Strangely though, I only have positive memories of Miss O'Donovan. whilst everything Mrs Angry says is true, as a dyslexic and a thicko, Miss O'Donovan saw no purpose in beating, taunting and humiliating me, beyond the absolute bare minimum required to ensure that I was scared to death of her. I almost immediately realised that she really enjoyed taunting those who were clever, articulate and diligent. She would seek out the most minor pretext to sort them out. This invariably involved humiliation and pain. As a troublesome thicko, I had already realised that humiliation and pain were part of the experience of going to school, so it was no shock to me. Sitting in Miss O'Donovan's class, I'd sit and watch and think "welcome to my world" as the class swots, teachers pets and goodie two shoes were ritually ground into the dust.
Arriving in 1967, it was not like that. The teacher for the baby class was Sister Rosalie, a young nun with the order of the daughters of charity. My memories of this year was happy. Sister Rosalie was famously nice for a nun. We made crocodiles out of old cotton reels, sang the alphabet song and did rather bad paintings that she would say were marvellous. I thought that the scare stories had been simply one of a number of myths that my siblings perpetrated on me to scare me. My memory of the time (bearing in mind I arrived in late spring) was one of never ending sunshine, happy hours and playground frolics.
As I was born in August, six weeks premature, I was the smallest boy in the class. Biologically, I should have been in the year below, but I'd had to be popped out early. This was an enormous disadvantage until I was 14 and started to grow. I was always the smallest, weakest, worst at football. To counter this I used to revel in causing trouble. The one saving grace of the time was I was nationally famous. I used to star in TV commercials, such as Heinz Beans, Cadburys chocolate, Lucozade and Tizer. These were screened every day on national TV. It meant that generally I was given a slightly easier time. The fact I was very good at it confused everyone, not least because I was so bad at everything else. The school banned me from taking part in school plays and nativity services, on the grounds that I was "big headed enough already".
But when the term finished in July, and I'd emerged unscathed, I was blissfully deluded as to what was lurking on the horizon. Like the phoney war of 1939, I was deluded that it was all going to be fine. When I returned to the Infant 1 class, our teacher was Miss Munich. Whilst most of my classmates have fond memories, I don't. We started learning to read and write, a task I found almost impossible. We would be given lists of words to learn. We would get these on a Friday and have a spelling test on a Monday. If you got one wrong you were called to front of the class and have to repeat it after the teacher. You would then sit down and the teacher would ask you to spell it again. For me, the word was "Train". I spelt it T-R-I-A-N". I was called to the front of the class, made to repeat it word for word. I then sat down. I was asked to spell it again. I said T-R-I-A-N. Miss Munich called me up to the front of the class and wrote it on the board. By now I was in a state of mild panic. My classmates were sniggering. She asked me to write it on the board, under where she'd written it. Have you ever been so overwhelmed by panic, that you can't focus. So there I was and wrote T-R-I-A-N under the letters she'd written. At this, a ruler was produced and I was rapped across the knuckles. Welcome to St Vincents. Miss Munich informed me that is I was going to be stupid I'd be getting the ruler quite a lot. The one lesson I did learn was that I've never spelled train wrong since.
You may think that I would be bitter and twisted about this. I am not. It was the way that children were taught at St Vincents. Was the education bad? Well I have a brother who is a retired rocket scientist, and sisters who are a teacher, a nurse and a barrister respectively, with all the qualifications etc to boot. I was the only one of my five siblings not to have further education after school. I actually think St Vincents was far more liberal in my day that when Laurie and Frank had walked in to get the cane.
But today, I was shocked to see a tweet that enraged me. I saw this and I was transported back to my five year old self, in Mrs Munichs class. The highlight of the day was playtime. The day in question was in late March (I think). It was one of those days when the sky was dank and threatening, but with the odd crack in the clouds. You know the sort of day when you get spectacular shards of light beaming down. The sort of day that things look rather strange. I was in the infants playground (this was the other side of the big brick wall that runs down the Ridgeway in Mill Hill).
