This is story #8 in the series “Where Exactly is Home?”. The author recommends you read them in order.
Introduction:
“Where Exactly is Home?” follows the story of my parents, my two younger brothers and me, Susan, who emigrated from war-battered Britain, in the mid-late 1950’s, to Southern Rhodesia, Africa.
The effects of this move on our family were huge, as we struggled to adapt to such a different way of life. Only after further upheaval, and more long-distance travelling, did our family eventually settle in the city of Salisbury, Rhodesia.
However, we did not know then that we would not remain there for the rest of our lives, either.
When the family first went to Africa, I, Susan, was 9 years old. My two brothers, John and Peter, were almost 7 and 4, respectively.
Nowadays, as seniors, John and Peter live in England. I live in Canada. Throughout our lives, we have both benefitted from, and suffered because of, our somewhat unusual childhood.
I, for one, still sometimes ask myself which country represents home to me.
This is a series of stories under the title “Where Exactly is Home?” – I recommend you read them in order, starting with story #1.
8. School, a Living Hell for my Brother and Me
School life in the African village of Darwendale became a living hell for both my brother, John, who had just turned eight, and for me, two years his senior.
To begin with, John and I had both been at school in England for longer than had our peer group in Southern Rhodesia. These latter students started school at the age of six, not five, and several months later than us, in January, not September. All students were in multi-grade classrooms, so John was quietly moved up a year. I, too, was far more advanced than my fellow students, but I was not allowed to move up. I suspect that this was because I proved to be more valuable as an assistant teacher. I was always being asked to help my classmates, as directed by my teacher. He was a strict man, about forty years old, bald, plump, short. Not only was he teaching three grades in this one classroom, which must have been difficult enough, but he was also the headmaster, responsible for running the school, including the boarding hostels, and for maintaining discipline, throughout.
John and I were both bored, but we were also finding that school life was just an excuse for other students to bully us. There were sixty students in the school, boys and girls ranging in age from 6 to 11, and we were two of very few day-students, the rest being boarders. Two brothers, also day-students, whose names John and I both remember all these decades later, took a fiendish delight in terrifying us on our way home. They would hide along the pathway we took to get home, then leap out suddenly from the bush, attacking us physically and verbally.
