Saturday 9th September 1944
I have just finished my first
week at the new school. That's
Bishop Vesey's Grammar School,
Junior School, in
Sutton. When I was
telling you about the entrance
exam, last March, I promised I
would let you know how I got on,
once I had started.
It could
have been worse. I've learned
quite a bit. Some more
arithmetic, English, history and
writing. But also quite a lot
about how to fit in somewhere,
which has all been very strange
to me.
I didn't realise before
but I've found out that I am a
lot younger than most of the
boys there. They seem to be all
nearly 10 or 11. But my ninth
birthday is until next April. I
don't quite know how that has
happened. But I'm not finding it
easy. A year is a long time when
you're only eight. They are all
much bigger than me, seem to
know much more than I do and
find it easy to make new friends
quickly. Probably some of them
have come from the same school
and are already friends. What I
now know is that if anyone has a
go at you, you do NOT say "But I
am only eight". That just makes
it worse. I've only made that
mistake once. I only know one
boy who was at the same school
as me. He sits in one corner of
the classroom and I am just in
front of him. His name is
Fairey. This is him. He used to be called
Michael.
There is another
boy, called
Smith J., who I
noticed on the first day. He's
got a round face and is always
running around with his friends.
He lives in
Goosemoor Lane,
Erdington which has had
quite a
bit of bombing. It seems that he
has got into the habit of
running everywhere. I wonder
why. I find it far easier to
walk or, better still, sit down.
If I knew him better I would
know the answer. When he was at
his other school, he always ran
to it in the morning and then
ran back home in the afternoon.
He had got it all worked out.
The quicker he ran, the less
likely he would be to have a
bomb fall on him. I suppose that
sounds pretty sensible.
On the first day I found out
that our classroom isn't the one
where we had sat our entrance
exam last March. I told you
about that
before. You have to
walk through that room and then
there is another one, of the
same size. The windows all still
have tape
over them, in a sort of diamond
pattern. It's supposed to stop
the glass flying about if a bomb
drops.
They are high up in the
wall so that you can't see
anything if you look out of them
when you are at your desk.
Except for the sky and the top
of other buildings. You aren't
supposed to do that anyway, not
during a lesson. Our teacher is
the elderly man who had read the
story of the crow and the
pitcher to us when we took the
entrance exam.
Mr. Gifford. We
soon learned that his nickname
is Goofy. But you don't call him
that.
Of course you don't. You
just call him "Sir". And he
calls you by your surname. As do
all the other boys. This has
been a bit of a shock at first.
Up to now I have always been
spoken to as Christopher. The
surname thing isn't very nice.
But you start to get used to it.
And it makes you feel quite
grown up. Anyway, I have never
been very happy with the name my
parents gave me. It sounds too -
I don't know what - not posh,
but not like other boys' names,
probably a little bit stuck-up.
Wish my name was Johnny or Dave
or Mick. As for the other TWO
names I was given, well, I'm not
going to talk about them.
They're worse than the main one.
A friend of my mother's once
told me I shouldn't hate them -
one is my father's name and the
other the name of the King. That
made me think a bit. But I still
don't like them.
This is me, by the way.
Like I told you before, you get
to the classroom by walking down
a path from the
Lichfield Road,
by the side of the main school
building. On the other side of
the path is rough ground, lots
of it, and we can play there
during break or when we have
finished dinner. Then you turn
right into a sort of short
tunnel, right through the
building. The floor is all
cobbled. There are two doors on
the right side of this tunnel.
You don't go anywhere near the
first one - that leads into the
part of the school where
strange, fierce boys called
boarders live. You wouldn't dare
to set foot inside there and you
certainly wouldn't want to
anyway. The thought of being
caught and dragged through that
door is enough to give you
nightmares. No, you go through
the second door where there is a
lavatory and rows of pegs to hang up
your coat, if you are wearing
one. And then, on the other side
of the tunnel, is the door which
you go through to get into the
first classroom. This is where
the older Junior School boys are
taught. By a man called
Mr. Knight. We all go through
that room into the second one
which is our classroom. So
there are just two classes in
the Junior School. And
there won't be any more after we
have had our two years there.
That's because we are the last
class, ever.
Mr. Gifford takes us for nearly
all our lessons. Some of the
stuff is new, some of it is what
I did at
Sandwell School in
Streetly. He is teaching us how
to write in copperplate and we
have to write the same letters
over and over again. Arithmetic.
English - how to write proper
English, spelling, punctuation.
Stories from history. One of the
best bits is when, some
afternoons, he stands in front
of the class and reads to us. At
the moment it's a smashing book
about Africa.
I think it's
called "The Man-Eaters of
Tsavo". Once a week we go
through the main school to the
gym. The master there is
quite an elderly gentleman,
Mr.
Bradley. He's not very tall but
is very muscular and he looks
very healthy indeed. He wears a
white vest and has a whistle on
a cord around his neck. We are
kept on the move most of the
time. I don't think I'm ever
going to enjoy it much - I'm not
strong enough, I don't think.
Some of the boys climb up the
ropes like monkeys or swing
about on the bars. I'm hopeless
at all that - and especially the
ropes. And if you know you are
not very good at something, you
just don't like doing it.
One afternoon a week is games
afternoon. We troop down to the
playing field with Mr. Gifford
and change in a sort of shed. We
play footie. The goal posts look
funny but I think they are
really goalposts for rugger
which they play in the Senior
School. I think you are
allowed to pick up the ball in
that game. That sounds very
strange to me.
