One Young Fool in Dorset

by Victoria Twead

  My group of friends was not sporty at all. Without question, the subject I disliked most was Physical Education, and the PE teacher was terrifying.

  “Move!” she bawled. “Go after the ball, don’t just stand there!”

  Which was worse, hockey in the freezing cold, or playing rounders in the summer? On the playing fields, the only skill Jo, Hilary, Sally and I perfected was making daisy chains and wearing them as necklaces and crowns. I detested the smell of the changing rooms, and I loathed the white Airtex shirts and chafing culottes we had to wear.

  And as if netball, rounders or hockey practice wasn’t bad enough, the lesson always ended with a shower. We didn’t have individual cubicles, it was a long line of water jets we had to run through.

  I was mortified, and tried everything to get out of both PE and the shower run. I was already painfully shy, and the thought of stripping off all my clothes in front of everyone was excruciating, particularly as I was slow to develop. I didn’t want to reveal my flat chest to the world.

  As each girl ran through the shower, her name was ticked off on the register. If it was your ‘time of the month’, you whispered the fact to the PE mistress, and you were excused from showering. Every lesson I’d claim it was my time of the month and all went well for a few weeks. Then the PE mistress noticed the row of P’s next to my name, and a letter was sent back to my parents expressing concern and suggesting I might need a visit to the doctor.

  I tried to explain why I lied. Both my father and mother frequently walked around the house and garden with no clothes on, so had no sympathy for me at all.

  “Ach, we’re all built the same!” said my mother.

  But we’re not! I screamed inside my head. You should see Iris, she’s got a HUGE bust, and so has everybody, and my chest is as flat as a board. I’m the only one who isn’t wearing a bra yet!

  There was nothing else for it, the showers had to be sabotaged. We all hated the showers, and we plotted a way to stop them for ever.

  I don’t remember who thought of it, (was it Jo, Hilary, Sally or me?) and I don’t remember who carried out the deed, although I think it may have been me... I stole the keys that turned the shower on, and I hurled them from the window of the train.

  Of course, the PE mistress reported the loss to the headmistress. The crime was announced in assembly, with orders for the culprit to return them immediately. But the best news was that the keys took ages to replace, so for weeks we didn’t have to run through the shower.

  Result!

  As my chest remained flat, I resolved to do something about that, too.

  14 Bras and Other Agonies

  Quiche Lorraine

  It didn’t matter how often I lifted my vest and shirt to examine my progress, nothing seemed to be happening. My chest remained as flat as a becalmed lake.

  There were a few girls in my class who still weren’t wearing bras, but I was the last of my group. I decided a little white lie might be in order.

  My mother was washing up, which was a good time to catch her before she disappeared into the garden. I grabbed a drying-up towel, and took a deep breath.

  “Um, the PE teacher took me aside. She says it’s time I wore a bra,” I said, drying a plate so thoroughly I nearly rubbed the pattern off.

  My mother stopped and stared at me, her hands still in the suds.

  “She did what? Ach, but your chest is completely flat!”

  I winced.

  “I know, but that’s what she said...”

  “Ridiculous! Well, I suppose we’ll have to buy one.”

  Success!

  My friends all lived in Poole and had masses of shops to choose from, but Wareham offered only one possibility. It wasn’t a department store with a lingerie department. It was a general store with a cobwebby, bow-fronted window and a bell that clanged when you pushed the door open. If my memory serves me correctly, it was called Cullens and it sold a little bit of just about everything. There were sweets in jars, groceries, a Lyons Maid ice cream freezer, and gardening implements. Cullens also sold a few items of clothes, like aprons, old ladies’ bloomers and babies’ bibs.

  That Saturday, my mother marched me into Cullens. As she pushed open the door, the bell clanged, announcing our entry.

  “Ach, that ridiculous school has insisted that my daughter must wear a bra!” she declared to the whole shop.

  I cringed, my face turning beetroot as all the customers in the shop swung round to stare at me and my chest.

