When I was five, I started at Mellor School. I went, I think, quite willingly, since my sister and a host of friends and acquaintances went too. Several of them – the Hodgkinson children from Linnet Clough, the Moorcrofts from Worthington Barn, and Roy and Alan Dent from School Row – would call for May and me in a morning, and off we would go up Longhurst Lane, picking up other children as we went. At the Devonshire Arms and at Lower Hall we would be joined by more groups coming from Moor End, and so we reached the school gate.
Viewed from Longhurst Lane, Mellor School appears to have changed little in the last seventy years; I suspect that it changed even less in the previous half-century – it was opened in 1880. The retaining wall in front of the playground has been buttressed to prevent a collapse which was threatened some years ago, but the iron railings are the same ones that I have climbed (and my mother, too, I dare say!). But a few years ago the school closed, and a replacement was built in Knowle Road, located centrally in the village, and with excellent play- and car-parking areas, which the old school lacked. The old school building has now become the Parish Centre, conveniently placed just below the parish church.
The building consisted of a large central block which housed the upper school – Standards III, IV, V and VI – working quite happily under one teacher. A separate room at one end housed the Infants, whilst a similar room at the other end housed Standards I and II, so that three teachers ran the whole school. There were two cloakrooms, one for boys and one for girls, with washbasins (cold water only!), coat-racks and, in the girls’ cloakroom, an old-fashioned cooking range. Lighting was by oil lamps hanging from the ceiling, with big white glass shades. The outside toilets were earth closets.
For the infants, tiny chairs and tables were provided, but the middle school had those combined desks and seats on a cast-iron frame, allowing no adjustment for growing limbs. The upper school had chairs, two to a desk, and ingenious desk lids which could be tilted to several angles. Pot ink-wells were recessed into each desk top, and we wrote with scratchy steel nibs in well-chewed wooden holders.
Discipline was strict. At nine o’clock precisely, the head-mistress Mrs Bartlett (Mona, to those in the know) would emerge from the interior, ringing the handbell. Play stopped, and ‘lines’ were formed, each class outside its appropriate door, waiting for the signal to march inside. The signal given, in we went to stand patiently behind our chairs until bidden to sit.
We spent a lot of time learning to write by copying letters and sentences from the blackboard into exercise books with special ruling to guide our wandering fingers. Two bold parallel lines were to be occupied by letters such as ‘a’, ‘e’ and ‘s’, whilst capitals and letters like ‘b’, ‘p’ and ‘q’ must touch the fainter ruling above or below the bold lines. We also learned to read and do arithmetic, and the defunct British monetary system of pounds, shillings and pence was learned in a ‘shop’ with dummy packets of well-known products and realistic cardboard coins.
As we progressed up the school, we had periods of ‘silent reading’ when the more competent readers could draw books of their choice from the library cupboard. My favourite was a geography book – not because I enjoyed geography, but because its explanation of hot and cold land and sea masses started with the story of an old gentleman who had a model steam engine in his garden. Steam engines have always been a particular weakness of mine.
At the end of the day, we were bidden to stand. The next command was “Chairs on desks, place!” (for those fortunate enough to have a separate chair.) Then we recited our evening prayer:
Hands together, softly so,
Little eyes shut tight;
Father, just before we go,
Hear our prayer tonight.
We are all Thy children here;
This is what we pray:
Keep us safe when night is near,
And through every day.
These words come back to me over the years with no mental effort, as do the multiplication tables, because they were drummed into us, day after day. I have no complaints about learning by rote – indeed, the modern methods of teaching, which seem to rely on the children finding things out for themselves, appear to leave appalling gaps in their knowledge. But I write as a parent and an employer, not as a teacher.
Best of all, I remember the biblical texts. There was one for every letter of the alphabet except X and Z, and we chanted in unison: “A soft answer turneth away wrath; Be not deceived, God is not mocked; Children, obey your parents . . . .” and so on, right through to: “Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free”.
Although it was not a Church school, as its proximity to the parish church suggests, we were paid frequent visits by the Vicar, who lived but a stone’s throw away. Warned of his coming, our teachers gave us a short practice. Then, at a word, we were off again, extolling the virtues of soft answers and obedience to parents. Old-fashioned? Futile? One child at least has remembered this catalogue of Christian virtues.
