Was there ever a better day in the school calendar than the last day of summer term? Especially at primary school.

It would invariably be a lovely, warm and sunny day, giving us a glimpse of what we would inevitably be missing for most of the following eight weeks.

(By the age of eight I’d concluded Nature was a vindictive ‘B’, with a perverse sense of humour.)

We wouldn’t have to wear school uniforms, and we’d be packed off out the house wearing whatever ‘good clothes’ had been bought for the previous weekend’s Sunday School picnic. There was a palpable sense of excitement in the air, although the observant amongst us also picked up on an air of dread emanating from our parents, most notably our mums.

Off we’d trot; off to school for the final time that term. It felt like a really long haul since the last break at Easter.

Some pals had money in their pockets; lunch money. Their parents had obviously not read the teacher’s note about the early finish that day, and school dinners were off the menu, as it were. We’d pester those kids to blow this unexpected wealth in the Cooperative or Jamieson’s on the way to school.

Yippee! The Bazooka Joes and Black Jacks are on Peter!

(Milky Bars were too expensive for sharing, even back then.)

Our walk up the hill to school would be filled with excited chat centred around the various board games everyone had brought in their quaint wee satchel / faux leather briefcase.

Snakes & ladders (boring); Ludo (equally so); Cluedo (likewise); Chess (alright, clever clogs! We’re meant to be having fun, right?); Risk.

Risk? Has someone got Risk? Me. Me. Can I play? Pleeeaase?

At the school gate there was an atmosphere of celebration. Everyone was happy, even Mr McKay, the school janny. (Janitor.) Blimey – he was even kicking footballs back to kids who had yet to finely hone their passing skills. Was he drunk? Surely not this early in the morning?

Some kids had brought presents for their teacher; cheap perfume; chocolates; mantlepiece ornaments; flowers. And cards. Loads of cards. I’m sure they were all gratefully received, and yet also in some way, dreaded, in equal measure.

The mood of the teachers puzzled me, however. It was the opposite of our poor, dejected and already deflated mums. It would be about another twenty-two years before I appreciated the answer to that conundrum.

High on the euphoria of relief, relaxation, anticipation and being one year closer to retirement, all teachers were all in buoyant mood. Though I didn’t see it at the time, it’s obvious now – they were demob happy, didn’t have a care in the world and in short, couldn’t give a stuff!

It’s last day of term – whose gonna notice if I lose a kid or two?

“Come on children, gather up your games – let’s play outside. It’s too warm in here.”

And so outside we’d go, marching along the short corridor, down past the dining hall, hanging a left at the toilets and out into the bright sunshine. ‘Miss’ would guide us to an unoccupied grassy spot in the playground. Unfortunately, she’d spent way too long gushing thanks over her three bottles of Max Factor perfume, six boxes of Matchmakers and the bunch of flowers that had obviously been picked from a garden en route to school that morning; all the areas of shade had been taken by those more playground-wise teachers and their classes.

Exiting the dark confines of the school building and into a gently, wafting warm summer breeze was wonderful. And at ten o’ clock in the morning when we’d normally be having a spelling test … if this was freedom, it sure was worth fighting for. I now understood the thinking of some historical characters whose stories had previously bored me rigid.

The balmy, early summer air would be fragrant with the delicate smell of freshly cut grass. Mr McKay and his wife would be off to Skegness for a fortnight the following morning, so he’d have made sure all his immediate duties were up to date.

It was idyllic. We’d be engrossed in the games we’d brought; teacher would don her sunglasses and angle her face to the sun. And sigh. A deep, ancient sigh; one that had been building in the pit of her very being since the previous August.

“Play nicely now, children,” was the instruction. And we did. For a while.

But that could only hold for so long in the rising temperature.

“Miss, I need a drink.”

“Miss, I need the toilet.”

“Miss, Gillian’s a cheat!”

“Miss, Robert stuffed a handful of cut grass down my back.”

“Miss, David stood on Russia and scattered my armies as far as Australia and I’ve now lost St Petersburgh. And I think one of my artillery pieces is in the grass that Robert pushed down Alan’s pullover!”

“FOR F**** SAKE! CAN’T YOU CHILDREN JUST BE QUIET FOR HALF A BLOODY HOUR?!”

Oops! Did I just say that out loud?

‘Miss’ would throw down her Skytours holiday brochure in a fit of blind temper – the page with details on some place called Benidorm would be heavily creased.

“OK – yes, you can go to the water fountain; yes, but straight back from the toilet; I’m sure Gillian just didn’t understand the rules … isn’t that right Gillian? Robert – apologise to Alan right now! Alan, can you please give James his artillery thingy back. David! You can’t just walk into countries and scatter that nation’s armies. Behave!”
(A little bit of geo-political satire there, I thank you.)

Twenty minutes till bell-time. Twenty chuffin’ minutes. Come on – you can see this through.

“Angela! Give Carol back her Sindy doll!”

“Stewart McKenna! Where did you hear language like that? Wait till your father hears about this!”

Oh, Dear God! Please. Nineteen more minutes to go.

Brrrrrrrrrrnnnnnngggggg!

Hallelujah!

“Right, children, don’t forget all your bits and pieces. And your jumpers. Line up in pairs and head back to class and collect your term work …. And have a Happy Holiday! I look forward to seeing you back here in eight weeks’ time.”

Little brats!

And we’d be off. Bags bursting with artwork and projects to amaze our parents, we’d run, skip and perhaps also fight our way home. When we came back in eight weeks’ time, we’d be a year older. Amazing that.

“Hello darling, good final morning at school?” mum would ask, sliding a large green bottle of something out of sight, behind the u-bend of the kitchen sink.

The Summer Holidays were here.

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