One Young Fool in Dorset (15 page)

We trudged to the campsite office near the entrance
gates. Shapes shuffled in the shadows under the trees, and I knew
the ponies were watching us.

No lights burned in the campsite office and the door
was locked.

“It’s all closed up, now what?” asked my sister.
“Wait, it says here:
Ring bell for attention out of hours or
emergencies.
”

My father pressed the button firmly, and somewhere,
a long way away, I heard an electric bell ring. As we waited, I
stared at the flyers pasted on the windows of the office.
Brownsea Island Boat Ride, Tour Athelhampton House, Visit Poole
Pottery, Visit Bournemouth Winter Gardens!

I jumped in fright as something snickered a few feet
away.

“Ponies,” said my sister.

Human footsteps approached and an ancient figure
stepped into view. An old man peered inquiringly at us, his
scraggly white eyebrows raised in question.

“You rang?” he quavered.

“Good evening,” said my father. “I’m here to report
a robbery. Our tent has been broken into while we were away on a
walk. I wonder if you could phone the police for us. I expect
they’ll want to come out and examine the crime scene.”

“What was stolen?” asked the old man, “Are you
missing any valuables?”

“Not that we can see yet,” said my father, “but the
thieves left a frightful mess.”

“It was the ponies.”

“Pardon?”

“The ponies broke into your tent, hehe,” cackled the
old man. “They do it all the time.”

Something snorted in the darkness.

“I’m sorry, but it can’t have been the ponies. The
zip was undone.”

“T’was the ponies! Clever little buggers! They’ve
learnt to open tent zips with their teeth. And if they cain’t git
in that way, sometimes they’ll just lean on a tent until it gives
way. Betcha they’ve eaten all your food if you left it lying around
in the tent. They ain’t tidy neither, they always leave a helluva
mess!”

We gaped at him. My father thanked him quickly and
we hurried back to our tent.

The old man was right, of course. The ponies had
unzipped our tent and helped themselves to our provisions, leaving
a trail of destruction.

“Well, we’ve still got sausages,” said my father
cheerfully. “No bread rolls to put them in, but at least they left
us something for supper.”

He lit the little gas stove and we cooked, shared
and ate the sausages that hadn’t been trampled. They tasted good,
but sausages on their own are not an exciting meal. And washing
plates and a skillet in cold water isn’t fun, either.

With just a single lantern to share between us, we
had an early night. I wanted to read in bed, but the ponies had
broken my flashlight so that was out of the question. As the ponies
stamped and snuffled around our tent, I drifted off to sleep, but
not for long.

Whispered voices woke me up. My brother was trying
to attract my father’s attention.

“Dad!”

“What?”

“I need the toilet!”

“What?”

“I need a wee.”

“Can’t it wait?”

“No.”

“Well, go to the toilet block.”

“What about the ponies?”

“They won’t hurt you.”

Silence.

“Well, just go round the back of the tent if you
want.”

“Okay.”

Rustling. Buzz of the zipper. Footsteps round the
tent. Splashing.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” roared my
father, fully awake now. “When I said go round the back of the
tent, I didn’t mean
on the back
of the tent!”

“Sorry.”

I scratched a mosquito bite and drifted back to
sleep, not at all sure if camping was really my thing.

The next day, breakfast was cancelled. The ponies
had eaten the Kelloggs Rice Crispies and sugar, and kicked over the
milk. They’d guzzled the bread destined for toast.

No,
I thought to myself,
I don’t think I
really like camping.

I imagine we were all quite relieved to pack up the
tent, climb back into Ivy and head for home.

* * *

The days slipped by, and it was time to exchange the
navy blue uniform of TH for the grey of Parkstone Grammar School
for Girls on the outskirts of Poole. My sister was at the college
in Bournemouth, and my brother was in boarding school. My parents
didn’t want me to attend the mixed grammar school in Swanage, and
Wareham didn’t have a grammar school.

Of course, this meant a long journey to and from
school every day. I would have to walk to the station, catch a
train to Poole, walk to Poole bus station, then catch a final bus
to the school. However, because it was my first day, my mother
decided, just this once, she would drive me.

