I started this blog with a sense of regret - that after my father’s death in 2012, there was so much about him that I did not know. So this is, in part, my record for my children and grandchildren.
I open with this, because this blog post is unlikely to be of any interest to anyone else, and I apologise for that. This is pure self-indulgence.
My schooling begins with a miracle. Oh yes, a bona fida one. I had a near-death experience as a four year-old, of which I remember nothing except colour, and light and a sense of well-being. On my return, a brain injury that was supposed to leave me with the faculties of a cabbage, was healed, and something extraordinary happened in the process: I could read.
No-one knows how, but after three weeks in a coma, I left hospital a fluent reader. The doctors postulated something about the left and right hemispheres of brain working together, but that’s hardly scientific, and as we now know, they do anyway.
I have one memory that might help. Someone read a Noddy Book to me, and I recall picking it up afterwards and decoding it. Hospital is a boring place. What else is there to do?
My astonished parents walked me round the equally astonished neighbours and had me read from The Times of London. I guess they thought The Daily Mirror was not sufficiently challenging.
Matson Infants School, which is now a Tesco Express, took this genius into their stride, and put me through the Reading Scheme, just like everyone else: 'Janet and John', 'The Ladybird Readers', 'Through The Rainbow', I remember them all. I recall Miss Greenwood, pointing to the Alphabet Chart, “Aaay sounds Ah. Bee sounds, Buh!’ Each letter having a corresponding picture, some of which i still recall. Miss Greenwood was young and kind. She had forty children, no assistant and taught us ALL to read. Including those of us who already could. Being young, she used modern methods. We sat round tables, we played a lot we painted from jam jars of primary colours, we modelled with plasticine.
School opened at nine. The building was a Victorian Schoolhouse, the kind I would, forty years later, become headteacher of, but due to the rapid expansion of Matson in a post-war housing boom, it was augmented by three modern temporary classrooms.
A third of a pint of milk was handed out around 1015, just before Morning Play. There may have been biscuits.
Mornings were devoted to the serious stuff: reading, writing, arithmetic, Religous Education and Nature Study. Lunch was from noon till one-thirty;this reflects the days when children often walked home for lunch. I had school dinners, which for a working-class child in the fifties, were a vital source of nutrition. Here in the twenty-first century, when we thought back then, that everything would be fixed, it is shameful that they still are.
The dinners were amazing, meat and two veg, followed by PUDDING! Raspberry blancmange with a homemade shortbread biscuit, and Butterscoth Tart were my favourites.
After lunch we SLEPT! Miss Greenwood would set up miniature canvass camp beds, and we napped until 2:30. The afternoons would comprise PE, music, painting and stories. I recall, with horror, a Grimms Tale we were told called, “The Red Shoes” I was five yeas old, and the impact of this ghastly tale has lasted a life time.
Mums (always the mums) would collect us at 4pm.
There are fewer memories of ‘Middle’ and ‘Top’ Infants, as Years 1 and 2 were known in those days. Miss Greenwood’s Class was, ‘Reception’. And still would be.
Mrs Millard, ‘Tops’ introduced me to a life-long love of poetry, with children’s classics by authors like Charles Causley and John Masefield. I remember a lurid poster of Persephone being dragged by Hades to the Underworld, which scared the life out of me, and was an entirely fitting introduction to Greek Mythology.
BBC Children’s Programming was a feature of my Primary Years. Mrs Millard would have us put our chairs on top of our tables to clear a little space for ‘Let’s Move’ a dance programme that survived for many decades. Later, I would enjoy the Monday Morning ritual of ‘Singing Together’, that lasted long enough for me to use with my own classes in the 1980’s.
Home Time had rituals of its own. Chairs would go on top of tables again, for the convenience of the cleaner, and the day would close with a prayer.
Finlay Junior School
Aged seven, I moved up into the Juniors. Even augmented, the old village school couldn’t accommodate ‘juniors’, so my parents had to find a new school. There was a local alternative, Robinswood Primary School, but there was no room for me, so I had to go instead to Finlay Rd Junior School in Tuffley, which was a tuppenny bus ride away. My mum would have taken me at first, I’m sure, but soon, I was making the journey on my own. It was a huge adventure for a seven year old! I’d leave home at about 8;15 am and walk to the bus-stop which we called,’The Terminus’ because it was the end of the line. No-one took any notice of a child travelling alone. I'd ask for a ticket to ‘Cotteswold Rd’ pay my money, get off the bus about five minutes later, walk down Cotteswold Rd, into Finlay Rd, cross with the Lollipop man, and I there. as I write, I can recall vividly the details of the walk; the thatched cottage atop a bank at the corner of Cotteswold Rd, the almond trees shading the bus stop, the youths going in and out of Central Technical School For Boys. ...
I learned from grown-ups to ALWAYS thank the bus driver.