When I started at Mellor School, it catered for all ages up to the minimum leaving age of 14. At the age of ten, a few children sat for the ‘Scholarship’ – an early form of the now notorious 11-plus examination – by which they could earn the right to attend the County Secondary School at New Mills. In the early thirties there came a change, and all children over ten were transferred to Ludworth School in Marple Bridge. My sister May sat – and passed – the Scholarship examination from Mellor School in March 1932, but was nevertheless obliged to move to Ludworth for the last term of her primary education.
I was more fortunate, for by 1934 the Willows School (now Ridge-Danyers College) had been opened in Marple to provide secondary education for those not attending a grammar school, and so I was able to remain at Mellor until I, too, moved to New Mills. We must remember that entry to grammar schools was not so eagerly sought in those days. Many parents did not wish their children to even attempt the entrance examination.
So, in my early years, Mellor School contained great youths of 13 and 13, whose football matches in the boys’ yard were a sight to behold. We infants played in the girls’ yard, carefully shielded from these violent activities. We indulged in games like ‘Old Granny Witchy’, ‘Barley’ and ‘Chain Tig’, all of which involved someone being ‘on’ and having to catch as many of the others as possible, whilst various devices were available to avoid capture or to release those already in captivity.
There were always a few weeks in springtime when, as if by some pre-determined ordinance, whips and tops appeared. Then, just as suddenly, they were put away again. Marbles also seemed to have their season and so, of course, did conkers; there was always a good harvest of them under the horse-chestnut trees in Church Road, which led up to the school. For the girls, skipping-ropes and hop-scotch came and went.
Another seasonal rite was Oak-Apple Day, which commemorated the escape of King Charles from the Roundheads by hiding in an oak tree – hence the Royal Oak on so many pub signs. Those who knew the date of this historic event (and I never did) wore oak leaves in their buttonholes, and carried bunches of nettles with which to sting (on their bare legs!) anyone not similarly adorned.
In the winter, slides would be made on the slippery playground, and those with steel-shod clogs made the fastest times and longest distances. Although clogs soon cut up the polished surface, rubber soles were considered to take off the ‘shine’, and anyone in ‘wellies’ was barred. How I longed for a pair of clogs! In dry weather, they could be used to strike sparks from the stony road. In the wet, their wearer could traverse the muddiest puddle without a care.
As we grew older, more interesting routes to and from school presented themselves. For me, one variation involved going into Slack Wood, up the path to Knowle Farm and thence to school by way of the church. A little-known path led from the churchyard to a blocked-off gateway in the playground wall. This path also formed the start of another variation which (in the homeward direction) used the field path below the school, crossed the stream by a stone slab, then climbed up to join Longhurst Lane at the Post Office. A muddy footpath alongside the stream enabled the first and second variations to be joined together.
The children from the upper village could vary their route by using the field path to Lower Hall from Moor End, or the higher path via Podnor Farm. These variations were needed to relieve the monotony, for most of us came home for lunch every day. The few who stayed at school took sandwiches, and sat in the girls’ cloakroom round the range, which also heated the water for a drink in the cold weather.
School children in those days were subjected to advertising pressures of a kind which would not be permitted today. I remember a scheme of Lever Brothers which emphasised the need for washing at least twice a day – with ‘Lifebuoy’ soap, of course. Our teachers told us of the benefits of such cleanliness (no doubt from a brief prepared at Port Sunlight) and every child who performed the necessary ablutions received a star on a special card. At the end of a month, the cards were sent up to the soap manufacturers, and the school won a cloakroom mirror with a lifebuoy-shaped frame. In 1980, this mirror was still in existence!
A hot malted drink was provided at the mid-morning break. There was a small charge, but the special mugs and the mixing apparatus were provided by Horlicks, and bore their name. Nowadays this would probably be condemned as ‘subliminal advertising’!
In my final year, Mrs Bartlett was a sick woman who died before the end of the summer term. One day in her last winter, a blizzard started during the morning, and (as the senior boy) I was sent to see the local taxi-driver and engage him to take the headmistress home at the end of the day. There were, of course, very few telephones, and none at the school. My errand completed, I called in at home as I returned to my lessons. Mother was furious that I had been sent out in such bad weather, but I believe I enjoyed the excursion.
