Quotes from former pupils: A. Bradley, Barney Benstock, Bill Coates, Bill Everett, Elsie Cousins, Henry Martin, Madeline Wellman, Mrs. C. Smith, Stanley Pollard and Sylvia Wilson.
Read their full memories of the school here
"...To be a pauper child rated you the lowest form of life."
"I came to the Cuckoo Schools in the same way as most people did. My mother died in 1918 and my younger brother came here straight away. He was three at the time. Then my father coped as much as he could till 1924 when me and my next brother had to come down here as well because father went into hospital with silicosis from dust in the Dalton factory at Lambeth. My father had been here as well in 1887 or thereabouts. When you lost your homes, you went into the workhouse. The horses took a good few hours to get here. There were about seven of us arrived together. I wasn't frightened or anything but the dormitories looked vast to me. We had no possessions, only what we stood up in."
"It was in 1922, while we were living in Southwark, that my father, who had fought in the First World War and had been twice wounded, became unemployable...it became apparent that his mind was becoming unbalanced...Eventually mother found that she could no longer keep her job and care for us properly...It was December...snowing hard and I remember how cold it was. There were ten of us, seven girls and three boys, and we were taken in an old school bus to our new home."
"My father died about three months before I was born, mother only lasted a few months after my birth. Both died of consumption, a common complaint with the poor of those days. Housing conditions, malnutrition, limited medical services, claimed many a victim with an illness that in these days is so easily curable. Most of the boys and girls lost their parents early in their lives. Some had aunts and uncles, but struggling to bring up their own families they were in no position to accept further responsibilities by taking them in."
"...One recollection of my father's visit is distinct in my mind...Until then I had no idea of having a father at all. He wore a big moustache and had a chain strung across his waist anchored to a pocket watch which nestled in his waistcoat pocket...A couple of years later I overheard my brother in conversation with his friends..."My dad kicked the bucket a couple of years ago." He said. It was a sudden shock to learn of my dad's death in this way. I suppose the news should have left me feeling sad, but strange to say it hardly moved me. This orphanage world that harboured me was too remote from that of the family structure into which I had been born and long forgotten."
"I often travel by train from Gloucester to Paddington and when approaching Hanwell and Elthorne Station, I look through the trees for a very special building, and there it is - the Cuckoo School clock. A lump in my throat certainly, memories come flooding back."
"Only two children died during my period at Hanwell, a girl and a boy. This was a marvellous achievement, remembering that many who came to the school were in poor physical condition due to circumstances of their poor upbringing in their babyhood."
"It was in the Juniors that I caught ringworm and had all my hair cut off, and had to wear a little white cap. It gave the boys a good laugh, and I was called "baldyhaha"."
"You had your own bed and a good pair of boots; whereas before I remember a time when I couldn't go to school because I had no boots."
"How self-supporting this place was. Your boots were repaired by boys learning to be shoemakers, your tailoring done by boys in the tailor's shop. There was farming and gardening, so boys weren't wasted. We grew our own garden produce and everything was repaired by the different trades. We had orchards and a piggery. This was our village."
"It was great fun watching the lockers being put in. We at last had our own clothes. Before that we would run to the corridor and, scramble to get the best stockings and underwear. The stockings then were black wool and often too tight so it was the thing to rush to be first in the queue."
"We were completely isolated from the girls. We only saw them in that huge dining room at meal times, both sexes facing each other and a gap of ten feet between us. I had a younger sister at the school and was allowed to talk to her for one hour once a week, on Sundays, but iron bars between us."
"...at Hanwell life was communal. The girls, about 300 of them, had two huge bedroom blocks, the boys, about the same number, also two blocks. In between were the main buildings, with the Superintendent's and Matron's living quarters and administrative offices, the chapel above them plus the school clock tower which could be seen many miles away. A row of buildings, including the dining hall separated the boys from the girls. They each had a large concrete playground, and a large room and gymnasium each in case of wet weather. There were two dormitories on each of four floors in each block. Each held 30 children with a nurse in charge of each ward. She had a cubicle for her sleeping quarter in the ward. The only lighting was gas, and being wartime all the windows were painted green. Beds were all iron with solid mattresses. When any lads left school, you moved up a bed and eventually to the next block, so it could be said that thousands of lads had actually slept in the same bed. That way the age level was maintained in each dormitory."
"Up at six in the morning, our first task was to make our own bed. Nurse inspected it, and if not up to her standard would strip the clothes off, and make you make it again. We then swept, polished the floor and dusted all round, leaving it in perfect condition. All the polishing was done on our hands and knees - no gadgets for easy cleaning in those days. Then a thorough wash, clean our boots, and inspection by our yardmaster. Then we were marched in orderly fashion to the dining hall. Breakfast consisted of a plate of porridge, two margarined rolls and a mug of cocoa. Eggs and bacon were something I did not taste until I left school."
