I had six years at Dalkeith High School. My first year in 1957/58 and my last 1962/63. These years began the Space Age with the Russians launching the first satellite, Sputnik, in October 1957, followed in 1961 by the first man in space, again a Russian, Yury Gagarin. It was the height of the Cold War and we all lived with the threat of nuclear war - and came very close during the Cuban Crisis in 1962. President John F Kennedy was the hero of that hour - and my school years were barely over when tragically JFK was assassinated on 22 November 1963 (when I was in my first term of 1st year at Edinburgh University). Despite the 'big picture' background, these years were largely good years for me. They were also my adolescent years; and years when my family situation changed dramatically.
I had some very good teachers at DHS. Most were respected, few were feared, and many - especially in my senior years - were appreciated and liked; and they were all, more or less, fair.
The headmaster for my first two years was Dr McCowan - and he was feared. He was very 'old school' - and appropriately, he was the principal of the 'true' High School, a kind of grammar school (in fact, originally it was called Dalkeith Grammar School when established in the 16th century - first records from 1582 in the High Street - see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dalkeith_High_School), and he retired in 1959 when the school amalgamated with Kippielaw Secondary Modern School to form the 'comprehensive' Dalkeith High School on Newmills Road (A68) near the South Esk River Bridge.
The principal of this 'new' school was a Mr Skinner (yes, Principal Skinner all these years before The Simpsons!), someone I never really liked or respected. Old 'Doc McCowan' seemed very harsh and everyone feared him, but he seemed to like me (goodness knows why - but possibly because in my brief initial interview with Dr McCowan, an old-fashioned socialist, I had hinted at my relief at getting away from Watson's Boys College).
The principal of this 'new' school was a Mr Skinner (yes, Principal Skinner all these years before The Simpsons!), someone I never really liked or respected. Old 'Doc McCowan' seemed very harsh and everyone feared him, but he seemed to like me (goodness knows why - but possibly because in my brief initial interview with Dr McCowan, an old-fashioned socialist, I had hinted at my relief at getting away from Watson's Boys College).
There were five forms in each of the first three years, and then only two for the senior years (one for those in the Latin and foreign language stream and another for the non-Latin stream). The first year ('grammar') forms were assigned the letters A - D; and there was an E form for boy students who required remedial classes (achieving poorer results than the pupils at the Secondary School at Kippielaw) and possibly had behavioural problems (hence separated from girls? For although all other classes were co-educatonal, they were boys only). These boys were tough - and we all feared them.
Unfortunately, when we 'lined up' in the playground at the end of each recess, the rows lined up in years from right to left E - A, which meant that when I was in 1A I had to stand next to the boys in 2E; and when in 2A beside the boys in 3E. Of course, when you got to 3A you were the lined up next to the senior classes as there was no 4E, the 'bad boys' having left school at the end of their third year.
Unfortunately, when we 'lined up' in the playground at the end of each recess, the rows lined up in years from right to left E - A, which meant that when I was in 1A I had to stand next to the boys in 2E; and when in 2A beside the boys in 3E. Of course, when you got to 3A you were the lined up next to the senior classes as there was no 4E, the 'bad boys' having left school at the end of their third year.
The school prefects were given charge of keeping order in the ranks, until starting with the first year classes, the lines of pupils filed into the school buildings. On one occasion in my second year, I got into a tussle, a bit of a push-and-shove, with one of the lads in 3E, a areal toughie! (I must have been mad!) Anyway, a prefect stepped in and told us to report to Dr McCowan 'for fighting.' The tough guy was suddenly quivering with fear.
'We're in for it noo! Doc McCowan hates me! It'll be six ' the best - and he really lays it on!' despite being a toughie, he almost cried as we made our way towards the main building where the headmaster's office was on the upper floor at the top of some wide steps.
