My Secret Diary (10 page)

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 teachers 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?'