Little River School

During the war, the Canterbury Education Board built a new school at Little River to replace the old one burnt to the ground when its chimney caught fire. Education Minister, the Hon H.G.R.Mason arrived to open it. A courteous speaker he spoke about country children having the same opportunity as town children, and how his Government had ended unemployment "for good".

The building had folding French doors facing north, windowed down to floor level. There were two rooms, junior and senior separated by the teachers' quarters. There was a bike rack and luxury a shelter shed - all very posh though the classrooms remain fairly spartan. I sat with Charlie Timothy a Maori boy from the recently closed Maori school. Learning Pooh songs from my book we used to go round together chanting `Cottleston Pie' and similar ditties.

We rote-learnt maths tables, had a spelling test each day, and I moved from inelegant printing to even more inelegant writing. After gas-mask practice we all sang "Land of Hope and Glory". We took time off from lessons to hunt for ergot, the black fungus that grows on tall fescue, which apparently would stop soldiers bleeding to death. We didn't find much but searching for it was a change in school routine.

Memories of school and home are relatively seamless. The fact there are more about home than school probably represents a time percentage rather than any other factor. I enjoyed school, got top of the class in everything except phys ed and art. Certainly when we summoned back inside from playtime I had no feeling of regret. With the war on, most adults were rather preoccupied. I was a shy child. My father’s sudden death kept me introspective. Teachers and fellow-pupils saw me as studious.

I learnt early that praise of my ability was a two-edged weapon. It did not endear me to my peers. How to enjoy and learn from the lesson while at the same time not earning disapproval encouraged a camouflage approach. Sometimes after a correct answer to a question the teacher would ask why my hand hadn't been up. I learnt to ration my waving, and not to show scorn when someone gave a foolish answer.

There were painful days as well, scraped knees, Chinese burns from schoolmates, fingers caught in the swivel of my pencil-case, winter chilblains. and bruised feelings. Pop, my grandfather had a pet cockatoo, which screeched advice and abuse at him as he went about his farm business. Amongst its food were big red chillies. They looked appealing. Aged six I stuffed one in my mouth and bit. Agony is a blistered mouth and the humiliation of little sympathy. Dr Trail said hospitalisation, which meant a trip to Christchurch in Pop's red Oldsmobile.

At the same age, played rugby at break with the big boys, my collarbone broke. Weeping I left the field. "Who's a big sook" they shouted after me. I returned to play, choking back my pain, the occasion demanded public manliness, and a show of bravado. The next day very proudly, my tears justified, my arm in a sling, I possessed a new word, `clavicle'. Words I liked, collecting and polishing them to drop into my talk, often in the wrong place. Next year, again playing rugby, I broke my clavicle a second time. These two breakages meant thereafter I broke the golden rule of that sport - "don't flinch".

Canterbury University offered money to the school for live frogs. We were asked to catch them over the weekend. At the railway turntable Doug and I filled a sugar sack. Back home we dumped the sack on the kitchen floor while making a beeline for the pantry to have a snack - Mum made lovely jams, raspberry, strawberry and apricot. She came in to see the heaving, contorting bag and foolishly undid it. Jubilant frogs leapt round the house while she explained what she thought of us. We rounded them up, and barricaded them in the old shed. That night she woke to an intermittent thumping noise. Every time she moved it stopped, but resumed as soon as she lay still. Eventually she jumped out of bed, and something cold and clammy hit her leg. She screamed loudly. Unfortunately she found the light switch just as we ran into the room. There between us hopped a frantic frog, one we had missed. Mum put Pop's old razor strap to use, unfairly we thought. Meanwhile the frog disappeared. I hoped it got outside. Certainly all those we barricaded in had.