Richard O'Connor Story

Initially I received the following email from Richard. Prompted by what he had written, I contacted him and asked for his story. The following are both the initial mail and his story.

Dear Mr Scott,

Other names, I wonder if anyone remembers  Barry Anderson, Jimmy Parry, David Cullinan, Derek Logan, Betty Gray, Anthony Rice, Johnny Haddon and so , so many more. David Lewis remembered fondly, Michael McCulloch and Michael Faherty from the swimming photograph.

I wonder how many of your group remember going to Gem Street school for woodwork classes, and the red tokens to use on the bus when travelling to play football or cricket for the school, usually at Perry Park or Perry Common. The weekly treat to go to the playing fields again on the bus that parked at the top of the stone steps in Long Acre, and swimming at Nechells Baths. 

Some of the clergy I remember from that time, Father Slade, Motherway and maybe Walsh. Using the church as a temporary school when poor old St Joseph's was having some money spent on it.I am sure there is more to recall and I hope that this message makes sense, I seem to have entered rambling mode, put it down to being a man of a certain age. Every success in your quest for information.

Just for the record I left school on the 13th April 1962, a Friday but hopefully not to unlucky.

The Best Days Of Your Life

So often the phrase I have used as a title was spoken by my elders as a lesson in life that would only be understood with the passage of time taking its toll in maturing years. As this maturity seems to expand at a breakneck pace, I now tend to understand the logic of it all.

If memory serves me correctly a great deal of time and effort was expanded in trying to convince me, as a five year old, that this new experience would be wonderful, beyond my wildest dreams, it seemed to me it was a just a way of curtailing my present life and together with goodness knows how many other children, starting the process of conformity and growing up, although at the time I didn’t quite understand it in those terms. But before describing my first day in school, it would be worthwhile to explain where this new phase was going to take place.

Saint Joseph’s RC School

The school consisted of two buildings set on a large plot of land bounded by a high brick wall. They were separated by the parish church of Saint Joseph’s, which is itself, a fine example of Victorian architecture. It was designed by a man called Augustus Pugin, who was also the architect for the Roman Catholic Cathedral in Birmingham, known as St Chad’s. The parish church was also unusual by the fact that it was one of only three churches in the diocese that was surrounded on all sides by a cemetery.

The infant and senior school, known as the top school, was a two storey building which could be accessed through a door from the main road, for teachers use only, for the rest of us it was down a flight of stone steps which led into the playground right by the door into the infant part of the school. It always seemed very dark in there, although a lot of the walls had wood on them and everywhere was painted in dark colours, mostly brown I think. Anyway, more of that later.

The bottom school was for the junior classes, a single storey building with its own playground. It was a few minutes walk between the two which took you alongside the church on a tar macadam road and down quite a steep hill to reach the bottom school.

The playground was quite large, extremely hard on the knees and painted with a variety of white lines that confused everyone,  but we were reliably informed (by the headmaster) that they represented a football, netball and hockey pitch, I do remember two netball posts, they were so worn they swung around in their bases and were never in the same place for two minutes at a time, coats and lunch-boxes proved to be wonderful goal-posts, they always seemed to get wider and wider as play time went on, as to hockey sticks I am sure they must have been buried in the caretakers sheds, I don’t remember ever seeing them. So around eighty children every playtime were all, either launching or kicking a ball around, every one knew where the touchline or baselines were, when a ball was out or in play. With so many definitions of space and area it comes as something of a surprise that so many of us foundered on the intricacies of Pythagoras theory.

Entrance into the school was via two staircases from the playground, a very nice wooden one used by the girls, this took them past the headmasters office and always had to be approached with as little noise as possible, opposite was the teacher’s common room, a room associated with visits from the school dentist and dread of dreads, the school nurse, especially if there had been a outbreak of nits in which case everyone was inspected and dusted, it was also used to give the whole school injections of various potions as and when required. Towards the end of my school life this room was used to give us all our Tuberculosis jabs, boys in the arm, girls in the thigh, the wait for this seemed interminable and the odour from the room was not very pleasant, I seem to remember that it was quite painful and if your arm or thigh developed a nasty red swelling you were barred from going swimming until given the all clear by the school doctor.  Perhaps the moral of the story is we should all have eaten our fruit, it always seemed to be bananas and avoided the clutches of the nurse. To this day I try to avoid bananas, but I digress.

The boy’s staircase was an entirely different story, it was very narrow, made from stone and was always cold, even in summer or so it seemed. It had a dog leg which always caused hold-ups, so it should not come as any surprise that all sorts off mayhem went on, there was always a male teacher at the top and bottom ready to pounce on any miscreant and administer suitable punishment, and they did.

It led directly into the classroom known as Senior Four, but more of that later. When you think back its easy to realize how self contained the school was, being a church school it really was a small community on its on, run with the same authority and discipline that I suspect went on in the wider world. It could sometimes be a harsh place but at the same time it was a place of care and compassion which maybe would be impossible to replicate in to-days world.