  “Do you sell very small bras?” asked my mother.

  My face flamed anew.

  “I believe we have a couple,” said the middle-aged assistant. “Let me measure…”

  In full view of everybody, she leaned over the counter and slipped a tape measure around me.

  “Hmm… Yes, very broad back but nothing at all in front,” she mused.

  I wanted the wooden floorboards under my feet to slide apart and the floor to swallow me up.

  “These newfangled teachers, what are they thinking of?” tutted the assistant to nobody in particular. “Now, let me see… Ah, yes.”

  She pulled down an ancient-looking brown box from a high shelf, and blew the dust off it. She lifted the lid and we gazed at the garment nestled in tissue paper.

  “Yes,” she said, drawing it out, “this should do.”

  The bra was hideous. It was stiff, plain white cotton, and the cups were the shape of ice cream cones, rather like Madonna’s would be many years in the future. It wasn’t a bit like my friends’ bras, all lacy and wispy with tiny flowers sewn on.

  “I think this one will fit,” said the assistant.

  “Ach, she’ll have to try it on,” said my mother.

  What? This is a general store, it doesn’t have a fitting room!

  “Hmm…” said the lady, “come into the store room. There’s no door but we can do it behind a pile of boxes.”

  Could this day get any worse?

  Behind the pile of boxes, my mother and the lady assistant watched me pull my jumper and vest off, and fumble with the hook and eye of the ghastly garment. I was mortified by their close scrutiny. Being thirteen isn’t easy at the best of times.

  “Yes, that’ll have to do,” said my mother, poking one cup with her forefinger and leaving a dent. “She’ll have to grow into it.”

  I looked down. I had some growing to do because the cups were completely empty.

  “Would you like to keep it on, dear?” the assistant asked me.

  “Yes, please,” I answered, pulling on my vest and jumper as quickly as I could before somebody walked in.

  Back at home, I mastered the art of the sock-fill. With careful moulding, I could stuff my bra with socks and become a 34A in minutes. I had to stay alert though, because if I moved about too much, one side was liable to drop out without warning.

  My mother had an extremely low opinion of teachers and their requests. In Domestic Science, one term’s assignment was to make a reversible tabard.

  “What is it you are doing?” asked my mother.

  “We’re going to make this reversible tabard,” I said, showing her a sketch. “We have to bring enough fabric for it. And a zip. And buttons.”

  “A what?”

  “A reversible tabard.”

  “But what is this thing for?”

  “Um… I don’t know really.”

  “Ridiculous! I shall phone the school.”

  Which, of course, she did.

  I didn’t hear the interchange because I was at school, but it was very clear that my mother’s opinions had been passed to Miss Chapman, my Domestic Science teacher. At the next sewing class, she singled me out. Her sharp nose was pink with indignation.

  “Victoria, I believe your mother phoned the school?”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  I was cringing already. I knew what my mother was like in full flow.

  “Would you kindly tell your mother that this term’s assignment is to make an extremely useful taba
rd.”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “Please tell your mother that sewing the tabard will teach you all kinds of sewing-machine skills.”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “And tell her you will be receiving invaluable guidance on how to put in a zip.”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “And you will learn how to make buttonholes. All essential life skills.”

  “Yes, Miss. But, Miss, what is a tabard?”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake!” Miss Chapman’s nose was growing pink again. “As I said, it’s an extremely useful garment. You can wear it at the beach. And it’s reversible, so you can choose which side to wear.”

  I relayed Miss Chapman’s message back to my mother who snorted, clearly unimpressed. At the end of term, my tabard was finished and I wouldn’t be seen dead in it. I never wore it, and as far as I know, my classmates didn’t wear theirs either.

  My mother was also very forthright when it came to Cookery. Unfortunately, Miss Chapman taught this subject too. Every week we were given a list of ingredients to bring for the following week.

  “Ach, what’s this nonsense?” she would ask, running her eye down the letter I’d handed her from school. “Kwitchy? What’s Kwitchy Lorraine?”

