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Joy Nea, nee Weedon, born 1930s
I got TB whilst I was at Wooburn School, a lot of us did. They say it was because we drank unpasteurised milk. I went to convalesce with a rich aunt in the country
until I was better.
Geoff Gibson, born 1930s
We all went to the Victorian school in the village and then, when we got older, we went down Juniper Lane and walked along to Wooburn School.
In the winter when it was really cold there were springs down there and the ice used to form and we would slide all the way down.
It was a boys school originally and then they made it boys and girls. We had allotments there which we had to tend and there was a good wood
working class down there which put you in good stead for the future.
Barbara Murfin, nee Sarney, born 1940s
My first school was Flackwell Heath Infants School. We, the Sarney family lived on The Common in 4 Virginia Cottages. We moved there when I
was 3 and a bit and brother David was 2. Being born in November, I started school aged 4. Dad always insisted we crossed from our house to Common Road
at the bottom of the War Memorial, Treadaway Hill end, because of the traffic, traffic in 1952!!!!! There were no pavements in those days, and going pass Mr. Walter's
(Jennings) house could be a bit tight should there be anything coming. We crossed the road, past the other houses, a waste piece of ground, past the flint cottages
where the entrance to the British Legion is now, and Jennings Brothers stores. Then round the corner and we were at the school railings. They seemed huge to a 4 year old.
Into the gate and an L shaped arrangement of railings, this apparently was to stop children running into the road. The school building was on the left, typical grey, red
bricks. There was a small door, children's size, with a pointy top and a large key hole. Neither my brother or I ever saw this door open, from the playground, or from inside.
Children had to go round to the back of the school. In through a normal door and immediately left. This is where you left your coat on a named peg. The other side of the
room there were hand wash basins, there seemed at the time a great row of them, there were probably 4 or 6. The toilets were across the concrete yard.
The first daunting year was in the big room, on the right of the entrance door. Desks/tables were around the perimeter of the room. If I remember rightly we each had a desk
of our own. Every desk had a name written on it, that would be yours for the rest of the year. In the far corner at the front of the school was a door, I now think that
it led to the little door seen from outside. Looking up the room from the back of the room, on the left hand side was an enormous Tortoise Stove, far taller than any child,
our heat during the winter months, it also did a good job of defrosting our 1/3 pint bottles of milk. Luke warm milk was not too pleasant but some times it was really cold
which we all loved.
Our teacher, sadly I don't remember her name, was very kind but if you were naughty you had to sit still with your hands on your head until forgiven. We also, after dinner
(lunch), had to put our arms on the desk and have a short nap. On a Monday at register time, when your name was called, if you ate school meals, you would get up and pay
the one shilling for your meals for the week. Living around the corner I went home for meals, but I had my shilling to buy 2 sixpenny national savings stamps. These had the head
of Princess Ann on them, the one that cost 2 shillings and sixpence had the head of Prince Charles printed on them. The stamps were stuck into a special book and could be
redeemed at the Post Office. We, David and I saved ours for holidays and Christmas.
After lessons at the end of the day we all pulled our chairs up to the teacher's desk, near to the stove for story time, we were all given a sweetie and home we went.
I must admit that for my first days at school I was always accompanied by Ted, my moth-eaten Teddy Bear.
Year 2. Next to the school on the right looking from the road, was a prefabricated building the canteen, with the kitchen at the Cherry Tree end. Year two was spent with
a blackboard at the kitchen end in front of the big roller shutter. We sat at the canteen tables with our slates, yes, slates and slate pencils not chalk, to learn our stuff.
Lessons always finished a little early as it was the task of the class to set the tables for the school dinners. I doubt if there is a child in my class who could not lay a
table's knives and fork correctly. You held 6 knives in your right hand and 6 forks in your left, walking around the table setting places as you went. Although the room was
painted bright cream the constant condensation was not a great help health wise. I think there were radiators from the boiler room beyond the kitchen. Outside the kitchen
doors were some apple tress, for some reason two had branches at child height at 90 degrees which made ideal counters for shops. We endlessly played selling apples from the
ground.
Year 3. Back into the school, into the little room to the right of the school from the road, sat Miss Darnell the Headmistress. Miss Darnell, should she send a note home with
you, would fold it in such away, if you (the child) undid it there was no way you could refold it properly. If you did your mother would know you had opened the letter. That was
just not done in those day. It's in this room I remember singing our times tables every morning to start the day. Desks now for were for two. The room was very tiny, there
must have been well over 30 children in the room. On our birthdays we were allowed to bring one present to school to show what we had been given. My birthday was the same
day as the Aires twins, Linda and Lorraine, poor Lorraine was epileptic, which frightened us all when she suffered a fit, there was no help, the poor soul had to just get
through it. I wonder what happened to them?
