Village Schooldays

Oystermouth Council School, Newton Road, in the shadow of Oystermouth Castle.

After this daunting experience, my chastened parents decided to fling me into the deep end of the State system, which turned out to be the finest thing they could have done and so, I became a pupil in 'the Board' school in Newton Road Mumbles.This wonderful school still stands, virtually unaltered and from any angle its beautiful facade of yellow brick and trimmed limestone is evident, justifying the platitude, ‘they don't build them like that any more!' Its position, too in its own ample area and relationship to the catchment area is a monument to the excellence of the Victorian architects, planners and craftsmen of that time. It makes most of the modern schools, in comparison, look like clusters of shabby prefabs. I recommend to my readers that they have a good look at these buildings, which are so close to us that we cannot see them. It is a reminder of days when top quality was the norm. The excellence of these buildings was reflected in the quality of the teaching staff. Couple it all together and here was a teaching institution of a standard with few equals in the Principality.

Among my earliest recollections was the characteristic smell of the classrooms, the sharp odour of the ink, the dry chalky smell from the blackboards, of textbooks and exercise books. On wet days would be added the rubbery smell of wellingtons and Macs'. Unforgettable! In 1978, I visited the school on the open day to celebrate its centenary and the smell was still there! Just the same and so nostalgic!

Who were these people then who taught the children of Mumbles in the 30's? I would need the space of several volumes to provide a full picture, but I will try in my limited space to name them and dwell on a few with whom I had a closer contact.

Firstly, they were people who lived in or around the village and, as a result,

were fully acquainted with local social conditions, knew many parents and had

a pride in anything connected with Mumbles. They were involved with the

children, directly or indirectly in and out of school. They were highly respected in the community by parent and child and their names were household words. They were professional in their approach and worked very hard in preparation and in the classroom. There were very few staff changes, and one had the impression that these people were permanent fixtures, that they were eternal, never aging or changing in any way but then, suddenly, they were no longer there...

The headmaster was Arthur Ivor Davies, a serious, pleasant looking man with an air of quiet authority and I am convinced that he had only one suit. He was always dressed in a well-cut gabardine three piece, of an indefinable colour - a sort of grey with the slightest hint of fawn, all of which was topped by a grey Homburg hat. He was immaculate from the well-groomed thick grey hair down to his highly polished shoes and even his pince-nez gleamed (giving off sparks when he was angry). He stood about five and a half foot and yet gave the impression of being nine foot tall (I believe Napoleon had a similar gift). He was a very capable, fair disciplinarian who ran a tight efficient ship and seemed to know everything that was going on everywhere, all the time. Frankly, as a little boy I was terrified of him, but as I progressed through the school, I grew to like him and certainly respect him. This then was the man at the helm, a devout Christian, proud of his school and dedicated to the well being of his pupils. I believe, over the years, that Oystermouth School has enjoyed immense good fortune in the caliber of its Headteachers, its present incumbent being no exception. I must mention too, Headmaster Emeritus Alan Williams, like his father, a man of great ability and charm whose calligraphic skills I would kill for!

Years later in 1944, I got off the Mumbles Train at Oystermouth and crossed the Square. I was in uniform having travelled overnight, reaching my village at breakfast time. A figure standing by Forte's started gesticulating urgently with an umbrella, signaling me to come to him at once! It was Mr. Davies who greeted me warmly by name. I was so flattered that he remembered me and I discovered later that there were very few of his old pupils that he failed to recognise and welcome home this way. Surprisingly, although I now dwarfed him in stature, I was still overawed and blushingly shuffled my boots, looked anywhere but at him and mumbled something inane in reply. And yes! He was wearing a gabardine suit of indefinable colour- a sort of mid-grey with a hint of fawn.

To Oriel, as Head of the Infants, [her photo at a later date, is at the end of this article] fell the unique responsibility of introducing the tiny children of Mumbles to the awesome world of 'School'. Anxious Mums would deliver their bewildered bairns to the school entrance with reactions varying from a cheerful farewell to a last sobbing embrace. The children were even worse and such was the reluctance of a few to leave their doting Mums that they had to be prised off with jackhammers. Thus, the primary and immediate task of Miss Oriel and her staff was to settle the children into the first disciplinary routine of their lives. Assisted by the Misses Cox, Hodges, Sanders and Jones, she used every trick in the book (and a few more) —cajolery, threats, promises, punishments and outright lies to achieve her aim. The ends justified the means and after four years or so, her young charges were ready for the 'Big' School.

