Disjointed Memories

Flaunting new prefect’s cap, up the steps and through the front door. First time for everything and I’d been waiting 5 years to do that. Turn left, there’s Steve’s (Mr Stevens - Headmaster) office and the memories flood in.

Ring the first bell for Assembly and when all is ready in the Hall ring the second bell and knock on the door. ‘School is assembled, sir.’ Out would sweep Steve, clutching books and notes, with gown billowing behind. Shut the hall door behind him and prowl the cloakrooms, bike sheds and bogs for late-comers. ‘Have a detention slip.’

Meanwhile, in the Hall, a colleague was tripping up the steps to the stage to read the lesson hoping that no-one had shifted the marker in the Bible. It had been known!

By this time Steve had passed the ‘Let us spray’ announcement, and the front row of fags had cleaned themselves up. Further back the 4th and 5th year lads had heard enough after a couple of minutes and were probably swopping jokes, fag cards or fag ends despite the attention of Masters lined against the wall. Amusement was necessary since the lads had to stand through all this while the girls sat down. Not fair.

Assembly over, normal life resumed and a few steps down the corridor Miss Hughes ran the School. Nowadays there’d be umpteen folk doing her job. Steve was always very protective of her and constantly reminding us that her name was Miss Hughes and not ‘Me Shoes’.

Joey Steel ruled the Music Room next door. A fine fellow with patience galore and a deep love of music. My first Form Master, I couldn’t have asked for a kinder and more understanding introduction to a senior school and its staff.

Further round lived Bobby Graham – a Gordon Brown lookalike. He was one of those souls who taught Maths to the board, occasionally looking round to ask if everyone was still with him. One day I had the timerity to say no and was treated to a full frontal snarl six inches from my nose ‘What don’t you understand?’ I never tried it again and to this day calculus remains a mystery. He regretted that we didn’t play with the egg shaped ball (in the shadow of Molineux – come on!) and on one occasion came on to the field at lunchtime to teach us how to form a scrum. He retired hurt.

Above Bobby was Daisy Day’s room. Such a gentle lady but with little teaching passion for her subject. Except, therefore, for the really keen Latin was a drag and just on my account alone the school finances took a hammering in the red ink stakes. Subsequently however the vocabulary came in useful in the medical field so something sank in. Her room unfortunately overlooked the Boys Prefect’s Room so we had to be particularly careful to puff the smoke right in to the fireplace with backs to the window. A note here to praise Mr Bentley, the school caretaker. The place was always clean and tidy, I recall, and the Prefect’s Room fire always lit in the winter without fail. We could always slink downstairs to the boiler room for a swift drag or two and he wouldn’t sneak on us.

Round the corner Johnny Darby was King of the Chemistry Lab and a finer teacher would be hard to find. A real gentleman too with a great sense of humour. His lessons on atomic structure remain burned in my mind with half a dozen of us at the front of the class holding hands and pretending to be protons, neutrons or electrons. Magic! Provided the chance to hold hands with some fancies too – but they shall remain nameless. Johnny was assisted by Mr Dance, the brown-overalled Lab Man, a forerunner of the guy seen assisting at the Royal Institution Lectures and equally as faceless. Not once did I ever see him smile or even speak, but the flasks, test tubes and other bits of kit were always in place.

Back in the Hall now and upstairs there’s Steve again leaning on the balustrade. Ah, now I see why. The boys are in the gym and it’s raining outside so the girls are doing their thing in the Hall. A frequent occurrence.

Now we’re in the realm of the big boys, the Meachams, Staces, Dudleys, Hawthornes, and Thompsons of the site. Messrs Meacham and Stace left little mark on the memory except that Jot Stace, my 3rd Form Form Master, remarked in my Report Book that ‘if this is an example of your handwriting I don’t think much of it.’ I didn’t think much of his handwriting either and could never understand why there was so much emphasis placed on so-called ‘good’ handwriting. I don’t do good handwriting, never have and bless the day that the typewriter was invented.

Jerry Dudley was also a Form Master, a bit of a grey character, and extremely serious about his French. ‘Ecoutez la Dictee’ was the cry – ‘Oh no, not again’ the response. ‘Oxford is very fond of this’ was another saying which sticks in the mind.