"No china or crockery, the plates and mugs were all enamel. The girls sat on one side, and the boys on the other in the dining hall, a long passage six feet wide separating us. There was a stage one end of the Hall, from which a member of the band played a cornet for our grace before and after meals. Meals were the same on each day of the week."
"Every morning after we had washed, cleaned our teeth, and dressed, each boy was delegated to a certain job, such as washing the stone corridor floor, getting coal for the dormitory fires, polishing the waxed dormitory floors, polishing brass taps. After these chores were finished, providing they passed muster, the boys were free to go into the playground to do whatever they felt like doing. The girls' day school was situated over the top of the boys' school and the entrance was right round the back of the boys' entrance, so that even during playtime we never came into contact with the girls. One of my most beautiful memories, as silly as it may sound, was being in day school during the summer when all the windows were wide open. We would be trying to make sense of algebra when suddenly the air would be filled with female voices singing in beautiful harmony. No wonder I was never any good at algebra! Those singing lessons would last about half an hour, and to me they were something else - out of this world! I loved every one of those singers."
"There was always something going on. Amateur dramatics, swimming, cricket, football, athletics, band practice, netball and our own fete in the summer. Reading back it sounds like one big holiday but unfortunately there was an unpleasant side. Rising at 6am and standing stripped to the waist in cold, very, very, cold wash rooms to do our ablutions. Polishing the dormitory floors, cleaning boots, washing floors, darning baskets - baskets full of stockings till one's eyes ached. Apart from the very young ones we each had a job to do. Sometimes some of us were slapped very hard if we didn't "toe the line". The large bleak dayrooms (as playroom) with wooden benches on each of the longest sides for us to sit, not much comfort on a cold wintry day..."
"I'll tell you the reason I joined the band. Our day room had hot water pipes with wooden seats on top, but the bandsmen had a fire."
"In a world that lacked colour and any form of organized musical presentation, the once a week performance of the band in our yard was pure heaven. The shiny brass instruments, the straight lines of inarching bandsmen and the smart sounding music conquered my young heart. I was five years old, but I knew then as sure as I knew anything, I just had to be in that band one day."
"My earliest outstanding event I can remember concerned Mr. Hindrum, a twenty stone ex-naval man who was the drill master. One day at a swimming session under his supervision I was inattentive and in trying to give me a whack with his enormous long cane, which he was an expert at using, he overbalanced and fell in fully dressed. Did all the other kids laugh, and I got away with it."
"Dear old Nurse Radband of 'A dormitory', making her final evening rounds, and shaking and dancing her bunch of keys to warn us of her approach to enable us to scuttle to our beds and feign sleep. I always remember what she said to me as she stood over me stripped to the waist and washed one evening: "Stanley Pollard, when you are washed nice and clean, I always feel that I want to kiss you."
"She was strict and tough, but fair, with us boys and beloved by all, and oh! how she always welcomed us back on our visits to the school and her meagre rations were always placed at our disposal. Does any old boy remember those outings to Kew Gardens and Lyons for tea after? And pantomimes - about a dozen boys at a time and all paid for by her, what a personality!"
"Doctor Davidson was the school doctor...Always somebody would be waiting on the road outside the infirmary for him to leave the building. There would then ensue a minor scramble for a place in his car. About four or five lucky boys would squeeze in and the doctor would drive his passengers to the main gate, about a quarter mile along the road. Those rides, short enough in retrospect, thrilled us in no small way and we walked back from the gate in a happy mood while looking forward to the next time."
"In spite of Miss Dawes' primitive methods of teaching us to swim, it is only fair and true to say that her success rate was terrific. Literally hundreds or even thousands of girls passed through her capable hands and that terrifying life line, all eventually emerging as stalwart swimmers, even including the physically handicapped who learnt not only to swim but to dive as well."
"The girls who showed particular prowess were singled out and labelled as "specials", and were then given extra coaching in preparation for the annual inter-schools Gala which took place the first Monday in October at Great Smith Street Baths, Westminster. As a grand finale we were all taken into Zeeta's fabulous teashop in Victoria Street, Westminster, where we enjoyed a truly gorgeous tea of shrimps, thin bread and butter, jam, and plates and plates of "fancies", a mixed assortment of iced and fancy cakes."
