Eastbrook School

A Memory of Dagenham.

This is an extract from a story I wrote after taking some Dutch students to France in 1992 it includes youthful memories especially of Eastbrook School and it's staff.

July 1962 (or there about). Vaguely do I remember my schooldays many years ago in Dagenham on the outskirts of London. Dagenham was not, and quite likely still isn't, a very inspiring place to live. Like many suburban industrial towns, which grew in the wake of the first world war to accommodate the overflow from the inner cities and provided a fit place to live for the returning heroes, it was not a great social success. To quote a young David Frost it had but one advantage, "nobody in Dagenham tries to keep up with the Joneses..... nobody knows who the Joneses are." School, at least my school, was well suited to this environment although one or two of our masters were a shade above average most were grey figures trying to instil some degree of knowledge to even greyer students. The exceptions like Mr Wolf, Mr Jonas and Mr Minal were constantly fighting a losing battle against our ignorance and disinterest. Mr. Wolf our art master finally capitulated and escaped to Australia. Mr Minal (woodwork and technical drawing) kept trying but I suspect only because his job as a teacher gave him the opportunity to indulge his hobby of restoring antique furniture. Mr Jonas was to all intense and purpose a square peg in a round hole, a cultured man with a gift for teaching mathematics. He could tell stories on many subjects especially about the war where he had been a ranking officer. Never seeming to be teaching and yet managing to pass on the necessary knowledge to a bunch of morons incapable then of appreciating their good fortune in having such a dedicated man as their guide on the abstract planes of mathematics. As for the other teachers, their names now lost in the cobwebs of time, only a few things remain unforgotten. For example; the music teacher who also tried to interest us in his second subject religious instruction and lost his sense of humour in an agnostic wilderness. Standing one day on 'gate duty',( a daily task whereby our teachers endeavoured to prevent the pupils from the boys school meeting the pupils from the girls school on school grounds) he sarcastically remarked to one of my friends Peter Adams, who like a lot of boys of about 15 years was engaged in a simple form of teasing, that "little things please little minds." In one of those moments of genial clarity and improvisation Peter riposted with "you must be having the time of your life then." Such wit was completely lost on this poor soul. His music scorned, his religion ignored and now to be outwitted by a plebeian pupil this was too much and so the only solution was punishment. That was something that our school could do with a degree of competence. Spare the rod and spoil the child could quite easily have been our school motto and the rod was seldom spared. Except perhaps with one exception; Mr Davis. Mr Davis a true Welshman and probably known by his friends as Dy, although his pupils called him Dicky, (not in his presence I must add) never used the cane as far as I or anybody can remember. I have even asked my father who attended the same school eons before I did and also knew, a then youthful, Dicky Davis. No, Dicky had his own perfected form of corporal punishment. Probably having been a student of the Marquis de Sade before starting his teaching career he just used to "ding je yer." This strange ritual involved walking up behind the victim and with a flourish and dexterity, that belied his years, flicking the lobe of one or other of your ears with the point of his extended fingers. Such mastery of speed and accuracy was in those days unique, in later years people like Bruce Lee would perfect these techniques. Everybody had a great deal of, healthy, respect for Dicky Davis. I have always wondered if the subject that he taught, applied mathematics, formed the basis for these techniques. Talking of subjects, I haven't mentioned languages yet. Languages, what language.."s".., is there any other language than English? Oh! Yes I vaguely remember we did have one French lesson. The teacher probably left the school in a straight jacket and that after only one lesso. Tough school; if you can't take a joke you should never become a teacher and certainly not a French teacher in Dagenham. There remained English language and English literature. The only thing I remember about the teacher was a red brown tweed jacket he seemed constantly to be wearing. There was a poem that he managed, with some difficulty, to teach us and it has remained with me since, even if incomplete. I've forgotten who wrote the words; someday I must try to find out and get a copy of the text. When I first read it as a fifteen year old in my hectic suburban environment I couldn't imagine what the poet was trying to say. I only discovered the meaning later.
Later still, while nursemaiding a group of Dutch students on an exchange visit to France, I was again reminded of the poem 'Leisure', by William Henry Davies and its words.