Stalag 9 otherwise known as St Francis
I am sure that to the general public this looks like a prisoner of war camp, and yes in many ways it seemed like it at the time. A little love and care perhaps a frilly curtain at the window, but, no the budget wouldn't stretch to that.
Now this is a better shot of the dining room come asssembly hall come gym come make shift chapel. Ahh yes we knew how to live in those days. Still it did exude that feeling of homeliness. Not sure that I spelt that correctly.
Now this is a proper toilet block. None of those namby pamby heated loos. Still sets my teeth on edge though thinking about that cold wash after P.E.
Did we need proper heating. Did we want proper heating. Did we get proper heating. Now this was our sole source of heating, one in each of the classrooms and two in the dining hall. If you hear anyone moaning about tin helmets and bunkers and going over the top just direct them to what the rest of us were suffering at the same time. No I can honestly say that we were not amused but we didn't know any better.
The above pictures were sent in by J. Yarwood. I am told that he has never fully recovered from frost bite and the nightmares of the caretaker shaking coke into the stoves with sparks flying everywhere still haunts him especially on cold windy days.
Maureen Rutherford (Rocke) Maidstone I remember it well: It was lovely to find this site and the memories of the huts. My dad was the caretaker from 1958 until 1967 when the senior school moved up to become St Simon Stock. From 58-63 we lived in the end hut, I recall the dreadful coal fire and the only place you could feel warm was in the boiler house. the milk crates were put on the boilers to warm the ice out of them before morning breaks. The large alsatian was Tom and he followed me everywhere. I had a free run of the park and scurried around on a blue three wheel bike. I remember the hedge of rose that grew along infront of the kitchens and the large vegetable garden my dad kept. The was a needlework teacher who always had a bag of pear drops, and the staff room alway stank of cigarettes. There was also an old wall telephone with the seperate ear piece on the wall of the staff room. In winter you could hardly hear for the rain on the corrugated metal shell of the huts. I still have the scars on my knees from falling on the cinder path around the building as I ran in total darkness when my dad sent me to check the doors were all locked on dark winter evenings. Pat (caretaker) is now in his mid 80's and returned to live in Ireland. |