Issue No. 10: THE QUEEN, WYATT EARP AND THE GUNFIGHT IN THE JUNGLE

The visit of the Queen and Prince Philip to South Shields in the early 1960s, to open something or other*, caused a mild ripple of interest in the populace, not least on our estate, as they were to drive down King George Road, en route from Sunderland.

Britain wasn't as security conscious then, and so the timing of the Queen's visit and the drive past were well known in advance. About half an hour beforehand, small groups of adults and children began crossing the dual carriageway of King George Road, dutifully clutching little cloth and paper Union Jacks on wooden sticks.

King George Road swept down the hill from Cleadon Village and bordered the whole western length of our housing estate. It was a broad, concrete thoroughfare, with its south and north-bound carriageways separated by a wide 'central reservation' consisting of a dense expanse of trees and shrubbery.

It was the intention of our small group of boys to also cross the road in order to wave to the Queen. However, for some inexplicable reason, we only made half the crossing and then found ourselves up to our knees in a swamp and enveloped in the mosquito-infested, leech-sucking and beetle-scuttling world of the Burmese jungle, surrounded by murderous Japanese soldiers.

Our jungle was narrow yet very long, perhaps as much as 400 yards. The two-lane carriageways either side transformed into a treacherous fast-flowing river on one side and a deadly minefield on the other. To run from the jungle meant to risk death, in both the real and imaginary worlds.

Six boys entered the jungle and instantly became three 'Chindit' commandoes and three Japanese snipers. There was no distinction between the hunters and the hunted, we were both.

You would think that, with three on each side, the conflict wouldn't last long before victory for one group or the other. However, in that dank and malevolent place, dark and Satanic forces were at work. Quite often, the dead would be resurrected and re-appear as combatants. This would cause obvious consternation:

'Hey, you're dead. I killed you back there.'

'Yeah, but now I'm another one, and you're dead now.'

In this way, the rapid cycle of death and re-birth would ensure that each 'army' was replenished and the game could go on endlessly.

The real world would, momentarily, flash into view, as we ran full tilt from one part of the shrubbery, yelling gutteral death threats in English and mock Japanese, across a grassed area where the flag-waving crowds were visible (across the river on the opposite bank) and crashed back into the jungle on the other side of the 'clearing', oblivious to the stunned, staring faces of the witnessing Royalists.

Our noisy war startled the starlings and frightened the fruit bats from their perches and they flew raucously over the jungle canopy. We had to watch out for the fruit bats particularly because they were vampire fruit bats, not averse to sucking human blood before moving on to dessert.

Weaponry

Both sides had an array of impressive weapons, including pop guns (which fired cork bullets, lethal at a range of up to three feet), plastic swords and knives, a long-barelled Wyatt Earp Buntline Special cap gun (my prize possession, a present from my brother, Tom), plastic, noisy sub-machine guns, catapults and pea shooters (for despatching deadly, rapid-onset-of-death poison darts). We also carried life-saving Tizer in plastic water cans. However, the Chindits' deadliest enemy was Alfie Agnew, who leaped out of the thickest and thorniest bushes and smothered his victims in his woolly jumper, a martial arts technique little known outside of the Shetland Islands. Alfie was a psychotic killer, feared even by his own side.

We played for hours and, when we emerged from the jungle, sweating, muddy, cut and bruised, both the crowds and the Queen had long departed. We shrugged our shoulders resignedly and all tramped home. Well, I say 'all'. Actually, only five of us emerged. Alfie was nowhere to be seen. I never saw him again - his family did a 'moonlight flit' a few days later because (it was said) they owed the rent. But maybe, just maybe, Alfie is still there, in the jungle, living off berries and beetles, and hoping to smother one last Englishman for the honour of the Emperor.

BANZAI!

* Footnote

I suppose it's part of the myth-making and choreography of monarchy that the members of the Royal Family are always linked with the new, the innovative and the hope that these bring. Hence they are always invited and appear to open something new. It is a form of continual renewal of the sovereign institution by association. Perhaps it's too much to hope that they could reflect the 'down' side of life too, and turn up to close things, like factories, schools and old persons' homes.  

