Way back in my childhood, we had to sit the scholarship. If we passed, we went to the grammar school. Everything we did in class was aimed at getting us ready to take the test.
Here's my story of that scholarship day, 1953. Taken from Through My Eyes: On Becoming a Teacher, available from Amazon
On a particularly cold, windy and
wet January day, we took off our sopping wet wellies and left them on the thick
brown mat outside the classroom door. The warm smell of tobacco gave way to the
damp smell of sweaty and dirty socks. It was scholarship day.
“Put
them boots, wellies, whatever you’re wearing, in pairs,” ordered Mr.
Hitchens, “then come and move these
desks. Come on.”
“Why
we movin’ us desks, Sir? Asked one of the kids.
“So
we couldn’t see each other’s work and cheat, twerp,” said
another. “It’s scholarship, ‘member?”
“That’s
right,” said Mr. Hitchens, “I’ll rip
up your paper if I see you as much look at anyone else’s test.”
“Gotta
be all your own work.”
“And,
you, Stephens,” he said, looking directly and smiling at John Stephens, “put away your Rinso Book. If I see you
open it and cheat, you’re in trouble.”
“Big
trouble.”
John laughed, waved his Rinso Book of Knowledge in the air, then
put it in his desk.
As we shuffled our desks, our nerves
added to the tension. Even though the coal fire was lit, the room felt cold.
Mr. Hitchens, holding out a wooden
tray, gave us our instructions:
“It’s your big day. Scholarship day.
This is important. No cheating. No copying.”
“ Turn out your pockets. Empty
everything into this tray.”
He passed
the tray around the classroom. I deliberately disobeyed the
instructions. I was not going to be parted from my precious Lariggan amber and
my wishing rock.
Mr.
Hitchens collected the tray and put it on one of the shelves, and said,
“We’re using pens. Not pencils.”
“Good. Done that, everyone? OK. Take
the paper, put your names at the top, read the questions.” “Read them
carefully.” He looked at the big wall clock.
“OK. Start!”
“Oh, writing first. That’ll take the
longest. Then do the sums, ok?”
“Best of luck. C’mon – do your
best.”
Martin, with a pained look on his
face, put up his hand, closed three fingers, and immediately got Mr. Hitchens’
attention.
“ NO, you can’t go to the lav, Martin,
you should have gone before.”
“You’ll have to wait.”
“Can’t, sir,” said Martin.
“It’s a number two. Gotta go bad.”
“Can’t wait. It’s coming out.”
“OK, quick, quick." said Mr. Hitchens. "Take the lav
paper, quick. Here. Two sheets. Take ‘em.”
“Martin………..don’t forget to put your wellies
on. It’s still wet outside.”
When Martin came back from the outside
lavatory, Mr. Hitchens checked the clock again:
“OK, Martin’s back.”
“NO more questions.”
As Mr. Hitchens handed out the
papers, everything went deathly quiet. Everyone knew this was THE day.
“OK……..START.”
We opened
the paper and read the instructions and started the test.
Forty-five pens dipped into forty-five
inkwells and scratched the surfaces of the white sheets of paper.
Knowing for sure it was going to help
me if I sent a big wish on this very important day, I touched the treasure
tin of amber and a small wishing rock in my pocket.
I disobeyed instructions again. and
did the maths first.
I wanted to get the sums out the way
so I could really concentrate on the writing part of the exam.
The multiplication and division sums
were easy.
Chewing the end of my wooden pen for
a bit, I read that I had to write a story, and underline the nouns, adjectives,
verbs and adverbs.
I wanted to write what was bursting
inside my head. I wrote the title, Feeling Happy and Feeling Sad.
The first part of the story focused
on my special birthday walk on the beach, searching for wishing rocks with my dad, the day I found my precious amber. I
drew a picture of my face, smiling from ear to ear, and described how I felt
when I first saw my amber.
Then, dipping my pen into the clay
inkwell, I wrote about the day Mum couldn’t pay our bread bill. Describing my emotions with adjectives and
adverbs that really meant something to me helped clear much of the bad memory
out of my head. I underlined all of the nouns the adjectives, the verbs and the adverbs.
After drying the ink with my blotting paper, I drew another picture of my face, sopping wet with tears.
Exactly an hour after we had
started, we were told to put down our pens and hand in our papers, drink our
milk, and go out to play.
Playtime was filled with raucous top
class boys shouting loudly, getting rid of their pent-up emotions.
“That
was dead ‘ard,” said one boy. “Don’t wanna
go grammar, anyways.”
“Weren’t,” said
Charles. “Dead easy.” “My dad wants me to
go to the grammar.”
”I
bet I pass.”
Mr. Hitchens filled up the rest of
the morning with singing time, and let us draw in the afternoon, saying,
“Too
late now to teach you anything new.”
“Scholarship’s done and dusted.”
“Here,
use the crayons, draw what you like.”
"Just
be quiet.”
The weeks went by painfully
slowly as we waited for the scholarship results.
I SO wanted to go to the
grammar school because Dad said, again and again, that going to the grammar
school was the first step on becoming a teacher.
If I passed the scholarship,
I’d be the first one ever in my family. That, said Dad, would make him very,
very proud.
