Education part 2 - Nursery

St Elphege’s Nursery was run by a foul tempered bovine lady called Mrs Smith who was nothing but a figure of fear to generations of kids who passed through that nursery.  She had two daughters, one of which was called Emily and I remember sitting in a car with Emily once though I don’t remember why.  I think it was Ann Brannigan’s car (one of my mum’s friends) and I remember thinking that Emily was really nice and finding it strange that she could have been born of a woman with no obvious maternal instincts.  I also found it strange that the nursery could be run by a woman who never displayed any kindness towards children.

Mrs Smith’s reputation preceded her and even though she tried, my mother could never convince me that she was nice really.  I was dropped at the portacabin that constituted the nursery for my first morning there and did nothing but cry.  I remember looking up at the friendly face of one of the other nursery teachers, Mrs Clifton, and willing her to be a kind lady.  She was.  Eventually I stopped crying.

With Mrs Smith watching over us, all I wanted to do was keep my head down until I got out of there.  I don’t think I was an outstanding nursery student but I wasn’t a fool like some kids.  I got by.  Except one day.

It was PE day and PE meant we would all strip down to vests and pants and run around the school hall in a big circle until Mrs Smith bellowed ‘STOP’.  As I undid my trousers I had a terrible flashback to my bed and getting dressed that morning.  I put my own pants on every day, but for some reason I didn’t remember putting them on that day.  I looked.  I was naked.

My flush cheeks prickled with nervousness and humiliation as I told someone – probably not Mrs Smith.  Probably Mrs Clifton.  I remember it not being a big deal and being led over to a little cupboard where I was handed...a spare pair of pants.  They were white with a pale yellow hem and two pandas looked at bamboo on the crotch.  They were fluffy from being washed so many times.  The prospect seemed vile.  I was just hoping to sit out the PE session.  I could run around at home and shout at myself.  But no, I had to carry out the humiliating ritual in the pants of shame.  Everyone would have known what I had done.  Or worse: they might assume I had pissed myself.

Back at home, I found my pants on my bed.  I had just forgotten to put them on and cursed my own stupidity.  My mum washed the pants of shame and returned them to the nursery for some other idiot kid to wear some other time.  I vowed never to make that mistake again and I never did.

          

Shortly before I made the leap from nursery to school, we moved from our prefab outhouse to the main school building.  I think this was called reception class.  But it was still only for the first half of the day and we still didn’t have to wear uniforms.

I was a good kid.  I worried about everything and feared a stern word or look from my teachers.  But in reception class, I had one truly wild day.  Or half day.  Never having been sent to the corner in either my home life or my academic career so far, I was sent to the corner three times.

The first time was grossly unjust.  I grabbed a pen from the pen pot before the teacher (I don’t remember who, possibly a Mrs Wright) said we could.  I was held up as an example of disobedience, of the unruly type who would attempt to seize the best pen before anyone else could.  My only crime was that of wanting to draw the best picture I could.  Most of the felt tips were blunt, dry and furry.  It wasn’t possible to create a masterwork with such tools.  I had seen a new felt tip and gone for it and as a result, spent the first few minutes of drawing time sat in the corner facing the wall.  But somehow, despite my nervousness and impeccable record, I wasn’t bothered.  I returned to my table when all the decent pens had been taken and drew an unmemorable picture as bad as anyone else’s.

My second offence was more serious.  My best friend Daniel Ascough had developed a fascination with The Karate Kid, a fascination that would later lead us to karate classes.  Sat cross legged on the carpet during story time, he linked his hands together and told me to karate chop them, as if I was karate chopping wood.  Never having karate chopped anything before, I was thrilled when my chop broke his hands apart.  My elation was short lived however, when Mrs Wright ceased her story to tell the pair of us off.  We were taken to sit in the adjoining room on opposite sides from each other.  We were round the corner from our classmates and teacher and out of sight, so we sat making faces, trying not to laugh too loud.

We all had our jackets on ready to go home when I committed my final misdemeanour.  I was sitting beside Matthew McLoughlin, a chubby dumb kid who would at various times become my best friend.  I had never really been aware of him at school before.  And I had never paid attention to how rosy red and shiny his cheeks were.  I studied them.  Were they, were they plastic?

‘Please can I poke your cheek?’ I asked.

He nodded with the happy gormless grin of the mentally deficient.  I reached out and pressed my finger into his pudgy, grinning face.  That was when I heard Mrs Wright squeal my name for the final time.  She ordered me to the corner once again, the defence of having been granted permission to poke Matthew McLoughlin in the face apparently being no defence at all.  Now used to being persecuted, I recall rolling my eyes, or doing whatever the four year old’s equivalent of that is.  I had my jacket on and everything.  Some kids’ parents were even at the door, ready to pick them up.

I sat in the corner and waited for my mum to arrive.  I don’t know if Mrs Wright told my mum about my appalling record that day.  If she did, my mum must have been very cool because I don’t remember her acting on it.  And at least I found out that Matthew McLoughlin had a face made out of flesh, just like the rest of us.