JOINING THE SENIORS

Transferring to the senior school seemed a momentous event but turned out to be somewhat deflating to the ego. At the top of the junior school we were queens of the castle, but once in the seniors we were at the bottom of the heap.

Previously there had always been a certain amount of latitude towards us, but now we had come to the point where, without knowing the quotation, we felt that 'life is real, life is earnest.'

Maths was no longer just plain arithmetic which goodness knows, for me had been bad enough. I was not numerate. Indeed I could not add up mentally and in fact learned to do so only after I was married. At that time, hankering unsuccessfully for a baby I sought my doctor's advice and was told to take a job and forget about it for the time being. 

I went to Bentalls in Kingston upon Thames to become a trainee buyer and after three months in an interesting and absorbing occupation found myself pregnant. Five months later I panicked when, in the run-up to Christmas, I was put in charge of the Gift Hall and had to check and sign every bill. In those days there was no such thing as the modern till which painlessly does all one's adding and subtracting. Every bill had to be written out by hand.

Fortunately my husband set out to teach me how to do mental arithmetic and managed to do so virtually overnight. Would that I could have achieved that at school. In the seniors we were now stretching out into other branches of maths such as algebra and geometry which to me could just as easily have been Double Dutch.

We were introduced to Latin and French. I had an instinctive feeling for languages and, left to myself would automatically stress the right part of a word. By now however, I had completely lost my confidence. In the early stages of learning Latin an Inspector came round. He asked us what we were saying incorrectly and without stopping to think, I said the accent was in the wrong place.

"Where should it be be?" he asked me and although I knew, I felt I could not possibly be right - and gave him the wrong answer.

This was typical of my whole mixed-up attitude. Having become so lazy in the junior school I now had no method, simply did not know how to work properly and told myself I was incapable of doing it.

This did not apply to English which at all times was a real pleasure and never seemed to be a chore. I enjoyed history and loved art and we still had singing and elocution.

At one time we had extra elocution lessons from Sister Mary Raymond, the Mistress of Discipline. She was a rather patrician lady and she herself spoke beautifully. Her lessons were all concerned with pure vowel sounds. I can remember us all reeling off a number of these sounds which went something like this: Ga, lo, too, la, za, ro, bay, ga, may, nee, too, za.

Quite early on we had sessions on music theory and amongst other things learnt the rudimentary elements of counterpoint. I recall our being given a sheet of music paper with a melody and words on it. We had to supply a counter part suitable to go with both words and music.

On Saturday afternoons there would be needlework which was both pleasant and disagreeable. It was enjoyable because at this session there was no restriction on talking and I for one could be a little gabblemonger. The nuns believed in silence and strict silence was the rule from the time the bell was rung for evening prayers.

Never any talking in the dormitory. In the morning there would be morning prayers, Mass and breakfast with the readings from the Imitation of Christ and the Lives of the Saints. Still no talking. After breakfast we all had to repair to our dormitory, make our beds (which we had completely stripped when we got up), tidy up and present ourselves to the nun in charge. She would look us up and down from head to feet, inspect first our nails and then our beds. Only if she was absolutely satisfied would we be allowed to depart for the playground.

At last we could release our pent-up breath and start gabbling. But not for long. The day's work started at 9 am and at five minutes to the hour the bell would ring to call us to the study hall for assembly.

We were allowed to talk at our other meals during the day but not at breakfast and not on our way to and from the refectory. There were many, many corridors to be traversed and we were expected to gather together silently in one of them, the Immaculata, and then walk quietly and sedately, in a dignified, silent crocodile to the refectory. Then we had to wait until grace had been said before we could sit down and open our mouths not only to eat but also to talk. So yes, unrestricted talking made needlework a pleasant session.

On the other hand we had to learn to darn, a most tedious occupation. With black woollen stockings it was inevitable that we should frequently have large holes in the heels and our darning was expected to be meticulous. Up and down and in and out we had to weave making sure to leave little loops on the turn, to allow for shrinkage. Is it any wonder that girls like myself sometimes smeared ink on our heels hoping it would hide the holes?