I kept urging my amber and my
very best wishing rocks to bring me
luck.
“C’mon,
amber, c’mon wishing rock – you can do it.”
One cold and
cloudy day in February, the new headmaster, Mr. Paltridge, who had recently
replaced Mr. Curnow when he retired, came into Mr. Hitchens’ classroom just
before playtime. Telling us to be quiet, he loudly called out four names.
“Rowe.”
“Murley.”
“Hawkins.”
He paused.
“Paull.
Paull with 2 ls.”
“You,” Mr. Paltridge said,
“You lot passed. You passed the Scholarship.
You can go and tell your mothers. NOW.”
“The rest of you didn’t.” Mr. Paltridge’s voice trailed off.
He turned
and left the room.
Thank you, thank you, wishing rock.
Dudley gasped with surprise.
“Me?
Not me. Never. I don’t want to go to the grammar.”
“Mum
can’t afford the uniform. Won’t have no blazer.”
The other boys looked at the four of
us. Some of them cheered. John Stevens threw down his Rinso Book of Knowledge. It didn’t work for him.
“Anyone
want this? For three pence?”
Stephen Palk, sitting near the
front, started to cry, and then clasped his hands over his head. Stephen had
wanted so much to pass the scholarship. It was all he talked about for weeks in
the yard.
Poor Stephen.
The four of us cleared away our
books, fetched our coats from the coat-pegs in the corridor outside the
classroom, and ran home to tell our mothers. Racing through the front door, I
heard Mum upstairs, making the beds.
“Mum!” I shouted. “I
passed.” “I PASSED!”
“And Dudley……. Dudley passed, too” “And,
funny, he doesn’t want to go to the
grammar.”
Mum knew right away what I meant,
and, her face beaming, came downstairs. ‘You passed, Johnny?” You passed?
Your Dad’ll be pleased. Now you WILL be a teacher.’’
“Who else passed? Did Stephen Palk
pass?”
“Dudley passed? Roger, Roger Roach, did he
pass?”
She put on her coat and, holding my
hand, we flew across Alma Terrace, into Bread Street, down the Arcade steps,
and into Grandfather’s pub at the top of Queen Street.
Granddad was really pleased.
“Here,” he said,
handing me one of his Parker pens and a ten-shilling note.
“
Spend this in Woolworth’s.”
Within the hour, Grandmother Wilkes marched
me up to Simpson’s the Tailors, proudly told Mr. Simpson that I had passed the
scholarship, and bought me a new school uniform. I then had my photograph taken
at White’s the Photographers.
“Right.
Now let’s go to Woolies and you can spend the ten bob.”
I bought two balsa wood model planes
in Woolworth’s, something I had wanted ever since a boy at school brought one to
school and played with it at playtime. One plane was for me and the other for
Charles.
As we left Woolworth’s, a
huge black thundercloud had moved across the sky revealing the big and bright
yellow sun. Life was so great, I thought. I’m going to the grammar, and, in one
hour’s time, I was going to be flying my balsa wood plane.
In seven months time, I was
going to be attending Penzance Grammar School.
In seven months time, I was
going to be taking my first step on the right path to become a teacher.
Dad was tickled pink with the
news.
“Proper
job, Johnny, proper job.”
“Now,
Johnny, you CAN be a teacher.”
“The
first in the family.”
The next day, the four of us who
passed the scholarship were separated from the rest of the class and taken by
Mr. Hitchens into the small staff room.
There was a small gas ring on the
table that the teachers used for boiling the kettle when making tea. Mr.
Hitchens told us to sit on the floor as he lit the gas. He carefully placed a
pan half full of water on the top, and told us to watch. We sat in silence and
waited……..soon the water bubbled and boiled.
“That,”
said, Mr. Hitchens, “is science. You’ll
do science in the grammar school. Science is about watching and thinking and writing
notes. Here, use these sheets of paper. Draw this experiment.”
In awed silence, we drew and
recorded everything we saw. Because it was such a change from writing stories,
putting in capital letters, underlining nouns and verbs, writing and drawing
like a scientist was exciting, even though I couldn’t quite understand why
boiling a pan of water was science.
“ Go on. Draw and write about the science
experiment.”
“We’ll
do this again next week, ok?”
So, I thought, this was science.
When we finished, Mr. Hitchens
turned off the gas and we trooped smugly back to our classroom, ready to face
the barrage of questions from the rest of the class during the morning break.
I couldn’t wait to get home and tell
Mum and Dad over tea about the science lesson.
“It’s
great. We did science. It’s dead good. Really, really special.”
“I’m
going to do science in the grammar school.”
Mum and Dad looked quizzically at
each other.
“Mmmm,”
said Dad. “That sounds
great. Doesn’t it, Mum?” “Boiling water.” Great……”
“Here,
Johnny,” he said handing me a small cardboard box. “This is for you.”
I opened the box and peeked inside.
I couldn’t believe what I saw. I was
staring at my very first wrist-watch.
Lying at the bottom of the box was
something I had wanted so much, a Hopalong
Cassidy Watch.
“That’s
for passing the scholarship. We’re so proud of you.”
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