When I grew older, I realised I could get off a stop later, at Cemetery Rd, on the corner of which was a sweet shop. Lemon drops, peanut brittle, gob-stoppers... . I always had money for sweets.
A huge advantage of Finlay Rd, was the short walk to Selwyn Rd, where, incidentally, I was born, for dinner with my Auntie Mary, who spoiled me rotten.
Occasionally I would stay for school dinners which were one shilling a day, five bob a week.
The curriculum at the Juniors was as traditional and unvaried as the Infants, with the introduction of the dreaded, “needlework’. I could sew, quite well, but a pair of pink woollen mittens started in 1958, remain unfinished. I learned I was brilliant at English, but hopeless at arithmetic (still am) loved Nature Study, enjoyed music and art, and could tolerate team games.
The school day started with Scripture, followed by a religious assembly, where I learned the magnificent old hymns, and ended with a prayer. All this God encultured us, an entirely white population, all baptised and nominally affiliated to The Church of England. The local vicar's daughter was in my class. For those of you familiar with the area, I was in the top class (4A1) when the new St Aldate's Church was being built. I watched that 'hyperbolic parabolic' roof take shape. Those were two of the my favourite words at the time. Exotic in their inaccessibility.
There was no school uniform, which was a pity for we working-class girls, because your status was immediately apparent in the number of stiff net petticoats you wore under your dress. I owned one. I have to say that such differences never impacted on me much: I loved school, apart from arithmetic,that is, and not making the choir, and I accepted that one petticoat was all I was going to get, so that was that.
The cane was available to my teachers, but I only remember it being used once. Discipline, in classes of over forty, was strictly maintained, but not oppressive.
The teaches were kindly, the wonderful headmaster, Mr Langston universally liked and respected. I was in Day House, though not a great accumulator of House Points. I rarely got chosen first for teams, which were always headed up by boys. Neither issue bothered me. 'Encultured', you see. That was just how it was.
In 1962, I passed the 11+ by some bloody miracle, because in those days, you had to do long division, and I stil can’t.
Let me rage a moment about the pass rates for Grammar Schools. In 1962 over 50 children from Finlay Rd Junior School ‘passed’ for Grammar School. These days, thanks to the end of zoning, virtually all of those places now go to middle-class children, coached by tutors, who are bussed in from as far as Swindon, forty miles away. This is the only justification needed to get rid of these elitist schools, whose one purpose - to give a decent education to working-class children - is now at an end. Rant over.
Grammar School
Don’t get me wrong, I loved school, but Ribston Hall Grammar School was a 'fixed' system. If you were the daughter of a doctor or a lawyer, you were in the A and B streams to be prepped for University. If your father was a postman, as mine was in 1962, you were in the C Stream and you did Domestic Science. You were 'educated' to be an efficient secretary or a nurse. (Both worthwhile careers, but you get my point.)
I got promoted to the B’s in my 4th year, because I excelled at the sciences. Not only the Domestic ones, obviously.
I had fun. I am a lazy student, I did the least possible to get by. This, I rate as a sign of intelligence, I had a life, I was happy.
The 4th year brought boys into my life, but that’s another story. Needless to say, school dropped even farther down my list of priorities.
Despite the distractions, I secured sufficient GCE’s to obtain a place at a Teacher Training College. University was never offered to me as an option, and in fact, because of my class, I was openly dissuaded by the dreadful Hilda Mortimer from going there.
I made it.
Bingley College Of Education
Thanks to the direct intervention of the Dreadful Hilda, I did not get to Rolle College in Exmouth (Mort’s old stomping ground.) I was the only Ribston pupil ever, NOT to do so. I was offered instead my second choice: Bingley College of Education, a scion of The University of Leeds, and one of the oldest Teacher Trainig Colleges in the country.
Look, I have to be honest here, my student days were not my most glorious. I enjoyed two of my courses, “American Studies” and “Lettering And Design”, the rest was poorly taught, and I, in retaliation, poorly learned. So academically, I scraped through with the assistance of the Dean, who helped me to cope with the pressure of turning in meaningless work in areas of study that were facile and seemed incomprehensably irrelevant.
Looking back, I see the problem quite clearly, The College had suffered a massive influx of students in the late sixties drive to increase teacher numbers. It coped as well as it could. The year before I arrived it had weathered a student strike, and the aftermath, in terms of curriculum reform, was not appealing. There was a lack of intellectual rigour, there was little debate, or any attempt to engage the students in the subject matter. Intellectually, it was far less demanding than A Levels at school. I was puzzled, disappointed and disengaged. I nearly dropped out.
The absolute low-point was my final teaching practice where I was abandoned in a school in an area of high-deprivation, given a class with absolutely no professional support, and left to sink or swim. I swam. I came from such an estate myself, and, for all our sakes, I needed to prove that WE could succeed. I was visited twice by some twat from the art department at college who didn’t know me, didn't give a toss, and on absolutely no evidence, awarded a me a C, when even surviving the ten weeks intact, should have got me an A. Bastard.