Miss Oriel always spoke with capitals-" Beryl Ball! Be Quiet! And Put Your Hands On Your Head!" (this punishment was practiced throughput the school and for some inexplicable reason was supposed to render a child speechless and obedient). She was discipline incarnate and once taped up Terry Ball's mouth to stop his incessant chatter. It worked.

Much ground was covered in the Infants, not just academically. Foundations were laid for building what was then considered to be a good moral way of life. The teachers were fortunate in having the full support of parents, and media, which supported their principles. They were also completely au fait with the social background of their charges about whom they cared very much. A basic Christianity was taught and each day started with prayers and hymns. The curriculum was varied as much as possible and between parroting tables and the alphabet, such subjects as drawing and painting, writing, and reading were interposed. Mid morning saw a fresh milk distribution followed by a short break for play in the yard. Regularly on fine days, classes would be taken out to play organised games—good for letting off steam and learning sportsmanship (essential because Jackie Morgan was inclined to brain an opponent with his rounders bat, if pitched out).

By the end of the period in the Infants, the children had acquired a good all round basic knowledge and a jolly good idea of what was right and what was wrong. A gem, I recall, was Miss Oriel's "There Are Few Treasures To Equal A Book!" and the muttered riposte from Tommy Oates, "Give me a sherbet fountain any day".

Then, one hot July afternoon, Miss Oriel assembled her top class in the hall ‘Next Term You Will Be Moving Up To The 'Big' School! Remember All You've Been Taught And You Will Come To No Grief! You Have ALL Been Very Good Children And I Wish You A Happy Time And Success When You Sit The Scholarship!’ Suddenly, I liked Miss Oriel! I felt sad to be leaving her and the other teachers. An anxious, sinking feeling pervaded my abdomen Gosh! the 'Big' School! Men teachers! Bullies in the yard! and what was that strange thing—the Scholarship? Immense hurdles seemed to lie before me and filled with self-doubt, I wondered if I had the qualities to surmount them. Like all little boys, I desperately wanted to do well and those feelings I experienced on that hot July afternoon in 1932 are indelibly etched on my memory, so much so that my heart goes out to the present generation of youngsters who have so much more to contend with. However, the 'brown study' that I was in was rapidly dispersed by a thump from Markie Glover, ‘Come on! We can get a dip in before tea!’ I shut my mind to the distant future and realised that immediately before me were weeks of endless joy to share with my friends in a Mumbles Summer.

Part 2

August came and went and on a fresh morning in early September, shivering with a hollow dread, I walked down the ramp from Newton Road into the schoolyard wearing my new school clothes. There was no school uniform. After a brief word of welcome, the Headmaster handed us over to Miss Webb who was to be our main teacher for the year. She took us into a pleasant airy classroom and we were allocated places—two to a desk, there being no sexual segregation. School hours were 9.30am to 12.30pm and 2.00pm to 4.30pm. with a short play break in the middle of each session. Miss Webb virtually taught right through the day, only not being with us for Welsh lessons. To her credit she gentled us into the new routine, appointed ink monitors (to keep the inkwells full) and book monitors for distribution and collection of books. These posts were circulated as a reward and were much coveted. The next three years saw us pass through the hands of Miss Lang (who was surely eight foot tall) and the waspish Miss Leyshon who with patience and an unspared rod rendered us fit to be handed over to Mr. Ray Bradshaw for the Scholarship count down.

During those three years we became 'yard-wise', knowing how to avoid the barbarians. As we grew in physical stature, so we were troubled less and less yet were never able to move about without constant vigilance. Perhaps a good preparation for what society has now become.

In September 1934, aged 9, I moved up to Raymond Bradshaw's class, Form IV. Along with my contemporaries, I could now read with ease, write well, knew all my tables, turn put a reasonable composition and multiply and divide. 'Braddy' was a delightful person and soon put to flight our fears of having a 'man' teacher. He was not above clipping a head or two or dusting a boy's trousers with a cane, but he was fair and listened before acting. I much admired him as a man as well as a teacher knowing that he had served as an officer in the trenches during WW1 and was to return to the Colours for WW2. Braddy also doubled as the sportsmaster and somehow during his working week found time to inflate and lace footballs or resuscitate cricket gear.

All equipment was precious and it was to his credit that no game was ever cancelled through lack of these items. He was a sincere, enthusiastic teacher with an eye for potential, which he would nurture. We soon knew all about the Scholarship and what it meant.

