One Young Fool in Dorset (10 page)

Nobody was called by her real name. We didn’t resort
to surnames, as happened in most boys’ boarding schools, but each
girl was given a nickname. My best friend Helen was called Snort
because of the one time she snorted in her sleep. I was named Dusty
because somebody said my eyes were as big as dustbin lids.

There were other strange rituals that had become
traditional at TH. For example, the mysterious Nelson’s Eye which
filled us youngsters with fear.

8 Day by Day

“
W
e’ve been here a week,” said Snort, “and
they haven’t made us do Nelson’s Eye yet.”

“I know,” I said, shivering. “It’ll probably be this
weekend. I’m dreading it.”

The week had been packed with activities and we had
begun to learn the routine we would follow for the next few years.
It’s possible that I haven’t remembered the times correctly, or
have left out huge gaps, but this is roughly how I remember a
typical day’s routine.

6.55 Wake-up bell.

A bell to be ignored.

7.00 Get-out-of-bed bell.

“Gels! Up you get!” called Matron. “Come on, you
gels, hurry up, get washed. Victoria, make sure you tidy the top of
your locker, it’s a disgrace.”

Out she rustled, making her way to the next dorm to
continue spreading her cheer.

Snort and I dragged ourselves out of bed, grabbed
our towels and wash things and trudged towards the bathroom. There
were no showers, just cubicles with a washbasin in each. There were
two baths, in separate cubicles, but we were only allowed a bath
once a week. The bathrooms were unheated and every sound echoed. We
splashed water on our faces and cleaned our teeth.

“You ready, Snort?”

“Yup.”

Back in the dorm, we pulled on our uniforms and
knee-high socks, and buckled our Clarke’s sandals. On our first
morning, Matron had ordered the whole dorm to kneel down in front
of her.

“Gels, I am checking your hemlines. No skirt should
be more than two inches off the ground when you kneel down. Cindy,
kneel up straight, it’s no good slouching, I’ll still know if your
skirt is too short.”

“But Matron, I’ve got big knees...”

Reluctantly, Corkscrew (as we called Cindy on
account of her curly hair) straightened up. Along came Matron with
her ruler, measuring the distance between hemline and floor. Snort
passed, and I, too, passed easily as my mother belonged to the
buy-it-much-too-big-she’ll-grow-into-it-eventually school of
thought. My hemline was probably a good two inches
below
the
knee, not above.

Corkscrew’s hemline failed, being a racy three and a
half inches above the knee. Corky was told to wear her PE culottes
and her mother was summoned and ordered to buy a new dress.

There was still another job to do before
breakfast.

“Don’t forget to strip your beds, gels!” Matron
called.

Even now, I’m usually one of those sleepers who
barely disturbs the bed. I’m not the type who kicks off the
bedclothes or tosses and turns during the night. So I deeply
resented the fact that we had to completely strip our beds every
morning. Just pulling the covers back to let the bed air should be
enough, surely?

7.30 Breakfast bell.

Now it was time to line up outside the dining hall,
juniors on one side, seniors on the other. As we filed in, Matron
dished out an orange tablet to each girl, a multi-vitamin, cod
liver oil concoction called Haliborange. My mother thought vitamin
supplements were a waste of time and money, so I was not given one.
I rarely suffer from colds or ill health now
(touch wood)
,
so I wonder whether perhaps she was right.

Mrs Driver and Matron sat at a separate table, and
we girls were seated in long rows. Brandy the Chihuahua roamed the
dining hall, looking for feet to hump. Then Mrs Driver or one of
the prefects would say Grace, always the same words:

For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make
us truly thankful.

Amen.

Once, when my sister became a prefect and it was her
turn to say Grace at the midday meal, I couldn’t believe my ears.
We all put our hands together and bowed our heads, waiting for her
to speak.

“God bless this bunch as they munch their lunch,”
she said.

The dining hall gasped. Snort and I exchanged
glances, waiting for the fallout. Mrs Driver and Matron flicked
glances at her, but said nothing.

Breakfast consisted of cornflakes, eggs and toast.
On Fridays there was steamed fish that made my stomach heave. In
the winter, we queued into the kitchen to receive a dollop of
porridge, which I loved.

