Through the big window #25

The avenue is ghostly quiet at the moment. I get up from the settee, stretch my aching back and wonder why? Of course! Schools have reopened after the summer break. Some kids will haltingly make their way on an unfamiliar journey to their new school, some kids will be excitedly waiting for mum to take them to that first ever school-day post nursery, and some lucky so and so’s will be staying home; it thought too dangerous entering dilapidated, neglected school buildings ignored through 13 years of austerity and government cuts. And some will realise very quickly like me they have made the biggest mistake of their young lives; but that’s another story. I nearly forgot; some will be inviting severe debt for the rest of their lives through further education, and there will be no rebates for days missed.

And so, many years on I sit here ruminating thoughts about back in the day, the ‘good old days’ we like to think. You have probably wearied of us old gits rambling on and on how we sat in our coats when the school boilers broke. Learning was no picnic and in Winter it was so difficult reciting your times-tables through chattering teeth, chapped lips or blocked up nostrils. I recall how often I couldn’t hear myself think through the cacophony of sniffing and the odd piglet grunt. Even Monday morning register calls were regularly cancelled due to the fact classrooms were often flooded because some local lead thief had been on night work above our heads straddling the catslide slate roof and sliding hacked at sheets of lead to his watchful mate below. So, it was accepted we didn’t have the gonads to sneak off, and they were right, but more to the point, why weren’t we sent home? After all, the house would be occupied because both parents together rarely worked. Can you imagine mum the housewife eventually triple unbolting the front door as long as we promised to be quiet while Mrs Dale’s Diary was on the Wireless. She’d question us relentlessly while we thawed out in front of the fire, steam rising upwards to join the already overburdened clothes rack pulled tight to the scullery ceiling. ‘But mam,’ we would plead, ‘the pipes must be warm to thaw out our bottles of milk left out in the snow by that idle Milkman.’ The disbelieving look enough to refreeze the earnest child. I am not exaggerating; the Spanish Inquisition was a breeze compared to convincing our 1950’s parents we had been sent home through no fault of our own. And dare asking for permission to play in the street now you are home on a school-day, she would threaten to skull-drag you back and fix the bloody boilers herself! Staying off from school was rarely allowed, and the streets were deserted except for the odd window cleaner, housewife stoning the front step or dustbin man emptying the bins. In fact, watching them carry a fully laden dustbin of ashes, potato peelings and cabbage leaves on the shoulder to tip into the waiting wagon parked at the bottom of each back entry was a joy to behold; boy, did they earn their wages. “If you don’t pass your exams that’s where you’ll end up my lad,” the oft repeated phrase of a mother wise to every trick in each street Arab’s book.

Why does my mind return directly to days like that, even when the Gods were at last on our side and school was operating inefficiently, yet the powers that be remained unmoved? Learning was not to be interrupted, and if the roof was in danger of collapse then give each child a tin-hat. Useful for when Mr Brown launched his board-duster at me yes, but of no use when RAAC crumbles and falls. But if you are in my age group, or even a few years younger this was accepted practice mainly due to the fact that education was sacrosanct. The three R’s. Reading, Writing and Arithmetic (I know) were deemed necessary to make one’s way in the world, and were taught diligently and with the utmost care. Handwriting neat and legible, reckoning-up inviolable and understanding words and spelling unimpeachable; skills honed and perfected to a knowledge base second to none no matter your station in life; and boy did we let people know it. We would even be awarded prizes for attending school every single day. Illness was a nuisance, that is until I changed schools aged 11 and all my dreams were shattered. I soon realised my teaching would be through control and punishment, no more gentle introductions to new horizons, black glares, threats and coercion were the new order. Only serious illness was accepted for reason of absence, and you couldn’t leave that Iron-lung, physical exercise lessons were torturous, and homework became the new bane of my life. So, guess how I overcame such tribulations, I switched off. Punishment became the norm until they tired of that and like broken goods wagons spilling too much coal into the railways sidings, I and some others were shunted along the rusted lines into the long grass.

