ACT V – Cheshire

September 1961 - August 1964

Teaching

 

 

 

t was understood that I would now live at home, at Thornton. For the last five years, I had used it merely as a base, for holidays and for homecomings. The house was certainly big enough for me to occupy my old room. Thornton was only just a handful of miles from my school, so there was no question of me going into digs.

 

ransport, though, was a problem. For example, there was only one bus a day to Chester, and there was no service on the main by-pass road that I would have to use to reach Ellesmere Port. No doubt, I had fleetingly considered some wreck of a car, and even a bicycle, but the solution that was finally put to me was to have a small moped. I have a feeling that my brother-in-law, Pete, put me up to that one.

            Consequently, I became the owner of a well-maintained Vespa Moped. The problem was, it necessitated a driving test to be able to remove the L-plates, and this I set about trying to obtain. Well, I was successful – at the first attempt – and for the next three years, I was a familiar sight in Thornton-le-Moors, and the surrounding area. In those days, the passing of the test, even on a moped, allowed one to drive any motorcycle of any cubic capacity, and that qualification is still on my driving licence.

            The moped, or scooter, was reliable for weeks at a time, but then it would play me up. Patiently, Pete taught me how to take it pieces, one part at a time, clean it and reassemble the whole thing. Many a weekend would be spent doing little else. I became quite an expert at recognising all the parts, and on one occasion, I even painted it in some fetching colour.

The only major event, despite several falls, was the day I arrived at school in very cold weather – to find that my ears were frozen solid. Taking advice, I covered my head with a scarf and walked around to the nearby clinic. When I saw the nurse my red ears were no longer frozen, so I stood like a schoolchild whilst she harangued me for not covering them up. I thanked her for her advice, and accepted the two large pads of cotton wool – supposedly to be used under my scarf in future.

 

y starting salary at Ellesmere Port Grammar School (EPGS), in September 1961 was £588-19-2d per annum, gross. After stoppages, I received something like £35 per month. Strike action was in the offing, because I was a member of the NAS, and to my father’s despair I went on strike for a whole day – just two weeks after starting work. I was in good company, as some half-a-dozen of us from the grammar school were on strike. We went to the large union gathering, which was a rabble-rousing session, at Belle Vue in Manchester, and repaired to a pub for lunch. That evening we saw a football match at one of the local grounds.

            At school, I was teaching woodwork and technical drawing. Very early on I started a marionette club – something in which I had always had an interest. There were some keen pupils, with their own puppets, and we managed to keep things ticking over, but with no cash injection, and with my own limited expertise, the thing was not a wild success. I had visions of performances, with a puppet stage, lights, and so on. It was beyond me at that point in my career.

            For similar reasons, we did not have much in the way of scenery, for the school’s first dramatical production of Pinero’s Dandy Dick. I did what I could, with a couple of large flats, but that was all they needed anyway, so we left everyone happy.

            I have found it one of the vagaries of school productions, that the head of English is not always the leading light. In this school, the head of history produced the plays, with the head of English being the stage manager. This latter office used to annoy me, as I was doing all the work as chief carpenter, obeying all requests for set design and improvisation, and clearing up afterwards – whilst he smiled and took all the glory as ‘our wonderful SM.’

            The head of history was an amusing, cynical bloke. He was absent from school one day. No one knew why, and he had given no indication. We feared the worst. Next day he was there, lighting his pipe as usual. When asked what had happened, he said that he’d taken his wife to hospital, in the early hours, and had to stay at home the next day to look after the kids. After expressions of sympathy, the one big question was finally put to him, and he replied “Oh! She went in to have a baby.”  That is they way it was, in the early sixties.

 

he staff at the school was of two categories; the young probationary teachers like me, and the mature heads of department. There were no ‘old’ teachers, by which I mean anyone over about fifty years. The headmaster had been determined to staff his school with energy and enthusiasm, and in this, he was successful. The school must have been unique with something like a dozen newly qualified teachers taking up appointments at the same time. In fact, the school itself was barely a year old, and the senior staff had been appointed first to establish things. Now we, the ‘Indians,’ had arrived. The school was very formal, and we all wore gowns in the corridors and classrooms, whilst for assembly the head would wear his gown and mortarboard.

            I soon became a member of the staff-room bridge club. Many a lunchtime would be spent in deep thought and serious bidding – and the mandatory post-mortem after each hand was, at least, a useful means of instruction and improvement. Often we would get together in one of the houses of those that lived nearby, and have an evening session. These would go on until the early hours. Naturally, I enjoyed them.

