Wombwell Hall & Womanhood

Back in the years that followed World War Two the Nit Nurse regularly visited St Botolph’s School in Northfleet, and very likely every other school in the area. It was a visit that mostly we looked forward to because it broke the day to day monotony of Primary School life. The only other school medical visit I can recall was made to Wombwell Hall in the first few weeks of term two, nineteen fifty five when I had just had my fifteenth birthday. It was definitely an event of some significance because we were warned about it in advance and a note went home with us during the preceding week upon which there was a space for our mothers to write down anything specific about us from a medical viewpoint. That information was to be returned to the office in advance of the visit. I was careful to make sure nothing was written about me by not delivering the note in the first place.

It might have simply been our particular year and not the entire school but we were to have eye and ear checks together with an assessment of our physical development to ensure that we were all progressing in an expected manner. I wasn’t concerned about the eye and ear checks but the assessment of our physical development certainly raised some apprehension and I wondered if we were all to undergo a test of some kind to prove we were normal. This was largely because I knew I wasn’t normal and my lack of normalcy was both mortifying and distressing. It wasn’t something that could be discussed easily with friends firstly because I didn’t really have any friends that I was close enough to and secondly because it was a fact so shockingly embarrassing that I was very fearful of being publicly ridiculed on account of it. And in order to avoid the horror of schoolgirl community shame I had already told a number of lies about it, some of them quite extensive. The fact of the matter was that at the great age of fifteen I was destined to continue life as a Late Onset Menstruator, a situation so shameful that even typing it now makes my arm pits tingle and my heart beat anxiously a little faster.

My absence of menstruation was definitely at odds with other aspects of my physical development and since my thirteenth birthday men on building sites had been yelling out to me that I had a Lovely Pair. You don’t need that at thirteen of course so it didn’t actually make me feel any better. Neither did classmates with minimal development themselves who assured me they were envious. Shirley, measuring us all amid the trees next to the hockey pitch, now a favourite lunchtime occupation, said mine were the biggest in Form 2SC and perhaps I should stop drinking school milk in case they exploded. We were not terribly well informed overall.

This was a time of a complete lack of sex education either at home or at school except a brief session or two called Human Biology but it was also a time when, somewhat strangely, girls seemed to share every aspect of growing up with each other and if they had nothing much to share, they made it up. Stories abounded of ten year olds in white dresses playing on the swings in Woodlands Park on summer days suddenly and profusely beginning to menstruate and having to rush home through throngs of curious Grammar School boys. For some odd reason there were always throngs of Grammar School boys ever watchful. The distraught girls were invariably comforted by caring older sisters or aunts and put to bed with Aspirin and hot water bottles to ease the physical pain of which there was always a great deal. They also had a stirring tale to share with friends. One by one over several years my schoolmates had each joined the ranks of Becoming Women, even those with no breast development whatsoever. Accordingly whenever the subject was discussed, which was often, I found myself adding to the tales of unbearable pelvic pain and being excused from team games.

You might well wonder why in the light of my well-constructed web of deceit the visit of a school Doctor or Nurse, or both, should concern me in the slightest but the fact was I suspected that they would know simply by looking at me that I was a physical oddity, an aberration like poor Auntie Queenie who my grandmother said was One of Them There Aphrodites and none of us should ever go into a toilet with her. My affliction was more than likely something hereditary like haemophilia and the apprehension I now felt definitely had something to do with the respect generally afforded the medical profession at that time, a group of special beings with special powers.

As it happened, when the much dreaded day arrived, despite the combined abilities of the attending doctor who was much younger than any of us expected, and the rather elderly nurse who most of the time seemed to be directing rather than assisting him, it turned out that my lack of growth towards Real Womanhood was not as glaringly obvious as I had suspected. Neither of them seemed to suspect for a moment that I was in any way abnormal.

