Going Steady at Wombwell Hall

Going Steady was a state most of us hankered after in Form 1SC at Wombwell Hall even though those known for being sensible couldn’t help noting that there was Plenty of Time which is what their mother or even their grandmother had recently said. Having a Proper Boyfriend was a status symbol in those days when you were round about your fifteenth birthday and couldn’t help feeling that time was running out no matter what anyone told you.

Of course I’m not talking about all of us because there were those in Form 1SC for whom all thoughts of the opposite sex were largely absent. These were the girls whom certain members of the staff looked upon favourably, girls who continually got B+ and even an occasional A for their analysis of the tributaries of The Nile and wrote essays detailing how long the Dark Ages had been and how dark they eventually were. Girls like Valerie Goldsack and Priscilla Horsfall who never ever got a C+ for Effort and were not prone to measuring each other’s vital statistics and comparing bra sizes. These were the girls who were eventually to be told that they were undoubtedly University Material and were quite unlike the rest of us sadly destined merely for routine office work. There was a distinct possibility that these two might be heading for Law or Science – even the hallowed halls of Medicine perhaps!

A few of those being so energetically trained by Miss Hart and Miss Wood towards the shorthand and typing speeds required to keep the wheels of business in North Kent turning had already given up on the complexities of Sir Isaac Pitman’s System of Shorthand Writing. Those girls had announced that their aspirations reached no further than a common or garden Typing Pool. Mary Brent and Kathleen Connelly for instance aimed no further than Exercise 98 in The New Course (Gentlemen: your attention is called to the fact that students must register for the summer session before 4th July …… etc) and following their lead Sally Warnett courageously announced that she could see no future at all in Shorthand, her aunt having told her that something called Dictaphone Typing would soon overtake it in all forward thinking businesses.

Shorthand writing was undoubtedly difficult and for some it proved to be impossible to master. The small clutch of Pitman Failures were thus allowed to drop the subject from their weekly timetable and for them extra sessions in Basic Accounting were added. The rest of us organized ourselves into loose groups of those who still found Pitman’s incredibly difficult but were willing to stick at it for the sake of a higher weekly wage in the years to come and those who did not actually find it too nerve wracking.

There was a distinct feeling of ease and even contentment in being part of a group that generally found the life’s work of Sir Isaac did not eat away at the psyche in the early hours of the morning. Shirley, Norma, Pamela, Pauline, Julia, Pat and I merged together in an untidy friendship cluster, mostly achieving similar levels of achievement in the subjects that were destined to dominate our early teenage years and beyond. And because there was an academic unity between us we now spilled out of the classrooms together on morning and lunch breaks sharing all manner of confidences.

Shorthand did not completely govern our lives because as I have said, because we were also extremely interested in boys although as we spent most of our time within the confines of a 1950s Girls School we did not get huge opportunities to meet many. Shirley was the only one of us who seemed to have any success whatsoever in this area, easily attracting a succession of what were loosely termed The Sea School Boys. Pat said that this was only because Shirley worked harder at it than the rest of us and in any case her own father had expressly forbidden her under any circumstances from doing what he called Fraternising with Seamen. Given what was to transpire within a year or two concerning Pat’s association with the opposite sex which would see her confined to a Reform School for a period of time you could only agree that her father had her best interests at heart. But of course we didn’t realise that at the time when we were busy comparing the relative merits of our parents and what they would or would not allow us to do.

The Gravesend Sea Training School had been founded in 1918 following the First World War to train boys aged 15 to 17 who wished to join the Merchant Navy and help replace those men who had been lost in the war. Over time approximately 70,000 boys were trained there and it became known as the best sea training establishment in the world. Eventually a purpose built college was to be opened at Gravesend, designed to replace both the old Sea School and TS Vindicatrix at Sharpness and to be called the National Sea Training College. In 1955 and 1956 the boys were a handsome bunch with their clean, scrubbed look, their neat hair cuts and their natty uniforms. They easily became a magnet for local girls who had moved into their teens and a fair number of those already working in jobs at places like Woolworths, Marks & Spencers and Featherstones, not to mention the local factories.

As a group the only thing we girls from 1SC had in common was our relatively rapid Pitmans’ prowess and we certainly did not agree about everything. What we were totally in accord with, however, was that of the seven of us Shirley was definitely having the most success with the opposite sex which Pat had early on persuaded us was totally on account of her forward thinking parents. Pauline and Pamela, however, who lived quite close to Shirley, maintained that as a family they were not quite as permissive as we would believe and their daughter’s triumph was more likely due to her uncommonly good looks. It was true that she was a startlingly attractive child with dark curly hair, wide brown eyes and a pleasant demeanour. The staff certainly thought so, Miss Eatch commenting one morning that in the staff room she was known as `that extraordinarily pretty little girl in 1SC’, a remark that seemed to mortify the person it was intended to compliment. At morning break Shirley, still slightly embarrassed told us as we huddled over the bottles of warm milk we were forced to drink that as far as she was concerned she didn’t care what her face looked like – pretty or ugly, it was all the same to her. She was only concerned, she added, that her Bust, Waist & Hips measured up to what was considered desirable. Vital Statistics were just that – vital! Nothing else mattered.