By eight o’clock, we were well into our breakfast.
Mrs Driver twiddled with the knob of the huge radio on the shelf
above her. First it crackled, the signal for us to fall silent.
Then, exactly on the hour, came the pips.

This is the BBC World Service. Here is the news.

Whatever the prime minister, Harold Wilson, said in
parliament, or the fact that the village of Milton Keynes was to be
developed and declared a ‘New Town’ passed over my head. Snort and
I were more interested to hear that police raided the home of
Rolling Stones musician Keith Richards, following a tip-off from
the
News of the World
, and charged him and Mick Jagger with
the possession of drugs.

After breakfast, we raced up the stairs back to the
dorm. I’d tried to disguise the fact that I hadn’t stripped my bed
but somebody had been in while we’d been at breakfast and stripped
it completely. We then set about remaking our beds.

If it was a Thursday, we had to take off the bottom
sheet and replace it with the top. Then we’d collect a clean sheet
from the laundry cupboard. Snort and I helped each other making our
beds, both hoping that there was a diamond shape in the centre of
the clean sheet when we unfolded it. If there was, that meant good
luck for the week.

We made our beds with hospital corners, which would
be checked by Matron. Then we tidied our lockers, ran downstairs to
sort out our school satchels and were then ready to slip through
the woods, past the Biology pond, (known as the Bug Pond) to the
school building.

Lessons dragged on, one after the other. The
highlight was break-time when all the boarders were given a fresh
bun from the bakery. Sometimes it was a Chelsea bun dotted with
currants, or an iced bun, or jam doughnut. The day girls (we called
them Day Bugs) clustered around the boarders.

“Let’s have a taste!” they begged.

Sometimes I felt very lucky to be a boarder, not a
Day Bug.

Each girl belonged to a ‘house’, like the houses in
Harry Potter’s school, Hogwarts: Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw,
and Hufflepuff. TH had 12 houses, each named after a famous person.
I was put in my sister’s house, Elizabeth Fry, as siblings always
belonged to the same house. We wore dark green enamel badges edged
with gold to show which house we belonged to. My friend Snort was
in Shackleton, and her badge was a much nicer shade of blue. The
aim of the house system was to foster group loyalty and encourage
competition with each other at sports and academic subjects, thus
perhaps achieving more. Unfortunately, I have never had a
competitive spirit, and the house system didn’t encourage me to
perform better at all.

When school ended, the Day Bugs went home and we
boarders carried our satchels back through the woods to St
Mary’s.

“Every time we walk through the woods, I think of
Nelson’s Eye,” said Snort unhappily.

“Me too. I hope they don’t do it this year.”

We ran upstairs to our dorm and changed out of our
uniforms and into mufti.

Next was teatime in the dining hall. This was a more
relaxed meal, as we didn’t need to queue, or say Grace. We could
come and go as we pleased and sit wherever we liked. Mounds of
sliced white bread awaited us on the tables, and plastic tubs of
almost white, unappetising, margarine. There was always jam,
sometimes boiled eggs, and some kind of cake, plus big urns full of
tea. On some days, the kitchen staff beat Marmite into the
margarine, and the resulting grey stuff was heaped into a bowl. We
called it Marmite Squish. Snort loved it and I hated it.

16.00 Prep bell.

If Snort and I wolfed down our tea quickly, there
would be some spare minutes when we could just loaf about before
Prep. Prep took place in the common room from 4 o’clock until 5,
and was the time when we were supposed to do our homework. Talking
was not permitted. Sometimes Matron supervised Prep, or one of the
prefects. Snort and I rushed through our homework then spent the
remainder of the time writing notes to each other.

“Are you two gels passing notes to each other?
Helen, Victoria?”

“Yes, Matron.”

“Then you must each write one hundred lines.
I
must not write notes in Prep
.”

“Yes, Matron.”

Long faces.

Next came a spare hour when we could do what we
liked. We weren’t allowed to keep pets, but in springtime, Snort
and I pulled out some frogspawn from the Bug Pond and put it in
jars on the windowsill in the cloakroom. As the tadpoles
transformed into tiny froglets, we used old toothbrushes to brush
greenfly from the roses growing in the flowerbeds. These we fed to
our froglets.

Sometimes Mrs Driver would pass by, with Brandy
close behind.

