“Whatarhav-ar-wotyoubeendoon-ar;notcuogh-koff;cough!”
The question had probably acquired its urgency and importance over 40yrs previously, when I came home from St. Silas’ one afternoon, and answered the question with the memorable response-
“Mrs. Hill has been tellin’ us where babies come from”.
Through my first bite of bread and jam sandwich tea, I was aware of the atmospheric pressure increasing hugely. Mrs. Hill was a divorcee, and this at a time when a divorcee was regarded as a scarlet woman. Rather than utter the word aloud, a respectable woman would be more likely to mime it, exaggeratedly, in the manner of a Les Dawson, ‘Cissie and Ada’ sketch about trouble ‘down there’.
After the hens had done a little squawk, and run up and down their perches-
“What did she say, then?”
“She said your Dad had to plant a seed in your Mom’s tummy, and it grows into a baby”. This, to me, was no more controversial than mustard and cress on wet cotton wool, on a windowsill, but even I could feel the great wodge of millibars slamming up the pressure scale. Even though concentrating on the vexing question of which first- top crusts (favourite) or bottom crusts (get them out of the way) I was still aware of such snippets as ‘Disgustin! Never orter be allowed! No business tellin’ bairns such stuff!’ All it did for this bairn was to conjure up a perfect mental picture of a box, about 6” cube, dark green inside, balanced on a corner, with a bright yellow ping-pong sized ball- the seed- bouncing happily inside, while outside was just a warm, dark void. Not long after this, Mrs. Hill was replaced by a man- Mr. Hill. No relation.
The most lasting thing I learned at St. Silas’, not nearly so controversial, but every bit as useful, I learned quite by accident. Whenever we had a new kind of sum to do, we were given a card with an example on it, a sort of blueprint of the layout and modus operandi. One day, on the floor, I chanced to find a sample card for long division of pounds shillings and pence- like divide six hundred and ninety four pounds, fourteen shillings and eight pence ha’penny, by twenty nine.
I knew what it was because I could read the title, but the sum, itself, looked like a Gordian knot of arithmetic. I looked at for several minutes, before I dumped it on the teacher’s desk, thinking-‘I’ll never be able to do that.
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| £.s.d. Long Division |
I kept worriting at it, and chewing over it in my mind, until not long after, it came up, in the normal progression of teaching. I coped with it, and laughed inside, at my earlier terror. After that, if I ever came up against a seemingly insurmountable problem, I would think ‘Its only like long division of £.s.d. I’ll cope with it’, and I did, with one exception- Calculus. Later.
My swan song at St. Silas’ was as a herald in the May Queen concert. After varicose singing and dancing ‘turns’ had performed, the May Queen and all her retinue processed in, down the centre aisle, to the strains (and I do mean ‘strains’) of Percy Grainger’s ‘English Country Garden’ That’s another sound that shoots me 60 yrs backwards, down the time tunnel. I said I was a herald, but I don’t know what function I fulfilled. Paired with my friend, John Groom, dressed all in white, we were definitely in the lesser ranks. We might have been pages. If we were heralds, we didn’t have trumpets, not even cardboard ones.
At the dress rehearsal, a photographer came to preserve the event for posterity. I clearly remember him explaining, carefully, that we must sit or stand perfectly still, smile, and be ready for a bright flash of light, but we mustn’t blink, or close our eyes. He would warn us when it was going to flash, but we must brace ourselves to keep our eyes wide open, and not to turn away. He did warn us. The light flashed.
I still have a lovely photo. Yes, the photographer did, indeed, preserve the moment for posterity. It was even in the local press- the Sheffield Star. In the photo, the little kiddies in their various white outfits, are all posing, proudly, all wide-eyed, and gazing into the camera. All, that is, except for this one little boy, one of a pair dressed in white shirts and trousers, with his little face in profile, his eyes screwed tight shut, while at the other side of the stage sits his opposite number, bright eyes wide open-John Groom.