It was during this year that I first remember Beaches fair coming to the village. Some of the lads were a bit restless and kept trying to see out of the windows, but these were
too high. At last play time and we all rushed out, "the Conk's coming" "the Conks coming" "the Conks coming". Sure enough trundling painfully slowly from Sheepridge to the
players (playing field) was Sally Beaches fun fair. The Conk was a squat powerful looking lorry, pulling a brightly coloured wagon and a caravan, followed by more lorries,
vans and wagons. We were so excited, hanging as much through the railings as we could. The lads with dirty battered knees below their shorts (no lads wore "longs" until
senior school) and girls waving their arms through the railings. Nowadays I don't think anyone has any idea how special the yearly fair was in the village. I'm sure that day
we had a much extended play time. I don't think much work was done that afternoon either, all the children could not wait to get to the players to watch the fair unfold.
Around the school was the play ground, the toilets were across a yard and behind a wooden fence, girls to the left from the door, boys to the right, then back to the cloak
room to wash your hands. I'm sure more germs were picked up from the loop of towelling hung beside the door. At one time we had to bring our own towels because of an outbreak
of dermatitis, what a surprise. We were lucky enough to have a small grass area, we could use in the summer time, and behind the toilets was a vegetable plot, I wonder whose that was?
Once a year was photo day. We went to school dessed to the nines, sat at a desk placed by the hedge that separated the boys toilets from the field, and one-by-one at a time, or if
there were two or more siblings then two or three posed for the photo. Afterwards we were all treated to an ice cream.
Year 4. We were now the big boys and girls. Our class room was over the road in the Methodist Hall. This is also the year we took home pieces of paper, then took them back to
school, then a few weeks later we would be marched in a crocodile down to the Temperance Hall to have injections and 'stuff'. Miss Agnew was our teacher whom we loved dearly,
she was young and bright, so different from our other more soberly clad teachers before. The Methodist Hall was also used as the local library, so we were surrounded by books.
Now we were the big boys and girls, should one of the smaller children have an accident, one of us was nominated to take the " poorly" child home. We were just 7 year olds.
Those were the days.
Four years later and we left the village to be taught, some to Wooburn some to Spring Gardens near Wycombe. And I'd still never been through that little door. I was at the
school from 1952 to 1956. Brother David from 1954 to 1956 I think.
One strange thing while writing this piece. I don't remember any of my cousins going to the school. Two lived in Oakland Way, the other two lived half way down Straight Bit.
Two would have been two years above me, one in my class and one in David's class. That is something I shall have to find out.
THE VILLAGE SCHOOL
By Pat Townsend
Reprinted here by the kind permission of Pat Townsend, daughter of Reg Wilks
Red-brick walls and roof of slate
Built in Victorian tradition.
The little school awaits its fate
Demolition.
Such high windows! Built in an Age
When children must not see
The world outside. They must not see
Women chatting, washing flacking, or the cherry-tree
Blossom-decked in Spring like a bride.
They must not be distracted
By rumbling farm carts and delivery drays
Or attracted by the racing, fleecy clouds
And the sun's warm rays.
Small heads bend humbly over desks
Tiny fingers struggle to guide
Cross-nibbed pens over copy-books.
Sparkling eyes shine in pride
When teacher praises neat work.
The untidy still use slates
And the squeaking chalk grates
On the ears.
In winter, the tortoise stove smokes sulkily
And sulphuric fumes mingle
With the steam from damp clothes drying.
Cold fingers and toes tingle
And Jane Barnes is crying
Because her chilblains itch
And Miss says she mustn't scratch.
Charlie Smith blinks back tears too.
He is scared that teacher will catch
Him out on the eight-times table.
For, try as he will, he is never able
To remember the dreaded nine times eight.
But, in the afternoon, the stove begins to glow
As the smoke clears and tears
Are forgotten when Jane helps to stick
cotton-wool snow
On the high windows and Charlie's class sweetly sing
Carols of praise to the Infant King.
Ivy, cones and holly berries on the Nature Table,
But soon the children will be able
To pick the dainty, brave snowdrops.
Then cowslips from Mill Mead scent the whole room
With unmistakable, heady, sweet perfume
And primroses which star gorsy heathlands
Are bunched in small hot hands
A present for teacher.
And bluebells from Bloom Wood
Ring, with beech leaf accompaniment.
Thus, season pass as seasons should
Timed by dandelion clocks picked during walks
On Cobacre, where the girls split stalks
Of daisies to make chains for necklaces and crowns
Jewels fit for a Queen — even the Queen
of an Empire.
But Queens die like the flowers
And crowns fit younger heads. Wars are fought
As the school bell tolls the hours
And the sun sets slowly on the proud Empire.
Yet, reluctant to forget past glories
Still on Empire Day in May
The children wave their flags so gay,
And teacher's flowers are patriotic too,
White cow parsley, red peony and cornflowers blue.
And a blood-red flower in a strange sad way
Recalls another glory on Poppy Day
When the children sit silent for an endless minute
In remembrance of brave men. Men who were once
Small boys at these very desks.
