I get religion

My religious mania was encouraged at school - a Church of England primary - if not at home.  The Rector came every Friday, taught RE and then played football with us in his long black dress.  The whole school - all ninety of us - went to church for all the major festivals.  I loved harvest festival, all the food piled up before the altar - this being a farming community there was not a packet of pasta or tin of baked beans to be seen, but great baskets of colourful fruit and vegetables and who could not like bellowing 'We Plough the Fields and Scatter' - bliss.   But Ash Wednesday was probably my favourite because I liked having the cross marked on my forehead - don't ask me why -  I suspect it was just another chance to show off.   By the time we got back to school most of the cross would have worn away so we'd spend all afternoon rubbing pencils on hard surfaces - the desks were ancient and had metal ink wells with brass covers so we could re-anoint ourselves.  If  the pencils had been lead I expect we'd have all been poisoned - not sure if there is such a thing as graphite poisoning. 

Me and Church

There is a girl at primary school who is picked on more than me.  I am an outsider, my mum is not well and so I am an easy target; but surprisingly Bess is from one of the old village families.  The reason she is picked on is that her family are poor, her four much older siblings all live at home and she shares her parent's bedroom; in her innocence Bess told someone and this makes her a pariah.   Inevitably, as isolated children, we become friends.  Bess goes to church every Sunday on her own and I am invited to accompany her.  My parents see this as a definite sign of eccentricity - religion playing no part in our family life - but agree I should go as I imagine it gives them a few hours of peace and quiet.

The church isn't actually in our village, but in a little hamlet just ten minutes away.  You can get there either by walking along the main road, risking death by crossing on the blind corner or you can walk along the disused railway line.  Then up the lane that led to home farm, a manor house with an octagonal folly and the church.The churchyard was dark and gloomy, worn gravestones surrounded by trees and yew hedges - it was absolutely terrifying and Bess and I made the best of it by scaring each other silly.

 The Rector (who ministered to three or four churches) was a lovely man and was always welcoming.  Church was never full; there would be the Rector, me, Bess, the local doctor and his daughter - who played the organ and a few elderly ladies.  The service seemed to go on for hours; a long sermon and a short one, lots of hymns (the best bit in my opinion - especially 'Praise my Soul the King of Heaven' -).

My devotion to the church continued for some years and I went through a stage of telling people I wanted to be a nun - this may either have been influenced by 'Black Narcissus' - could never decide if I wanted to be Sister Clodagh (Deborah Kerr - I salute you) or crazy Sister Ruth (amazing hair as well) or it might even have been The Sound of Music.   Occasionally Bess and I slipped from our spiritual path; greed getting the better of us we would spend our collection money on  sweets and then couldn't go to church empty handed.

Me and sex education: books

In our sitting room was a bookcase with a number of books placed spine down.  As a voracious reader no book escaped me; so at at youngish age I devoured 'Giovanni's Room', 'Lady Chatterley's Lover'  and 'Fanny Hill' which I found interesting, if a little confusing.

Then one day I went back to basics when I found a book by Claire Rayner, 'Sex Education for Girls' or some such.  The pictures left a lot to be desired and filled me with a certain amount of concern as no one in my family looked like that with their clothes off - how many children have been traumatised by black and white line drawings?  But Claire was a nurse (it said so on the back) so she obviously knew what she was talking about and perhaps D. H Lawrence didn't?.

About six months later Mum said that she would tell me where babies came from - I didn't like to tell her that I had a pretty good idea from my extensive reading of our equivalent of the British Library Private Case, from kids at school and not withstanding that my bedroom window overlooked a field full of cows and the occasional bull.  She produced the Claire Rayner book, said we would read it together and learn where babies came from.  I felt it only polite to pretend I hadn't read the book before and whenever she got embarrassed I'd try and help out by asking her leading questions being careful that I didn't bring in the activities of Fanny, Constance or David.

Me and the wedding

One of my aunts is getting married and I am going to be the smallest bridesmaid - I'm probably about seven.  I have vague memories of the day - a sweet mauve dress made out of some shiny self-patterned fabric, being given a silver bangle by the groom, deciding that I will entertain all the guests with a ballet dance and then, after about thirty minutes, getting cross when I am moved from the dance floor so the happy couple can have the traditional first dance.