There were other things to be learnt at these Saturday afternoon sessions. Embroidery,  for instance. We made tray cloths, tea cosies and egg cosies and covers for chair backs - antimacassars, these were called. Modern children would probably never have heard of them. Macassar oil was used in times past as a hair dressing and antimacassars were placed over the backs of chairs to prevent them being stained by the oil. When I say we made these things, I mean that we did simple embroidery, cross stitch for example, on ready-made articles.

We were taught the rudiments of sewing. Everything was done by hand for we did not have sewing machines. I remember a time when we all had to make a petticoat with French seams. I have to admit that sewing was not a strong point with me. I was so far behind with my petticoat that Evelyn took it over and finished it off for me. Nevertheless I can truthfully say that I do still know how a French seam should be made - however unnlikely I am to make one.

We had to do one year of cookery. I cannot recall having learned anything useful at this lesson. In fact the only thing I can remember is rock buns! However, the sessions were very pleasant, the domestic science kitchen was warm and cosy and home-like and I always felt happy there.

We also did 'science.' This was elementary - the usual experiments with litmus paper and bunsen burners about which my recollections are decidedly hazy. In this direction my mind was obviously not of the enquiring type.

In our third year, classes were divided. Some with a bent for domestic science took that option. It was not my scene and I carried on in the Latin group. I speak of options but in reality there were none. We simply dropped certain subjects and were allocated to the stream which the nuns considered most appropriate for us. They were probably right.

We still had to do Irish of course. I was most reluctant about it which in a way, was rather odd. My home was in the Isle of Man - Manxland - where there was a Celtic background culture and naturally, many place names were Manx with a great similarity to the Irish.

To give just one example, 'baile' in Irish, meaning town, is a common prefix to the names of many Irish towns, even quite small places. So to-day we find Ballyshannon, Ballitore, Ballinasloe and many, many more. It has its counterpart in the Isle of Man: Ballabeg, Ballasallagh, Ballaugh and so on.

My mother, though an Englishwoman, had spent her childhood in Wales. She would frequently make use of Welsh expressions which became quite commonplace to us. One of the things I learnt from her was how to pronounce in full, fluently and correctly, the famous long name of that Welsh town, LLanfairpwll...

But in those days I was not conscious of the similarities or

differences of the Celtic languages, or indeed, of languages, full stop. Although I had to learn Irish at school I was not interested in it. It was simply something we all had to do It was a way of speaking, quite different from anything I knew about - and it was compulsory.

It was not until I was in the Sixth Year that I discovered any of the beauty of Irish poetry, particularly some of the internal rhyming. It was even later still, long after I had left school, before I became aware on a simple scale of the pleasures of etymology.

So yes, we had to learn Irish. Copying the 'blas' or brogue posed no difficulty for me because mimicry came naturally to me. Just the same, I never did any work on the subject and I think my teachers gave up on me. When I arrived in Fourth Year I was still as bad as ever and Mother Evangelist, our Irish teacher, made me sit beside her, facing the rest of the class. One day she gave us three verses of an Irish poem to learn by heart for the following day.

For some reason I decided to learn them but nobody else did so. After Mother Evangelist had vainly asked all the others, whilst I was awaiting my moment of triumph, she calmly said: "Ah well, there is no point in asking you!" I was so taken aback that I failed even to mention that I did indeed know the poem by heart. I believe that even to-day I could recite it almost perfectly.

As far as games were concerned I was still as useless as ever. In the summer there was tennis but for me this was every bit as bad as rounders. To return the ball when it landed in my court was an impossibility and I never learnt how to serve. The mere idea of throwing the ball in the air with one hand and then being expected to hit it with the racquet in the other, was so frustrating. It was never where I thought it would be and just dropped to the ground. The games mistress washed her hands of me. Fortunately tennis was not compulsory.

We were very well off for hockey pitches. There must have been at least six and we were all expected to play. I was not quite as bad at this as at tennis, but could not say I was good at it. The hockey sticks of those who really were good, terrified me. My only asset in the game, in fact, was speed. One of the few sporting things I could do - possibly the only one - was to run fast. In later years I actually became captain of the second eleven and considered myself to have scored a triumph!

When later on my brother, Des, was at King Williams College in the Isle of Man, he played games including rugby but, generally speaking, was unremarkable at sports, except in one respect. His forte was running and he set up a record time for a run from King Williams to Douglas and back again, a distance in all of about twenty two miles.