Issue No. 9: RUN FOR YOUR LIFE

One of my earliest memories is being chased by girls or, to be precise, by one girl in particular. It was an unnerving experience.

As part of the gym lesson in the Infants School, we had a rather bizarre and sexist routine. All of the boys had to remove their jumpers (pullovers) and shirts. All of the girls had to go the extra mile and strip down to their vests and baggy, heavy-duty, navy-coloured knickers (or did they wear these especially for gym?). We then had to play a strange mixture of Cowboys and Indians and patients and nurses.

The boys (or Cowboys) had to run round and round the school hall, where we held our gym lessons, to the accompaniment of loud (and untuneful) piano music. The girls (or Red Indians) had to chase them. When the music stopped, the boys (as patients) had to lie down, feigning injury, and the girls (as nurses) had to administer to them. This last bit never really developed properly and the skills of the nurses were never tested, as the music quickly started up again, causing all the boys a Lazarus-like revival.

Beryl O'Donnell, for some unknown reason, took a shine to me and insisted on being my combined Indian enemy and devoted nurse. My problem wasn't with Beryl's looks, it was her smell! I was, perhaps, the only boy in the class who didn't know her nickname - 'Smelly Belly'. One close encounter was enough for me but not, unfortunately, for Beryl. I cruelly tried to pre-arrange never to partner Beryl again and steeled myself against her sad and crestfallen looks. However, no other boys particularly wanted Smelly Belly hanging over them either, tending to their imaginary wounds, and so it was that, eventually, she and I would once again be thrown together - or not!

My fear of being subjected to Beryl's body odour so gripped me that, one day, I kept on running when the music stopped. As the cowboys dutifully dropped to the floor and their nurses knelt beside them, I continued to gallop ever faster around the hall, sometimes vaulting over the prone couples, but always pursued by the dogged Beryl, determined to get her man. The teacher shouted at me, the cowboys and nurses all laughed and cheered and Beryl grew ever more fretful. I wouldn't let the varmint catch me and would have eventually disappeared over the horizon in a cloud of dust, had not the school bell rung to signal the end of the lesson.

In Harness

Our school was predominantly made up of working class kids, but there was, nevertheless, a substantial number of middle class boys and girls from private (as opposed to Council) houses on the edge of our estate, at The Ridgeway, from the adjoining 'Sunniside' estate and from the two streets of private houses oddly situated in the middle of the estate - Hawthorne Avenue and Elm Grove. Inevitably, most of these kids occupied the top places in the top classes throughout the school. The exotically named Erica Robb was the top girl, until she and her parents moved away. She was replaced by Jane Hamill ('Hamill the Camel') who co-ruled for a few years with Derek 'Fatty' Lawrence, before she too moved away and was replaced by the greengrocer's daughter, Catherine Colley.

I remember that Catherine was especially chummy with two working class girls from my street, the Oates twins, Nellie and Jennifer. Every dinner (i.e. lunch) time, the twins would interlink their arms behind their backs and Catherine would use their skipping ropes to hitch them as her team of horses. The twins would snort, prance and neigh until Catherine shouted 'Gee up', shook the ropes, and off the twins would trot in perfect, straight-backed, high-kneed action, with Catherine running behind as their driver. After dinner, and suitably watered and fed (and no doubt brushed down too), they would return in similar fashion, neighing and pawing the air until Catherine un-hitched them and they could return to human form. The routine was also repeated at the end of every school day. This game, although new to me, had a long history.

 I was never sure of the reason for the twins' devotion to Catherine (free carrots from her Dad's shop?) but, inevitably, after a couple of years, the trotting came to an end; Catherine put aside the skipping ropes and began to be groomed for the reins of power, and the twins were destined for pastures new.

Issue No. 8: THAT SINKING FEELING

Throughout my time at Junior School, handicrafts were encouraged.

A lesson I particularly hated was the making of model ships, mostly ocean liners or cargo steamers. Essentially this was a practical exercise in measurement and in following precise instructions, and it took many long and laborious weeks to complete.The materials were cardboard of various thicknesses, gummed brown paper, a few wooden dowels and thread for the masts and rigging, and oil paints.

