Veronica's Bird

by Veronica Bird

  ‘To go there, you would have to win a scholarship, that is, passing your exams so well you would not have to pay. It is very expensive there.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, deflated. ‘So, how do I get a scholarship?’

  My mother’s tired face smiled down on me. ‘You would have to work for it as you have never worked in your life. If you did get one, it would mean you would be a boarder during term-time, staying at the school for the full term, sleep there and eat there.’

  Something burst out in my brain. I imagine it was like the alarm going off in a fire-station. The very idea of being away from the anger and my father’s belt with, perhaps the possibility of having a bit more food each day….and dressed nicely, was not something I could dismiss out of hand. That was silly. I could not let this idea pass me by at all. Such a vision of the future would be a hundred times better than any Children’s’ home.

  ‘Mother, I want to get a scholarship. To this school. I want to go to Ackworth. I want-’

  She placed a hand over my mouth. She hadn’t seen me so urgent in an appeal to her until now. ‘Tell you what. I will get the forms for you. You will have to fill them in and I will sign it. But,’ she stressed the next few words repeating what she had said. The second time it excited me for I was suddenly filled with hope and confidence. ‘But, it will be work as you have never done in your life. You simply won’t get through unless you work, work, work. No more hopscotch or playing ball in the street.’

  I watched the girl from Ackworth School disappear around the corner and nodded. ‘I’ll work, Mam, I really will.’

  *

  The application form, when it arrived, caused some soul-searching and frustration over the time it took to fill in the boxes. It was quite complicated. I was well aware also we would have to get the submission in quickly as we had applied very late. What the school required was personal, intrusive to my way of thinking though, I suppose, to anyone else they were just questions to be answered. There were some I did not understand at all, and there was a need to read out much of what was required of me to my mother who, though being unable to read, could at least, explain what was wanted. It was the first form I had ever seen in my life and it seemed so queer to have to answer questions which had no reason, at least to my youthful and near dormant brain.

  There were boxes and areas where there were just no answers at all. We brushed across these as best as we could, though each time we did, I felt it was another black mark against Veronica Bird’s submission. Would they even bother to read it? Eventually my mother signed her spidery name at the bottom and, panicking that I could still miss the deadline typed in heavy print on the front, ran all the way to the Town Hall Education Department late that Friday night to slip it into the large brass letterbox on the main door. The deadline was 9.a.m. Saturday. That night I prayed quite hard, well, really hard in fact, squeezing my eyelids tight as I asked God to speed the letter to the school.

  He must have been out walking in Barnsley that night, perhaps having decided Bird should have a go at taking the exam. Why not? She might do well.

  I was asked to sit the exam. It was January nineteen fifty-three.

  Everything else should have been placed on hold so I could read and revise for the exam, but Dad insisted I do my share of looking after the family and staying in while he went out on the town on a Saturday night. Meanwhile my mother’s health did not improve, making that New Year a sad and grey place to be.

  It was sadder still, for the country was gearing up, aiming at the biggest party of the century as the State shaped the forthcoming Coronation in June. Street parties were being deliberated, bunting sewn and plans drawn up in dozens of Committee rooms. This excitement floated around the town as if everyone had won the football pools at the same time creating a mood to match the town’s wish for a bright new era as we all headed for the start of Queen Elizabeth’s reign.

  I had been told to expect to attend an interview the same day as the exam. I could bring a parent with me, in fact, the school insisted they should meet and talk with my mother as well. The questions in the form confirmed everything I had believed might be the case, an intrusion into my very private life. To make it worse, I was to be laid bare for the examiners, possibly I supposed, so they could smirk at my clothes and my accent. I knew I did not have a hope, recalling the girl in the street and her nice voice and the way she managed herself in her walk, even the way she glanced about the street. She wasn’t me and never could be.

