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In 1935 I was sent to the country for four months and missed school, reminisced Kath O'Sullivan (nee Margerison), who was brought up in Thornbury, a suburb of Bradford, W Yorkshire, before the war. This meant that on my return I was placed in a B class with girls I hardly knew, but worse than that, it meant I was in Fatty Nxxxx's class.
Fatty Nxxxx was the tyrant of the school. She was a short fat lady of about fifty years, with long, iron-grey hair, which she wore twisted round her head in a plait. She always wore a brown or maroon dress summer and winter alike.
When it became stained with perspiration under the arms she gave off an acrid smell. A clump of whiskers grew out of her fat, wobbly chin and her beady little eyes were like those of a small ferret. When she grew angry she lost control. She would grab your hand, pull your arm out straight and slap, slap, slap until your arm was red and stinging.
As she did this she would bounce up and down like a rubber ball calling you insolent, impudent and other similar words. Everyone was scared stiff of her. When she was on playground duty a silence would fall over the part of the playground she happened to be in.
Each morning, after the bell, the school assembled in the hall where we sang hymns and listened to a story from the Bible. One of the hymns we sang was, 'Oh God our Help in Ages Past', a song that I always associated with Armistice Day.
The chorus was, 'and our eternal home.' However, my father was very amused when he heard me singing, 'and Harry returneth home.' Apparently I thought that it was about dead soldiers, perhaps my father's brother, Albert, or mother's brother, Frank, both killed in the war, and that the words meant they were coming home soon from the war.
I loved singing hymns, but one day it got me into real trouble. When King George V died, memorial services were held throughout the land. Thornbury School had its own service and, wonder of wonders, the boys and girls were to join together for this event. Normally the two halves of the school were strictly segregated.
We girls practiced the hymns; they were the same ones that were to be sung in Westminster Abbey. One hymn was 'Praise my Soul the King of Heaven'. The words of the chorus, according to Fatty Nxxxx, who was doing the teaching, were, 'Praise Him, Praise Him'.
However, I went home and asked if I could borrow my Granny Gerry's Church Hymnal to practice the words, and lo and behold in that book the chorus was, 'Alleluia, Alleluia'.
On the day of the funeral the senior two classes in the Girls' School lined up and marched past the two staff rooms, (yes, even the teachers were segregated) the Head Teacher's room and along a corridor into the Boys' Hall where, drawn up in lines, were the two senior classes of the Boys' School.
The Service began and the hymns were sung with fervour. When it came to 'Praise my Soul', I was delighted to hear the boys sing 'Alleluia', whilst the girls sang 'Praise Him'. That is, all except me, what was good enough for Granny's Hymn Book was good enough for me! Little did I know that Fatty Nxxxx was listening and watching.
Afterwards we marched back to our classroom and just as I was about to enter she grabbed hold of my arm and began smacking me. She was red in the face and so angry that, as she shouted, spittle formed on her lips and chin, spittle, which struck my face in time to the slaps.
Then finally she screamed that I was to write 'impertinence' five hundred times. I was so terrified of her that as soon as I arrived home I rushed to ask my mother how to spell the word and began the task immediately.
Normally if we were in trouble at school my father was angry with us, but this time he was angry with the teacher. He could not understand what I had done wrong. You can imagine my surprise when he told me to leave the lines and go out to play with Philip and the other children.
When I got up next morning Mum showed me that Dad had completed the lines in writing that looked like mine. She told me never to breathe a word about this, but to just hand them in when I was asked.
At the start of lessons, Fatty xxxxx demanded to see my lines. She snatched them off me, counted the words and then tore the pages in pieces and threw them in the waste basket.
Poor King George, his memory will forever stay with me as a reminder of the time my honest father became a forger for the sake of his eldest child.
Kath now lives in New Zealand.
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