I was fearful of starting school. Connie had been going off grandly for two years, but I would have been content to stay home in comfort with Mum and Chris. However, the inevitable happened, the dreaded day arrived. I came down to breakfast to find, to my delight, that Honeysuckle was also ready for school. She was sitting at my place at the kitchen table, wearing a brand-new school dress in a pussy-willow print, carrying a miniature exercise book under her one good arm, with a bright yellow, newly sharpened pencil. Just one of the loving gestures Mum was famous for, to ease my trepidation about this new life I was about to start.

Faith took me to school that first morning. The walk along Gorge Road seemed very long that first time, but soon became just a part of life. She took me to Miss Styan’s Grade 1 to 3 classroom. “This is my sister Felicity,” she said, and left. I was not entirely on my own; Connie was sitting over with the Grade 3’s pretending she didn’t know me. Miss Styan said, “Now, class, we are going to learn to work with numbers. I’m sure some of you can count a little already. Can anyone show me how to count to ten?” My hand shot up: “Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineteneleventwelvethir … ” I shouted. Miss Styan cut me off. “In school we learn to answer the question we are asked,” she said. I was thoroughly humiliated, the more so as I was aware of a ferocious glare from the Grade 3 row. This was followed, inevitably, by a vicious pinch after recess. I was going to have to mind my p’s and q’s, that was for sure. I got another good pinch after lunch, when it was discovered that I had gone into the boys’ washroom by mistake. I couldn’t see much difference. I didn’t know why everyone was making such a fuss was about it.

I was pretty dozy at school. I didn’t seem interested in learning anything, it was just somewhere you had to put in time. I didn’t seem to care how I looked, either. I had to be carefully screened every morning before leaving. I was apt to have my dress on inside out or back to front. Getting the snarls brushed out of my hair was a daily agony; how I envied Connie’s neat braids! We had Reefer jackets; Connie and I both wore tams, mine just plunked on top of my head, and frequently lost. One Christmas Auntie Gwladys knitted us multi-coloured “pixie” hats, which tied under the chin, so were not so easy to lose. We always had brightly polished shoes; Dad insisted that we clean them every morning. Connie and I had to wear strange looking undervests, which were made by Mum’s Aunts, of white linen with whalebone inserts, tabs for holding up our stockings, and no known usefulness. Mercifully, Mum didn’t insist we wear the horrid tan-coloured woolen stockings some of the girls had to wear, usually sporting a large hole or two, and revealing a gap of thigh between stocking and bloomer. We were lucky to be allowed to wear knee socks. Poor Frank and Chris had to wear knee pants in all weathers. A boy didn’t graduate to long trousers until he was 12. It was an immutable rule in our family.

In Grade 2, I had a boyfriend! His name was Teddy Peatt. He was a pretty little boy with blond curly hair. He took to carrying my books home after school, in traditional boyfriend style. I blew it after the Easter Holidays, however. We had been staying at Auntie Dorothy’s cottage at Cadboro Bay and one night, great excitement, a Cougar had been trapped and shot right on our road. There had been flashing lights and shouting in the night, and next morning Frank had actually seen the dead animal. I excitedly recounted this thrilling event to the class when school opened again, telling everyone about this incredible happening, the death of a huge Cougar. “And it had six feet!” I concluded. Teddy shot up from his seat. “Six foot” he shouted. Of course, I couldn’t let him get away with that. I let him know in no uncertain terms what a dummy he was, but he was adamant. We continued to argue on the way home. “Foot” “No, Feet” “Foot!” “Feet!” That was the last time he carried my books for me. He turned his attentions to Yvonne Cammidge, and she was welcome to him, obstinate ignoramus!

In Grade 3, I moved to a different classroom, ruled by the iron hand of Miss McConnell. She was a large woman, with a shiny red face, close-set eyes behind round glasses, and dark hair worn close to the head in strange-looking sausage curls. She owned two identical school dresses, one purple, the other bright green. She wore these dresses on alternate days. Her talcum powder could not hide the smell of stale sweat under her arms when she bent over your desk and caused you to make enormous ink blots.

It was Miss McConnell, the disciplinarian, who really made an impression. I suppose she was unsure of her authority, so relied heavily on expertly thrown chalk, rapped knuckles, and merciless ridicule. She’d say things like “Who could expect good work from a child whose father is on relief?” or plenty of jokes about a recent immigrant from Norway who had the unfortunate name of “Od”. But her most heinous offense was the daily ritual we had to witness every morning. Right after the Lord’s Prayer she’d call Gordie Hutchinson and Chuck Fanthorpe up to the front of the room. They’d hold out their hands and she’d give them five or six hefty whacks with her black rubber strap. They hadn’t done anything in particular. This was just insurance in case they got any ideas. It didn’t mean she might not call them up later in the day, either. She just wanted to let them know that her “good right arm” was ready for anything. I don’t think these boys were particularly naughty, but they were perhaps lazy and indifferent, and needed to be taught a lesson. I suppose it was also meant as a deterrent to the rest of us, but we became so inured to it that it lost its effectiveness. One day, Gordie Hutchinson had had enough. He came to school with his wrist bandaged, and a note from his father that he’d hurt his arm playing ball. “Fiddlesticks!” cried Miss McConnell. “Think you’re going to get away with something, do you? Put up your hand!” This incident finally marked the end of her reign of terror. Gordie’s parents complained. One day she was summoned to the Principal’s Office, and returned some time later, more flushed than usual. The morning ritual ceased, and from then on offenders were sent to the Office for a less personal punishment.

