DAY 16: School Days
In 1975 my parents, sister and I moved to a village called Loudwater, in High Wycombe, where we started Loudwater County Combined School. The infant school dated back to the Victorian era. The desks were literally old school with lids you lifted, and ink wells. I was mesmerised by the architecture and when I left the area, it was a special landmark for me.
A few months after starting my new school, my mum noticed that my enthusiasm for learning started to wane, and I begged her to let me stay at home. Eventually, I told her I was being bullied. Her response was to tell me that, “If anyone hits you, hit them back.” so I did, and my mum got a call to see Mrs. Cooper, my teacher. Years later, she recounted the incident as if it happened yesterday: “Mrs Cooper told me that you had hit Catherine,” She began. "I said yes, because Catherine hit you.” When Mrs Cooper remonstrated, my mum, no doubt lifting herself up to her full height, responded, “I told my daughter that if anybody hit her, she must hit them back.” I don’t know what Mrs. Cooper said in response, but the bullying stopped, and I was able to enjoy school again. Incidentally, Catherine and I have been in regular contact for the last eleven years.
Part way through my first year at Loudwater, we moved from the Victorian building to a modern block. It was like going from one extreme to another, with our plastic chairs and Formica tables. Everything was new to me back then, including a tree in the playground that produced catkins (no one talks about catkins anymore). I marvelled at nature that summer and basked in the heat of what is famously known as ‘the summer of ‘76’.
In Year 3, I moved up to junior school and to a new teacher, called Mrs. Hazelwood. Mrs. Hazelwood was formidable and glamorous. She wore navy blue blazers and colourful scarves, and her hair and make-up were always on point. She had children but had kept her figure. Mrs Hazelwood taught us a rhyme to remember how to spell January, and to this day I still remember it:
J is for Jack A frosty old man. N is for nip, and he Usually can. A for atishoo, R for Red Nose. Y is for you as you stamp with your toes.
Mrs. Hazelwood also shouted a lot. She wasn't gentle like Mrs Cooper, but she was rigorous in her teaching, and I think I owe a lot of my reading and spelling ability to her. I also wrote my first poem under her tutelage.
When I was eight, a new girl joined our class. Her name was Anita, and she had arrived from Germany, where her dad had been in the army. I befriended Anita, and one of the first things she did was teach me how to count up to twelve in German. I was hooked, and I knew that I wanted to learn more of this fascinating language. Anita was not with us for very long . She and her brother, Russell, moved on after a year, relocating to Singapore. We wrote to each other for a while: pen pals were all the rage in those days. Over time, however, the letters petered out. I went on to study German at university and became a German teacher, and I never got to thank Anita for the gift she gave me.
Close to our classroom was the French suite. My sister was a few years older than I, and she had started to learn French with Madam Fox. Being the curious child I was, I had to get in on the act, and I lapped up all of the new words and songs she came home with, like Sur le Pont d’Avignon and Alouette, gentile Alouette. I’ll never forget learning to say, la confiture de cerise, which meant cherry jam! Madam Fox was married to our headmaster, and I suppose it made sense to make use of her, which was grist to my linguistic mill. By the time I was ten, I was eager to get started.
I took to French like a duck to water. I found it (nauseatingly!) easy. Conjugating verbs was a breeze, and my pronunciation was as flawless as a ten-year-old, non-native speaker’s could be. I’ll never forget Madam Fox’s reaction when I sounded out the words, Musée Océanographique. It was all she could do to stop herself falling on my neck. It wasn’t just that I was keen: I loved Madam Fox. In the years after I left primary school, we’d bump into each other, and I’d tell her what I was up to. It thrilled her to know that I’d continued with French up to A Level.
Friendships came easily to me at school. Although I was a reflective child, I was also outgoing. But relationships with girls could be complicated. I was friends with a girl called Nicola, who was what I would now call an Alpha female. She was the leader of our group of friends. When Nicola ‘broke friends’ with you, everyone in the group followed her lead. I was subjected to this cruel exclusion several times, and it caused a great deal of emotional pain for one so young. So much so, that when I was about nine years old, I made a decision that would have far-reaching, positive consequences: I thought about the qualities I valued in a friend – kindness, authenticity, a sense of perspective – and promised never to compromise those values. I would rather be alone than with someone who would think nothing of tossing me aside. This was major decision for a child to make, and as a result, I can honestly say that I have never had a friendship malfunction. I've never been betrayed, stabbed in the back, or hoodwinked by my friends. Thank you, Nicola.
My primary school days were happily uneventful. I hung out with a range of children and made some good friends. Simon – whose ethnicity is a mystery to me to this day – had all the latest electronic toys. At Christmas, we were allowed to bring in games and he brought in Simon. It was an early version of Bop It. My parents weren’t into these new-fangled gadgets, so I was thrilled when Simon allowed me and other children to play with it. What with Simon and Top Trumps, we had hours of fun at playtime.
Mr. Barber was my Year Six teacher and he played the guitar. He used to stop our Maths or English lesson and get his guitar out for a singing session. He taught us the song, Ilkley Moor Baht ‘At which was so random, but so enriching.
In my last year of primary school, I sat next to Jason. He was a massive Adam and the Ants fan and would sing their songs in the way that boys did before they become self-conscious teenagers. Adam Ant wore make up, sung about highway robbers and subverted the Cinderella story (Prince Charming). Forty years later, I still have an ‘Adam and the Ants moment’, YouTubing a handful of songs at full volume, just for old time’s sake.
My school days were made happy by our headteacher who loved us. He created an environment which enabled us to thrive creatively and socially. We did arts and crafts and learned country dancing. Morning assemblies were Christian in tone, so once a week we had hymn practice.
I wish every child could have the kind of experience we had at our primary school, when homework was an occasional intrusion on our evenings and SATs had not been invented. We were allowed to be children not just fodder for league tables.
My primary school days really were the best days of my life.
Written by Laurie O'Garro
Laurie has recently come out as a writer of poetry, flash fiction, including her hilarious 'God Monologues', and articles. She has lived in London for twenty-seven years, having moved to the capital to take up her first teaching job.
Laurie's hobby is string art which she discovered off the back of a childhood art from the 70s. The craft is best compared to embroidery, except it's done on card. And it's funkier. Her plan is to go global with string art and turn her creations into clothing and other accessories that people will fall in love with.
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