We as one then aimed towards the 36-23-34 that Shirley now assured us was what would ensure we caught the eye of the lads destined for the Merchant Navy, and should we fail she added that a padded bra might do the trick for a while. Pamela who did not yet own a bra of any description looked horrified. As I unfortunately already sported breast development that was to eventually become embarrassing and attract far too much attention from plasterers and carpenters on building sites, I assumed a look of disapproval. Pauline, not totally understanding disapproval told me in a far too loud voice that I would have been fashionable at the turn of the century when women wore bustles and had hour glass figures.

Shirley was the first to enlighten us that once you were Going Steady your boyfriend would be expected to buy you gifts like perfume and jewelry. Mariners, she said, were good at that because being a sophisticated group they knew what a girl’s expectations might be. Quite apart from that when they did trips to foreign shores, as was part of the Sea School Training, they would return with more exotic items than could be found locally. Her current Steady had given her Evening in Paris fragrance and bath crystals for her fifteenth birthday but when he came back from New Zealand it would most likely be jewelry. We were definitely impressed.

It was to be weeks before he returned of course but to make sure we did not forget his obligations even if he should lapse and do so himself, Shirley read excerpts of his frequent letters to us and made certain that we admired the envelopes, each adorned with S W A L K which in itself seemed to irritate Miss S Smith when she confiscated one that was being passed around her English class. This was not surprising when we were supposed to be immersed in analyzing the difference between a Noun Phrase and an Adjective Phrase. Norma who was still giggling when the envelope left her hands and had been passed on to a girl called Yvonne was curtly told she might collect it at the end of the period and so she immediately felt forced to clarify that it belonged to Shirley and she, Norma, did not have a boyfriend who would write such childish things on envelopes. Miss S Smith asked her if she realized that the childish thing was called an Acronym and Norma said she did not and probably neither did Shirley whereupon Miss S Smith told her not to be impertinent and the rest of us looked superior and tried hard not to giggle.

We had reached the very end of the term before Shirley’s current Love returned to compliment her with the promised jewelry which she said she hoped would not turn out to be pearls because they were a bit middle aged but she would certainly not say No to a small diamond. She brought the small, carefully wrapped package to school with her and even read segments of the letter than accompanied it to us. We watched in fascination as she began to discard the pale blue tissue paper and sellotape. There was a small box inside and leaning forward, we all began to get more excited. Shirley was smiling and trying to look nonchalant as she said she hoped it wasn’t a ring because that would be a bit presumptious. Her mother had said she was far too young to get Serious and she agreed.

There was silence when the little wooden earrings were revealed. Pat said politely that she thought they might be Kiwis, a flightless bird important to New Zealanders. Norma said they were very nicely made. Shirley shrugged and said she might not ever wear them because they were clip-ons and had we not noticed that her ears were pierced. Anyway, she added, she’d gone off him as a Steady. He was a bit boring.

A Possible Return to Fascism

I should never have started watching those hypnotic clips of Piers Morgan exhibiting his strengths and his weaknesses on a programme called Good Morning Britain. It was supposed to be light relief whilst weaning myself away from Jordan Peterson and I only started watching him because friends and acquaintances, who I now understand to be URF&A ….Ultra Right Friends & - you get my drift, told me that he spoke a lot of sense (UR sense of course). Jordan Peterson can be addictive to people like me who are somewhat lacking in sensitivity and correct thinking. When I stumbled across Piers Morgan I found he was even more so. Quite apart from the fact that he appeared to have very little sympathy or emotional alignment with those he was interviewing, the fact that everyone shouted over everyone else in a rather belligerent manner was distracting. We in the Southern Hemisphere have been conditioned over thirty or forty years to allow each other to air unacceptable opinions in a less antagonistic way. In fact we are trained in kindergarten and become accustomed to the idea that only he/she who is holding the pink bunny or the yellow ball is allowed to speak. This does create a false sense of tolerance I agree as we deftly dodge the moment when the actuality of our unpopular views will be exposed for all to see and we are forced to hang our heads in shame.

