Steve Brazier
Miss Fenton taught English from the mid-1950's until 1960. I was lucky enough to be taught by her for just one year, when I was 13. She introduced us to Shakespeare with a memorable homework "Who would you be in a Shakespeare play?" I chose Bottom. I had already decided that being one of the form's comedians was a good way of handling the ribbing I suffered for being both short-sighted and obese. Bottom and his rude mechanicals were a fair reflection of the hi-jinks in Form 2A that made the long trudge from Penn Fields to school a price worth paying. Miss Fenton suggested we all draw a picture of our chosen character. That approach was quite common then - Mr Wright, a wonderful history teacher ripped untimely from us when he moved to another school around 1962, encouraged us to do strip cartoons of the historical events. It sounds rather un-intellectual for a grammar school but it was inspirational and helped cushion the shock of leaving primary education.
Miss Fenton was less successful with Tennyson. She gave us 'Little breezes dusk and shiver' and asked us to invent our own stanza. Richard Cliff brought the house down with: 'Little breezes, dusk and shiver.....as I sit and scratch my liver/Suddenly I feel a quiver/ I have fallen in the river'. Others were worse. At least this one scanned. As if the Lady of Shalott didn't have enough to bear already. Richard's name came up in conversation with Mr Pearce during our 1998 reunion planning. He said he was specifically warned about some of our class, including Richard, who had disruptive tendencies. Bob Baker has written in these pages before of being persecuted by the Headmaster for the exuberance of an intelligent child. Fortunately, Mr. Pearce recognised and turned it to our mutual advantage. Before he swept into the classroom in his black gown, we would fill the board with cartoons of whatever we were doing in his lessons. He always studied them with amusement and responded on one occasion by playing us the 'Beyond the Fringe' recordings. Taming Form 4A, as we had become, took him over a term and some fancy footwork. In 1998 I asked him too about Patrick Isherwood's penchant for reinventing quotations in history essays and exams. He reasoned that (in the days before Google) it was impossible for the teacher, faced with thirty scripts, to check their accuracy. Mr Pearce said he always recognised the fakes but with a talent like Isherwood's, never challenged him. Patrick went on to get an MA in history but knowing there was no money in it, became a successful City lawyer. Now there's a profession that fosters and rewards inventive realignment of the truth.
By 1998, Mr Pearce had transformed into a minister of the Church of England. A bit like Doctor Who, I suppose. Three of us organising a Muni reunion drove to South Wales to see him. He laid on a wonderful spread that afternoon and I finally got the chance to say "More tea, Vicar?".
About four years ago, Miss Fenton (by now Mrs Guggenheim) was mentioned in this newsletter. I asked the Editor to put me in touch with her, which she did. 'All the other boys will be very jealous' she told me. So began an email correspondence which quickly moved on from school nostalgia to current affairs and politics. It turns out we both agree with Jeremy Corbyn on most things. To relieve the long texts I have been emailing her, I began to attach my latest painting efforts and when I announced my solo exhibition in Nottingham last September, she decided to come. This was very exciting. I had not seen her since I was 13 and she barely remembered me among the thousands of pupils she had taught.
On my annual pilgrimage to Molineux, in pouring rain by the Billy Wright statue, I mentioned Miss Fenton to Roger Nash and Bill Tranter. They recalled her but not what she had taught. Bill did remember Susan Swinburn changing for games while still in Mr Jordan's French lesson. It was now my memory that failed. 'Ah' he said ' You weren't on the back row'. My enthusiasm for French - and need to be near the blackboard - had denied me a valuable learning experience. It would be three more years before I went to university to study geography while getting an education in young women.I asked Bill to write something for this newsletter. His memories might be racier than mine. After fifteen minutes of Muni-nostalgia, my step-sister, bored and needing the Ladies' dragged me away. We endured a frustrating draw with MK Dons. The game matched the weather.
Miss Fenton, untypically, was not Welsh. She came from north Derbyshire to the Muni, via Birmingham University. She was a keen rock-climber but had to swap the Peak District for the tamer slopes of Kinver Edge and distant views of the Wrekin.
The move proved worthwhile however as she met her future husband at a Wolverhampton climbing club. After an English lesson, Roger Elkin and I dared to ask her opinion of Mad Magazine, which had just begun publication in the UK. She approved. Encouraged, we asked if we might do an after-school talk on German aircraft of World War II. I know this is a non sequitur but teenage boys have catholic tastes. Ever indulgent, she agreed. The school had an epidiascope designed to allow paper illustrations to be projected onto a screen. Its output was about 2 candle-power. We crumpled aircraft magazines into its rear. She sat uncomplaining in the dark with a handful of pupils as we droned on about Messerschmitt and Dornier engines, There was no end to her tolerance and commitment to encouraging youthful enthusiasm.
Her main contribution to my development was the Junior Debating Society, which she ran. I have always had too much to say and come from a political family, so I joined early. We learned the formalities of proposing, seconding, opposing and chairing. We tackled issues like capital punishment and had a laugh in Balloon debates. Above all, we learned the value of reasoning, argument and understanding and respecting an opposing position.
I was looking forward to seeing her again at my exhibition but on the day, a family crisis prevented her daughter from driving her to Nottingham from Halesowen. Disappointed, we resolved to meet. Birmingham was a convenient venue and we thought of some sight-seeing round the galleries but neither of us is that mobile and all we really wanted to do was talk. Ever considerate, she did a reconnaissance trip to the bewilderingly renovated New Street station. She also sent me details of Network Rail's scheme for assisting disabled travellers. It worked well.
I had begun to liken our correspondence to the plot of '84 Charing Cross Road' the 1987 film in which bookseller Anthony Hopkins developed an epistolary relationship with an American customer (Anne Bancroft). They never actually met. So I feared meeting again after 55 years might destroy the magic.
Arriving in Birmingham, the guard handed me over to the lady helper.As the train had been packed, I had postponed tackling the toilet. These days, they are a challenge for the visually impaired. Mysterious buttons lock you in or make the door fly open unexpectedly. There are Braille symbols but do you know how hard Braille is to learn? So when the Guard handed me over to the young lady at New Street Station, I asked if I could go to the meeting point via the Gents. This took about ten minutes as the key-holder for the disabled toilet had gone walk-about. My reunion with Miss Fenton was marred by us both worrying that we had somehow missed one another. But all was well. We spent three hours in Carluccio's filling in the last 55 years and agreeing on the state of the Labour Party. She insisted on paying. It was a thoroughly enjoyable day and I think we'll be doing it again. It is my turn to pay.
The Editor was right: the other boys really ought to be jealous.
Stephen Brazier 1958-1965
Published in WMGS OPA Newsletter Spring 2016