There is a buffet-supper; I am allowed to go and help myself - although Nan-next-door says I must eat everything I take - waste not being permissible (also she and Grampy are paying so I expects she wants her money's-worth).  I milk the situation by making numerous trips to collect a single items of food, a slice of ham - eat that, then back for a bread roll, eat that and then back for a single tomato and so on - good excuse for swishing around in my nice dress.

Then the best bit - pudding.  This is a dodgy-looking fruit salad - too many pears and not enough peaches for my taste, but never mind,  I spot a bowl of cold pale yellow custard - so much nicer than cream.  I wonder why formerly hot food tastes so much nicer cold?  Pizza, tepid roast potatoes and toast left in the toaster for 15 minutes until it is nice and crisp - delicious.

Back at the wedding - I liberally (actually - replace that with greedily) spoon custard over the miserable fruit salad and plod back to the table (all those trips to get food and the ballet dancing are taking their toll). Unfortunately the bowl did not contain custard, but salad cream (I do not mean mayonnaise  - which would have been more palatable, if a little strange), but sharp and vinegary salad cream.  I am mortified at my mistake and do not tell anyone.  Instead, taking Nan's words to heart, I plough my way through the fruit salad and salad cream -a  very nasty combination.

Me and how I lost my sense of humour

I inherit my friend Lucy's boyfriend Piers when she moves on to someone else.  I am in ecstasy - I've had a secret crush on him for ages;  actually it probably wasn't such a secret as I am one of life's blushers and he may have noticed my rapid change of colour whenever he appears.  He has dark hair, crinkly eyes and a thin top lip that I find both strangely repulsing and enticing at the same time.  The only fault I can find with him is that he is very attached to his tambourine and carries it around at all times - he is musical so I suppose this eccentricity can be forgiven, but in retrospect I can't decide if he was more Liam Gallagher or Linda McCartney

To be honest, although delighted to be the Chosen One,  I feel that Piers is totally out of my league and can't understand why I am honoured with his attentions. He says he likes me because I am funny and make him laugh (Note to those looking for lurve - it is OK to tell a woman she is funny, but start with something a little more romantic - it will be appreciated). This is not what I want him to say, but I decide to work on improving my traditional girlfriend qualities.

One Saturday afternoon we go back to his school (he is a boarder).  His study is full of lads who have been invited to meet me (great - a mass inspection - just what a girl needs for a confidence boost).
Piers says: 'Come on Renka - say something funny.  I've told everyone you're the funniest girl I've ever gone out with'  (See what I mean - that 'funniest girl' doesn't have the same ring as 'nicest', 'sexiest', 'loveliest' does it?)
This, I feel, also says a fair amount about his former girlfriends (and him) as I am not exactly Dorothy Parker, more Lady Penelope's Parker.

I'm not saying I'm Scheherazade -but I'm beginning to see how she must have felt - performing to order.  Achieving the ultimate prize isn't exactly what I thought it would be and has a detrimental effect on my sense of humour. When I'm with Piers I can hardly speak, my throat constricts and my tongue turns to cardboard;  I feel undeserving and hence can think of nothing to say.  After a few weeks of this he dumps me (kindly - as he is a nice person); initially devastated I survive and decide to seek boyfriends who can make me  laugh.

I was reminded of this episode when rummaging through my jewellery box recently and came across the silver charm bracelet I always wore as a teenager.  Inside the miniature Aladdin's lamp was a piece of cotton from one of his shirts, it had got snagged on my bracelet and I had kept it like a piece of some saint's thigh bone in a tiny religious reliquary.

Nan-next-door and the dentist

Nan-next-door didn’t really have much time for dental hygiene.  Living with her I remember eating lots of biscuits, but never being told to brush my teeth.  Fortunately when I went home at weekends Mum had a rigorous approach to teeth and drummed it in to me  that I had to take responsibility for brushing at least twice a day as the grandparents couldn't be trusted.  When I reported back and was seen to act on these instructions Nan-next-door would snort, ‘Modern nonsense – we didn’t brush our teeth when I was your age and what harm did it do us?’  Nan seemed unable to connect this lack of attention with the fact that most of her generation had false teeth from the age of thirty.

