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On becoming a boarder
Louise Sinclair
This is my story, my narrative. Itās accurate to me and how I remember my time away at school. I accept other pupils who were there at the same time may have a completely different perception of their school days. But this is my experience.
The departure lounge
I went away to school at eight. It was at that time that I think I froze, a reaction to trauma that I unknowingly experienced then and still experience now, so many decades later.
There is also guilt. I am the youngest of four and I wanted to board, as my older brothers and sister had. So, if I experienced any emotional or mental health problems as a consequence, I have a sneaking suspicion they were my fault.
Iāll start with some background so you can understand a little more about me.
Like so many young boarders of the late 1960s, I came from an āex-patā family who lived abroad and whose children were often returned to England for their schooling. It really was the ānormā for families like ours. Parents travelled about and were relocated every few years so it made sense, many of our parents thought, to send the children away to a place where they had some sense of continuity and where they could also learn more about their homeland. They were doing it with the best of intentions. At that time, Britain and all things British were considered to be the best, and that went for a British education too.
Except, of course, it often didnāt happen that way. They ā the children born in the remnants of the last lingering light of the Empireā might have been British by birth, but they were not British by formation.
At least not in my case, and I suspect something of the same with my siblings. I was different from the average English girl. I came from Africa.
I was born in London, but taken to West Africa when I was ten days old. My life there was certainly privileged, but it was also laissez faire, colourful, and, above all, free.
The African sky that I recall was rich, changeable and colourful; dark and menacing in the monsoon season, but then a brilliant and startling blue when the sun came out. The river water could be murky or invitingly green, while the sea took on the powerful mix of an azure blue and greeny acquamarine. On land, exotic trees with their vivid mix of greens were taken for granted. Banana trees ā the locals used their leaves as umbrellas when the rains came ā vied for attention with avocado trees and other delicious flora and fauna as the scent of the flowers from the stocky, bushy frangipani trees was absorbed into a personās soul. Grounding all of this was the earth: a rich, dark terracotta red. The African clothes took the colours of nature, too, so everywhere around there was an intoxicating vibrancy that held me spellbound and happy. My friends were white, black and Indian, children of colleagues as well as locals, with no discrimination in our household ā my parents were way ahead of their time.
One of my earliest memories was of sitting on my fatherās knee and draining the dregs of his lager at the club where we children romped as the adults knocked back their gin and tonics and smoked endless fags. To this day, my favourite smell is the combination of cigarettes and beer.
My idyll ended when I contracted cerebral malaria and, after hovering in a coma between life and death, I recovered, but the doctors told my parents I had to be taken back to England. My father stayed in Africa, but my mother and I returned to join my siblings permanently.
I must have visited England at some earlier time but I have no memory of it. What I do remember is my first winter in England ā the winter of 1963 ā when it snowed and snowed. I was six and Iād never seen the magical powder before. I loved, loved, loved it.
I settled and went to day school at first; the small private school was close by, across a small road and a few doors to the left of our house. I think I remember it with fondness, but not enough for it to be my final destination. I wanted to go to boarding school, I was not going to miss out and not have what my siblings had had ā I was envious and never questioned whether or not they were actually enjoying themselves ā boarding school was where I was bound.
Eventually, after some resistance from my mother, I got my wish. It all happened very quickly and my memory is sketchy. I think we went to London and from there to the school. I have no idea how the decision was made as to what school to pick (my sister was at a different one) but that was it. We went to Peter Jones to buy the uniform and, within days, I was off.
Day 1 in the boarding school household
The school was two weeks into the autumn term when I arrived. I remember suddenly feeling very small and very frightened. Nothing was as I imagined. Looking back, I donāt think Iād imagined much. It was the idea I fancied, not the reality.
The headmistress welcomed me along with another key member of the team with whom Iād had one brief meeting in London. I think people were trying to be kind but I was too young to take it in and suddenly too confused. It was a blur then and it still is. My mother must have left me and I imagine I said goodbye, but I have no recall of that. Nothing at all. Not kissing her goodbye, not waving the car off. Nothing.
