I remember standing with my Mam in a crowded playground at Cleadon Park Infants School, she holding my hand. Then she let go, kissed me, said not to worry and she would see me at dinner (i.e. lunch) time, waved and was gone. I wanted to cry; tears were welling up in my eyes and my chest heaved as I deliberately suppressed the sobs. I wanted to go with her, to go back home to - what? At that thunderclap moment I could not recall the previous five years of life for which I uncomprehendingly yearned; nor have I at any time since. That day was the real beginning of my conscious existence.
Life then, I suppose, was rather idyllic (compared to what had gone before) for a child growing up in Britain, even in the North East of England. The country had emerged from World War Two and the years of austerity. Nobody we knew was rich and those who were poor appeared to be considerably less so than before the war, and had some support from the Welfare State. Unemployment was low and, where we lived, local industry, where coal mining, ship building and heavy engineering dominated, seemed to be doing okay. In reality, though, we were at the beginning of the last gasp of these industries and, within thirty years, they would nearly all be gone. Education, following the 1944 Education Act, provided some chances for working class kids, particularly boys, with the possibility of getting onto an apprenticeship at age fifteen straight from the secondary school or, if you were very lucky, passing the 10,11 or 12 plus exams and entering one of the town's two Grammar Schools, one for boys and the other for girls. Girls who didn't make it to the Grammar School had far fewer opportunities in life, beyond working in shops or factories.
There were, of course, also the local Catholic kids, with their parallel education system. There was no obvious religious sectarianism in our neighbourhood or town that I can recall, but the fact remains that the Catholic kids and us were different. I suppose the main difference was that they were 'Catholics' but we were not 'Protestants'. In other words they were church-going (or at least under the sway of the local priests) and we were not. We had morning service in our schools but, other than that, it was a secular and not a church school. We found their knowledge of the Bible both impressive and weird, and their copious domestic iconography, with statues and pictures of Mary and Jesus on walls, windowsills and shelves, quite spooky and unnerving. They undoubtedly regarded us as little heathens, an impression I frequently compounded by revealing my poor knowledge of the Bible and, damningly, mixing up key characters, such as calling Mary Magdalene the mother of Jesus, drawing forth huge disapproving tuts from my friends' parents. Many years later, when I was a teenager, this scant Biblical knowledge came back to haunt me during a school-wide general knowledge quiz. The question was "Who is the Man with the Donkey?" The answer was John Simpson Kirkpatrick, a local hero who saved the lives of many wounded ANZAC soldiers at Gallipoli during the First World War by picking them up and taking them back to safety on his donkey, called Duffy. Sadly, he was killed whilst doing this. I knew nothing of this at the time (showing my wider ignorance of life) but, in an inspired religious moment, I answered the question with "Joseph". The Headmaster read out the top ten 'howlers' from the test and mine was Number 1. So much for the Bible. In the 1980s, a statue was erected, of James and Duffy, outside the town's museum. This was a very belated tribute to a genuine hero. Also, twenty years too late to prevent my ignominy.
Of course, not all the Catholic kids were Biblical scholars. Like us, there were better and worse off families. The better off ones, like the Worthingtons or the Sherreys, had 'nicer' houses, carpets in the living room and on the stairs and comfortable chairs and furniture. The boys wore clean shirts, ties and v-neck pullovers. On the other hand, it was impossible to detect, if you did not know them personally, the mass of the scruffy Catholic kids from the scruffy non-Catholics. We played and fought together once school had finished and at weekends.
One odd difference was that most of the Catholic boys joined the Boys' Brigade or the 'Lifeboys', as they were known, even though it was ostensibly an inter-denominational organisation whilst, if we joined anything, it was the Cubs and Boy Scouts. The Boys' Brigade were far more regimented and militaristic and, every so often, on a Sunday afternoon, they would march around our housing estate behind their own band, at the head of which was a group of lads on snare drums and a booming base drummer. One of the main tunes the band would play was "We're in the Army Now". The 'troops' did not sing along to this but, as they marched past, we would delight in shouting out our own lyrics from the sidelines:
"They're in the Boys' Brigade
They fight for lemonade.
They missed their drums
They hit their bums
They're in the Boys' Brigade."
The local 'BB' lads kept military discipline during this mockery and manfully gritted their teeth. However, afterwards, they invariably sought us out and battle would ensue.
There were, of course, also the local Catholic kids, with their parallel education system. There was no obvious religious sectarianism in our neighbourhood or town that I can recall, but the fact remains that the Catholic kids and us were different. I suppose the main difference was that they were 'Catholics' but we were not 'Protestants'. In other words they were church-going (or at least under the sway of the local priests) and we were not. We had morning service in our schools but, other than that, it was a secular and not a church school. We found their knowledge of the Bible both impressive and weird, and their copious domestic iconography, with statues and pictures of Mary and Jesus on walls, windowsills and shelves, quite spooky and unnerving. They undoubtedly regarded us as little heathens, an impression I frequently compounded by revealing my poor knowledge of the Bible and, damningly, mixing up key characters, such as calling Mary Magdalene the mother of Jesus, drawing forth huge disapproving tuts from my friends' parents. Many years later, when I was a teenager, this scant Biblical knowledge came back to haunt me during a school-wide general knowledge quiz. The question was "Who is the Man with the Donkey?" The answer was John Simpson Kirkpatrick, a local hero who saved the lives of many wounded ANZAC soldiers at Gallipoli during the First World War by picking them up and taking them back to safety on his donkey, called Duffy. Sadly, he was killed whilst doing this. I knew nothing of this at the time (showing my wider ignorance of life) but, in an inspired religious moment, I answered the question with "Joseph". The Headmaster read out the top ten 'howlers' from the test and mine was Number 1. So much for the Bible. In the 1980s, a statue was erected, of James and Duffy, outside the town's museum. This was a very belated tribute to a genuine hero. Also, twenty years too late to prevent my ignominy.
Of course, not all the Catholic kids were Biblical scholars. Like us, there were better and worse off families. The better off ones, like the Worthingtons or the Sherreys, had 'nicer' houses, carpets in the living room and on the stairs and comfortable chairs and furniture. The boys wore clean shirts, ties and v-neck pullovers. On the other hand, it was impossible to detect, if you did not know them personally, the mass of the scruffy Catholic kids from the scruffy non-Catholics. We played and fought together once school had finished and at weekends.
One odd difference was that most of the Catholic boys joined the Boys' Brigade or the 'Lifeboys', as they were known, even though it was ostensibly an inter-denominational organisation whilst, if we joined anything, it was the Cubs and Boy Scouts. The Boys' Brigade were far more regimented and militaristic and, every so often, on a Sunday afternoon, they would march around our housing estate behind their own band, at the head of which was a group of lads on snare drums and a booming base drummer. One of the main tunes the band would play was "We're in the Army Now". The 'troops' did not sing along to this but, as they marched past, we would delight in shouting out our own lyrics from the sidelines:"They're in the Boys' Brigade
They fight for lemonade.
They missed their drums
They hit their bums
They're in the Boys' Brigade."
The local 'BB' lads kept military discipline during this mockery and manfully gritted their teeth. However, afterwards, they invariably sought us out and battle would ensue.
My local Boys Brigade were run out of the Presbyterian Church in Talbot Road, so it wasn't just a Catholic thing.
ReplyDelete