This exam, if passed, meant that at the age of 11 or 12, the pupil would transfer to the Grammar school system with the unlimited scope that meant. So, Braddy prepared us for this dreaded day. Long division, LCMs, HCFs, £.s.d. problems, rods, poles and perches etc. etc. were hammered into us. Penmanship ensured a good hand and geography and history taught us that there was life beyond Blackpill. Monotony was avoided by arts and crafts and, of course organised games. Welsh lessons continued in the same haphazard, boring way with no grammar, just a series of words and 'useful' sentences e.g. ‘My ear trumpet has been struck by lightning’. In retrospect, this was sad because it destroyed all interest in our ancient language. However, other talents were emerging.

Even at this tender age, it was easy to see that Gwyn Evans had soccer skills. Tall and lean, Gwyn could run like a hare and under Braddy's tutelage, developed into one of the finest players to come out of Mumbles. He was a member of that immortal Swansea Schoolboys side which, just before the war, won the English National Shield by beating Chesterfield Boys at the Vetch Field before a capacity crowd of 30,000 plus! Gwyn played a blinder and professional success followed for many seasons in the Football League. Also in our form, Peter Elias began to emerge as a force in the local game, eventually becoming a linesman and referee at top levels. Like Gwyn, Peter was a great gentleman on and off the park. Academically, too, stars began to glimmer, especially amongst the girls. Mary Copp, Pamela Summers, June Turton and Pat Fenwick always seemed to have the answers but lagging not far behind was Tom Teague, Ivor Jones, Frank Gold, Les Gumming and George Stell. (The latter would serve with distinction as a subaltern in the dreadful Palestine terrorist campaign). This select group stayed in the vanguard throughout, setting terrifying standards. Braddy's year flew and in, no time September 1935 came round with the prospect of facing Mr. Gibbs in Form V.

Part3

A complicated dichotomy now took place. Some pupils stayed down because of age or inability. Most moved up in the scholarship stream to Mr. Gibbs and some moved sideways to 'Dappy' Rowlands’ class. Dappy, by any standards was a character, a small immaculate man with well-groomed hair and a pencil moustache a la Douglas Fairbanks. When he spoke, he emphasized his words with the exaggerated wrist movements of a Jack Benny. He was a gentle man, but woe betide anyone who aroused his ire. My personal opinion is that he should have been on the staff of a grammar school, being bilingual and having a good degree. His outstanding talent was his piano playing and when his class combined with Mr. Gibbs' for music, he would accompany, or rather, perform! Every movement was over emphasized—his body would sway, his head oscillate to the rhythm and his hands float up and down to shoulder level and all this with his eyes closed! Incidentally, the songs we now sang were real men's stuff. No more of that ‘Madam will you walk’ rubbish, but red blooded stuff like 'The Bonnets of Bonny Dundee', ‘Fairwell Manchester!’ and ‘Here's a Health unto His Majesty!’ These were songs we could all belt out and I've never heard the latter song sung better than by John Rees (the butcher's son) who had a fine strong soprano voice. The theory was that it was due to his father's sausages! Mr. Gibbs' reputation preceded him. He was a joker, a comedian and a wit. Sometimes he was funny but at other times it was at the expense of a pupil. Nevertheless, he was a jolly good teacher who guided us into the world of fractions, decimals, advanced dictation and mental arithmetic. Compositions now had to be more imaginative and handwriting immaculate. One of his favourite quips was against Bernard Hullin (youngest member of the brilliant Hullin family). Bernard, like his brother had firm, very thick upright lettering and this earned him Mr. Gibbs' nickname 'Old Tarbrush'.

To digress a moment, there was a ritual to going to school (literally). In the morning, there never seemed to be any spare time. One was always in a rush but returning after lunch, there was time to play 'arlies', buy a Tuppeny' at Steve Davies or, best of all, go into Mr. George's sweet shop near the school and buy two ha’porths of sweets.

Eating these sweets in school time was absolutely taboo and transgressors met sudden and awful retribution; apart from confiscation, a good whacking was administered. Mr. Gibbs however went one better. Sometimes as a change from toasted torpedoes, Sharps' toffees or tiger nuts, we would choose from an incredible selection of lollipops, which were of a substantial size. What was not consumed in the lunch break would be wrapped up in an indescribable handkerchief and put in a pocket. Half way through the afternoon, this began to burn a hole and like addicts to far more toxic things, just had to be licked. So behind a book, the lollipop would be inserted into a slavering mouth. Unfortunately Mr. Gibbs knew that one did not normally read a book held up horizontally before one's face (no fool our Gibby) and he would descend upon the wretched pupil (always a boy). Apart from two stingers, he would then take up the lollipop and wipe the sucked end all over the lad's face, the back of his neck, his ears and finally shove it between his collar and the back of his neck and leave it there. The sticky culprit had to remain like that until the end of the afternoon. It cured many an addict!

