On our return, the drive was full of cars and the chatter of children catching up after the holidays. Seeing this melee was both daunting and exciting. ‘I can cope with this,’ I thought, ‘and I’m not going to feel homesick.’ Then, entering the front door, I came face-to-face with Sadie the whippet. I picked her up and buried my face in her neck, inhaled the warm doggy smell of Tanyards and became inconsolable. Groups of pupils surrounded me, patting my back and saying kind words, taken aback at this strange new girl with cropped white hair, wearing chunky boys’ shoes and weeping while clutching a trembling dog. This was not the first impression I had been hoping to give.
Mum had realised what had happened half an hour into her drive home and had no option but to turn the car around. I was waiting in the school hall when she entered, her face streaked with tears, and without saying anything took the dog from my arms and turned for the door.
Everyone remembers their first night at boarding school as if it was yesterday. The pain of knowing that you will not be in your own bed, surrounded by your own knick-knacks and smells, or seeing your parents, for a whole month, is challenging enough; but then the realisation hits that there is no one there to defend you and that you have to fend for yourself.
Aware that I was becoming stifled by Dad’s blind adoration, I’d asked to go to boarding school because I yearned for the space to develop as an individual. I distinctly remember relishing the thought that I now had the freedom to make my own mistakes as I lay in bed, listening to the other nine girls in my dormitory whispering to each other after lights out. They all knew each other well and were merrily chatting about their holiday antics. They also talked about boys, periods and Tampax. I had a rough idea about the birds and the bees from the mating antics of the menagerie at home, and Lindy had mentioned ‘the Curse’, but I’d never dared ask her what it was. Now these girls were hooting with laughter, trying not to attract the attention of the matron prowling the corridors. Maybe boarding school was going to be fun after all.
I soon learned my way around the school, with its quad of prefabricated classrooms and the art and carpentry workshop, which were all dominated by the mock-Gothic main building. The sixty boarding girls slept in the main house, while the boys slept in a modern block opposite. Within the walls were the library, with its desultory collection of books, their spines broken and covers ripped; the staffroom, thick with cigarette smoke and the sweet smell of dunked Rich Tea biscuits; and a dusty ballroom. The refectory was a hideous 1960s extension, designed with no sympathy for its Victorian neighbour.
In the shadow of the woods was the gym, with its ladder-clad walls, wooden horse and the lingering smell of unwashed socks, raw rubber and urine. A sunken expanse of lawn stretched along the sunny south side of the main house, the scene of many exhilarating games of all-school, bone-crunching British bulldog. Beyond the lawn and crumbling ha-ha lay the playing fields, large enough for a football pitch, the athletics track and a slightly decaying obstacle course, and beyond the fields was the Mickleham Bypass.
I remember very little about my four years of lessons there – not one inspiring teacher or one subject captured my imagination. Not only was the school an academic wasteland, but we lost all the team games we played against other schools. However, rather than smart with humiliation, we chose to play up to our reputation, celebrating the ever-greater losses: ‘We lost 13–1 to Farlington at netball this afternoon. ‘Well done, guys – it’s a record!’
I realise now that Box Hill’s strength lay in its diverse intake. After the protected world of Shamley Green, I became friends with people from Malaysia, Venezuela, Saudi Arabia, Yugoslavia and America. There were children of dethroned royals, of film stars and gangsters, as well as direct-grant pupils who had been failing in the state system and came to a small private school to be put back on the right track. My friends included girls from children’s homes, bright East End Afro-Caribbean kids who had fallen in with the wrong crowd and political exiles from the Middle East. Having such a wide range of friends from all socio-political and economic backgrounds was life-enhancing and defining.
The one payphone in the hall inevitably had a queue of three or four kids waiting to ring home during breaks or free time, which made it impossible for parents to contact their children. Between the twice-termly exeats, when we went home after lessons on Saturday afternoon and were back by 8 p.m. on Sunday night, and the three-day half terms, I had very little contact with my parents. Dad would take his annual leave during the first two weeks of June, when my parents always went to Menorca. My birthday was 3 June. My birthdays at Box Hill were marked by a call from Mum, frustrated by the effort of getting through. There would be a cheery rendering of ‘Happy Birthday’ followed by a gabbled ‘I can’t talk for long – this call is costing an arm and a leg!’ I would replace the receiver shrugging off the disappointment, each sting of rejection reminding me to toughen up and not expect too much support.