I had learned from an incident involving a classmate, Jimmy Mawer, in my first year, that you had to get your explanation in fast as Dr McCowan reacted very, very quickly when a boy or boys were sent to his office. In Jimmy's case, he had been sent by Miss Wilson, our English teacher (and Head of English) to collect the Class Register from Dr McCowan's office (where she had had morning tea during the morning 'Break' - they were in fact a 'courting couple' and they married soon after they both retired in 1958). Jimmy had been so pleased to have been chosen by Miss Wilson for this errand, but he returned to the class in tears and with his hands shaking. He had made the mistake of saying, 'Miss Wilson sent me...' and before he could finish his statement about collecting the Register, Dr McCowan had ordered him to raise his hands and given him six of the best before sending him on his way. Although, Miss Wilson, greatly distressed at this travesty of justice, hurried to Dr McCowan's office presumably to set the record straight, Dr McCowan did not send for Jimmy to apologise to him; and... Jimmy did not dare tell his father (who held the important position of Stationmaster at the nearby railway station of Eskbank) as he knew his father would dismiss any 'complaint' by saying that Jimmy probably 'deserved' the punishment for something else he had done! (Such were the attitudes to school punishment in those days.)
So I said to this 3E toughie, Johnnie, 'Let me do the talking - and just you agree with what I say.'
When we were called into Dr McCowan's office, I started right away by saying that there had been a mistake, I had stumbled and Johnnie here was good enough to catch me and stop me from falling, but the prefect had misinterpreted the situation, thinking we were fighting.'
'And am I to believe this story, Edmonds?'
'Dr McCowan, I can assure you that there is no way I would try to fight with Johnnie!'
'So there was no fight then?' asked Dr McCowan glaring at Johnnie.
'No, sir. It's like he said, sir.'
And with that we were dismissed. Johnnie almost hugged me as we went down the stairs - and for the remainder of that year I had nothing to fear from the boys of 3E - Johnnie saw to that!
It was only time I had to appear before the Beak - and he let me off, perhaps, I suspected because he liked me but also because he probably believed my statement about not wanting to fight such a rough, tough and seasoned brawler.
In first term of 1st year, although in 1A, we had to take a term of Technical Drawing and Woodwork with Mr McKechnie, the head of that department. I don't think Mr Mckechnie liked the 1A boys much as he suspected that most if not all of us would opt to remain in the Latin-stream if we survived the end-of-term assessments. Anyway, he possessed a wooden yard stick with brass ends, and he had a rule that no boy was to pace hands on the wood-work bench top when he was demonstrating a wood cut, e.g. to make a dove-tail join. Inevitably, one of us would lean forward and, without thinking, steady ourself by placing a hand on the bench top. In a flash, Mr McKechnie would grab his yard stick and brig it down on the back of the 'offending' hand, the corner of the brass end drawing blood and leaving a nasty bruise. It hurt! But no-one complained, no one 'reported' him for cruelty or inappropriate discipline!
The head of History, Mr James ('Jesse' James) was a likeable fellow - very tall and thin. He was English and had played cricket and so was the cricket coach. He was also provost of Dunbar. And he had a long-time affair with a girl/young woman by the name of Gilchrist who was Head Girl of the school (when I was in year 2 or 3). I once saw them 'snogging' (or perhaps more) in his car in a lay-by on the road to Edgehill above Dalkeith when I was cycling home from school. Anyway Head Girl Gilchrist went off to Edinburgh University, gained a History degree and a teaching diploma and returned to Dalkeith High School and her lover, Mr James (who made it clear he would never divorce his wife in Dunbar) as a history teacher in his department.
Jesse James would pace up and down the rows of his classroom dictating notes to his pupils while we wrote down each precious word in our 'jotter.' He'd carry a cricket ball in the sleeve of his academic gown (almost all our teachers were so garbed) - and if he caught you 'not paying attention' or 'chatting,' he'd swing the sleeve around in an arc and the cricket ball would thump into your back - and it hurt!
Other teachers, many of them, would throw blackboard 'dusters' (made of wood on one side with a dust pad on the other) at anyone not paying attention or chatting. Sometimes the duster would merely hit your desk or land in the space between desks - but often it would hit you on your head, and depending on how hard it was thrown and whether it was the wood that connected or the pad, it could hurt!
Mr McCormack, or Corrie as he was known, was a short, dapper gent, and our Latin teacher (and later my Greek teacher too). He was a good teacher, but had his favourites, usually among the girls. He was an excellent teacher, but a strict disciplinarian. In my second year, he once caught me speaking to Avril Balloch, the first girl I ever 'dated' - we went to the Dalkeith Playhouse to see a film together.