The Headmistress’s study had been turned into a consulting room for the duration of the examinations and she shared her desk with the nurse whilst the young doctor sat uneasily on a folding chair in the centre of the room. On another chair beside him was a pile of pink pamphlets with the title Growing Towards Womanhood. As we entered in our underwear Miss Fuller announced us as if we were attending some kind of formal event, by full name then adding our exact age. I was Jean Bernadette Hendy – 15 years and nearly 2 weeks.

My sight and hearing was briefly checked together with my teeth. I was measured and weighed. The nurse simply filled in a vast chart in front of her. The young doctor did not look at me at any stage but most especially when he noted I had `Well-developed breasts’. Oh the humiliation of that announcement, particularly for a fifteen year old who would have been quite incapable of ordering Chicken Breast at Chicken Inn had I ever been fortunate enough to be taken there. Breast was a word firmly absent from my vocabulary. Both the nurse and Miss Fuller looked up, alerted by the word, the latter advising me to stand up straight, there was no need to hunch my shoulders. How I despised her with her straight back, in her silk blouse with no obvious mammary development whatsoever.

Alert for a possible abnormality to lighten the moment the nurse then wanted to know if my periods were regular and if I experienced any undue pain at which I froze and said nothing at all. Miss Fuller repeated the question slowly and in a voice that indicated she was getting just a little bit irritated but I was still mute, immobile, quite unable to give any reply. The silence that followed seemed endless, all eyes were upon me and I could hear my heart thumping loudly. At last the nurse asked in a slightly more gentle voice if my periods had actually started yet and then I was able to shake my head. She rose from her chair and came over to where I stood, pulling my voluminous forest green winceyette knickers down enough to peer at my private parts and returned to her chair with an obvious waning of interest. She wrote a sentence or two before instructing the doctor that he did not need to give me one of the pink pamphlets as they were only to be given to girls who were already menstruating. Cheeks burning, ears thumping I was then dismissed.

I blame Jill Butler for what happened next, the further and more extensive mortification back in the Science Block as we waited for our usual post morning break Monday class of Human Biology to begin. There was a frisson of anticipation in the room because not only was Miss Norman a forthright and entertaining teacher, we would be discussing The Development of the Human Embryo. Jill Butler, from Burnt Oak Terrace in Gillingham and full of confidence since she became a prefect wanted to know why I had not been given a pink pamphlet like everyone else. A number of students now sat idly studying them as they waited. I said she should mind her own business because she didn’t need to know everything about everybody.

But she was not a girl who gave up easily and sensing a victim she added that at her cousin Brenda’s school they had been handed to everyone who had started their periods – the only girls who missed out were those who were in no danger of becoming women any time soon. Surely this must mean that I also fell into that category? Foolishly, as was my habit, I immediately restorted to lying. Why break the habit of a lifetime? Lowering my voice and asking her not to spread the information far and wide I told her it was because I only had one ovary. That I thought might shock and silence her but Jill was unstoppable and to my horror she rushed towards the chalk board and wrote in capital letters JEAN HENDY HAS ONLY GOT ONE!

And of course everyone wanted to know what she meant and there was no use hissing at her that I had believed she could be trusted with sensitive information and that only having one while everyone else had two might well mean a number of unpleasant medical events were in store for me. The truth of the matter was that Jill quite sensibly did not believe me and was utterly determined to continue the humiliation with clever taunts including comments that she would have thought somebody who wore a size 36 DD bra as she knew I did would have started at eight or nine and not still be still waiting for Womanhood at fifteen! By the time Miss Norman arrived, only two minutes late for class, most of the remaining class members were dutifully sniggering, and some were laughing uproariously.

If she had left it at that I might even have re-ignited our quasi friendship at some later stage but being Jill, and from her lofty Prefect perch she was quite unable to let the topic lie and halfway through the Human Biology class when we were drawing embryos and Miss Norman was hovering in our row offering help and advice, she queried in her piercing voice with its stage-like natural projection if it was abnormal for a girl to be born with only one ovary. Miss Norman said she had never really come across it and thought it must indeed be quite unusual.