We worked in pairs, first making one partner's ship and then the other's. I was okay(ish) with the measurements but useless at folding the cardboard and joining the various parts together with the 'gummy' paper, which you had to lick, manoeuvre into place and then stick down. I was not naturally dexterous and, more often than not, the gummy paper would stick to my arm or on my jumper rather than the cardboard.

I suppose, as we lived in a town bordered by the sea and the river, with a busy port and ship repair yards, making model ships could be considered a 'good thing' to do. I learnt a lot. For example, a capstan wasn't the chain-smoking first mate of a ship; a derrick wasn't just the name of the fat boy who always came top of our class and that, as a first principle of naval architecture, the toilets on all ships are situated on the poop deck.

The ultimate goal of our endeavours was to produce such a stunning model that it was exhibited in the town's annual summer flower show. I knew mine would never make it that far, but I was particularly keen to take it home to show the family that I could produce something with my hands. Eventually, mine was finished. It was a tramp steamer which, to be honest, looked like it was on its final voyage to the breaker's yard. I asked my co-worker, Alister, if the red and black paint was waterproof. He was a very tall, thin, bespectacled and studious middle class boy. He thought for a long moment and then emphatically said 'Yes'. That was good enough for me. Alister had the alluring assurance of an intellectual. He was the sort of British 'boffin' that had cracked the German Enigma code and invented the bouncing bomb. I could fully imagine him, even at ten years old, going home from school, putting on his slippers, sitting in his favourite leather armchair, lighting his pipe and setting about solving 'The Times' crossword before tea.

I had a plan in mind. I carried the ship gingerly back home. I filled the bath and carefully lowered it in. The ship was huge but just cleared the top and bottom of the bath. It looked fantastic. I wanted Mam to see it the way it should naturally look, rather than sitting on top of a table.  I went away for a few minutes to make myself a celebratory jam sandwich. I returned to find that the ship had sunk, leaving soggy cardboard debris floating on the surface, just like on the war films after the U Boat attack. Inevitably, Mam appeared at that very moment, looked into the bathroom, sighed  and said 'Clear up that damned mess!'

A Moment of Triumph

Despite the pressure to succeed in the last two years of the Junior School, I did find that there were occasions when I loved being there. I was not the top boy by any means and sat, in the strict order determined by annual academic results, in the second row of six rows of desks. The top boy was Derek 'Fatty' Lawrence.

The two things I liked the most, and which have stayed with me over the years, were listening to music (on the BBC Schools' Broadcast on the radio) and writing essays. We were not taught to play musical instruments, as far as I can remember (if you discount the triangle and tambourine), but we were allowed to listen to various pieces of classical music on the school's radio set, put atop Mr Crusher's desk, and followed the lessons using the accompanying BBC pamphlets. Sometimes we sang along to various pieces, such as Schubert's 'Trout Quintet' (Did you know it had words?). I suppose this was a very early form of media interaction and, in my case, it worked, in as much as I liked what I heard. Unfortunately, at home, we didn't own a gramophone or a record player and therefore there was no chance of going out and actually buying the records and playing them at leisure.

Eric Shipton

I also enjoyed writing stories and essays. I thought my 'breakthrough moment' had occurred when we had to write an essay for overnight homework on Eric Shipton, the famous montaineer, after we had heard a programme about him on the schools' radio broadcast. I toiled away for hours at that essay but couldn't get it right. Then, after I had gone to bed, all the pieces fell into place. I got up immediately and re-wrote the essay, finishing around midnight.

A couple of days later, the results of the marking of the essays were to be announced in class. I was quivering with excitement because I simply knew that I had produced a very good essay. Mr Crusher handed back the homework books, announcing the marks as he progressed. Fatty Lawrence's was the penultimate book he handed back. He had got 45 out of 50 for the essay. No boy ever bettered his marks. Mine was the only book Mr Crusher retained. He then sat down and said:

"Now class, there is one pupil whose essay I haven't handed back. This is because this essay is so outstanding that it merits a special word."

He paused. I held my breath in delighted anticipation. He continued:

"Robert Fenwick has achieved 49 out of 50 marks for his essay, and would have got full marks but for a grammatical mistake. [Rats!] Nevertheless, it is one of the best essays I have ever read from a pupil and it is exceptionally mature."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing and felt myself turning a deep crimson as all the eyes of my classmates were upon me. Mr Crusher concluded:

Well done, Robert" and he added "....although I'm sure you had some considerable help from your mother or father."