  Beginning to creep up on me, a brush of an eyelid to begin, then an itch down my spine, the shake of my head as if surrounded by midges, was the realisation of the stupidity in which I had acted. There was no-one to blame except myself. My Mother had only followed my pleading. Everything came back down on me in having this pointless idea which was so far removed from reality I might as well have been cutting coal instead of my father. I wished I had never filled in that damn application form. As I struggled over one fence, the next reared up in front of me. Beecher’s Brook for eternity. It began to dawn on me, one option might well be to pass the written exam but fail the interview – badly. There would be the galling experience of failing, not because of my ability but because I did not talk like other boys and girls, nor did I have their manners. The remote possibility of attending the largest co-educational boarding school in the country was so far divorced from my own life it was ridiculous that I had ever pressed my mother. And all because I had seen one girl in a nice uniform talk to her mother in a way that had attracted me to do something myself.

  Buggar! Buggar! Buggar! I had learnt those three words very early in my life. I did not say them aloud but I felt their force underlining my stupidity.

  So, why had Mam gone out of her way to bring back the forms to the house so I could fill them in? Surely, she would have understood that at the final fence I would fall, and fall hard, but, this time, fully aware of what I had lost? I felt uncomfortable because of her continuing belief in me. She had in fact, opted to place me in a state of enormous disappointment. It was also going to colour my belief in myself for ever. Working class and always to be as such.

  This extraordinary, this very special day, stored forever in my mind struggled into a dawn light; it brightened and Mam and I took the bus to Ackworth School. It was a journey of almost eleven miles, past Grimethorpe Colliery and not far from Wakefield. We drove through countryside which had a significance about it as I had never thought of before. As the miles rolled away I knew that in a few hours I would be coming back down this same road, perhaps even on the same bus, having spoken and written words which, when judged, could decide my whole life. It was as pivotal as that. If I impressed, there was a life out there where I could choose a road to step along, not one which was dictated to me.

  *

  To say the change from Doncaster Road to Ackworth village was enormous is to understate my words completely. Within two hours of leaving the grime, the rubbish, the rusting corrugated iron and the stinging nettles growing through it all, I had arrived at the sweeping grandeur of the curving wings of the main buildings of the school with their soft honey-coloured stone. The white clock tower with its gold numbers and hands, the tennis courts saying come and play with me; the two-hundred-year-old gleam on the York stone pavings inside along the corridors, the polished brass bands strapped horizontally across every door. I could go on of course, possibly for ever. I had simply never seen anything like it in my life. It was clean, and ordered, and just plain nice. Standing with my mouth open, gazing up at the main door hearing the chatter of children like myself going about their lessons I vowed to myself I would try my hardest to be the best possible pupil and make my family proud of me.

  The exam was short; I thought it would have been longer so perhaps they were checking to see if I really could read and write, do a few sums, that sort of thing. I was to be judged alongside two other children, well-dressed, parents oozing wealth, who smiled at me in that kindly way rich people smile to those not as fortuna
te as they

  After the test, we sat outside the study on a long bench which had seemingly been there for as long as the school had existed, not saying much, trying to hold in the tremors of our hands and the worry of what questions would be thrown at us.

  ‘Ah. Mrs Bird, and this must be Veronica. Do come in.’

  Both with considerable trepidation, but smiling at almost anything that moved in case he, she or it might be involved in the decision-making, we walked into a friendly office. One which put us at our ease in a trice. A man and a woman shook hands with us introducing themselves as the Headmaster for the whole school and a Headmistress who looked after the girls. This was amazing, that one school could have two Heads to look after their pupils. I wasn’t at all clear at the time if the Head Master bossed (sorry, administered to) everyone, boys and girls alike or if he was divorced from running the girls side completely. The Headmistress gave the impression she was not to be messed with at any time. Red lines and do not cross, came to my nervy mind but, at the same time I felt in control of myself. I could see she had a softness about her if one of her girls got into trouble.

