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Early School Days in Bishop Auckland

There was a world war on, when at the age of five in 1942 I started my education at Cockton Hill Infants’ School, Bishop Auckland. Some memories are somewhat vague but others clearly come to mind.
The building was of typical Victorian style of red bricks with long high windows, characteristic of many institutions still remaining all over the north east of England. There was an imaginary line that separated the infants’ department from the girls’ junior School and the boys’ section. Imaginary, because all iron railings were removed to be smelted down for the making of valuable war equipment. Traditionally with the era of time the playground was of concrete. The small area behind the boys’ school, once a small grassed playing area, now air raid shelters.
Miss Patterson the Head teacher was a canny little soul [to use a good Durham word]. She was about 4‘10,plump with a lively personality. At 9a.m she would stand on the top of the sloop, overlooking the schoolyard. She had a commanding stature despite her small frame and she would ring the enormous brass bell with great gusto. This was the symbol of authority, and we stopped dead like statues, not a sound could be heard, not a smile would glimmer on our faces. Once again our simple games were suspended albeit only for 1-½ hours until playtime, when again we would swoop out into the playground like a flock of pigeons released from a cage. Out into our unsupervised land of play and make believe.
The hall was the core of the school, in which everything happened. Its main uses were for Prayers, P.E. dancing and later years dining room. Outside of each classroom door was a table with numerous gill milk bottles, however as shortages persisted they changed to large white mugs of tepid milk with a fine layer of dust settled on the top. To refuse to drink it was not an option; down the throat it had to go like it or not.
The lighting was long oval shaped gas mantles, which had a dual purpose. One to illuminate and secondly a place of punishment in which the offenders had to stand beneath in disgrace, displayed to all.
There was an aroma of disinfectant, milk and the rubber of sandshoes all mingled into one distinctive smell, not unpleasant, but one, which seemed to linger in the nostrils and clothing.
We each had a partner mainly for the purpose of air raid shelter practice, which we performed weekly. We all developed our own small circle of friends. I remember very well Joyce Moore, Gillian Costello, Jean Hughes, and Josie Hunter. Instructions were that at the sound of the air raid siren, located on the tower of the nearby Baptist Chapel, we had to quickly spot our partner and proceed in an orderly but hasty fashion with a cushion, coat and gas mask to the shelters nearby. There we would sit on seats of wooden planks all lined round the edges of the construction. They were dark, damp and soggy under foot, but with the assurance of one another we found it quite exciting and didn’t really mind. But of course we would not, as most of the occasions it was only pretend. We were very fortunate that Bishop Auckland was not on Jerry’s list of being of any importance.
It would have been a different story, if they had tried to bomb the munitions factory at Ayclffe 5 miles away. This was where my father worked as a foreman. Some of the mothers’ of the children travelled daily on the train from Bishop station, working there, amongst the deadly product. Often we would see large bombs being carried on the railway lines to unknown destinations. This we took for granted; it was all part of normal life to us. I had the advantage of growing up in these important years knowing my father. Not all were so fortunate. Some of my pals had fathers serving in the forces all over the world. Some were away for many years not knowing their children at all.
The teachers, which I remember, clearly were Misses Drysdale, Scott and Ireland. They were all pleasant souls despite having very large classes of sometimes up to 50 children at a time to teach the basic skills. Many did not care for Miss Ireland a very forceful character, but an excellent teacher. She was nicknamed Crabby Ireland, which seemed a little unfair. I liked her and found her most interesting. I particularly remember her great interest in the proceedings of the war, which she instilled into us. Each morning after Scripture lesson she would spend about 15 minutes enlightening us on events taking place throughout the world. On the blackboard she would place a map and invite us to partake on the various stages and current happenings. We were encouraged to bring items from the newspapers for discussion. Everyone enjoyed this lesson.
One day a new girl from London joined the class. I witnessed the agony on the face of a 7-year-old child who had been bombed out of her home. The sad forlorn expression would haunt me for a long time. She was separated from her parents and living with her aunt in our town. She cried most of the day chewing on the corner of her constantly wet handkerchief. We all treat her kindly but she seemed oblivious to our sympathetic efforts. She did not stay very long, before returning to London to be reunited with her parents.
Another occasion that sticks distinctly in my mind was when Miss Ireland told the class that Susan Adamson’s father was reported missing and she would not attend school that day. But at noon a red-eyed Susan appeared bravely attempting to carry on as normal. About a couple of weeks later he appeared in the classroom wearing a very smart officer’s uniform. She ran over to him in great joy and embraced him, tears running down her delighted face. This incident brought the reality of the war closer to us-we tried hard to understand.
Miss Patterson composed a ditty, which I vaguely remember. We would sing it most heartily in the hall after prayers. It went something like this:
Gather up your salvage; gather up your salvage,
Gather up your salvage; and help to win the war,
Gather from your uncles; Gather from your aunties
Gather from your grandmas; and help to win the war,
I went home and sang it to the family changing ‘from’ to ‘up’ thus - gather up your aunties, gather up your uncles, gather up your grandmas. They all laughed.
And so the war years passed by. We were still wearing our hand knitted woollen suits, darned cardigans, horrible black stockings, which I despised, especially when forced to wear them until the end of May. ‘Never cast a clout until May is out,’ my mother would chant. I can only believe that a clout is a Northern word for a layer of clothing. Of course, who could forget the thick baggy navy blue knickers, elasticised legs, which seemed to stretch down forever? They had a triple purpose, one for warmth, secondly for modesty, and then with our skirts tucked in, our P.E. kit, quick, easy and all one garment. The thrift of the 40’s!
My mother had an obsession about damp clothes and airing them off well, to the point that my clean knickers were placed into the oven of the fireplace range overnight. I must have been the only girl going to school with fresh oven baked knickers. This oven incidentally, was not used for cooking. ‘Just to make sure,’ she would say. Tuberculosis was the dreaded disease of the times and she was convinced wearing damp clothes caused it. Strange perhaps that I was allowed to play out in the snow with damp feet and wearing wet gloves for many hours
. Then there was the detested liberty bodice, with dangling suspenders worn over the top of the woollen vest. I wonder how we managed to walk with all these garments to contend with as we tripping along to school on a crisp winter morning
I sometimes think it sad that now we are too late to speak to the teachers who taught us so well struggling through those desperate times. If that were possible we would thank them heartily for doing such an excellent job and giving us some of the essential security we needed during those important years of our childhood.

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