Malcolm McLeman's Memories of West Barns Primary School

Some years ago, I asked a family why they chose to leave Dunbar, to live in West Barns? The answer, “We want our children to be educated at West Barns Primary!” I felt a sense of pride; I was given the same privelege, albeit a different era.

            Ally Knox and Peter Aitchison have admirably covered the pre-war period of West Barns Primary.  Born at 36 Springfield, on 27^th May 1939, some four months before the outbreak of the Second World War, mine starts in 1944 with staff unchanged. Headmaster Mr Deans, Miss Scott and Miss Angus.

           At five years old, being taken by my mother on my first day to school, complete with gas mask in cardboard case over my shoulder, was indeed a daunting experience. My mother realising my anguish kept a tight grip knowing at the first opportunity I would run off. I still recall the sigh of relief once we were through the girls’ cloakroom door, into Miss Scott’s classroom. After enrolment and the mothers had left, we were taken back to the cloakroom to hang our coats and wash our hands, a perfect opportunity to

high tail it through the unlocked door and make for home. On returning from her daily visit to my grandmother in Stenton Road, you can imagine my mother’s horror to find me playing in our garden!

My first day at school a mere thirty minutes!

           Under the strict regime of Miss (Granny) Scott, whom with her many years of service had taught my mother, we were introduced to the world of the three rrr’s “reading, ‘riting and ‘rithmetic.” Standing in a semicircle round her table, well within reach of her pointer, reciting “a for apple, b for bat, c for cat, d for drum,” until the entire alphabet was embedded in our brains forever. Woe betide any pupil who made a mistake or drifted off in a trance during this primaeval chanting! Immediate reawakening with a sharp pointer in the midriff!

            All written work was on slate, slate pencil provided by the school. When introduced to the delights of subtraction, my desk mate Michael Woods got all his sums correct and was dismissed for lunch. Michael left his partially wiped slate discretely in view for me to copy. This I did, putting all the answers in the wrong place! Result, a heavy doze of the tawse! Even in senior years Granny Scott could still lay on the belt. Once nurse Ethorne saw Miss Scott give Michael a hefty clip on the ear for misbehaving in line. An immediate furore erupted, ending behind the closed door of Miss Scott’s classroom, both women screaming at each other, like banshees. Miss Scott must have come out on top; we didn’t have nurse “Hawthorne’s” nit inspection for some weeks after.

           After Miss Scott we moved to Miss Angus, a portly lady with a much gentler teaching way than previous. Miss Angus also played the piano during singing lessons and for the school concert. My only memory of this time coincided with free health care under the newly formed National Health Service. The school dentist arrived, painful injections then fillings by a very slow, foot-pedal operated drill. Some years later, presumably with my parents’ permission, same school dentist pulled out all my first teeth in one sitting!

            School milk was free, the small bottles freezing solid and sometimes cracking in cold winters. Depending on your family circumstance, school dinners were available free or for a small fee, served by our dinner-lady and school caretaker, Miss Shiels, a kindly spinster with long dangly earrings, who referred to the hoards of wasps invading the dinner-hut during summer as, “ These awfie weps.” Miss Shiels also had the task of keeping the school boiler well stoked in winter. The fuel was coke, a residue from coal after being converted to gas, making the boiler-room smell like Dunbar gasworks.

           Latterly Miss Angus did not enjoy good health. During one of her prolongued absences, Mr Deans allowed Douglas Vickers and I to take her class, an experience we both thoroughly enjoyed.

Miss Angus was replaced by Mr Jameson, an ex Royal Navy telegraphist, who taught morse and flag signalling on school club nights, kindling my interest in communications.

           After Mr Jameson it was on to the pre-qualifying under our redoubtable headmaster, Mr. Jas. (Jimmy) Deans, whose teaching methods, I’m sure were unique for their time. Separating classes into teams, each with a captain. The teams prepared, debated and competed against each other on various class subjects. Three times a week, the junior classes were ushered into Mr Deans’ classroom to listen to the BBC school broadcasts. Singing, geography and nature study, text and songbooks provided by the BBC. Mr Deans a keen philatelist ran a Tuesday evening stamp club later becoming a full school club with various activities such as boxing.

             A strict but fair disciplinarian, Jimmy carried his tawse, “Timothy, “ over his shoulder between waistcoat and suit jacket. It was rumoured Timothy was regularly toasted over the schoolhouse kitchen stove to make it stiffer and more painful on application. A brief glimpse of Timothy was enough to make any pupil sit up and pay attention. Tidiness and cleanliness were the order of the day. A mere point of the finger by Jimmy at any scrap paper dropped on the playground would send everyone scurrying to dispose of the offending object.  Pupils were awarded stars in a special scheme run by Gibbs dentrifice for cleaning their teeth daily.  The entire school was encouraged to participate in the government run National Savings.

            A keen cricketer, Mr Deans would occasionally take the bat during “leavy,” the wicket stumps held upright in a wooden block on the playground flagstones. If you bowled Jimmy out, which was rare, he would shake your hand and give you a penny, not a lot even then, but made you feel as proud as punch. There was also the school football team; my only memory was playing against Whitekirk on the hilltop above Whitekirk church, the ball out of play rolling all the way down the hill, lengthening the match somewhat. I think Whitekirk thrashed us that day.

           School prizes were presented by a local dignitary. One I recall was Miss Marrow, who lived in the West Barns farm residence. When Miss Marrow died the entire school lined Edinburgh road, heads bowed as her cortege passed.

           In the austere years of the late 40’s and early 50’s before television, home entertainment was provided by the wireless. One of the highlights on the village calendar was the school concert. Rehearsals went on for months.  The concert started with the school choir, then various acts ending with the sketch  “At West Barns by the Sea,” a parody of a popular radio comedy of the time,  “Much binding in the marsh.” Proceeds from the concert went towards prizes for school sports day, held on Hedderwick links then later the playing field above the present school.

           Davy Tom, the school inspector or “whipperin,” regularly visited all the primary and secondary schools checking the registers for absenteeism and truancy. Travelling around the county in a 1920’s box shaped Morris “matchbox” car that never seemed to go faster than 10 mph up School Brae!

           One day during qualifying, an elderly but very erect and stern looking man, greeted warmly by the Headmaster, visited us. I had a feeling I had seen this gentleman somewhere before. It was only when he pounced to examine Ernie West’ schoolwork, Mr Deans asked the class if we had any idea who he was? I put up my hand and to the old man’s astonishment, answered. “ Mr Mills sir, the headmaster before you!”  I had seen an old class photo at my grandmother’s.

           Now almost sixty years on I walk past my old school with a tinge of sadness at its dilapidated state. Is it possible I can still hear the shouts and shrieks of laughter coming from the girls’ playground or the sound of a football thumping against the boys’ playground wall, possibly the cricket stumps falling on the flagstones with an exultant shout from the bowler, “Howzat!!”  Or a roar from the boys, hoisting the last player in the air at the end of a game of British bulldog?

            Playing with some pals one summer evening in an empty playground, I batted a small stone through one of the classroom upper windows, making a small, perfectly circular yet hardly visible hole in the pane of glass. Next day, Miss Shiels found the stone in the classroom but didn’t understand where it came from or thankfully report the incident. When visiting West Barns, I look up at that very same, now boarded up window and, wonder to myself “Is that wee hole still there?”

Perhaps one day, I may find out.

Malcolm McLeman West Barns Primary 1944/51

Ref.  Book. “ Slate to Disk,” Dunbar Grammar School Centenary 1897-1997.

Page 6. Photo, West Barns Primary circa 1946, middle row, fourth right.