Miss Fenlon and Miss Smith
It was at the age of five years and three months that I entered Greenbank Infants’ School in what Americans would call grade one. I cried. But just about every child cried that day. I am told that after mid -morning “play time” (recess) I announced “I saw my sister outside and I am not going to cry any more”. That sister was Maureen who, seven years older than I, was lurking in the street next to the playground.
(That same sister told me that I taught myself to read - by reading the newspaper, but I have no memory of such an accomplishment).
My first teacher was Miss Suttle. I remember very little about her, except, in common with most children, I used to give her a kiss at the end of the school day. In grade two my teacher was Miss Baker. She seemed to be so strict. One day I raised my hand in class to complain that I had a headache. “So do I” said Miss Baker, “so we are both in the same boat. Now get back to your work”.
When I left her class Miss Baker gave me a book. It was all about the war time adventures of a naughty little middle class girl in rural England. In one episode this naughty girl and her equally naughty friend (a boy) stripped themselves naked and bathed in mustard gas antidote. I was shocked that a teacher had given me a book in which there was an account of a naked girl and boy. (Come off it, I was only six!).
The family of this girl had a bad tempered gardener named Arnie. On one page there was an amusing line drawing of Arnie in a temper. The caption was "Arnie's rage was a terrible thing to see". (Why have I never forgotten this?).
When we wished to use the bathroom we were required to raise our hand, and when called upon, ask “Please Miss (n) may I use the offices.”. We learned that euphemism early on when Jeanette Gregory, having raised her hand said “ Please Miss I want to piss”
Mickey Simmonds gave me a bloody nose one day during some rough-housing in the playground. I was a bit afraid of him. As one teacher or another staunched the bleeding I was resolute in refusing to snitch. The teachers never knew who it was who punched me on the nose, but I have never forgotten his name.
Another day, at play time, a light rain began. For reasons which I do not understand to this day, I had an umbrella (at aged 6 or 7). I clearly had the gift of prophecy for I danced around the playground, umbrella up, crying out “I’m a fairy, I’m a fairy!”
We had elections in Britain in both 1950 and 1951. In those years we would parade around the playground singing
“Vote, vote, vote for Mr. Atlee
Turn old Churchill out the land.
If I had a penny gun
I would shoot him up the bum
And he wouldn’t come to Bristol any more”
We were in staunchly Labour east Bristol, and we sang our ditty to the tune of “Jesus died for all the children”.
Our Headmistress was Lucy Fenlon. She had a hooked nose and drove an Austin A 30. One day some boy or another wrote “shit” in the dust on her car. We heard about that! We also had a stern lecture one day at morning assembly. Miss Fenlon recounted that as she had been driving to school that day she’d observed a boy kicking a tin (can) along the street. “You people” she said, “don’t want to grow up as the kind of people who kick tins (cans) in the street” I’ve never done so!
We were in awe of Miss Fenlon. At our naughtiest we would whisper “Funny Fanny Fenlon with a feather in her hat”.
But our awe was appropriate. She was one of those marvelous women who never married and devoted their lives to teaching and to the Church. She introduced us to classical music and to good books. She taught us simple values e.g. the courtesy of removing one’s hat and bowing one's head if a funeral cortege passed by.
And she never patronized us. We were always “you people” - never “you children” . I learned by osmosis that children are people too.
When I was eight years old Miss Fenlon called a day time assembly to tell us that the King (George VI) had died, and that we were to go home immediately. I cried. Not out of grief for the King, but because I knew that now we had a Queen. And the only other Queen I could remember had burned all the Protestants! (Mary Tudor).
After two years at Greenbank I was supposed to move up to Eastville Junior Mixed School. But the population bulge had already begun and EJMS was cramped. So we borrowed two class rooms from the adjoining Senior Boys’ School, and there I was taught for two years by Miss Smith.
Miss Smith lived in our neighbourhood. My father had gone to school with her when they were little. Her father had been the caretaker of Greenbank School, living in a house on the “campus”. So Miss Smith spent all of her life in Whitehall and Greenbank.
Under Miss Smith I began to learn and to love learning. We were still with the three R’s (no science, or languages, history or geography). But she taught us more. Lessons about the first post-war Olympics; about the United Nations, UNICEF and NATO. We learned about the problems of Displaced Persons.
And still we learned manners.
One day Miss Smith told us of an experience she’d had in a holiday Guest House. There, one of the other guests, having breakfast toast, had used his knife first in the butter, and then in the jam - leaving bits of butter in the jam. That’s not the sort of thing we should grow up to do.
In later life I re-connected with Miss Fenlon and Miss Smith. Each, being good Anglicans, were immensely proud that I had become an Anglican Priest. They took some credit - which they deserved!
It was hard to call them Lucy and Jean!
Lucy had married in retirement and was now Lucy Smith. It was not a happy marriage, and she regretted her choice. I saw her late in her life, a sad woman.
I corresponded regularly with Jean, and visited her when I was in England.
I wanted to hear more about the post-war Labour Government and the marvelous social reforms it accomplished. (Jean was Labour to the core!)
I also wanted to learn about the incredible 1950’s ministry of the Church in
working class areas. Jean was a member of the Parish of St. Matthew, Moorfields during its hay day under the Socialist Priest, Mervyn Stockwood, later Bishop of Southwark.