My Magnum Opus, for a meaningless course entitled, “World Problems” was, inexplicably, a project on the ferns in Princes’ Park, adjacent to the College. Nobody noticed, or cared, that it was a piece of fiction cobbled together from a few visits to count fern species and ‘The Observer Book of Ferns’. My ‘co-author’ Mandy, with my grudging acquiescence, contributed absolutely nothing. So I cheated TWO of us through college, my greatest and most lasting academic achievement of being there. I see it as the ultimate revenge.
Paradoxically, the years at Bingley College were also some of my most formative and happiest, though, obviously, I was more of an incipient drop-out, than a academic star. I had some wonderful times, and more importantly, I met some wonderful people.
There were my lovely fresher year roommates:five of them. (Student teacher numbers led to high-density accommodation!) at Wingfield House in the town. Clockwise round 'The Room At The Top', *there was me, then Tina, who had the bed next to the window overlooking the croquet lawn, then Carolyn. Next to the door, slept my dear friend, Viv, who still puts up with me to this day, and under the eaves, (and a poster of Terence Stamp) Claire hung out. We all studied different main subjects, so rarely interacted in College, but, my a second miracle, we managed a whole year with no fights, a certain amount of boyfriend sharing, and a LOT of laughs.
Through the intermediacy of Viv and her fiancé Brian, via the boyfriend sharing and Tina’s generosity, I met Raymond who, in 1971, became my husband. And still is!
We had a typical student courtship, what with it being the sixties and all - though the Pennines did get in the way during the week.
I left Bingley College with three precious things, an abiding love of Yorkshire, a teaching qualification, and two wonderful relationships that have stood the test, and the tests, of time.
Dr Madeline Hunter
OK, it’s pretty clear that I have very little respect for the preparation I was given to prepare to teach. I needed to self-educate. I studied more widely: Piaget, Steiner, Feinstein, I muddled along. I survived by pretty much copying what everyone else was doing.
I have paid insufficient attention to the highlight of the Bingley course that proved, in hindsight, the most useful. American Studies.
I went to Bingley to study Education and History. When I got there, I was offered the chance to change my major, so I switched to American Studies.
I was curious. My father, in every other way a reasonable man, would have no truck with Americans. This was odd, because I’ll wager he’d never met any. I never did get to the bottom of it, but I think it may have had something to do with Brits competing with GI’s for girlfriends during the war. It was, to my mind, irrational. So I decided to study the history, literature and politics of the United States of America. I still do. Today, it makes me a star on Twitter.
In the course of the course, there was a six week teaching placement at Menwith Hill Army Base near Harrogate. For the first time in my life, aged twenty, I met Americans. I fell in love.
Ann Bamburger, my Master Teacher, took me under her wing, and instructed me in the craft of teaching. Without her as a model, I would have been completely at sea when abandoned in Halifax the following year. I was immersed in the culture of the state of Maryland, and I revelled in it.
So, when, in 1976, I saw an advertisement in the Times Education Supplement, for the Fulbright Teacher Exchange Program. I persuaded Ray that this would be a great idea, and we went for it. We were both accepted, and eventually posted to the incomparably beautiful Washington State
Our school districts (Bellevue and Mercer Island ) were exceptionally hospitable, our schools welcoming. We were both offered the opportunity to undertake Dr Madeline Hunter's, ‘Instructional Theory Into Practice’ A 'how-to’ of pedagogy that tooled me up for the rest of my career, and spurred me on to .... Join the Open University.
The Open University.
Up until now, my education had been entirely free (or more accurately, paid for post-hoc, through my taxes.) Now I was funding myself. I began slowly. My Grammar School experience had left me with pretty low expectations of what I could achieve, and I began with a Course Cettificate in 'Remedial Education' Studying with the OU is a bug. I still have it. Once I started, I couldn’t stop, though were pauses for more important things, like, having children. (Hi girls!)
In 1979, I enrolled for a degree, for which my Certificate in Education and that first course, gave me credit. Given my maths skills, I started in a scary place, The Foundation Course in Science. I loved it! I gave birth during it! I passed it.
From there on in, I honed my professional skills. In 1985, I graduated with a BA. A couple of years later I achieved an Advanced Diplome in Educational Management. In 1996 I achieved my Masters in Educational Management.
Before I started at Bingley College I was given a reading list. On that list was, ‘The Village School’ by Miss Read.Harking back to the Lovely Mrs Aldridge at Matson Infants, I thought, “That’s what I want to be! The headteacher of a Village School!” Twenty-three years ago, I made it. Ten years ago I retired.
Still Learning
The pace has slowed down a lot, but I’m still going.
I registered with EdX and have participated in three of their courses: The Science of Happiness, ‘Natural History Drawing’ and ‘Storytelling For Social Change’
And that’s what I’m doing now. Telling my story. If you stayed with me to the end.:Thank you!
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