Wynnum Central School

An Excerpt from ‘Daphne Margaret’

Written by T.W.S Armstrong

School during the war years carried its own peculiar rhythm, a strange counterpoint of childhood innocence and adult apprehension that beat like a second pulse beneath the day-to-day routines. I attended Wynnum Central, a solid brick institution that stood squarely on the main street like a keeper of time and order.

Its iron gates clicked shut each morning behind a stream of children in navy-plated uniforms, our yoke-collared blouses pressed and our satchels bouncing as we filed through. Though it looked like any other suburban school from the outside, within its walls—and just beyond them—there lingered the quiet breath of wartime dread. Prominently stationed near the front gates was a bomb shelter: a squat, grey structure with thick concrete walls and a sign above it that read, EVACUATION POINT. A military guard was always posted there, come rain or shine—sometimes a broad-shouldered man in starched khaki, sometimes a crisp young woman officer with shined boots and eyes sharp as pins. Their presence was as dependable as the school bell, and their reminders as regular as clockwork. "This is where you go if it happens," they'd say, never quite explaining what it was, though we all knew, in the back of our minds, that bombs were real, and not just the stuff of nightmares. When the siren shrieked its warning—a cold, metallic howl that seemed to cleave the sky—we sprang into action with military precision. We lined up, arms at our sides, hearts thudding like drumbeats, as the teachers, many of whom had adopted the clipped, no-nonsense tone of drill sergeants, marched us to safety. We didn’t question it. We simply obeyed. Our uniforms, stiff and sober, made us feel like part of something larger, as though we too were doing our bit for the war effort.

But it wasn’t all order and drills. School had its pockets of joy, and for me, they were found in the kitchens of Domestic Science—a grand name for what was essentially cooking class. When we were finally old enough to tie aprons around our waists and be handed bowls and wooden spoons, I felt as though I’d been entrusted with some sacred rite. The smell of melting sugar and baking powder would drift through the corridors, filling the school with warmth on even the bleakest of days. It was just before the annual school fête when I stumbled upon my first true calling: confectionery. They asked for volunteers to help make toffee apples and honeycomb for the school Fete, and I sprang to my feet before anyone else had a chance. Then I came back the next day. And the day after that. Soon I was there daily, elbow-deep in syrup, watching the golden bubbles hiss and pop as they reached the perfect crack. I’d pour it into trays, score the brittle surface, jab sticks into apples blushed red with food dye. There was something deeply satisfying about it—seeing the finished treats lined up in neat rows, knowing I had helped create them. Eventually, a teacher noticed I was spending more time over bubbling pots than at my desk. They called it child labour. I called it pride. I didn’t care if I was sent back to class—I’d already tasted what it meant to be part of something useful, something sweet.

Of course, we never had coins to buy the sweets ourselves. The Tuckshop, tucked beneath the building like a secret cavern, might as well have been Fort Knox. Our lunches were as humble as our circumstances—two slices of bread with peanut butter or Vegemite, wrapped in waxed paper, and perhaps a sliver of stale cake if Launa had done a bit of baking. We never felt hard done by, though. We had enough. And during the war, that counted for a lot. Launa, too, gave of herself in quiet but meaningful ways. She was a deft sewer, a magician with a needle, and in the weeks leading up to the school fête, she’d stay up by lamplight, crafting dainty doilies and handkerchiefs with crocheted edges, each stitch a small act of resistance. Her "fancywork" sold like hotcakes at the fundraising stalls, admired not just for its quality but for the dignity it brought to those who had little else to give. We walked to school every day—come rain, shine, or Queensland humidity—our feet slapping the pavement in rhythm, our minds wandering far beyond the chalkboard. One day, when I was in Year Five, mischief got the better of me. I wagged school with a neighbour girl. We thought we were clever, hiding behind the shed at the end of the street until the bell rang. But in our youthful planning, we forgot about Launa. You could fool a teacher. You couldn’t fool a mother. I managed to get a splinter that day—big and barbed, right in the arch of my foot. Limping home before the school day was out my first mistake. Launa met me at the door. She didn’t shout. She didn’t raise a hand. She simply sat me down, brought out her sewing needle, and with a jaw set like stone, she pulled the splinter free. Her silence was thunderous. She didn’t have to say a word. The shame was punishment enough.

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