That lunchtime Jill and I were on plate duty together and I took the opportunity to tearfully tell her that I would never, ever trust her with confidential information again, that she was totally unreliable. She said she’d rather be unreliable than a complete weirdo like me with tits like mine. She said it was called Abnormal Breast Development.

The Peep Toe Shoes

That day when I told Miss Fuller that I was unaware that peep toe shoes were not acceptable footwear for Wombwell Hall I was, for once, telling the truth. We were both looking at the shoes in question at the time and it was only just beginning to dawn on me that I was in fact in breach of the uniform rules and that the violation had been going on for almost that entire term. There were three weeks to go before the Christmas break and we were already deep into the daily practice of appropriate Carols of which my favourite was definitely Oh Little Town of Bethlehem.

Miss Fuller looked slightly irritated when, because my mind had strayed to traditional Carols, she had to ask me twice if I had alternative footwear available. I hastily told her that yes I did even though this was a lie unless you counted too tight summer sandals passed down by my cousin Connie and Wellington boots. I knew neither were an option for daily wear to Wombwell Hall. I hoped she would not remember that it was the second time I had stood before her for breach of shoe rules and in fact she didn’t seem to. She looked up from the chart on the desk in front of her and stared directly into my eyes, stopping herself from demanding that I look at her when she was speaking in the nick of time because by a mere millisecond I already was. Instead she told me that she need not remind me that I was a Fully Funded for Uniform Pupil. I nodded agreement and she added that there was really no excuse for me to be wearing the forbidden peep toe shoes and I hastily agreed and wondered what was wrong with them considering that they fitted the required colour option of brown or black. They were black and well-polished. There was still a lot of wear left in them even though I had a tendency to Roll Over the left foot which rendered the level of the sole uneven.

I was always accused of being Hard on footwear and my mother only wished Old Hammond the cobbler could fit metal clinks like in the old days but he’d told her they were only used for work boots in the thoroughly modern 1950s. I didn’t mention any of this to Miss Fuller of course, knowing perfectly well that she would not be interested being a woman unlikely to ever have encountered a clink on a work boot. The Headmistress was always fair and it was not as if I was constantly hauled before her for misdemenours but she was also Posh in the way that those who went into teaching back in those days, and rose significantly were. And she was stylish and wore tweed suits with gored skirts and cream silk blouses. Her hair was short enough for my mother to describe her as Mannish and her own shoes were as highly polished as mine but sensibly laced and of course without any vestige of a peep toe about them. Her voice always seemed to be hiding behind her teeth and when she spoke she sounded a bit like the military men in the films my mother liked so much about officers escaping from prisoner of war camps in World War Two. In fact there was no doubt that she was not the most feminine of women but this applied to more than one of those entering the teaching profession in my opinion and I had already decided it was a consequence of some aspects of higher education probably Mathematics. She was telling me that as I had alternative footwear she did not want to see the peep toe shoes again and to remember that I was Fully Funded so I nodded enthusiastically and assured her it would not happen again. I did, however, hope my mother would not get too angry about it all and wondered what I would wear the following day.

I need not have worried at all because the next day was a Friday and instead of going to school I was taken on the 480 bus to Dartford to Dolcis Shoes where my cousin Margaret was now working. We bought proper school shoes with sturdy soles and long laces and I was allowed to choose either black or brown so I chose black. Then we had cups of tea and biscuits in the café over the road because Margaret was entitled to a forty five minute lunch break. We paid for the café treat because Margaret had managed to organise for us to get the shoes at sale price even though the sale did not start for another week.

In the cafe Margaret talked about the Wednesday evening typing class she was doing in order to better herself and my mother talked about schools having a Bloody Cheek telling students what kind of shoes they should be wearing and how women like that Miss Fuller didn’t know their arses from their elbows and those peep toe shoes still had plenty of wear left in them. I talked about not really understanding what Fully Funded for Uniform really meant even though of course I did, and was pleased to note my mother’s discomfiture. I even elaborated and said Miss Fuller had explained that Fatherless pupils were considered Orphans and so a regular sum was awarded to us so that all our uniform needs could be fully met. This meant, I said that expensive items like regulation cardigans could be purchased with ease from the Uniform Shop in Gravesend. We did not have to wear hand knitted ones that our mothers made.