  I smiled as brightly as I could, seeing book upon book on the shelves. Sunlight glinted on a silver cigarette box and a bowl of flowers on a stand. A school motto on a plaque read: Not for oneself, but for all. It was…. nice. What was more unsettling was the sideways glance given by the Headmistress to my shoes? I had no socks on because I did not have any. My dress was very plain though I suppose I had a cardigan over the top.

  The questions were as much directed towards my Mother as me.

  She was asked what the conditions were like at home and why did she want Veronica to go to this school? I was asked at what level I had reached and what were my good subjects. They both picked up their ears when I said I was good at all sports. We came to the end of the question and answer session. We all shook hands again and withdrew from the study which reeked of tobacco smoke and ease. On the way back on the bus neither of us said much. I was too shell-shocked now, aware for the first time of what I was going to lose and all for my stupidity in wanting what was clearly not mine to seek. Mam had no idea how I had done. We were simply in the dark as to how my appearance had gone down, or whether Mam’s own comments would best push me up the ladder I needed to climb.

  The die, was, as they say, bloody well cast. I learned later the other two, a boy and a girl came from a Headmaster’s home and the other from an Optician, so no doubt they both spoke politely. I had already noticed their nice clothes.

  When we left, I took in as much as I could, memorising the rooms we were shown in case I never came back. My eyes gleamed at the dining halls, the food in the kitchens, the sports equipment, the place where I might sleep.

  It was thus in this low state I arrived home from school on that critical day. My mother was standing in the kitchen, the slim letter in her hand; Gordon was standing in the room, anxiety for me showing clearly on his face. At last, I read the contents. Then I read them again.

  Then…I smiled.

  Unable to retain himself any longer Gordon grabbed hold of me and literally threw me into the air.

  ‘You’re in! You’re in!’ he cried out in pure delight. ‘You are going to Ackworth.’ His words, after he had put me down, caused my mouth to go dry with the shock. I was going to Ackworth. I was going to be given a real chance in life. No-one in my family had ever been given such an opportunity. There had been, in one split second of time, a quantum leap, not just for me but for the whole family. If my father had felt he was not involved beforehand, he was now, whether he liked it or not. From this day forward, I was to be placed in a different and unique box to any of my siblings. There was me going places; and there were all the others in my school. Most of all I felt so pleased for my mother. She, it was, who had pushed me very hard in my books and she it was who had stuck by me from the very beginning and had chided me when I showed nerves before the exam.

  A few days later, a brown envelope arrived at the door bringing a sheaf of other information, pictures showing children of my age doing things I had never dreamed of; an equipment list which just fitted on a quarto sheet of paper detailing the need to buy all, not just some, of the items on the schedule, my own personal effects as the school put it. I would have to have possessions so exciting I found I wanted to cry. But, how on God’s earth would my mother find the way to pay for all of this? My father would never risk his beer money to buy me a tuck box. Three of everything, like skirts, shirts, all with my name tag sewn inside the collar; shoes outdoor and indoor, gym shoes, a trunk to take it all, sports equipment, pants to vests, socks to handkerchiefs, it would all have a place in my life.

  In those days, many women and girls as well, made their own clothes because we were taught to do so. Another problem arose as we realised we could only buy the uniform from one shop, Mattias Robinsons of Leeds. They were the sole school stockist and could thus charge what they wanted. With careful planning, my mother found the money and time to travel into the city by bus, and work out a budget with the shop before she could even think of raising the money. With good preparation, Mam and I designed my blouses for when I needed to change out of my school uniform, so they could be let out at the seams easily, as we did similarly for that all-important cloak which brought identity to the school. We turned up the hems three times to give me plenty of room for the future, if I ever grew. Because I became very active on the sports fields I did not put on weight; it all helped keep the clothing budget secure. The knowledge that everything I wore at the moment was to be replaced down to nightwear, slippers for the first time and the idea I would push my feet down into a clean bed with sheets and a pillow smelling of soap and lavender, kept me awake at night; just my eyes peeked over the blanket wide and sleepless staring at the ceiling as I attempted to conjure up images of that dormitory I had seen, filled with girls who might become my friends.

