A Day in the Life

Suggestions of dawn through the cold metal-framed windows. The final cords of reveille still echoing among the stark corridors. Cold pajama clad bodies stirred, rose and shuffled along the damp passageways to the bathroom under half-closed eyes. Hot taps ran cold for an eternity. Splashes on the face hastily dried. Back to the bedroom, bare feet on a cold floor. Dress, make the bed regimentally in block formation and amble down with the room-mates for breakfast. The winding staircase and the long stone corridor replied noisily to shuffling feet.

The vast hall, drab cream coloured walls, stainless steel hotplates shining and clean, massive urns and basins of thick porridge. Thick white plates, thicker white bread, square block margarine defying all attempts of manipulation. The smell of bacon, fried bread, and sausages charred to perfection, tomatoes and beans drifted across the room. Later, the "five-minute" bugle warning call became salvation from the bedroom chores of cleaning, polishing, dusting, ronuking and bumpering, sweeping and shining. The bed space gleamed, as did the respective corridors. While Pelham shone the race began to the ablutions downstairs to polish the shoes communally.

Morning assembly. Neatly formed, "U" shaped by house formation. Pelham. Buxton, Somerset. Cairns, Aberdeen. An epitaph to past Lords of distinction. Rising to attention. Rigidity. Complete silence. Pause, wait. Enter Mr. Embleton, Vice Headmaster, and gazing down, slightly stooped, head bowed ready to conduct proceedings. "It looks as if Mr. Wheatley, the Headmaster has slept in again? remarks from the rear were muttered.

Mr. Jones, the Housemaster, whirls glaring and fuming at blank faces, suppressed laughter and riotous thoughts of the mind. Followed quietly, firmly by threats of a later holocaust. Two hymns, three prayers, warnings of out-of bounds restrictions and a "Well done" to the Old Boys for their victory at football.

Off to school. With snow in winter the route would be on a frozen slide extending from the cookhouse to the band hut with as many as fifty half crazed lads performing acrobatics on ice that would bring tears to the eyes of Torville and Dean. In summer dribbling a worn tennis ball among the same number of lads, knocking aside conker champions and marble experts in their wake. Sick Bay call. The smell of disinfectant and the risk of admission are not readily recommended. Sitting in the classroom. Graffiti inside the desk is a reminder of its history. Science with 'Tec' White, Math's and English Mr. Shepherd, gymnasium Bob Newton and physical torture ? again not recommended'.

The playground is a fenced-in area the size of a tennis court sloping away to a twelve-foot high wall at one end. The same worn tennis ball, general mayhem, one goalie and hordes of screaming Stanley Matthews or Bill Wrights. Trade training, carpentry, painting and decorating, printing, gardening and sheet-metal work.

Mr. De Boeck, his bicycle and small office. Make a dustbin, brass jug, teapot, welding or soldering. Thank goodness it's 4.30 p.m. It has been a long day. Back into the room, scruff clothing, at ease with the world. Football, cricket, tennis, swimming, adventure and inevitable mischief ? not necessarily in that order. The bugle sounds for the evening meal. Not to be missed. Wash up and join the forming queues. Potatoes. Cabbage. Roast beef, "Yorkshires? as high as castles and gravy so thick it hardly moved on the plate. Yes. Mr. Jones. No. Mr. Jones. of course Mr. Jones.

No band practice tonight. No drill. Although "Skip" Culver hovers close by, the smell of his pipe lingers in the air. Back out, belly full, head for the top fields and freedom. Acres of open countryside, so peaceful as daylight fades. Rabbits, squirrels, birds, conkers, chestnuts, adventure. Night falls fast.

Trundle back towards the school listening to the "Last Post" being sounded in the distance, desperately trying to recognise the bugler by his mannerisms, apprehensively waiting for a mistake to the made but it was blown faultlessly as ever. Tired, yet content with an inner warmth. After a hot bath the bright lights of the sitting-room welcome you. Various board games, puzzles, model-making, cards, banter, laughter, enjoyment, friendship, and companion's - true companions.

Into bed, lights out. "Yes Mr. Jones, No Mr. Jones, Goodnight Mr. Jones."

D. Pike, Goldings

© The Barnardo Guild messenger summer 1993

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