  “Quiche. Quiche Lorraine.”

  “Who eats this rubbish? I shall give you the ingredients for the pastry, but I’m not wasting perfectly good cheese and bacon.”

  At the end of the lesson, we all put our finished dishes out on display. All my friends’ quiches looked and smelled wonderful, golden and delicious.

  My pastry-only dish looked ridiculous.

  I dreaded Cookery. Miss Chapman only had to look at me for her nose to start turning pink, and my end of term grade was understandably poor. As soon as I could, I dropped Domestic Science like a red-hot platter.

  Luckily, I learned everything I needed to know about cooking and sewing from Auntie Jean. If Miss Chapman had seen the things I produced at Annabel’s house, I think she would have been surprised.

  * * *

  School Report

  English: Victoria is capable of producing good work. Unfortunately, she rarely does.

  Mathematics: Victoria seems unable to grasp the fundamental principles.

  Domestic Science: Victoria’s work is extremely variable.

  PE: I fear only a gargantuan effort will help Victoria improve.

  * * *

  Oh, how happily I dropped Latin and Domestic Science! I would have dropped Physical Education and Maths too, had I been allowed, but there were education laws in place to stop me from doing that. I continued with Geography, even though we only ever seemed to learn about rubber farming and tea plantations. I longed to learn about countries like Spain, which even then held an attraction for me. How surprised would I have been if I’d known that my destiny was to live in a tiny Spanish mountain village one day?

  I remember two Geography teachers. One was pleasant enough, but had the annoying habit of saying ‘fair enough’ dozens of times during a lesson. We used to keep a tally sheet, marking it off every time she said ‘fair enough’. I think 32 was the record in one lesson.

  The other Geography teacher was rather slovenly in appearance. Her black stockings often had holes or ladders, revealing unappetizing expanses of white flesh. She was hugely over-endowed, and would come into the classroom, sit at the teachers’ desk and, accompanied with an audible sigh of relief, lift up her ample bosom to rest on the desk in front of her.

  I didn’t enjoy any subjects particularly, except English and Art.

  I wasn’t especially skilled in art, but I could draw and paint reasonably well. For me, art was a relaxation; while my hands sketched or painted, my head was in the clouds, weaving stories, and daydreaming.

  Although English was much more disciplined, I loved it. Every new book was a stepping stone to a new world, and into other people’s lives and adventures. In those days, ‘Comprehension’ exercises were popular. We had to read an excerpt from a book, then answer questions about it. I would read the excerpt, which could be from any classic like Treasure Island, Black Beauty, or Nineteen Eighty-Four. When it came to an end, I’d be annoyed. What happened next? So I’d take the book out of the library and read every spare moment I had.

  Most adults can name at least one teacher they had in childhood who inspired them. For me, it was our formidable English teacher, Mrs Hall. Nobody ever forgot to do the homework she set, or talked during her lessons. She had our absolute attention at all times, and we respected her. I know I have Mrs Hall to thank for learning the basics of English language, and stylistic devices.

  Years later, I wondered what she would have thought had she known I would become an English teacher. And more recently, what would she have said if she’d known I became a writer? I think she’d have stared with disbelief, much as I still do now.

  However, I don’t think she would have been very impressed had she read my books. I think she would have whipped out her red pen and started crossing out and scribbling comments in the margin, right from page one.

  I was at a bit of a disadvantage because I lived so far from my school. I didn’t have any friends in Wareham because they went to other schools, so I never met anybody, except for Annabel, my friend and neighbour.

  Annabel and her parents were not regular churchgoers, and neither was my family. Had I known about my mother’s background, I would have understood why. The events behind that tale I shan’t divulge now, it belongs in another Old Fools book.

  I don’t really know why Annabel decided to go to confirmation classes but I went along too. I’m ashamed to admit it was the thought of wearing a beautiful white dress that attracted me, not the meaning behind the ceremony.