Corrie had previously issued a general warning about too much chatter in the classroom. In correcting me, Corrie offered me the alternative punishment of writing a hundred lines or two of the belt. He was probably giving me a way out, but in the circumstances (in front of my girl), I could scarcely take the 'soft' option - and so I chose to have the belt (the leather tawse). I think Corrie took this as a challenge as he looked very angry and he certainly laid two heavy blows on my hands (which were held out one on top of the other making the blow more effective!). It hurt! But I took it and walked back to my place without flinching: the combined look of pity and admiration on Avril's face more than making up for the numbing pain on my palms!
Corrie had previously issued a general warning about too much chatter in the classroom. In correcting me, Corrie offered me the alternative punishment of writing a hundred lines or two of the belt. He was probably giving me a way out, but in the circumstances (in front of my girl), I could scarcely take the 'soft' option - and so I chose to have the belt (the leather tawse). I think Corrie took this as a challenge as he looked very angry and he certainly laid two heavy blows on my hands (which were held out one on top of the other making the blow more effective!). It hurt! But I took it and walked back to my place without flinching: the combined look of pity and admiration on Avril's face more than making up for the numbing pain on my palms!
My Mathematics and Arithmetic teacher for the first three years was Miss Burns, 'Teenie' Burns - she was no more than 5' in height. She used a wooden crate to stand on to write on the blackboard. She's skoosh it around in front of the class - one little leg kicking out like a Nazi trooper - sending the crate sliding over the wooden classroom floor. She ran a Scripture Union meeting at school - and I was active in the SU (went to Easter and summer camps for over ten years - see Boss's problem with little boys), so although my problems with Arithmetic continued (and to some extent carried over into Maths), she had a soft spot for me. She was a stickler for discipline and making pupils adhere to school rules, especially on uniform. She loathed any girl who attempted to wear the least hint of make-up or jewellery - I remember her screaming at a girl, calling her 'a hussy' who had dared to wear the smallest of studs in her earlobes. On one occasion, Teenie left the classroom (most unusual) and came back to find all of s chatting. She ordered us all to form a line, climbed onto her orange crate, and gave all of us one of the strap remember the dux of the class, Hazel Watson, and her goodie-goodie friends, especially Norma Hendry, in tears as they had never ever been punished in that way.
Later, in senior school Hazel and I became an item. before that, poor Norma had 'chased' me for at least years: I was always being told by her friends that 'she be thrilled' if I asked her out. Norma was a sweet girl with lovely brown eyes, but much as I liked her as a person, I could never become attracted to her. Or perhaps I suspected that Norma would be a 'one guy girl' and would be devastated when I inevitably wanted to play the field - and she was too nice to hurt. Norma lived in the posh suburb of Eskbank, as did Hazel, and her father was a BOAC pilot, so quite well-off. Norma took her 'Highers' in years 5 and 6 before becoming a nurse - and I hope she found perhaps some nice doctor to marry. I'm sure she would be a loving wife and mother.
Mr - later Dr, and one of my lecturers at Edinburgh University - Newey was the head of Geography. He rarely used the belt/strap/tawse, but when he did he applied it in a thoroughly safe way - that at the same time made it feel worse - a building of expectation of pain - as he wrapped a long scarf around your wrists to protect them from damage - and at the same time making your hands less pliable so that the leather stung them all the more. It was a clever combination of psychological and physical pain!
Mr Watson, Willie Watson, the Art Master, had been at the school - forever! His major contribution, apart from teaching Art, was in organising and coaching the rugby union teams. He was a very rotund figure - a real butter-ball, probably a former front-row prop. His right-hand man with rugby was the head of PE (Physical Education), a short, muscular man with red hair (I think his name was Smith, but I could be wrong), his size suggesting he would have been a scrum-half in his playing days. Later, just as I was leaving the school, I came to know that these two men were in a long term relationship. What struck me most was that, physically, they looked such an odd couple.
I gave up Art when I entered senior years, but Art Appreciation classes continued, particularly in my 5th year when the Leaving Certificate exams were over. I found these classes conducted by Mr Watson and his staff, illustrated via a slide show, very interesting and an important part of my broader liberal education.
