One Young Fool in Dorset

by Victoria Twead

  “You ready, Snort?”

  “Yup.”

  Back in the dorm, we pulled on our uniforms and knee-high socks, and buckled our Clarke’s sandals. On our first morning, Matron had ordered the whole dorm to kneel down in front of her.

  “Gels, I am checking your hemlines. No skirt should be more than two inches off the ground when you kneel down. Cindy, kneel up straight, it’s no good slouching, I’ll still know if your skirt is too short.”

  “But Matron, I’ve got big knees...”

  Reluctantly, Corkscrew (as we called Cindy on account of her curly hair) straightened up. Along came Matron with her ruler, measuring the distance between hemline and floor. Snort passed, and I, too, passed easily as my mother belonged to the buy-it-much-too-big-she’ll-grow-into-it-eventually school of thought. My hemline was probably a good two inches below the knee, not above.

  Corkscrew’s hemline failed, being a racy three and a half inches above the knee. Corky was told to wear her PE culottes and her mother was summoned and ordered to buy a new dress.

  There was still another job to do before breakfast.

  “Don’t forget to strip your beds, gels!” Matron called.

  Even now, I’m usually one of those sleepers who barely disturbs the bed. I’m not the type who kicks off the bedclothes or tosses and turns during the night. So I deeply resented the fact that we had to completely strip our beds every morning. Just pulling the covers back to let the bed air should be enough, surely?

  7.30 Breakfast bell.

  Now it was time to line up outside the dining hall, juniors on one side, seniors on the other. As we filed in, Matron dished out an orange tablet to each girl, a multi-vitamin, cod liver oil concoction called Haliborange. My mother thought vitamin supplements were a waste of time and money, so I was not given one. I rarely suffer from colds or ill health now (touch wood), so I wonder whether perhaps she was right.

  Mrs Driver and Matron sat at a separate table, and we girls were seated in long rows. Brandy the Chihuahua roamed the dining hall, looking for feet to hump. Then Mrs Driver or one of the prefects would say Grace, always the same words:

  For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful.

  Amen.

  Once, when my sister became a prefect and it was her turn to say Grace at the midday meal, I couldn’t believe my ears. We all put our hands together and bowed our heads, waiting for her to speak.

  “God bless this bunch as they munch their lunch,” she said.

  The dining hall gasped. Snort and I exchanged glances, waiting for the fallout. Mrs Driver and Matron flicked glances at her, but said nothing.

  Breakfast consisted of cornflakes, eggs and toast. On Fridays there was steamed fish that made my stomach heave. In the winter, we queued into the kitchen to receive a dollop of porridge, which I loved.

  By eight o’clock, we were well into our breakfast. Mrs Driver twiddled with the knob of the huge radio on the shelf above her. First it crackled, the signal for us to fall silent. Then, exactly on the hour, came the pips.

  This is the BBC World Service. Here is the news.

  Whatever the prime minister, Harold Wilson, said in parliament, or the fact that the village of Milton Keynes was to be developed and declared a ‘New Town’ passed over my head. Snort and I were more interested to hear that police raided the home of Rolling Stones musician Keith Richards, following a tip-off from the News of the World, and charged him and Mick Jagger with the possession of drugs.

  After breakfast, we raced up the stairs back to the dorm. I’d tried to disguise the fact that I hadn’t stripped my bed but somebody had been in while we’d been at breakfast and stripped it completely. We then set about remaking our beds.

  If it was a Thursday, we had to take off the bottom sheet and replace it with the top. Then we’d collect a clean sheet from the laundry cupboard. Snort and I helped each other making our beds, both hoping that there was a diamond shape in the centre of the clean sheet when we unfolded it. If there was, that meant good luck for the week.

  We made our beds with hospital corners, which would be checked by Matron. Then we tidied our lockers, ran downstairs to sort out our school satchels and were then ready to slip through the woods, past the Biology pond, (known as the Bug Pond) to the school building.