Birthdays were never a big deal, even when I was living at home. We would mark them with a token gift on our place setting at breakfast, but I don’t recall Mum ever organising a party in our honour. A few years later, I organised my own twenty-first in the barns at Tanyards. Never one to miss a trick, Mum suggested that the celebration double up as a fundraiser for a charity she was involved with. As a result, the invitation read, ‘Ted and Eve Branson invite you to celebrate Vanessa’s twenty-first, in aid of the Guildford Talking Newspaper for the Blind.’
One Saturday evening during my first term, in 1969, the girls’ house was glued to the television, watching a magazine programme about the young people to watch in the coming decade. The TV studio was full of inventors, scientists, writers and budding politicians all eagerly answering questions about their plans for the future with considered, articulate responses. Then, to my embarrassment, I noticed Richard sitting at the front, slightly slumped and clad in a chunky roll-neck sweater. His face was obscured by a mane of matted locks, the beginnings of a beard and a pair of black spectacles, one arm of which was fixed at the hinge with Elastoplast. The anchorman turned to him.
‘So, Richard… Branson,’ the TV host said, checking his clipboard, ‘do you have a vision for the 1970s?’
‘Yeah, well young people are really going to, umm…’ he answered, in his familiarly hesitant manner.
‘What do you mean exactly?’ the man with the microphone pushed.
‘Well, I mean . . .’ Richard floundered, and the man moved on to the next person. None of my schoolfriends realised he was my brother, and I didn’t say a word.
Nowadays stories of paedophilia are regularly in the news, but back then I think most of us lived in naivety. We trusted and talked to everyone, and if we experienced a ‘Mr Pilkington’ enjoying the thrill of exposing himself to little girls, or witnessed a man in dirty mackintosh playing with his flaccid penis behind the railway bridge during our cross country runs, we would dismiss it as sad and fundamentally harmless.
I did take a stand, however, when confronted by a very ill and damaged science teacher. His name was Vincent Derbyshire, and our nudging grins at his unfortunate initials and dishevelled appearance turned to opened-mouthed disbelief when he introduced himself during our first lesson with him.
‘My name is Vincent Derbyshire,’ he snuffled with a strange lisp, ‘and I come from outer space.’ He had our attention now. ‘I know that a number of you will find this fact hard to grasp but, trust me, it’s true.’
‘But sir,’ we said, ‘what do you mean?’
‘I can’t tell you all at the same time,’ he continued. ‘If you want to know more, you’ll have to come for a walk with me, one at a time, after school.’
I went to my housemistress to inform her about this lunatic, but she laughed it off and told me to stop being ridiculous. I then called Mum, who said much the same. The man was so weird and his story so outlandish, that no adult believed me.
For our next science class, I smuggled in my cassette recorder, which back in
1969 was a bulky machine that only just fitted into my desk, leaving a two-inch gap because the lid couldn’t close properly. I was terrified that the man from Mars was going to catch me. The rest of the class knew what was going on.
‘Sir, sir, tell us what planet you’re from!’ we chorused.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I arrived here by spaceship from a far-away planet.’
‘Why aren’t you green, sir?’
‘We have special powers, and can take on any form,’ he lisped. He had lost all authority at this point. ‘Look,’ he shouted, ‘I told you, if you really want to know the truth, you have to come for a walk with me after school.’
Bingo – we had him. I played the tape to my incredulous housemistress, and we never saw Vincent Derbyshire again. No one so much as mentioned the recording to me – whistle-blowing is a thankless task.
***
Back home for the long summer holidays, I realised that everything had changed. Even though I was only eleven, I’d experienced a wider outside world. The few kids of my age at Shamley Green seemed less interesting in comparison to my international friends. To make my sense of alienation worse, two bedrooms at Tanyards were now being let out to students from the Guildford Law School. Lindy and Richard had been ‘shuffled from the nest’ and Mum was utterly focused on Binibella.