Although there were two of us in the ‘top’ class, I was the only one to sit the County Minor Scholarship (to give it its full title) on Saturday, 10 March 1934, just one week after my 10th birthday. To everyone’s relief, I passed.
In the summer holidays, my aunt (Nan) married Philip Mallett, who taught PE and woodwork at New Mills, so I was to have an uncle as a teacher throughout my grammar school days.
Early in September of that year I was to be found waiting for the 9.14 am train at Marple station wearing my new green school cap – the only compulsory item of uniform for boys. Girls had to have the full outfit of gymslip and blouse, hat and coat in the winter, and a regulation dress as an alternative in the summer. For both sexes, there was an optional blazer. The girls’ uniform seemed to change from year to year, and could be obtained from only one supplier, who was (not surprisingly) rather expensive. Mother used to despair at the continual cost of buying new school clothes for my sister, often before the old ones were outgrown or outworn.
The timetable at New Mills was governed by the railway services. Children from the two outlying catchment areas – Mellor and Ludworth to the west, and Chinley and the Hope Valley to the east – had no other means but the train by which to reach New Mills. School could not start until they arrived, and so the first lesson did not begin until 9.40 am. Assembly was at 9.30, but was attended only by those from New Mills and its immediate environs – the rest of us attended only on special occasions.
The end of the day was also arranged to fit in with the railway timetable. Lessons ended at 3.55 pm so that we could catch the 4.17 to Marple. Those from Chinley and Edale (‘China’ and ‘Egypt’ to us) were less fortunate. Their train did not leave until around five o’clock, and they did their homework under supervision until it was time to walk across the town to the station. But their doings are not our concern, and we must return to the ‘up’ platform at Marple station.
The boys congregated near the water-tower – especially in winter, when a coke brazier glowed continually to prevent the water from freezing. (I should mention that we are talking of the days of steam locomotives, which needed to have their tenders replenished with water more often than they needed coal.) The girls stood aloof further along the platform. The train was always made up in the same way: a first-class coach, which Mr Ashworth, a local solicitor, would occupy in solemn splendour; then a third-class open saloon, into which the boys eagerly swarmed; then compartment coaches for the girls .
The attraction of the saloon was the dining-tables. Their size, shape and surface made them ideal for ‘push-penny’ – football played with a halfpenny for a ball and a penny propelled by a comb for a player. Goals were scratched into the table tops, and most tables were permanently defaced in this way.
The morning train was run by the London, Midland and Scottish Railway, or LMS for short. We knew it as the ‘Hell of a Mess’. Since it connected with the London train at Chinley, it was a rather superior affair. Not so the evening train. This was a local from Hayfield, run by the London and North Eastern Railway, using ex-Great Central (‘Gentle Crawler’) rolling- stock consisting of close-coupled carriages on a six-wheeled chassis, and hauled by a dirty tank engine. The compartments were narrow and dusty, lit by a flickering gas lamp on winter evenings.
I regret to say that our behaviour did little to improve the condition of the upholstery. ‘Carriage Tig’ was a game played by first-formers on the homeward journey – a form of Blind Man’s Buff involving lying on the luggage rack or under the seat to escape from the one who was ‘on’.
Second-formers were more interested in ‘ragging’ their juniors. One favourite trick was to seize the school-bag of an innocent youth and drop it out of the window. When the heart-broken lad was allowed to look back along the line to mark where it had fallen, the satchel would be discovered swinging from the door handle.
It was through trying to escape such torments that I and my two closest pals – Elwyn ‘Dog-Ears’ Smith and Derek ‘Brad’ Bradshaw fell into the hands of the police. It happened like this: the three of us had just boarded the 4.17 at New Mills, when along came three hulking great second-year men, at least twelve years old. Suspecting the worst, we attempted to prevent their entry into our compartment by shutting the door and hauling on the window-strap.
(It occurs to me that many readers will never have seen a window-strap: it was a heavy piece of leather some four inches – sorry! 10 cm – wide and about 75 cm long. It was used to raise and lower the sash window which was a feature of the door to each compartment. Compartments, too, are a thing of the past: they had two facing seats running across the carriage, each seat holding five or six passengers. There was no corridor, and once aboard there was no way out until the train stopped.)
Our would-be tormentors tugged on the door handle. Suddenly, there was a sharp report, and the window-glass cracked into three or four pieces. We gave up the struggle, hurriedly lowered the window to conceal the damage, and hoped that no-one had seen us.
