Standing on the Corner

Steve Brazier

Do you remember the shops at the corner of Newhampton Road and Dunkley Street ? Was the smaller one Campion's ? Directly opposite was the classroom which until about 1961 was the Biology Lab. I gave up Biology early. Although I did well in my third year, the room's unpleasant smell and prospect of dissecting cows' eyeballs and frogs ensured that I didn't go further. For those who ventured into the subterranean passages beneath the ground floor classrooms (described in a recent Newsletter by Bob Baker), under the lab's floorboards a Union Jack decorated some sort of shrine - perhaps to the remains of long-dissected animals.

But back to the shops......

Miserable memories of primary school dinners led me to persuade my mother to give me dinner money to buy my own food. Malnutrition was never far away as I would often squander it on sweets and chocolates. Sometimes I could even save a few pence to supplement my meagre Friday pocket money.

The cake shop-owner had permission to sell cakes during morning break in the single storey building on the playground. Next to the woodwork room and Mr Erntzen's classroom. Was this room 17 ? Room 101 would have been more appropriate,given my horror of maths. Dear Mr Erntzen. He had a remarkable South African accent. I think he was what was then called Cape-Coloured. He was rather exotic, if strict. We rarely dared test his patience. Under his tutelage I went from maths no-hoper to grade 3 in "O" level. In July 1961 Miss Bishop wrote cruelly in my report : "He makes little effort to understand". This was unfair. Six month later Mr Erntzen wrote "Working well" and I had moved from 27th to 10th place. By Christmas 1962 he had got me to the top of the class.

"absolutely intriguing" wrote the Headmaster. Really, Mr Douel ? Same boy, different teacher.

But back to the cakes........

For twopence you could get iced and Belgian buns. I think the cream cakes were threepence. With unlimited supplies of full-fat school milk, an wildly unbalanced diet was guaranteed. Crates of unused milk were stacked outside the Boy Prefects' Room window. I enjoyed several free periods alone in there in the Upper Sixth and erected a Heath-Robinson device with milk-bottles, straws and exercise books piled up to demonstrate the power of the siphon. One short suck on the lowest straw initiated the magic of gravity and several pints flowed automaticallyfrom the top into waiting empties on the floor.

But back to the cakes........

A bun at break was a bad idea before torment in the Gym but got me through forty-five mind-numbing minutes of Mr Greenaway's gramophone records. I am reminded of him by the vicar in Dad's Army.

From windows overlooking the playground just before break, shop staff could be seen carrying large wooden cake trays into the building. Concentrating on Mr Jordan's French lessons in the prefabs became impossible with the prospect of rushing out to get in the queue. I don't expect you to remember Mr Jordan, a bespectacled student teacher with whom we clocked up so many detentions that I, as form-chairman, was eventually summoned to Room 8 to negotiate with Mr Thompson, our Form Master. The deal was, that if we agreed to calm down for the last term, all our detention records would be erased from our reports. Detentions were actually badges of honour. How proud I was a couple of years later to supervise my first Prefects' Detention (in Mr Sharpe's room) only a week after I had been in there as one of the detainees. So erasing detention-records was really no incentive at all but we knew that things had gone too far. The deal was done and we realised what a dreadful baptism the poor fellow had endured. Our very last lesson with him was in the room normally used by Mr Renwick and Mr Graham - you know, down the wooden steps where the Chess Club met. Poor Mr Graham. Another victim of ill-discipline but in this case, nothing to do with me. I only heard the uproar when I was in Miss Day's Latin lessons next door. ( was that Room 13 ??).

Anyway, Mr Jordan's peace-offering was piles of French cycling magazines and teenage comics for us to look at. "Rendez-vous avec Johnny Halliday !". What a nice man. Mr Jordan, if you're out there........I'm so sorry for all the troube......

But back to the shops........