Ivy bucked, stuttered and stammered her way to
Poole. My mother’s knuckles were white as she gripped the steering
wheel, and mine were equally white as I hung onto my satchel. I was
terrified, but not of my mother’s driving. It was the thought of
school that scared me. I knew that everybody else would have
already made friends, and I was joining them in their second
year.

“
Ach,
I’m not going to take you right into
the school car park,” announced my mother, “in case I have to
reverse Ivy out. No, I’ll just drop you at a bus stop if we see
girls in Parkstone uniform.”

That didn’t take long. My mother stamped on Ivy’s
brake and we jolted to a stop. I shrank down in my seat as my
mother jumped out.

“Is there somebody in the second year here?” she
bellowed at the clusters of grey-clad girls.

I shrank down so low I could barely see over Ivy’s
dashboard. The girls swung round to stare first at my mother, then
Ivy, then at me.

“Anyone in the second year who will look after a new
girl?” repeated my mother.

I was mortified.

An extraordinarily pretty girl stepped forward,
smiling. I wanted this whole nightmare to end as quickly as
possible, so I grabbed my satchel and jumped out onto the
pavement.

“Hello,” smiled the girl. “I’ll look after you. I’m
Jo, what’s your name?”

She was quietly-spoken, but exuded friendliness. Her
huge brown eyes, with just a hint of naughtiness, smiled kindly at
me. The other girls lost interest and turned away. My mother jumped
back into Ivy and disappeared up the road in puffs of exhaust
fumes.

I’m still grateful to Jo for rescuing me that bleak
day. Without hesitation, she introduced me to Hilary and their
circle of friends and I have much to thank her for. We stayed close
friends all through school and still keep in touch. Today we are
both grandmothers.

I believe my first form teacher was Miss Meniss, but
a menace she wasn’t. She was a giant of a woman, with hands like a
bunch of bananas and feet the size of row boats, but there was
nothing fierce about her. I believe she had been a novice in a
convent, but had decided at the eleventh hour that she didn’t want
to be a nun after all, and became a teacher instead.

I didn’t do particularly well at school. As usual,
my head was in the clouds. I dropped Latin as soon as I could, and
did the bare minimum required for every subject except English and
Art, and German, which I obviously found quite easy.

My group of friends was not sporty at all. Without
question, the subject I disliked most was Physical Education, and
the PE teacher was terrifying.

“Move!” she bawled. “Go after the ball, don’t just
stand there!”

Which was worse, hockey in the freezing cold, or
playing rounders in the summer? On the playing fields, the only
skill Jo, Hilary, Sally and I perfected was making daisy chains and
wearing them as necklaces and crowns. I detested the smell of the
changing rooms, and I loathed the white Airtex shirts and chafing
culottes we had to wear.

And as if netball, rounders or hockey practice
wasn’t bad enough, the lesson always ended with a shower. We didn’t
have individual cubicles, it was a long line of water jets we had
to run through.

I was mortified, and tried everything to get out of
both PE and the shower run. I was already painfully shy, and the
thought of stripping off all my clothes in front of everyone was
excruciating, particularly as I was slow to develop. I didn’t want
to reveal my flat chest to the world.

As each girl ran through the shower, her name was
ticked off on the register. If it was your ‘time of the month’, you
whispered the fact to the PE mistress, and you were excused from
showering. Every lesson I’d claim it was my time of the month and
all went well for a few weeks. Then the PE mistress noticed the row
of P’s next to my name, and a letter was sent back to my parents
expressing concern and suggesting I might need a visit to the
doctor.

I tried to explain why I lied. Both my father and
mother frequently walked around the house and garden with no
clothes on, so had no sympathy for me at all.

“
Ach,
we’re all built the same!” said my
mother.

But we’re not!
I screamed inside my head.
You should see Iris, she’s got a HUGE bust, and so has
everybody, and my chest is as flat as a board. I’m the only one who
isn’t wearing a bra yet!