I now realise that our school’s lower echelon of learning contained such non-worthy’s as those with Dyslexia, probably many born within the Autism spectrum, fidgets struggling with ADHD, weirdo’s born left-handed, colour-blind reading book monitors, unwashed lousy head scratchers, and as in my case were completely lacking in self-confidence and determination. Remember this, during my formative years nourish and nurture brought results. Junior school made up for what was lacking domestically, and teachers used fingers to point not poke. Burnt into my memory after changing schools was one particular pupil who obviously struggled with Dyslexia but was nevertheless still demanded to stand at his desk and unsympathetically forced to read at least one paragraph from whichever classic we were studying at the time. His stuttering progress always slow and distressing, his face crimson with anguish, the teacher vexed, irritated and impatient, those ignoramuses amongst us laughing; surely the adult in the room knew there was a problem? And how many learning issues lay undiagnosed at the time resulting in what was often tantamount to an assault?

Surely, you must think, to encourage new readers it would be incumbent of me, the writer, to drag my stilted thoughts into the present, and not try and convince you all of how good it was back in the day. Well! That is exactly the point. Being a breakfast news viewer who railed at the television set each time schools were closed due to one snowflake landing on broadcasting house through the night, or a local meandering Rillet breached its banks near the village green, and the long-serving Lollipop woman has a temperature so is unable to accompany the children to a safe crossing point I need to know why? Occasionally my indigestion interrupted events as I spluttered my cooling porridge and pebble dashed the new tablecloth only just ironed to replace the one I spattered yesterday much to Viv’s chagrin. “You really need to calm down,” she would demand, “you bloody left school over 50 years ago.” She had a way of hitting the nail on the head, and often threatened to get me a bib with ‘Monday’ printed on it.

Yes! I think the Pandemic has changed my point of view about today’s young, it seems those in power have given up on them, in fact they are a forgotten generation. I can’t imagine being stuck inside the home during school holidays with no sense of adventure and derring-do, my imagination stifled and living life vicariously through Superheroes and wandering corpses who cannot be destroyed because they are already destroyed; I still can’t get my head around that one. It’s all entertainment yes, and I suppose entertaining in a deranged sort of way, but it is all there is. I was taught violence begets violence, and when we are witness to what passes as problem solving by children knifing each other, bloody scenes of drunken kicks and stampings until identification becomes impossible, and brainless shooting into crowds of innocent people I ask myself, ‘where is all this leading?’ Unlike those mythological Zombies and those numerous ridiculous ‘Undead’ films the victim cannot always pick themselves up and brush it off. What happened to the age of innocence?

‘Leave something for someone, not someone for something,’ ‘Nothing like having a bucket of cold water flung over you to make you see how things are,’ or ‘The best way to treat obstacles is to use them as steppingstones,’ are just a few Enid Blyton quotes I recall from my childhood days. And during the heady days of maturation when we felt the world owed us something, and although arrogance crept into my identity I knew my limits, I still believed in fair play, and even though I ‘ran with the crowd,’ gang-fights were usually settled between the two best fighters. Nobody interfered or ‘jumped in,’ the man down was usually ‘let up’ and when the loser said ‘enough,’ it usually was. The best fighters were rarely bullies, and even when losing and bloodied would be heard to remark, ‘It’ll wash off in the morning.’ I was never a Saint, but through the years I recall being warned to ‘tone it down,’ sage advice indeed if overstepping the mark. Yessir, In the morning I just wanted to wash off the grime.

And while staring blankly through the window, what of the boy I saw pedalling his bike up and down our cul-de-sac? He’s still doing the laps while waiting to start his first day at school, the excitement palpable, his dreadlocks flowing as he picks up speed, burning energy before settling down to learn, unbounded joy excreted through every pore. No television for him, he wants to play, if its not the bike it’s the ball, if not the ball it’s a scooter, I tire while enviously looking on. Is this time still the innocence time? I can’t stop smiling. My Sciatica finally eases and when his mother decides its time, holding hands tightly they disappear from view, while I sit back in my chair and wonder where such a child of today will end up, while I know exactly what fate awaits me. Lucky boy!

Just one member of Enid Blyton’s Famous Five. They drank Ginger beer and ate Barley Sugar.