I last saw Jean about four or five years ago. She was bent over and frail. She was more than sad that St. Matthew’s had closed. I have not heard from her since. I take it that she has passed to be with her maker.
Lucy and Jean. Thank you!
(That same sister told me that I taught myself to read - by reading the newspaper, but I have no memory of such an accomplishment).
My first teacher was Miss Suttle. I remember very little about her, except, in common with most children, I used to give her a kiss at the end of the school day. In grade two my teacher was Miss Baker. She seemed to be so strict. One day I raised my hand in class to complain that I had a headache. “So do I” said Miss Baker, “so we are both in the same boat. Now get back to your work”.
When I left her class Miss Baker gave me a book. It was all about the war time adventures of a naughty little middle class girl in rural England. In one episode this naughty girl and her equally naughty friend (a boy) stripped themselves naked and bathed in mustard gas antidote. I was shocked that a teacher had given me a book in which there was an account of a naked girl and boy. (Come off it, I was only six!).
The family of this girl had a bad tempered gardener named Arnie. On one page there was an amusing line drawing of Arnie in a temper. The caption was "Arnie's rage was a terrible thing to see". (Why have I never forgotten this?).
When we wished to use the bathroom we were required to raise our hand, and when called upon, ask “Please Miss (n) may I use the offices.”. We learned that euphemism early on when Jeanette Gregory, having raised her hand said “ Please Miss I want to piss”
Mickey Simmonds gave me a bloody nose one day during some rough-housing in the playground. I was a bit afraid of him. As one teacher or another staunched the bleeding I was resolute in refusing to snitch. The teachers never knew who it was who punched me on the nose, but I have never forgotten his name.
Another day, at play time, a light rain began. For reasons which I do not understand to this day, I had an umbrella (at aged 6 or 7). I clearly had the gift of prophecy for I danced around the playground, umbrella up, crying out “I’m a fairy, I’m a fairy!”
We had elections in Britain in both 1950 and 1951. In those years we would parade around the playground singing
“Vote, vote, vote for Mr. Atlee
Turn old Churchill out the land.
If I had a penny gun
I would shoot him up the bum
And he wouldn’t come to Bristol any more”
We were in staunchly Labour east Bristol, and we sang our ditty to the tune of “Jesus died for all the children”.
Our Headmistress was Lucy Fenlon. She had a hooked nose and drove an Austin A 30. One day some boy or another wrote “shit” in the dust on her car. We heard about that! We also had a stern lecture one day at morning assembly. Miss Fenlon recounted that as she had been driving to school that day she’d observed a boy kicking a tin (can) along the street. “You people” she said, “don’t want to grow up as the kind of people who kick tins (cans) in the street” I’ve never done so!
We were in awe of Miss Fenlon. At our naughtiest we would whisper “Funny Fanny Fenlon with a feather in her hat”.
But our awe was appropriate. She was one of those marvelous women who never married and devoted their lives to teaching and to the Church. She introduced us to classical music and to good books. She taught us simple values e.g. the courtesy of removing one’s hat and bowing one's head if a funeral cortege passed by.
And she never patronized us. We were always “you people” - never “you children” . I learned by osmosis that children are people too.
When I was eight years old Miss Fenlon called a day time assembly to tell us that the King (George VI) had died, and that we were to go home immediately. I cried. Not out of grief for the King, but because I knew that now we had a Queen. And the only other Queen I could remember had burned all the Protestants! (Mary Tudor).
After two years at Greenbank I was supposed to move up to Eastville Junior Mixed School. But the population bulge had already begun and EJMS was cramped. So we borrowed two class rooms from the adjoining Senior Boys’ School, and there I was taught for two years by Miss Smith.
Miss Smith lived in our neighbourhood. My father had gone to school with her when they were little. Her father had been the caretaker of Greenbank School, living in a house on the “campus”. So Miss Smith spent all of her life in Whitehall and Greenbank.
Under Miss Smith I began to learn and to love learning. We were still with the three R’s (no science, or languages, history or geography). But she taught us more. Lessons about the first post-war Olympics; about the United Nations, UNICEF and NATO. We learned about the problems of Displaced Persons.
And still we learned manners.
One day Miss Smith told us of an experience she’d had in a holiday Guest House. There, one of the other guests, having breakfast toast, had used his knife first in the butter, and then in the jam - leaving bits of butter in the jam. That’s not the sort of thing we should grow up to do.
In later life I re-connected with Miss Fenlon and Miss Smith. Each, being good Anglicans, were immensely proud that I had become an Anglican Priest. They took some credit - which they deserved!
It was hard to call them Lucy and Jean!
Lucy had married in retirement and was now Lucy Smith. It was not a happy marriage, and she regretted her choice. I saw her late in her life, a sad woman.
I corresponded regularly with Jean, and visited her when I was in England.
I wanted to hear more about the post-war Labour Government and the marvelous social reforms it accomplished. (Jean was Labour to the core!)
I also wanted to learn about the incredible 1950’s ministry of the Church in
working class areas. Jean was a member of the Parish of St. Matthew, Moorfields during its hay day under the Socialist Priest, Mervyn Stockwood, later Bishop of Southwark.
I last saw Jean about four or five years ago. She was bent over and frail. She was more than sad that St. Matthew’s had closed. I have not heard from her since. I take it that she has passed to be with her maker.
Lucy and Jean. Thank you!
