2. Wakey Wakey

“Fire, there’s a fire” I think as I sit bolt upright in bed. The loudest fire alarm I have ever heard is ringing and ringing and ringing, the metal clapper drilling away at frightening speed. I look around me frantically getting ready to pull on my dressing gown and bolt out of the room when I notice that all the other girls are stirring lazily in their beds. No one seems worried. They don’t even seem to notice. That’s because it’s not a fire bell, it’s the wakeup bell. The harshest, most brutal wake-up call imaginable. It also serves as the silence bell, the prep bell, the chapel bell and the dinner bell, the lesson bell and the break bell. This violent, strident sound will pepper my days, liberally. From here on in my life at Oakdene is determined by the bell. Ear piercingly loud and shrill, it dictates every step of my existence.

The bell stops and the door bursts open. Matron swoops in and bellows sharply “Wakey wakey, rise and shine, it’s a beautiful morning”. I feel cold, the September air is chilly and still. I watch her stride over to the windows and pull open the curtains as if she wanted to hurt them, ushering the grey, drizzly day into the dorm. The incongruence is jarring, nothing about this morning is beautiful. Is she really being sardonic at this time in the morning? I’m too bewildered to follow that thought.

“Up, up, up” she hollers at us. “Time to get up”.

I slide into my slippers and quickly pull on my dressing gown as she swoops out of the room. Grabbing my wash bag and towel I follow the others to the washrooms. I get dressed quickly, we don't have long before breakfast and we have to make our beds and tidy the dorm ready for inspection. No radios are allowed to be played at this time of day, that treat is reserved for the weekends. I hurry, trying to get everything done in time. If Matron comes in and finds us chatting while we get ready, she is bound to have a stern comment. “No dawdling, focus, what do you think this is, party time?”

I wrestle with the bedsheet, trying to make tight hospital corners so Matron won’t tell me off when she does her daily check after breakfast. It’s difficult to make them neat because the mattress is covered with a loose, slippery plastic undersheet. I do my best, which is not very good, finally covering my lumpy duvet with the counterpane and sitting Pepa Bear on top like a cherry on a cake. All eight beds in Barrie are identical, distinguished from each other only by their teddy bears. I glance at the picture of my parents on the bedside table. They look like elegant strangers, distant relatives. I feel nothing. I’m not sure why I don’t miss them and I sort of wish I did.

I follow Caz, Emma and the others down to breakfast, the echo of Matron shouting “Don’t run down the corridor, walk!” trailing behind us as we dash down the stairs.

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I still hate being woken up by an alarm. In fact I rarely am. Ninety-nine percent of the time, if I set one, I wake before it goes off. I have a tendency to rush myself, it’s my default. Taking my time has been the work of decades, I am still learning to move slowly, to do one thing at a time, even to risk being a little late, rather than drive myself like a donkey. I practice, daily.

I have practiced and practiced having a gentle and enjoyable start to the day. I now know what it feels like. When I can, I allow myself a few minutes to lie in bed, daydreaming before I get up. I run myself a candle lit, bubble bath while I make my bed and prepare my clothes and after my bath I spend twenty minutes lying on the floor doing my constructive rest, followed by a few stretches. I take my time. Most mornings I don't manage the bath. And almost every morning I wrestle with the matron in my head who tells me to hurry up, to get on with it, not to waste time. She is persistent and persuasive. I think it's time she retired. I'm a grown woman now and don't need her supervision!

Go to the next story: 3. Matron