Missionaries in Skirts

In the 1940's education was a hit-and-miss affair. Many of us played the wag for days on end.

Authority never seemed to mind this much. Crowded schools were a potential hazard during air-raids. Half empty ones safer.

When all of the other diversions then dear to youth palled though, and we did attend, school could be a colourful, even bizarre experience.

Most males under fifty were in the Services, so most teachers were middle-class ladies. Only later, having hopefully developed some adult insight, did I begin to realize what a good lot they were, overall.

Their first meetings with us must have been a culture shock, making them feel like missionaries, bringing light to the heathens. I remember one newcomer being appalled, when she discovered that not only had more of the forty-odd kids in the class ever learned any scripture: not one had the vaguest idea what the word even meant. But they had grit, determination. Tackled their uphill task manfully. Or, at least, womanfully. First, they’d have to learn a new language. Get their ears attuned to the East-ender’s incurable habit of reducing everything to a kind of verbal shorthand. Of running every word in each sentence into one long one, preferably said in two seconds flat.

They’d try to convert this jargon; replace it with something that might resemble, even if only vaguely, English. But without success. Only about three kids in the entire school could pronounce the ‘th’ sound properly, a number which stubbornly remained unchanged.

In a way, they’d learn from us. Not that the old joke would come true, and they’d wind up speaking Cockney. But in time, they could understand it.

“The ol-man’s said shutyer clack, getyer Arris dahn that orf licence 'fore they shut, so I’ve adta go din’I like Miss?”

In time they’d take sentences like these in their stride.

Miss Waldmann, niece of BBC producer Ronnie Waldmann, introduced poetry readings. Presumably, she thought we’d welcome this exciting new development. She was wrong. Even girls were rarely pleased to be chosen to come out and read. Boys dreaded it. We did enjoy one memorable session though.

“Now,” she said, flashing a bright and encouraging smile around. “ Who would like to read ‘Summer’ for us? ”

A massive lack of response. Her smile became fixed, as it began to dawn upon her that she was not, after all, going to be overwhelmed by hordes of eager volunteers. At last, she had to resort to sheer compulsion, her gaze fixing upon a random victim.

“Oh! Oh — er — yes,” Then more firmly: “Henson! Yes, come along Herbert. You can do this.”

Henson, a young hooligan, known to his intimates as ‘Twinner,’ was shocked. He rose, reluctance coming from him in tangible waves. From his very stance, it was plain that public poetry reading did not rate too highly upon his personal fun list. He came forward as though on his way to a gallows. Scowling at all the sotto voce jeers coming from his cronies. Who were all secretly pleased and relieved that some other poor sod had been chosen instead of them. He grabbed the book with considerable ill-grace, and began to read. In a sharp Bow accent, that had all the fire and passion, all the expression, of the speaking clock.

“Win'uh is cold-hartid,
Spring is yie 'n nie.
Ortum is a wevver cock, Blowin̓ every w — what a load of old cods!”

For a second, these last words mystified us. They didn't seem to rhyme, or fit in, or anything. Then, as we realized that they were merely his opinion, waves of laughter erupted in which Miss Waldmann conspicuously failed to join. Rather angrily, she'd made it clear that she preferred the original Rosetti version to this modernised Hillson one. She never asked him to read again, and soon gave up poetry readings as a bad bet anyway.

They were bad enough. But far worse were the compulsory Olde English dancing classes for boys. Doomed brainchild of another well-meaning but misguided optimist, Miss Barton.

We dancers would line up in long, glum, facing lines. All wearing the small but sturdy hobnailed boots boys then did. Not one trace of enthusiasm upon one face.

Miss Bartley supplied the enthusiasm, slamming away at an aged piano and yelling encouragement. The tune that accompanied these ghastly sessions was invariably 'Sir Roger De Coverly,' It may have been the only one she could play. I couldn’t stand this rotten thing even then. I still can’t, more than sixty years later.

We Corps de Ballet galumphed around the floor, as gracefully as rams with foot-rot, and becoming angrier by the second. Hating Miss Barton, that awful plonking jangle of a tune, and each other. Hating, during those terrible melancholy sessions, life itself. Then Miss Barton would notice that our performance was falling some way short of the standard normally expected of a crack formation team and start to panic herself.

“No, boys, no! Sprightly! Be sprightly!” Her ringing posh voice drilling through our heads like arrows.

“Let yourselves become as little gazelles. Creatures of fire; verve; abandon!”

Honestly, she might just as well have issued these instructions in Swahili.

“What’s she on about now Pete?”

“Dunno. Set her on fire 'n abandon her, or summin. Good idea n’all.”

“Ah yeah, But what’s a ‘verve’ then?”

“No idea. And shut up, anyway,”

Bitterness increasing as these baffling messages assailed us. Muttering breathlessly among ourselves that we didn’t wanna be little bleedin’ gazelles anyway. Whatever they were.

By then the din was colossal, an unbearable blend. Crashing hobnail boots; her hitting the joanna like she hated it, blasted ‘Sir Roger,’ and those piercing despairing cries of hers.

It would then become worse still, when flying boots made careless contact with tender shins. Sparking off bitter arguments among the dancers. These too conducted at full volume, and in language that would have made Millwall dockers shudder and cover their ears.

Strangely enough, Miss Barton never seemed to mind, or ever notice, all this base Anglo-Saxon.
Discussing among ourselves, we decided that perhaps she’d never heard the words before, and had no idea what they meant. You could never really tell; not with posh people.

Luckily, these antics were short-lived, too. A Miss Fathan was our headmistress. Late middle-age, absolute lady in all the best ways that illustrate that proud description. Even us, young and dense as we were, could dimly appreciate what a diamond she was. Our parents admired her even more. This elderly wise woman knew and understood more about the kids that Miss Barton had had time to learn.
According to rumour, she took her aside one day and quietly pointed our that eight-year-old Old Ford boys were unlikely to become polished exponents of gavotte and minuet: and that the parquet flooring was being torn to bits anyway.

An so mercifully, Olde English dancing classes ended. They’ve left a small, but permanent scar on my psyche. To this day, I can never hear the hateful strains of 'Sir Roger' without an inward shudder, instantly recalling those periods of suffering.

Yes our teachers did make the occasional mistake. But overall, they did a great job. Evacuation and mass truancy had left vast gaps in our knowledge. But somehow, they managed to fill some of them. Overcame the language barrier and all other obstacles. Did succeed in cramming something into our young and empty minds. Ah ladies! We owe you a debt. We were too young to fully appreciate you then, but I suspect many of us have come to do so since.

Hopefully, some of you may still be around. If so, may your closing years be happy ones. Others, by now, must have passed on. Well: may the Earth rest lightly then, and the angel smile upon you. You weren’t a bad crew. Not bad at all.

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.