A Somerset Lad

Concerned that the words might be read again by someone somewhere in fifty years’s time, I have spent much of the day carefully writing reports for the twenty-five students in my Year 7 tutor group. It was a relief not to have to write reports on all of the students whom I have taught in the past year; three hundred and fifty comments would have taken a considerable time.

I have been mindful of the need to choose words carefully because a year ago my mother unearthed my Year 7 report from Elmhurst Grammar School in Street, where I spent a year before it closed its doors for the last time in the summer of 1973.

In those days, every subject teacher was expected to write a sentence for each student they taught. The comments were about as useful (and accurate) as mine would have been if I had been required to comment on three hundred and fifty students.

The most comical comment of all in the report came from the physical education teacher. Awarding a grade “C,” he wrote, “Ian has made some improvement in swimming.” I couldn’t swim at all. I didn’t learnt to swim until I was thirty-eight; how could I have made improvement?

There are three Cs and seven Bs on the report, something which I remember reading with a sense of injustice. In the end of year exams, I had done well in most subjects. I had come fourth in geography, fifth in science, sixth in maths and French and seventh in English – surely, I had deserved at least one A minus? In history, I had scored a dismal 33% in the exam, coming sixteenth, but still was awarded a B.

The comments on the report were probably the longest communication I received in the year from some of the teachers. “He has worked steadily and shows average ability,” was the comment from the art teacher. I suspect that similar words were used by him on many reports. “Average ability,” was an absurd exaggeration, my talent for art was worse than my ability for swimming, if one can have less than zero talent.

Reading through the report now, the teachers whose names appear were not old. Some were in their twenties, some probably only retired in the last decade, yet they seem to have belonged to a bygone era.

A little empathy from some of them would have gone a long way. There would probably have been many pupils who would have left with happier memories.

A day trip to Weymouth by train from Langport required two changes. Having a good day out meant catching the 8.03 from Langport West to Yeovil Town (the next train was not until two hours later), where the shuttle train was taken to Yeovil Pen Mill in order to catch the train that ran from Bristol to Weymouth. Arrival in Weymouth would have been at 9.50. An hour and three quarters journeying to cover forty-one miles.

What was it about a day out that made the journey worthwhile? Why would people dress up in their best clothes to go to sit on a beach in Dorset?

Langport West station had been closed for three or four years by the time we went on our first outing to Weymouth. The track had been torn up. Trains would never again be an option for a day out.

From High Ham, we travelled by coach for our outing. The “Sunday School” outing was the first Monday of the school summer holiday. Few people went to church, even fewer went to Sunday School, perhaps there had been a time when it had been an annual treat for children of Saint Andrew’s church, but by our time it was a village excursion.

Whether by train, or by bus, though, what was it that attracted people? There was never a year when the bus was not full, why did we all go?

Perhaps it was about taking part in an activity with others. There would have been no reason why we could not have gone to Weymouth in our family car, but it would not have been the same. A family of five heading off for the day in an Austin car did not have a mood comparable with that of fifty people boarding a bus.

Even now, I can still recall the sense of excited anticipation as we stood at the end of the road awaiting the arrival of the coach. There would have been shouted greetings and smiles and laughter as we found seats and opportunity on the journey to wander up and down the bus to talk to friends. The first glimpse of the sea would be greeted with a cheer.

But what was it all about?

The day would have been spent on the beach in hired deck chairs. There would have been sand castle building and dips in the sea, but, on a crowded beach, games were restricted. Lunch would have been sandwiches.

In the afternoon, there might have been a visit to the shops before tea was eaten in a fish and chip cafe.

On the journey home, there was a stop in Dorchester. Ostensibly for more fish and chips, the stop allowed some of the trippers time for a quick drink in a pub.

“Didn’t we have a lovely day?” would be the refrain as we left the bus at the end of our road.

A beach, chips, togetherness – a lovely day did not demand much.

Aunt Hannah was a cousin in some degree of my grandfather. In the intricate complexity of our family tree, it is possible that she was a cousin in more than one degree. In small rural communities, intermarriage of cousins was a frequent occurrence.

Hannah would have been described at the time as “simple.” It seems a much kinder word than many of the terms used now.

Hannah worked in a school meals kitchen, preparing the vegetables each day for hundreds of school dinners eaten at the school at which she worked and at the schools supplied by that kitchen. The pay would not have been much, but it allowed her money of her own, and a sense of independence.

Hannah joined various of her cousins for a day out to Weymouth. The train was caught from Langport, with presumably a change at Yeovil, so as to reach the Dorset seaside town.

A fine day was enjoyed, but at the end of it, Hannah was nowhere to be found. Worried family members had to return to Langport fearing something had happened to Hannah. A week later, Hannah reappeared at Langport station, she had been to Jersey for the week.

Anyone familiar with Weymouth will recall that the train once ran right down to the harbour, running along the streets at one point. The channel island ferry would only have been a short step away.

However “simple”, she may have been, but Hannah must also have possessed a capacity for planning and calculation. A ticket for the sea crossing would have had to have been bought, accommodation in Jersey would have had to be paid for, and spending money would have been required to make the week a worthwhile experience.

The family were mystified as much mystified by how Hannah had financed her holiday as they were by the fact that she had gone for a daytrip and had disappeared for a week without telling anyone.

A while later, Hannah asked at home if she might borrow some money. Her National Insurance stamps had gone unpaid and she wished to pay her contributions. Money that usually paid for stamps on a National Insurance card had obviously been set aside each week for the quietly planned week in Jersey.

There is something delightful in the story of Hannah’s holiday, a tale of a person who refused to conform to the role ascribed to her, a tale of an independent spirit.