I loved Canley Vale primary school (far south western suburb of Sydney). The teachers; the atmosphere; everything. Well, that may not be quite true because as the saying goes, “nostalgia is a seductive liar”. Nevertheless, there is no doubt they were halcyon days.
Never will I forget old Seedy, our headmaster of some generations. He was masterful (no pun) in organising the willing carpenters & electricians drawn from the local P&C to plan, construct and later dismantle the big outdoor wooden stage that was used year after year for Seedy’s initiated Xmas Eisteddfod. He both surprised and pleased everybody on one occasion, with his welcoming speech to a generous crowd of parents, by declaring that he knew his nickname was “Seedy” (C. D. King).
Aided and abetted by other fine teachers, he was credited for injecting some culture into generations of kids from our rather low socio-economic region. He wrote operettas in which he co-starred with his deep tenor voice, with one of the better girl student voices, and along with the offerings from the various other classes, were always appreciated and enjoyed by everybody. Ahead of its time, the Eisteddfod was really looked forward to as an end-of-year event.
Jacky German and I were jostling to be head of the class queue one day and it got out of hand with promises to finish it after school in the bush on the way home. By then we both had cooled off and were a bit scared, but other kids egged us on so we had to go. The whole thing was pretty even and farcical with just a few hits, but I (accidentally I think) gave him a bloody nose which ended it. Sneaky Teddy Smart was a willing onlooker, but next day he dobbed Jacky & I into the Head. We thought we were going to cop it. Always a quiet and serious presence Seedy instilled respect (and a little fear). He said to us “Well what was it about?” Neither of us wanted to admit to the stupidity of the matter and said we didn’t know. He said “What! You’re funny men aren’t you? not knowing what you were fighting about? Go on then, and don’t come before me again”.
The following, and last year at primary school, he was my class teacher. One day he must have been having a wearying time, I don’t know, but a repeat year pupil sitting at the back of the class had played up. Seedy stood up and roared Lunn! come out here! – went to the back of the blackboard and drew out a fair sized cane and flayed poor old Lunny two of the best. I’ve never seen Seedy upset about anything, but he was more upset than Lunn, I think, because he apologised to the class for having to do it and told us that he loved us all.
Mr Johnson, a big, portly man who taught us 16th century English songs like Strawberry Fair –(“rifol rifol, tol de riddle rifol, rifol rifol, tol de riddle dee”). Bored stiff with these dirges we would sing, (not too loud), “eyeful, eyeful, come and get your eyeful” to break the monotony. And “Trees”! “Why do we have to have songs like that” we thought. I still find myself singing them to myself, today. (I love ‘em). But old Johnno was a wonderful bloke. Girls and boys alike considered him number one. He called his cane “Excalibur”. Felt sorry for him later when the kids were trying to press Johnno into being sports master (making life difficult for him, too, as he made clear to us).
Names still in the memory bank – Miss Hartman (kindergarten), Miss Sturgess, Mrs Bogg – (I was perpetually late – “Oh, come on Pike. Better late than never”). On the way home from school at the Xmas break, I saw her give her own copy of the class photo to a kid that missed out, exemplifying the entrenched teacher standard – the kids first, us last. They were family.
And even the sports master Harper, the unpopular disciplinarian, showed me another side to him. One day in the playground – “Pike, do you like hundreds & thousands”? – I faltered on answer (had never heard the term) – and he presented me with a cup cake. The stupid little things that stick?
They were all pleasant, inspirational people.
The years 1947 – ’49 at Liverpool Technical High School might have been viewed as some sought of penance. I hated the place. My eldest brother who did some of his prac. teaching there, said that it was common belief of fellow teachers that the morale of students and teachers, alike, was abysmal. But the place had metal & woodwork. I enjoyed learning to do stopped tenon and dovetail joints and some basics in metalwork. The librarian taught us the Dewy system and attracted us to the world of books. I forgive him becoming exasperated with me with my turn at reading to the class. Coming to “plateau” – I struggled with the french word, with ‘plat – eh – ay – you” and then “plat –ey – you” until the Librarian cut in with “plat-oh, boy!! Plat –oh” !! Well, it’s not my fault that the French muck around with bits of the old Gaul. Ridiculous language, the French think it’s all poetry and flowers but it can be just as silly as English, ay!
To be continued… The saga of teacher/brother kidnapping me to get my Intermediate and the world that opened up for me without it.
Don Pike, Four Mile Beach.