That summer was the first time that I felt the shattering effects of loneliness. For two weeks Mags was away on holiday and Beatle had moved away following the death of her mother. I saw Mishi a couple of times, but we had little in common. I had no one to call on, and my new schoolfriends were too young to travel to me on their own. I moaned a bit to Mum, who reminded me that I was incredibly lucky, with a pony, dogs and acres of land to play on. She told me I should write, but this was not an easy way to pass the time as a solitary eleven-year-old who had done so little reading. I made myself a den in one of the barns and tried writing a diary. I played snooker with myself and took myself for walks in the woods, but my head prickled with loneliness. Mum’s PA, Evelyn, took pity on me – she’d noticed my budding breasts (she was not alone – I’d been nicknamed ‘Sprout’ at school) and drove me into Guildford to buy my first bra. I remember holding back tears as a virtual stranger passed me training bras through the flapping changing room curtain.
One day, I made a half-hearted attempt to train my old pony, Snowy, on a lunge rein, but he was over twenty years old by this stage and didn’t have a clue what I was trying to do. Before long he had backed in my direction and given me a well-aimed kick in the chest. Thoroughly winded and gasping for breath, I lay on the ground feeling sorry for myself as Snowy stood by my side, nibbling on some grass.
Mags and I began our brief shoplifting career in the Guildford branch of WH Smith. We would catch the number 9 bus into town and then lurk suspiciously in the aisles before indicating to each other that the coast was clear and stuffing a rubber or pencil sharpener into our pockets. It was thrilling. Later that holiday we took the train to London. I had driven with my parents to see Richard a few times but had never arrived at Waterloo station with the whole city to explore. In our naivety we spent the day on the Underground, asking everyone that would engage with us where we should go shopping. We had return tickets back to Guildford but no money, and for some reason ended up in Fenwick’s on New Bond Street, one of the most exclusive department stores in London.
I can’t remember talking to Mags about any plans to shoplift, but I was well aware of what was going on in the changing cubicle next to mine and was thrilled by her audacity. We then sheepishly walked towards the exit when, with a few paces to go, the heavy hand of the store detective was on our shoulders. As he marched us to his office, I felt like my world had come to an end. My head pounded and sweat was pumping from every pore of my trembling body. My father often worked at Wells Street Magistrates Court barely a mile away, prosecuting petty shoplifters like us every day. The shame this would bring on my family was beyond my imagination.
The detective went through the bag Mags was carrying and found a top stuffed under a carefully placed raincoat. He pulled it out between thumb and forefinger, holding it up as if it were a dirty nappy.
‘Now what have we here?’ he asked.
Mags gave the performance of her life. ‘Please forgive me,’ she sniffed, beginning to cry. ‘My father died last week and, and…’ At this, she began to wail. I looked at the man’s face to see which way this was going to go.
‘My dear,’ said the store detective. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I loved him so much,’ Mags bawled, blowing her snotty nose into the hanky offered by the man. I sat there, completely speechless, until the detective stood up and walked us, this time with a protective arm around our shoulders, to the shop exit.
He waved us goodbye and Mags and I spun on our heels and ran for our lives. That had certainly been an adventure, but not one to be repeated. Mags should have become an actress – her father was indeed dead, but he had gone to meet his Maker several years before.
My loneliness came to an end when we Bransons boarded a plane bound for Menorca, which was quite a journey in 1969. We took a jet plane to Majorca and then a twin-engined propeller plane to Mahon Airport. The second flight was memorable – the aged plane flew through a storm and was buffeted about alarmingly. Lindy and I gripped each other’s hands as we were tossed this way and that, my sister comforting me with the words, ‘We’re going to die, Nessie. We’re going to die.’ We clutched each other, giggling hysterically, and didn’t let go until we were safely on the runway.
