Miss Wilkie gave a party to the teachers to introduce herself to them and I was despatched to the shops for the best salmon, tinned fruit, cream and brown bread and butter. The girls’ mouths all watered.
I adored Miss Wilkie. I think she had M.A. after her name. She inaugurated a school choir, insisting I should be in it when we entered into competition with other London schools. She realised I couldn’t sing, ‘Let’s hope the judges will be struck deaf on the day,’ my brothers said. ‘For their sakes,’ added my father, but she said my lovely smile would appeal to the judges, and so I was placed in the centre of the front row and I learned to mime. Of course, we won the shield for our rendering of ‘Little seed, oh little brown brother’, and went everywhere singing this.
We had school plays and I was always the villain. Once I had an enormous stye on my eye and Miss Wilkie gave me an eyeshade. During the performance the stye burst and my legs went down between the tables forming our stage. The audience cheered at the downfall of the villain, and kept booing me when I came on. Miss Wilkie said I was a real trouper to carry on and extricate myself without faltering in my words, but I limped home bruised and bleeding and wondered who really liked being famous.
Miss White was my teacher and I often felt she was jealous because I was the prefect, for she always seemed to get at me and make me feel I was nothing really. Perhaps I was getting too big for my boots. Not one of my friends liked Miss White, she was so sarcastic. She would call a girl to her desk and for ages go on shouting, ‘You gem, you beauty, you star,’ etc. She could make us squirm. My needlework was the worst she had ever seen and because the teachers were worried when the inspectors came round, I was not allowed to work on the tucked and gathered chemises we were making out of unbleached calico. Mine was always filthy, according to Miss White, and I pricked my fingers so much there were always bloodstains in the gathers. I was then put in charge of cutting the cotton. The cotton was wound round the short side of a book and cut so that the pieces were very short. As fast as I had ‘threadled’ one piece, I would require another piece. One day Miss Smith was called away and to gain popularity with the class I wound the cotton round the long side of the book and the girls were delighted with the longer threads. When Miss White arrived back she was so angry at what I had done, I was not allowed to cut the cotton any more and she set me sums to do instead. I detested arithmetic and chewed my pencil down to the lead. I ate the wood to save the mess.
We sat for the scholarship before Miss W. became head-mistress and for this purpose were required to bring our birth certificates to school. About half a dozen of us kept forgetting these and Miss W. announced that any girl, forgetting her birth certificate that dinner time and saying, ‘Please, Miss, I forgot it,’ would be caned. I had escaped this punishment so far, and determined to carry on unmarked, I put the ‘sustifikit’ in the pocket of my dress at dinner-time. Miss Cook, our dressmaker, came in with a new dress she had made out of an old one of Winnie’s. It was so lovely Mother said I could wear it to school, and so I arrived back at school covered in glory and it was not until the bell went that I remembered the certificate in my other pocket. I wanted to die and racked my brains to try to avoid the word ‘forgot’ which would bring down the cane on my hand. I dallied about so that I was last in the line of criminals.
There were five of us waiting for execution. Four times Miss W. asked each girl the question, and four times down came the cane. ‘Well, Chegwidden,’ said Miss W., ‘and I suppose you are going to tell me you forgot too.’ ‘No, Miss White,’ I said brightly, ‘I failed to remember.’ ‘You gem, you star, you beauty,’ said Miss W., but she didn’t cane me, and nobody thought it was unfair for we always took Miss W. literally. Perhaps she realised this fact, or perhaps Miss Cook’s frock dazzled her. It was navy blue serge and across the yoke Miss Cook had embroidered it with narrow green and gold braid in a long squiggle. Miss W. sent me all round the school to show it to the other teachers.
She had never forgiven me for not ‘winning’ the scholarship, for the Monday the results were announced she said, ‘Oh, and what happened to you, Chegwidden? Were you dreaming instead of concentrating?’
My sister, Winnie, had won the scholarship and gone to George Green’s School amongst the paid scholars and received a grant for her uniform. Her name was in the school hall at Woolmore Street in gold letters on a shiny black board, and Miss W. seemed to think I had let Winnie and the school down in some way, but I knew why I had failed, because of my cowardice.
