Junior School Part Two

Before I continue I would like to say that I was amazed at how many of you commented that you were also bullied at school after you read my first posting about my Junior school a couple of days ago.  It was brave of you to come forward and say so. I was in a bit of a dilemma as to whether to put my bullying experience in that entry or whether to keep it private, either not saying anything or creating another journal and inviting a chosen few. However, I am glad I went ahead and wrote about it because it touched a chord with quite a few of you. I wonder if that is a little of the reason we keep journals today, I mean you are pretty anonymous in front of your computer screen, nobody can see you, nobody can judge you. Nobody knows if you are fat or skinny, whether you wear glasses, whether you have some disability. We can emerge from our shells. If you were unable to express the real you when a child, maybe we do it this way today. Who knows? It would be very interesting to see how many of us suffered bullying in our childhood or even in our teens. If you would like to leave your thoughts on this under comments, then please feel free, or maybe you will decide to write about your experiences on your own journal. Are you still haunted by memories?

Junior School Part Two.

So, life at school went on. I would pay as much attention as I could to lessons but my eyes were always on the clock and listening for the bell so that I could make a dash out into the toilets and lock myself in before I was spotted by the dreaded Margaret. In the summer the cubicle would be stifling and smelling and in the winter freezing cold. I would sit huddled in there listening to them all playing in the yard and wondering why I was “different”. What had I done? Of course, I now know that I had done nothing, bullies are bullies and take great delight in tormenting children who are not as outgoing as themselves for whatever reason. However, they do not realise the harm ( or do they?) that they inflict and that memories and scars can last a lifetime.

I feel sorry for the children of today. It was bad enough in my time but you got used to punches and kicks. Now, it is more mind games. Children send vile text messages on mobile phones and plague other children long after school is closed.

Of course, there were good moments at school. When Jean and I were on are own with our other friend Leslie H. we had some very nice times. In school I think I loved the approach of Christmas most of all, making cards for our parents, snowflakes of paper and cotton wool which were glued to the windows to simulate snow, the roaring fire in each classroom in those days before central heating was even thought of. Decorating the walls and ceiling with paper chains and bits of tinsel. Somehow in that short run up to Christmas (It did not start in August like it does now), nothing seemed quite so bad. I also liked the milk we were issued in school in those times, freezing it was in the winter being kept outside in crates. Sometimes I was the milk monitor and had to hand it out to the other children.

I remember one morning when we were sitting in class the school secretary came in and whispered something to the teacher. The next minute we were told to sit very quietly as there had been some sad news. Then it was broken to us that the King had died. The King was a very remote figure to us, we saw him on newsreels and the Christmas radio broadcast was a must for all households but that was about it. We were told we were being sent home for the rest of the day as all schools were closing as a mark of respect. For the next couple of days all the talk was of the late King, how sad he had died so young and speculation about how the young Princess Elizabeth would handle being our Queen.

So home we went. In those days, Mothers did not work so there was no problem seen in sending children home en masse and unexpectedly. Even if their mothers were out shopping they would be home soon or a neighbour would be in. However, my mother was the exception to the rule and she did work, so home I went to an empty house. I did not want to bother the neighbours, I hated having to knock and ask if I could come in. I was quite happy in my own little way and in my own little world, reading my books until he got home. He being my oldest brother. Bullying at school was bad enough but he was a master at it and he knew how to really frighten me, to have me shaking in my bed, scared to go to sleep. I think I will leave it there, some things are too private for a public journal. Some memories are just too painful to recall. I have been writing this journal for almost a year and it has taken me all this time to even open up to you about the bullying.

I also remember getting a couple of good beatings from my Mother. One, I will not go into. The other one concerned acardigan. Clothes and food were still on ration and times were still pretty hard.My mother had bought me a cardigan. I can see it to this day. It was beige and covered in lines of little “Dutch” boys and girls in red, yellow and green. I loved it. My mother wanted me to wear it to school and I was so proud to do so. Other pupils commented on how lovely it was. In the classroom I took it off and hung it over the back of my chair. Those were the days when you remained in the same classroom all day so it was quite safe and when I fled to the toilets I remembered to take it with me. It acted as a sort of comfort blanket. Came the last lesson, the cardigan still hung on the back of the chair. The school bell went for going home time and I was always the first one to escape so that I could run like hell off up the road before Margaret could get her spiteful hands on me. Yes, I forgot the cardigan. It was not until I walked into the front door of my home that I realized. I got back to school as fast as my legs would carry me. Into the classroom - no cardigan! I searched and searched. I asked the cleaners, I asked the teachers that remained. It had gone. I went home sobbing and frightened. We never found out who took it and it was certainly never worn by anyone to school. I hid in my room. When my mother came home, it took me hours to summon up the courage to tell her. I still remember the stinging of her hands as she hit me. My mother was not a bully and there were only two occasions when she hit me but I remember them both. She and I were just never able to truly connect until I was an adult with a daughter of my own.

I never realised I had so much to say about my Junior school and bearing in mind you have to sit and read it I shall simply have to say:-

To be continued.