Looking back at old school times

Miss Brock was so pleased to see me. Miss Brock is best described as formidable but fair. But let it be known that nobody left her school innumerate or illiterate. She immediately made it clear that we were working toward the 11-plus exam which would determine which of us would go to Andover Grammar school and which to the separate boys and girls’ schools on the London Road.

During private meetings between the two of us in her office — no coffee, no chair — she explained that I had to ‘knuckle down’, that the answer was not to be found staring out of the window, that life is not one long joke, etc.

But after a couple of months she started to say that I should not worry about the 11-plus, that neither Andover school was good enough for me. But I was so naive I didn’t even know what a Gulag was.

I looked it up in the library, my only visit, to find that it was a place for dissidents, trouble makers, alcoholics and those with diverse carnal preferences. I knew immediately that it was a party I needed to be at.

But ... and there is always a but, someone split on me.

They contacted the authorities in Siberia and told them that I had swum in the (unheated) swimming baths at the top of London Street in Andover — in the winter.

Now winters were much colder then and a sign was displayed saying how much antifreeze had been added to the water. Anything above 50 per cent meant the water was desperately cold and when you dived in you couldn’t breathe for 20 minutes. This we knew could damage the brain and my brain didn’t have much start on the cold water. The other worrying thing was that your important parts could shrink to the size of a normal person.

Many will remember when the circus was in the Walled Meadow and the polar bear and seals refused to swim in the cold pool. They held a protest march up and down the High Street.

And so the Gulag refused me, too tough they said.

It was back to the 11-plus.

Now how do you test the development of an 11-year-old boy?

Some tests perhaps like: skin and gut a rabbit in under two minutes, using only your own penknife — right, we’re off and running — well not the rabbit obviously; climb to the very top of the highest tree in the village and make a noise like an owl to echo across the valley; ride no hands on your pushbike while whistling the theme from The Lone Ranger; siphon petrol from a lorry swallowing no more than two mouthfuls; repair a puncture on your pushbike using your mum’s best (only) serving spoons as tyre leavers — and live to tell the tale; on bonfire night, throw with absolute accuracy and precision bangers and jumping jacks to land at the feet of the girls.

But no. After a bus from Grateley school to the boys’ school it was an exam about fractions, miles/yards/feet/ inches, and the old favourite — a train leaves the station and proceeds at an average speed. There was also a composition paper. My story was of a boy who skinned a rabbit and then ...

As well as the exam a recommendation from the school was considered. But my two elder sisters had passed and I was by far the brightest of the three of us.

You didn’t get a score for the exam. I saw the results on the teacher’s desk. All fails except one pass. A girl called Susan Saunders I seem to remember. Unusually there was a third column marked ‘Pathetic’. And yes, there I was all on my own.

The 11-plus exam was a process of evaluation that worked. I was not clever enough to pass, but I knew that. It doesn’t define a person.

After one year at the boys’ school, were you to have shown the ability to be at the grammar school you would be moved. And after GCEs if you got the right results, and many of us did, you could transfer to the grammar school for A levels.

I’m told that education standards are no higher now than then. My worry is that the great majority of pupils leave with Corbyn monoxide poisoning, unable to debate or question another’s view.

Miss Brock had a happy retirement, I’m told. And so she should. What a great teacher.

Brian Forrest, Over Wallop.