Gentleman George Hawthorne was a cracking teacher, a real nice guy and overlord of the Bilge Lab containing specimens of sorts which fascinated this simple soul. Dissections were often interesting, particularly the occasion when we were asked to display the nervous system of a frog. All except one girl (again nameless) took the system out of the frog, she took the frog away from the system leaving a super display of the nervous system on the board and the rest of the frog dispersed around the Lab.

Does anyone remember the Geography Room and that globe which hung from the ceiling? Not once did I see it lowered for use, but at some time in its history it had not only been lowered but also hit the floor since the plaster was bulging and cracked.

A bit like Johnny Thompson on a Monday morning after his weekend rugger game. Black eyes, swollen and cut lips, ears hanging off, crooked nose – and he would say that he had had a good game!

Upstairs in the Hall there was the one who for character outshone them all. Imbo Foxon, what a guy. Four feet nothing of feisty fury or gentlemanly charm. No-one dared cross him ‘Balderdash, piffle and poppycock, boy’ was the response to a wrong answer and watch out for the well-aimed board duster. He also ran the school stationery store where pupils would attempt to change their exercise or other books. ‘Full, boy. That’s not full. Come back next year when it is’. Oh dear, better go to Smiths and buy one. I wonder where the nickname came from? It was certainly useful in the chant we would perform under the Staff Room window – ‘Ayyay Imbo Oo, Ayyay Imbo Oo’ until the window was flung up and Imbo’s face emerge through a cloud of tobacco smoke mouthing oaths – by which time we were well round the corner and out of sight. A fond memory too is his playing of the Judge in ‘Trial by Jury’, which he did to great acclaim.

Moving down the corridor we entered the world of the senior ladies. Mesdames Mountain and Outlaw. Maggie Mountain was passionate about her English and fostered a love of the language, not always appreciated by every pupil and often illustrated by the lifeless reading of plays in class. Steam would come out of her ears.

Doggie Outlaw was something else. Again passionate about her subject but understanding that not all are blessed with a talent for art. Certainly for me, as for handwriting so for art. But bless her she took me away from all the paints and pencils and taught me how to bind books. A real lady and I thank her for that understanding.

Down below lived Killer and Patty. Cureton and Patterson (or was it Pattison) by name and rulers of the gym. We soon switched on to Killer and tried to tire him out so that he’d cut short exercise routines for games. This wasn’t too difficult since he smoked quite a few a day so his stamina was suspect. Together they were known as the Black Country’s answer to Astaire and Rogers since they also taught ballroom dancing, something which I’m sure we didn’t fully appreciate at the time as part of our social education. This lead to even more contact with ‘les girls’, and after passing the age when girls were yuk became quite enjoyable!

Across the way was the Physics Lab where dwelt the School’s Little and Large, together with Fletcher’s Trolley and Wheatstone’s Bridge. Little was Moke Arthur and large Stan Stanley, a most unlikely combination. Moke’s principle claim to fame (shame on me) was his handwriting which, I have to admit, was a work of art and it was almost a sacrilege to wipe off a blackboard of his work. Stan was a gentle giant of a man best remembered for his kindness, particularly invitations to his house extended to the 6th Form. Again development of social skills and, eventually, much appreciated.

Also away from the Main Building was the Woodwork Room where dwelt Mr Smith. The smell of freshly sawn wood still evokes many memories of the place. Whiffs of a fishy smell are also recalled, perhaps from the glue pot which was always simmering on a gas ring. Dovetail joints, mortise and tenon, half butts; we tried them all with varying levels of success but mostly they were held together not by the skill of manufacture but by the contents of said glue pot. My parents used a tea tray I’d made for many years and the base didn’t fall off, so that’s a further tribute to the glue.

There were many others worthy of note but with whom I had little contact, Sticky Ludford, Mr Parsons, Ma Moody, Mrs Slack, Ma Welsh to name a few. All colourful characters and all contributing to the life of this vibrant community. Perhaps other readers will fill in the gaps.

In present times I’m lucky if I can remember what I had for breakfast. The fact that so much of what happened at WMGS can be recalled in detail and with such joy is a tribute to the place and its people and I would want to record the fact. Thank you WMGS and every one of you.

Brian Freeman 1947-54