Ep22

In 1956 I passed the entrance exam to Aston Commercial School, which was situated in Whitehead
Road, Aston. The distinctive looking building is still there today but under a different banner. I wasn't
quite sure what a commercial school was nor what to expect when I got there; I could only glean that
its status lay somewhere between secondary modern and grammar. ACS was a mixed school, too,
though the classes themselves were single sex.

This achievement having delighted my mother, I gathered some self-esteem and looked forward to
beginning at the new school in January 1957. There were fresh subjects to face, like Book-keeping,
Commerce and German and, of course, new friends to make.

Things began well; I had made a lot of progress at Birchfield and sensed that I was going to continue
on the up at Aston. I soon attached myself to others that weren't just there for the ride; like Leonard
Sayer and Brian Harris, two of my new classmates. I felt proud that I had joined a school whose
masters wore gowns like those I had read about in the Billy Bunter books. There was even a Mr.
Quelch look about the Deputy Head, Mr. Mordecai, who patrolled the corridors Minotaur-like,
dispensing scathing rebukes to those whose dress sense fell below the acceptable standard.

Mr. Pritchard (Pritch) was our form teacher, a tall, bespectacled, grey sort of man with all the
mannerisms of a 19th century solicitor. I remember us all laughing when he called the register for the
first time and got to Eddy Pratt. He was well able to keep us in line though and knew his stuff when he
took us for Book-keeping and Commerce.

Things were quite the opposite in German, with Mr. Simpson. The unfortunate 'Herr' Simpson had no
control over any of his classes. Whenever he walked into a classroom, order departed. I had never
seen such indiscipline in the presence of a teacher and guessed I never would again. I suspect that
precious few ACS pupils acquired a GCE in German during that particular era.

Mr. Woodward (Pecker), the Games teacher, on the other hand, ruled with a rod of iron. Though
most of us towered over him he could make you feel half your size, if you crossed him.

There was a Mr. Jenkins, the History teacher, who looked as if his best teaching days were long past.
He was surely pensionable age, I thought, at the time. He lived just across the road from our house but
never acknowledged me if we passed in the street.

The fiercesome, red-faced Mr. Mordecai formed a formidable duo with stern faced Mrs. Chatwin, a
fellow deputy. Some wag said that she took ugly pills. The Head Teacher was the milder, though strict,
Mr. Mitchell who presided over the school with a quiet dignity.

One other teacher worthy of mention, and whom everyone drooled over, was the attractive Miss
Breakwell, who taught English. She got married at some point during the two years I was at ACS. Her
married name might have been Williams. Later, we learned that she was expecting a baby. I don't
know whether that brought an end to her promising career.

Pupils' uniforms were brown; the boys' included caps, which nobody wore (I still have mine). Lots of
us cycled to school; I used to ride home for lunch then speed back down Mansfield Road in time for
the afternoon lessons. Alas, one day my bike was stolen from inside the school gates and never
recovered.

Next to the school was a fire station. We could often see the firemen practising rescue techniques on
the tower that they had built in their yard, for the purpose. As our class was marched off to Victoria
Road swimming baths, once a week, we had to take care passing the fire station exit. I didn't see the
inside of a swimming baths, by the way, until my first visit with the class. Made to jump into water that
came up to my chest was a very scary experience. I didn't manage to learn to swim at school; instead,
I taught myself at Handsworth Baths, a little later.

Now, I'm ashamed to confess that I could not recall a single girl's name from ACS until Anne Gittus,
who was in my year, contacted me. As well as herself, Anne reminded me of three friends from school
with whom she had kept in touch, viz. Valerie Kelford, Janet Gordon and Maxine Gale. As for the
boys in my year; in addition to those names I have already mentioned, there were Bob Jones (my
lifelong chum), Baldaro, Mason, Ken Jones, Wilson, Roberts, Parry, Pugh, Thorpe, Aherne, Williams,
Baker, Reid, Rainford, Wheway, Somerton and Gallery. I also recall 'hard man' Dewsbury from the
year above me and Sammy Mclelland who gained prominence in the school plays.

As time wore on I grew more and more self-conscious. This was mainly due to the presence of girls. I
was painfully shy and blushed easily if ever I needed to speak to someone of the opposite sex,
something I avoided like the plague (mercifully, I grew out of that phase of my life, by the end of my
teens). Call me a wimp, if you like, but the problem led to my losing all the confidence I had gained at
Birchfield. I abandoned my ambitions and sought shelter among those in my class who did not harbour
aspirations of enhancing their own education. The promising pupil that I was in January 1957 had
degenerated into an angst-ridden no hoper by the end of 1958.

Bob Jones, who I still see regularly to this day, had a brilliant classroom wit, which I found an
enjoyable diversion from all my internal torment. On some days, after school, he and I, together with a
small group of 'rebels,' visited a shop that sold jukeboxes. This establishment was near the top of
Mansfield Road and was called Playtime Enterprises. The proprietor allowed us to play records on
his wonderful machines until the day we played two jukeboxes simultaneously. Alas, we were only
allowed to overstep the mark once and, as a result, the shop owner banned us from entering his
premises again.

Most mornings a small group of us skipped assembly by hiding in the classroom; no one noticed our
absence. It was an agreeable alternative to subjecting oneself to the repetitive dialogue pouring forth
from the mouths of various teaching staff, seated stiffly on the hall stage. On the occasions that I did
attend assembly, usually on Mondays, the expressionless voice of Mrs. Chatwin conveyed the
school's most recent sporting successes or, indeed, the acute lack of them.

"The hockey first team played Sutton Coldfield Girls," she would begin, soullessly. "The result was:
Aston Commercial 6 goals, Sutton 3 goals" (always adding the word 'goals' with all the formality of a
statesman announcing the terms of a treaty). She would then pause until we had all applauded. "The
second team visited Edgbaston High. The result was: Edgbaston 5 goals, Aston Commercial 3 goals."

Polite applause.

"The football team played Handsworth Technical School. The result was: Aston Commercial 1 goal,
Handsworth 6 goals."

More polite applause. Good show, chaps! Bit of a bugger losing but it's the taking part that
counts. Could have been 1 � 7 but for your stout-hearted efforts, what! Yes, I could never get
used to the ritual of applauding ourselves for receiving a hammering off the opposition.

I think that there was a minimal amount of truancy at ACS. This peaked on the afternoons Aston Villa
played their midweek home games. In those days Villa didn't have floodlights yet still managed to
attract large crowds for such fixtures. Many a schoolboy, including myself, was among them.

All in all then, I simply drifted through Aston Commercial School seemingly unnoticed, drained of
ambition, no interest in any subjects, employment prospects bleak and not a GCE to my name. A
black picture indeed but there was a future somewhere out there; it was up to me to go and seek it.