Poem, by William Norgrove

The following poem, sent in by Mike Farr, is the full version of that which appears in the Autumn 2007 newsletter.

As a nervous lad of eleven
Could it be I was going to heaven?
My tin trunk was new,
My possessions were few,
And the train waited at platform seven.

I arrived at the school
Maintaining my cool,
For Vera was always ready
To assist her brother
To stay out of bother
And help to keep everything steady.

In my dormitory ‘Clarke’
I was invited to park,
Found a bed allocated as mine,
Though there were only a few,
All the others were new,
At the time I believe there were nine.

One failed to appear;
The poor lad I fear
Had nurtured a malevolent bug.
He eventually came,
Unknowingly game,
With a hamper of fruit: what a mug!

We all dived in
With no knowledge of sin
To partake of this manna from heaven;
We were well through his stock
And we all had a shock
When the lights came on at eleven.

Mrs Bailey appeared,
She was one we all feared,
And found date stones all over the floor;
We all thought the worst,
That we might be the first
Of the new boys to be shown the front door.

We were luckily spared
Since our sins were declared,
And we had no need for appealing;
With Mrs Bailey’s discretion
Regarding the session
As tactful as her house-coat revealing.

On Wednesdays we all had to bring our collection
Of footwear for minute and detailed inspection.
Were they sound? Were they bright?
Was the inventory right?
If not we were down for correction.

Our ‘House’ shoes of course
Were always a source
Of pain though their use might be fleeting;
Even lines were imposed
When their use was exposed
On things such as ‘Pig Drives’ and ‘Meeting’!

They were banned by strict rule
On the route to the school,
The paddock was no place for slippers;
But we often slid by,
Being lazy and shy,
And crafty, although only nippers.

On the way to the Hill,
If any were ill,
The ‘San’ was ready to care
For the onset of plague
Or symptoms more vague,
And the food somehow seemed better there.

When we went for our picnics each year,
The weather was perfectly clear;
We always had sun
To help with the fun
And a wagon to carry the gear.

We took Whichford and Edgehill in turn
With Japhet and cart for the urn;
While most of us walked,
There were others who baulked
At the thought of the blisters they’d earn.

They walked when they started
In no way downhearted
For a while they were as brave as you’d be;
But they swallowed their pride
And most hitched a ride
On a wagon provided by Scruby.

Nansen, Lister and Penn
Were the three ‘Houses’ then,
To the last I owed my allegiance;
Though not always first,
We were never the worst
And took pride in any achievements.

A competition we won
Was always such fun
Picking blackberries for future consumption;
Much better than school,
But our gang broke the rule
And hid mushrooms for our own private function.

Remember, remember
The fifth of November,
On the Prom for a fireworks thrill;
Treacle toffee supplied
By the distaff side
From the DomSci room at the Hill.

At Sally Walker’s, the shop,
We were forbidden to stop,
I never could understand why;
And what were the grounds
For its place out of bounds
And the need for us to pass by?

After all, my finances were firm,
All of ten shillings a term,
Little left for charity giving;
I spent about sixpence a week
Profligacy at peak
Leaving three bob for riotous living.

When birthdays came round
And parcels were found
To contain many goodies with cake,
The first slice was sent
To the one who was meant
To be special for romance’s sake.

Health and safety at school
Were never the rule
When we went on our skates down the slope;
If we avoided a fall
And missed hitting the wall
We were proud we were able to cope.

We flooded the yard
When we hoped for a hard
Frost before we came down from the Hill;
So before breakfast we had
Thick ice and were glad
Of a slide causing many a spill.

We played fives on the court
By the yard, having sought
To try something not usually chosen;
After not very long
We found our choice wrong
When playing with fingers well frozen.

Our trips to the Gower
In snow, gale or shower,
Were all part of Sunday for me;
As were Pig-drives, home greetings
And evening Meetings
In the gym on the prom after tea.

Though some memories are faint
There are others that paint
Permanent pictures which never can stop;
An example of one
Was the supper rice bun
With its sugar and jam crater on top.

I remember one night,
With the moon very bright,
We’d saved up our biscuits, sugar and bun
To give us a boost
When our gang left the roost
To go on a cross-country run.

Such trivial things
With others can bring
Happy memories of four early years;
Though of little import
They bring back the thought
There were many more laughs than tears.