School Assembly

Steve Brazier

I well recall my first morning assembly, sitting right at the front, boys on the left, girls on the right, prefects looming over us. Masters and mistresses arrayed along the walls. Some threatening in black gowns. Mr Jones in a faded purple track-suit, Miss Heyhoe in a grey pleated hockey skirt and blue top, frighteningly fit. Newly arrived in Form 1A, I was over-awed. From a big fish in Graiseley Primary's small pond to a minnow in a sea of giants in brown and black blazers or bulging gym-slips.

The bell rang for silence, we stood and after a respectful delay the Headmaster arrived. The ritual did not vary from day to day. Mr Greenaway played Greensleeves or similar before the grand entry. Hymn numbers were displayed in a wooden frame. Straight into the first hymn. Then prayers, a prefect climbed onto the stage to read from the Bible, its brown felt cover ceremoniously folded forward over the front of the lectern to reveal a red and gold coat of arms. Then another hymn and into the Headmaster's announcements. On Mondays these were mainly sports team results. Roger Nash recalls with pride his stonewall batting with Eric Pullen on a Wednesday afternoon to force a nigh-impossible draw. It was against Tettenhall College, one of several schools including Wednesfield Grammar and the Regis defeat by whom at any sport was considered ignominious. Their dogged batting had been witnessed by Mr Douel himself who gave the heroic stand an honourable mention the next day. We were told of forthcoming school trips, Mr Douel always pronounced "skiing" "she-ing" (to muffled giggles). We heard of society meetings and mysterious organisations What was CEWC? Where was Capel Curig? Who went to the Classics Society at Cannock Grammar School?

There was time to study the idiosyncrasies of Masters and Mistresses. Mr Meacham the French teacher constantly jangled small change in his trouser pocket. It was rumoured he had fought in the trenches and perhaps shell shock had set in. Mr Parsons taught French too succeeding Mr Meacham as Deputy Head. He took assembly in Mr Douel's absence. I feared the worse when he announced that the headmaster was ill with pleurisy, which sounded terminal when expressed in Mr Parson's Welsh chapel voice. This went well with his villainous lop-sided hook nose and sharp features. One of his nicknames was 'The Rat' but he was also known as 'Sid'. He spoke sternly and had cultivated a tone of exasperation at pupils' antics, invariably beginning his sentences : "I find it hard to believe that....". As in "I find it hard to believe that you failed to hear the bell". He had a little office hidden somewhere above the Boy Prefects' room. Sometimes he would come down to see what all the noise in there was about but his bark was far worse than his bite. He never interrupted the free period I spent alone in there every week when I taught myself to kick with the 'other' foot by throwing a ball high up the wall and volleying it back against the wooden door beneath. An ability to kick with both feet will still get you into most amateur football teams. I wish someone would teach today's over-paid professionals.

One of assembly's strange customs was the ritual use of the Head Girl and Boy to perform random duties from the stage. At first I was impressed and saw them as role-models. As I moved closer to their age, cynicism and amusement took over at their awkwardness and artificiality. When eventually they were my own class-mates, I pitied them for the vacuity of their contributions. Sour grapes, perhaps as I was never in the running for either job.

The hall holds other memories: the school's library in glass fronted bookcases; the Stationery Room next to Room 8. Here we queued to see Mr Foxon (succeeded by Mr Sheppard) to replace our full exercise books - usually after an inquisition on why pages were missing. Sometimes Miss Outlaw would honour a pupil by displaying their work in the hall. Roger Nash had a picture of an owl put up and still lives off the memory. Talking of owls, Mr Steel would occasionally enliven an English class with his impression of one by pulling his black gown over his head to leave only his face showing. I used to work with a conservation officer who favoured a sloppy grey sweater and would do a similar trick. He crouched on a table with his toeson the edge, pulled his arms from the sleeves, dangling like wings on either side. Then the sweater was pulled over his head leaving only his face showing in the neck-hole. Give it a try yourself, it will bring the house down.

Progress through the years brought moves back from the wooden planks at the front to proper chairs towards the rear. Boys from classrooms on the balcony formed rows around three sides of its walls and balustrade. Girls from those forms sat in the hall below, either because they were thought to lack the stamina to stand for thirty minutes or because Miss Mountain feared they might betray glimpses of underskirt.

The hymns were rousing, their lyrics laced with obsolete Victorian vocabulary. Many remain etched in the memory and prove useful for weddings and funerals. On the last afternoon before Christmas there was a special assembly with carols and readings. The final verse of Oh Come all ye Faithful, annotated "Christmas Day only" was never sung.

It was possible to be excused assembly on religious grounds. A couple of Catholic pupils regularly retreated to a distant classroom or the playground. Irritated by the introduction of morning prayers by Mr Jackson on a Lake District geography field-trip in the sixth form, John Liptrot and I pleaded atheism and were excused, standing self-conscious but proud twenty yards away in the damp forecourt of Buttermere Youth Hostel. Back at school, it never occurred to me to miss assembly again - it was simply too informative and too stirring.

I did the Prefect's Bible reading and found it nerve-racking. Bell-duty on the other hand was fun. This involved ringing the bell about ten times a day. A great excuse for leaving lessons early. The finger hovering over the button, next to a small window overlooking the deserted playground brought an uncanny feeling of power. Pressing it unleashed the hordes from the prefabs and the woodwork room across the yard and the thunder of hundreds of feet on wooden floorboards overhead. Normally the bell was rung for about five seconds but we challenged each other to ring it for longer and longer. As the bell-push was immediately outside Mr Douel's office, this seemed daring. But if he noticed, he never commented.

On the last day of the Summer Term boys who were leaving paraded with their ties cut off at the knot or removed altogether: a ritual docking process having taken place during the morning. I'm not sure what form of dress rebellion the girls adopted but I pounced on Nikki Morris' beret after it had been chucked in the air outside the corner shop. I treasure it still. I gave it back to her when we next saw each other 33 years later. She had no idea how I had acquired it. Within months she had returned it to me. My need was clearly now much greater than hers.

The ritual of staff and classmates autographing the back of our blue Report Books took up much of the last day. I still have mine and only recently notice that Vicky Lyons wrote down her phone number as well. I should have followed that up. The final assembly of the summer term took place in the afternoon. We sang the School Song Let us now praise famous men and our fathers that begat us'. And there was a lump in the throat as "Lord dismiss us with thy Blessing" sealed the departure of another cohort from the school.The bit about "...those who here shall meet no more" always affected me. On the day I left I mentally stored the moment as the words approached and I took the chequered flag marking the end of seven of the most formative years of my life.

Assembly was the principal means of forging, fostering and manifesting the school's identity. Like any organism, its constituent parts - pupils, teachers, customs, values - were in constant flux. As we joined and left we all subtly altered its essence. While WMGS existed, something of each of us remained in its DNA. Long after it closed, we must all still bear our own version of its stamp.

Stephen Brazier 1958-1965

Published in WMGS OPA Newsletter Spring 2015