charlesworth’s formal and structured style was probably good preparation for the serious learning of Junior school.
There was little class distinction between us village kids and for the most part we happily rubbed shoulders in classroom and play. Children of well to do farmers, doctors, and clergy tended to go to private school and rarely mixed with the rest of us anyway. But there were a few very poor kids: they tended to stay together and with whom the majority of us made little attempt to make friends. You notice when children are wearing no socks in their shoes but you can easily ignore those children. We were not a heartless bunch but unlike some of our teachers, just not old enough to know any better. The RAF officers’ children and those of the ranks did mix quite well with each other and us village children. The officers children wore smart clothes (with no holes or “darned” mends), had clear, healthy skin and probably were more intelligent than the rest of us, so no wonder they were teachers’ favourites. Those that had lived in places like Canada, Singapore or Germany before the age of 10, had a self confidence which those of us who had never been out of England or even East Anglia, did not possess. At one outdoor P.T. session in spring 1958, bamboo hoops were distributed amongst us. Alan had just arrived from Singapore and without waiting to be told what they were for, lifted his over his head and promptly started spinning it around his body which he gyrated “hula hoop” style. We stood open mouthed; we had never seen anything like it. The teacher probably had not either for Alan was told to “stop that ridiculous behaviour at once!” The lesson proceeded with us hopping on one leg in and out of our hoops and other unimaginative exercises. But by the summer the “hula hoop” craze had taken England by storm and Munson’s Place was alive with Lister’s stock of colourful plastic hula hoops.
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