Me, RE and the boys' school

We move house when I am going into the Sixth Form.  Rather than take a bus to my old school I decide to move schools.  The new school is an all-girls, set in imposing grounds - think I must have been having  Mallory Towers fantasies when I ask to go there.

On the first day of the autumn term we are given our timetables with details of where the lessons will be held.   Against my RE lessons was written  Boys instead of a room number.   Much giggling (this was the usual reaction to the word Boys at the new school  - at the old school if you saw/heard the word Boys you just groaned dismissively and then flicked your hair about in the hope someone would notice you).  I ask for clarification from my new form teacher - where will I find Boys. It turns out that as only two of us want to study RE at A-Level  the school has decided it isn't economical to offer it so we are to take a thrice-weekly cycle ride to the nearest boys' school to join their lessons.  This results in almost universal hysteria in the common room and there is much discussion about changing subjects - RE has never been so popular.

Fran and I cycle wearily to the boys' school - we have little time between the end of English and the start of RE.  We are arrive red faced and probably rather sweaty - but let's not go there - boys in the playground would say things like 'Hot, girls?'  rather than 'Hot girls!' - it was very dispiriting.

Death of Jezebel

The boys in our class consisted of Bob, who is engaged to be married to the Head of RE's daughter (yes, they are both 16).  The daughter is home-schooled, but joins us for RE - the affianced couple sit cosily sharing a bible.  The other three lads won't even look at us - we weren't that repulsive, even if perspiring a little, but girls from our school had a reputation as the local Jezebels (they were probably worried they'd end up like Ahab - dodgy wife, dogs licking blood etc).

Two years of toiling up and down a hill, studying John's Gospel and the Book of Job and not a single party invitation from any of the lads - although we were once asked to a bible-reading weekend.

Me and the perm

As a teenager my hair was dead straight and it made me sad - I wanted wavy tresses to swish around.
Odd that now my hair responds to any moisture by becoming somewhat sheep-like; this morning it dried naturally and it looked like I could join a Peter Frampton tribute band.

Quite a few girls at school had their hair permed into bouncing curls so Mum suggested I should do the same.
Instead of going to a decent hairdresser in town I go to the hairdresser that my Nan goes to (mistake #1) - Nan comes with me and tells the hairdresser what I want (mistake #2).  After hours of sitting with evil-smelling, corrosive gunk on my head the moment of truth arrives.   My head is covered with tight curls (an old lady perm to put it bluntly).  Instead of hair to flick around I look like a cross between Pennywise  and Harpo Marx (just not as appealing).


I rush home, weep, shout and when not weeping/shouting I wash my hair over and over again.   I refuse to go to school until it relaxes a little.  I wear hats and scarves (more Rosie the Riveter than Princess Grace) and put my hair up in a bun - but the crinkliness can not be disguised.  It took a whole year to grow out - a very distressing and never to be repeated experience.

Me and Wild Boy (5): Trilogy (ELP)

The next morning WB stands in the snowy garden wearing only a pair of jeans - no shoes, socks or shirt (one of his typical dramatic gestures that I initially thought amazing and then found really, really sad).  I am inside with his mum and longing to go home.  She says,  'I love my son, but he'll come to nothing. Don't do anything silly - you've got your whole life ahead of you.'

At home I write WB a letter, tell him I don't love him and I don't want to see him again.  It was a lie as I do love him so much that it still makes me almost sick to think about him, but his intensity and lack of control are really frightening and I am only a kid.

After that he occasionally turns up, often late at night, at my house.  Despite disliking him,  my parents insist he stays as they worry he will have an accident on his motorbike. He continues to say that I am the only person who can save him and that he can make me happy - even at that age I know neither is true.  Eventually when I go away to university he drops out of my life and I hear from mutual friends that he has become increasingly dependent on drink and drugs.

He died some years ago, but I think about him nearly every day.

I sometimes hold it half a sin 

To put in words the grief I feel ; 
For words, like Nature, half reveal 

And half conceal the soul within. 

Me and Wild Boy (4): Love Hurts

Wild Boy is expelled from school and goes back home to the Midlands.  His mother invites me to spend New Year with them; I don't want to go, but don't know how to say no.   On arrival I am surprised to find that he lives in a house not unlike mine and that his mum and sister are not unlike my mum and sister.  I think I imagined he either lived in something akin to Blenheim Palace or a crack den - so my months of worrying he'd think me too ordinary were wasted.

