One Young Fool in Dorset (8 page)

Auntie Jean
and Tibby

I believe it was at Annabel’s house that I saw my
first television set. It was big and ugly, and the pictures were in
black and white, of course. I remember dreadful shows like
The
Black and White Minstrel Show
and
Sunday Night at the London
Palladium
. For years, my parents refused to have a television
in their house, probably rightly so, considering the nonsense that
was being aired.

And the books in Annabel’s house! Shelves and
shelves of Enid Blyton books like
The Faraway Tree, The
Naughtiest Girl
series,
The Secret Seven, Famous Five,
all of them!

As I grew older, my insatiable appetite for reading
was satisfied by Auntie Jean’s pile of
Good Housekeeping
magazines, and the adult books I found, like the
Readers’
Digests
. Once I found a book called
Lady Chatterley’s
Lover
by D. H. Lawrence. Intrigued, I took it home without
asking, and read it under my bedcovers, my eyes round with
disbelief. I didn’t understand a word of it, but I knew it was
very, very rude. I didn’t know that the book had been banned and
was only released in 1960 following a sensational trial.

But best of all, I loved the boarding school stories
like
Malory Towers
. Boarding school life sounded such fun, I
thought, little knowing that I would soon experience it for
myself.

In those days, we didn’t use the term ‘sleepover’
but Annabel and I had many. I loved staying the night, and, fired
up by our reading of
Malory Towers
, we planned midnight
feasts.

“What shall we eat?” asked Annabel.

“Let’s raid the pantry.”

It was silly really. Auntie Jean would have given us
anything we asked for, but it was more fun to secretly make a
stash. We found chocolate cookies, cake and a packet of meringue
nests. That would do nicely. We hid our stash in the cupboard under
the stairs, went to bed giggling, and set the alarm clock for
midnight, hiding it under a pillow to muffle it.

The next morning, we woke as Auntie Jean drew the
heavy curtains to allow the new day in.

“Did you have a nice night?” she asked. “Sleep
well?”

Annabel and I sat up and rubbed our eyes, then
looked at each other. Was it morning? Had we forgotten to wake up?
Had we missed our own midnight feast? Apparently we had.

Luckily, I was staying another night, so we tried
again. We set the clock, determined not to sleep through it this
time.

At the stroke of midnight the alarm shrilled, and we
both woke up. It was tempting to just turn it off and go back to
sleep, but that’s not what the girls at Malory Towers would have
done. Neither of us felt the slightest bit hungry, but we tumbled
out of bed nevertheless.

“Ssshhh… Watch the third step down, it’s a creaky
floorboard,” whispered Annabel.

Creak!

Too late, I’d already stood on it.

We froze, praying that Auntie Jean and Uncle Frank
hadn’t woken up. Nothing stirred. Sighing with relief, we tiptoed
down the remainder of the stairs, opened the cupboard door, slipped
in, and turned on the light.

Two little girls in a cramped under-stairs cupboard,
giggling, scoffing chocolate cookies, and shushing each other, are
bound to make a lot of noise. We had no idea what was happening
upstairs.

“Frank? Frank! There’s somebody downstairs!”

“What?”

“I think we’ve got burglars!”

“Burglars?”

“Yes! I can hear strange noises!”

“What sort of noises?”

“Well, listen!”

Now they were both sitting up in bed.

“I can hear giggling!”

“It’s the girls. Whatever are they doing? I’m going
to look.”

Auntie Jean tiptoed to the top of the stairs and
looked down before returning to the bedroom.

“They’re in the cupboard under the stairs,” she
whispered. “I can see the light through the cracks. I think they’re
having a midnight feast.”

“Burglars indeed! Don’t you go disturbing them. Let
them get on with it, they’ll soon come back to bed.”

That’s the way they were. Annabel and I finished our
midnight feast and tiptoed back to bed, totally unaware that Jean
and Frank knew all about it.

* * *

My sister, being four years older than I, had
already left Mrs Pellow’s Preparatory School and moved on to
another school called Talbot Heath. Now it was my turn.

My sister had sailed through the Common Entrance
exam, the test that is needed to be passed before Talbot Heath
would accept a pupil. I was 11 years old and needed to take the
Common Entrance as well as the 11+ exam along with it.

The 11+ exam is so called because it was taken by
children aged 11 or older. Passing the 11+ meant one could go to a
Grammar School, a school for pupils with academic ability. Failing
it meant one attended a Secondary Modern school to learn vocational
skills such as cooking, typing or car maintenance. This was before
the days of the Comprehensive school system. Both the Common
Entrance and 11+ exams were administered at Mrs Pellow’s
Preparatory School.

It didn’t help that I was often off school,
suffering from frequent sore throats and a stuffy nose.

“Hmm…” said our family doctor. “It might be a good
idea if we arrange to have Victoria’s adenoids removed.”

Exam day arrived. Instead of our usual teacher, Mrs
Pellow herself was going to supervise us. The desks were arranged
in straight rows, and we filed in alphabetically. I was
terrified.

“Now, children,” said Mrs Pellow, “you must do your
best. I know you are all very nervous, so I’ve brought you
something to buck you up.”

Now we were interested. Mrs Pellow paced up and down
the lines of desks.

“Mrs Pellow’s Pep Pills for Pallid Pupils,” she
said, plonking a tube of Smarties in front of every child.

Suddenly the exams didn’t feel so bad.

“Eat some and then rub the back of your necks to get
the sugar to the brain.”

Really? Okay!

“When I tell you, turn over the paper and write
today’s date in the box provided. Do it now!”

With a rustle of paper, we did as instructed.

“Now write your date of birth in the box below
it.”

