My Secret Diary

by Wilson, Jacqueline

  Wednesday 6 April

  It is all over. We have performed our play, and, thank God, it went beautifully. During the afternoon Miss P called the Drama Club together and tactfully told us what went wrong yesterday, and told us how to put it right. Mrs Eldridge gave us a lift to school at six o'clock, and Cherry and I dressed and made up. I made Cherry say her lines to me, because last night she forgot them and said, 'I'm so sorry, I seem to have lost my memory,' getting, incidentally, the biggest laugh of the evening. Miss P took tons of photos of us, including one when the ladies are kneeling down in the spotlight. Anyway, the play really went down well. The audience was very good and laughed at all the jokes Everyone said it was extremely well done, and that the acting, costumes, scenery and properties were all very good.

  The day after we were allowed to take it easy.

  Thursday 7 April

  It is History. As there is only one more day left of the term we have been left to get on with whatever we like. We are all lying sprawled at our desks as we have just had a very strenuous game of Netball, and I, for one, have my blouse sleeves rolled up. It is peaceful in here, except for our low (well, perhaps not!) chatter. Oh! The class below us have just started their rather loud singing. Mr Stokes (not a music lover in spite of his Welsh blood) gives us a look both cynical and ironical. Jill sitting next to me is writing a melodramatic love story. I have just looked up to find Mr Stokes' eyes peering into mine. He gets up and starts pacing round. He's coming towards me! Help! I must cover this up! Phew – ! He's gone past. Oh no! He's just chalked the word 'Homework' on the board! We gasp in agony. He gives us another of his smiles. I think he's only joking, cross fingers.

  I so hated homework. It seemed such a terrible waste of time. I could struggle all evening with my maths – even risking Harry's wrath by asking him to help me – but it didn't help me understand how to do it. I could mutter Latin vocabulary over and over and over again, but I was so bored by grim repetition that I couldn't remember a word the next day. I muddled through biology and science and geography and French, sighing and moaning. I tried hard with my English essay homework, though of course I worked much harder on my own private writing. At least we didn't get homework for our form lessons, singing, music and PE. Oh God, imagine PE homework!

  We tormented little Miss St John in singing, a minute lady who drove to school in an equally minute bubble car: 'For singing we had Miss St John. Everyone ragged her and sang out of tune. I felt rather sorry for her as it must be awful for her to lose control completely.'

  Poor Miss St John had such courage. She played the cello, a very large instrument for such a small woman.

  Friday 18 March

  Honestly, in assembly this morning Miss St John played her cello. She was so sweet and little behind it, and oh she played so terribly. The notes were all little and queer like she is, and her high notes were about four notes below the right one. I could hardly control my hysterical giggles and at first there reigned a strained silence in the hall except for the fumbly little cello noises. Then one girl gave an awful snort, and that started us off. There was a bellow of six hundred suppressed giggles, all turned into coughs. I had to bite hard on my fingers to stop myself laughing. I couldn't look to my right as Chris was going red in the face suppressing herself, while Sue on my left was openly sniggering. Even Miss Haslett had to laugh, so she bent her head and pretended to be praying!

  Miss Kingston took us for our actual music lesson, and she was a very different type of teacher. No wonder she was snappy with us. We were not a musical bunch, many of us barely progressing beyond the first book of recorder music. We all tooted away valiantly until the spit dribbled disgustingly out of the end of our recorders but we rarely made melodic progress. I remember trying to play Handel's 'Water Music' and all of us collectively drowning in a sea of squawks.

  Miss Kingston made us listen to crackly old gramophone records of real musicians playing Handel, Bach and Beethoven. I rather liked this part of the lesson, especially when the music seemed to tell a story. I loved Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony, but tried hard to hide my enthusiasm. If you sat with too rapt an expression, everyone would laugh and tease you and label you a swot. It wasn't cool to like classical music, though we all adored dancing to a record called Asia Minor which was a jazzed-up version of Grieg's Piano Concerto.