Next morning, as we trooped towards the ticket barrier at New Mills station, we were stopped by that fiercest of men, Mr Pegg the Station Master. There cannot be an Old Millonian of my generation whose blood does not run cold at the mention of Mr Pegg. He allowed the girls to pass through the barrier, and then collected the boys together. “Now,” he demanded in tones that boded ill, “Who broke the window?”
At last we confessed. Names and addresses were taken, and we were allowed to go on our way to school. That evening we had a further shock: on arrival at the station we were met by a bowler-batted figure. “Which of you boys,” he asked, “Is Heath? And Smith? And Bradshaw?” Soon he had all six of us, and suggested that he should travel to Marple in our company.
In the train he introduced himself as a plain-clothes detective of the railway police. The window would cost ten shillings (50p) to replace, he said, which came to one-and-eightpence each. Would we please each bring this amount tomorrow, and he would collect it on the evening train?
It now became necessary to tell my father the story, and to ask for one-and-eightpence, for at this time my weekly pocket-money was only sixpence (2½ p). Father said: “How do you know he was a policeman? Did he show you his card? He might be anybody who knew about the incident. You tell him to identify himself, and then I’ll pay the bill.”
So I went to school next morning with an empty purse, only to find that my partners in crime had more gullible parents who had coughed up the necessary. I was scared stiff all day – what would the policeman say? (My pals had already said some rather unkind things about letting the side down.) I was to know soon enough, for there he was waiting for us on the platform. “And where’s your money, young man?” he demanded. I stammered out my father’s phrases, expecting to be arrested on the spot. “Then I must come and see your father,” said he.
Oh, what disgrace! To have a policeman visit one’s home! But come he did, and was quickly able to satisfy Father’s questions. Dad paid up, and there the matter ended. (As I edited this chapter in 1990, I learned that Derek Bradshaw was coming to the end of his term of office as Mayor of Launceston. News of our escapade must never have reached Cornwall!)
When I was thirteen I got my first bicycle. It was obviously quicker to cycle to school – a distance of three miles – than to set off in the opposite direction for Marple station, ending up with another half-mile walk across New Mills.
One of Father’s office juniors was a keen cyclist, and said he would look out for a suitable second-hand machine. It duly arrived – and what a mongrel it was! The frame had no maker’s name, but was painted bright blue. One tyre was red and the other was black. The three-speed ‘missed’ in top gear, and the brakes squealed. But it was my own, my very own, and I was out on it the first morning before seven o’clock. I can still point to the spot where I fell off, trying to turn in the width of the road. I can also point out the spot where I had a more serious crash some years later, the scars from which I still bear – but that’s another story, outside the timescale of this book.
So I abandoned the train and left my colleagues to their games of push-penny. Now I could arrive at school in time for Assembly, and I was able to join the local children for morning prayers in the Hall.
The Hall was octagonal, with a domed roof which is still a local landmark. It also doubled as the gymnasium, and the prefects, who occupied the back row during Assembly, could loll against the wall bars. Around six of the walls was inscribed the motto: Great works / are performed / not by / strength / but by / perseverance.
The Headmaster was W A Whitton – known to all, staff and scholars alike – as ‘Boss’. He was everything that a head should be: kindly, even jocular, towards those who kept the rules, but a blustering, irascible figure, swearing (it was said) in his native Welsh to those who put one foot wrong. Would that there were more like him today.
The school had only 300 pupils, and the staff were few. Miss Dixon (‘Dickie’) was the headmistress, girls’ games and biology teacher, whose eagle eye penetrated your very soul and ensured that you told nothing but the truth. ‘Taffy’ Williams (English and Latin) was the senior master; he had taught many of our parents, including my mother, and often reminded us of the fact. Then there was ‘Grandpa’ Hadfield (history), who died suddenly one morning during my first year; ‘Mac’ and ‘Youdy’ who taught mathematics, Miss Ingham (“Swing ’em”) for science; ‘Daddy’ Dearden for physics; Miss ‘Connie’ Seddon, Mesdames ‘Trixie’ Wood and ‘Thisbe’ Hughes (French); Miss Taylor (‘Tally’) for English; Miss Walker (‘Trotters’) for geography, and that trio of craft teachers with the most appropriate names: Mr Mallett (woodwork), Mr Emery (metalwork and art) and Miss Batters (cookery).
