SOME PERSONAL MEMORIES OF SIX HAPPY YEARS

Having been a wanderer, I was sent to school at the age of four, and, consequently, entered secondary education in 1920 at the age of eleven, courtesy of a bursary. Harris Academy was then a galleried building with girls' entrance and stair to the North, boys' ditto to the South, satellite houses and buildings at different levels bounded by Park Place, Nethergate and Tay Square‑ground now straddled by the cultural Bonar Hall and Repertory Theatre. Choice was possible in these days. I had attended primary school in the east end of the town, but not that nearest my home! At this stage I was quite sure I didn't want to go to the nearest secondary school, so opted for the Harris, in spite of the lengthy daily journey‑still a wanderer!

I arrived knowing no‑one, except one member of staff who happened to be a Sunday School superintendent of my church, and who taught us the technique of copperplate handwriting. Everything was new, totally strange, rather bewildering. There were no nondescript members of staff‑each was a "character", and most were excellent teachers‑so much so, that, in later years they all seemed to disappear together in the promotion stream.

Closing exhibitions had to be held in the Forresters' Hall (later the Rep). On entry; I had been designated a "first" in .the school choir. By the end of the session I had lost my top notes, and, during rehearsal, Jimmy Adamson, schools music superintendent, demanded to know "who was singing like a corncrake?" He walked along the lines listening to, each of us, then said accusingly "It's you, Jessie, who told you to sing first?" Thereafter I was a contralto, and was thrilled to be able to attend rehearsals and participate in the Centenary Verdi Requiem performances as probably the most former FP there.

School dances, when one was considered to be far enough up the school to be allowed to attend, were held in Mathers Hotel (now Tay Hotel). We practised for these in a large, rough‑floored room, known as the old lunch room, on the ground floor of a building in the far corner on the Tay Square side, to music provided by those of us willing to play dance music on an old harmonium. The lunch room, or "lunchie" was a tiered room upstairs in the same building. I think one could get a whole dinner for 5d, but the only item on the menu, which I can remember, was something called elephant pudding made from left over biscuits.

The Harris Guide Company was new then also, and, apart from drilling, all our activities were in the same tiered lunch room. Most of the patrols had bird names. Mine was the Swallow, of which I eventually became leader.  Guide training stood us in good stead, and it used to be said of me that as long as we had mother's handbag with us, we could do anything required.

If we wished to learn subjects other than those of the comprehensive core curriculum, we had to go in early ‑ at 0800.

The Rector was J. Barry Robb, always a very professional figure in a tail morning coat, who, for some reason never discovered, invariably addressed me as Miss Thomson. The Lady Superintendent was Barbara Jane Sutherland, a small, bird‑like woman whom we got to know well in years 4, 5 and 6. She harassed me so much over teaching practice, that I began to think I was trying to enter the wrong profession. To my astonishment, and that of my peers, I was, at the end of sixth year, awarded the Dux Medal in Teaching. When, genuinely puzzled, I dared to ask for what the teaching medal was given, I got the answer "for teaching, of course."

I still treasure my Harris medals, quite as much as any others which have come my way since. From these two exalted people we received written "references" to take us into tertiary education and the outside world. One phrase I've always remembered, and on which I've tried to act ‑ "can always be relied on in an emergency."

Jessie B. Devlin (Nee Thomson) 1920‑1926