Memories of Bell Heath Camp School

Paul John from Cambridge has emailed us with these memories of (mostly!) happy times spent at Bell Heath Camp School (now Bell Heath Study Centre) in Quantry Lane.  He’s added that he would be happy to hear from anyone who wants to share memories, or put him right where he’s wrong! We can put you in touch. Sarah Bradley 731025, belbhistory@btinternet.com.

 The place was known as Bell Heath School Camp when I was there for four stays in the 1950s (as well as casually visiting after Worcestershire cycle rides with Brummie pals, via Harborne, Frankley, Bartley Green).

 First in 1953: a group of us lads (no girls) aged around 10 were bussed by Midland Red from Farm Street Primary School (an 1873 mixed-sex I&J school now demolished), close to Hockley Brook, Birmingham 18. We stayed for perhaps ten days and took simple classes in nature study as well as going on guided walks to Sling Common, Farley Wood, Walton Hill.

 Bell Heath Headmaster in 1953 was Mr Menzies. He laid down the law that the Camp School was normally used by secondary schools; as primary school kids we were being done an exceptional favour and must behave properly!

 Jack Carter was caretaker, his friendly Irish wife cooked, and we all did the spuds and washed cooking pots, crockery, cutlery as she supervised. As well as playing folksie chordal accompaniments on his banjo, Mr Carter was sometimes likely to plectrum-pick chunks of Mozart: I remember what I now know to be the lovely melody of Voi che sapete (You ladies who know what love is, from Marriage of Figaro) wafting through the dining room when he  felt inspired. Quite a skill for a 1950s caretaker ... I hope he was fully appreciated, but somehow doubt it.

Menzies was assisted by two other teachers … a tweedy Mr Dowling?/Downing? did most of the outdoors teaching and leading; and a Mr ?Wilkins?, a long-limbed cheery chap who cracked classroom jokes about farts and females which would NOT have been acceptable to our school staff – or parents! A Mr J. Harley (originally from Llanelli) was the Farm Street teacher with us at Bell Heath.

 I remember Mr Menzies as senior in years, mainly with twinkling eyes and chuntering false teeth. We didn’t see much of him. First thing in the morning he’d supervise our sweeping and airing of the shuttered dormitory, give us a terse lesson in handling large brooms and sprinkling water to lay dust, order us to empty the night pee buckets (it seemed quite a walk down to the unlit loo block which was like an old air-raid shelter, primitive, very rough). And, on the darker side, he’d emerge at shower time armed with a maroon polished cane of very fine and flexible proportions.

 We had two showers during our stay. He’d supervise with military precision. We had to lie in bed, stand up when commanded by one of the other teachers, in small cohorts wrap towels around us, march to the narrow changing room, hang towels on hooks and file into the steamy atmosphere where lufahs and large bars of soap were used under orders. We scrubbed each other’s backs, on instruction turning around to have our own done, and dimly understanding repeated stentorian instructions to scrub our ‘schoolboy’s joy’, or private parts. This was another world, probably with British army overtones.

 All this done we filed back to the changing room and our towels and Mr Menzies. He would find some unexplained reason to take cuts with his loudly swishing cane on wet buttocks – the old man's lunge, swishes and slaps were memorable, as were the reflex protests and red marks. I recall the weals vividly as unsuspecting victims yelled with shock, stung with pain. Rightly, it would not be allowed today, and shouldn’t have been then.  Probably in 1960 I had a few chats with Mr Knox, the new head. He had valuable things to say regarding his unwillingness to use corporal punishment on lads. He was sure that there were better ways to encourage responsible social life and a better future for us all. He was the first teacher to share such thoughts with me.

In 1953, a stream which ran inside the grounds, parallel to the road, was dammed at the lowest point in the land so as to make a muddy pool with reeds and algae. In the stream we improvised mini-water mills. There was an old raft of sorts, made from large fuel cans with boards shoved through the handles. We used to pole the thing around the little pool, enjoy falling in and sloshing in the mud. Around 1957-8 there was a national polio scare and the pool was drained, though I seem to recall it being part reinstated in 1959.  I wonder if it is still there?  Beyond the pool there was a dense thicket referred to as 'the bird sanctuary'. We were ordered not to venture in. It possibly measured around 20 feet by 30-40 feet.

 One hike of discovery was to take a wee path at the upper or western side of Sling Common and find our way to Walton Pool with its short steep hill on the then very narrow road. And, elsewhere, on top of another hill (hmmm ... Chapman’s Hill or possibly Dayhouse Bank ???) above the Romsley road we apparently identified the source of the River Rea - is this true? And a triangulation point which, extended far enough, would take in the then Soviet Urals. Kids from the slums and back-to-back houses, we were budding explorers, perhaps believing readily, it now seems!  Finally, close to the Manchester Inn, I recall a bus which probably ran from Romsley (or Halesowen) to Bromsgrove - another nuggett of useless information!

A local farmer Hodgetts allowed some of us (under supervision) to pick blackberries in his field opposite and just above the Camp entrance. I recall a large lightening-struck tree in its fern-filled midst. The Hodgetts' farmhouse was set back in land behind the Manchester Inn. We learned that he had a son who'd been to agricultural college and was full of new ways of doing things! (We hadn't a clue what all this meant.)

A sign of the times: parents were NOT allowed to visit the School Camp. They were warned off firmly well ahead of our departure from the inner city school. Very few families had a car in those days (and our school head was the only member of staff to have one - probably paid for with his demob money after WWII; on school trips and other moments of controlled informality, he'd turn up wearing his RAF bomber jacket, sucking his pipe ...) So parents were not likely to casually drive out to see us at Bell Heath. But one affable dad ignored the warnings, and took buses from Hockley, Hagley Road Edgbaston, and then Halesowen, and found us somewhere along the Wildmoor Road as we were being marched back to Camp for our mid-day meal. The staff were NOT amused. The rules had been broken. Stiff upper lip: the dad was instructed not to speak to us. He could NOT come into the Camp grounds. We were ordered to walk straight past him without exchanging a word, including his lad - those were the days! - yet he'd come bearing small gifts from other parents, shillings, half-crowns, sweets. My mother had sent 2/6 to me. How guilty I felt in taking it, awkwardly saying Thank You and fearing punishment when the dad walked alongside our column and passed on my Mom's gift and good wishes ... This now seems a bit like borstal or boot camp attitude, or the workhouse where staff had pictures taken with firmly folded arms. Things could be strangely fierce ... What did that achieve? It turned some teachers into programmed Martians!

  Next time for me at Bell Heath was 1957. I was a teenage helper with a Birmingham group who’d hired the premises for a summer camp. And I was there on two similar occasions in 1959. Possibly in early 1960 I last visited Jack and Mrs Carter, of whom I had become fond. They were very kind, thoughtful, sensitive in many ways. As well as keeping a lovable black dog, and sleeping with his bed out of doors in summer, he played banjo and encouraged lads to sing along. I recall Jack and his wife dreaming of a move to mid-Wales and a small cottage for retirement. I hope they enjoyed that period of their life. In unsung ways they gave a lot … simple kindness.