  I had prayed long and hard and over many years that a school, any school, would accept me on the basis it would be away from home. Now it was to become a reality. Attending a real school where I had only read one book before, which was not a school text book, was going to be an eye-opener. I wasn’t in to reading for I needed my sleep before getting up early to go to help in the house.

  My whole life had been one of hiding; soon I wouldn’t have to hide anymore. School friends at Doncaster Road who learned of the news, first disbelieved me, then they gazed almost in awe as if I had won the Football Pools or a rich uncle had died leaving me his entire fortune. They did not connect my success with the long evenings of study and learning my Times-tables by heart. The assumption was my place at Ackworth had been secured with money, not talent. It could not have been further from the truth.

  There came a flurry of buying, so many things neither Mam nor I had ever experienced such a shopping spree before. It was as if we were suddenly rich and could go out and buy whatever we wanted. I had to assume the scholarship paid for some of it, for there was no way my family could have afforded, or wished to provide for all my clothes and equipment.

  Before I had time to blink at my diary, came the day when I was to travel to Ackworth to start school. By some means, my trunk had been packed, paid for I suspect also in part by my grandmother in Carlton, for I had to go over one day dressed in my new uniform to show her. There was no-one with a camera to take a photograph of me, so proud, so happy and even today I implore parents sending their child off to their first school, to record the event which impacts small lives to such an extent. There was no photograph, but smiles all round as I climbed into my brother-in-law, Fred’s shooting brake with my trunk and tuck box looking very new in the boot but it wasn’t even Fred who drove me. It was one of his lorry drivers detailed to get me to the school. I suppose I had to think I was lucky that I had not been delivered to the school in one of Fred’s fruit lorries.

  I closed my eyes, batting the image of our poor house out of my mind and out of sight as we set off, saying goodbye to the
family and the pale wisp of my mother waving a scarf. I watched the countryside until we reached the, quite magnificent gates, where I was dropped off early with my belongings stacked together. This was so I would not be embarrassed I presume? Mam was not there to see me at the proudest moment of my life, and she was never to see the school again. It was my mother alone who had given me the chance to snatch a life away from the bleakness of a future in Barnsley, without a moment’s hesitation for herself.

  It was curious, to say the least, that at the time I started at the school, Fred described it as a ‘bloody waste of money’ yet, years later he sent all of his four grandchildren to private schools which he paid for out of his own pocket.

  The tailgate of the car disappeared on its way back home, leaving me standing in my new uniform among other arriving boys and girls scattered around the forecourt. Smart cars, trunks and tearful mothers cluttered the access. At least my new uniform would not show up my poor background from where I had come. We were all the same.

  But, of course, we weren’t all the same. It soon dawned on me that my position in this world was a long way down the pecking order, in fact there were few girls or boys if any with such obvious working-class backgrounds as the Bird Family. The very steep learning curve on which I now entered showed me up as ‘one of the roughest,’ at the school. I had little experience in using a knife and a fork. I had no idea what etiquette meant though, to give me one saving grace, my manners, beaten into me at home, were as good as anyone in my year. On that first, glorious day, as children cried with home sickness and hugged their loving fathers, I glowed with a supreme happiness.

  Rough I might be but I knew I could hone and polish those edges, speak politely if not posh, and show my family that there was at least one member who was going to go places in the world. I was going to be alright, okay, and…. fear-free.

  Upstairs, through a bewildering set of corridors and rooms, I was shown my dormitory which held twenty-two girls, eleven beds either side facing in to a central corridor. Each of us had a bedside cupboard in which we kept our pyjamas and slippers, both new for me. Clothes were stored in a near-by locker room. The others had all brought teddy bears and hot water bottles, neither of which had been on the official list for me. I had no photos of my parents to put up beside me whereas some of the new arrivals had a framed photo of their pet dog as well as their parents, taken in a sunny garden, but it didn’t seem to matter. What did matter was, I was here and I was going to have the time of my life.