Floreat semper schola

He puts his best foot forward, undecided whether to grin or smile and opens the front door, letting in September sunshine to warm the Mansion polished tiles of a small railway town semi. He savours the last moments of summer freedom.

He looks at his shoes shining in the sunlight, for you judge a man by his shoes. He pulls his cap straight, no hint of the later jauntiness. His blazer is too big, the breast pocket badge inexpertly sewn on by his mother. The sleeves cover his hands, but he’ll grow into it; trousers too short but they were good enough for his brother and waste not, want not.

He wonders how to carry the unfamiliar satchel, should it go over his neck or just hang on a shoulder. He opts for the shoulder. He slings the gym bag over the other shoulder, the tough boots kick him in the back.

He walks down the avenue, turns onto the main road. He passes the bus stop and looks in the window of Ginger Brett’s sweet shop, pink shrimps, blackjacks and love hearts. In the years to come he will buy behind the counter Domino cigarettes sold in fours or twos. The cough they will give will make Woodbines seem a luxury.

Basil the barber, Woodbine stub behind his ear tunelessly whistling while he delivers a short back and sides no matter what is requested and sells mysterious things for the weekend to his father.

He turns right through the double wrought iron gates and on to the drive filling with temporarily buffed blazered boys and permanently polished girls some in gingham check skirts, two inches below the knee, white socks and berets. Others in gym slips ready for the winter.

He is ushered into the huge hall, directed to seats by man-boy prefects.

“Stand”. A disembodied voice from the stage.

The Head makes his entrance. A crow with gown flowing wings and curious pecking walk takes centre stage.

“Sit”. Sunlight glints off the crow’s horn-rimmed glasses.

He is told of the school song, school rules that he must obey, school traditions that he must uphold and then a list of the names allocated to each form.

“Barker, 1U”.

He is desolated. Primary school was graded A,B,C and D. How bad must he be to be in U?

Into the form room, boys on the right girls on the left. Seated alphabetically. Barker is right at the front, no hiding place.

Now the register roll call. He may answer his name with “Adsum” which he later learns is Latin although it is destined to be the only Latin he will remember.

“Barker? Barker?” enquires the gaunt gowned master.

“Sir”

“Do you have an elder brother here boy?”. Elder not older.

“Yes sir”.

“Then you are Barker Minor. We shall call you Puppy” and is convulsed by self-congratulatory laughter. The eleven plussed, non plussed class laugh too to ward off the evil eye.

His first lesson in the tools of a Grammar school teacher’s trade. Sarcasm, humiliation, and red ink all applied liberally to stifle imagination and any hint of individuality for this is a temple to conformity and uniformity. The fitting of round and square pegs to appropriate holes. He thinks that there must be more shapes than circles and squares.

He learns about margins, date carefully underlined, and he copies out his timetable. Subjects he has never heard of, in rooms he will struggle to find.

Daunting Geometry and Algebra, Biology, Physics, Chemistry but he likes the sound of French and English and reserves judgement on Latin, History and Geography. He already has made his mind up on Religious Education but apparently not on split infinitives. He dismisses Art, Woodwork and Music and dreads double games.

The day passes in unrelenting mystery. The home time bell rings but you may not move until allowed. Sadism surfaces and they are held straining like greyhounds waiting in their traps and then released row by row.

Home and the person who has become Barker Major asks “What form are you in?”.

He mumbles the answer in a minor key.

“Oh! Well done”. He suspects sarcasm for he has been immersed in it all day.

“U is for Upper. The top form, the brain boxes, the swots. Who’s your form master?”

A valid gender assumption for there were few women on that stage.

“Mr Arkwright”.

“Holy Joe Arkwright? He’s a perv!”

He doesn’t know what a perv is and assumes that it is like a Jehovah’s Witness or perhaps a sect like the Moonies.

“It’s all science and Latin for you”.

He forgot to mention the misery.