 

 was still keen to prove myself, and take an external degree, and in October ‘62 I filled in the application form for a statement of eligibility from the University of London. After some time they said ‘….Provided that your ‘A’ level art included the history of art, you will be eligible to proceed to the BA Degree when you have passed in Latin or Greek at ‘O’ level.’ This was my obstacle, I still needed that damned classical subject to proceed to my art degree. It was really the end of the road, I’m afraid, and being disheartened I gave up the idea. After all, I was a qualified teacher, in a good job, and the future looked very bright. Why spoil it by concentrating on something that was, perhaps, of no immediate value?

 

he staff of EPGS, being young, started a badminton club. I was a keen member and became quite proficient – this meant that I could give anyone a reasonable game, nothing more than that. The usual annual tournament added zest, and allowed the experts to shine.

            I also indulged in another kind of sport, about once a week - ten-pin bowling. Gwynne Robinson and I would play in Chester, and I was certainly equal to him. We enjoyed ourselves, and would finish the night with a quick pint, somewhere or other.

 

y head of department was one Graham Meredith, a keen and dedicated teacher. He arranged for all four members of the handicraft department to go on a residential course during the Easter holidays. This was to be just a four-day affair, but we were assured it would be beneficial in both the short and the long term. We did not dare argue with him.

            I was booked on the wood turning course, and I learned more from Mr Fred Pain in those four days than during my three years at college. Fred told me that he was frequently telephoned by Buckingham Palace, and asked to make another couple of long wooden tubes. These, made of rosewood, were used to present scrolls to ambassadors. I bought a copy of his book on wood turning, which he kindly signed for me. I was to refer to this book a lot during my teaching career. He taught me two particular skills; the first was never to be afraid of the rough-sawn timber rotating at a few thousand revolutions a minute - just attack it with the tool, and whittle it down until all the rough edges had gone. “It will then do want you want.”

            The second, but major skill, was how to turn a cabriole leg. I never put this to any great major use, like making a chair or table with cabriole legs, but it became my party piece over the years and I was able to impress many a teaching colleague as well as senior pupils with my knowledge. The first thing I did after this course, and the first thing I did at every school I taught in thereafter, was to make a fairly large cabriole leg and put it on prominent display. It was always a talking point, the three main questions always being “Did you make that?” then “Is it all one piece?” and, finally “How did you do it?”

 

uring a cup-of-tea session, on the course, I was aware of a male course member looking at me intently. As our eyes met, we exchanged a brief nod, but I could not remember where I had seen him before. He had a balding head, and was a mature, middle-aged man with a moustache. I must have seen him on one of my T.P’s I thought. He was obviously trying to remember where he had seen me.

            Then it struck me. He was the police sergeant in the town hall who telephoned the Principal, and ordered me to get some sleep - some five years previously! Naturally, I wanted to avoid him, just as I had the uneasy feeling that he would like to make contact. Just a day later, having afternoon tea, again, he came and sat down in a vacant armchair next to me.

“I’ve been trying to remember where I’ve seen you” he said, in front of my other colleagues.

Oh! shit, I thought, this is all I need.

“Have I seen you at Hoole Lane Methodist Chapel?”. Great! He hadn’t got me!

“Yes!” I replied, eagerly and truthfully, “I’ve been to that chapel from time to time.”

“Mmm,” he said, “But when were you last there?”

I confessed that it was sometime ago, and that I couldn’t remember.

            Well it had to be, I suppose. You can’t keep a good copper down. Fortunately the final denouement was friendly and with no witnesses. On the last day he cornered me and told me he remembered where he had seen me, and repeated the whole episode of my walking the city of Chester during the night, rather than tap on the window of another resident; he remembered every detail. I showed appropriate amazement at both his memory and the incident, which I claimed to have forgotten all about.

            He was smiling, and was obviously pleased with himself. He admitted that he had been trying to place me for the past three days. I was then quickly able to turn the conversation and ask him what he was doing at this course for teachers. He told me he had retired from the force and had qualified after one year as a teacher. We parted amicably, never to meet again.  

 

t was about this time in my life that I received a small package from the War Office – it was my GSM clasp ‘Malaya’. I had forgotten all about it. I eagerly looked at the rim, to make sure it was mine, and there it was, not only my number and name, but also my rank of sergeant and the RAEC letters denoting my corps. So, the old-timers back at Nee Soon had been wrong, saying that it would show the rank of private soldier, with no corps mentioned. I was quite delighted with it. However, they were right in saying that it would take years to catch up with me.

