One Young Fool in Dorset (16 page)

“Yes, please,” I answered, pulling on my vest and
jumper as quickly as I could before somebody walked in.

Back at home, I mastered the art of the sock-fill.
With careful moulding, I could stuff my bra with socks and become a
34A in minutes. I had to stay alert though, because if I moved
about too much, one side was liable to drop out without
warning.

My mother had an extremely low opinion of teachers
and their requests. In Domestic Science, one term’s assignment was
to make a reversible tabard.

“What is it you are doing?” asked my mother.

“We’re going to make this reversible tabard,” I
said, showing her a sketch. “We have to bring enough fabric for it.
And a zip. And buttons.”

“A what?”

“A reversible tabard.”

“But what is this thing for?”

“Um… I don’t know really.”

“Ridiculous! I shall phone the school.”

Which, of course, she did.

I didn’t hear the interchange because I was at
school, but it was very clear that my mother’s opinions had been
passed to Miss Chapman, my Domestic Science teacher. At the next
sewing class, she singled me out. Her sharp nose was pink with
indignation.

“Victoria, I believe your mother phoned the
school?”

“Yes, Miss.”

I was cringing already. I knew what my mother was
like in full flow.

“Would you kindly tell your mother that this term’s
assignment is to make an extremely useful tabard.”

“Yes, Miss.”

“Please tell your mother that sewing the tabard will
teach you all kinds of sewing-machine skills.”

“Yes, Miss.”

“And tell her you will be receiving
invaluable
guidance on how to put in a zip.”

“Yes, Miss.”

“And you will learn how to make buttonholes. All
essential life skills.”

“Yes, Miss. But, Miss, what is a tabard?”

“Oh, for pity’s sake!” Miss Chapman’s nose was
growing pink again. “As I said, it’s an
extremely
useful
garment. You can wear it at the beach. And it’s reversible, so you
can choose which side to wear.”

I relayed Miss Chapman’s message back to my mother
who snorted, clearly unimpressed. At the end of term, my tabard was
finished and I wouldn’t be seen dead in it. I never wore it, and as
far as I know, my classmates didn’t wear theirs either.

My mother was also very forthright when it came to
Cookery. Unfortunately, Miss Chapman taught this subject too. Every
week we were given a list of ingredients to bring for the following
week.

“
Ach,
what’s this nonsense?” she would ask,
running her eye down the letter I’d handed her from school.
“Kwitchy? What’s Kwitchy Lorraine?”

“Quiche. Quiche Lorraine.”

“Who eats this rubbish? I shall give you the
ingredients for the pastry, but I’m not wasting perfectly good
cheese and bacon.”

At the end of the lesson, we all put our finished
dishes out on display. All my friends’ quiches looked and smelled
wonderful, golden and delicious.

My pastry-only dish looked ridiculous.

I dreaded Cookery. Miss Chapman only had to look at
me for her nose to start turning pink, and my end of term grade was
understandably poor. As soon as I could, I dropped Domestic Science
like a red-hot platter.

Luckily, I learned everything I needed to know about
cooking and sewing from Auntie Jean. If Miss Chapman had seen the
things I produced at Annabel’s house, I think she would have been
surprised.

* * *

School Report

English:
Victoria is
capable of producing good work. Unfortunately, she rarely
does.

Mathematics:
Victoria seems
unable to grasp the fundamental principles.

Domestic Science:
Victoria’s work is extremely variable.

PE:
I fear only a
gargantuan effort will help Victoria improve.

* * *

Oh, how happily I dropped Latin and Domestic
Science! I would have dropped Physical Education and Maths too, had
I been allowed, but there were education laws in place to stop me
from doing that. I continued with Geography, even though we only
ever seemed to learn about rubber farming and tea plantations. I
longed to learn about countries like Spain, which even then held an
attraction for me. How surprised would I have been if I’d known
that my destiny was to live in a tiny Spanish mountain village one
day?

I remember two Geography teachers. One was pleasant
enough, but had the annoying habit of saying ‘fair enough’ dozens
of times during a lesson. We used to keep a tally sheet, marking it
off every time she said ‘fair enough’. I think 32 was the record in
one lesson.

The other Geography teacher was rather slovenly in
appearance. Her black stockings often had holes or ladders,
revealing unappetizing expanses of white flesh. She was hugely
over-endowed, and would come into the classroom, sit at the
teachers’ desk and, accompanied with an audible sigh of relief,
lift up her ample bosom to rest on the desk in front of her.

I didn’t enjoy any subjects particularly, except
English and Art.

I wasn’t especially skilled in art, but I could draw
and paint reasonably well. For me, art was a relaxation; while my
hands sketched or painted, my head was in the clouds, weaving
stories, and daydreaming.

Although English was much more disciplined, I loved
it. Every new book was a stepping stone to a new world, and into
other people’s lives and adventures. In those days, ‘Comprehension’
exercises were popular. We had to read an excerpt from a book, then
answer questions about it. I would read the excerpt, which could be
from any classic like
Treasure Island
,
Black Beauty
,
or
Nineteen Eighty-Four
. When it came to an end, I’d be
annoyed. What happened next? So I’d take the book out of the
library and read every spare moment I had.

Most adults can name at least one teacher they had
in childhood who inspired them. For me, it was our formidable
English teacher, Mrs Hall. Nobody ever forgot to do the homework
she set, or talked during her lessons. She had our absolute
attention at all times, and we respected her. I know I have Mrs
Hall to thank for learning the basics of English language, and
stylistic devices.

Years later, I wondered what she would have thought
had she known I would become an English teacher. And more recently,
what would she have said if she’d known I became a writer? I think
she’d have stared with disbelief, much as I still do now.

