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The Handwriting Scandal of Class One



This is a memory from my junior school days in deepest darkest Hackney, well Stamford Hill to be precise. Do enjoy it and feel free to comment on it. It links to and from The Great Biscuit Scandal of 1964.

The children in our class in Junior School all took it in turns to fill the ink wells and sharpen pencils: This was 1964/5, remember ballpoint pens were scarce, expensive and frowned upon by the school. The big gallon can of blue ink and the pencil sharpener were kept in a large walk in store cupboard situated off the back of the classroom.
The school provided pens in the shape of the ‘dip and write' types. The type used in films and real life from the last century, or the century before that now. The LCC (London County Council) was caring like that; it provided rubbish pens and pencils for poor people.
It came to be my turn to fill the ink wells and sharpen the pencils. I went into the cupboard with the classes blunt pencils and stood sharpening each one in turn. As I stood there in a state of near soporific boredom I picked up an old exercise book form one of Mrs Baker’s previous classes. I opened it and was fascinated by the handwritten script that was on its pages. I stood mesmerised by the lovely script that child had written. The pencil I had clamped in the sharpener was rapidly getting shorter and shorter as I turned the handle on the back of the device.
Mrs Baker didn’t like short pencils.Mrs Baker didn't like a lot of things to be honest; I am convinced children were amongst her pet hates.
Anyway the child given the task of pencil sharpening had to take the minimum off the pencil to make it usable that was her dictate as: "Pencils were very expensive things".
Back to the exercise book I had picked up in the store room.
The handwriting in that particular exercise book fascinated me. I vowed that I would use it to impress Mrs Baker with my handwriting skills. After all she had allowed the previous pupil to use that technique, there were no crossings out or red lines drawn through the writing. In fact the opposite: An eight out of ten for the content and handwriting and a ‘Well Done’. He or she, I can't remember the sex, must have been a star pupil. I resolved to copy that style. I knew it would impress Mrs Baker. I knew it.
My big chance came later that day. We had an essay set on ‘The Middle Ages’. We had been studying the Middle Ages the previous few weeks. It was something that really interested me, I loved history as a subject especially the 'olden days' stuff.
Now was my chance to shine. Now was my chance to show Mrs Baker what I was made of.
I dipped my ink pen in the ink well and wrote. The curves and flourishes I had seen in the exercise book in the store cupboard were copied as best as I could I remember.
I then drew a beautiful picture of a Middle Ages a line of pack horses walking gracefully across the page. They were esplendent with riders in all their Middle Ages bonnets and hats. I was so pleased with the result. It was my best drawing ever: Full stop, my best drawing, ever. This superb drawing was accompanied by the finest copper plate handwriting known to man, teacher or boy.
I handed the exercise book in at the end of class confident in the full knowledge that Mrs Baker would award me eight out of ten or even a nine out of ten.
I went home that night satisfied I had done my absolute best.
However it didn’t satisfy Mrs Baker as I found out the next morning.
The Register was called. We all answered as our names were read out.
I saw the pile of exercise books on Mrs Baker’s desk.
Mrs Baker stopped reading out the register, closed it and placed it in her top drawer as she did every day, day in day out.She leant forward and pulled the pile of exercise books towards her.Mine must be on top of the pile that is how she did it, she read out the best marks first.The pile rapidly went down as each mark was read out and the child went to her desk and collected their book. Mine was the last book on the desk.
Mrs Baker picked it up and flicked to the essay that I had so lovingly written.
“And as for this pile of rubbish written by Willis….” she trailed off the remark as she opened the book and viciously tore out the pages with the beautiful handwriting and that stunning picture on them. She threw the ripped pages in the bin next to her desk.The class giggled and looked at me. Mrs Baker threw the exercise book in my general direction.I could feel my face burning with embarrassment and shame.
“You can rewrite that in your own time.”
I had got playtime detention.
That evening Mrs Baker was at the back of the classroom; she always stood there when she dismissed the class.I sneaked a look in the bin by her desk on the way out of the classroom.The beautiful drawing I had done had red lines scrawled on it. The writing had lines slashed through it like someone in a state of total uncontrolled anger would do.
Over the next few days during break times I produced the shittiest piece of work that I could muster. It had bad handwriting, awful drawings and was basically an exercise in the opposition of wills: mine versus hers.
I duly handed the essay into Mrs Baker.I stood by her desk as she took my 'best copy' book from me. She thumbed straight to the essay I carefully crafted to be so crap.
 Mrs Baker drew breath, half sighed, half laughed sarcastically and said,
“Did the people of the Middle Ages ride dinosaurs Willis?” she pointed to my childish scrawled drawing that I had produced.She dramatically tore the page from the book again.Half my essay disappeared in that move. She paid no attention to that faux pas. I saw the red pen come out again. Mrs Baker drew red lines all the way through the remaining writing.I sat in my break time that day rewriting the whole thing again. Once again the essay was rejected, I cannot remember what spurious reason was given for that rejection. So I rewrote it again. And again.The essay must have eventually been accepted by Mrs Baker as I have no recollection of another, or further rejections of the essay. I could have kept up that rewrite for the next few centuries if I had to. Perhaps she knew that.
Or perhaps her humiliation of me had served her vague purpose.

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