  Sometimes the records seemed to go on for ever. It could get very boring just sitting there, so we worked out ways of communicating with each other. We didn't dare whisper in front of Miss Kingston. Passing notes was decidedly risky. Chris and I had learned the rudiments of sign language for the deaf from a schoolgirl diary and this proved useful during protracted school assemblies, but Miss Kingston was on to us the minute we tried it in music.

  Wednesday 27 January

  Chris, Lyn and I were doing deaf and dumb alphabet in music, and Miss Kingston saw us. At the end of the record she asked (or rather shouted!) what had we been doing. We sat silent. 'Answer me at once!' We still sat silent. 'The girl on the end' (me) 'you tell me!' Silence. 'At once!' 'Well, er, you see,' I said, trying in vain to think of some excuse, 'Christine was, er, playing with her fingers.' The whole group roared with laughter and we three got a severe telling off.

  I didn't mean to tell tales on poor Chris, I just blurted out the first thing that came into my head – but she wasn't best pleased with me. She still sometimes teases me about it now, hundreds of years later.

  I hated the whole atmosphere of school. My heart would sink as I trudged up the path and went through the glass doors into the cloakrooms. There was always a fug of damp grey gabardines and old shoes as soon as you walked in. As the day progressed the smells got worse. Our school dinners were made on the premises and in retrospect were totally delicious:

  Monday 8 February

  We had chips, corned beef and American salad and mince and apple tart for dinner today, not bad for school dinners.

  Tuesday 9 February

  Dinner was steak pie, greens and mashed potato, and semolina and jam for pud. Pretty awful, n'estce pas?

  Wednesday 10 February

  After dinner (porky sort of meat, peas, roast potatoes and caramel pie) Carol, Cherry and I went up to the library to do homework.

  Cherry was the dinner monitor on our school dinner table that year. If everyone had finished their platefuls the dinner monitor could put up her hand, and when the supervising teacher had given her permission she could charge up to the kitchen counter and ask for seconds. We might moan about our school dinners but some seconds were definitely worth having. Mrs Legge, our school cook, made delicious fish and chips on Fridays, and her pastry was total perfection. She made beautiful steak and kidney pies; her fruit pies – apple, apricot and plum – were glorious; and her occasional-for-a-special- treat lemon meringue pies always made my mouth water. So we obeyed Cherry as she urged us to bolt our food down in five minutes so we would be in with a chance of more. It's a wonder we didn't hiccup our way all through afternoon school.

  Mrs Legge worked miracles – imagine baking enough pies for hundreds of girls – but her budget was limited and mince and stewing steak were served up very regularly. I hated both. You started being able to smell them cooking by break time, and by twelve o'clock the whole school reeked of this strong savoury smell, appallingly reminiscent of body odour.

  The corridors were frequently filled with a horrible burning smell too. Mrs Legge never burned her dinners. This was all the fault of the incinerator in the girls' toilets. We all used sanitary towels and in those days they weren't properly disposable. If you had your period you were supposed to go in the special end toilet, which had an incinerator – but it was a tricky customer and if you didn't insert your disgusting towel just so, it would spitefully send out smelly smoke. Everyone would look at you and point when you came out of the toilet.

  We all smelled too, in various ways. The girls smelled of bubble gum and hairspray and nail varnish and Goya's Entice scent and fresh tangy sweat. The teache
rs smelled of chalk and talcum powder and Polo mints. The men smelled of tobacco, and the French master reeked of unwashed body. We hated having to go up to his desk – and when you stood there breathing shallowly he'd often slyly pat your breast or bottom.

  Some brave girls in another form went to Miss Haslett and complained about this teacher's wandering hands and suggestive remarks. Miss Haslett told the girls they were making disgusting allegations because they had warped minds and sent them away in disgrace.

  I was only in really serious trouble once in my five years at Coombe. It was a sporty school and Miss French and her colleague Miss Snelling were proud of the hockey and netball teams. They were particularly keen on athletics and our school was entered for the County Championships at Motspur Park.