Piers Morgan was very bad for me because I found myself agreeing with most of his UR views. I realized by the time we got to the programme about gender change in under tens that my mother had been quite right about me being Easily Led. I had now clearly fallen in with the Wrong Crowd. Later in transglobe three am discussion with Jessica in Islington she pointed out not for the first time that once upon a time I was much more accepting of such ideas and wouldn’t my late Auntie Queenie have most likely benefited from some kind of surgical intervention early on in her life? From what Jessica remembered back in the day most of the Constant family seemed to reject poor Queenie. I said I didn’t recall her being rejected though she was at one time treated as a bit of an oddity which to be fair, I think she came to rather enjoy because she was definitely something of an exhibitionist . Anyway all that was really beside the point because I was only drawing the line at the extreme end of the current debate. Jessica said she thought the positioning of the line had more to do with wanting to be seen as reasonably liberal than anything else.

I didn’t argue because of course she was right. I mean who in their right mind wants to invite the rabid criticism that emanates from those huffing and puffing Virtue Signallers who see insults in every corner? The zealots among us now get offended so terribly easily and feel they have been put on this earth in order to show others the Right Way to think so if you have any sense at all you do think before you say something that upsets them.

And as I have said previously, what is to be done with social lepers like myself anyway? There are probably more of us than you might imagine. After all it’s not beyond the realms of possibility surely that those of us who have always happily jogged along with the legal recognition of same sex relationships might be just a bit miffed at the idea of same sex marriage? Is that really not OK? And those of us who would not dream of castigating an adult who decided to change gender, might feel some concern at the idea of a child being afforded the same degree of acceptance.

What should be Done with we who hold genuine but socially unpopular views on life? How should we be compelled to conform? I mean, most of us really would like to change – after all who wants to go through life as a Bigot and a Racist in this day and age? It is definitely a most unhappy place to find oneself in. There should be government re-education programmes for people like us and those that berate us so readily should surely understand that it is help we rednecks need rather than ridicule and threats of retribution. We can't help the way we think.

I mentioned a word or two about Stalinist Russia the last time I aired this problem but upon re-examining the conundrum perhaps Hitler had the right idea and Fascism is the road to follow. After all, the complete shutting down of dissent worked for him for a number of years – why on earth should it not work for us?

The Wombwell Hall Cookery Class

My next door neighbour tells me that when she was a fourteen year old at school in Auckland they called it Home Science. At Wombwell Hall they called it Cookery and we only did it for two terms. I now see that it was taught by someone with the initials KH but I can remember nothing at all about her. My report (which I still have – yes, indeed I do!) says `Jean works quite well but needs to concentrate more on her work’ and she gave me a C. I can’t complain about that because I was awarded a C for most subjects. I had been quite looking forward to Cookery because my cousin Connie said that we got to make Scotch Eggs and Jam Tarts. It was the latter that attracted me most.

My Scotch Eggs were tidy and acceptable, at least that’s what Miss KH said at the time and I was certainly proud of them as I carried them home for tea. My mother was a decidedly dubious cook, happiest when she was churning out pots of stew or fried kidneys. She would never have ventured into something as complicated as a Scotch Egg so you can perhaps begin to understand my sense of achievement when I bore mine home wrapped in greaseproof paper. To be totally honest I don’t think I had actually come face to face with one before the quartet I created myself though I might have read about them. Anyhow they went down well at teatime in York Road though my mother insisted that my brother and I had slices of bread and the margarine she called butter with them.

After this success you can imagine how much I was looking forward to the conquering of Jam Tarts. They were something I was totally familiar with of course and my mother frequently tried her hand at making her own but her version was simply a baked pastry case which she filled with jam later when it had nicely cooled. This was because she was convinced that only a complete fool would think it rational to heat jam too much, and as for actually cooking it …. and at this point she shook her head sadly. It stood to reason she said that jam would burn like billy-ho and then what a mess you would have to clean up not to mention the waste of both jam and pastry. Consequently her tarts never tasted or looked quite right as you can probably imagine because jam cooked inside a pastry case has a completely different texture and taste to jam spread carefully over a baked pastry case. There was never any doubt that my brother and I much preferred the version made by the bakery in Northfleet High Street. However, my jam tarts were going to be the real thing, or as my cousin Harold would say – The Real McCoy, to be admired and perhaps even emulated. To ensure that I would be able to repeat this culinary success I was going to write down exactly how to make them in shorthand in case I forgot anything vital.

Miss KH explained the intricacies of the ovens – two girls to one appliance and the girl whose tarts went on the top shelf would need to check them carefully to avoid the danger of inadvertent burning. Slightly burned tarts were still edible of course but you could never be too careful she told us and the top shelf as we were most likely aware was a much hotter place than the bottom one. I wasn’t aware of course but once she explained this I became aware. I was to share an appliance with Pat Haslam who spoke a little bit posh and said Gosh and Golly a lot because she had previously attended a boarding school in Folkestone. This made her popular with some of the teachers and slightly alienated her from some of her classmates. Later she was to disappoint her parents by running off with a visiting GI and living with him for three glorious weeks in a room at The Cumberland Hotel. For this misdemeanor which in 1956 was considered serious, she would be sent to what was called an Approved School for over a year deemed to be somewhat beyond her parents’ control. My mother was always threatening to have me sent to such a place and I had visualized it as a kind of Borstal for girls but Pat, home for the holidays after her first term, said it was exactly the same as the boarding school in Folkestone that had cost her parents so much money and according to her father had clearly been a place with a bad influence since she had not Turned Out well. Her mother, on the other hand, blamed Wombwell Hall and girls like me that she had been forced to mix with.

