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Then in 1945 my school had two classrooms. There was a small room where the infants were taught by a delightful young lady called Miss Drake-Brockman, although to a five year old she represented middle, if not old age.
The other room was long and rectangular. This was where the 7 to 11 year olds were educated.

Our headmistress - Miss Hall - sat in the centre of the room facing a class of about 30 pupils. Her angled desk, like ours, hinged upwards and it was in here that she kept her register, text books and her 18 inch cane.

It was in this room I learned my times table; each morning chanting with the rest of my classmates: one one is one and ending with twelve twelves are a hundred and forty four. By the age of seven these tables were imprinted in my brain and have been there ever since.

Each morning we would gather in the playground, an uneven surface which shelved in the middle to a small drain. In this pre-school period the boys would play conkers, fight, and generally plague the life out of the girls who were more disposed to skipping and gathering in giggling groups.

At the far end of the yard were the brick lavatories; insanitary smelly buildings to which pupils would regularly visit after imploring “please miss, may I go over the yard” 

School started at 9 o’clock sharp as we assembled standing behind our desks awaiting the arrival of Miss Hall. She would bid us “good morning children” and we would respond enthusiastically.

In winter the main classroom was heated from a large coal fired boiler around which was a brass fire guard. Occasionally a man - we never knew who he was - would arrive and opening the boiler door would throw scuttle fulls of coke into its innards, filling the classroom with pungent fumes in the process.

At ten thirty the milk monitors would bring in a crate of bottled milk which we drank through straws pushed through a small hole in the cardboard bottle top. At the age of eight we reached a milestone in our tutelage when our pencils were replaced by scratchy pens, and mothers despaired at the inky shirts and blouses that arrived home each evening. Sums were explained on the blackboard, then worked meticulously in dark blue exercise books with a map of the British Isles on the inside covers. Misbehavior was never tolerated and punished by the cane applied to the hands.

Once a year terror would strike in our little hearts with the announcement that the school dentist was to pay a visit. We were each given a note to give to our mothers - it was never dad - requesting they attend with their offsprings for examination and treatment. A trembling fear would grip the school that day as we watched a huge chair and various pieces of mysterious equipment transported into the infants room. A strange man in a white uniform awaited with a mother in attendance.

A rubber bib was secured around the neck which no matter how you looked at it, meant only one thing - you were going to bleed. Next to the chair was what appeared to be a semi -deflated football bladder, which the man in white squeezed as he placed a rubber mask over your face and an overpowering smell of gas was forced down your throat. Afterwards it was “slops” - bread and milk - for a day until the mouth recovered. Even as I write this, I can recall the fear of that school dentist. 

Less of an ordeal, but embarrassing, was the visit by the District Nurse whose role in life was to ensure every pupil had a clean head of hair. “Nitty Nora” as she was affectionally known, would examine our hair diligently and oh the indignity if she gave you a chit to take home requesting rigorous treatment and the use of a small toothed comb.

This is Marton School on the outskirts of Middlesbrough where I spent those happy days. Today it is a private nursery with bright and modern furniture but otherwise this fine stone building, in the centre of the village with its distinctive flying buttresses is exactly as it was when its foundation stone was laid by John Bartholomew Rudd in 1849. 

Other memories of my early school days include nature walks in a nearby park, singing lessons with the entire school bursting its lungs. Walking home at lunch time, but not before we had sung “be present at our table Lord...” which the more daring of us sang sotto voce “bring presents to our table...” Uncomplicated, secure, days, and yes, the happiest of my early life.