I had two French teachers at high school, a Mr Scott, a handsome young man and quite refined. He taught German as well and I asked him one day if he liked the latest hit from Elvis Presley, Wooden Heart, recorded while Elvis was in the US Army in Germany to a folk song. Elvis's version included a few lines in German:
Mr Scott almost sneered his reply... something like, 'Gracious no! The song's a travesty!'
I enjoyed his class but got into trouble one day because I hadn't done my homework and tried to dishonestly 'cover up.' He asked us to write down various words in French from the vocabulary we had been set to learn. Out of 20 or 25 words, I had 11 wrong! Our work had been marked by passing our jotter to the person across the passage way between desks. So I had marked Pat Walker's work and she mine. When Mr Scott asked those who had all the words correct to stand up, most of the class did so; then it was the turn of those who got one mistake and another group stood up. Mr Scot then asked those who got two mistakes to stand up; a few stood - and I joined them. Miss Patricia Walker let out a very audible gasp and then covered her mouth. It was all very noticeable and Mr Scott asked Pat what was wrong. She replied that she'd rather not say but cast a glance in my direction. Mr Scott then asked me if I had indeed made only two mistakes, to which I replied, 'Oh, yes, sir, I've just counted the up and I got a total of eleven wrong.' I expected immediate retribution, but Mr Scott asked me why I had stood up for only two mistakes - and I replied, probably to some gasps and sniggers from the rest of the class, that I thought that Pat had written 'two' as a Roman Numeral, i.e., 'II.' Mr Scott asked me to stay behind at the end of the class, and I fully expected to receive several of the belt. However, he spoke to me about being honest and how foolish had appeared, and not to be so silly again. I probably felt more chastened by that than by received a whack of two from the belt.
The head of modern languages was Mr John Gallimore, or Jonny Pisa as we called him because he leaned over to the left side. He was a tall man with a shock of black hair that also fell over his forehead to the left. He was a gentle soul and something of an intellectual - and an eccentric. He lived in Eskbank and would follow the various horse and cart delivery wagons with a bucket and shovel to collect horse manure for his garden. He ran a Jazz club at lunchtimes once a week in his classroom and I attended along with others like Tommy Tye, a very bright little chap - and a good friend. We listened to the classics of jazz like Fats Waller, Benny Goodwin, Louis Armstrong, Dizzy Gillespie, Charlie Parker, Miles Davis, Pee Wee Hunt and the like.
For some reason, I was not very good at speaking French and did poorly in aural tests. When the examiner was due to assess Mr Gallimore's ranking of his class, he was concerned that I might be selected to speak with the examiner in French and tactfully suggested that I might report in 'sick' and have a day at home. Although as a former teacher, I know that inspectors attend to assess the teacher's performance not the pupils, in this case I think Mr Gallimore was genuinely (although with some duplicity) acting solely in my interests.
Mr Cormack and Mr Gallimore were best friends - and they shared a common experience: they had both served during World War II in the RAF. I recall Corrie's angry response when he overheard us referring to Mr Gallimore as Jonny Pisa. He told us in no uncertain manner to show Mr Gallimore more respect - that his physical difficulties resulted from shrapnel wounds sustained when the'plane he was hit by flack during a bombing raid over Germany. It was a sobering moment - and one that made us respect both men, not having previously thought that they had seen active service during the war.
The other teacher who had wartime experience that we knew of was a Miss or Mrs Wilson, a science teacher. She was fearsome. I suspect she was also a chain smoker as her fingers were yellow with nicotine staining. She was my science teacher for two years and my Religious Education teacher for one 9one lessonper week). She probably didn't like RE but was obliged to take a class. Her teaching RE consisted of getting us to learn and recite a gobbet of Scripture each week - and she would administer punishment with the tawse if you failed to recite the passage correctly. I recall at least one pupi being 'belted' for not knowing I Corinthians 13 - the chapter that extols 'charity' or 'love' - and being struck at the incongruity of such a punishment in such a context. however, we learned that Mrs Wilson had been in a Japanese Prisoner of War (POW) camp - and, so the story goes, had had her finger nails pulled out for some offence she gave her Japanese guards. We regarded her with greater understanding after that.
I had two French teachers at high school, a Mr Scott, a handsome young man and quite refined. He taught German as well and I asked him one day if he liked the latest hit from Elvis Presley, Wooden Heart, recorded while Elvis was in the US Army in Germany to a folk song. Elvis's version included a few lines in German:
Muss i denn, muss i denn
Zum stadele hinaus
Und du, mein scaht, bleibst hier?