The sky was so spectacular that I was transfixed. I was with my two best friends at the time, John McGeough and Peter Conway. We were admiring this celestial light show when and amazing thing happend. The sun literally split in two. As we were all raised Roman Catholics and alter servers, and had been told of the book of revelations, we speculated that this might be the start of the end of the world. St Vincents taught us about the book of revelations from an early age. There was a reason for this. The Jehovahs witnesses were down the road and the school was worried that we would be enticed away by them. As the book of revelations is a key part of the JW's belief system, the school felt that we needed special preparation aged 5-6.
Peter, John and myself were transfixed and amazed. We pointed it out to several of our other classmates, so much so that we all started staring at it. A playground superviser saw us looking at the sky and came over. She said "What are you doing?" We replied "Look at the Sun miss". She went mad "Don't look at the Sun, you will go blind. Who told you to look at the Sun?". The unanimous answer came out "Roger Tichborne". I protested "look miss, there are two of them". She replied "Don't be so stupid". I was sent to sister Gabrielle, the headmistress. She was informed that I had made my classmates stare at the Sun. She demanded to know why. I explained. At this she called me evil. I was informed that there is only one Sun and I was beaten with a table tennis bat to make sure I knew. I insisted that she should ask John and Peter, but she was having none of it. When I came out, i returned to my class. Miss Munich was in full flow, telling everyone that staring at the sun would make them go blind. I was made to sit in the corner on my own for a week. I did however ask John and Peter whether I'd imagined it. They, rather shamefaced said no, the Sun had split in two. I expected this to be on the front page of the Daily Express the next day. It wasn't. If I hadn't got a bruised bum, I would have thought I imagined the whole thing.
As with many things, I simply forgot about it and locked it away in that box of memories called "difficult". If you know something happened, have witnesses, but everyone tells you that you are lying, it is almost impossible. But today I feel vindicated. Today I feel that an apology from the school is warranted. For I now have found out that what I saw was real and that, whilst staring at the sun is not advised, we had been treated to a celestial spectacle beyond parallel in Mill Hill.
This morning, I awoke to see this tweet on my timeline.
Stunning Sun Dog in Sweden pic.twitter.com/ROU1ARL3y0— Beauty Nature (@itsbeautynature) December 24, 2018
What we had seen was what is known as a Sun Dog. You can read about it here https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sun_dog. I feel privileged to have witnessed this in Mill Hill. It made a lasting impression. I am extremely happy that my initial explanation, the Apocalypse, was not the cause.
The sad thing is that I was so scarred by what happened, I have never sought an explanation for this before. I never discussed it with my Dad, who as an RAF pilot would have studied meteorology, who would doubtless have provided a proper scientific answer. I have also had the burden of being made to feel like an evil psychopath aged five. I am glad that there is a rational explanation. I hope I see one again. Today has taught me a lesson, one which sadly was beaten out of me at St Vincents. If you search long and hard enough you will find a solid rational explanation for even the strangest things.
I think St Vincents owe me an apology for not teaching me that. I feel vindicated, but sad. How many people never raise their eyes to the heavens and never see the glory of such things.
2 comments:
Hi Rog, I'm amazed you remember so much from our primary school days. I probably buried it all just because they WEREN'T the 'happiest days of my life'. However, thanks for your trip down memory lane even with poignant features which must be hard to relive. Like yourself, it serves to remind me how I survived, relatively unscathed!
Hi Gerry,
It was only seeing the Sundog Tweet that dredged it all up. I have an almost photographic memory for incidents where I feel a great sense of injustice, far less for the good times. When I think about my schooling, I enjoyed the Baby class. I also enjoyed the time I spent at Orange Hill, which had a whole bunch of great musicians and teachers who wanted you to learn and treated you with a modicum of respect and humour. Apart from a few notable exceptions such as John and Alison Shuttler, Mr Katz and a few others, I had little in the way of inspiration from the FCHS teachers either. Some were mad, some were bad and some were plain bonkers.
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