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                       Michael G Kimber

The Nightwriter

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Schooldays they say, are they happiest days of ones life. In truth I can’t say I remember it quite like that but there is no doubt that it is an important time of learning, both in and out of school. It seems such a long time ago, but in hind sight I have little doubt that my schooling was a missed opportunity. Whether the blame for that lies with me or the system I cannot say, but though it was informative to a point, it was also, to a large extent, wasted.  
       Memories of this time are inevitably sketchy, though some images remain. Others however are faint and barely retrievable, not least of which are the names of some familiar faces which I occasionally see in my minds eye; distant, yet smilingly tempting recognition.
       But some did stay with me. Mr and Mrs Wadsworth for instance; Mr Mercer, Mr Ball; Harold the park keeper, and his boss Mr Laundy with his wife and daughter. The Abbotts, The Coats, and the Fullars. Mrs Midgely, Mrs Harrison, to name a few.
       My first school was St Matthews, when I was about four or five. It was a small  C of E church school situated very ‘conveniently’ at the back of my house. But that was to prove to be my downfall. You see, I was the pupil who lived nearest to the school, and yet I was the one who was most often late. In fact the distance between my back door, and the side door to the school was a mere ten yards, and a handy lamp post standing next to the wall that divided us, provided a perfect shortcut. Even at that young age it offered an excellent means of quickly scaling that wall. But it was of little use to me; I was simply too near, and if I was late I stayed late.  Hurrying didn’t help as there was no where, and no way, to win back those extra minutes.  The Wadsworth’s must have been both patient and understanding, for she, the teacher, and he, the headmaster, never carried out those dire threats, which would have had me skinned alive, or boiled in oil.  I don’t even remember a smacked bottom.
        After that, at about aged eight, I went to the local Catholic School; The Holy Rosary.  It was ‘local’ because it was the nearest Catholic school to me, but it was a half hour tram journey away.  Like the church school now behind me, its pupils were mixed, but unlike St Matthews the teaching staff were not.  They were all female, and all nuns.
       I could not rationalise it then, but now, while reminiscing, I recall a certain and constant tension. Religion, and Catholicism to boot, was never far away, either in the overt manner of the nuns, or the over pious behaviour of some of the pupils. These were the ones who were bent on gaining some advantage in the eyes of the Sisters, over those in the class who were, shall we say ‘less committed’.  I cannot say for certain, but I have a strong feeling that in the main, girls fell into the first category, and boys in the second.  
       It was not an especially happy time for me, and did little to advance my sum of knowledge (pun not intended) in any important areas outside of the Catechism, The Catechism, for those who don’t know, is a little book of rules, where all the salient points from the bible are condensed. A list of things one may or may not not (mostly may not) do, and from which any self respecting young Catholic boy or girl must not deviate; (especially together).
      At age eleven I was transferred to the ‘main’ school, the county primary. Perhaps the timing of that move was not perfect, for I left a mixed environment for an all boys establishment, just about at the time when I was beginning to notice the difference, and some education in that area would have been useful. However, with hindsight, I guess the school authorities were playing their part as they knew best. In those days, keeping the genders apart was perhaps their idea of sex education.
      I soon settled in, and, since I can recall no major traumas, I guess I was fairly happy. I do have some recollections of those days.  I remember for instance, it being the war years; taking shelter when the siren wailed, and having to carry - even occasionally having to wear - a gas mask.
       One recollection in particular comes to mind, and makes me smile whenever I think of it. This was when, early on, one of my new teachers cornered me in the playground.
       “Kimber.”  he called, and dutifully I walked towards him.
      “Yes Mr Mercer” I replied, wondering what trouble I had got myself  into, and so soon.  Perhaps I just looked guilty, but it turned out to be something else.
      “You got a brother?”  He asked, not unkindly but with a certain steeliness I had not previously encountered, while his round, almost hairless head lowered towards mine.
      “Yes Mr Mercer . . . I’ve got three brothers.”
      “Three!” he repeated, “Yee gods.”  His back now straight, and his eyes raised to the sky, “Well I’m warning you that’s all.”  he said, and walked away, his colleague Mr Ball, he with the piercing eyes, following in his wake.
      Two of my brothers had attended this school ahead of me, and clearly one of them had found a way to get under the skin of this otherwise unflappable man.  After all these years I still do not know which one to blame for the suffering that followed,. So I blame them both even though they both - of course - deny it.  Suffice it to say that whenever there was the slightest hint of trouble in his class, from whichever quarter, Mr Mercer would pick me off with a well aimed piece of chalk, usually resulting in a sharp sting on the face or neck.  He had the knack of holding a small piece of chalk between his thumb and first finger, and then with a flick of the thumb, propelling it with speed and accuracy.
      Mr Mercer could have thrown chalk for England.  He never missed.
      Mr Ball, I discovered, relied not on his prowess with the chalk to gain the attendance of his charges. His technique was to stare until even the bravest amongst us withered.
      Sadly, as I suggested earlier, I don’t recall any great emphasis on education, and I served out my time until I left at age fifteen, without the benefit of a certificate, or any other form of qualification.  Not even a fatherly pat on the back by one of the teachers with a ‘well done’. Looking back it seems such a waste; so many young lives passing through a process that left them uninspired, uncommitted, and to a great extent, uneducated.


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