Forged with Flames

by Ann Fogarty

  Beating Rowena instantly gave me new status at school and meant much more besides. For the first time I realised my body was something I could command. I realised, too, that I actually thrived on a challenge and on achieving the goal that went with it. The ability to “hang in”, and push on, was to prove invaluable when I faced a far greater challenge than I could ever have conceived of, years later, on the other side of the world.

  5

  IN RETREAT

  I might have been successful athletically but it was at this time that the rest of my life started to stumble and fall inwards.

  Until I became a teenager, I’d always been what a report card would have called a ‘bright and interested student’, a girl with a gold star for participation. I adored anything that meant standing up in front of an audience—show me a dais and I’d be on it. At Wheatley Lane Primary, I relished our weekly poetry sessions, effortlessly reciting whatever poems were chosen for the lesson. Whenever the teacher asked pupils in the big class to read to the “babies”, my hand was always the first to shoot skywards to volunteer. I just loved having a classroom of small faces tuned in on me as I read.

  I embraced drama in the same way, often clinching the lead role in school productions, including the role of a grouchy old man who was the bad side of a weather vane. My friend, Jennifer, played the part of the finely dressed lady who was the good side of the vane but my character had all the funny lines and drew the biggest response from the audience. Another mother even turned to Mum and said, ‘I think Ann is going to be an actress one day!’ In my early years at Nelson Grammar, too, I had no hesitation at all in taking to the stage in a starring role in Macbeth or A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

  But all that changed when I became a teenager. A horrible creeping shyness overtook me, starting subtly at first at the beginning of Fourth Form, and later worsening until it was extremely socially debilitating. It added a whole new dimension to the term ‘painfully shy’. Whenever the teacher asked me to speak or read in class, I’d be overcome by nerves and embarrassment; my heart would beat as it had when I had the night terrors at five and my cheeks would flush pillar-box red. I’d been moved into a new class at the start of the year, separated from my friends of Third Form, but this didn’t explain it. It felt as if I’d become another person.

  The fear and anxiety had resurfaced with a vengeance.

  Now, the attention I’d craved as a child and had enjoyed as a winning athlete, became my worst enemy. I’d stare down at the desk determinedly to avoid the teacher’s eye when parts were being shared out for a play or when a student was needed to read aloud in class, desperately hoping it wouldn’t be me. I spoke less and less, and would overhear my friends explain apologetically to anyone who asked about my uncommunicativeness that I was just shy and quiet. I was so self-conscious that when it came down to myself and another student being chosen as captain of our form, instead of feeling proud, I was struck with terror at the thought of what the captaincy might mean and was relieved when the other student won. Even when I was running or playing sport, which came so naturally, I suffered under the pressure of being watched. Before long, even the slightest contact with other people became almost overwhelming. The more someone tapped at my shell, the more I retreated inwards. The more I thought about it, the worse it became. Someone would only have to look at me and I’d blush, and nothing I could do or tell myself could stop it.

  On top of the shyness I was ashamed of how I was behaving, as if it were a weakness, and tried to cover it up—not easy with a face like a beacon. I never talked about it with anyone, including my family and friends, and became proficient at avoiding attention, isolating myself as much as possible. Being alone was the only time I felt alright. I’d take Tammy, our Shetland Sheepdog, out on long walks through the fields or along the riverbank. We’d wander together and I’d find a place to stop and sit down, or lean against one of the old dry-stone fences and talk to her. Tammy understood.

  As I retreated from social life, I started to become painstakingly correct at everything I did, honing to perfection whatever I could still control. I didn’t want to do anything wrong, anything that might draw attention to myself, and if I did, at least praise was the right sort of attention. My handwriting transformed from a fairly messy scrawl to what someone later described as a ‘ten out of ten’ script; neat and vertical, letter-perfect—a handwriting analyst would have had a field day with it!