 

hen I had started at Ellesmere Port, the school was mixed, with pupils aged from eleven to eighteen years. Now, despite a great public outcry, the girls were to be moved into the newly completed premises next door. However, the proximity of the buildings meant that there could be close bonds between the schools, for example in some minority sixth form subjects, which necessitated combined classes. However, nowhere was the defiance of the schools demonstrated more proudly, than in the regular school dramatical productions.

            Thus it was that I was responsible for the set, in the first of the combined Ellesmere Port Grammar Schools co-productions, of Ibsen’s The Pillars of the Community. Gone for us were the traditional grammar school days, prevalent  throughout the country, whereby boys and girls cross-dressed. Now we had the real gender, as last year when the school was one, for what turned out to be quite expert amateur productions.

 

t some stage during this period of my life I received notification that my four years in the Army Emergency Reserve (the AER) had ended. This meant that I would not now be amongst the first lot to be called up in the event of a war. Nevertheless, of course, in the event of ‘full mobilisation’ I would ‘receive appropriate instructions.’ What miffed me, and to any attentive audience I would elaborate on this, was that after two years in the colours, with three stripes, a medal, a driving licence, a teaching certificate, a diploma, and experience of teaching in a grammar school – the army regarded me as being suitable only to be a stretcher bearer. What cheek.   

 

or our summer holidays in the early sixties, Valerie and I joined some of the staff from EPGS, and off went a minibus load of us to tour Scotland. A lot of planning had gone into this trip, and we all put money ‘up front’ to pay for the hire of the minibus, petrol costs, and so on. Over half of us had ‘passed’ the school minibus test. This required a journey into town, with the headmaster as the ‘examiner.’ Then he could safely and authoritatively say that we were competent to drive pupils.

           Therefore, we planned who would drive each leg, where we would stop for a break, for meals, and stay for the night. For the most part, I recall that the females would be dossing in the local Youth Hostel, and the chaps would be under canvas in the grounds. We had made all the bookings in advance, so we knew we would be persona grata when we arrived at our various destinations.

            The two-week tour was a bit of a long haul, in a minibus, but we all enjoyed the Isle of Skye, Ullapool, and Tongue. The rain seemed to be incessant, but we had not exactly expected to sunbathe. We had many walks, and quite a few boat journeys to nearby islands. That was my first and only trip north of the border.

 

ou won’t believe this, but from France Madame Pollard still clung to us like a leech. That woman would just not give up. Her sons were off her hands, presumably having learned from us all the English they were ever going to. She had, by now, also realised that none of us were ever going to France, and were never going to learn French. So her next move was to foist on us  some distant female relative ‘who wanted to improve her English.’  We didn’t believe a word of this, of course - it reeked of Madame P pushing  yet another unfortunate student to the brink.

 

ell, this female duly arrived, and it had already been said that she was not here for a holiday and we need not take her on any trips. She was here to do her studying, and to speak English. I forget her name, but I can recall that she spoke our language well and, to the consternation of everyone, insisted on staying in her bedroom ‘studying’ every minute of the day. She was pale in complexion, and just did not like fresh air. She would come down, when summoned, for drinks and meals - and then go straight back to her room. God knows what she must have made of us lot.  I myself was not greatly involved with her at all, as amongst other things I was busy enough, travelling between Thornton and Accrington. Nevertheless, I often think that perhaps I could have done my bit by taking her up to Accrington, doing the social rounds, introducing her to friends, and generally having a good time. Well, I didn’t, and I content myself with thinking that she wanted to be left alone.

 

uring all my formative years at Thornton, I was forever indebted to Pill and Pete, and to Bal and Angy who, for most of my time lived there. They were a daily source of refuge from the insanities that seemed to deluge the household from time to time. I can also include Dots and Ken who were now living in Chester. The ready cups of tea, milky coffee, sandwiches and biscuits, not to mention full meals were all gratefully consumed and will never be forgotten. My visits to them were very much a lifeline at times.

 

ne of our young colleagues at school was a mad, keen, Gilbert & Sullivan enthusiast. So in March ’63 he decided to produce a combined-schools version of The Mikado. He knew of my interest, and asked me point blank to take the part of Koko.  Sensibly, I declined, saying, “Yes! I would love the part, and I am familiar with the script, the sequences, the routine and the slapstick - but I can’t sing!”