Eventually I needed to be taken to the dentist as one of my milk teeth was painful - I am probably about six or seven - those malted milk biscuits have taken their toll.  The dentist operated out of his house which stood on the main A40 into the city.  Whenever I pass it now I have a little shiver  - it remains the same: gloomy, with brown pebble-dash and dark green painted woodwork - it could easily act as a location for a horror film - Silence of the Lambs or some such.

The dentist decides I need the tooth out and because I am so scared he is going to put me to sleep (temporarily - it isn't that bad).  He puts the rather nasty, smelly mask over my face; unwisely he has his finger between the mask and my mouth and gives my sore tooth a prod.  Not liking this treatment I decide to bite him.  I bite, he screams and drops the mask,  I cry,  he slaps me and then slaps me again for good measure.  Nan-next-door rushes in to see what is going on and why the poppet (this is what I am called by the family - simper, simper) is wailing.  She is furious that he has slapped me and completely indifferent to the fact that I have almost severed one of his fingers and there is blood running down his arm.  She shouts at him using what I know, even then, are bad words. We are told to leave and never to return.  Back home Nan-next-door gives me sweets to comfort me.

My tooth still hurts, but Grampy loops a length of thread around it and then ties the other end to a door handle, slams the door shut and, hey presto, out comes my tooth, ready to be put under my pillow for the tooth fairy.

Now when I go to the dentist I have to try really hard not to think of this story as I am worried that one day I’ll do some more biting.

Me and the school library

At primary school I was known (probably also pitied) as the only child who had read every book in the school library (oh yes, my destiny was calling).  Actually it wasn't true, but the headmaster put it on my reference for secondary school and in my final report. I suspect he just wanted to prove that one of his pupils could read.  Education wasn't high on his list of priorities, but we did an awful lot of sport.  Mostly football or running up and down the playground - yelling loudly.  The latter came to an abrupt end when a boy ran so fast (the playground was on a wicked slope -- like Yeovil Town's old pitch)  that he punched his arm through the dining room window and a tourniquet had to be applied by one of the dinner ladies.

Anyway back to the library.  The library consisted of about 300 or 400 books and I vowed I would read everyone of them - goodness knows why - for attention I suspect. 
The books in the school library were largely ancient hardbacks that sat mouldering in a corner waiting for someone to love them.  Lovely 'Little Grey Men' by BB - all about gnomes and nature and, of course,  that seminal work 'The Secret Garden' with fierce Mary Lennox, feeble Colin and Dickon.
There were also lots of school stories, mainly set in girls' boarding schools,  where everyone was called by their surname.  One in particular sticks in my mine, about a family of very plain girls - their faces are described as being like dinner plates -  called Kibble.  At the beginning of the story the Kibbles are just known for being dull and virtuous, but by the end they have saved the school, the true worth of the plain woman is finally appreciated, the glamorous, but unworthy headgirl has been replaced and all is well with the world - 'Hurrah for the Kibbles!'. Sadly complete fantasy - let's face it we plain girls are just not going to get to rule the world.  These books made Mallory Towers (Darrell Rivers - how I loved you and wanted to be your 'bosom chum' - you were the k.d. lang of my pre-teen years) and St Clare's seem very contemporary.  They always wore gymslips which sounded very appealing - I imagine they were something like a floaty nightie  - perhaps made of pale pink or duck egg blue silk with a coffee-coloured trim?  It was a disappointemtn to find they were what we called school pinafores.

Other titles of note included 'The Swish of the Curtain' by Pamela Brown - about some teenagers who start a thetare company - this fueled an acting bug and a book about a girl called Mary who did something with a bible in Wales - can't remember what - but I so wanted to be her (may have been nothing more than a shallow desire to wear one of those red cloaks and a tall black hat).

I loved these books - their very physical nature: heavy and substantial,  thick cream paper  with brown freckles and  covers that would get all gummy when you read them in the bath.  They were good to sniff, musty and a little mouldy, like the smell of green canal water.

A somewhat melancholy link with the past weree the inscriptions inside the books  'To Sylvia, Happy Christmas 1932,  Love Mother and Father' or 'To Bobbity, for being such a good sort, from your pal Ruggles' .  The bookplates recording some child's proudest achievements: books for good conduct, for doing well in algebra, in parsing, in bible studies, for deportment.  Occasionaly you would find some long-forgotten bookmark and feel a fleeting connection with a human being you would never know. Books, lovely books.