Friction generates heat
by Gareth George
When I was eight I attended Deansbrook Junior School. My parents, both teachers, had moved from Godalming in Surrey early in the 1950s to enable my father to take up a new post as head of maths in a North London Secondary Modern School. Up until this time I had been accustomed to the cloistered environment of a country primary school buried in the depths of Surrey. The move to the North London suburbs was for me quite traumatic. Instead of a 5 mile country bus ride my new school was now within 10 minutes walk from our semi-detached house halfway between Edgware and Mill Hill.
Deansbrook had been built at that optimistic time following the war to end all wars and the architecture was typical of the 1920s Modernist Movement. Its precast white concrete section external walls with brick motifs masked a flat roof and must have seemed quite revolutionary at the time of its construction. Classrooms on three sides were located around a central garden and faced inwards on to a passageway open on one side to a green. The fourth side bordering this internal garden housed the headmaster and the school hall.
Strict ‘streaming’ was in force at this time with children in each year placed according to perceived ability in either the ‘A’, ‘B’ or ‘C’ classes. The brightest kids were placed in the ‘A’ and the least able in the ‘C’ stream. ‘B’ seemed to contain all those they couldn't quite pigeonhole. This is where I was placed. You would think that even over 50 years ago it would have been common knowledge that children thrive on encouragement. To be selected for a B grade at eight was not a helpful start!
As I look back on my early school life, I realised that teachers in the early 1950s had a relatively cushy existence. Well-behaved children from largely middle-class backgrounds were used to a discipline within their own home environment that today would be considered very repressive and cruel. Physical punishment was commonplace and this authoritarian approach was reflected in the classroom. One rarely stepped out of line unless one could be sure to remain undetected.
My first two years in Mr Wick’s class were largely uneventful and as I look back through the rose coloured spectacles we always peer through when we reminisce I was really very happy. The routine suited me and the Summer’s endless and perfect. Popular in the playground, I enjoyed football with a worn out tennis ball and even invented a complicated game of tag that became quite the rage.
Keith Powell and Richard Clark quickly became my closest friends. I enjoyed Richard’s company mainly because I was secretly in love with his twin sister Linda. My friendship with Richard often enabled me to be close to her. My affair was so secretive and one-sided that neither ever suspected my infatuation and I spent five years trying to sum up the courage to suitably express my feelings. Keith on the other hand was a swash buckling character who seemed to exude confidence and enjoyed the sort of magnetic popularity we all secretly crave. He was always seemingly at the centre of things. I felt honoured to be included as part of his inner circle. As is so often the case the day-to-day relationships with friends far outweighed anything that Deansbrook had to offer and typically these relationships took centre stage when compared with projects, homework and attention to classroom activity. To my parents disappointment reports reflected my lack of application and they resorted to threats of possible demotion to the ‘C’ stream. As my friends had become so pivotal in my day-to-day happiness this threat did in fact carry some weight, if perhaps for the wrong reasons.
The headmaster in my time at Deansbrook was Mr Downing. An unapproachable and pompous figure always dressed in dark suits complete with gown and mortar board .We were all always in awe of his presence. So much so that to speak to him directly was quite a challenge. School speech days gave him his special platform, literally. Surrounded on the stage by the school governors and senior teachers he used to enjoy addressing the school and parents at length on this annual and very formal occasion.
As a little boy sitting cross legged on the floor, as close to Linda as I dared, I used to listen in a daydream as he delivered his long dissertation to describe the school year. In my second year when he was in mid-flow on speech day a voice from the parent’s rows interrupted him. This was quite unprecedented and every head turned to identify the bold speaker. To my horror my Father was now standing. “Excuse me, headmaster, did I hear you refer to some of the children in your care as morons?” Somewhat flustered Mr Downing replied that he had used the term to describe a minority of thoughtless pupils who in his view were letting the school down. My father stood his ground, however, and replied, “ I could not as a parent, listen to headmaster using these terms to describe the children in his school, and under his care, whatever the circumstances.”
I remember going quite numb with shock. Not only had my Father had the temerity to interrupt the headmaster but he had effectively publicly humiliated him. Only Linda's glance of admiration gave me some satisfaction as I fought with my conflicting emotions. Largely unknown in the school until this incident I now basked in my father's reflected glory. “ Hey George - your father is something else!” “ Must be great to have him as a Dad, prepared to stick up for you like that!” This was all very well, but I now seemed to have come to represent one of the morons that so spoilt Mr Downing's school year. I can assure the reader that this was not the case.
The following year I succeeded in burning ‘Stringer’s’ hand with a piece of Meccano. I had been running a metal axle around the walls of the playground and the friction had made it surprisingly hot. Stringer, was one of those unfortunate boys who would have been streamed as ‘D’ or ‘E’ had these streams existed. His gullibility was legendary and I couldn't resist asking him to look after my piece of Meccano during break and offering him the now white hot axle he badly burnt his fingers. In my defence I assumed that he would immediately let go of the hot rod but there must have been a breakdown of communication between hand and brain that ensured that he held on for far too long. His screams soon brought authority along and within minutes I found myself in the dark corridor leading to the headmaster's study accompanied by the on duty teacher determined to see justice meted out. The wait was depressing. Only one punishment was likely to fit the crime and the playground teacher lost no time in pointing out that I would fully deserved the thrashing Mr Downing would be obliged to meet out.
At last in his presence and with the on duty teacher dismissed my truculence evaporated into a serious bout of apprehension. Mr Downing seemed to be savouring the moment. His lecture revolved around the similarity between my actions and what his cane could deliver. “Friction generates heat, my boy, ” he punctuated these remarks with trial swishes of the cane in the air and I now awaited my fate with remarkable fortitude.
With that intuition that the very young have, I began after a while to realise that he was seriously delaying the punishment I no doubt deserved. As I looked at him in mid-sentence it began to dawn on me that he was weighing up what my Father's reaction might be to the stripes that would inevitably appear on my backside. My early detection of his weakness prompted me to offer a stouter defence. “He grabbed it, Sir,” I ventured, “before I had a chance to warn him.” This distortion of the truth finally seemed to swing things in my favour. He let me off with the confiscation of the Meccano part and the severe warning that a repeat of this behaviour would force him to use his cane in earnest.
I omitted to tell him that my Father would have approved of the thrashing under the circumstances! It's amazing what these little omissions can achieve.