Peggy Stack used to give concerts at the school, singing songs like ‘There’s a Hole in My Bucket’ and ‘A Frog He Would a-Wooing Go’ (‘with a rowley, powley, gammon and spinach’), her fingers clasped in front of her, both thumbs and index fingers lightly touching. But Miss Stack’s true passion was for Robert Browning; on her retirement she wrote an excellent book on the letters of Robert and Elizabeth Browning. I was quite frightened of her, but not frightened enough to be well-behaved — Miss Stack had grey hair by the time I left. When Mummy died, she wrote me a most beautiful letter in her immaculate, immediately recognisable handwriting.
Many years later I was highly entertained to read my own mock obituary in our OHS form magazine of the time.[5]
And now we must say our goodbyes to M*R**M who has inflicted the school with her presence since she was a happy member of the lower kindergarten. She has offered the school many proofs of her abounding energy and versatility. Her name has always been the first one entered in the Report Book since she was eligible for reports; her familiar face, framed in that flowing aura of raven locks greeted the Detention Mistress on countless Thursday afternoons and I myself have often had the pleasure of calling her to my room. She was School Boxing Champion from 1953–1955 during which time three of her challengers were sent to the Churchill [hospital]. Her merry voice booming along the corridors has cheered many a despairing examinee and enlivened many a flagging Hockey team, often at the same time. We send our best wishes and love to M*R**M in her new career as Probation Officer and hope she will often come and see us again in her official capacity.
I can’t imagine why the authors asked to remain anonymous.
I wanted to stand out, to be odd and talked about. It worries me now that my behaviour may just have been a therapy for my insecurities, but no such introspection deterred me then. I carried a collection of stones around with me for a while and would spend a long time, dramatically arranging them on my desk at the start of lessons and loudly introducing them to the class. ‘This [half-brick] is Methuselah, he’s sensitive, please don’t upset him.’ I had become the form wag, and people laughed at my exploits; even at sports — indeed, especially at sports — where I was spectacularly inadequate; if a team were being chosen, I would always be the last to be picked. I realised early on that making people laugh was as useful as athletic skill. The only way I could score at hockey (I played in the left inner position) would be to run in a funny way or shout out rude things. My opponents would be forced to stop because they were in paroxysms of laughter and then I’d be off with the ball, dribbling clumsily in the direction of the goal. I didn’t have to engage in the unseemly hurly burly of a tackle and I was quite fast. I’ve always seen myself as a little, darting thing but now, alas, I have to admit that vision is wholly incorrect.
I realised then, I suppose, that laughter was like love and, then as now, I can’t get enough of it. When I asked Liz Hodgkin, still one of my closest friends, what I was like at school, she said I was always asking: ‘Do you like me?’ I desperately wanted to be liked. I’d do almost anything to be liked.
I haven’t changed.
Oh, Miriam!
At school, I wore my hair in great glossy bunches on either side of my head, and I was naughty. My hair was naughty, too. For the whole of my life, my hair has caused comment — sometimes envy, sometimes revulsion. Mummy used olive oil to try and tame it. It certainly gave it a shine, but it could have imparted an odour. I remember in the third form, Valerie Scott said loudly, ‘Your hair smells.’ I punched her to the ground and she had to go to hospital. Thankfully, she’s still a valued chum.
I answered back in lessons. When Miss Willetts came in and said briskly, ‘Right!’, I said loudly and immediately, ‘Left!’ I was sent out for that. Most teachers got used to it, and my classmates egged me on to do the things they might not have dared to do themselves.
In the upper fifth, I decided to stage a ‘dare’. I pretended to faint in the playground. It was a fine day, during our fifteen-minute morning break, after which everyone went back up to the form rooms. But not me. As I collapsed onto the asphalt and lay flat on my back, I could see my form-mates above, peering out of the windows, giggling, wanting to see the results of my ‘faint’. There was a pause while teachers were summoned. Miss Jackson, the maths teacher, arrived: ‘Get up, get up, Miriam!’ Then she kicked me and said, ‘Oh, she’s just shamming.’ Miss Jackson, who was an extremely nice woman apart from The Kick, was one of the teachers you remember. She was very tall, straight up and down, no chest or hips to speak of, legs like tree trunks encased in very thick lisle stockings, and she always wore a light brown tweed suit.
But I continued to lie there on the ground, eyes closed, in my pretend swoon. This went on so long that the teachers who had gathered started to get really worried. By the end of break, it seemed as if the whole school was standing at the windows, watching to see what would happen next. I lay still, occasionally moaning but, eventually, Miss Brown (biology — memorable for her extraordinary hair style: two sharply etched rolls on each side of her otherwise cropped head) who was wonderfully tender-hearted, came and said, ‘Come and lie down, Miriam.’ I had to lie down in the quiet room with a cup of hot water (I never drank tea and still don’t) until it was decided I had suffered no ill-effects and could return to the classroom. I was greeted with acclamation; and it seems everyone who was there remembers this jape.
Another time, in Miss Willett’s French class, I dressed up as a French lady who had come to inspect the school for her daughter. I borrowed Mummy’s best fur coat and her court shoes, and I tripped into the classroom, saying in a very thick French accent, ‘Oh, I’m zo veery sorry to interrupt everyzing. I am veery interested in how you teach ze French in ze school.’ I rolled my r’s in a pretty good approximation of a French accent. The whole class was writhing with laughter and even Miss Willetts tried not to smile as she said, ‘Come along, Miriam, you’re wasting time.’ To which I replied, ‘Oh, zo you do not vant me to stay? Well, zen, I will go.’ And with a flounce of Mummy’s fur coat, I stepped out into the hall (and into yet another detention).
On one frightful occasion, I saw a child bending over in the corridor in front of me and, of course, I rushed up to the presented bottom and gave it a resounding THWACK! The figure straightened up and, to my horror, I saw it was not a child but Miss Maddron (head of French). Miss Maddron was one of the special ones: she was tiny and slim, but carried herself very straight and wielded immediate and powerful authority. She wasn’t much taller than the shortest child, but taught brilliantly and had everyone’s undivided attention. The abject shock on my face was enough to clear me of any impertinence, and not a word was said as I fled up the corridor. I liked her tremendously; I wasn’t very good at French, but I did try.