There was one sentence capable of producing quite an exceptional improvement in the health of an Australian schoolchild.

“Your mum’s coming to get you.”

Suddenly the stomach ache had eased or the headache wasn’t quite as savage. You could stand again and, astonishingly, had enough strength to pack your school bag and make your way towards the office.

You just had to remember to hold that sick face until you were safely in Mum’s car.

For generations of Australian kids, the school sick bay was a strange little world. You didn’t necessarily want to end up there, particularly if there was blood involved, but there was something intriguing and satisfying about being temporarily removed from normal school life.

And, if things went your way, there was always the possibility of an early mark.

Welcome to the sick bay

Depending on the school and the era, the term “sick bay” could be rather generous.

At some schools, there was a proper little room set aside for first aid, while at others, particularly smaller schools, you might find yourself on a narrow bed somewhere near the office under the watchful eye of the school secretary.

The bed itself was usually memorable. Vinyl, naturally, often dark green and presumably chosen because it could survive anything a primary school child could throw at it, occasionally literally.

Then there was the smell. Antiseptic, Dettol, Metho, and whatever else had been used to wipe down the bed after the previous patient.

Older Australians may also remember rather more agricultural approaches to playground injuries. Grazed knees could mean iodine, cotton wool and a bandage, and if you remember iodine, chances are you also remember the sting.

You might have arrived crying because you’d grazed your knee… by the time the iodine went on, you’d discovered an entirely new reason to cry.

Dr School Secretary will see you now

At many schools, the person sitting behind the front desk appeared to have an extraordinary job description.

She answered the telephone, dealt with parents, found lost jumpers, knew where every teacher was and, when necessary, transformed into the school’s medical department.

“Where does it hurt?”

“When did it start?”

“Did you eat your breakfast?”

Then came the hand on the forehead. I’m still not entirely sure what information could be obtained from this procedure, but for decades it seemed to be accepted as a perfectly reasonable diagnostic tool.

If nothing obvious presented itself, the standard treatment was often beautifully simple: go and lie down for a while.

Of course, it worked quite often.

The strategically timed stomach ache

Then there were genuine illnesses and injuries, and plenty of them. Kids broke arms, split heads open, fainted, suffered asthma attacks and became properly crook at school.

Then there was another category of patient: the child who had simply had enough for the day.

The stomach ache was a popular choice because it presented certain advantages. Nobody could see it and nobody could conclusively prove you didn’t have one.

The trick was getting the performance right, you see. Too cheerful and you were going straight back to class. Too theatrical and somebody might start taking the situation seriously, which could lead to questions you hadn’t prepared for.

A headache had potential, although it was difficult to demonstrate.

“I feel funny” was useful because it was sufficiently vague to keep everyone guessing.

Then there was the child who said they felt sick, wasn’t believed, and promptly vomited all over the classroom floor.

Case closed.

Every school seemed to have one of those incidents, usually followed by the sudden appearance of a bucket, disinfectant and some mysterious absorbent material that nobody ever saw anywhere else.

Ice will fix it

By the time many of us were at school, the ice pack had emerged as one of medicine’s great all-rounders.

Twisted ankle? Ice. Bump on head? Ice. Swollen finger? Ice.

Anything else that nobody could quite diagnose? There was a fair chance you were getting ice.

Sometimes it was an actual ice pack. Sometimes it appeared suspiciously like something retrieved from the staffroom freezer and wrapped in a tea towel.

Either way, you sat there holding it against the afflicted body part and waited for the medical profession to decide your fate.

Then came the words you secretly hoped for.

“Your mum’s coming to get you.”

The miracle cure

Nothing quite matched the feeling of collecting your school bag while everyone else was still stuck in class. You’d walk past the classroom door with what you hoped was an appropriately sombre expression, although internally, you were celebrating like you’d just won Lotto.

They were staying.

You were going home.

Of course, Mum wasn’t stupid.

She’d take one look at you when you climbed into the car and conduct another assessment, usually far more accurate than anything you’d encountered at school.

And if she suspected you’d pulled a swifty, there was one sentence that destroyed the entire plan: “If you’re too sick for school, you’re too sick to go outside.”

There it was.

Your mates would soon be kicking the footy, riding their bikes or doing whatever else you had imagined joining them for after your miraculous recovery.

You were on the couch.

Being sick.

Suddenly school didn’t seem quite so bad.

Looking back, though, those sick bays did a pretty good job with what they had. Teachers, secretaries, office staff and school nurses patched up generations of grazed knees, bumped heads and miserable kids, often while doing another dozen things at the same time.

Even now, all these years later, I reckon plenty of us can still remember that vinyl bed, the medicinal smell and the wonderful sight of Mum appearing through the office door.

Particularly if, by then, we’d made a stunning recovery.

This article is part of ‘Lessons That Last’, a new Starts At 60 series exploring the memories, traditions and school experiences that shape Australians across generations, presented in partnership with Schoolblazer Limited, a specialist school uniform company that works with hundreds of schools internationally. Through Lessons That Last, Starts At 60 is exploring the memories and experiences of school life across generations of Australians.

Also check out One Patch of Grass, a Thousand Memories and Lessons That Last: The Teacher Who Knew What You Needed