22. Flying Home For Christmas

It’s the last day of term and we are standing by the tall windows in Kennedy looking out over the school drive. We’re all waiting to be collected and taken home for Christmas. We watch from the first floor as girls run out to the cars to greet their parents, loading their bags into the boot and driving off for the holidays. There are only a few of us left as the afternoon draws to a close, teetering on the edge of the wooden window ledges in Kennedy to get a better view of the drive. I’m waiting for a taxi. My parents won’t be coming to collect me, I’m flying home to Paris for Christmas and I’ll be travelling alone as an Unaccompanied Minor.

A smart-looking black Mercedes is pulling into the drive through the open wrought iron gates. Making its way slowly around the pond, it stops in front of the main entrance and the man who climbs out of the driver’s seat is wearing full chauffeur uniform; dark suit, white shirt, black tie and a black cap.

“Ooh…fancy,” scoffs Caz, looking around at us making an ‘I’m impressed and jealous but there’s no way I’m letting on so I’ll take the piss instead’ face. “Very la-li-da”. She smirks and sticks her tongue out.

“Very posh”, I say, joining in. “Who’s he come for?!” I look around to see if anyone claims the chauffeur as their ride home. Caz is now strutting around the dorm, nose in the air, one hand on her hip. She’s milking it for all it’s worth and everyone is laughing. She’s quite the entertainer when she wants to be. “My chauffeur has arrived” she says, putting on an upper-class accent. “Ok, yah, daddy sent his man” she prances between the beds and bursts out laughing, we all laugh along with her.

Oakdene School in Beaconsfield, Buckinghamshire is not one of the ‘posh’ girls’ schools. Most of the boarders’ fathers are in the army or airforce. Stationed in Germany, their daughters are sent back to England to school, fees paid for them by the forces. They are not all high-ranking officers, most are Flight Lieutenants or Squadron Leaders. Kim’s father is a Wing Commander, he’s the highest ranking officer. There is definitely some competition among the girls based on their fathers’ rank. Those of us whose fathers are mere civilians are a pretty motley crew, a strange mix of businessmen or farmers’ daughters. It’s not a well-known school so how we all ended up here is a bit of a mystery. I’m here because before we moved to Paris we lived here, in Beaconsfield, just ten minutes down the road from the school. My mother gave French conversation lessons to the sixth formers. When it came to choosing a school, familiarity was the winning criterion. My parents certainly didn’t choose this school for its academic standards (which are barely adequate), its facilities (which are basic), its grounds (which are pleasant at best)  or its pastoral care (that would be an ironic joke). No, the choice was motivated by prior acquaintance and convenience. My mother knew the Headmistress and they had friends who lived in the town who could be my guardians.

The door to the dorm bursts open and one of the younger girls says “Sophie, your chauffeur is here, he’s waiting for you in the hall”.

“My chauffeur? But I don’t… It can’t be… “ I’m muttering, I don’t know what to say.

I stare blankly and I realise that everyone is still laughing. At me.

“Oh God, no. It can’t be. My father didn’t say anything about a chauffeur, I thought he would be sending some kind of taxi to collect me and take me to the airport. I want the floor to swallow me up. I am mortified. This can’t be, how could he do this to me?

Many of the other girls whose parents live abroad come back to the UK for the holidays. They pick up their daughters and take them to grandparents or family homes. This feels just like my duvet cover, all over again. I feel my difference so intensely and I hate it. I want to be like them. I want parents who collect me in their old Volvo, I want a homely mum who engulfs me in a bear hug, I want to spend the drive home telling them all about my first term at school, fighting with my sister in the back. I want to fit in.

Instead, I shake hands politely with Mr Jones, he holds the door open for me to climb into the back of the sleek, black car and we drive to Heathrow making polite conversation from time to time. It’s dark now and I stare out of the window, watching the cars on the other side of the M40 whizzing past, feeling lonely and lost, again.

Mr Jones hands me over to the BA staff at the check-in desk. “Send my best to your father and mother,” he says as he shakes my hand goodbye. “Happy Christmas”.