  Chris and Carol and Cherry and Sue and Jill and all my other friends weren't at all interested. They weren't quite such duffers at games as me but they knew they were nowhere near speedy enough to represent the school at athletics. I came last in any race, I couldn't do the high or long jump, I was downright dangerous with a discus or javelin in my hand and I couldn't even lift the shot, let alone put it anywhere.

  I went off in a daydream whenever Miss French talked excitedly about the wretched Motspur Park athletics. She was outlining the arrangements – it seemed the school was hiring coaches so we could all go and watch – as if it was a serious treat.

  Miss French told us we had to tell her at the next PE lesson whether we needed a seat on the coach or not so that she could book it.

  'Of course, if you don't wish to go you don't have to. It is entirely voluntary,' she said.

  Chris nudged me. 'Did you hear that, Jac? What does that mean, exactly?' she whispered.

  'It means we don't have to go!' I said happily.

  'But we'll get into trouble,' Cherry said. 'You know she wants us to go.'

  'Yes, but do you want to go?'

  'Of course not!'

  We conferred with all the other girls in the class. None of the non-team girls wanted to go. So we decided to tell Miss French politely that we simply didn't wish to attend. She couldn't really object, could she? She'd said the trip was voluntary.

  Miss French was in a bad mood the next PE lesson.

  'Come along, you lazy girls, you're five minutes late already. Change into your kit in double-quick time and then go and sit in the gym. No talking now!'

  We got changed quickly without so much as a whisper. We sat cross-legged on the polished wooden floor. Miss French squeaked towards us in her gym shoes. Her whistle bounced on her chest. She clutched a clipboard and pen.

  'Right, I need to get this coach business sorted and then we'll get on with our lesson.' She consulted her register. She was going to do us in alphabetical order. Oh God. Guess whose name was right at the top.

  'Jacqueline Aitken!' Miss French called. 'Do you want a seat on the coach?'

  Her pen was poised, ready to tick me. Everyone was staring at me. I swallowed.

  'No, thank you, Miss French,' I said.

  Miss French drew in her breath so that the whistle bounced on her bosom. 'Are your parents taking you to Motspur Park in their car?' she asked.

  'No, Miss French.'

  'So why don't you need a seat on the coach?'

  'Because I don't want to go, thank you,' I mumbled.

  'You don't want to goooo?'

  Oh God oh God oh God.

  'No, Miss French,' I said in a squeak.

  'Well, that's just typical of you, Jacqueline Aitken! It isn't enough that you're a disgrace in every single PE class. You never even try to catch a ball and you won't run to save your life. You're bone idle and lazy. But what about all your friends and colleagues? How can you be so selfish? Don't you care about all the girls competing? Don't you want Coombe to win?'

  I couldn't care less, but I could see a truthful response wouldn't be wise.

  'I've got used to you being useless in my classes, never trying hard, never taking PE seriously, but I thought at the very least you cared about all the other girls. I even thought you might have just a little loyalty to me.'

  I stared back at her, wondering how she could seriously think this.

  'Take that expression off your face, you insolent girl. I'm sick of the sight of you. You'll never amount to anything, do you hear me? Do you know why? You've no team spirit. You don't care about anyone else. Well, believe you me, no one will ever care about you. Very well, don't come to Motspur Park to support your team. Now, who's next?' she said, consulting the register again.

  I went to sit down.

  'No, you stay standing, Jacqueline Aitken. You'll stand there till the end of the lesson.' She frowned at the register. 'Jill Anderson. Do you need a place on the coach?'

  Jill said yes. I didn't blame her. I'd have said yes too if I'd been second on the register. Everyone said yes. I was stuck standing there, the girl who'd said no.

  I held my head high and clenched my fists, telling myself I didn't care. But my heart was banging boom-boom-boom inside my chest and I knew I was trembling. It all seemed a ridiculous fuss about nothing and blatantly unfair as she'd said attendance at Motspur Park was voluntary. As if it made any difference to anyone whether I was there or not. She kept glancing in my direction, acting as if I'd deliberately tried to poison the entire athletics team.