My actual school work for the next two years passed in a dream. I know we must have done Geography, Reading, Maclean Method Handwriting (“Move your arm from the elbow, sit up straight, feet on floor!”) but it was all a fog, especially Arithmetic. I failed to see any point in learning the Times Tables. I could follow along with the rest of the class when we chanted them in unison, but as far as summoning them up on my own, or putting them to any sensible use, this was beyond me, and still is. I had the misfortune to be a sort of (reluctant) Teacher’s Pet. Miss McConnell had decided that I was “smart”, and no matter how lazy or uncomprehending my work was, I was always assured of a good mark. Thus, I was able to dream my way through those years, retaining very little useful knowledge. Spelling was never a problem for me, except for the word “because” whose correct spelling consistently eluded me. Unfortunately, it cropped up all the time in Reading Comprehension questions, until eventually I realized that sometimes “as” would do as well as “becuase”. We had to do “Art”, so-called. This consisted of measuring 1/4 inch here, 1/2 inch there, then joining them in a straight line, thus learning the use of the ruler while making a useful object, a cover for our report cards. We had to practice Writing by copying out a notice to take home telling our parents of the coming P.T.A. meeting, illustrating at the same time how little progress we’d made in writing skills. Who could write without making ugly ink blots all over the page? The ink in our inkwells smelled sour, and developed a stringy residue that smeared itself all over the page; our handmade pen wipers became evil-smelling rags. The only good thing about writing was the new pen nib we were issued at the beginning of each term that we were allowed to suck to melt the protective wax.

Craigflower School was old and inadequate. It was being gradually made redundant, now holding only Grades 1 to 3. Faith and Frank had long graduated to High School, riding off on their bikes each morning. Chris stayed at Craigflower for another year or so, and Connie and I were transferred to Tillicum, a newer and much larger school. Here, each class had its own teacher, and, in general, things were more predictable. I still sat in a fog through most classes. I remember a student teacher who spent hours drawing a beautiful knight in full armour on the blackboard, her approach to teaching the Middle Ages. Classroom discipline became more civilized; detentions, and the writing of “lines” or being sent to the Office replaced Miss McConnell’s more direct approach.

Only once do I remember anyone being strapped in the classroom at Tillicum, and that time was a real standout. We had a young man for our teacher, Mr. Thompson. He was waiting to receive his Commission in the Navy. He adopted an easy, give-and-­take attitude in the class, quite foreign to us old “Craigflower” students, and he was particularly popular with the boys. They would discuss the latest sport scores, aircraft and Naval design, etc., and I guess the boys got the idea that anything goes, so that one day in the middle of a particularly relaxed interlude; when Mr. Thompson had been teasing the boys about their girlfriends, one boy (and it was the luckless Gordie Hutchinson again) piped up: “And who was that woman I saw you with last night?” The temperature went down to zero in a flash. Mr. Thompson became utterly rigid. His face was dead white with rage. Out came the strap, and Gordie was hauled up to the front of the room by his collar. He stuck out his hand, waited for the wind-up, and then, old pro that he was, quickly withdrew his hand so that Mr. Thompson got himself a smart one on the thigh. Well, there was Hell to pay then. Rage mounted upon rage. Mr. Thompson went into a sort of uncontrollable fury, and only stopped when he got completely out of breath. Then he left the room abruptly. For once the class, teacherless, sat in shocked silence until the bell rang for recess.

Mr. Thompson was called up quite soon after that, he was going to serve as a sub­ lieutenant. No doubt he was glad to put Tillicum School behind him, no matter what dangers he might face. A small presentation was planned. Each class was to nominate someone to make a short speech, give Mr. Thompson the send-off a valiant young sailor deserved. I was chosen to speak on behalf of Division Five, and since this was his home room. my speech was to come last on the program. Since I had never been chosen for anything in my life before (always the last to be picked for team games, never even got to be monitor or secretary of the Red Cross), I should have twigged that this appointment was really anything not an honour, but I was flattered. I took it very seriously, and spent every available evening working on my speech. “How do you start a speech, anyhow?” I asked at dinner time. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” said Faith. “But most of them will be children,” I objected. Mum solved the problem. “You could say, “Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls,” she suggested. So, I had my beginning, and from thence the speech flowed, or flowered maybe, full of things like “pride in our great nation”, “facing undaunted the great dangers ahead”. I left no cliché unturned. I then committed the whole thing to memory so rigorously that I’m surprised I can’t recall it word for word today. The great day arrived. The whole school was gathered at the front steps, where all the teachers and a few parents stood, along with Mr. Thompson resplendent in his new uniform. The other speeches began. Someone stood up for Division One: “On behalf of Division One I’d like to wish Mr. Thompson all the best in the future.” Division Two: “On behalf of Division Two I’d like to say’ “Good Luck, Mr. Thompson.” I was appalled. Was no one going to make a real speech? I knew it was hopeless to try to revise mine; it was so deeply engraved on my memory that I’d clam up immediately if I tried to change a word of it. The dreaded moment arrived. Hot-faced, I climbed the stairs, and as I had been drilled so well by Mum and her home-grown elocution lessons, stood up straight and spoke loud and clear: “Ladies and Gentlemen, boys, and girls”, On and on it went, all about “noble sacrifice”, “new spheres of endeavour”,”new heights of humiliation”. The school listened in disbelief; some sniggered. Certainly, there were coughs and “ahems” from the smirking teachers behind me.

My career as a public speaker had come to an inglorious close.

Next:

THe Gorge House: The War