When the bell signalled the end of break, we would all troop down the steps of the Cow, belching and dribbling and dragging hands across mouths to hastily wipe off white moustaches. There never seemed to be much supervision of the daily milk melee, so this probably accounted for the mayhem and chaos that ensued.

Lunchtime, however, was a very orderly affair. Two mature lady cooks guarded the left and right hand doors of the Cow, whilst all the time making sure that we formed an orderly queue down the left hand side of the steps. Those who had been fed and watered proceeded down the right hand side.

The ladies were a soft touch when it came to a bit of flattery and praise, but only if it came from the boys. We females stood no chance. Rogues like my brother and his mates would resort to grovelling and brown nosing tactics in order to gain access to the front of the queue.

“You look lovely today Mrs H.” “

Thank you Neil!” “

The apple crumble we had yesterday was better than my mam’s and that’s saying something. I’ve got rugby practice, Mrs H., I was wondering if I could get nearer to the front of the queue?” “

Certainly.” “

My mate Keith’s got practice too.”

There would be hoots and jeers of

"They’re lying Miss. They only said that to jump the queue. Tell ‘em Miss. Rugby practice was last Friday.”

Finally, by fair means or foul, we all reached the top of the pile and from there proceeded into the belly of the cow.

We sat around tables of eight. A prefect was stationed at the top of each table. He or she was there to keep order, and dole out the grub. The prefect dictated portion control. You might be lucky and land yourself with a softy who was putty in your hands. Or, on the other hand, you could find yourself prey to an Idi Amin tyrant who revelled in his little tin pot position.

The food arrived in metal containers and was opened by the head of the table. I can vividly see the liver and bacon in its hot aluminium container, the lumpy half mashed spuds and the sloppy swede. Liver was my favourite, but I was very much alone in this preference.

“Ugh! Liver! You can have mine, Phillips” “… and mine… and mine.”

I loved the mince that stuck together in great clumps and the heavy stodgy Spotted Dick and Jam Roly-Poly. I wasn’t very keen on Manchester tart, although that was a firm favourite with most. It consisted of jam tart with settled custard on the top, or an alternative version had cornflakes stuck on top of the jam.

The prefect would lift the lid off the puddings with a flourish and would claim his or her portion by pushing a finger into a corner bit thus ensuring the biggest piece.

History of Free School Milk: 1921: LEA’s empowered to provide free school milk on a discretionary basis. 1946: Attlee government ordered the issue of free school milk for all pupils under 18. 1968: Wilson government stopped the issue of free school milk for pupils in secondary education. 1971: Heath government cut free school milk for children over 7 (Education Minister Margaret Thatcher, notoriously being labelled ‘Margaret Thatcher, School Milk Snatcher’. 1980: her government cut free school milk for children under 7. 2001: The Welsh Assembly Government re-established free school milk for all 5-7 year olds Past pupil Melanie Phillips, formerly an English teacher and now a Pembroke Town Councillor,, is well known as an author of humorous short stories and for her voluntary work with the Stroke Organisation, Friends of Pembroke Dock Guntower Museum and Mencap Gardens, Stackpole. Click Here to read more about Melanie in the Past Pupils News section!