1963 and five-year-old me. The Beatles had released their first 2 albums, and their first 2 singles had reached first place in the UK music charts. Doctor Who and The Daleks made their first appearance on TV screens. These things penetrated into my little brain, but the John F Kennedy assassination, Harold Wilson becoming leader of the opposition, Harold MacMillan resigning, the beginning of the Moors murders, Kenya gaining its independence, Kim Philby named as the third man in the Burgess-McLean spy ring and the Profumo affair did not.
Most of my attention was, instead, taken-up with trips backwards and forwards to the hospital, and in-between times starting school, with Mrs M being my first teacher, fierce with her use of strap, blackboard pointer and her chalk duster, which often flew across the room in the direction of the illicit misbehaver of the moment, or this one dreamily staring out the window, wishing for release back home.
We, as children, had small, slate, chalkboards and a piece of chalk, upon which we would hold up our attempt at forming letters, or the answer to simple sums. If we got it wrong repeatedly, we would be on the receiving end of the strap; and if that was an ongoing problem, we were sent to the remedial class, whilst everyone else was having a break in the playground. I received a sentence of 2 years for my perceived stupidity, and no-one was convinced that I had been ‘cured’ of it during the rest of my schooling.
There was, however, one single plus to being in Mrs M’s class. If you actually managed to get something right, and she was convinced you hadn’t just copied from the class smarty pants, you were rewarded with a Licorice Comfit, also known as ‘torpedoes’ amongst the children. I didn’t get very many of those, but when I did, I savoured them and made them last to the very last second of their existence in my mouth. They tasted of heaven to my five-year-old, sugar-addicted tastebuds, full of sweetness as they were, with their brightly-coloured, hard, candy shell, and the solid, strangely delightful, jet-black licorice centre. What I learned was that if you resisted biting into them, and just sucked on them, they could last for a very long time, and who had the blackest tongue at the end of the day was a thing.
I’m not sure if the licorice comfits were a sanctioned activity, or some kind of illicit enticement dreamed-up by Mrs M, but I do know that it wasn’t repeated by any other teacher ever, and it was the only tiny piece of comfort that I can remember from the whole of my schooling.
Fraser
January 2024