Obviously religious teaching and observance was the order of the day, woe betide anyone who spoke during mass or when the parish priest made his weekly visit, sometimes he seemed very serious, other days he would tell us stories, usually about his childhood, they always seemed to hail from Ireland where times had been tough. I remember one curate who delighted in driving a motor -cycle around the church grounds, he was always ready to have a game of football with us and his joy of life, when looking back was wonderful to see. He got onto the church roof one day to repair it, just a ladder against the walls and up he went sitting astride the roof without a care in the world, who cared about health and safety. His name was Father Dennis Kiely, he left our parish and went to work in America, unfortunately he passed away as a very young man, I can still see him now, his cassock flying in the wind and a big shock of black hair revving away on the parish priests motor bike. The staff was a mixture of religious and secular teachers, all remembered for various reasons, mainly painful, it was a school where you didn’t question a request or  command, you just did whatever was requested and hoped you did it correctly or that could result at the very least with a verbal bashing.

The head teacher was Sister Margarita, she held the serenity that most nuns seemed to have then, she was quite a large lady, although how much of that was her habit we were never quite sure but she treated us with care and did her best for us, not easy when you think back to what a mixture of ragamuffins we must have been.

Most children came to school with the best their parents could do for them, some were obviously better off than some and others, especially from large families came in hand me downs from older brothers and sisters. I can’t recall many of the other infant staff apart from  Sister Alfreda. Anyway, we all survived one way or another to enter junior school. But first let us look at the whole reason for this essay, my first day at school.

The First Day

And so the fateful day arrived and with much attention being paid to my appearance, my mother and I set off to school, my grandma, who lived next door to us was on the step to see me off and with the words of my father in my ear with the advice to behave , be attentive or else we stepped with some trepidation into this unknown area called education.

I remember wearing a new pair off short trousers in regulation grey and an item which will show its significance later, a new lunch box. Boxes then were not like to-days, I can only describe it as a miniature case, just large enough to contain a persons lunch. I well remember mother saying to me “this is your lunch, don’t let any-one take it off you”, words that only a few hours later world bring my world crumbling around my knees.

So we arrived with all the other new entrants all done up like a dog’s dinner, well almost, some looking very apprehensive, others appearing to be more confidant and self- assured but all hanging on to our mom’s hand for dear life. A few names started to be exchanged among the waiting crowd when we  

were summoned by who knows who to follow her to the classroom.

On arrival we were greeted by a room that appeared to be fairly long yet narrow on the width with a central aisle which divided into rows of desks three wide. At the top end of the room was another desk set in the centre of the two lines, sat at this desk was a lady who was introduced to us as Miss Grundy who was our teacher .

Now, when you are five years old trying to describe a ladies age, is as much a minefield as it is now, suffice to say she appeared to be around her forties, dressed quite properly as would befit a school-teacher, she wore little horn rimmed spectacles and greeted us all with a smile, so far so good. We were advised to take a seat and I was ushered by mother to the middle seat on the top row of right hand desks, I wasn’t too keen on this position and over the course of the next ten years or so I did my best to relegate myself to the rear of classrooms, generally succeeding, but again I digress. The next step was to remove our top coats, pass them to our mothers who would look after them for us, I should say at this stage at the rear of the classroom there was, I think, a wooden partition possibly with glass type windows and a  central door, it may have been an entrance off a corridor which the parents were invited to retire to and watch the events of the day unfold. I suspect we all thought that mom was going to stand there all day ready to whisk us of,  presumably just after we had all eaten our sandwiches, which wouldn’t be too long in happening. Then the first instruction of the day, we were all invited to place any items we had with us under our chairs, so the lunch-box was duly placed in the prescribed area, again so far so good. Gradually everyone started to settle down, items of equipment were handed out. I remember being given some pieces of coloured chalk so there must have been slates as well but memory lets me down. ?

While all this is happening there are anxious glances to the rear of the room to re-assure us all was well, soon the ranked masses of parents was reduced to just a few and eventually to none. This of course wasn’t in the script and presented a whole new game, some got upset, others wondered just how we were going  to get out of this new place called school, and all the time Miss Grundy was patrolling the classroom trying, I am sure, her level best to keep every-one calm. We were then allowed to go to the playground, here friendships started to be formed and anxieties calmed and by the time we went back inside the thought that this wasn’t so bad after all started to surface.

It was approaching the hour in which my worst nightmare was about to begin, it was time for lunch. On the teachers advice it was decided we could all sit at our desks and eat as we would say now informally. So with great ceremony our teacher said grace and we were all invited to gather our lunchboxes from under our seats and begin. Miss Grundy suggested we might like to share our lunches with each other and in one smooth motion her hand was reaching under my seat to my lunchbox. The words of my mother came into my mind and I managed to get to the box before the teacher and completed the fait accompli with a blow to the side of her face just in case she tried it again. It went very quiet and for the first time in my life I realised that big holes appear that you just wish you could crawl into. Miss Grundy was not amused, the rest of the class seemed to be in shock and I seemed to be the only person in the whole room that wanted to protest my innocence, after all I was only doing what my mother had told me.

