Thursday 21 February 2013

A life in letters: Bearsden Primary School



My Primary 3 year (which began in August 1959) and the first half of Primary 4 were spent at Bearsden Academy Primary School to which we were ferried by ‘bus every school-day morning. It was a two-storey Victorian building of traditional design at Bearsden Cross.

The classrooms were ranked round a central hall which was surrounded at first-floor level by a balcony which gave access to the upstairs classrooms. The playground was divided into two halves, one for girls, the other for boys, but my only recollections of play-times are (1) the war-memorial on the other side of the railings. The angel, bearing a wounded soldier, impressed me as it towered high in its magnificence, wings spectacularly outstretched. (2) the building squad constructing a brick flue up the back of the school, in connection presumably with an upgrade to the heating system. I watched their handiwork as, play-time by play-time the chimney rose higher. (3) the day I fell and cut my knee. When I reported this to my father in the evening he told me that, at work, he’d had a sense at the time of the accident that something had happened to me. This seemed uncanny and impressive.

There was a reproduction of a painting hanging on the wall which we passed on our way to and from Miss Johnstone’s classroom – it showed an inspiring building with a tall, solid-looking tower dominating a park. I was curious to know the identity of this edifice, and when I described the picture my parents recognised it as Glasgow University, with Kelvingrove Park in the foreground. It was I guess the school’s destination of choice for its abler pupils.

Miss Johnstone taught Primary 3 in her bright classroom on the ground floor at the front of the building. She was a Canadian, a warm, caring woman whose disappointed wrath I incurred only once when I tugged the pony tail belonging to the girl sitting at the desk in front of mine, which was snaking invitingly in front of me. We studied Canada: Miss Johnstone brought in a bottle of Maple Syrup and went round the class, crouching by each of our desks and spooning into our mouths a sample of the delicious elixir. I don’t recall her wiping the spoon between its visits to our eager lips. We studied Christopher Columbus, compiling a jotter with pictures of the famous navigator, information about his relationships with Spanish royalty and about his spectacular voyage, and drawings of the Santa Maria and her accompanying vessels. We learned the song, never thereafter to be forgotten, ‘Columbus sailed the ocean blue in fourteen hundred and ninety two.’ Our take on the indigenous North American peoples was emphatically traditional.

My other recollection of Miss Johnstone’s class was of one of the craft projects. Each of us was given a round piece of robust card about eight centimetres in diameter (supplied by Dryad, I think) with cardboard spokes radiating out from the centre. On a cupboard door at the front of the classroom, Miss Johnstone hung a rainbow of brightly-coloured lengths of wool, with many strands of each shade. We got to leave our desks, come and choose a length of wool, sit down again and weave it in and out of the spokes on the card. Once we’d come to the end of one piece of wool, we could get another –  of the same or a different colour – and repeat the process. The end result was that each of us had a mat decorated with a bright spectrum of colour, each mat unique. I still recall the thrill of going to the cupboard door,  free to choose wool of whichever colour I wanted.

Mrs Robertson was our Primary 4 teacher. Her classroom was in a hutted annexe at the side of the main building. My only recollection of the five months spent there was the collection of rose hips, which I believe was to be turned into rose hip syrup, and sold for some charitable purpose. Each day, kids would turn up with bags of fruit which were duly weighed by the teacher. I have a feeling that this rose hip project was competitive – but whether individual pupils were rewarded or classes I can’t recall. I cheated, because all my rose hip collecting was carried out by proxy. My father kindly stopped the car on his lunchtime journeys between two hospitals and gathered the fruit to help a small son who sadly took this expression of love almost totally for granted.

I remember my excitement when I heard that a new petrol station, selling what to me was an unfamiliar brand  – Mobil – was to be opened not far from the school, and it was rumoured that freebies, highly attractive to eight-year-olds were to be dispensed on the first day of business. That evening my father drove home via Bearsden, filled up his tank, and on his return home poured into my outstretched hands a cascade of surprises.

At the end of the school day those of us from Westerton scrambled on to the buses for home. One day I climb up the curving stairs and sit down on the top deck. Accidentally my bare leg touches a girl’s bare leg. I feel the warmth of it and shiver. That shiver was the first sign of a childhood illness. The next day, I am in bed with a fever.

My last day at the school was just before Christmas 1960. At the start of January, the new Westerton Primary School opened.



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