My Secret Diary Read online

  Wednesday 6 April

  It is all over. We have performed our play, and, thank God, it went beautifully. During the afternoon Miss P called the Drama Club together and tactfully told us what went wrong yesterday, and told us how to put it right. Mrs Eldridge gave us a lift to school at six o'clock, and Cherry and I dressed and made up. I made Cherry say her lines to me, because last night she forgot them and said, 'I'm so sorry, I seem to have lost my memory,' getting, incidentally, the biggest laugh of the evening. Miss P took tons of photos of us, including one when the ladies are kneeling down in the spotlight. Anyway, the play really went down well. The audience was very good and laughed at all the jokes Everyone said it was extremely well done, and that the acting, costumes, scenery and properties were all very good.

  The day after we were allowed to take it easy.

  Thursday 7 April

  It is History. As there is only one more day left of the term we have been left to get on with whatever we like. We are all lying sprawled at our desks as we have just had a very strenuous game of Netball, and I, for one, have my blouse sleeves rolled up. It is peaceful in here, except for our low (well, perhaps not!) chatter. Oh! The class below us have just started their rather loud singing. Mr Stokes (not a music lover in spite of his Welsh blood) gives us a look both cynical and ironical. Jill sitting next to me is writing a melodramatic love story. I have just looked up to find Mr Stokes' eyes peering into mine. He gets up and starts pacing round. He's coming towards me! Help! I must cover this up! Phew – ! He's gone past. Oh no! He's just chalked the word 'Homework' on the board! We gasp in agony. He gives us another of his smiles. I think he's only joking, cross fingers.

  I so hated homework. It seemed such a terrible waste of time. I could struggle all evening with my maths – even risking Harry's wrath by asking him to help me – but it didn't help me understand how to do it. I could mutter Latin vocabulary over and over and over again, but I was so bored by grim repetition that I couldn't remember a word the next day. I muddled through biology and science and geography and French, sighing and moaning. I tried hard with my English essay homework, though of course I worked much harder on my own private writing. At least we didn't get homework for our form lessons, singing, music and PE. Oh God, imagine PE homework!

  We tormented little Miss St John in singing, a minute lady who drove to school in an equally minute bubble car: 'For singing we had Miss St John. Everyone ragged her and sang out of tune. I felt rather sorry for her as it must be awful for her to lose control completely.'

  Poor Miss St John had such courage. She played the cello, a very large instrument for such a small woman.

  Friday 18 March

  Honestly, in assembly this morning Miss St John played her cello. She was so sweet and little behind it, and oh she played so terribly. The notes were all little and queer like she is, and her high notes were about four notes below the right one. I could hardly control my hysterical giggles and at first there reigned a strained silence in the hall except for the fumbly little cello noises. Then one girl gave an awful snort, and that started us off. There was a bellow of six hundred suppressed giggles, all turned into coughs. I had to bite hard on my fingers to stop myself laughing. I couldn't look to my right as Chris was going red in the face suppressing herself, while Sue on my left was openly sniggering. Even Miss Haslett had to laugh, so she bent her head and pretended to be praying!

  Miss Kingston took us for our actual music lesson, and she was a very different type of teacher. No wonder she was snappy with us. We were not a musical bunch, many of us barely progressing beyond the first book of recorder music. We all tooted away valiantly until the spit dribbled disgustingly out of the end of our recorders but we rarely made melodic progress. I remember trying to play Handel's 'Water Music' and all of us collectively drowning in a sea of squawks.

  Miss Kingston made us listen to crackly old gramophone records of real musicians playing Handel, Bach and Beethoven. I rather liked this part of the lesson, especially when the music seemed to tell a story. I loved Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony, but tried hard to hide my enthusiasm. If you sat with too rapt an expression, everyone would laugh and tease you and label you a swot. It wasn't cool to like classical music, though we all adored dancing to a record called Asia Minor which was a jazzed-up version of Grieg's Piano Concerto.

  Sometimes the records seemed to go on for ever. It could get very boring just sitting there, so we worked out ways of communicating with each other. We didn't dare whisper in front of Miss Kingston. Passing notes was decidedly risky. Chris and I had learned the rudiments of sign language for the deaf from a schoolgirl diary and this proved useful during protracted school assemblies, but Miss Kingston was on to us the minute we tried it in music.

  Wednesday 27 January

  Chris, Lyn and I were doing deaf and dumb alphabet in music, and Miss Kingston saw us. At the end of the record she asked (or rather shouted!) what had we been doing. We sat silent. 'Answer me at once!' We still sat silent. 'The girl on the end' (me) 'you tell me!' Silence. 'At once!' 'Well, er, you see,' I said, trying in vain to think of some excuse, 'Christine was, er, playing with her fingers.' The whole group roared with laughter and we three got a severe telling off.

  I didn't mean to tell tales on poor Chris, I just blurted out the first thing that came into my head – but she wasn't best pleased with me. She still sometimes teases me about it now, hundreds of years later.

  I hated the whole atmosphere of school. My heart would sink as I trudged up the path and went through the glass doors into the cloakrooms. There was always a fug of damp grey gabardines and old shoes as soon as you walked in. As the day progressed the smells got worse. Our school dinners were made on the premises and in retrospect were totally delicious:

  Monday 8 February

  We had chips, corned beef and American salad and mince and apple tart for dinner today, not bad for school dinners.

  Tuesday 9 February

  Dinner was steak pie, greens and mashed potato, and semolina and jam for pud. Pretty awful, n'estce pas?

  Wednesday 10 February

  After dinner (porky sort of meat, peas, roast potatoes and caramel pie) Carol, Cherry and I went up to the library to do homework.

  Cherry was the dinner monitor on our school dinner table that year. If everyone had finished their platefuls the dinner monitor could put up her hand, and when the supervising teacher had given her permission she could charge up to the kitchen counter and ask for seconds. We might moan about our school dinners but some seconds were definitely worth having. Mrs Legge, our school cook, made delicious fish and chips on Fridays, and her pastry was total perfection. She made beautiful steak and kidney pies; her fruit pies – apple, apricot and plum – were glorious; and her occasional-for-a-special- treat lemon meringue pies always made my mouth water. So we obeyed Cherry as she urged us to bolt our food down in five minutes so we would be in with a chance of more. It's a wonder we didn't hiccup our way all through afternoon school.

  Mrs Legge worked miracles – imagine baking enough pies for hundreds of girls – but her budget was limited and mince and stewing steak were served up very regularly. I hated both. You started being able to smell them cooking by break time, and by twelve o'clock the whole school reeked of this strong savoury smell, appallingly reminiscent of body odour.

  The corridors were frequently filled with a horrible burning smell too. Mrs Legge never burned her dinners. This was all the fault of the incinerator in the girls' toilets. We all used sanitary towels and in those days they weren't properly disposable. If you had your period you were supposed to go in the special end toilet, which had an incinerator – but it was a tricky customer and if you didn't insert your disgusting towel just so, it would spitefully send out smelly smoke. Everyone would look at you and point when you came out of the toilet.

  We all smelled too, in various ways. The girls smelled of bubble gum and hairspray and nail varnish and Goya's Entice scent and fresh tangy sweat. The teache