“What are you two doing?” she asked once.

“Getting food for our froglets, Miss,” said
Snort.

Mrs Driver raised her eyebrows, but didn’t enquire
further. Giving her head a shake, she called Brandy who quit
humping the cardigan Snort had dropped on the lawn and trotted
after his mistress.

18.00 Chapel bell.

We went to chapel every evening, even on Sundays
when we also went to church. Chapel was dull, and being a dreamer,
I just disappeared into my own head. Snort was a wriggler, so was
often in trouble.

Dinner followed, then a little more free time, then
bed. Lights-out was at 8.30, and woe betide if you were caught
talking after that.

“Pssst! Dusty? Are you asleep?”

“Nope,” I replied.

“I was thinking about Nelson’s Eye,” said Snort.

“What about it?”

“Couldn’t you ask your sister about it? She could
tell us if they are still going to do it.”

“I already did.”

“What did she say?”

“She said it was strictly forbidden for anybody to
talk about Nelson’s Eye.”

“Oh. Can’t she break the rule? We wouldn’t
tell.”

“No. She says if anybody breaks the rule, the ghost
of Emily the scullery maid will haunt them until the day they leave
TH.”

“Oh.”

“Ssssh, you two!” hissed a voice from another bed.
“Some of us are trying to get to sleep here!”

“Sorry!”

“Sorry!”

Pause.

“Snort?”

“What?”

“I don’t really believe in the ghost of Emily the
scullery maid, do you?”

The dorm door opened, throwing a triangle of light
into the dorm.

“Helen! Victoria! I could hear you gels from outside
the door. You will both write me one hundred lines tomorrow,
I
must not talk after lights-out.
”

Sigh.

“Yes, Matron.”

“Yes, Matron.”

Weekends panned out differently, of course, because
there was no school. Every third weekend or so was an ‘exeat’ which
meant our parents could take us out for the day. Usually, my father
arrived in our black Rover 90, but I much preferred it when Ivy
came to collect us. The day was fun but rather curtailed because we
had to go to church first, and be back in time for evening
chapel.

Church was obligatory on Sunday, as was chapel every
evening. Snort and I always sat together in chapel and walked
together to church. We were dressed in our best uniform, with
stockings, white gloves, and hats. The whole of St Mary’s walked in
a crocodile of girls to one of two churches, headed by Mrs Driver
with Matron bringing up the rear. For once, the amorous Brandy was
left at home which was probably just as well considering how many
kneelers the Women’s Institute had embroidered, all of which he
would have assaulted.

Sometimes we walked through the Bournemouth public
gardens and across a golf course. The walk was nice, but the
destination was dull. As the sermon ate into our precious free
time, Snort and I yearned to be outside.

Because Snort was a wriggler, she attracted
attention in church. She couldn’t help it, she just couldn’t sit
still. If she wasn’t swinging her legs, she’d be kicking kneelers,
or fiddling with the little stack of prayer and hymn books
provided.

One Sunday, Snort craned round to see who was
sitting in the pew behind us, only to lock stares with the
disapproving eyes of Matron.

“Helen Jarvis, sit still!” hissed Matron.

“Sorry, Matron,” Snort whispered back.

Snort spun round to face the front, but it wasn’t
long before she forgot about Matron behind. She began making a
tower with her hymn books and mine. I elbowed her in the ribs.
Unfortunately, this caused the tower to collapse and fall to the
stone floor. The other girls and members of the congregation turned
their heads in our direction. I turned crimson with
embarrassment.

Matron waited for Snort to pick up all the hymn
books. Then she leaned forwards and tapped her shoulder with a
sharp, gloved finger.

“I want to see you in my room when we get back,” she
hissed into Snort’s ear.

9 A Tragic Ghost

Cauliflower Cheese

“
N
ow you’ve done it!” I scolded Snort as we
walked back home after the church service.

Snort pulled a face.

“What do you think she’ll make me do?”

“Lines, probably.”

For once, Snort and I didn’t dawdle at the Shell
House, delaying the progress of the crocodile and earning ourselves
a rebuke from Matron who was bringing up the rear. Usually, we
couldn’t resist gawking at it, it was so unusual. I didn’t know the
tragic story behind it then, but I do now.