It’s odd but I clearly remember not liking school at all and yet, whilst watching a Harry Potter movie recently, I suddenly got all nostalgic about the old place. Dame Alice was a private girls’ school. Back in the early ‘80s, it still operated like Enid Blyton’s Mallory Towers, with its boarding house, hockey sticks and straw boaters. Whether it was the teachers floating about like ominous crows in their black robes, or the house colours and points system, or the ranks of dining tables each with their own cliques that warmed the cockles of my heart, I’m not certain.
However, the warmth of those memories soon chilled as I recollected the rigid rules, the learning-by-rote, the vicious tongue of one particular biology teacher, and the disinterest of other teachers when it became apparent that I was not going to be an academical starlet. I didn’t realise it back then but an undercurrent of racial prejudice flowed quite freely through school culture, too. Surely, I asked myself, there was something I enjoyed about school? Surely?
And yet, the most readily-accessible memories are all unhappy ones. The school had no tolerance for the more “artistic” type of girl. Unless you were a future politician, boffin or Olympian, you got the barest attention to your education and future.
The only haven for the creative students was the art department (well, room) run by the marvellous if a little scary Mr Miller who, although we didn’t appreciate it at the time, was one of the few teachers who encouraged – nay, bullied – us into thinking for ourselves and finding our own individual way to express ourselves.
I can always remember sitting in the head mistress’s office with my mother, just after taking and reasonably passing my O levels, and saying I wanted to come back to A levels – not because I enjoyed the school so much but more because at 16, I simply didn’t have a clue what I wanted to do with my life. That and my parents had no truck with the local state schools. Miss Morse’s face was aghast. ‘Whatever for?’ she exclaimed. I was thinking ‘just to annoy you, you silly old bat’ when my mother retorted ‘Because we’re paying for it’. So that was that, two more years of torture.
And that is how I’ve remembered school for the last 30 years – pure torture and terrible disappointment in the adults who had responsibility for my education and welfare. Until five years ago, when I tracked down through social media my three closest friends at whilst at Dame Alice. A few messages flitted around but it wasn’t until we met up for a meal that I realised that true friendship never dies. None of us could remember why we drifted apart – university, work, moving abroad, marriage, children seeming to be the general reasons – but it was as if the last quarter century hadn’t happened.
We were still the same dizzy teenagers, laughing at the same things and gossiping about the same people. Just a little wiser and a little more experienced. It made me realise that perhaps I was remembering all the wrong things about school.
Instead of focusing on the time I spent in a miserable environment, perhaps I should pay more attention to the social and spiritual education I received. Learning to stand up for myself, be expressive, knowing right from wrong, the value of true friendship.
So here’s to you, Kayt, Lou and Sue - three amazing women I am lucky to know. We lost 25 years but I hope the last 5 have gone some way to make up for that. I reckon the next 25 will be interesting! Love you girls.
However, the warmth of those memories soon chilled as I recollected the rigid rules, the learning-by-rote, the vicious tongue of one particular biology teacher, and the disinterest of other teachers when it became apparent that I was not going to be an academical starlet. I didn’t realise it back then but an undercurrent of racial prejudice flowed quite freely through school culture, too. Surely, I asked myself, there was something I enjoyed about school? Surely?
And yet, the most readily-accessible memories are all unhappy ones. The school had no tolerance for the more “artistic” type of girl. Unless you were a future politician, boffin or Olympian, you got the barest attention to your education and future.
The only haven for the creative students was the art department (well, room) run by the marvellous if a little scary Mr Miller who, although we didn’t appreciate it at the time, was one of the few teachers who encouraged – nay, bullied – us into thinking for ourselves and finding our own individual way to express ourselves.
I can always remember sitting in the head mistress’s office with my mother, just after taking and reasonably passing my O levels, and saying I wanted to come back to A levels – not because I enjoyed the school so much but more because at 16, I simply didn’t have a clue what I wanted to do with my life. That and my parents had no truck with the local state schools. Miss Morse’s face was aghast. ‘Whatever for?’ she exclaimed. I was thinking ‘just to annoy you, you silly old bat’ when my mother retorted ‘Because we’re paying for it’. So that was that, two more years of torture.
And that is how I’ve remembered school for the last 30 years – pure torture and terrible disappointment in the adults who had responsibility for my education and welfare. Until five years ago, when I tracked down through social media my three closest friends at whilst at Dame Alice. A few messages flitted around but it wasn’t until we met up for a meal that I realised that true friendship never dies. None of us could remember why we drifted apart – university, work, moving abroad, marriage, children seeming to be the general reasons – but it was as if the last quarter century hadn’t happened.
We were still the same dizzy teenagers, laughing at the same things and gossiping about the same people. Just a little wiser and a little more experienced. It made me realise that perhaps I was remembering all the wrong things about school.
Instead of focusing on the time I spent in a miserable environment, perhaps I should pay more attention to the social and spiritual education I received. Learning to stand up for myself, be expressive, knowing right from wrong, the value of true friendship.
So here’s to you, Kayt, Lou and Sue - three amazing women I am lucky to know. We lost 25 years but I hope the last 5 have gone some way to make up for that. I reckon the next 25 will be interesting! Love you girls.
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