  My bedroom, always pretty ordered, now became immaculate with everything tucked away into drawers or lined up and in its place. I had an old-fashioned dressing table where all my china ornaments sat on little mats, but now I ordered them so that they were always perfectly centred which entailed me forever moving them slightly to the left or right. In the dressing-table drawers all items were arranged precisely together in symmetrical piles. My mother never needed to remind me to tidy my room or complain about things being on the floor. On the surface I was a parent’s dream teenager. If I couldn’t control the rising tide of red that made its way from my neck up, or the out-of-control galloping of my heart, then at least I could order other parts of my life.

  Being around boys was the worst thing of all. Boys tease. One of them, a short, freckled boy who had come up with me from primary school, just loved humiliating me. He would always pipe up ‘Let’s hear Ann read!’ because he knew I’d go bright red. I was such an easy target.

  I’d look around at all my friends—amazingly I still had some—and marvel that they appeared so full of confidence. The bonds with my close friends, Brenda, Jennifer and Eileen, saved me from becoming totally isolated, yet I couldn’t even explain to any of them how my world had become so changed. Had I talked to them about my problem, I’d probably have found that they had their own insecurities, but back then I was convinced I was alone in my torment. It was easier one-on-one—the anxiety would fade and I’d catch a glimpse of the real me that I always knew was trapped inside. Day after day, I’d fight this silent inner battle. Later, after the bushfires, I’d wonder if the reason I was still alive was because I’d lived during my teens and beyond, with the intense agony of being so socially dysfunctional; I was used to handling extended periods of intense pain on a daily basis.

  My experience of the opposite sex was limited to one unfortunate, if memorable, date during my school years. Because of my crippling shyness, especially around boys, it came as a complete surprise when I was nearly sixteen, to learn that one of the prefects at school actually noticed me. David took one of my girlfriends aside and told her he was interested. After my friend then told me, I became conscious of David being around wherever I was—at lunchtime, during breaks, hovering hopefully as we came out of school at the end of the day. This was a big deal—there was a lot of kudos involved in being fancied by a prefect.

  I was even more surprised when David handed me a note on a scrap of paper one day inviting me to go out with him on Saturday night. My friends, as intrigued as I was, urged me to say yes. I’d never even talked to this boy, but decided to take what was, for me, a bold step into the unknown, and accept his invitation.

  Most of my friends had been potty about boys since they were fifteen. They seemed to talk about nothing else, gathering at recess on Monday morning, comparing notes from the weekend and revelling in sharing the details of their encounters, however minute, with anyone who’d listen. I felt completely awkward in these conversations, never understanding what all the fuss was about—I was obviously a late developer in this area. Playing sport was much more interesting!

  My interest piqued though as the first date with David approached. I was actually going out with a boy. I dressed carefully that Saturday evening: a short skirt—but not too short, little blouse and cardigan, and smart white knee socks. Quite conservative—definitely no heels or make-up. I had a clipped, neat pixie haircut at the time, like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music. I’d asked the hairdresser in Nelson to give me that cut which every second woman in England apparently wanted as well
. My girlfriends, Brenda and Jennifer, had theirs cut in exactly the same style.

  Much to the amusement of my family, I was palpably nervous before the date, muttering things like, ‘I don’t really want to go’, ‘I won’t know what to say’, ‘I don’t know him’, and ‘How do I look in this cardigan?’ They were probably relieved that I was going out with a boy at last. Women married young then, many before they were twenty.

  David and I had agreed to meet outside the Grand Cinema in Nelson, a four-storey grey-stone building with a steep slate roof rising solidly out of the centre of town. Although I was early, he was already there when I arrived. David, too, was smartly dressed, his red hair neatly combed and parted. I felt so awkward, but took heart that he’d decided that we would go to ‘the pictures’, which meant we wouldn’t have to struggle to find things to talk about. We exchanged a few words—the most words we’d ever said to each other—and got our tickets, David paying for mine, after which we made our way into the theatre, squinting hard to see our way in the dark and locate two empty seats. Many other people had come to see the film that night, too, and had already filled most of the cinema. The movie was Tarzan and the Valley of Gold—not exactly my first choice—which had just come out in mid-1966 and was bound to be popular. I was sure I could see a few spare seats near the front but, call me naive, I agreed when David suggested we sit in the back row.