  Lessons dragged on, one after the other. The highlight was break-time when all the boarders were given a fresh bun from the bakery. Sometimes it was a Chelsea bun dotted with currants, or an iced bun, or jam doughnut. The day girls (we called them Day Bugs) clustered around the boarders.

  “Let’s have a taste!” they begged.

  Sometimes I felt very lucky to be a boarder, not a Day Bug.

  Each girl belonged to a ‘house’, like the houses in Harry Potter’s school, Hogwarts: Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff. TH had 12 houses, each named after a famous person. I was put in my sister’s house, Elizabeth Fry, as siblings always belonged to the same house. We wore dark green enamel badges edged with gold to show which house we belonged to. My friend Snort was in Shackleton, and her badge was a much nicer shade of blue. The aim of the house system was to foster group loyalty and encourage competition with each other at sports and academic subjects, thus perhaps achieving more. Unfortunately, I have never had a competitive spirit, and the house system didn’t encourage me to perform better at all.

  When school ended, the Day Bugs went home and we boarders carried our satchels back through the woods to St Mary’s.

  “Every time we walk through the woods, I think of Nelson’s Eye,” said Snort unhappily.

  “Me too. I hope they don’t do it this year.”

  We ran upstairs to our dorm and changed out of our uniforms and into mufti.

  Next was teatime in the dining hall. This was a more relaxed meal, as we didn’t need to queue, or say Grace. We could come and go as we pleased and sit wherever we liked. Mounds of sliced white bread awaited us on the tables, and plastic tubs of almost white, unappetising, margarine. There was always jam, sometimes boiled eggs, and some kind of cake, plus big urns full of tea. On some days, the kitchen staff beat Marmite into the margarine, and the resulting grey stuff was heaped into a bowl. We called it Marmite Squish. Snort loved it and I hated it.

  16.00 Prep bell.

  If Snort and I wolfed down our tea quickly, there would be some spare minutes when we could just loaf about before Prep. Prep took place in the common room from 4 o’clock until 5, and was the time when we were supposed to do our homework. Talking was not permitted. Sometimes Matron supervised Prep, or one of the prefects. Snort and I rushed through our homework then spent the remainder of the time writing notes to each other.

  “Are you two gels passing notes to each other? Helen, Victoria?”

  “Yes, Matron.”

  “Then you must each write one hundred lines. I must not write notes in Prep.”

  “Yes, Matron.”

  Long faces.

  Next came a spare hour when we could do what we liked. We weren’t allowed to keep pets, but in springtime, Snort and I pulled out some frogspawn from the Bug Pond and put it in jars on the windowsill in the cloakroom. As the tadpoles transformed into tiny froglets, we used old toothbrushes to brush greenfly from the roses growing in the flowerbeds. These we fed to our froglets.

  Sometimes Mrs Driver would pass by, with Brandy close behind.

  “What are you two doing?” she asked once.

  “Getting food for our froglets, Miss,” said Snort.

  Mrs Driver raised her eyebrows, but didn’t enquire further. Giving her head a shake, she called Brandy who quit humping the cardigan Snort had dropped on the lawn and trotted after his mistress.

  18.00 Chapel bell.

  We went to chapel every evening, even on Sundays when we also went to church. Chapel was dull, and being a dreamer, I just disappeared into my own head. Snort was a wriggler, so was often in trouble.

  Dinner followed, then a little more free time, then bed. Lig
hts-out was at 8.30, and woe betide if you were caught talking after that.

  “Pssst! Dusty? Are you asleep?”

  “Nope,” I replied.

  “I was thinking about Nelson’s Eye,” said Snort.

  “What about it?”

  “Couldn’t you ask your sister about it? She could tell us if they are still going to do it.”

  “I already did.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said it was strictly forbidden for anybody to talk about Nelson’s Eye.”

  “Oh. Can’t she break the rule? We wouldn’t tell.”

  “No. She says if anybody breaks the rule, the ghost of Emily the scullery maid will haunt them until the day they leave TH.”

  “Oh.”

  “Ssssh, you two!” hissed a voice from another bed. “Some of us are trying to get to sleep here!”

  “Sorry!”

  “Sorry!”

  Pause.

