Memories of Childhood
by John Appleby

~ 24 ~

So passed a very happy year. I continued to remain entranced by the smells of new books, chalk-dust and plasticene, a distinctive school smell. Once outside, our playground was a grassy field, and at four o'clock we'd run to the edge, and scramble down the bank onto the sand, to walk home, in summer, dawdling among the strands of driftwood and dried kelp. When we were level with Beach terrace, we'd climb up and make our way past Meldon Terrace gables, and into our back lane. At the end of that year, I left the hut school, and joined my sister Winnie, my mentor and protector, because I was a painfully sensitive and imaginative lad, at the brick school down the road. I became an eager pupil. I loved learning, I loved books, and I was praised by my teacher, Miss Hutchinson. Mr. Hewitt was the headmaster. It was lovely happy protective place with a playground surrounded by a low brick wall, and we could gaze over at the passers-by, and at the menswear department of the Co-op, the guilded sign above the window reading, "Mens' Mercery".

A little brush with authority. Aged six in 1927. Walking home along the beach one Sunday evening, with my mother, the sun casting long shadows on the sand, I came across a square of stiff cardboard discarded by who knows who. Recognising this treasure, as a piece of aeronautical fun , I skimmed it towards the heavens and watched as it reached it's zenith and began to float, then dive towards a flat landing . It was only then that I noticed, to my embarrassment and horror, the figure of Miss Hutchinson, who was also enjoying the cool evening air. To my dismay and fascination, my descending aircraft was on a direct course for disaster. The flower-bedecked hat intervened, and was sent tumbling to the sand. I stood paralysed as she cast her eyes around for the source of this assault. Too late to hide behind my mother, and nowhere to run! Carrying the target of my thunderbolt, she bore down upon us. She halted, and I forced myself to look up from the white sandshoes, to the summer coat, the ample bosom, to the jowled face with the now dishevelled grey hair. To my everlasting relief, her eyes behind the thick lenses began to twinkle, and with a twisted smile she said, "jolly good shot John", and with a courteous exchange of adult pleasantries, and with her bonnet back in place, she sailed upon her way. I have speculated ever since whether she said anything BUT pleasantries beneath her breath as she walked away. At supper that evening, the family rocked with mirth as Mam with tears streaming, recounted the story. I was happy because had I been alone, I would surely have come to a dreadful end.

© 2003 John Appleby, New Zealand

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