Ronaldsway Airport is virtually next door to King Williams, and from the time that Des went to the College he was fascinated by planes. He was determined to fly. At the outbreak of the Second World War he was still too young to join up, but he did join the Air Training Corps at school.

At 17, a year before he should have left school, he volunteered for the RAF and reluctantly my father signed his assent. Sadly they never saw each other again. My brother went out to Southern Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) for flying training and did not return to England until some time after the War ended. By then my father had died.

Des became a Spitfire pilot and fought in French Indo China (to-day Vietnam) and Burma against the Japanese. At one time he and others were flying in supplies behind the Japanese lines. They wouild be accompanied by a Japanese guide - a hair raising experience. One could never be certain, he said, that the guide would not decide on suicide and misdirect the pilot straight into enemy lines.

In the last volume of Winston Churchilll's great history 'The Second World War', he paid tribute to all those who took part in the successful Burma campaign. Of the air support he said: "The Allied Air Forces had utterly vanquished the Japanese planes, and their support had been unfailing.'

My brother's experiences were of course after my schooldays as there was a five and a half year gap between us. In fact he went to King Williams at much the same time as I left school, previously having been at St. Dominic's when I was in the girls' school.

Back in the seniors I had my small trials and tribulations. For some reason my parents thought it would be nice for me to learn the piano. I hated it. I had no talent for it and my lack of co-ordination was a dire handicap. I could manage to play a melody with my right hand (provided the tempo was not too fast!) but the fingers of my left hand were like lead. As for putting the two together - well, both my hands considered that to be an unreasonable expectation.

I had a lay piano teacher, Mrs.O'Keefe, and had she been anybody other than my teacher I would probably have liked her very well. As things were I spent a good deal of time thinking up things to talk about which might distract her attention. She was very good at rapping one's knuckles with a pencil.

When I was thirteen my appendix played up. Dr. Burke, the school doctor, was called in when I complained of pain. He diagnosed appendicitis and I was taken to my father's old hospital, St. Stephen's in Dublin. Unfortunately, my grandmother took a hand in things. She informed the surgeon, a quite eminent one, that it was a lot of new-fangled nonsense. All the child needed was a good dose of caster oil!

The surgeon took umbrage and it needed my mother to come over from the Isle of Man to Dublin to smooth him down. Until then he had refused to perform the operation. At all events it went ahead and the surgeon apparently produced my appendix for Mother, just to prove the point. At the time of course I knew nothing about all this, which was probably just as well, for I found the whole business traumatic enough as it was.

The cubicle curtains were drawn the whole time so I did not see the other patients, but I am pretty sure they were all adults. I woke up one night, disturbed by moaning and groaning, lights and voices, in the cubicle next to me. A young doctor put his head round the curtain, smiled and told me there was no need to be frightened. All was quiet in the morning and I twitched back the curtain. There was no one there and the bed had been stripped.

The anaesthetic I was given was very crude in comparison with those of to-day. Premedication presumably did not exist. They took me to the theatre and put a mask on my face. Until then I had not been scared, but when I felt myself going under I gave way to absolute, unreasoning panic. I started to struggle violently and was immediately and forcibly held down. Mercifully, I was conscious for only seconds longer.

The aftermath was hardly pleasant either. With a scar about five inches long I felt exremely sore and, with nothing inside me to vomit, heaving and retching, I was abominably sick. The morning after the operation a nurse brought me a bowl of water and told me to sit up and get washed. Fortunately a staff nurse came in and said I should not be doing it.

I would not wish to have to go through it again, but at least, however crude the anaesthetic may have been, it was available. I shudder to think of the horror for people in an earlier age who had to have operations without any anaesthetic at all.

At school amongst a lot of children there are always plenty of minor ailments: coughs, colds, sore throats, 'flu. One of the things I suffered from was chilblains. Every winter I fell prey to them. One's fingers became swollen, red and itchy. Some girls had even worse chilblain problems than I did. In cold weather it was a temptation to put one's hands on the hot radiator pipes, which certainly did not help, and naturally was frowned upon. Grannie produced mittens for me and this was some help but not enough.

I once had a dose of 'flu and was sent to the infirmary. Dr. Burke came out to see me and, nice man that he was, brought me a book - Pollyanna. One would hardly expect even the nuns to take exception to that but alas, it was discovered and confiscated. I never saw it again but I would not have minded so much if at least I had managed to read it right through before it was taken. It was completely lost to me until years later when I heard my son reading the book to his stepdaughters.

