September skies
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A lot worse things can happen in September than an eight-year old starting boarding school in the English countryside with two tennis courts, an oak-panelled hall, ballet three times a week and two Exeats a term. I had no idea why my mother cried in the taxi on our way there. 'Courage', she said. 'It's just this divorce and everyone says it'll be great, great fun'. I wouldn’t miss the whisky on her breath or how she leant too closely in.
We were shown the dorm by Mrs Patterson, Head matron. She said the first few weeks were tricky but easiest for everybody if there was as little contact with home as possible. She told my mother that she'd vomited every morning for five years after her husband had been killed in action - and we lay out my clothes in the two drawers appointed me. Three months’ full. Aertex shirts, vests, navy blue cardigan and socks, four pairs in white, four pairs in grey. We hung up Dress Code 1 for Sunday Evensong, lined up the Wellington boots, slippers, everyday shoes, black patent dress shoes and the heavy, wool, winter coat. 'Mufti' wear was for Saturday afternoons after Prep and the supervised hour for writing letters home. The bedside locker was for the Holy Bible and matching Psalm book, leather bound with initials, the five-year diary with a lock and key, Smithson’s writing case and plenty of stamps. Mrs Patterson checked that the Cash’s name tapes were firmly sewn on and carried away the sheets, two sets of pillow cases, towels and face flannels, while making sure no one saw the little something for the Tuck Shop.
I hadn’t connected our day out to John Lewis a few weeks ago - laughing in the sunlight at the mystifying school list while mum tried to light a ciggie and catch a cab - with this place, this moment, the way the floors smelt of sick. My stuffed Koala bear looked grim on the iron bed where layers of paint had been laboriously scratched off by little nails over the decades.
The other girls were very interested. Mum was touched how carefully they handled my things, asking her questions, telling her their names, searching inside my washbag, stealing my time alone with her away.
The ten-minute warning bell before supper. Mrs Patterson came in. Mum picked up her bag to leave. I tightened my fist around the straps. Older girls came out of nowhere offering to show me the rabbits in the petshed while mum went to the visitor’s loo by the front door. It was a speedy operation, they knew all the tricks. When I got back, the dinner bell had been rung, the girls were standing in the hall, I wasn’t in the right line and mum and the taxi were gone.
By Christmas I was someone else, someone who had entirely different words for things, someone who talked in many different voices but all of them scathing and way-past bored, someone who’d never care again if anyone left her and fit in, really, really well. Someone who every September, still looks at the sky and thinks, ‘how could you?’
We were shown the dorm by Mrs Patterson, Head matron. She said the first few weeks were tricky but easiest for everybody if there was as little contact with home as possible. She told my mother that she'd vomited every morning for five years after her husband had been killed in action - and we lay out my clothes in the two drawers appointed me. Three months’ full. Aertex shirts, vests, navy blue cardigan and socks, four pairs in white, four pairs in grey. We hung up Dress Code 1 for Sunday Evensong, lined up the Wellington boots, slippers, everyday shoes, black patent dress shoes and the heavy, wool, winter coat. 'Mufti' wear was for Saturday afternoons after Prep and the supervised hour for writing letters home. The bedside locker was for the Holy Bible and matching Psalm book, leather bound with initials, the five-year diary with a lock and key, Smithson’s writing case and plenty of stamps. Mrs Patterson checked that the Cash’s name tapes were firmly sewn on and carried away the sheets, two sets of pillow cases, towels and face flannels, while making sure no one saw the little something for the Tuck Shop.
I hadn’t connected our day out to John Lewis a few weeks ago - laughing in the sunlight at the mystifying school list while mum tried to light a ciggie and catch a cab - with this place, this moment, the way the floors smelt of sick. My stuffed Koala bear looked grim on the iron bed where layers of paint had been laboriously scratched off by little nails over the decades.
The other girls were very interested. Mum was touched how carefully they handled my things, asking her questions, telling her their names, searching inside my washbag, stealing my time alone with her away.
The ten-minute warning bell before supper. Mrs Patterson came in. Mum picked up her bag to leave. I tightened my fist around the straps. Older girls came out of nowhere offering to show me the rabbits in the petshed while mum went to the visitor’s loo by the front door. It was a speedy operation, they knew all the tricks. When I got back, the dinner bell had been rung, the girls were standing in the hall, I wasn’t in the right line and mum and the taxi were gone.
By Christmas I was someone else, someone who had entirely different words for things, someone who talked in many different voices but all of them scathing and way-past bored, someone who’d never care again if anyone left her and fit in, really, really well. Someone who every September, still looks at the sky and thinks, ‘how could you?’
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