There was nothing else for it, the showers had to be
sabotaged. We all hated the showers, and we plotted a way to stop
them for ever.

I don’t remember who thought of it, (was it Jo,
Hilary, Sally or me?) and I don’t remember who carried out the
deed, although I think it may have been me... I stole the keys that
turned the shower on, and I hurled them from the window of the
train.

Of course, the PE mistress reported the loss to the
headmistress. The crime was announced in assembly, with orders for
the culprit to return them immediately. But the best news was that
the keys took ages to replace, so for weeks we didn’t have to run
through the shower.

Result!

As my chest remained flat, I resolved to do
something about that, too.

14 Bras and Other Agonies

Quiche Lorraine

I
t didn’t matter how often I lifted my vest
and shirt to examine my progress, nothing seemed to be happening.
My chest remained as flat as a becalmed lake.

There were a few girls in my class who still weren’t
wearing bras, but I was the last of my group. I decided a little
white lie might be in order.

My mother was washing up, which was a good time to
catch her before she disappeared into the garden. I grabbed a
drying-up towel, and took a deep breath.

“Um, the PE teacher took me aside. She says it’s
time I wore a bra,” I said, drying a plate so thoroughly I nearly
rubbed the pattern off.

My mother stopped and stared at me, her hands still
in the suds.

“She did what?
Ach,
but your chest is
completely flat!”

I winced.

“I know, but that’s what she said...”

“Ridiculous! Well, I suppose we’ll have to buy
one.”

Success!

My friends all lived in Poole and had masses of
shops to choose from, but Wareham offered only one possibility. It
wasn’t a department store with a lingerie department. It was a
general store with a cobwebby, bow-fronted window and a bell that
clanged when you pushed the door open. If my memory serves me
correctly, it was called Cullens and it sold a little bit of just
about everything. There were sweets in jars, groceries, a Lyons
Maid ice cream freezer, and gardening implements. Cullens also sold
a few items of clothes, like aprons, old ladies’ bloomers and
babies’ bibs.

That Saturday, my mother marched me into Cullens. As
she pushed open the door, the bell clanged, announcing our
entry.

“
Ach
, that ridiculous school has insisted
that my daughter must wear a bra!” she declared to the whole
shop.

I cringed, my face turning beetroot as all the
customers in the shop swung round to stare at me and my chest.

“Do you sell very small bras?” asked my mother.

My face flamed anew.

“I believe we have a couple,” said the middle-aged
assistant. “Let me measure…”

In full view of everybody, she leaned over the
counter and slipped a tape measure around me.

“Hmm… Yes, very broad back but nothing at all in
front,” she mused.

I wanted the wooden floorboards under my feet to
slide apart and the floor to swallow me up.

“These newfangled teachers, what are they thinking
of?” tutted the assistant to nobody in particular. “Now, let me
see… Ah, yes.”

She pulled down an ancient-looking brown box from a
high shelf, and blew the dust off it. She lifted the lid and we
gazed at the garment nestled in tissue paper.

“Yes,” she said, drawing it out, “this should
do.”

The bra was hideous. It was stiff, plain white
cotton, and the cups were the shape of ice cream cones, rather like
Madonna’s would be many years in the future. It wasn’t a bit like
my friends’ bras, all lacy and wispy with tiny flowers sewn on.

“I think this one will fit,” said the assistant.

“
Ach,
she’ll have to try it on,” said my
mother.

What? This is a general store, it doesn’t have a
fitting room!

“Hmm…” said the lady, “come into the store room.
There’s no door but we can do it behind a pile of boxes.”

Could this day get any worse?

Behind the pile of boxes, my mother and the lady
assistant watched me pull my jumper and vest off, and fumble with
the hook and eye of the ghastly garment. I was mortified by their
close scrutiny. Being thirteen isn’t easy at the best of times.

“Yes, that’ll have to do,” said my mother, poking
one cup with her forefinger and leaving a dent. “She’ll have to
grow into it.”

I looked down. I had some growing to do because the
cups were completely empty.

“Would you like to keep it on, dear?” the assistant
asked me.