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LOOKING BACK
Looking back... ‘Through the Eyes of a Teacher’
Given the turbulent nature of education during the last 18 months, The Jerseylife thought it would be thought-provoking to follow the life of someone whose education had suffered the constraints of post WWII and Occupation and yet progressed to become one of Jersey’s most dedicated teachers with a career spanning 39 years. Last time Thelma Heard spoke about her very earliest memories. In this issue, Thelma talks of the next stage in her life…
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And so to school
By Thelma Heard
After our return from the UK, after the War, I became a pupil at St Luke’s School. In those days pupils started school at 6 and left at 15. The interior of the building was nothing like it is now - there were draughty classrooms with high ceilings and a large stove in each room. If you sat by it you overheated, but if you were further away you got very cold.
Every morning milk was delivered in metal milk churns and poured into battered old metal mugs. I have never been able to drink milk like that since as I can still taste that slimy, slightly warm liquid. suffered the Occupation were unrestrained, boisterous and some were even bullies. I had a second-hand red coat sent to us by relatives in the USA, (a few second-hand clothes came to us this way and were welcomed what with rationing and lack of money) which I would hang in the cloakroom at the foot of a flight of steps. As I was going to fetch it one day, I saw one of the boys tearing it apart at the seams. I suppose he was jealous as I had something nice to wear.
The boys had a playground separate from the girls. It was one of their ‘games’ to pull girls over to their area. The bullies would also waylay us as we turned the corner towards the school gate. I found the best way was never to look scared as they tended to concentrate on those who did. I remember one day, a teacher was absent, so my class joined another and I ended up sitting next to a girl called Mary. We paid little attention to the lesson which was the
St. Luke’s School
usual ‘chalk and talk’, (I don’t remember any books my sister remembers some rather grubby specimens - only a blackboard and we had slates and a piece of chalk) and instead, my new-found friend and I had a fascinating discussion on ghosts. The poor harassed teacher caught us and I was called out to the front of the class. She told me to put out my hand for the cane. She wanted to hit me on my left hand and I refused because I had not long recovered from a fractured left arm, but said she could hit my right hand. Corporal punishment had little effect on me.
The nit nurse used to visit frequently as there were many cases after the war. We had to line up to have our hair tugged apart while she searched for the invaders. At home we had to sit while our mother raked through our hair with a special comb. Any discoveries meant a head dousing in an evil smelling liquid.
My fractured left arm happened when my sister and I were playing a game we called ‘caravans’ where we placed 2 old chairs together. My chair was too near the edge of the grass which was about two feet above the yard and I slipped off and landed on my extended left arm. I was taken into the kitchen where my grandfather held my arm still then went to hospital and had a plaster put on. The following night I was in pain all night so my mother took me back to the hospital in the morning. My arm had been incorrectly set and had to be redone. I was taken by a nurse down a, to me, long, dim, stone flagged passage. My mother had gone and I was led into the children’s ward and I put into bed. No one told me what had happened or why I was there. That night I yelled most of the time. I felt so abandoned and did not understand what was going on. I can still recall it and the faces of the staff who stood at the foot of my bed not knowing what to do about me. In the morning at breakfast, we were told we had a treat – eggs! I said, ‘Yes please’ but the nurse curtly told me “Not you…you have to have an operation today”. The after-effects of this accident meant I had to start writing with my right hand; previously I had been left- handed. To this day I have never had decent handwriting and experience confusion on occasions as to which hand to use especially when faced with doing something new. My left arm has stayed weak throughout my life.
In 1950, when I was approaching 10, my sister and I changed schools. How my parents scraped together the money I don’t know. It was not a question of we needed a better education as then it was deemed girls did not need that much, rather my mother had had enough of the bullying and the nit nurse.
1948 - 8 year old Thelma with little brother Martin at Snow Hill
pupils. This school no longer exists. We didn’t learn science (not for girls then) but most other subjects including elocution and sewing. It was a very strict place with rigid uniform rules. My grandmother, a seamstress, made my winter coat from a grey blanket dyed green. The other girls used to snigger at it. At other times they just stood around in groups to laugh at me. We were forbidden to go out any evening in the school week without the head mistress’ permission. We were also in deep trouble if we were seen talking to a boy or eating in the street. Later I was nearly expelled because I joined the St John Ambulance Cadets!
There was a group which met in a building at the end of our road. The head mistress then decided to have a St John Ambulance group at the school. I attended regularly and attained the Grand Prior award (it meant passing 12 exams such as first Aid, Home Nursing and History of the Order). It also involved carrying out duties such as helping out at an orphanage called Westaway Creche, an old people’s home and sometimes at public events. On one occasion I was on duty in Howard Davis Park for some event when a man collapsed with a heart attack so I was sent to the nearest telephone box in Colomberie to call for extra assistance as I was calling through a brass band passed by right outside which made things difficult.
There were so many rules at school it was inevitable I would break some. In fact I broke so many that I was frequently in detention where we had handwriting practice – which I dreaded of course. At other times we had to learn columns of historical dates but I was in detention so often I learnt them all by heart. Once I got into even more trouble as the girl who had gone up before me to recite her dates, couldn’t remember them so I started whispering them to her as I was tired of waiting for her to finish.
Lessons were proving too easy for me so I was put up into the top class when I was with girls of 15 and 16. I was still just 13. As you can imagine this did not endear me to them at all. That is until they realised they could copy my work and get better marks.
We had little in the way of educational resources. There was one book for each subject: History, Geography, French and Arithmetic. There were also copies of the current exam book of, to me, an insufferable Shakespeare play, Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales and whatever other book was set for a particular year’s O level exam. I quite enjoyed one book I studied for my exam. It was Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. As I was with the older pupils ahead of time, I studied those set for 2 successive years’ exams. To this day I dislike anything written by Shakespeare though I can quote at length from some of his works. The rationale behind learning by heart pages of Chaucer I cannot understand. Geometry was mostly doing patterns with ruler and/or a pair of compasses and these were then coloured. How I longed for a decent set of colours. Arithmetic was endless sums. I particularly struggled with long division. I worked long hours when I had these for homework never seeming to get them right. My father used to get annoyed with me saying I was only prolonging my work to stay up later!
1956 - About to embark on the path that would lead to Teacher Training College
In the next issue Thelma shares how she was soon to be on course to attend Teaching College and beyond…
NOW AVAILABLE AT HOLME GROWN
This book is a treasure trove of information for anyone interested in Jersey’s Occupation history. Above all, it tells a very personal and human story. Juanita Shield-Laignel has skillfully woven the strands of a life together and ensured that Michael’s own voice shines through. The road he took from the German internment camp to his banquet with the Queen was a long one, but it demonstrates the capacity of ordinary people to make a positive difference to the world. Michael Ginns MBE is now gone; but his work of reconciliation will endure.
Paul Darroch - Author of Jersey; The Hidden Histories
The Author says:
“Writing this book was an absolute joy. Michael was such a special man and was keen for me to share the details of his whole life – not just his internment to So thern German aged just 15 or receiving his MBE but – his early childhood memories, such as sitting in church on a Sunday and thinking he would rather be on a nearby farm watching the pigs…and other such seemingly small details that shaped this extraordinary man’s life.
No matter who you are – we all have a story to tell and I am thrilled to be able to share Michael’s unique story with you. I know you will Enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed interviewing Michael, and writing it for posterity. Enjoy!”
Juanita x
