New schools and new monarchs, we deal with the beginning and end of many eras through our lives

With his son struggling to put on a tie, Will Gore reflects on the challenge of change

Our lives are regularly punctuated with transitions (PA)

The transition from one school year to the next always brings mixed feelings. Moving to a new school can feel seismic. Last September, it was my daughter beginning afresh, launching herself into secondary education with enthusiasm but not a little trepidation. This year, it’s been my son’s turn, moving from infant to junior school.

During his final days in year 2, back in July, it felt like an important era was drawing to a close. He had spent four years at his first school, including one in nursery, and had been truly happy there. The disruption of the coronavirus pandemic had first – in the initial, frightening lockdown – made us all realise just how good the place was, and how hard life was without the nurturing support of his excellent teachers and friends. Then, as schools reopened in difficult circumstances, we marvelled at the organisational brilliance and personal warmth of the staff, and we watched our son’s Covid anger and anxiety gradually dissipate.

At end-of-term events, we were not the only parents shedding tears. For us though, seeing our youngest child leave felt particularly final: we would no longer have any connection to an institution that had been integral to our family life since our daughter’s first day there nine years ago. We knew our son felt the loss too. On the occasions we walked past the gates during the summer holidays, he would look in sadly, reminding us either of a particularly notable moment in his time there, or of the fact that he wouldn’t be going back. He exclaimed at a huge sunflower that had been planted by the children before the last term had ended and that had now bloomed brilliantly; but then he felt gloomy that he wouldn’t be able to see it close at hand.

Worries about the new school centred primarily around the uniform. How would he cope with a shirt that had buttons, let alone a tie? We encouraged him to practice as the new term approached, but there was reluctance, then tearful frustration when the challenge outdid him. Then came doubts about what to do at lunchtime, and heartache over the fact that many of his old mates would be in different classes.

On day one, last Monday, we discovered at the last moment that his class were scheduled to have PE and were required to arrive in their sports kit: uniform angst delayed. On day two, he surprised everyone by putting on his shirt and tie without a struggle. But as we left the house, he started to complain about the stiffness of his new shoes, then about his socks, which were ruffling against his heel. The complaints soon turned to angry tears and to accusations that I should have given him different footwear. He could not, he said, possibly walk to school.

I explained that I could offer no alternative at this stage that didn’t involve dire lateness, so we continued to argue the toss until we arrived at his old, beloved, little school, where he was due to meet a friend, walking with her and her mother the rest of the way to the new, bigger, scarier place. I worried that he would either refuse to continue, or be rude to his friend’s mum. I gave him a hug, told him he’d be fine and turned for home, hoping for the best – and fearing a phone call.

Instead, half an hour later, a text arrived to say the rest of the journey had been fine, full of chatter about Harry Potter. And that evening, having agreed to try different socks tomorrow, the clouds lifted. The rest of the week passed successfully: the uniform has not been troublesome; lunches have been delicious; his new teachers are lovely; lessons have been fun. The new school has, in fact, brought just as much joy as the last one, and already there is the same sense of support, warmth and belonging.

Our lives are regularly punctuated with transitions: new schools, new homes and new jobs; the end of one relationship, the beginning of another; coping with the death of loved ones; general elections; and much else besides. Some changes can feel seamless, others create deep upheaval. The end of the Elizabethan era and the beginning of King Charles III’s reign is undoubtedly momentous, and yet at the same time it is not unexpected, nor unplanned for. There will be a mass public bereavement, but there will be no turmoil. The monarchy will, in the end, remain a bulwark to our national identity.

How to cope with change? “One does”, as the Queen said of carrying out her daily public duties. And she was right. Come what may, we look for the points of continuity, of familiarity, of reassurance to keep us on track – just as my son has done this week. Whatever happens, we carry on.