My mother said there was plenty of wear left in the school cardigan she had knitted and it was exactly the right shade of Forest Green and she wasn’t made of money.

The Death of Motherly Love

Judith is a blogger from Northern Ireland and we are good friends – at least in the sense that one can be good friends via the internet which is akin to how we once felt about our relationship with pen-pals. I have actually met Judith because several years ago she was on a visit here – primarily to Melbourne which I think she thought was a great deal more exciting than Auckland and anyway she had family living there, a number of stalwart women, all widows who somehow or other survived the Holocaust. Of course they may no longer be living and indeed I may never see Judith again. Not that this is in any way relevant to our relationship. Long ago those of us fond of letter writing occasionally met up with pen-pals but nonetheless such friendships always differed substantially from those we have always known in the flesh.

Judith read my latest blog post, ruminating upon the celebration of Christmas and said I sounded angry. She has always half celebrated Christmas herself under pressure from her daughters and she even thought seriously about observing Diwali at one stage. She definitely understands festivals.

I brought her up to speed with regard to the pressures of our present family situation and she said she would be angry too – and shamed and humiliated. There are times when parents need the support of grown children if they have them but that I should bear in mind that there are some whose need to feel powerful overcomes all other sentiments, certainly that of filial duty; definitely that of love or even kindness.

Later on in the still silence of the sleepless night I pondered upon the astonishing extent of the rage I felt and knew that there could never be forgiveness for one who so cheerfully engages in the ongoing torment of a sick parent. That was as unlikely as ever uncovering a new affection and fondness for an alcoholic or heroin addict whose excesses continued relentless and unabated, impervious to any chaos caused. It is liberating, cathartic even, to realise that some behaviours emerge as so astoundingly significant that they can totally release us of all maternal obligations. Imperceptibly aversion takes the place of tenderness, revulsion replaces concern and where love once lived a dark loathing festers.

Further Revisiting the Rite of Christmas

We are again inevitably creeping towards Christmas, strangely always a little bit sad but somehow uplifting at the same time. Memories of family festivities are ever special, small children in dressing gowns feverishly tearing open parcels in the chilly dawn recalled with delight. Of course that dawn was never quite as chilly when transferred into the South Pacific no matter how much bogus snow was sprayed beneath the gaudy Australasian tinsel tree. No real ones readily available back in the 1980s and in any case my small daughter was totally captivated by tinsel. All the grown children keenly recall the annual celebrations although for one they are central to the misery we relentlessly spooned into life. Anachronistic Yuletides can prevent growth towards assimilation for some, denying them the opportunity to integrate into local society. Others, happily more emotionally robust remain unscathed. For the afflicted, however, the pain does not ease simply because thousands upon thousands of immigrants experience the very same syndrome – Smothering Mothers intent upon forcing Diwali or Lantern Festival or Hanukka upon their helpless infants who struggle to escape.

Being a run of the mill Christian from North Kent for me it was the replication year after year of an old fashioned Victorian Christmas complete with roast goose and plum pudding. And let me tell you here and now that although plum pudding was not impossible, a goose in Auckland, New Zealand in the middle of summer was not altogether without complications. But if you were determined and left no stone unturned and began the search at the beginning of October, it was not impossible to find one and once located it was really only the roasting to perfection that needed attention.

It was undoubtedly selfishness that propelled me to work so determinedly towards the Very Best Christmas possible and that was because that significant time of year had been, for me and my brother, inordinately exciting. Not that we were to be blessed with more than those around us but it was a time when extreme poverty could at least be cast aside for a day or two, neediness giving way to the smell of tangerines and spices and the sounds of carol singers and Salvation Army bands, to the excitement of second hand Toby Twirl and Rupert Annuals and brand new school socks from the market. For the grownups there were always early morning cups of tea fortified with tots of whiskey adding yet another distinctly festive aroma that hovered pervasively in the humidity of the kitchen until that of roasting chicken overpowered it. There were unusually from Christmas Eve on, always two fires in the house, in both the kitchen range and the normally icy front room, where all pecuniary caution was thrown to the winds and the grate heaped extravagantly with precious black coals. Oh yes indeed we were definitely guilty of splashing out for Christmas!