  It wasn’t long into the movie that I realised David wasn’t really interested in Tarzan at all. He was more concerned with kissing. I was sure David was a nice boy—he was a prefect—but he was moving way too fast. I tried to turn him away, concentrating steadfastly on the film. David, however, perhaps spurred on by the machismo of the ape-man in loincloth, was persistent. It was hard work dodging his advances and averting my face to avoid his lips while pinned to the seat. When Tarzan took his last swing through the jungle, I breathed a huge sigh of relief, jumping up too eagerly in my haste to exit the cinema. David offered to walk me home, but I’d had enough by this stage and said I was quite happy to take the bus. It was wonderful to finally arrive home and close the door on the whole episode. My family was, of course, keen to hear how my first date had turned out.

  ‘How was it? What was he like?’ they asked excitedly.

  They laughed uproariously when I replied, ‘Never, ever will I go out with a boy again—all they want to do is kiss!’

  It would be a long time before I met someone I actually wanted to kiss.

  6

  SPRINGFIELD HOUSE

  Because I had such a natural talent for athletics, people around me presumed I’d become a Physical Education teacher. The idea did appeal, but by 1966 when I turned sixteen, school had become such an emotional minefield that I just wanted to flee it as quickly as possible. I needed to find another career to follow. As I approached Sixth Form and A Levels, I knew, too, that I’d be the sports prefect and I couldn’t bear the thought of that if I stayed on. Far too much public exposure.

  A few years earlier, two movies starring Julie Andrews had become popular: Mary Poppins and The Sound of Music. My father was rather taken by the latter and we saw it at a large cinema in Manchester at least half a dozen times, sometimes with other relatives. Julie Andrews seemed to be having such fun being a nanny with her horde of adoring children that I decided I’d become a nanny, too. I loved little children—especially the way they just accepted you. After taking my O Levels, I left school at the end of Fifth Form to enrol in child-care training, knowing at the time I was really looking for an alternative to becoming a PE teacher. I had chosen out of fear.

  Springfield House, where I was to spend the next two-and-a-half years, was an exclusive college that took only twenty-four students each year. It was located in Burnley, in a three-storey building that had once been a private residence and still had a homely air about it. The rooms were large and airy with high ceilings, and included an attic where we’d spend the rest of lunch hour after we’d eaten, relaxing on cushions on the floor. The college was run by three women who’d never married—‘spinsters’, in those days—who were completely dedicated to ensuring that our training was thorough and of the highest standard.

  The other students, all female, were from towns around Burnley and mostly travelled to college by bus as I did. On our first day we were separated into two groups of twelve. One group was to attend college and learn theory, while the other group went to a nursery school for practical experience for a week, then we’d swap. We all stood around, eager to start the year, excited at the newness of it all, glancing around to check out the girls we’d spend the next two years with. The classes were mainly about child care though we did have an outside teacher who taught us drama and another one who taught us cookery. I was delighted that my best friend from school, Brenda, got into the college too, only to be dismayed when she was allocated to the other group. I met another girl called Julia, though, and we teamed up as chums pretty quickly. Julia was extremely outgoing. She had a mop of short, thick curly black hair and sparkling blue eyes, an infectious smile and a puckish sense of humour. She was heavier set than me, had an accent straight out of Yorkshire and always wore slip-on Dr Scholl sandals, popular as a comfortable alternative to conventional shoes at the time. She stood out, too, because she had a little motorbike that she rode to college—a pretty daring form of transport then for a girl. One afternoon after college, she came home with me and I had the thrill of riding on the back of her bike, a wonderfully scary and liberating experience.