Life at New Mills was totally different to the Council School at Mellor. There was a different teacher for each subject; there was a gymnasium, a dining hall, craft rooms, playing fields, changing rooms. The day was broken into periods by the bells which rang every thirty-five minutes. Running in the corridors was forbidden, and outdoor shoes had to be changed to plimsolls (trainers) before one could venture beyond the cloakroom – rules strictly enforced by the lordly prefects.
School meals, then as now, were considered an abomination. For many years, I could not bring myself to eat them, and took sandwiches instead. The kitchen, supervised by the buxom Mrs Arnfield, turned out a regular diet of ‘splosh’ (stew) and rice pudding. Despite the efforts of the table prefects, pranks were frequent. Pepper could be made to adhere (with the help of a little water) to the underside of one’s neighbour’s spoon; his pudding could be stolen whilst his attention was directed elsewhere. The punishment for being discovered in such wrong-doing was embarrassing – one stood on one’s chair in the middle of the crowded dining-hall until Boss, on his way out, asked what misdemeanour had been performed. A further punishment would follow.
A strange ritual in the dining-hall involved moistening a pellet of bread with water, and pressing it to the underside of the table. At a convenient opportunity, its owner would disappear under the table and write the date alongside the pellet. Years later, pellets could still be found in a remarkable state of preservation.
Homework, too, distinguished the Secondary from the Primary School. Art, especially, was the bane of my life. Mr Emery, who was badly deformed, frightened lesser mortals by his very appearance. He also had a sharp tongue, but we discovered (often too late) that his bark was worse than his bite. His homework had to be handed in on a Monday morning, so that one had all weekend in which to do it. He invariably asked for a sketch or a painting of some wild plant which was just coming into flower or into fruit, and Saturday morning was therefore spent in combing the likely places for ragged robin or sycamore buds. The tedious part would then begin: a border (the dimensions of which are engraved on my heart) must first be drawn, one’s name added here, the date there. Out with the water-colours on the kitchen table – another hour’s work for a mere two marks out of ten!
The routine of lessons was relieved towards the end of term by an afternoon of music or theatricals given by a visiting company of players. These were regarded as occasions requiring a few surreptitious sweets to make them really enjoyable, and friends who lived in New Mills would be given a list of our requirements when they went home to lunch. I thus associate “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” not only with the actor Donald Wolfit, but also with slabs of ‘Palm’ toffee – often purchased on my behalf by young Higginbottom, now a worthy New Mills ironmonger.
There were a good many sweetshops on our way to and from school. Those using the train from Marple had the Station Café on Brabyns Brow, and a delightful little emporium on the hill above New Mills station. This was run by an old lady who stocked what (even then) were old-fashioned sweets. She sold mineral waters at a halfpenny for a small glassful, and a penny for a larger one. She also had a punchboard – a square of thick card perforated with small holes, each plugged with a coloured ball, and covered with paper to make the balls invisible. For a penny one could use a stiletto to pierce the paper and push out a ball. Its colour determined the value of one’s prize – one always received something, and hopefully the one gold ball would appear, entitling the winner to untold riches.
There was, inevitably, a tuck shop just outside the school gates. This earned a somewhat shady reputation by selling cigarettes in ones and twos to schoolboys. ‘Woodbines’ were then five for twopence, and a considerable profit could be made by selling two for a penny. There was a concealed spot behind the hockey goal posts where the smokers gathered after lunch for a secret puff.
One other shop in New Mills deserves a mention – that of Mr Beverley. He had a licence to sell items of the school uniform, especially the games and gym kit, including jerseys in the official house colours: white for Bulldogs, red for Stags, blue for Lions, and yellow for Tigers. I was a Tiger. New Mills County Secondary School must have been a great boon to Mr Beverley.
In writing of my days at New Mills I seem to have concentrated on acts of mischief, even vandalism, and on our general misbehaviour. Perhaps I have conveyed a wrong impression; New Mills was a great school, producing many distinguished scholars, including an lordly ambassador to Russia. I recall our misdeeds because they were isolated incidents in an otherwise happy and well-ordered regime. The day would come when I, too, would become a prefect, and eventually Head Boy. But that, like so many other things I have mentioned in passing, is another story for another time.