Little wonder that in later years I was not prepared to be controlled and quelled by the New Zealand fondness for barbecues on local beaches, for sausages and cold ham with mustard for tinned peaches and Hokey Pokey ice cream. My own extravagantly organised festivities in the depths of bushy Kohimarama had been born in a world peopled by characters from the imagination of Charles Dickens and predestined to be barbecue free. Thus my powerless children were to endure for years a strictly Northern Hemisphere rite. A relic unbefitting for a True New Zealand family and certainly damaging to the future happiness of the vulnerable. But to me, the doggedly determined architect of the annual plan, it was an embodiment of the little bit of England I had grasped from memory and held fast to, so fast that even now when I close my eyes I can very nearly catch the aroma of tangerines and tea with whiskey.

On Distant Fathers Deserving Better

The Very Important Specialist said he was very sorry not to be able to impart better news but the fact was no matter which way you looked at it the cell had become much more aggressive despite all the treatment. The Overwhelming Mother and the Distant Father sat a little closer together and tried to look totally attentive. The words spoken by this Most Significant Person definitely had an air of unreality about them like something said by characters in books, maybe even a book written by an Overwhelming Mother where in fact a happy ending could be produced if needs be. A decision might be made NOT to become the Overwhelming Mother in the first place; now there was indeed a pertinent thought. Had the Overwhelming Mother not been quite as overwhelmingly overwhelming the son living in a far off country might have chosen to acknowledge the Distant Father’s serious illness rather than ignoring it. He might even have sent birthday and Christmas greetings – possibly a text on Distant Father’s Day when the phones had stayed monitored just in case….. Now there indeed was yet another pertinent thought!

When these meanderings were laid before Good Friend Sonya, her immediate comment was that perhaps a Christmas and a birthday greeting should have been sent to the Prodigal Son under discussion to help sew the seed of that excellent idea, enable him to see the generally acceptable way to behave just in case it wasn’t clear to him. When told that in fact that had been done she grew silent for a while and at last said what a totally self-seeking, self-centred, self- interested, egocentric piece of human waste he must be in that case. It was then that the erstwhile Overwhelming Mother began to weep and said it seemed so recently he had been the little boy she had loved so dearly. Good Friend Sonya advised that there were times when it was better by far to face reality and waste no more emotional energy upon those with no understanding of filial obligations . So that is what the Overwhelming Mother did!

East is East & West is West

It’s probably only recently that I have quite begun to quite understand the vast differences that exist in styles of parenting in different cultures. Who could fail to be impressed by eight year old Mimi who lives nearby for instance. How willingly she attends to her piano practice every afternoon after school. How calming, comforting, and reassuring are her endless repetition of scales and studies as her efforts drift along the walkway. How polite and co-operative her conduct.
My erstwhile neighbour, Rebecca, now living deeper in the depths of Parnell, touched upon the parenting topic only a week or two ago when we met for coffee. Her familiarity with cultural disparities comes from years of living in Hong Kong, Taiwan, New Zealand and the United States. She spoke of the firm anticipation Asian parents have that their children will always love and support them and a great deal of the time, even as adults, conform to their wishes. I commented that Eastern and Western attitudes are often poles apart and she nodded. Later I wondered why it was that we in the West, so quick to consider ourselves superior in the art of child rearing, can so frequently get it so wrong. Later, Lucy ringing in to discuss book sales wasn’t really interested but did suggest that more exposure of our self-obsessed offspring to the Eastern way of life would surely help. Instead of Gap years they might have benefited from Swap years in China she thought. I agreed but did not of course explore the idea further. Sometimes attitudes simply don’t rub off no matter how fortuitous the circumstances appear to be. Anyway fortuitous doesn’t always mean fortunate does it?