  If I thought I was going to leave my problems behind when I went to college, though, I was sadly mistaken. With such a small number of us, there was even less chance of ‘hiding’ than there had been at school. I kept hoping that everything would change, that one day I’d just walk in and mingle normally with the others, but it just kept getting harder. Lunchtime was particularly trying because we’d all have to sit down together to a prepared main meal, as we had done at school. Our teachers ate with us and I would invariably lose the power of speech if one of them happened to be on our table. The dining-room was small, with only one means of escape—a little annex where there was one table for the overflow, just enough room to sit quietly with a couple of friends. My stress levels would start to climb if we came in and I’d see that another group of friends had claimed it.

  Most of the other students had boyfriends which sidelined me from the discussion at the dinner table. This suited me fine; I could just sit and listen without needing to make conversation myself. One of the older students who used to catch the same bus confided that she was in love with an African man which was not considered acceptable then by many families. Her parents had forbidden her to see the man, worrying about what the rest of the family and the neighbours would think.

  Life at home was pretty much the same as it had been during my final years at school. My parents bought a caravan and I’d sometimes spend a weekend away with them. Of course, being in a confined space with Dad meant we all had to be sensible and well-behaved at all times as he didn’t tolerate any messing around. The caravan was kept in a caravan park near Grassington, a gorgeous little village with a cobbled main street, in the Yorkshire Dales. Mum, Jill and I would often walk into Grassington, letting off steam and being silly. On rainy days, the whole family played cards games together, which Dad nearly always won. Despite my competitive streak, I didn’t mind because I was so pleased that he actually played with us.

  During this first year of college, I kept fit by joining a local badminton team, competing at nights and on Saturdays, while finding time to still enjoy my solitary wanders with Tammy. My childhood friend, Glenys, asked me to be one of her bridesmaids when she became engaged, even though we’d moved in different directions and didn’t see as much of each other as we used to. I spent a number of Saturday mornings on dress fittings and doing all the other things required of a good bridesmaid. Unfortunately, I became anxious on the big day and fainted twice while the photographs were being taken, which was totally mortifying
.

  In second year, a hitchhiking holiday with Julia was the highlight of my time at college; it gave me a sense, for the first time, of life away from the village. Julia and I had become bosom buddies, despite the huge differences in our personalities—or maybe because of them. She eased my way through many socially difficult situations. At least socially, I was the shadow to her sun. Neither of us had much money so we decided to go to the south of England to a place near Taunton in Somerset, where young people from all over Europe earned money fruit picking. We slept in dormitories and travelled in lorries to pick the fruit each day. It was at the fruit-picking centre that I had my second encounter with a boy. I was seventeen. I liked Claudio, an amorous Italian, but he kissed so much that it was boring. After one interminably long session of kissing as we lay on the grass, I worried that I might become pregnant. Luckily, Julia was able to tell me—and the whole dormitory of guffawing girls—that I wouldn’t! I decided then that it was about time I really did find out about the facts of life.

  We spent some back-breaking days picking and eating strawberries, and digging out potatoes; and some much easier days harvesting apples and pears before hitchhiking to Scotland, where we were taken in by people we met along the way. We washed little and ate with the appetite of wolves. We slept in bus shelters and church doorways, anywhere that seemed safe and warm, wrapped in the blankets we’d ‘borrowed’ from the dormitory. I felt guilty about these blankets every time I looked at them. My conscience was only salved once I got home and dry-cleaned and posted the blanket back to the fruit-picking centre, after receiving a lecture from my angry father.

  At the end of our second year of college the worst possible assessment was to take place, a shy teenager’s ultimate nightmare. The English teacher decided that all the students in our year should sit an oral exam. Each of us had to pick a well-known novel and read a section of it in front of the other students and staff, and—if that weren’t bad enough—give a ten-minute talk on a subject of our own choosing followed by questions from our audience. An external examiner was to assess us. They couldn’t have devised a more terrifying scenario for me. I wanted to crawl up in a small ball whenever I contemplated this awful situation. From the time I found out that it was going to happen, until it was all over, all I could think of was ‘how will I manage?’ I was also worried about failing—no amount of preparation or even knowledge could get me through this if I became tongue-tied and paralysed by my own predicament.