We lived in the “new” part of the town. A council estate that was supposedly a healthy escape from the old shipyard terraced back to back streets. Seems no one considered the massive noisy stinking coke works that dwarfed the estate.
The business end of the town was still in the old part, built around the river. It was a couple of miles from where we lived so I had to get the bus to the infant school from the end of our street.
My mam always had the bus fare money in little piles on the mantlepiece ready to be picked up on our way out. Two thrupenny bits each, one for going and one for coming home. It was a double decker bus with an opening at the back for getting on and off; no doors to keep out the rain or the freezing wind in the winter.
The driver was in a world of his own in an enclosed cabin at the front and there was a conductor in the passenger section to collect the fares, ring the bell to let the driver know when to stop and set off and to keep order on the bus; no easy task on the school run.
The conductor had a wonderful ticket machine slung crossways over his shoulder and you could smell its leather strap long before he reached your seat. He took your money, chinked it into his brown leather bag, turned the shiny metal handle of the machine and out came the ticket with a unique whirring click. Even those tickets had their own special smell, a mixture of paper and ink. We all clutched our tickets or stuffed them in a pocket in case the inspector got on.
The fare was thrupence for a single or you could get a five penny return. Hardly anyone ever went for the return option, even though it would give you a penny to get something from the sweet tray that the teacher would bring into the classroom at the start of morning break time.
I was six years old. Mrs Swale was our teacher, a plump dumpy lady with curly grey hair. She terrorised us. I can’t imagine that she actually liked children at all; I can clearly remember her mercilessly thumping children repeatedly in the back for minor misdemeanours. She was definitely not the sort of teacher you could go to with a worry or a problem. Head down, do your work and you might just escape.
I sat next to Maureen Scott. She was a thin girl with short curly blond hair. Maureen had a distinct way of sniffing; which she did often. She would poke out her tongue, screw up her eyes and give a massive sniff; the green candlesticks would be instantly sucked back up her nostrils. She had an older brother which might explain why she knew how to bully. And I was her target.
I can’t remember how it started, but she began to threaten me with “telling the teacher on me” unless I gave her whatever she wanted; either sweets (no one had sweets often then), fruit or even money (which was even harder to come by). I went to school with my stomach churning wondering what she would ask me for that day. So I had to be quite inventive to procure things to give Maureen.
One afternoon, she told me to get a five penny return on the bus the next day so I could give her the spare penny. The next day came. I got on the bus with my two thrupenny bits. I sat and waited for the conductor to come along and, remembering Maureen’ threats from the afternoon before, I asked him for a five penny return when he reached me. Click, whirr…..out came the ticket. I took it and stowed it carefully in my pocket. Now he handed the precious penny over, cold, brown and shiny in my little hand. I thought what I could buy with it at break time if only it were mine to spend, but of course , it wasn’t mine. It belonged to Maureen. I turned the penny over and over in my fingers, and put it in my other pocket. I was happy, I had my ransom to give to my tormentor.
Break time came and we all filed out into the school yard. As usual, Maureen got me on my own. “Well”, she barked, “Have you got my penny?” Of course I had her penny. It was in my pocket. I slid my hand inside and felt about. But the penny wasn’t there! My tummy seemed to flip over, my legs felt heavy and I was terrified. “I promise, I got the five penny return and put the penny in my pocket! It must have fallen out! Here, my mam gave me a lovely apple today, you can have that.” I pleased hopefully. Maureen gave one of her trademark sniffs, turned on her heels and stormed away. “ You spent that penny on yourself!” she snarled. “You’re in for it now, I’m really telling the teacher on you now.”
I stood there shaking. What was going to happen to me? I was terrified for the rest of that day, just waiting for the moment I’d be called out to the front of the class for my punishment. But it didn’t come. Of course, Maureen didn’t tell on me, she had nothing to tell.
My mam must have sensed that I was upset about something. I eventually told her what had happened. “You’re being blackmailed!” she exclaimed. I didn’t know what the work meant but I worked out that it mustn’t be very nice. I heard the word over and over again as she told my dad, nanna, granda and the whole world, so it seemed. She was enraged. In those days, parents didn’t ever come to school to have words with the teacher. Imagine my horror when I looked up from my desk the next morning to see my mam through the window of the classroom door! Mrs Swale waddled over and stood talking to her for several minutes. We all sat in silence. Of course, I knew why she had come and I dreaded the consequences.
Later that morning, Mrs Swale announced to the class that it was time to change everyone’s seats around. This hadn’t ever happened before, but I wasn’t complaining! I was moved away from Maureen and next to a quiet timid girl called Margaret Sands. What a relief!
I did feel a twinge of sadness that someone else would have to endure Maureen as their neighbour, but she ended up sitting next to a boy and I supposed that he would be able to look after himself.
(The names of the children and teacher have been changed)