It has been arranged that we are going to a New Year's Eve party.  I wear a turquoise cheongsam dress that is so tight I can't bend down to do up my sandals without assistance - I think I look mighty fine (mighty cold actually - it has been snowing and my mottled blue legs tone well with the dress).

The party is at WB's Dad's golf club - the ultimate in middle class, middle-agedness - where has my wanna-be rock god gone?  Dad - all sheepskin coat and flash car - drives us there and Mum stays at home. I am surprised (and a little shocked - I have led a sheltered life) to be introduced to Dad's girlfriend - she is probably no more than 6 or 7 years older than me.

Just before midnight the DJ announces the next song is dedicated to a lucky lady whose boyfriend is intending to propose to her that night.  All the party guests say how romantic and on New Year's Eve too.  The song comes on and it is 'my' song (well, the one WB says is my song - we never agree on music).  I am embarrassed that in front of a crowd of people WB gets down on one knee and asks me to marry him - I say nothing and this is taken as grateful consent.  I am sixteen, scared of him and just want to go home - even if my parents do say 'I told you so'.

His Dad's girlfriend says that I am a lucky girl and if I ever decided I don't want him she'll have him - she proceeds to give him a congratulatory kiss that morphs into her eating his face.  Strangely I just don't care.

Me and Wild Boy (3): Time Bomb

Wild Boy is fun for a while and totally unlike anyone else I know.  But my inner-sensible person comes to the fore as he gets more out of control and unpredictable. For instance we have a difference of opinion about music and he 'punishes' me by lying down in the middle of the Banbury Road (a busy thoroughfare) saying he will stay there until I agree with him.

I tell him I need to concentrate on my school work and I don't want to see him quite as much so he 'borrows' a friend's motorbike and tries to run me over when I get off the school bus - an experience I find both mortifying and ridiculous.

The lowest point comes when he cuts his wrists in my parents' bathroom - fortunately they are out for the afternoon.  He is extremely proud of the resulting scars and insists on showing everyone - saying he had done it for me as if it was some sort of bloody tattoo.

At first my parents and friends are charmed by his good manners and amusing ways, but as time goes on they dislike him and criticise him to me all the time.  But their dislike means I can tell no one what is happening or how I feel as I am too ashamed.  So what do I do?  I do nothing.

Me and Wild Boy (2): Teenage Kicks

Wild Boy (WB hereafter) drinks heavily, smokes constantly, wears make up and wants to be a rock star  - he, of course, sings in a band - what's not to like. I am initially dazzled by him; he is funny, outrageous and has the most beautiful eyes, but I worry that he will think me suburban and dull.

I become increasingly caught up in his bad behaviour.  One Saturday afternoon I watch while he and his rich friends shoplift; once I realise what they are doing I decide to go home.  WB chases after me shouting that I have shown him up, disrespected his friends and I should apologise to them.  Instead I punch him in the face - it was meant to be a slap, but I forget to unfold my fist and give him a nose bleed. Instead of being angry he thinks this is hilarious, and writes on his blood-stained t-shirt 'My girlfriend did this to me' with an arrow pointing upwards (I think he probably nicked the pen).

At a party he asks me if I trust him.  I, of course, say yes.  He says will I let him and his friends lower me from a first floor window as it will be fun.  I agree until my arms feel like they will be ripped from their sockets and beg him to get me up.  His best friend, who I realise now was in love with him, tells him not to be soft.  WB insist they pull me up and I fall into the room crying with fright and pain.  He comforts me saying I should have trusted him and that he would never let anything bad happen to me.
Why don't I realise that he is the bad thing happening to me?

Me and Wild Boy (1): Ever Fallen in Love With Someone...

I wrote the following five stories over six months ago, but have hesitated about posting them as they are quite personal, but in the spirit of portraying my teenage years honestly I'm going for it.  Afraid you won't find much humour in them.

I go to a party and meet a boy who is wearing more make up then me. We bond over nail varnish - he admires my toe nails which are painted red with white dots to match my t-shirt.  I admire his black varnished nails and we discuss the merits of various brands of mascara.  After ten minutes we decide we are made for each other and arrange to go to a deeply inappropriate film featuring lots of sex and violence.

He arrives at the cinema with a bottle of whisky, packets of fags and a plastic bag of what look like aspirins; all of which he promptly offers to me.  I say no thanks - I hate whisky, have never smoked and don't have a headache - he partakes of all of them and is off his head for most of the film.

I think I have fallen in love.