            I would really have loved to do it, particularly as it is, after all, only a baritone part, but I did not feel I could do the singing. As it happened, the chap who took the part was newly arrived in the school, and it is debatable whether his singing voice was any better than mine. Certainly, his acting was wooden, and I could have knocked spots off him.

As it was I took responsibility for the set, and was a member of the chorus. It was a great atmosphere, with many pupils singing happily away with members of staff. As always happens in such productions, the leading male parts are taken by teachers, whilst the leading female parts are taken by the girls.

 

t was at some stage during my second year at the grammar school that I started to send for information on army childrens’ schools overseas. The glossy, black-and-white brochures looked very tempting, with palm trees, beaches, and everyone wearing shorts and open necked shirts. I did not over react, but the lure was there. It meant that I was forever thinking about it. I also now met their criteria of a minimum of two years teaching experience.

            In addition, I must confess, I looked closely at the two schools in this country, for army children. One was the Duke of York’s School, in Dover, and the other was the Queen Victoria School, in Dunblane, Scotland.  I thought that, as an ex-member of the corps, I would stand a chance of being accepted, particularly as they made a point of saying that the headmasters of these schools are serving Lieutenant Colonels in the RAEC.

            Together with these thoughts, was the fact that Valerie and I were planning to get married – with the date already fixed in our minds as August 1964. Therefore, I suppose I was thinking of where we would live.

 

hornton was out. Out with a big ‘O.’ I had seen the little local problems faced by Pill and Pete, and by Bal and Angy, living in close proximity to parents, with a father who could be rather difficult at times. Above all, there was little privacy. I knew that I would have to be on my own – away from home. Similarly, I would not have contemplated a move to Accrington – except to be in our own accommodation.

            Now, I was very happy at Ellesmere Port, and did not light-heartedly think about leaving the school. I instinctively knew that I would never again be so lucky as to be appointed to a grammar school. I had already met so many colleagues, in secondary modern schools, who were envious of my position, although it was lowly and at the bottom of the ladder.

            There was also something else. It can happen in any occupation, but I think it is magnified in a school. It takes a long time to become accepted, and an even longer time to be on nodding terms with your colleagues. After a year, or so, in a school, it is quite a nice feeling to realise that some six or seven hundred persons, young and old, know you; and even better, that you know their names. It takes a lot to give this up – particularly when there is no reason to, like moving to a promoted post.

 

evertheless, having floated the idea for quite a long time, with Valerie in tentative agreement, I decided to proceed. I felt that applying would lose nothing; success would mean a free trip to the Far East, failure would mean staying where I was already very happy. I must mention, of course, that of all the exotic locations throughout the Mediterranean, the Gulf, and the Far East – only Singapore was in my mind. True, one could list second and third preferences on the form of application, but I was adamant in my first choice.

            So it was that, at the end of my second year of teaching, I went to see my headmaster to ask him to be a referee. He was initially aghast.

“David, you are not going to leave me, are you?”

When I told him of my plans, he was immediately interested, and wanted to know more. He was then full of it, and told me that I must apply, as it would be a wonderful experience, although he did not want to lose me.

            So my application, which had to be written out in long hand, in triplicate, - there were no photocopiers then - was sent off to the Director of Army Education. The following September I was called for an interview, which was held in a functional, but character-less room in an M.O.D. building along Northumberland Avenue, just off Trafalgar Square.

            I soon felt that I was in with a chance. They tried to get me to go to Germany that January. "We need you to take technical drawing. There is a vacancy waiting to be filled, at Windsor Boys’ School, Hamm," said one of the board. I faltered, and said that I was getting married the following summer.

“That’s alright. Nothing to stop you. You can come home in your summer holidays – and you will have a married quarter waiting for your new wife to set up home in.”

            Had I wanted to get out of the country at any price, then this offer was too good to turn down. However, I was happy in my present post. Moreover, I wanted to go to the Far East. Germany had never been in my calculations, and of all the places on offer, like Aden, Malta, Cyprus and so on, it would have been last.

            I stuck to my position, and declined the offer. I wanted to complete my third year of teaching, then get married, then hopefully start-off a new life. They respected my wishes. 

 

ith the benefit of hindsight I can confidently say that had we gone to Germany, in 1964, then we would never have made it to the Far East. Although we did meet one single teacher who had managed it, the rest were just too comfortable in their married quarters, or messes, to want to bother applying to move away.

