After Empire Day in May, the next big event at school was Alexandra Rose Day, which took place in June. At Hearnville Road School in Balham, London, our rose queen was chosen by popular vote. Like Britannia, hers was a non-active role. Once she had made her entrance, and was crowned and gowned with her train bearers in attendance, she remained regally enthroned throughout the performance.
The queen’s court varied little over the years. There were always milkmaids or shepherdesses, sometimes cymbal dancers and boys dressed as farming folk, with smocks and squashy hats. They could supply their own props – a clay pipe, walking stick or popgun.
“No Michael, you may not bring a six-gun,” and to another surly protester, “These are not frocks, they are proper smocks, like shepherds used to wear.” Miss Cox brooked no argument; her word was law.
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A maypole was erected in the school hall. Only Miss Ollett could persuade the unruly lads that prancing round clutching ribbons, over and under, under and over, and worse, partnered by girls, was not a sissy thing to do. All in their best summer whites, all clean and unusually tidy, the boys had to grin and bear it.
Miss Ollett was not only in charge of drill and dancing, she was also the demon of decimal lessons. It was as well not to upset her. We had a rollicking good time with Uncle Tom Cobleigh at Widecombe Fair, and other groups were Bound for the Rio Grande. Their favourite was What Shall We Do with a Drunken Sailor, with actions. What fun they had with ‘put him in the scuppers with the hosepipe on him’. The boys had all the jolly songs, whilst we girls warbled about Nymphs and Shepherds or ‘summer is a-coming in, loudly sing cuckoo’. Honestly, how unfair.
There were country dances, like Gathering Peascods, whatever they were, and a cymbal dance involving lots of swooping and swaying and clashing our cymbals in unison. Solo talents were encouraged, tap and acrobatic acts, a dramatic poem or humorous monologue from one of the big boys.
There I am then, complete with mob-cap and cardboard bucket, among the milkmaids. How the milk got from cow to bucket to the Co-op milk bottles was a mystery we preferred not to probe. Few of us had ever seen a real life sheep or cow, so these rustic revels were quite alien to us!
Pam Buckland, Petersfield, Hants.