There's no strings upon this love of mine
It was always you from the start
Sei mir gut
Sei mir gut
Sie mir wie du, wirklich sollst
Wir du wirklich sollst
Cause I don't have a wooden heart.
Mr Scott almost sneered his reply... something like, 'Gracious no! The song's a travesty!'
I enjoyed his class but got into trouble one day because I hadn't done my homework and tried to dishonestly 'cover up.' He asked us to write down various words in French from the vocabulary we had been set to learn. Out of 20 or 25 words, I had 11 wrong! Our work had been marked by passing our jotter to the person across the passage way between desks. So I had marked Pat Walker's work and she mine. When Mr Scott asked those who had all the words correct to stand up, most of the class did so; then it was the turn of those who got one mistake and another group stood up. Mr Scot then asked those who got two mistakes to stand up; a few stood - and I joined them. Miss Patricia Walker let out a very audible gasp and then covered her mouth. It was all very noticeable and Mr Scott asked Pat what was wrong. She replied that she'd rather not say but cast a glance in my direction. Mr Scott then asked me if I had indeed made only two mistakes, to which I replied, 'Oh, yes, sir, I've just counted the up and I got a total of eleven wrong.' I expected immediate retribution, but Mr Scott asked me why I had stood up for only two mistakes - and I replied, probably to some gasps and sniggers from the rest of the class, that I thought that Pat had written 'two' as a Roman Numeral, i.e., 'II.' Mr Scott asked me to stay behind at the end of the class, and I fully expected to receive several of the belt. However, he spoke to me about being honest and how foolish had appeared, and not to be so silly again. I probably felt more chastened by that than by received a whack of two from the belt.
The head of modern languages was Mr John Gallimore, or Jonny Pisa as we called him because he leaned over to the left side. He was a tall man with a shock of black hair that also fell over his forehead to the left. He was a gentle soul and something of an intellectual - and an eccentric. He lived in Eskbank and would follow the various horse and cart delivery wagons with a bucket and shovel to collect horse manure for his garden. He ran a Jazz club at lunchtimes once a week in his classroom and I attended along with others like Tommy Tye, a very bright little chap - and a good friend. We listened to the classics of jazz like Fats Waller, Benny Goodwin, Louis Armstrong, Dizzy Gillespie, Charlie Parker, Miles Davis, Pee Wee Hunt and the like.
For some reason, I was not very good at speaking French and did poorly in aural tests. When the examiner was due to assess Mr Gallimore's ranking of his class, he was concerned that I might be selected to speak with the examiner in French and tactfully suggested that I might report in 'sick' and have a day at home. Although as a former teacher, I know that inspectors attend to assess the teacher's performance not the pupils, in this case I think Mr Gallimore was genuinely (although with some duplicity) acting solely in my interests.
Mr Cormack and Mr Gallimore were best friends - and they shared a common experience: they had both served during World War II in the RAF. I recall Corrie's angry response when he overheard us referring to Mr Gallimore as Jonny Pisa. He told us in no uncertain manner to show Mr Gallimore more respect - that his physical difficulties resulted from shrapnel wounds sustained when the'plane he was hit by flack during a bombing raid over Germany. It was a sobering moment - and one that made us respect both men, not having previously thought that they had seen active service during the war.
The other teacher who had wartime experience that we knew of was a Miss or Mrs Wilson, a science teacher. She was fearsome. I suspect she was also a chain smoker as her fingers were yellow with nicotine staining. She was my science teacher for two years and my Religious Education teacher for one 9one lessonper week). She probably didn't like RE but was obliged to take a class. Her teaching RE consisted of getting us to learn and recite a gobbet of Scripture each week - and she would administer punishment with the tawse if you failed to recite the passage correctly. I recall at least one pupi being 'belted' for not knowing I Corinthians 13 - the chapter that extols 'charity' or 'love' - and being struck at the incongruity of such a punishment in such a context. however, we learned that Mrs Wilson had been in a Japanese Prisoner of War (POW) camp - and, so the story goes, had had her finger nails pulled out for some offence she gave her Japanese guards. We regarded her with greater understanding after that.
