06 The Juniors

Dad was a hard working man who enjoyed a pint. Every evening, between eight and nine, he went for a drink at the Rainham Mark Social Club, yet he was always up early for work next morning. And sometimes Mam, who worked just as hard looking after her four boys, got a Saturday night out. Marie Riley, of the Rainham Rileys and of Scottish/Irish descent, was our baby sitter and very nice she was too, though we had some difficulty understanding her accent when she read bedtime stories like Big Hands and Nobbly from Enid Blyton’s Holiday Book.

September 1962: The summer holiday was over. Plastic sandals and baseball boots were set aside for sensible shoes on our return to school. Short pants, snake belts, striped T-shirts and sleeveless pullovers were uniformly worn by many boys, with long socks, sleeved pullovers, overcoats, raincoats, plastic macs, duffle coats and balaclavas on standby for the winter.

I arrived early for my first day at the juniors. On entering the school by the boys’ gate on Romany Road I followed the wide path down to the playground. To my left stood the old school building, to my right, three grassy mounds (air raid shelters) ran parallel to the path, edging a field that stretched across to Preston Way and down to the Infants School. Finding myself alone in the bottom corner of the playground (at the end of the railings, about a hundred yards from the green pavilion on the field,) I looked around at the handful of kids present and recognised nobody. An anxious time ended when Alan Stewart arrived. Good old Alan, a friendly face at last.

From my position in Miss Frankland’s 1/2 (First year B stream) classroom, a window to the right gave a clear view of the field. To my immediate left, across a gap between desks, a girl paddled her legs under her chair. I’d have loved to have done the same, but at seven years old I was lanky already and unable to raise my feet from the floor without bumping my knees under the desk.

Miss Frankland seemed like a nice lady but it was clear from the outset that now we were juniors, the classroom emphasis was on work, not play. I had no problem with that, but I rued the fact that Alan Stewart and Michael Strudwick were no longer with me. Both had been placed in Class 1/3, and though I’d see them around, we’d been set on different paths. At least I had the comfort of Andrew Akehurst being in my class, along with William ‘Bimbo’ Hollands.
  
That I endured a wretched time in my early months at the juniors had nothing to do with teachers or lessons. Till then, the problems of having a different accent were minor, with some being from my side. While it was easy to take Michael Strudwick’s ‘Wotcha Jed’ for the cheery greeting it was, I had no idea what he was actually saying.


My troubles were all in the playground. I wanted to be like any other kid and play with my classmates but the big boys had other ideas. I’d run when I saw them coming but I never got far, and when I tried to wriggle free, I’d be roughed up and pinned into a corner. It seemed half the school wanted to take a turn with the funny talking kid.

‘Say potaters. Go on, say potaters!’

Each time I spoke there was laughter and mimicry. And tears; mine. As one group moved on, another group grabbed me. More requests, more laughter, more mimicry. And so it continued, every miserable playtime.