Due to the system described, there were now different faces in our class. One I remember well was Cameron (Cammie) Rosser who struggled with his routine class work, but was in a world of his own as a pianist. He played a major part in the school concerts to come—the Silver Jubilee of King George V in 1936 and the Coronation of King George VI in 1937.

Part 4

The highlight of 1936 was the Silver Jubilee, an event celebrated with great enthusiasm. Streets were festooned with flags and bunting. Committees were formed to arrange street parties and entertainment, all self financed. Fortunately, on the day, the sun shone from cloudless skies and the back streets of Mumbles, along with the rest of Great Britain, paid tribute to a much-loved monarchy. Trestle tables groaned with fine fare, local artists such as Les Clarke and his ukelele performed, races were run and lost, music played, people danced and wine flowed. Immense coverage was given to the Jubilee procession by the media and the cinema came into its own using the relatively new Technicolour film. How stirred we all were at the sight of the dress uniforms of the Empire Forces! By today's standards the coverage was primitive, but at the time it thrilled us —we were proud to be British! A lasting memory is the close-up of the king, a dignified bearded figure in Field Marshall's uniform, mounted on a magnificent black horse. He looked every inch a monarch, yet seemed so weary, not having recovered fully from his pneumonia. He was to pay dearly for that parade within a year.

Oystermouth School held its own celebrations before the big day, which was a national holiday. The school became a mass of red, white and blue. Children had been making the decorations weeks in advance and simultaneously auditions were held for a concert in the hall followed by a party. The concert performers were of all ages and degrees of talent. A budding Menuhin would extract noises from a fiddle that not even the master himself could produce. Blushing little boys would dry up in the middle of poetic tribute and whole classes of infants would be herded in front of the assembly to sing nursery songs, which became completely unrecognisable. Often the trauma experienced by these children would manifest itself in the odd little puddle appearing round their feet! As in all schools, there were one or two gifted children. We heard Cameron (Cammie) Rosser play the piano as few juveniles could and Frank Gold who not only looked angelic, but had a pure soprano that was a divine gift. Both these lads were talented enough to find fulfillment in the world of professional music. At the end of the school party everyone was given a handsome, flat tin souvenir box containing a large bar of chocolate. I wonder how many homes in Mumbles still treasure these boxes.

Part 5

Meanwhile, in Europe dreadful things were happening, of which we were blissfully unaware. We knew of Hitler, Franco and Mussolini, but at our age they were figures of fun. It seems incredible now that within three years we would be at war with Germany and that boys in the top class, like Norman Colley, Percy Thomas, John Sidney and others would be on active service.

My friends and I had much more pressing problems to contend with as the academic year rolled by. Once again we had a new form master. The same old adrenaline surge was felt, stimulating the 'fight or flight' syndrome. There was no chance of flight so the only alternative was to face what lay ahead—Form VI and Evan Davies. Again there was a complicated change of forms, the scholarship stream moving up to Evan's class and others moving sideways into 'Dolly1 Robinson's class along with a number from Dappy's class.

Dolly Robinson

I only came into contact with Dolly on a few occasions but I remember her as a lady involved in the girls’ games (a counterpart to Braddy). Dolly walked with a pronounced spring in her step. As her weight descended on to a foot, so her toes would flex and lift her entire body vertically a couple of inches. With her hair cut very short above the back of the neck, her head held high and her pogo stick walk, she radiated physical fitness. She was a handsome woman, with a dominant personality and voice to match. I look upon her, as a latter day TV Gladiator, but opposition to her would have been rather difficult.

Ted Priddy

Our appearance was subtly changing. We still wore short trousers regardless of weather, but collars and ties were replacing jerseys, except in summer when standard dress was a tieless shirt with the collar over the neck of the jacket. Shoes replaced boots and hair was longer, parted with the help of cheap brilliantine from Ted Priddy's or the demon barber, Sammy Harris (pronounced 'Sammiearris’).