However, I don’t think she would have been very
impressed had she read my books. I think she would have whipped out
her red pen and started crossing out and scribbling comments in the
margin, right from page one.

I was at a bit of a disadvantage because I lived so
far from my school. I didn’t have any friends in Wareham because
they went to other schools, so I never met anybody, except for
Annabel, my friend and neighbour.

Annabel and her parents were not regular
churchgoers, and neither was my family. Had I known about my
mother’s background, I would have understood why. The events behind
that tale I shan’t divulge now, it belongs in another
Old
Fools
book.

I don’t really know why Annabel decided to go to
confirmation classes but I went along too. I’m ashamed to admit it
was the thought of wearing a beautiful white dress that attracted
me, not the meaning behind the ceremony.

I didn’t mind the confirmation classes which were
held at the vicarage. The vicar was a kind, fatherly man, easily
embarrassed, who never tested to check if we had been listening. As
he droned on about the Kingdom of Heaven, I disappeared inside my
head, as usual. Auntie Jean helped us to choose white
broderie
anglaise
fabric, then lay out patterns, and cut and sew our
dresses.

The day of our confirmation arrived. I loved my
dress and white shoes. We’d been told to bring posies of flowers,
if we wanted, to hold when our photographs were taken before and
after the ceremony. Auntie Jean had made ours, using flowers from
her garden. She’d wound white satin ribbon round the stems,
finishing it off with a bow, and the result was very pretty.

We were standing in the churchyard before the
service as Auntie Jean took our photographs, when the vicar
appeared, smiling and benevolent.

“That’s a delightful posy of flowers you have there,
Victoria,” he smiled. “Are they scented?”

“Yes,” I said.

The next few moments were unfortunate. Just as I
helpfully held up my posy for him to sniff, the vicar bent down to
smell it. The poor man’s face was buried deep in my bunch of
flowers.

“I’m terribly sorry,” I said, horrified, as the
vicar straightened hurriedly, a smudge of yellow pollen on the end
of his nose.

“That’s quite all right,” he said, “it wasn’t your
fault...ah...ah...ahtishoo!”

He pulled out a large white handkerchief from
somewhere in the folds of his surplice and blew his nose
heartily.

But the damage was done.

Lady St Mary is a church of Anglo-Saxon origin, not
far from Wareham quay on the river Frome. It is unusual as the
church tower sports a fish, and being very large inside, every
sound echoes. The visiting bishop, resplendent in his embroidered
robes, conducted the confirmation service.

Lady St
Mary Church, Wareham

“Heavenly Father, by the power of your Holy
Spirit…”

“Ah...TISHOO!” came from the side of the church.

The bishop’s eyebrows twitched but he ploughed
on.

“Guide and strengthen us by the same Spirit…”

“Ah...TISHOO!”

It was like an explosion, the sound bouncing off the
stone walls and the unique hexagonal lead font which dates back to
the year 1200.

The poor vicar buried his red face in his
handkerchief as the bishop’s cold eyes lighted on him.

“Almighty and ever-living God, you have given these
your servants...”

“Ah...TISHOO!”

And so the service continued, punctuated by the
vicar’s sneezes. And, sadly, I was the one to blame.

* * *

“
Ach,
why don’t you join Wareham Youth Club?”
asked my mother, tired of hearing me complain that my friends lived
so far away and I couldn’t see them except at school.

I thought about it. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad
idea. After all, I might meet some
boys.

15 Youths and Cake

Clotted Cream Chocolate Cake

T
he Youth Club sessions were held in some
kind of community hall in Wareham. I vaguely remember the hall
being on the quay, behind black metal gates, beside The Quay Inn,
but I may be wrong. My first visit was terrifying and taught me
that I was different. I didn’t speak like the other kids did. I had
a posh public school accent and the other kids spoke with broad
Dorset accents.

None were unkind to me or pointed out my strange way
of speaking much beyond, “’Ere, why d’you talk funny?” but I wasn’t
comfortable, so I remained silent unless absolutely necessary.

Most of the Youth Club members were girls. They hung
around in groups, talking about clothes and watching the few boys
from the corners of their eyes. I didn’t have many clothes, so I
raided my sister’s wardrobe, hoping I might fit in better if I paid
more attention to fashion.

My sister was good at sewing and had loads of mini
dresses hanging in her wardrobe. They didn’t really fit me very
well as I was still lacking in the bosom department, and I was
taller and bigger-built than my sister, but that didn’t stop me
borrowing them, one by one. My sister also had quite a fetish for
shoes. I tried them on and discovered they were too tight for me
and pinched.

Did that stop me? No, of course not. I walked down
to the Youth Club in dresses that were too tight, and shoes that
gave me blisters, confident that the other girls would accept me
now. I felt far more fashionable and walked a little taller. I was
desperate to fit in.

Unfortunately, the raiding of my sister’s wardrobe
backfired somewhat. It sparked conversation, but, sadly, I was no
closer to integrating.

“You live in one of them big houses, up beyond the
almshouses, eh?” asked one girl.

“Er, yes…”

“Your parents rich then?”

“Er, no, not really, why?”

“Well, ’cos you talk funny, all posh like, an’ you
got so many clothes you wear sumfin diff’rent every day.”

I persevered for a few months, and even developed a
crush on a spotty youth called Barry, but I was never really happy
at the Youth Club. Barry never noticed me, and when he started
dating a tiny platinum blonde called Janice Parry, I gave up. She
had pierced ears and a skirt shorter than Twiggy’s and I knew I was
wasting my time.