One was a newsagent, tobacconist and confectioner. In those days, children buying cigarettes went unremarked. From a very early age, Ihad bought them for my Mom at Hiddons' shop in Lea Road, Penn Fields.By the age of 14, after school, several of us would buy ten Park Drive, Senior Service, Capstan. I liked the Craven A black cat. Such seductive images that I had a collection of over 500 cigarette packets (not all smoked by me, I should add). Then off to the West Park to smoke in the bushes until we heard the Parkie's bell telling us to get to the Southgate entrance before he locked us in.

The pillar box outside the shops is still there today. Here we met after-school to assemble bike-convoys before setting out for a noisy ride to Chapel Ash and beyond. Like flocking starlings, social networks were formed, and intelligence exchanged. Here we could indulge in mild misbehaviour, like not wearing caps or jeering at home-bound teachers' cars. Most memorable is the derisive hooting at the white Morris 1000 owned by Mr Cook, another French teacher who, unlike Mr Jordan, never achieved an armistice. In the 1962 autumn term final assembly, Mr Douel's unexpected announcement that Mr Cook was leaving the school prompted spontaneous cheering. Never was "Lord Dismiss Us With Thy Blessing" sung with greater sincerity.

Several of my friends devised their own "Candid Camera" stunts, though I only witnessed one myself. Outside the shop, hiding behind the pillar box we observed the telephone kiosk opposite, next to the playing field railings. We had fixed a note to its entrance reading "Please Use Other Door". You would not believe the reaction of its many users. Some felt tentatively round the edges of the other three sides. Some ventured in and repeated this from inside. Most left without daring to use the phone. We were in stitches over the road.

That call-box also hosted lots of phone pranks. Four of us could easily fit inside, numbers could be tapped out on the cradle, sending pulses to the mechanical equipment at the exchange to obtain a free connection. I vividly remember a hoax call to the Wolverhampton Chronicle. Imagine our glee when the story they had been given from the call-box made the following Friday's front page ! Patrick Isherwood : you may have become a swish London lawyer representing international rock stars but your show business career surely began at the Muni.

The shop forecourt was the focus for the after-school Passeggiata and other courtship rituals Here Boy met Girl. Looking cool while wearing school uniform was an art form and part of Grammar School education. Girls heading up Newhampton Road were admired, assessed and sometimes addressed. An impromptu beauty contest savoured every evening. No one went home until the parade was over. ( Are you reading this, Pat Ault ?)

There was gossip to be had, new pairings and established couples spotted.

"I'll see you at the shop at four-fifteen" was the opening line of a thousand liaisons. "Are you walking up ?" was another. The walk up Molineux Alley to bus stops in Town allowed ten minutes together. Even pushing your bike as you walked added a sort of gallant air to the occasion, though I took to leaving mine at home when real concentration was required. Holding hands while wheeling a bike can be awkward.

I lived in the opposite direction but never missed the chance to "walk up" with a girl. if she agreed to a date, we met in the evening outside Joan's dress-shop in Queen's Square. Why Joan's was so often chosen I don't know but lots of buses stopped there. I once waited there for Gwen Aspinall. She went to the Regis but Nikki Morris had introduced me to her at a dance. I was terrified that I would not recognise her or her me. We shared an interest in playing the guitar and were off to a Folk Club. Romance did not blossom but she lent me Paul Simon's first LP and told me to listen to Bert Jansch. It was another 30 years before I got to see him play. After our A levels, eight of us went on holiday to the Isle of Wight and I can still picture Gwen on Shanklin beach : blond hair, red and blue swimsuit.

The shops are there to this day, one a fine red brick building with a Dutch gable over the doorway. From its Edwardian detailing, it was built at the same time as the school. The other, still a newsagent, is a drab single storey affair which would not even get planning permission now. Do let me know if you remember what they were called. Or even look them up for me in Kelly's Directories for the early 1960's next time you visit the Central Library. And if you can correct or in any way add to my partial recall, please write it down and send it to the Editor !

Stephen Brazier (1958-1965)

Published in WMGS OPA Newsletter, Spring 2014

(A loyal reader took me at my word and posted a photocopy of a street directory from the 1960's with the names of the shops. I have since lost it,)