"No chronicle of Cuckoo would be complete without a few words concerning Miss Barlow. Here was a lady who, had she so wished, could have had a very comfortable and easy way of life. She counted among her friends many people who were high in society. She had offices in Wimpole Street, and all ex-pupils from the School were always made very welcome. My first contact with Miss Barlow was whilst I was very young - about ten. She strode into the playground, red-headed with a tweed suit, looking very determined about something of which I knew nothing...This very gracious lady remained unmarried, but she numbered among her 'family' thousands of ex-Cuckoo Old Boys who could call upon her help at any time, and always received that help. When one remembers just what life was like during and after the First World War, when very poor children were condemned to a life of misery, and often ended up in prison, the terrific value of the work done by Miss Barlow and her helpers becomes apparent. Many old boys have wondered why she was never honoured in the Birthday Honours List. From very good authority, I learnt that honours were indeed offered to her, but were politely refused. Her whole life was dedicated to helping poor children, and this she continued to do right up to the day of her death."
"Around the age of thirteen, one was expected to reach the highest standard of education at the school, and most did just that. Then for your last twelve months you became a part timer, which meant mornings at school with an allotted job in the afternoons. This could be working in the kitchen, tailor's shop, carpenter's shop, farm and other departments. The girls went either to the infirmary or the staff kitchen. About half a dozen did domestic work in the Matron's and Superintendent's quarters. These tasks had to be taken seriously as part of your training for the outside world. This meant a payment of sixpence per week and a pass to go out without supervision on a Saturday afternoon. Most of the lads went to a cinema 'The Grand' on the Uxbridge Road, Hanwell. Being orphans we were allowed in at half price, just one old penny. We soon learned the ropes on how to make our sixpence go its full value. One of us would call at the sweet shop which would oblige with a bag of broken or sticky sweets for a penny. Another to the grocer for a bag of broken biscuits. If the fish shop had chips over from its mid-day customers, we got all that were over. This way we were not only able to eke out our pocket money, but were able to save a copper or two for our fete day."
"Often we'd go down to Ealing...We never talked to other children. They used to call us the Workhouse Boys although we were better off than them because we learnt a trade and they didn't."
"...There were the times the rumour went round to everyone that there were eggs for breakfast! I think everyone that day finished their allotted jobs in record time and the stampede to the dining hall to be first to see the eggs was something to be seen, but alas, there were never any eggs..."
"There's one thing about it: you did get three meals a day. For breakfast we had rolls, a roll and a half we used to have, with margarine. In the kitchen there were two coppers, one for cocoa, one for porridge. The porridge was cold by the time we got it. That's all we got. The meal at dinner time was good. As you filed past the serving tables with your plate, the Nurse would give out the helpings. You had greens, meat, soup, currant pudding. Everything was steamed. For tea we'd have a roll again, sometimes with jam. On Fridays we had cake, on Sundays a roast dinner. It was really good to me who had known want."
"A popular part of the yard on those cold, chilly afternoons when we were out after school was the paving above the bakery. Here were steel gratings sunk into the paved surface where we could lie down flat on our stomachs and soak up the warmth rising from the bakery below. We watched with interest the bakers, wearing their white uniforms and tall white hats, going about their work. The smell of baked bread both tantalized and comforted us on many a bleak afternoon."
"In the 1930's the L.C.C., as it was then known, took over the running of the school and what a change it was. We had much better food and a greater variety of it, such as bacon and sausages, herrings, etc. things that we never knew were obtainable."
"Christmas time was a magical time for us kids, and when the dining hall was decorated with huge Chinese lanterns and great coloured glass balls as big as footballs, the excitement of hundreds of boys and girls could be felt."
"Christmas day meant the usual breakfast but there was a good dinner of roast beef, roast potatoes, brussels, Yorkshire pudding, followed by generous helping of Christmas pudding plus an orange and apple. The younger children received a clockwork toy, the elder ones a ball. These were the only toys one got during the year, through the generosity of the school managers who dipped in their own pockets to buy them."
"...By the 1920's and early 1930's, the harsh punishment of Chaplin's day and the strained atmosphere that accompanied it with such frightening ceremony had lessened somewhat. The caning of alleged miscreants, while still witnessed by the full assembly of boys on parade, was carried out by having the culprit bend over to receive six strokes of a thin birch cane."
"I will always remember the day Charlie Chaplin came to see us. He came into the dining hall and showed us how a man behaved in the cinema. He put his bowler hat on his walking stick and it went higher and higher because he could not see past the man in front who was blocking Charlie's view. Then he went to the infirmary where the sick children were, and walked down the ward like he did in his pictures. Before he left the school he gave us all a shilling, a surprise packet and a custard tart. He also paid for us to see the film "City Lights" at the Walpole cinema, we really enjoyed it."
A reunion of pupils from The Cuckoo Schools
Below are more in-depth memories and accounts of the schools in PDF format. Please click on the book covers below to open each PDF file.
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