What A Day It Was

It was nineteen sixty-five. Where we lived, the education system allowed five-year-olds to share one class; however, as the school year began in August and ended the following June, this meant that those who were born mid-year had a full year of basic schooling. Others like myself, born early the following year, started in January, ended in June, and generally stuck together because the other kids had bonded. Of course, by June, we all moved up a class together, the full British education year.

That first day was raw weatherwise; the walk from home to school was short. Primed as I was for the adventure, I was scared and teary. Along with other children, I was welcomed by a beautiful blonde-haired, blue-eyed young lady called Miss Graham, who spoke and sang well but could be firm. She reminded me of Mummy and ignored the tear-stained faces of her new recruits because it was fear of the unknown, nothing more. If any of us took ill or needed comfort through that time, Miss Graham supplied it.



I remember that the twin sisters arrived: Lesley and Lisa. I recognised them from the church. There was an Indian girl, Shahine. Her gentle nature was a blessing. In that era, many Indian or Pakistani residents were living in Britain. That same day, I met Ruth. Even at five, Ruth had a no-nonsense approach, but from the moment we met, we clicked. A friendship developed even between our Mums. The boys were fairly silly, but three stand out. Malcolm, with a serious face, Robert, also known as Bobby and Philip. Malcolm and Philip were gentlemen; Bobby was a tease, and from the moment we met, he conveyed mischief. Fortunately, for the newer mob school was a morning affair, I did not need to worry too much about him.


Five seemed to be so grown up. Even on that first day, I could sense adventure amid trial, perseverance, temper tantrums, discipline and mild sympathy from Mum. The best memory was the class waiting in line to say goodbye on Fridays, hugging Miss Graham because she would miss all of us over the weekend.


It's funny how a single day can bring back so many memories. Even though my family emigrated two years later, Philip, Malcolm and Bobby could not be forgotten. Ruth and I remain friends. We caught up again in 1989. I met Ruth's husband and approved. We still communicate via email; Ruth manages to write as though she is speaking; I am often moved to tears of either happiness or homesickness for a land that holds my heart, though the one I reside in claims a large part of it.

Now, nearly sixty years later, my dream is to return to the homeland with my husband, whom I did not know at age twenty-nine.

Our memories tell stories, though. Fortunately, we writers can use these effectively.