Casa Candy was a tiny sugar cube of a house, and I revelled in the idea of spending an entire month with the family in such close proximity. Lindy and I shared a room that was only just big enough for a pair of narrow bunk beds. The galley kitchen led directly onto the sitting room, with a built-in bench and dining table at one end, and a balcony overlooking the fishermen’s slipway at the other. My parents had a bedroom that looked out to sea, and Richard slept in the boathouse below.
Mum loved fishermen as much as she loved gypsies, and soon after arriving she bought Margareta, a Menorcan fishing boat. Dad used to joke that the boat was the same age as him and deteriorating at about the same pace!
The challenge was on. Mum spent hours practising her appalling Spanish by talking to an endlessly patient fisherman and learned that the best time to fish was under a full moon. ‘It’s easy,’ he’d assured her. ‘You feed a slither of electric light flex down the shaft of a number of hooks, attach the hooks to each line and drop them overboard. When you jiggle them up and down, the flex catches the light of the moon and the fish will leap onto the hooks.’ Then, as an afterthought, he added, ‘Oh yes – but you have to be at least two kilometres offshore.’
The boat was washed down and Dad tinkered with the inboard engine and prepared the lines. He made sure he stowed a lead cosh on board to whack any fish we caught over the head, along with a bucket to store them in. Dad ensured that we had enough provisions to survive if the engine cut out and we drifted towards North Africa, which meant that, along with water and biscuits, a flagon of gin and a bottle of whisky were added. We were ready to go.
Dad pointed to the sky where two seagulls were circulating overhead. ‘Do you know why you never see a gull flying on its own?’ he asked. We racked our brains, trying to remember something we’d been taught at school. ‘Shall I tell you?’ he chortled. ‘It’s because one good tern deserves another!’
‘Oh Daddy,’ we groaned, as we cast Margareta off from her moorings.
I’ve always loved being outdoors at night and found setting off to sea in the dark absolutely thrilling. Being in a fishing boat with my entire family as we travelled across the late-summer waters of the Mediterranean under a starlit sky was like something from a dream. The trusty inboard throbbed reassuringly until the lights of the village were mere specks in the distance. Just when we thought the night couldn’t become more magical, Dad pointed out a trail of phosphorescence behind us, as the heavy
propeller cut through the sea.
When the village lights were almost invisible, Dad cut the engine, took a swig of gin and handed each of us a fishing line. We dropped them into the water and jiggled them about as instructed; within a minute, Lindy shrieked, ‘I think I’ve caught something!’
‘Pull up your line!’ we yelled, and up it came with six squirming fish attached. We all whooped and then realised that our own lines were also being tugged. There followed a scene of carnage, as a multitude of silver fish flapped about on deck, resisting being coshed over the head by Dad. It took a while for us girls to dare to unhook the wretched things, their slimy bodies wriggled unhelpfully, their gristly mouths stubbornly attached to the hooks. Within half an hour the white deck was red and flecked with bits of fish. We had drifted alarmingly. There was now no sign of land. Our bucket was full and it was time to go home.
Dad wound the rope around the starter motor and gave it a yank; the engine spluttered but failed to fire.
‘Ha, no worries,’ he mumbled, as he re-wound the rope.
Another pull, another splutter.
‘Ha, no worries,’ said Dad again, as he relit his pipe, took another swig of gin and re-wound the rope.
‘Third time lucky,’ he said, pulling the starter with one last almighty heave, fearful that another false start would flood the engine. We all fell about laughing as the rope snapped and he flew backwards.
‘Oh Lord,’ he chuckled. ‘Don’t worry, we have biscuits, water and gin on board. Come on, Richard, we’re going to have to row for our lives!’
Any other parents would have regarded our situation – being stranded several miles out at sea, at 1 a.m., on a leaky, wooden, blood-soaked boat – as a potential catastrophe, but not ours, who saw it as a team-building experience, a source of a good story and an awfully big adventure. Richard and Dad took it in turns to row the boat back to shore, while we passed an hour happily serenading them with ‘What Shall We Do With the Drunken Sailor?’ and ‘We’re All Going on a Summer Holiday’. Then, lulled by the rhythm of the rowing, I lay my head on Mum’s lap and slept while we made our way home to the village, one stroke at a time.
One Hundred Summers Page 13