The clever, the dunce
The cheeky, the shy; for heroes like children, are
a mixed lot and Death is not selective.
Life within those cosy red-brick walls
seems unchanging.
Each day broken into segments by the bell
Which signifies a change of lesson.
Reading, writing, sums and chanted tables,
Sewing, handwork, singing, stories, fables.
Yet, outside those walls, the world is changing
Progress marches and the village is growing.
The children hear no more cows lowing.
On their way to be milked at nearby Fennels Farm.
No more friendly clippety-clop
Of horses hooves passing the windows.
Houses spring up on top
Of the hill, magically, like the mushrooms
Used to in Austin's meadow.
Soon the little school is bursting
With lively children thirsting
For knowledge, and hungry
For school dinners in the new canteen.
Yet still the builders speculate
And vie to build the best estate.
Buses, lorries, grocers' vans
Deliver people, bricks and cans
To their destination
And still there is procrastination
Over the site for a new school.
But eventually the plans are passed
The new school is built at last.
But still the old school serves as an overflow.
And, after morning assembly, children file
Two by two, in crocodile
Towards those red-brick walls. So still
They laugh and chat and smile
Beneath that old slate roof
And the high windows are gay
With more sophisticated flowers.
Giant chrysanths, and prize-winning "glads"
Or Gold-Medal roses grown by Dads
Who need no more a vegetable patch
To eke out the family income.
And even humble tadpoles hatch
Into opulent frogs not in mere jam-jars
But smart aquariums and stick-insects
Recline comfortably on branches in vivariums.
The ancient cupboards bulge with books
Toys, crayons and gay paints
And the young teacher smiles as she looks
At the children's pictures of Helicopters, cars,
Planes, rockets and space-ships
Reaching out for moon and stars.
But this is a brief glory, a short reprieve
The children soon must take their leave.
For still the village grows and grows
And gloating Agents sell the rows and rows
Of "Ideal Homes with lovely view."
And the little school which served the few
Is useless for so many
So the doors are barred the gates are locked
The old bell tolls no more
There are cobwebs on the ceiling
And dust on the wooden floor
The grass grows long in the tiny field at the back
And weeds grow through holes in the worn tarmac.
Red-brick walls and roof of slate
Built in Victorian tradition
The little school awaits its fate
Demolition
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Barbara Murfin nee Sarney born 1940s
Sim Sarney and the Community Centre
Dad loved all the ‘’new comers'' to the village. His energy was well used, being a Chepping Wycombe Parish Councillor. A Parish Councillor was responsible for footpaths, playgrounds and cemeteries. In 1955 a referendum was held in the village to see if people wanted footpaths and street lights. There was a lot of grumbling as gardens would be lost to make room for road widening and footpaths, with old village people questioning the eyesight of the newcomers needing lights at night time. There was so little traffic at that time and no one had any idea how the village would change in the future. The idea of footpaths and lights was voted in and perhaps the biggest development, alongside main drainage, brought the village into the 1960's and the 20th century.
There was still a hard core of people determined to raise money for the New Community Centre. The old school had been dismantled in the 1970's, men wearing shirts and ties and the odd suit, smoking as they worked, worked with Matt Bowler, I think it was, and a JCB digger to knock it down. The bell tower precariously lifted into the bucket of the JCB and lowered onto a flat bed lorry was taken round to 4 Virginia Cottages for safe keeping. The Engraved stone was taken there too. It stood behind the old bell tower where No 3's kitchen had stood. The bell tower went to Juniper Hill School who restored it. The plaque, there are some missing years is now reinstated on the Community Centre only a few feet from its original position. A rough roof slate, not the ones we used to write on and a final from the old roof, there were 3 on the roof, at each end of an apex, are with the Historical Society.
Building the community centre involved the knocking down of the two semi detached cottages on the corner of Straight Bit and Common Road, making access for the car park. The car park being the school field. My Father Sim Sarney, cruelly died of cancer in 1981 at the young age of 58. Because he was a humanitarian he did not want a church service, but many kind folk wanted to say goodbye. A short service led by the Methodist Minister was held on the war memorial on the Common. Sim had cared for the War Memorial since moving into the cottage in the 1950’s. There were so many people the police closed all three roads that lead to the Memorial. Sadly he never saw his dream being built. The village kindly named the large room The Sarney Room in his honour. As time moves on fewer people will remember him, and his zest and love of the village. Of the time he lived in Flackwell Heath he never moved more than a mile from where he was born. His Family was his life, his Cottage his love, The Village his perfect environment.
The 'new' community centre took countless hours of work, raising money for the new building and to keep it going. Sadly Sim never saw the new centre built, he died in 1981, and personally I think it's a strange dark building after the one in the Carrington School grounds. It was kindly decided to call the large room in the new centre The Sarney Room. Today, in 2017, many people will not remember who Sim Sarney was and what he did for the village.
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