  “Snort?”

  “What?”

  “I don’t really believe in the ghost of Emily the scullery maid, do you?”

  The dorm door opened, throwing a triangle of light into the dorm.

  “Helen! Victoria! I could hear you gels from outside the door. You will both write me one hundred lines tomorrow, I must not talk after lights-out.”

  Sigh.

  “Yes, Matron.”

  “Yes, Matron.”

  Weekends panned out differently, of course, because there was no school. Every third weekend or so was an ‘exeat’ which meant our parents could take us out for the day. Usually, my father arrived in our black Rover 90, but I much preferred it when Ivy came to collect us. The day was fun but rather curtailed because we had to go to church first, and be back in time for evening chapel.

  Church was obligatory on Sunday, as was chapel every evening. Snort and I always sat together in chapel and walked together to church. We were dressed in our best uniform, with stockings, white gloves, and hats. The whole of St Mary’s walked in a crocodile of girls to one of two churches, headed by Mrs Driver with Matron bringing up the rear. For once, the amorous Brandy was left at home which was probably just as well considering how many kneelers the Women’s Institute had embroidered, all of which he would have assaulted.

  Sometimes we walked through the Bournemouth public gardens and across a golf course. The walk was nice, but the destination was dull. As the sermon ate into our precious free time, Snort and I yearned to be outside.

  Because Snort was a wriggler, she attracted attention in church. She couldn’t help it, she just couldn’t sit still. If she wasn’t swinging her legs, she’d be kicking kneelers, or fiddling with the little stack of prayer and hymn books provided.

  One Sunday, Snort craned round to see who was sitting in the pew behind us, only to lock stares with the disapproving eyes of Matron.

  “Helen Jarvis, sit still!” hissed Matron.

  “Sorry, Matron,” Snort whispered back.

  Snort spun round to face the front, but it wasn’t long before she forgot about Matron behind. She began making a tower with her hymn books and mine. I elbowed her in the ribs. Unfortunately, this caused the tower to collapse and fall to the stone floor. The other girls and members of the congregation turned their heads in our direction. I turned crimson with embarrassment.

  Matron waited for Snort to pick up all the hymn books. Then she leaned forwards and tapped her shoulder with a sharp, gloved finger.

  “I want to see you in my room when we get back,” she hissed into Snort’s ear.

  9 A Tragic Ghost

  Cauliflower Cheese

  “Now you’ve done it!” I scolded Snort as we walked back home after the church service.

  Snort pulled a face.

  “What do you think she’ll make me do?”

  “Lines, probably.”

  For once, Snort and I didn’t dawdle at the Shell House, delaying the progress of the crocodile and earning ourselves a rebuke from Matron who was bringing up the rear. Usually, we couldn’t resist gawking at it, it was so unusual. I didn’t know the tragic story behind it then, but I do now.

  The Shell House

  The Shell House was unique. It was created and proudly tended by the owner, George Howard, who began building it in 1948, after his son, Michael, died at the tender age of 14 from meningitis.

  Working meticulously with seashells gathered locally or collected from the time when he sailed the seven seas as a mariner, he lovingly decorated the front garden of his home. He created a statue of St George and the Dragon, a wishing well, windmill, church, birds, animals and figures, all from mosaics of seashells. Rumour had it that there were some valuable William Morris and William de Morgan art nouveau tiles pressed into the cement. Apparently, there was also coral plundered from the Red Sea, quartz from South Africa, rocks from Majorca and giant clams from the South Pacific.

  The resulting work of art attracted tourists from far and wide, and the Shell House became the subject of postcards. Over the years, even after George Howard’s death in 1986, the Shell House raised thousands of pounds for various charities.

  Does the Shell House still stand? I’m afraid not, though I remember it as clearly as though I saw it yesterday. In 2003, it was demolished to make way for development. A very ordinary block of flats now stands on the site. However, a little British Pathé film clip still exists, made in 1965, showing the Shell House exactly as I would have seen it as a child.