The scholarship was held on a Saturday morning at another school across the main road from the docks. Only the girls who had passed the prelim, were allowed to sit, and we all met on a freezing cold day in the strange playground of the enormous school. Mother said I must not worry about it for my fear would make me ill, I already felt sick, and she packed me some rich tea biscuits in sandwiches. I could think of nothing else but these buttered biscuits, longing for playtime so I could eat them, for the scholarship took all morning.
As the bell went for us to start, the girl in front fainted and was carried out. I was so engrossed in this, a teacher came up and ordered me to get on with my sums. The first sum told me I should not win the scholarship, for it was about men digging a trench in a certain time and I had to find out how many men and a half could dig it in another number of days. I’d never heard of half a man in my life. I felt in my pockets, yes, my biscuits were still intact. I didn’t want to get them broken, anyway it was composition after playtime, I would write one that was marvellous. After playtime when the bell went the girl behind me was sick and the school caretaker came in with a bucket of sand. I looked at the list of subjects for the composition. Oh, lovely, there was one, ‘Describe your favourite park or public building.’ That was easy. I had done a whole paragraph before I realised I was describing the Poplar Recreation Ground. I couldn’t do that, I might mention the nasty soldier, and I tried to turn the essay into a description of Tunnel Gardens. Then I knew I was describing too many parks instead of my favourite, and suddenly I thought, well what did a scholarship matter and I became quite happy having reached that decision. But I could have told Miss W. the result before she told me.
I was captain of the netball team. ‘No one,’ said Miss W., ‘can get on to the ball so quickly as Chegwidden. It is really amazing.’ We played other schools and I shone in Miss W.’s eyes. At netball only, I fear, for once in the absence of other teachers she took the whole school and when my hand shot up eagerly to answer a question she said, ‘All right, Chegwidden, we all know that you know,’ laughter from the girls, ‘except at the time of the scholarship.’ More laughter. I never answered a question of hers again.
Miss Wilkie decided to enter some of our compositions for an all London County Council contest and gave us the whole week-end to find a subject. After a sleepless week-end I was no nearer to a solution. I couldn’t think of anything to write about. We had experienced the worst thunderstorm in living memory on Sunday night and tired and dejected I left for school. Passing the church grounds I was shocked at the sight that met my eyes. The enormous oak tree which stood in the grounds was the home for thousands of sparrows; the tree almost moved, mighty though it was, with the noise of their singing at evening time. We all loved the tree. This morning it was sad and wet-looking, for the ground beneath it was covered with hundreds of dead birds, all with caul-like eyes. They had been drowned.
I was feeling more miserable than ever when behind me in the distance I heard a jolly sort of music, and turning, I saw some elephants approaching! Leading them was a young man on a pony. He was carrying a placard advertising a forthcoming circus. The music cheered me up and the sight of the lovely elephants was an unusual treat. Across the road, Mr Samuels was just finishing polishing his fruits. He kept a stall outside his shop and the fruit, which he arranged on green grass cloth, was always red and shiny. Mr Samuels was a very well dressed Jewish gentleman with shiny shoes and a gold chain across his waistcoat. Everything about him s
hone. He was looking surprised at the music and the elephants, when suddenly the elephants wheeled left instead of going on down the road. They began to break into a sort of run towards Mr Samuels’ stall; Mr Samuels dived under the green grass curtain of the stall into his shop and slammed the door just as the elephants reached his stall, where they demolished the fruit in no time at all and just ignored Mr Samuels’ screaming and banging on the window. My brothers went to school in the opposite direction but they had come along to watch the parade and one of them was holding on to the station wall as though his legs wouldn’t hold him up, laughing helplessly.
