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.