After that the day seemed to fly by and then moms and dads started to appear and children were off home. When my mom appeared I feared the worst, the teacher went down the room and had one of those conversations with my mom that involved a lot of head shaking and glancing at me. After what seemed like a lifetime we left the school, on the way home the words appeared, wait till your father hears about this, and so we arrived home to wait the return from work of my dad.

Again when he arrived the story was passed on, he looked at me , then at mother and this went on for several minutes before I was asked for my version of the incident. Out it came, faster than an express train, all jumbled and rushed and full of indignation that I was only doing what I was told when suddenly he gave me a big smile and explained as only dads can the right and wrongs of the situation and what to do to put it right, somewhat relieved that I was still in one piece I then made a grave error, I asked how much longer it would be to have to wait for dinner. The reply when it came was swift and far too quick to see, but it landed on my legs with the advice not to be cheeky. And so ended my first eventful day at school, next day armed with good advice and a new understanding of life I set off determined to redeem myself , but strangely enough I never ever did share my lunch with anyone and nobody ever suggested I should.

And so I look back with affection to the school, its teachers and staff all who contributed something to what we are today, to Mrs. Humphreys who gave me the confidence to enter into essay writing competitions, Mr. Fitzpatrick who forced me into opening the batting in the cricket team, and also for introducing all the boys to the delights of Irish dancing, usually performed in the playground regardless of weather.

Mr. Cassell, a native of Liverpool and our head-master in senior school for his dexterity with his cane, a well honed piece of bamboo (I think), once received you never went back a second time, also for having a big heart always available for us, although he never showed any emotion what so ever. To Miss Scally and her rather threatening growl. So many I forget their names.

To a girl called Betty and a boy named Alan who shared the front row of desks with me on that first fateful day, again I hope memory is correct, although they didn’t get a look in with my sandwiches. Danny Kennedy, who turned out to be a third cousin and who I spent many escapades with until he left the area and also the school. The O’ Malley brothers, rough, tough lads with a hearts of gold, they ended up with their own building company, to Johnny Haddon who ended up at grammar school, again I hope memory serves me correctly, Jimmy Parry and Barry Anderson both gifted footballers, Rita and Ronnie Trueman, twins who always wore hand me downs, they always looked like they could do with a good meal, always the but of the jokes, and now when I think of how they were treated it makes me eternally ashamed, to Robert McColgan, a cousin of the Trueman twins, the last time I saw Robert was in Birmingham city centre in the mid 1960s, to Derek Logan, a Buddy Holly look a like, to David Cullinan, a great hulk of a lad, to  David Lewis a big, jovial lad, always ready for a laugh, he ran public houses and ended up in a pub near to the railway station in Lichfield, he had heart problems and left us at an early age. So many faces remembered but names escape me, I am sure once I have finished this tome I will think of more but they are in my mind at this moment.

To use a quote from Charles Dickens, “they were the best of times , they were the worst of times”, I remember watching the floodlights being erected from the windows of Senior Four classroom at nearby Villa Park, the efforts of Mr. Whittle, who later became head teacher, in attempting to show us the finer points of the game of chess, the weekly trip to the playing fields, we got to go on the bus and didn’t have to pay, going to other schools for woodwork and science lessons, we were given special tokens to use on the bus but we always walked and tried to use the tokens at the weekends, usually failing, but not always.

And especially the library room, which for me opened up a world that I still enjoy, reading, stories of sea monsters, knights in shining armour, Billy Bunter, and the like. Perhaps there will be a second edition of my schooldays, who knows, but for now, here’s to all those faces from the past, I wonder where they are now.

As a final post-script the area where the school stood has all been re-developed, although the roads remain the same the school buildings and the houses around it are long gone. I occasionally drive past and I noticed with a sense of delight the gateway into the infant playground is still there, although it is bricked up, what tales it can tell, what characters have passed through it, we shall never know for certain. The bottom school was turned into a factory and as far as I know is still in use as such.(Now demolished. Editor)

And finally, as I suspected more names come to mind, to Robert Thorne,  a tall thin lad who was an absolute genius with figures and got us all out of the mire on many occasions, to Doreen McGrath whose expertise with drawing and painting again helped us out, to Jenny McCusker, although small in stature she was the toughest tomboy I ever came across. There was a girl called Judy who I think went to grammar school, I remember meeting her during the mid 1960s, how she had changed. To Betty Gray whose father owned a herbalist shop, to Alan Burton, a fine all sportsman, and a lad called Dennis, I wish I could remember more about him. Anthony Rice, who my dad caught me having a fight with but declined to intervene, when I asked him why he said “you got yourself into it, it was up to you to get yourself out of it”. Anthony had an aunt in Canada and I think he ended up there.

Now I will definitely close, I don’t trust myself to remember anymore, well not until the next time. Were they the best years of my life? Looking back they were in a time when life seemed simpler so yes, they must have been, a band of rag-a-muffins we certainly were but it has been my pleasure to recall a fine group of people. I wish them all well wherever life has taken them. And for those I have missed out, apologies, hopefully next time you will be there.

Postscript. Since writing this essay I have managed to remember a new name, so Dennis you are recorded for posterity, well by me anyway, so here’s to Dennis Tucker who I shared many fine hours of friendship.

Richard M O’ Connor