 

 was travelling to Accrington, on a Friday evening in late November 1963. As was part of my routine, I changed from the train to the buses at Manchester. It was only when the bus, which took about an hour, was travelling along with no complications, that I realised we were making very good time – and that I was going to arrive early. It also occurred to me that there were very few passengers on the bus, which at that time would normally have been quite busy. I shrugged it off.

            I reached Accrington, and alighted from the bus. It was only then that I fully realised that everywhere was quieter than normal. There were so few people about. After the fifteen-minute walk, along unusually eerie streets, I entered the Watmough household, to be greeted by Ma herself.

We spoke together. “Where is everyone?” I asked.

“Have you heard the news?” she asked.

“No!” I said, “What news?”

“Kennedy,” she replied, “Assassinated.”

            Phew! I was stunned – as was the rest of the world. That weekend we sat glued to our television sets, convinced that it was a Russian plot before the next world war. It was, after all, only a year previously that Kennedy had taken Kruschev to the brink, over Cuba. This was the Russian revenge, no doubt about it.

 

t the end of the autumn term 1963, I again did the set for the school play. This time it was The Clandestine Marriage. I can only assume that these plays were all set pieces at the time, for English literature. They were skilful productions, with excellent costumes and lights. Things like wigs were hired, along with some of the more classical furniture.

            At long last I was being recognised as a useful back stage sort of person, and the stage manager was now beginning to realise he needed me more than I needed him.

 

t was in February 1964 that the panic started. Would I be leaving at the end of the school year, in July, or not? My head of department had an excellent chap lined up to concentrate on metalwork and technology, and they wanted to know whether to appoint him or not. With me at the school, they couldn’t take him on. For my part, no way could I resign until I had a firm offer from the army.

            Eventually the headmaster came up with an excellent compromise. We would hire this new chap, to take effect the following September, and my timetable would be altered somewhat by attaching me to the art department. This latter move would solve the anticipated vacancy in art, where a full time teacher was not required, and would bring me into the frame in an area where I had already shown myself both interested and competent. The head of art was certainly quite happy with the proposed arrangement, and so was I, and so was the head of handicraft … and so was everybody else. The panic was over.

            Then the army replied. The large, brown, HMSO envelope was awaiting my return from Accrington, late on a Sunday evening. I immediately contacted Valerie.

“We are off to Singapore,” I said, “The appointment starts on September 1^st.”

There was silence.  “What’s the matter,” I asked.

“I’ve gone all weak at the knees,” she replied.  

            Ironically, to the staff at the grammar school, the announcement of my appointment started their problems all over again. They needed half a teacher to do art and the other half to do handicraft.

 

he last production in which I was involved at EPGS was a joint grammar schools production of Gilbert & Sullivan’s Ruddigore.  I was doing the scenery, and did not commit myself to the chorus. This was just as well, because I caught German measles, which was all the rage at that time. I was off school for a week, and was still rather poorly after two weeks. This coincided with the production, which I managed to see, even though I was still groggy.

 

y final salary in Cheshire was around £750 per annum, details of which were given to the MOD. My tax-free Foreign Service Allowance would be £1500, which was twice as much again. Some people said that the reason they went overseas was because of all the cash. I always assumed the extra cash was just a cost-of-living allowance, as in fact it was, and could not be regarded as extra spending money. However, there is no doubt that everyone overseas found it generous and very useful.

 

ur marriage took place at St Peter’s Church, Accrington, on 3^rd August 1964. We went from there to Manchester airport, and flew to Dublin to start our honeymoon in Eire. We had booked a car, and did a two-week tour of the Emerald Isle. The hard work was not knowing where the accommodation would be each night – I seem to recall that we had booked into a couple of key places but had left the rest to chance.

I took a lovely colour slide of a rainbow, and after the honeymoon, I sent it to the ‘Amateur Photographer’ which was, and is, one of the country’s leading magazines on this subject. I received a letter from the editor saying “I like your picture very much, and I would like to publish it."  You can guess that I was over the moon at such recognition. In due course, I received my cheque for £5-5-0d, which was five guineas.

 

o August ’64 saw us mooching around for the last couple of weeks, waiting for our flight details to come through. This waiting, having left our jobs, having got married, having sent our chattels onwards, having said our farewells, was the ultimate in anti-climaxes.

 

 just could not wait to get away.