  I didn’t mind the confirmation classes which were held at the vicarage. The vicar was a kind, fatherly man, easily embarrassed, who never tested to check if we had been listening. As he droned on about the Kingdom of Heaven, I disappeared inside my head, as usual. Auntie Jean helped us to choose white broderie anglaise fabric, then lay out patterns, and cut and sew our dresses.

  The day of our confirmation arrived. I loved my dress and white shoes. We’d been told to bring posies of flowers, if we wanted, to hold when our photographs were taken before and after the ceremony. Auntie Jean had made ours, using flowers from her garden. She’d wound white satin ribbon round the stems, finishing it off with a bow, and the result was very pretty.

  We were standing in the churchyard before the service as Auntie Jean took our photographs, when the vicar appeared, smiling and benevolent.

  “That’s a delightful posy of flowers you have there, Victoria,” he smiled. “Are they scented?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  The next few moments were unfortunate. Just as I helpfully held up my posy for him to sniff, the vicar bent down to smell it. The poor man’s face was buried deep in my bunch of flowers.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” I said, horrified, as the vicar straightened hurriedly, a smudge of yellow pollen on the end of his nose.

  “That’s quite all right,” he said, “it wasn’t your fault...ah...ah...ahtishoo!”

  He pulled out a large white handkerchief from somewhere in the folds of his surplice and blew his nose heartily.

  But the damage was done.

  Lady St Mary is a church of Anglo-Saxon origin, not far from Wareham quay on the river Frome. It is unusual as the church tower sports a fish, and being very large inside, every sound echoes. The visiting bishop, resplendent in his embroidered robes, conducted the confirmation service.

  Lady St Mary Church, Wareham

  “Heavenly Father, by the power of your Holy Spirit…”

  “Ah...TISHOO!” came from the side of the church.

  The bishop’s eyebrows twitched but he ploughed on.

  “Guide and strengthen us by the same Spirit…”

  “Ah...TISHOO!”

  It was like an explosion, the sound bouncing off the stone walls and the unique hexagonal le
ad font which dates back to the year 1200.

  The poor vicar buried his red face in his handkerchief as the bishop’s cold eyes lighted on him.

  “Almighty and ever-living God, you have given these your servants...”

  “Ah...TISHOO!”

  And so the service continued, punctuated by the vicar’s sneezes. And, sadly, I was the one to blame.

  * * *

  “Ach, why don’t you join Wareham Youth Club?” asked my mother, tired of hearing me complain that my friends lived so far away and I couldn’t see them except at school.

  I thought about it. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea. After all, I might meet some boys.

  15 Youths and Cake

  Clotted Cream Chocolate Cake

  The Youth Club sessions were held in some kind of community hall in Wareham. I vaguely remember the hall being on the quay, behind black metal gates, beside The Quay Inn, but I may be wrong. My first visit was terrifying and taught me that I was different. I didn’t speak like the other kids did. I had a posh public school accent and the other kids spoke with broad Dorset accents.

  None were unkind to me or pointed out my strange way of speaking much beyond, “’Ere, why d’you talk funny?” but I wasn’t comfortable, so I remained silent unless absolutely necessary.

  Most of the Youth Club members were girls. They hung around in groups, talking about clothes and watching the few boys from the corners of their eyes. I didn’t have many clothes, so I raided my sister’s wardrobe, hoping I might fit in better if I paid more attention to fashion.

  My sister was good at sewing and had loads of mini dresses hanging in her wardrobe. They didn’t really fit me very well as I was still lacking in the bosom department, and I was taller and bigger-built than my sister, but that didn’t stop me borrowing them, one by one. My sister also had quite a fetish for shoes. I tried them on and discovered they were too tight for me and pinched.

  Did that stop me? No, of course not. I walked down to the Youth Club in dresses that were too tight, and shoes that gave me blisters, confident that the other girls would accept me now. I felt far more fashionable and walked a little taller. I was desperate to fit in.