“Happy Christmas” I reply “Thank you Mr Jones”

“Come along then", the BA attendant says after she’s checked my ticket, weighed my suitcase and sent it off down the conveyor belt. She hangs a plastic wallet around my neck which contains my passport, ticket and boarding pass “Let's get you to the gate”.

I follow her for what feels like miles, walking down long passages to finally arrive at the departure gate. She walks briskly, her court shoes tip-tapping loudly. We don’t talk.

“Sit here love,” she points to a row of seats next to the gate desk. “Bye then, Happy Christmas”

“Thank you, Happy Christmas,” I say back, automatically, but I don’t mean it.

I sit and wait, biting my nails. I listen to flight after flight being called for boarding. I want to get home. It’s been a long day and I’m feeling nervous and tense.

Finally, one of the gate staff comes over and beckons me to follow her down the long boarding bridge onto the plane. She hands me over to the stewardess who smiles vacantly and takes me to my seat. It’s near the front of the plane, the middle seat of a row of three. The window seat is already taken by a smart looking, middle-aged businessman.

“Hello,” he says with a friendly grin when I sit down.

I smile back and settle in, taking off my coat and fastening my seat belt.

“Are you travelling on your own?” he asks. He has a slight German accent.

“Yes” I say, somewhat proudly.

“Do you live in Dusseldorf?” he asks.

That's a strange question, I think.

“Um, no”

“You have family in Dusseldorf?” he suggests.

“No” I’m puzzled, what's all this about Dusseldorf? “Um, no, no I don’t”

“Oh, so what will you be doing in Dusseldorf,” he asks, he sounds puzzled too now.

“I’m not going to Dusseldorf” I say, I really don’t know what he’s talking about and why he keeps asking me about Dusseldorf. “I’m going to Paris, that’s where my parents, I mean, that’s where I live”.

“Oh! I think there’s a problem here” he says half laughing, half sounding worried. “I’ll call the stewardess.”

It turns out that I’m on the wrong plane. The row of seats I was pointed to at the departure gate by the first attendant was between two gates, one for Paris and the other for Dusseldorf and no one checked my documents before taking me to board the plane, even though they were hanging around my neck!

Luckily they haven’t started to taxi down the runway yet, the doors are still open and I’m ushered off in a hurry and onto the right plane.

The forty-minute journey literally flies by, but it’s quite late when we land at Charles de Gaulle. I am met by yet another member of staff who takes me through security and on to collect my suitcase. She walks me through to arrivals where I am met by Mr Letort, yet another driver, this time un-uninformed. He is holding a sign which reads BOSS, that’s how I know he must be for me.

The drive to Paris, then around the periferique to the porte Dauphine and finally to Avenue Bugeaud feels interminable and by the time I step into our apartment, I feel little else but relief. I look around, it’s been 12 weeks since I was last here. It’s almost as if I am a visitor or a guest in this place that once felt like home. I feel a little shy as I hug both my parents, my mother leading me to my bedroom, my sister staring at me as though she’s forgotten who I am. I don’t quite know how to be here and yet I so desperately want to be back, to be home, to belong.

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Today I feel sad and shocked that it didin't occur to my parents to meet me at Charles de Gaulle. My mother would undoubtedly say that she was busy preparing a nice dinner for me, so it didn't make sense for her to drive all the way out to the aiport to pick me up. My father never much liked driving and would probably have been busy working anyway. So just like every other aspect of my daily life, my travel arrangements were delegated to paid professionals.

The feeling of never quite being at home has stayed with me ever since. I never felt at home at school and it took so little time to stop feeling at home in my parents house.

When I was 14 they moved to a smaller appartment in Neuilly, a very elegant part of town. My mother decorated our bedroom to look like a spare room so that it would serve a dual purpose. It was my sister's and my room in the holidays and ready to welcome guests in term time. We each had just one shelf above our beds with some of our books and a few personal items, my Malory Towers collection among them. The flowery chintz curtains perfectly matched the identical yellow bedspreads. That's all there was: two beds, two shelves and a fitted wardrobe. Neat and tidy. Not a stitch out of place. A dorm at school and a dorm at home. Is it any wonder I felt untethered?

Go to the next story: 23. The Pigeon Holes