Tales of school days, a good friend and smoking tea leaves and bus tickets.
In my post, ‘Thirty years passed before I remembered this teacher.’ I briefly mentioned my Friend, Kenny Wilson and how we made tea for the staff at our primary school.
But I did not tell you about what we got up to before the staff arrived, and how important Kenny was in getting us the Job of tea makers to the teaching staff.
When Kenny and I were at school, primary school was for pupils between the ages of seven to eleven.
There was a tradition at our school that two pupils from the eleven-year-olds were selected to be staff room tea monitors.
This job consisted of making the tea for the teaching staff, before the start of school, at mid-morning and mid-afternoon breaks.
It was a gig to be desired, and when Kenny was picked the post, he selected me as his helper. That meant missing a half lesson in each session and be allowed in the school early to prepare the staff’s tea.
Now, as I understood things, this was a one-off post, a bit like Miss World. You were awarded it for a fixed term, a week, and then off. You only had one bite of the cherry.
But not with us. Somehow, Kenny managed to fix it, so we had the job on and off for our last few months at the school. Perhaps he had convinced someone that we were the best tea makers going. He was obviously a boy meant for great things.
But making the tea was not the only thing we did.
While we were left alone, apart from making the tea, we experimented with smoking by using drinking straws filled with tea (Supplied by Shoreditch Borough Council) as cigarettes.
If running low on the tea, we used rolled-up newspapers or used bus tickets.
We made sure the windows were wide open and there was much arm waving by us both to make sure there was no evidence of our illicit activities when the staff began arriving.
As I mentioned, the tea making gig was supposed to be a one off. But Kenny always seemed to get selected, and he always picked me as his partner in crime. He was meant for great things in his life. So, we enjoyed several sessions as servers for the staff.
But all good things come to an end and our time at our primary school was coming to an end.
During those last months, all the eleven-year-olds had to sit the eleven plus exam. The results of this test would decide what type of secondary education you would receive. If you failed, you would go to a secondary modern school, a pass would get you to a grammar school, where you would get the best education the state could provide, and you would wear a uniform.
If you fell between the two, you went to a central school. Where you received a reasonable education but got to wear a uniform.
From a class of around thirty-six kids, twenty-two of us achieved central status. The rest went to a secondary modern, all except one. Kenny Wilson.
Kenny was the only one to obtain a clear pass. He was destined for a grammar school. I told you he was a boy meant for great things.
The last day of our primary education was a fairly relaxed affair. After all, twenty-two of us were all going to our new school together. We were just moving from one end of the Hoxton market to the other end, closer to the City of London. We were going to Shoreditch Central, but Kenny Wilson, my good friend, was going to Highbury County.
But this was not to be a sad parting. After all, we only lived less than a half a mile apart; we would no doubt run in to each other on the streets we all used to roam.
On that last day, we stood on a street corner, told our selves we would see each other around, and said goodbye.
That was fifty-plus years ago.
I have never seen or heard of Kenny Wilson since.
Funny old world.
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Thirty years passed before I remembered this teacher.