This was all in the future of course. On the day of the Jam Tarts we shared a bench and prepared our pastry side by side, each of us ending up with a few pastry strips surplus to requirements. Miss KH enthusiastically suggested that we might like to decorate our tarts once the spoonfuls of strawberry jam had been distributed throughout the half dozen in each tray, with pastry crosses. Pat said she might do just that but I was firmly of the opinion that mine should be completely unadulterated and declined to follow her lead.

In Pat’s opinion I was foolish because it was a waste of the extra pastry and Miss KH nodded approvingly because she liked Pat and liked her ex boarding school accent even more. She said Pat was being very sensible. She wished all girls were as sensible. But I did not want to join the ranks of the sensible and in any case I was never going to get the accent right. I wanted the jam in my tarts to be unsullied by pastry extras so that my mother would clearly see that it was perfectly possible for jam to be cooked inside a pastry case. I put my tray on the bottom shelf of the oven and Pat said she didn’t mind using the top shelf in any case because it only meant her tarts would be cooked that much quicker. She thought hers looked Absolutely Topping with the addition of pastry off-cuts formed into crosses.

I’m not sure how it was that we came to forget to check on the top shelf tarts but we did and so when it came to removing the trays from the oven Pat’s were decidedly burnt, the jam bubbling away angrily and the pastry a very dark shade of brown. She very sensibly, her hands protected with oven gloves decorated with pink roses, grabbed those from the bottom shelf, maintaining they were definitely hers just as Miss KH tracked down the smell of burning and appeared before us. Our teacher gazed at me reproachfully reiterating her warnings concerning top shelf baking and telling me that unfortunately my tarts looked a little burnt and there was now nothing to be done about it. I protested that they were not in fact my tarts but she had already walked away and Pat was holding firmly onto the tray of unburnt tarts looking pristine and unsullied, exactly as jam tarts ought to look. The perfect ones were hers she maintained, packing them carefully into the cardboard carton provided by Miss KH.

I knew that pushing a tray of burnt tarts into Pat Haslam’s face and hair was absolutely the wrong thing to do, but I did it anyway whilst twenty other fourteen year olds and our cookery teacher looked on in horror. Somehow or other we both ended up on the floor of the classroom, Pat trying to defend herself and me screaming hysterically about pastry off cuts and bottom shelves of ovens. By the time Miss KH had heroically parted us we were both crying and I found I had chunks of Pat’s hair between my fingers together with a great deal of burnt strawberry jam.

The next morning found us both in Miss Fuller’s office where an explanation was demanded as to why girls on the very cusp of young adulthood were fighting on the floor of Room 5, one of them screaming like a fish wife. I just knew that one was me because girls whose vocabulary includes Gosh, Golly and Absolutely Topping definitely don’t scream obscenities learned from their grandmothers at others on account of ownership over jam tarts. Miss Fuller waited patiently, her pen tapping the desk in front of her. Eventually Pat said something about unfortunately making an honest mistake about which tarts were hers and Gosh she was dreadfully sorry. Miss Fuller’s shoulders straightened as she extended a commending nod in the direction of Pat Haslam, a pupil who had simply made an error and owned up to it like a splendid example of young British girlhood - a pupil any head teacher could only feel satisfied with.

She turned her attention to me and told me that my language had been completely unacceptable and my violence could not be tolerated. It had been no way to deal with what was clearly simply human error and I was to apologise to Pat immediately. I was also to apologise to Miss KH and furthermore I was to write an essay about better ways of resolving conflict. I told Pat I was sincerely sorry and went in search of Miss KH who looked nervous when she saw me approaching. I can’t remember if I actually wrote the essay or not.

A year or so later our gossiping group of ex-Wombwell Hall girls discussed the astonishing demise of Pat the boarding school girl as we shared a cramped corridor of the commuter train to Charing Cross, heading to our jobs in typing pools. We marveled at the audacity of her love affair with a tourist that had hurtled her out of the ranks of wage earner and unceremoniously flung her back to a school of the kind none of us would want to attend. And all the while I felt strangely triumphant and I wondered if Miss Fuller and Miss KH would ever get to know about it because a girl who was capable of lying about which Jam Tarts were actually hers was to my mind capable of almost anything.