I now had a lot to write about and I thought about my father’s elephants. When my parents were first married they lived near the Crystal Palace and one night my father returned somewhat merry from a regimental dinner. The road was dark and he slipped on something obnoxious on his front path. He managed to reach the steps to his basement door but when he went to go down them he found himself floundering about on something warm and rubber-like. Suddenly there was an unearthly scream. The windows flew open and Mother and the neighbours appeared with lamps. An elephant had escaped from a circus and wandering about in the dark it had got wedged in Father’s area. The next day this poor creature was paraded round the streets in chains and my father said every now and then the other elephants would beat the escapee with chains. I cried when he told me that.
When the results of the composition contest were announced, Chegwidden of Woolmore Street, Poplar, had come top. I received a certificate and was over the moon, but no one at home seem surprised or enthusiastic, and my friends at school couldn’t have cared less. They were always talking about the day they would leave school, ‘and get some money for our mum,’ but my mother had never asked me for money. I never wanted any for myself although I nearly got pocket money after the war. Father lined David, Cecil, Marjorie and me up and said he would give us twopence every Saturday. When he came to my turn he had run out of coppers and told me to ‘ask your mother.’ How could I ask Mother when I knew she ‘had to manage,’ but he didn’t keep it up with the others either. Mother bought me the girls’ paper each week and one week Cecil came in and snatched it from me. I should have waited for it back, but I was in the middle of a story about a boarding-school, and, snatching it back, it tore just as Mother came into the room. ‘I will buy no more girls’ papers if that is what is going to happen,’ she said. Cecil laughed, but Mother was true to her word.
Fired with my composition success I entered the poetry contest. I wrote forty-eight verses about a cow and a donkey escaping from a cruel farmer. I was sure no one had ever written such a beautiful poem. When the results were announced I didn’t even gain a mention and Miss White said perhaps now I would realise that what counted in this world was not quantity but quality. Nobody had told Mother that! Miss Wilkie sent for me. She had shown my composition to her friend, the headmaster of Millwall Central School and even though I hadn’t passed the scholarship he would be pleased to give me the opportunity I deserved and accept me at his school. I was so excited I fell over twice on the way home and arrived with my knees bleeding and stockings torn which made Mother tut. While she was bathing my knees I stammered out my marvellous news. Mother said quite calmly, ‘Thank Miss Wilkie for her kindness, but we don’t think a mixed school is suitable for you.’ My father had seen the boys and girls ‘larking’ about on the way home and had conveyed his views to Mother. There was no point in telling mother I wouldn’t lark about, I only wanted to learn to be a teacher. I told Miss Wilkie and she said, ‘Such a pity, such a pity.’ Still, Mother couldn’t take my P badge away from me, and I knew she wouldn’t want to. Why couldn’t I have what the others had, why was Dolly different?
I was now old enough for the Girl Guides. I had listened avidly to the adventures of the other girls. Amy had badges from her wrist to the shoulder, Winnie was a lieutenant. They had such good times.
One day a princess was coming to inspect the guides in the local park. Winnie was the only one of the family to possess a Sunday hat. Mother received a grant for Winnie’s school uniform and instead of buying at the prescribed shop, Miss Cook had made the school uniform more cheaply. Yet Winnie was thrilled and Miss Cook proud. The teachers all asked where Winnie obtained her uniform, and the paid scholars were jealous for Winnie’s was tailor-made with better material. Mother had some money over from the grant. It was Winnie’s money, said Mother, she had won the scholarship and she bought Winnie a cream straw hat with shiny cherries on it. No one had ever seen such a creation. Winnie kept it wrapped in tissue-paper and Amy envied and desired this hat more than anything.
On the morning of the guides’ inspection Amy requested a loan of the hat. She wanted to impress her friends and perhaps the princess might see her. No, said Winnie, and off she went in her lieutenant’s uniform. The princess had started down the rows of guides, standing to military attention when, across the park Winnie espied the hat. Amy was wearing it surrounded by admiring friends. Winnie shot out from the line of guides, and leaping all fences and railings in between she reached Amy, snatched the hat, thumped her and leaving her crying, re-leapt the railings and arrived back on parade holding her beautiful hat behind her back. She took it home, inspected it and wrapped it lovingly back in tissue-paper. But sadly one day she went to look at it and ‘someone’ had bitten all the cherries until they turned into cotton wool. The lovely hat was ruined.
