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New End School: A class in 1957 |
My New End days
Back in the 1950's, primary schools weren't the caring, sharing places they are now. New Journal reporter Peter Gruner relives some of his life-changing experiences.
THE woman teacher at New End school had a cruel glint in her eye when she declared to our class of seven-year-olds: “The next boy who talks, I shall take his trousers down and give him a smack.”
It was more than 50 years ago but as old New Enders celebrate in style the school’s 100th birthday this Saturday night, my mind goes back to that experience of 1950s style psychological terror in the classroom.
Today New End, in Hampstead, is a happy friendly school where children enjoy being taught and have fun while they learn. In my day school was a lot more serious.
The teacher glared menacingly and a deafening silence descended over the class.
Years later when I was reading Roald Dahl’s Matilda to my own children I realised, of course, that the teacher epitomised evil headmistress Mrs Trunchbull.
I must have said something stupid like, “oh, yeah.” My parents say I was a bit of a “short-arse git” with a tendency to want to prove myself in dangerous situations.
Suddenly the teacher was upon me. She pulled me up out of my desk by my ear and dragged me to the front of the class.
I couldn’t believe she’d do it. Not in front of my mates and the girls who by now were beginning to snigger.
 Peter, aged 7
Peter, now |
She unbuckled my belt and pulled down my shorts and gave me a couple of slaps across the bum. To this day I can still feel the pain. Not the smacks, but the humiliation and serious loss of face among my peers.
I suspect the only sound made by a child for the rest of that afternoon was of me quietly sobbing into my exercise book.
Suffice to say my mum was appalled by the incident when she collected me that afternoon.
Never one to lose her temper, she shouted at the teacher in the cloakroom, accusing her of being a “cruel bully” who should be ashamed of upsetting a little lad whose behaviour, in her experience, was always beyond reproach.
On the way home my mum admitted that she was actually less concerned about the emotional damage to my tender young ego than the fact that my frayed and threadbare underpants had been on display.
Saturday night’s reunion I’m sure will be a joyful occasion with jazz bands, dancing and good food.
For many it will be a wonderful opportunity to meet up with old friends and good teachers. There’s the anticipation; everyone appears to have aged except oneself.
It’s a time to look back, hopefully with a bit of pride and humour, and be philosophical about life.
It’s also a time for sentimentality and smug self-satisfaction. Rest assured a lot of very successful people – as always they were the pupils who appeared to do the least work – will attend en mass.
But with all the enthusiasm about school reunions it is worth remembering that they can also be a reminder of some pretty unpleasant experiences.
As a father of three I know primary school teachers these days can be a pretty caring and sharing lot but in the austere 1950s they were sometimes ogres.
I don’t want to make New End sound like a nightmare. There must have been some good experiences; it’s just that I can’t remember many.
I learned my times-tables, how to add up and subtract and the basics of English with less fuss than it takes children these days. I can still remember the words to the song The British Grenadiers, taught by music teacher Miss Bianchi. I enjoyed playing football in the playground with a tennis ball. And I remember my best mates Keith McLean and Michael Bay with great fondness. There was Charlie’s sweetshop nearby.
But the dinner lady was an absolute cow who insisted I eat custard when I quite plainly said I didn’t like it.
I remember her standing there at dinnertime, a short podgy women with a scar across her face. “Just pudding, no custard please,” I pleaded. She looked at me with complete disinterest, grabbed my bowl and dumped a ladleful of the yellow stuff in it. In those days you felt so scared by adults that you couldn’t just leave food on the plate, even though it was making you heave; you had to eat it. “You don’t leave this dining hall until you eat your custard”, said a teacher.
They also forced us to drink a small bottle of rancid, sun warmed milk every morning, obviously because it was considered bone-buildingly healthy. I’ve never been able to drink milk since.
Once a week a child would be allowed to bring a huge bag of sweets into the class, sit at the teacher’s desk, and then pick from the class those who he or she wanted to give sweets too.
The children would all sit with their hands up in the hope of being picked calling out: “Choose me, choose me. Oh, please choose me!”
Being chosen meant that not only did you get sweets but also you were popular.
The same popular kids always got picked for the sweets. For those who never got chosen it was an early lesson in failure.
But most ex-pupils I’ve talked to have much happier experiences.
Mother of twins and former TV director Erin Cotter, 44, a governor at the school who helped organise Saturday’s event, has very positive memories from her time. “It was a very warm school with strong liberal attitudes. I’d left one primary school because I was not happy but I found I liked New End. It had a good atmosphere.
“A lot of people had good experiences there and like me have gone on to send their own children to the school. And I’ve still got many close friends who I first met at New End.
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