10. Going Into Town

Some of the girls are weekly boarders. Their parents live in England, not too far away, and they go home every weekend. Most of us, whose parents are abroad somewhere; Hong Kong, Germany, Nigeria and in my case Paris, stay in. Apart from not having lessons our routine doesn’t change much. We are woken by the bell, have prep in the library, chapel in the evening and Church or a longer chapel service on a Sunday morning. There is some time to play but we are not allowed to hang out in our dorms, so we play outside or in the hall, we roam around the corridors or sneak into the music rooms. The one highlight of the weekend is going into town.

I love going into town. I can’t wait for that moment when we leave the school gates behind and we are free(ish).

We have to go into town in threes. And of course there are rules to be obeyed. We have to wear our berets at all times (we are not allowed into town in mufti) and we must stay in threes, no going off on our own. There is strictly no eating in town and we have to look presentable - neat and tidy. We are representing the school, we are Oakdene Girls, Miss Havard tells us, and we have to think of the school’s reputation. “Keep your socks pulled up, your duffle coats toggled and your berets on.” There are shops we are not allowed in and we are instructed only to go into the sweet shop three at a time.

It’s a bright, breezy Saturday and I feel the freedom in my body as we step beyond the gates and onto the road lined with smart houses. It feels like a light shiver that spreads from my heart to all my extremities. A whisper of freedom. The world has opened up, beyond the bounds of the school grounds and we are unfettered. I am free and I have £1 to spend.

I’m very fortunate to have £1 to spend. Most of the girls get 25p or 50p for their pocket money. We queued up this morning to get our pocket money out. Miss Havard sat, like she always does, at her big wooden desk with her ledger in front of her.

“How much would you like to take out?” She asks, not looking up from the page of numbers. She manages to sound disapproving with that one simple question.

“One pound please, Miss Havard,” I say. It’s the same routine, every week. I wonder what would happen if I asked for five pounds! Would she give it to me? I know that Daddy has provided for me to have one pound every week, and as it’s early in the term, there must be more than eight pounds in my pocket money pot. But I would never ask, I just like imagining doing it. I love the thought of transgressing. It’s fun just to play with the fantasy.

“Right you are” she says, handing me one pound. Miss Havard never says yes or of course or anything like that. Any affirmative response from her is “Right you are”. She says it sternly, like an army sergeant barking out an order.

“Thank you, Miss Havard” I say, automatically. I’m smiling but she doesn’t know why. “You are a very lucky girl to have one pound Sophie Boss”, she says, loudly enough that the girls behind me in the queue can hear. I can’t interpret the look on her face, she doesn’t look angry, she’s stern and tight-lipped and staring at me with her cold, grey eyes. I’m embarrassed and I feel scared. I know I’m lucky and I don’t want everyone to know. And it’s hardly new information for her, she knows this is how much I have, we go through this same process every week. Why does she feel the need to show me up in front of my friends?

My father is a generous man. One pound is nothing to him. Not because he is rich but because money never seems to be something to worry about in my family. If I were at home now I know he wouldn’t care if I took all my pocket money in one go. He would smile at me and say something like “Well, it’s up to you Soph the Moph, if you spend it all today you won’t have any more for a few weeks” But he would say it with kindness, matter of fact, and in his voice would be a hint of curiosity about what I would decide to do.

I don’t think he imagines what school is like for me, who the adults are who look after us here. Maybe it wouldn’t even occur to him that people in charge of young children could be so uncaring and mean. Surely if he knew, I wouldn’t be here? I know I’m the one who asked to come, so it’s all down to me, I can’t blame him. I just have to make the best of it. I have to straighten my back and keep swimming. I can do it, I can do it. I have to. I’m fine.

“Where to first?” I ask Kim as we walk past the Church, the shops in sight.

We always go to the same shops: the sweet shop, the record shop, Budgens (the only supermarket in town), the haberdashery, the chemist and sometimes, rarely, The Continental Delicatessen.

Kim looks at me without answering and Cathy, who is so much taller and somehow more sophisticated and looks like our older sister, quickly says, “Let's go and get some sweets”.

I’m staring at the display of sweets, working out how to divide up my £1. I like sweets but I definitely prefer chocolate and salty things like crisps. I choose three flying saucers, I’m not mad about the sherbet but I love the texture of the wafer, I like the way it's crunchy and then melts stickily on my tongue. They’re only 2p each so worth it even if I do what I always do, which is nibble a hole in the edge, tip out the sherbet and just eat the wafer.  I know what I want, Caramel bars. I can buy a pack of 4, very good value at just 20p, and a pack of Monster Munch. I consider a Pot Noodle when we go into Budgens, everyone loves them.  We don’t have access to a kettle and last week I tasted Nicky’s, made with hot water from the bathroom tap, and it wasn’t great, so I decide to buy a box of Ritz crackers instead.

“Shall we walk back over the railway?” I ask?

There are two ways that lead back to school, the boring, fast route we came along and the longer scenic route which involves crossing the railway. I like standing on the bridge, looking down the tracks.

“Yes, let’s” they both agree.

It’s a breezy day and we’re standing there on the bridge when a mischievous thought pops into my head. What if I threw my beret down onto the tracks!? I imagine it sailing through the air like a frisbee that won’t be thrown back. It feels irresistible. I hate wearing this stupid beret. The wool is itchy and makes my head hot and it looks silly perched on top of my head. I can’t see the point of it. It doesn’t even keep my ears warm. I’m doing it. Before I can talk myself out of it, it’s in my hand and then flying over the wall and down onto the tracks below. Kim and Cathy stare at me in horror.

“What are you doing?”

“Are you crazy?”

“You’re going to get into such trouble”

“Why did you do that?”

I know there’s trouble ahead. But I also know that it takes at least six weeks for uniform orders to arrive from Dickens and Jones, so I will be hatless for a while. I can’t wear a beret if I don’t have one. Oakdene doesn’t do second hand or hand-me-downs.

Back at school, I go to see Matron. I’m in luck, it’s Dodds who opens the door and asks me what I want, and she’s not scowling. I tell her about my beret.

“We were walking across the bridge over the railway” I explain. “And a gust of wind blew my beret right off onto the tracks”.

She looks at me doubtfully. “Really” she says. It's not a question. “I see.”

There is a moment of silence. She’s looking straight into my eyes. She knows I’m lying and I know she knows. What will she say next? I hold my breath.

“Go and see Miss Lunn and ask her to place an order for a replacement,” she says sternly. “Your parents won’t be best pleased” she adds, “berets are very expensive you know”. She closes the door and I am left standing there. I’m not sure why I got away with it. Maybe she thinks my parents will be angry and they will do the punishing instead. But they won’t, I know that. They probably won’t even notice the addition of a beret to the school fees. Or maybe she feels sorry for me? Could she secretly be envious of my defiance? Probably not.

For the next month, I go into town without a beret. A true, rare triumph.

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I am a risk taker, defiant. Miss Havard was right. I sometimes think this too is a survival strategy, a coping mechanism in response to the overly controlling and restrictive boarding school environment. I am always scared when I take risks, but the fear doesn’t stop me. Maybe it’s the fear that feels enlivening, thrilling. There is such a strong drive in me to be good, mainly so that I will be loved and approved of, to avoid people’s anger, blame and disapproval. But those things are not enough. They never quite satisfy me. I probably always recognised that other people’s approval is just not worth the sacrifice of my freedom and sense of myself.