So we leave the classroom for
gym and football, just once a
week. But every day, at about
12.00, we find our way to a huge
room deep inside the main
school. It's called
Old
Big School. It's vast and when
you go into it it smells of
brown gravy and cabbage. We sit
down at a long table to have our
dinner and we need to finish
before the rest of the school is
ready to pour in. You've hardly
got time to look around. But
I've noticed one or two things,
even so. There's a huge
painting there on the wall, of
Henry VIII. He stands there in
his fine robes, looking at every
single one of us. You just can't
avoid it - his eyes follow you
everywhere. We are all
fascinated by that, every one of
us. All the walls are covered with brown
wooden panelling. And on
nearly every panel there are
lists of names and dates,
written in gold paint, some ever
so brightly because they are
newish, but most of them duller because they were painted
on ages ago. I haven't seen all
the headings yet - and won't
understand many of them anyway.
But one says "Victor Ludorum" -
whatever that means. And
another, "Roll of Honour".
Sometimes the same name is on
more than one list.
And so that's what I think about
my first few days at my new
school. It's a bit of a
palaver to get there. It's a
mile walk from home on the
Chester Road in
Streetly, down
Manor Road, then down
Thornhill
Road to catch the 101 Midland
Red which will be standing
waiting by the railway bridge in
Streetly Village. Then off at
the Boswell Road stop in Sutton.
Back the same way. And that
happens every day AND on Saturday
morning. I'm pretty worn out
when I get home, I can tell you!
Mum took me all the way for the
first day or two. I think she
feels I know what to do now, and
will be very careful crossing the
Lichfield Road
in the afternoon
to catch the bus on the other
side.
So now she just walks with me to
and from Streetly Village. I
think that before long I shall
be allowed to do the whole journey by myself.
That will make me feel very
grown up!
I know the names of the
boys in my class already.
There's
Arthur, Bendall, Box, Britton,
Burr, Craig, Davies, J., Davies,
P., Dwyer, Easthope,
Evans, N., Evans, P., Fairey,
Hardy, Hateley, Holland, Horton, Lewis,
Myers, Oram, Outhwaite, Payne, Rew, Roberts,
Smith, G., Smith J., Suddens,
Thomas, Wainwright, Welch,
Wickes, Worman. I think
that's right and it is about all
of them. I expect I shall get to
know some of them very well
indeed. Especially if I
eventually get into the Senior
School.
So that was my first few days at
my new school. I hope I haven't
been boring you too much.
**********
As always, there's a lot
happening in the wide world,
beyond us here in
Streetly and
Sutton. This week we have
liberated
Brussels and
Antwerp.
The poor Poles are having to
fight in the sewers in
Warsaw,
with nobody doing anything to
help them.
Finland is making a
peace treaty with the
Soviet
Union and won't have anything
more to do with
Germany.
Bulgaria
is declaring war on
Germany and
Romania has already done
the same thing - although
none of all that means much to me.
The Germans
surrendered
Paris a couple of
weeks ago. I saw all that in the
newsreel at the
Avion
in
Aldridge. A French Resistance
fighter grabbing a rifle from
an injured German soldier, who
is lying
in the middle of the street as
the bullets fly around.
Something exploding in an open
lorry full of German troops and
some of them falling out of the
back of it onto the road. The running, the
taking cover and running again
and, especially, the rat-tat-tat
of machine gun fire - I could
feel that in my tummy. Oh, the
excitement of it all! I started
to wish that I could have been
there....... but I knew, really,
that was a daft feeling to have
because it must all have been
frightening and horrible.
And what
about my brother, Graham? He's
still in Italy. Although in
fact, he isn't! After liberating
Rome, which I told you about
last time, he moved further
north and was often in action.
At places I've never heard of,
San Oreste, Viterbo, Collena,
Orvieto, Castiglione del Lago.
One ruined town or village after
another. Near
Lago Trasimeno his
battery came under a big
artillery attack which caused
several casualties. It was very
accurate indeed and went on for
a long time. Later he found out
that a local civilian had been
caught directing the firing by
wireless. "I never found out
what happened to him....."
Some time last July Graham
and everyone else was told that
the war was only going to last a
few months and that his unit was
going to be withdrawn and moved
to the
Middle East, eventually
to return to be part of the Army
of Occupation. So, after handing
over their guns to another unit,
they all headed south, past
Rome, past
Cassino and all the
other places where they had
fought, and caught a ship to
Egypt. He has had a good time
there, training, doing artillery
exercises, learning to swim,
sitting on the banks of the
Suez
Canal. Shouting "You're going
the wrong way" to blokes on
troopships heading east, to
India and
Burma and places like
that.
![](Images/StreetlyMemories/SuezTroopship.jpg)
And enviously watching
others going westwards, towards
the Mediterranean Sea and home.
A few days ago, he boarded another ship in an Egyptian
port and headed off back towards
Taranto where, all being well,
he'll arrive on Sunday.
Army of Occupation?
Don't think so. He's
still got a long and dangerous
slog in front of him. Who knows
just how long?
And
I've got a long slog in front of
me too. Back to school on Monday
and the Christmas holidays seem
years and years away. But my
slog isn't dangerous though.
Provided I keep well away from
the boarders and am very, very
careful crossing the Lichfield
Road.