  This link will take you there: British Pathe Video

  Apart from church, there was another dull Sunday chore we had to endure. It was the letter to our parents. We had to write home once a week and Matron checked and censored every letter before it was mailed. I discovered this the hard way. This was the original letter that I wrote:

  Dear M and D,

  We haven’t really learnt anything at school this week. The buns are lovley but we had horrible Marmite Sqish twice this week and you know how I hate that. Snort is in BIG trouble because she made a noise in church. Matron is going to have words with her and she might be expeled. If she is I’m going on strike. Mrs Driver has a chawawa dog but it isn’t a nice one it’s called Brandy but Matron says it should be called Randy because it keeps jumping on everything even our satchels. I wish the food was nice here but we have tapioca which is like frogspawn and fish eyes. Soon we will go in the woods and do nelson’s eye and so this may be the last letter you ever get from me because I might be dead.

  yours sincerley your middle daughter,

  Victoria

  My letter was passed to Matron, who used a thick-nibbed pen loaded with black ink to cross out the parts she didn’t approve of. The letter my parents received looked rather different from the one I had composed.

  Dear M and D,

  The buns are lovley. Snort made a noise in church. Mrs Driver has a chawawa dog called Brandy. We have tapioca. Soon we will go in the woods.

  yours sincerley your middle daughter,

  Victoria

  We were just finishing writing our letters when Carrot came in. Carrot’s real name was Julia, but we called her Carrot because her parents owned a market gardening business.

  “Matron wants you and Dusty to go to her room right away,” said Carrot, enjoying being the bearer of bad news. “She’s in a real fizz. I bet it’s because of the noise you were making in church.”

  Snort pulled a face, but I knew she was worried. So was I.

  We tapped on Matron’s door.

  “Come in.”

  Snort and I shuffled in and stood side by side.

  “You gels know exactly why you are here,” began Matron. “We are all ambassadors of TH, and we must behave perfectly in public at all times.”

  “Yes, Matron.”

  “Your behaviour today in church was shocking. Helen, I want you write three hundred lines, I must not make a noise in church.”

  “Yes, Matron.”

  “And I have had a talk with Mrs Driver. We both agree that, until you both learn
how to behave like polite, decent gels in church, and sit correctly, you two will sit away from the main congregation.”

  “Yes, Matron.”

  “Yes, Matron.”

  Back in the Common Room, we exhaled.

  “Whew! Just three hundred lines! I thought I was going to be suspended!”

  “And we’re going to be moved. Wonder where to?”

  It was a couple of weeks before we found out where we would be seated for future services. It was on the far side of the church, well away from the main congregation in the middle, behind a particularly thick column. Above the dark wooden pews there was an arched, stained-glass window. When the sun shone, different coloured patches of light played on us. If Snort wriggled, nobody would really notice. It was perfect.

  I wish I could say that Snort behaved from then on, but of course she didn’t. Using the pin on her Shackleton house badge, she began to scrape and carve the word ‘Snort’ in the pew. Nobody noticed. It took her weeks and when it was finally finished, Matron called us back into her room. I was full of dread. I was positive that her graffiti had been discovered, but I was wrong.

  “Well done, you two gels,” said Matron. “You’ve been so quiet and good, Mrs Driver and I think you’ve earned the privilege of sitting with the others again.”

  We weren’t pleased. No longer could I carry a novel in my pocket to read during the service, and Snort’s carving days were over. I often wonder if anybody noticed her name carved into the wood, and wonder if it is still there today. And I wonder if the people who see the single word ‘Snort’ are baffled as to what it might mean.

  Punishments usually took the form of writing lines which was boring and inconvenient, but not too ghastly. However, if a girl was really naughty, there were other punishments.

  Sometimes we had to learn passages from Shakespeare and recite them in the prefects’ room.

  But perhaps the worst punishment was not being allowed home on an exeat weekend. And if anybody was caught talking after lights-out three times, she was told to strip her bed and go to the top floor, opposite Mrs Driver’s suite of rooms. On the other side of the hallway was a door that led to a narrow corridor, with tiny rooms opening either side of it. These must have been servant rooms long ago, but were now occupied by prefects.