We obeyed as Mrs Pellow prowled up and down the line
of desks checking that we were doing it correctly. At my desk, she
stopped. A large finger stabbed at the two boxes I’d just filled
in.

“You’ve written the same date twice,” she said, and
my heart raced.

“Yes, Miss.”

In the first box I’d written today’s date:
17th
February 1966
. In the box below I’d written my date of birth:
17th February 1955.

“It’s my birthday today,” I whispered.

“Good gracious!” she bellowed. “Then you must have
another
tube of Mrs Pellow’s Pep Pills for Pallid
Pupils!”

Sadly, despite the double dose of medication, I
didn’t pass the Common Entrance exam, although I did pass the 11+.
Graciously, Talbot Heath School for Girls, or TH as we soon called
it, accepted me anyway. They reasoned that because my sister was so
smart, it must have been a fluke that I failed their entrance exam.
Little did they know that my sister was far more academically
gifted and motivated than I would ever be.

As with every final year in Primary School, our
class was planning to put on a big show for the parents. Ours was
going to be a musical, poetry and dance extravaganza, staged at
Dorchester Corn Exchange. My poem was part of
The Walrus and the
Carpenter
from Lewis Carroll’s
Through the Looking Glass
and I knew it by heart. I could recite it with ease in my bedroom
and in the bath, and can still remember much of it today.

“
The time has come,” the Walrus said,

“
To talk of many things:

Of shoes - and ships - and sealing-wax –

Of cabbages - and kings –

And why the sea is boiling hot –

And whether pigs have wings.”

A wonderful poem, full of humour and irony, and
every word was burned into my brain. The problem was my shyness. As
soon as I opened my mouth to recite anything in front of anybody,
except Snowy Twinkletoes and Annabel, my mind went blank. My mouth
opened, but nothing came out.

“Victoria, you
know
this poem,” said my
exasperated teacher, Miss Gunson. “You need to be able to recite it
next week at the Corn Exchange, word perfect. Now come on,
try!”

I did try, but the words remained locked away and
hidden. Of course, as soon as Miss Gunson passed to another child,
the words came flooding back.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, I was also taking
part in the dance routine. It began with a country dance liberally
sprinkled with ‘dozy-does’ and ‘under the arches’.

For the dance, the boys would be wearing blue
checked shirts, and the girls would wear blue checked dresses with
petticoats. I loved my costume. I also loved the dance, but I
struggled. I must have been Miss Gunson’s worst nightmare.

“Victoria, peel off to the
left
, not right!
Good. Now under the arch… No,
under
it, not round it… Take
your partner, spin to the right…
Right,
not left! Now,
skip-skip-skip… Victoria, apologise to Nigel, I think you skipped
quite heavily on his toe...”

I practised in my bedroom at home, determined to get
it right before the big performance. Spin to the right,
skip-skip-skip...

“
Ach!
Victoria! What are you doing up there?
You sound as if you are coming through the ceiling!”

Before the day of the Extravaganza, I heard our
telephone ring.

“Wareham 297,” said my mother. In those days, all
telephones were heavy, black, dial affairs, and telephone numbers
were just three digits. “Yes, I’m sure that would be possible. Yes,
we’ll bring her then. Thank you for admitting her. Goodbye.” She
replaced the receiver with a clatter.

“Victoria, that was Poole General Hospital. It seems
they have an unexpected vacancy and they want to take you in next
week to remove your adenoids. That’s good, isn’t it?”

“But what about the Extravaganza?”

“
Ach,
I’m afraid you’ll have to miss it.”

“But I’m reciting my poem! And what about the Rustic
Dance? Nigel won’t have a partner, and I can’t wear my costume…” My
bottom lip was a-tremble.

“I’m afraid the hospital won’t wait. You’ll have
other chances to perform when you go to Talbot Heath.”

So that was that. I never did perform at the Corn
Exchange, and Miss Gunson probably celebrated when she heard I
wouldn’t be there. I’m sure the performance went without a
hitch.

Now I had something new to worry about; the removal
of my adenoids.

7
TH

Summer Pudding

I
didn’t even know what adenoids were, but it
seemed that I was scheduled for a stay in hospital to have mine
removed. From the 1930s through to the 1960s, tonsillectomies and
adenoidectomies were routine operations and thousands were
performed every year. Nowadays, doctors are more enlightened and
know that most of those operations were unnecessary and probably
unwise. But, when I was a child, they were extremely common
procedures.

“My brother had that,” said Nigel Harding enviously.
“He was allowed to eat as much ice cream as he wanted for three
days!”

Suddenly the prospect of the operation didn’t seem
quite so daunting. I was admitted to the hospital and my parents
drove away. Parents were not allowed to stick around in those
days.

The hospital was built in 1907, and was largely
demolished in the 1960s to make way for a new hospital of 500 beds.
However, the Children’s Ward was still housed in an old wing. The
ceilings were high and the floors were bare. Even the slightest
noise echoed.

Sure enough, after my operation, the nurses offered
me ice cream. I had ice cream every day, sometimes with jelly. On
the third day I was feeling much better and becoming accustomed to
the hospital routine. In the evening, the radio and all the lights
were switched off, and a night nurse sat working at a desk in the
centre of the ward, a single lamp illuminating her. The ward was
silent. The night nurse occasionally stood, yawned, and walked
round the beds, shining a torch on each sleeping child in turn.

“Aren’t you asleep yet?” she whispered when she
reached me.

I shook my head.

“Not yet,” I whispered back.

Suddenly, a female scream ripped through the
night.

“
Aaaaaaagh!”

The night nurse and I froze in shock, our mouths
agape. What was happening? The scream wasn’t coming from our ward,
but from somewhere along the corridor, and it was getting
closer.

“
Aaaaaaagh!”