Grannie and Flo continued to call regularly to see me. So, now and then, did Grannie's sister, Aunt Maggie. I never knew what the trouble was between them but Grannie and Maggie had not been on speaking terms for years. I had once, when I was a lot younger, put the cat among the pigeons by saying that it would be nice if I could go to Aunt Maggie, for a change, on my return to Dublin.

No sooner said apparently than acted upon. In Dublin however, Flo met the boat and took me home with her. Shortly afterwards Maggie arrived at their house. There was a tremendous row, mainly between Maggie and Flo. I was terrified. I did not understand it but was sure it must be because of me, which made me feel horribly guilty. It was never mentioned to me by any one of the three, but I felt no better for that.

On one occasion when Aunt Maggie visited me at the convent, she said to me suddenly: "Ah child, you have lovely eyes, but they'll never be as beautiful as your mother's."

Another time it was Flo (whom at that time of course I called Auntie Flo) who made me feel somewhat second best. I was bemoaning the fact that my hands were ugly. "You should be proud of them," she told me. "You have good, strong, working hands and isn't that far better than hands that just sit there looking pretty?" Alas, for my part I would have been happy at any time to be able to exchange mine for pretty ones!

I still did not work properly at school. From time to time, in exasperation, the nuns would ask me: "Rhona, when are you going to start working?"

Frankly, I had no idea how I was ever going to manage that, so I found a glib answer and gaily gave the same reply every time. "When I'm fifteen," I told them. I did not think about having to make good such a statement.

In many ways I was dissatisfied with myself but hardly understood why. Possibly that was why I was a ringleader in a great deal of mischief.

I also had a very quick temper. On one occasion, I was furious with another girl and banged her head against a door and had to be forcibly pulled away. In exoneration I can only say that I was always heartily ashamed of myself whenever my temper got the better of me. I was the recipient of many lectures on self control and I did try to acquire it.

I still remember, in Third Year, flying into a temper in a religious knowledge class and throwing my New Testament at Sister Mary Gregory. There was a concerted appalled gasp. Fortunately I was obviously a very bad shot. It fell short. Silence for perhaps half a minute. Then I was told, simply and quietly: "Rhona, come and pick it up." It was most effective for I felt extremely small.

In fact Sister Mary Gregory was a nun whom I particularly liked and admired. That year she also taught us French in which she had what I instinctively realised was a beautiful French accent which I tried to copy.

Sometimes I could be very determined. Having once made a stand on something I believed in, I would not go back on it. I liked acting and as a tiny tot in the junior school I had enjoyed being one of a pair of Old Testament 'carol singers' in the Nativity play.

This time it was a play about Rome and the persecution of the Christians and I was to be the Empress Poppaea. There was a line in it which went: "Genesius" (three times) "if you only knew how you hurt me!" I declared I could say it only twice if it was to sound credible. The elocution mistress who was the producer, gave me an ultimatum: say it her way or give the part up. I badly wanted to play Poppaea but I felt I was right so I opted to give up the role.

Round about this time I became very addicted to religion. We had a link with the missionary nuns at Killeshandra and of course heard a great deal about foreign missions, missionary life and black babies. I was sure I was destined to become a missionary nun. Such zeal naturally did not last. However at the time I often gave up part of my evening recreation time to go and sit in the dimly lit chapel with its glowing red sanctuary lamp.

I loved church ritual: Gregorian chant, so regulated, so immensely peaceful; the swelling notes of the nuns' choir; the pomp of Solemn High Mass; richly embroidered priestly robes; the clear note of the sanctuary bell; the overpowering scent of incense; the magnificent monstrance at Benediction; the golden, jewel-studded door of the tabernacle, so beautiful that although it is customary for this to be behind curtains, the door of our tabernacle was always left uncovered.

Outward trappings perhaps, but we were taught that they were not for the glorification of man. Rather were they an outward sign of the homage we owed to God.

* * * * *

In Fourth Year there were exams to be faced - the Irish Intermediate. Nevertheless, I went through the year much in my usual fashion taking life far too lightheartedly. At the end of the school year I went home and during the summer holidays learned that I had failed my exams.