8. Letter Writing

On Sunday afternoons it's letter writing time for the Upper Fourth. We sit at individual wooden desks in the schoolroom writing home to our parents. I tell my mother that I miss her. I write about the terrible food and the uncomfortable beds. I pause. I don't want to paint too gloomy (or accurate) a picture of life here, I'm aware of not wanting to sound pathetic or moany. I was the one who asked to come to boarding school after all and I feel a bit ashamed that I don't like it. I want her to think I'm OK, that everything is fine. I want her to be proud of me. So I tell her that I have made some good friends, which isn't really true, I tell her that I like going to town on Saturdays, which is true. That yesterday I went to Budgens and bought some Monster Munch (also true). I can't think of anything else to say. So I sign off. Mrs X, the teacher supervising letter writing this week tells us to bring our letters to her before we seal the envelopes. She reads each one. When it's my turn she looks at me and hands it back. I can't tell if she's angry or if she feels sorry for me.

"Your mother doesn't want to read about you being sad. Tell her about all the exciting things you've doing". She hands the letter back to me to write again.

I go back to my desk. Exciting things. Excitement is definitely not an emotion that pervades my life here. I can't think of a single exciting thing I have done this week. That is… except for when I pocketed the chicken breast from Miss Ruddock's lunch and I can't possibly tell her about that.

At lunch time there are almost four hundred girls and teachers in the dining room. It's noisy and busy and I can't wait for it to be over. On the menu today is thinly sliced meat of some kind drenched in a greyish-brown, congealed gravy. I've never seen meat sliced so thinly, it looks like ham except that it's grey, not pink. To accompany this abomination we have broad beans, also grey, rubbery and cold and mashed potatoes which look lumpy and stiff, all served on faded pale blue plastic plates. I can't eat any of it. I think I'm going to be sick. I push the food around my plate eating as little of it as I can get away with.

Miss Ruddock is at the head of the table. She doesn't eat what we eat. In front of her is a large china plate with blue and burgundy flowers around the edge and a golden rim. Her lunch is abundant and appetising; a plump looking roasted chicken breast and a crisp, fresh salad of lettuce, cucumber and tomato sprinkled with salad cress. She picks at the food and has barely eaten any of it by the time we clear the main course to collect the pudding for the table. It's my turn to take the plates as I'm sitting next to her. She turns to me without speaking and hands me her plate to take up to the counter. My mouth is watering as I walk slowly, holding the plate in from of me. I can’t take my eyes off the chicken breast, it is virtually untouched. “I want it” I think as I stare at the tempting breast, sitting there all plump and juicy.

Quick as a flash, without pausing to think, I grab the breast and slip it into my blazer pocket before depositing the plate on the counter. I go back to the table and sit through pudding of semolina and jam, intensely aware of the treasure in my pocket. I wonder if anyone knows. I feel flushed and scared at the idea of being found out. This is definitely exciting, thrilling. I feel wildly alive.

No, I definitely can’t write about that in my letter home.

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I developed a very powerful introject: Be ok, always be ok. No one needs to know when you are sad or unhappy, keep it to yourself.  (An introject is psychological mechanism, a coping strategy, whereby we incorporate external influences, ideas, rules or values into our internal sense of self, without conscious awareness or examination.)

It served me to think like that for many years. Certainly for all the years I was at boarding school. I was always ok. Whenever I went home for the holidays, I was ok. Everything was always fine. Or at least that’s what I said. And I had no sense of not telling the truth. It became the truth. What choice did I have? And even today it is my default, I’m more likely to say that everything is fine than to let someone know I’m not ok. In fact the more not ok I am, the harder it feels to say. And being aware of this, makes it possible to override my deflault behaviour, sometimes.