Chizor Akisanya (Irukwu) (L 82-85) - A walk down memory lane.

“In March 2015, I, along with so many others, was shocked to hear of the decision to close the school after the summer term. Over the years my husband had listened carefully to stories about my time at St Bees and he insisted that it was important to visit the school before it was closed and set to work making sure that this actually happened. And so on Tuesday morning, 30th June, at a little after 11, we drove into St Bees village. My attention was diverted by a telephone call from my office and so I missed the moment when I was first confronted with my past. 

My husband, who was driving, asked where he should go. I looked up. ‘Oh my goodness! This is it.’

‘Where should I go?’ he asked again, a little insistent. I simply kept gawking at my surroundings.

‘Oh wow!’ I exclaimed as we drove over the bridge and approached the level crossing. ‘Mrs C’s!’ (referring to a white building just beyond the level crossing, Mrs Cunningham’s store, which had doubled-up as the tuck shop and a post office).

‘Grindal House!’

‘Look!’ I said, ‘the railway restaurant is still there!’

My husband kept driving and in the absence of instructions from me he turned left taking us up the hill and past Lonsdale Terrace on the left. I squealed again: ‘Lonsdale!’

He stopped. I stuck my head out of the window peering down the terrace. I was suddenly 15 years old again, it was just gone 7.00 am and a bunch of us girls were making our way to Foundation for breakfast, heels clattering down the road.

I shook my head and returned to the present. 

‘Everything looks so small, it was so huge when I was here,’ I exclaimed.

It was true. The roads and terraced houses looked like something off a biscuit tin, quaint, picturesque, postcard perfect. 

‘It looked huge all those years ago because you were little then’ said my husband.

‘Wow!’ I kept repeating over and over.

He turned the car around and we drove back the way we had come giving me a second chance to take in the sights once again. We parked just outside Foundation and after a quick call into the OSB office waited for Tony Reeve to meet us.

While we waited I took in my surroundings, mentally ticking off the buildings that I remembered. The white building opposite the main school entrance that once housed the school shop and the bursar’s office was now the music school. I was amazed at how much had been preserved in my memory, stored in a little bank somewhere and awaiting the moment when my past would be recalled. 

It was 30 years, almost to the day, that I had boarded a train for Carlisle as one chapter of my life’s journey closed and another one opened simultaneously. A lifetime had passed and here I was back where, in a sense, it all began. Tony Reeve walked up to us and my question to myself about whether or not I remembered him was answered when he said that he had come to St Bees in 1989. That was four years after I had left. He led us to the reception explaining that a tour had been arranged for me with a couple of surprises along the way. 

‘If you turn around now, you will see the first surprise.’

I spun round. The person standing before me was unmistakable. 

‘Mr Davies!’ I exclaimed.

‘My star sprinter!’ he replied.

I would have recognised Darryl Davies anywhere. He had taught me O Level Biology and had doubled as sports’ master. I remembered him standing at the end of the 100 metres straight stopwatch in hand as he hollered for his athletes to run faster.

The first stop on the tour was Foundation (in my time it contained two boys’ houses, Foundation North and South, now it was simply Foundation).

‘Does the head boy or girl still post up notices informing the school that it is officially hot?’ I asked, taking in the notice board, which strangely seemed unchanged. ‘Yes, and seeing as today is hot, it is officially hot. You may take off your tie!’

We went into the dining room, which I understood was now known as the ‘hot’ room. Tony was surprised to hear that we had had all our meals in the Foundation dining room. Our sitting always coincided with Grindal’s.

Afterwards we made our way to what used to be a lecture theatre but now housed the art workshop and then we went into the chapel. It was exactly as I remembered it. Even the hymnbooks looked like they were the same ones. I recalled having given a reading during chapel and Tony urged me to stand behind the lectern just as I would have done all those years ago. I did, smiling the delight of one who discovers that long-held memories have not proved to be disappointing.

We walked out and round the corner past the library which, sadly, was locked, denying me a glimpse into that most hallowed of surroundings where I had spent endless hours in my bid to ensure that I got into the university of my choice.

The Willie Whitelaw building came long after my departure and I struggled to recall what had stood in its spot. Tony was surprised to learn that the art workshop was located in the present PE building. I could never forget that workshop, it had been my second home. I had spent many hours learning to throw pots and trying my hand at sculpting under ‘Butch’s’ (Peter Broadhurst) watchful eye. 

‘Why don’t we pause for a minute and sit just by the Crease,’ said Tony.

I was quite happy to stop and take in my surroundings. We looked across at Lonsdale Terrace…even the pastel coloured buildings had been preserved just as I remembered. We sat in silence for a few minutes and then in the distance a two-carriage train trundled past towards the station. I smiled, it looked identical to the train that had introduced me to St Bees village in September 1982 and the one that had taken me away three years later.

‘If you look across to the left you will see the next surprise.’ Tony’s voice broke into my thoughts, transporting me back to the present. My eyes followed his finger and finally rested on two figures walking alongside the crease, one tall, extremely tall in comparison to the petite figure of his companion. I struggled for a brief moment, trying to place them, sifting rapidly through my patchy memories. Realisation flooded my mind. It was the Barratts, Philip and Maureen, Housemaster and Housemistress of Lonsdale in my time. I jumped up and raced towards them. ‘You’ve hardly changed! I gasped, eyes flying from one face to the other. ‘A lot greyer,’ said Maureen with a laugh.

The day would have been incomplete without a visit to St Bees Head. As I stood looking out to the sea, I was glad that I had made the six hour journey from our home in Hertfordshire, glad that I had an opportunity to see the school one final time before it closed in a few days. My last thought was of the number of people that would be affected by the closure of the school; pupils who would have to be relocated elsewhere, some at critical stages in their school career, staff needing new jobs, families uprooted, a village that had been inextricably intertwined with the school having to carve out a new solo identity. So many lives changed forever. It was sad, very sad. But that is life, change is constant and inevitable.”

 

 

 

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