That was it. My moment of triumph had been snatched away from me. I was completely deflated. I shook my head in denial of his last remarks but could not speak, such was the injustice. My classmates all smirked at me, some even put their tongues out. Fatty Lawrence smiled imperiously.

I suppose Mr Crusher and his fellow teachers were of their time. They had to achieve results and they employed the methods allowed, including corporal punishment. They didn't need to empathise or connect with the kids, just get them through the system. However, it's fair to say that Mr Crusher did have one abiding passion he wished to share with us - his new car. In 1962, he bought a new maroon and white Ford Classic. He was a very proud owner, and he was particularly chuffed that it was the first car he had owned with what he termed 'synchromesh gears'. He wittered on for ages about these, and explained in detail that now he didn't need to 'double de-clutch'. Only a handful of kids had parents who owned a car. None of what he said made the slightest sense to us. However, instinctively, we all smiled and nodded at him, encouraging him into even greater technical details. If he was talking to us we wouldn't be punished.

Issue No. 7: WHACKO!

All of my teachers in the Infants and Junior schools were women, except for the last two years at the Junior school. Here, in the five classes which comprised the Third Year and in the five classes which made up the Fourth Year, the male teachers took charge. My recollection is that these men were a pretty brutal bunch and corporal punishment was rife. Nobody was spared the rod and the fact that you may have been clever and/or a girl did not particularly count.

The classes were all 40 plus kids, and graded A to E on a descending academic rating. You had the same teacher for the last two years. I was in the A class and my teacher was Mr Crusher. Mr Crusher's sole priority was to get as many of his charges as possible through the 11 plus exams, and we were mercilessly drilled for two years to achieve that objective. His standards were high but his punishments were severe for perceived failure. So, poor results in spelling tests or arithmetic, etc. resulted in the cane.

Mr Crusher had two canes, a thick one and a thin one. Both hurt like hell but the thin one was the worst. Mr Crusher was a big, broad-shouldered man in his early forties and he used to put his full force behind his caning. His speciality, with the thin cane particularly, was to bring it down right on the end of your fingertips. If you had two or three whacks at a time, it used to skin your fingers. He measured his strokes very precisely to ensure maximum effect. If you were stupid enough to move your hand away so that he missed, the punishment was doubled.

For every child caned there was a different 'danse macarbre'. In anticipation of being whacked, some kids shouted 'Outcha!' before the blow had actually landed. Maybe they hoped to put Mr Crusher off his aim; they never did. Others hopped from one foot to another between strokes, like a Red Indian dance. Others waved their stricken hands behind their backs in a vain attempt to cool the pain. Only the bravest did not cry during the ordeal or afterwards at their desks.

There was one very small girl in our class called Mary Meek, who was one of the worst spellers. These days Mary's problems would probably be recognised as mild dyslexia and there would be specialist help available. Then, in the late 1950s and early 1960s, punishment was the only recourse. Every Friday afternoon we would be handed back our marked spelling tests from the day before. Every Friday Mary and others would be whacked for poor results. One particular Friday, in the Fourth Year, Mary finally snapped when Mr Crusher called out her name to come forward to the front of the class. She refused to leave her desk. Mr Crusher had a very short temper and shouted at her to come forward. She did not budge. He leapt out of his seat and marched up her row, grabbed her and dragged her, sobbing and clinging on to all of the desks on the way, to the front of the class. He pulled out his thin cane, yanked her arm forward, made her extend her palm and thrashed her three times as hard as he could. Broken in spirit, she staggered back to her desk, choking on her sobs all of the way, and then buried her head in her hands. We were all stunned and petrified at the brutality and ferocity of it all. Mr Crusher then visibly composed himself, clenching and unclenching his big fist, straightening his tie and brushing his hair back with his hand. Then, in as calm a voice as he could muster, he said:

'Mary Meek, you are a stupid and hysterical girl. All I was going to do was to praise you for getting eight out of ten for your spelling test today.'