Saturday morning waits in these cob-webbed salons were interminable, partly due to ancient hand-operated clippers in ancient hands. Fre­quently, the hair on the tender part of one's neck stuck in the blades and this was rectified by a sharp tug, which was agonising and elicited a yelp. There was no apology (what do you expect for four pence!) just a repositioning dig and a snarled 'Shut-up! Keep still!' Sam and Ted's days were numbered, however, when new technology surfaced in Queen's Road in the shape of Mr. Staples and his electric clippers. This was a development then, comparable with getting a man on the moon today and once we were reassured that the electricity would not fry our brains, we plumped for painless cropping.

So, we reached Evan's class looking a little smarter. Evan had the reputation of being the ‘hard’ man. This was the last class before the Scholarship exam and he as determined to drive everyone to the limit of their ability. He was a tall distinguished looking man with thick grey hair and a lined face, which gave him a severe countenance, not a true reflection of his nature. He was a superb blackboard artist, able to illustrate his teaching with exquisite drawings and at the same time fascinating us with his peculiar habit of placing his tongue between his back teeth and chewing on it. He was a gifted musician and a good Christian, firmly believing that it was his duty to teach his charges a good way of life. One adage he taught which I shall never forget was ‘When Wealth is lost, Nothing is lost. When Health is lost, Something is lost. When Character is lost, All is lost!’

Sadly, some remember Evan only as a disciplinarian 'of the old school'. True he believed in not 'sparing the rod' and there were few pupils who did not feel the weight of his hand or the burning sting of his cane. However, I do not recall him ever humiliating a child, with a tongue-lashing—humiliation being the worst punishment of all. He smiled when he was pleased and his expression revealed momentarily the caring being inside. We were privileged to have known Evan Davies and I personally remember him as one of the great teachers in my life. We were now on the home straight for the Scholarship! If one passed, it was on to one of the Grammar Schools

Swansea was served by three pairs these. There was the ‘Grammar School’ off Mount Pleasant for the boys and its counterpart, the girls ‘High School’ on Brynymor Hill; ‘Dynevor School’ for boys and its partner, ‘De la Beche’ in the town centre for the girls and the 'Glanmôr School' for boys and girls on the Glanmôr Road. They were all excellent seats of learning and the highest standards of dress and conduct were demanded in and out of school. Those were the days!

Exam failure meant seeking a private academy, which was costly, and beyond the means of most, or staying in the elementary school until 14 and finding some sort of work. Only about a dozen pupils would pass from Mumbles, the result of one exam making or breaking a child's whole career. An exam, which had perhaps been taken on an 'off’ day.

Previously published in the All Saints’ Church Parish magazine, October 1996 - January 1997

Clare Wiggins wrote to us at The Local History Centre in Dunns Lane [which closed in 2009] and was proud to reveal that her great aunt was Miss Mary Louisa Oriel, who was headmistress of the Infants at Oystermouth School for some time, including the war years and lived at her bungalow in Manselfield Road, Newton.

'She was not a forbidding figure to me and could relate to me and my brother with a great sense of humour and generosity.

She travelled in Europe with my Dad, which must have been in the 1930's as he was 17 when war broke out.

I am the baby in the photos below and that would mean that they were taken in 1954 or 1955. I am not sure when she retired, but she died when I was 13 or 14 years old.

My Dad would drive us to Swansea and we had fish 7 chips and trifle at Woolworths upstairs café and we would have tea at the Cosy Café in Oystermouth (fried egg sandwich was my favourite).

A selection of articles by Grafton Maggs

Christmas in Mumbles between the Wars by Grafton Pearce Maggs

I was born in 1925, which implies that my conscious memory extends back to the late 1920s. So, by ‘Prior to World War Two’,

Going to the Tiv by Grafton Maggs

Another favourite pastime in the 1930s was ‘Going to the pictures.’ It was a special occasion with an excitement far exceeding that of a visit to the impersonal ...

The Games we played by Grafton Pearce Maggs

I look back on my childhood in the thirties as on halcyon days, a great deal of that happiness coming from shared moments with so many ...

The Saturday Tuppenny Tradition by Grafton Maggs

I remember so well those cold, drizzly, winter mornings, waking, as a little lad, to the soft grey light that filtered through the bedroom curtains.

They are giving away free ice-cream at Forte's by Grafton Maggs

Our generation was expert on ice cream in the thirties and with some justification as the days of the great mass producers had not arrived.

The Instant Army that came from Nowhere by Grafton Maggs

May 2010 came, and went, remembered mainly for one thing. A General Election which, after all the counting . . .

Some members of ‘C’ Coy (Mumbles) 12th Bn. Home Guard recalled by Grafton Maggs & Duncan Bishop

Any additional names or details would be welcome