  I didn't really believe her remarks about never amounting to anything – and to be fair, I don't think she really meant it. She was just furious, worried that all the other girls would follow my example and she'd be left looking a fool without any girls cheering on her wretched team.

  She was right about one thing though. I don't think I do have any team spirit. I never identified with school. I never felt proud of my uniform. I never sniffled when we sang the school hymn at the end of term. I never cheered with genuine enthusiasm. I loved my special friends, I liked some of the teachers, but Coombe as an institution meant nothing to me.

  Coombe's lovely now. Maybe it was lovely for all the other pupils back in 1960. I was just the odd one out.

  10

  Dancing

  Miss French thought I was the most bone-idle, lazy girl at Coombe. I wasn't at all. I walked to school every day, a good two- or three-mile hike from our flats in Kingston all the way over to New Malden. If I'd spent my week's bus fare on a paperback or Woolworths notebook I'd walk all the way home again too.

  Sometimes I walked with Sue next door, sometimes I walked with another Susan, a girl from Kingsnympton, the council estate up the hill. I liked both Sues. I could have a cosy chat with Sue next door about our dancing class and a moan about our mums. I knew the other Sue less well, but she was interesting, telling me all about the feuds and gangs and punch-ups on the Kingsnympton estate. She also passed her Bunty comic on to me every week. I considered myself way beyond the Bunty stage but it wouldn't have been polite to say so – and I was happy to read anything.

  I think I liked the walk to school most, though, when I was on my own. I'd always been a very dreamy girl and yet nowadays there was very little opportunity to dream. I was supposed to stay on red alert, listening and concentrating at school, and then in the evenings I had to struggle through my homework before rushing out to go dancing or to the pictures.

  But if I walked to school on my own I could daydream for nearly an hour as I marched along in my Clarks clodhoppers, swinging my satchel. Sometimes I made up stories. Sometimes I pretended I was being interviewed by a journalist: 'I'm simply bowled over by your first novel, Jacqueline. I've never encountered such remarkable talent in one so young,' etc., etc.! Sometimes I peered at the houses all around me and imagined the people inside and the lives they were living. The first half of the journey was much the most interesting because I stepped from one world into quite another.

  Cumberland House was a small 1950s council estate, three six-storey blocks of flats. It was quite genteel as council estates go. A window would get broken once in a while or someone used the lift as a toilet, but mostly we were a
timid, law-abiding tribe, though still relatively poor. Biddy and Harry had only just got a car and a telephone. We still didn't have a washing machine or a fridge and owned just a very small black and white television. We went for a holiday once a year but we hardly ever went out as a family otherwise.

  We had the special treat on Sundays of a shared bottle of Tizer and a Wall's family block of raspberry ripple ice cream after our roast chicken. This was High Living as far as we were concerned. The flat was still furnished with the dark utility table and chairs and sideboard bought just after the war, with a gloomy brown sofa and two chairs filling up the rest of the room. We weren't allowed to sit on the sofa because it would disturb Biddy's complicated arrangement of decorative cushions. She sat in one chair, Harry in the other, while I perched on an unpleasant brown leatherette pouffe.

  We didn't have a garden to relax in but we did have a balcony. Biddy didn't go in for tubs of flowers or window boxes as she said that plants would shed their leaves and make a mess – but she let me have a hammock slung precariously from one end of the balcony to the other. I'd begged for a hammock for my birthday, thinking it would be romantic to swing idly while reading a book, just like all the girls in Victorian storybooks. I hadn't bargained on the fact that swinging, idly or otherwise, made me feel queasy, and if I wasn't cautious enough the hammock would go clonk against the side of the concrete balcony and give my hip a nasty bruise.

  But once I'd walked out of the flats, crossed the very noisy main road and passed the pub opposite, I stepped into George Road, which could have been on a different planet. It was a private road, part of the Coombe estate, the very poshest part of Kingston where celebrities lived in enormous houses and played on the exclusive golf course. I wasn't so keen on the modern houses, palatial though they were. I liked the enormous Victorian houses, some now turned into private schools. I'd imagine myself back in time, living there, the bookish daughter of the house, not the grubby scullery maid.