Amy was a patrol-leader and kept her pack under tight control. Once at camp she roused them at dawn and ordered them down to the river to bathe. They were all tired as they’d had hardly any sleep, and they had been up late singing camp-fire songs. They reached the river and Amy ordered them in, but just as they got into the water, wearing only their knickers, a herd of cows came galloping down to drink. Forgetting her pack Amy was the first to scramble through the nettles and brambles back to camp, where they all queued at the first-aid station.
When her pack was on kitchen duty, Amy insisted on doing the cooking, urging them on to refuel the fire. Suddenly the flames got too high and her uniform was burnt from neck to hem. I met the guides on their homecoming from camp. They must have been in a storm for their round felt hats were mis-shapen and pointed, their clothes were untidy bundles of rags underneath their arms, and one or two had met with accidents to the elastic of their bloomers. They looked dirty, tired and unrecognisable from the military pack that had moved off so freshly a week before. The following year they went to the seaside at Littlehampton, and Mother had a telegram to say that Amy had met with an accident. Letter would be following, nothing serious. Apparently, some bright spark had suggested a donkey derby. Amy was a jockey, but either she had got panicky when her saddle slipped or the donkey went too fast. Not only had she come off but the donkey had fallen upside down on top of her. Dad said he expected the donkey was more frightened than Amy.
Mother said the guides wouldn’t be suitable for me and I felt very sad when my younger sister, Marjorie, was allowed to join. I often wondered if it was the soldier’s fault. Mother did worry about me. I wished I had been brave that day, perhaps I would have been a teacher, or at least a guide.
Chapter 9
Nature’s Remedy
Mother spared no expense where a doctor was concerned for her children, although until now it had been a rare occurrence to have to call the doctor, the Cheggies were so healthy. At first we had Dr. Skelly, a grey-suited and grey-bearded man. He lived in a grey house in the main road and his surgery was in the basement. Always basements in Poplar. He invariably gave me the same medicine, cherry wine, pronounced delicious by the ‘tasters’ in the family, but of course it was the vilest concoction ever. Mother had implicit faith in doctors for me, but if she ever needed one for herself she never believed the doctor. The different young partners who came to Mother would say laughingly, ‘Well, Mrs C., do you know what is wrong with you yet?’ and Mother would say, ‘No, but it certainly isn’t what you said.’ She would meet a doctor’s eye as
he entered her bedroom and say, ‘Doctor, that medicine you gave me is of no use whatever, it has made me feel a lot worse.’
When she first had to wear spectacles the optician was trying her with a frame only, to get the correct fit, when Mother said indignantly, ‘Well, these are no use at all. I really think I can see better without spectacles!’ My father bought his spectacles on stalls in the market, second-hand ones, for a few coppers. Metal-framed ones which he hammered, soldered and padded until they fitted him, the lenses being the most unimportant part, it seemed. He was a do-it-yourself medical man, too, for he visited the little shop near Upper North Street, a dark shadowy little shop with a tiny bow-fronted window, Baldwins, and here herbal medicines were sold. ‘You can’t beat nature’s remedy,’ Father would say as he swallowed his rhubarb pills.
This shop also sold female pills and it puzzled me why male pills were not sold there too.
Mother always said we were a lucky family and never made a fuss when she was not well, so we were shocked when she was admitted to Poplar hospital with suspected gallstones. I didn’t know how we could manage without her and it was a lonely feeling even though I had my brothers and sisters. Amy had two weeks’ holiday and gallantly offered to be mother for that time, and promised everything would run on oiled wheels. She sincerely meant this and we had great confidence in her, although I knew I would not receive any special treatment regarding food I didn’t like. It would be ‘take it or leave it.’ She fetched the battered alarm clock from Mother’s room and we all went to bed transferring all responsibilities and worries on to Amy’s willing shoulders. She was shining with maternal ardour.
Mother Knew Best Page 9