The beautiful Queen Anne house in its many acres of grounds was lost on me. And very quickly. I donāt know how it happened but, within minutes of arriving ā being left? ā I was lost. Literally. I felt fearful and from that grew a sense of desolation. I can still feel that powerful memory as I write these lines.
The two elderly ladies with whom Iād spent much of my spare time when at home had given me a red writing case so I could keep in touch. I was very proud of it and kept it close on the trip to school, clutching it tightly. And then suddenly it wasnāt there. I can picture myself standing at the centre of this enormous expanse of green English countryside feeling bereft and isolated. I cried, silent but steady tears.
I had no measure of time, so I have no idea how long I stood there, but I can still see the headmistress, finding me. (When I look back, I see myself as a little girl but I am not āinā that little girl, if you know what I mean. I recall as an observer, not as the child I once was.) She was a still-beautiful woman who must have been in her sixties, her long white hair coiled in an Edwardian-style bun. She was of that time. She bent down kindly, wanting to help. She took my hand and together we went to find my prized possession, lying on a white bench only a few feet away from where my mother had parked the car. In my eight-year-old confusion, I must have left it there.
I look back, decades later, and can dimly see the dark tiled corridors, full of gumboots and dirty footprints, the dormitories with beds and space neatly arranged for about eight girls and the cold lino floors. The schoolās style was quaintly 1950s. But, while I remember some events clearly, I have great gaps in other ways. For instance, I donāt remember the classrooms or where we ate, or where we relaxed. I canāt retrieve those memories. They remain a dark, empty blank.
Settling in/a life-changing experience
My first term I longed for home. I cried a lot and, each night, held on tightly to my strange donkey bed-mate, that I had taken from home. He was as tall as I was and the bed was small but he was my comfort and he stayed with me all the while I was a boarder ā at big school too!
I learned new skills, how to make a bed with hospital corners and no lumps (that latter bit was tricky) and I remember certain expressions such as: āTop sheet to the bottom, bottom sheet to the wash.ā I became pretty unfussy about food and, I think, got fatter. I was used to leaving what I didnāt want and that was not allowed. We had to finish what was on our plate. I no longer do that but, years on, I am still able to eat pretty much anything.
I made some friends ā we used to make dens in the copious woods on school land ā and I took part in sports. I was a good swimmer and I loved riding so, from the outside, I got along. And I was a good student.
All in all, things seemed to be okay. But they werenāt, deep down. Something was never quite right. Maybe it was because Iād arrived two weeks after everyone else or maybe it was my fault alone. I felt out of place.
I realised early on that I was expected to please, and I did try. I was longing for love and approval. But I didnāt quite fit the mould of European aristocrats, Arab princesses and British nobility with the odd bit of flash-cash families thrown into the mix. I donāt think the headmistress warmed to me, her kindness was offered to me just the once, on that first day. After that, I still saw her as beautiful, but also recognised her as austere and remote. And she wasnāt like that with everyone. She had definite favourites. The school and its mistresses wanted its girls to turn out as well-mannered and well-behaved little ladies. I was a small, feral outsider, ill at ease even then.
My form mistress who, I think, saw me through my four years, was lovely. She accepted me. She was firm, with a strong religious belief, which she told us about straight away, and kind, with a real fondness of children. Even so, she was a product of her time. I remember my first time in her class when she said there were three phrases she did not want to hear any of us say. They were: āIt isnāt my faultā, āI couldnāt help itā and āIt isnāt fairā. I was in my forties before I uttered any one of those phrases again. I did it consciously, still feeling a sense of guilt as I forced myself to say it. I donāt say them much, even now.
And that, too, brings back uncomfortable recollections, remembering that while I submitted absolutely to orders, I could not stand being told what to do, particularly when it seemed unjust. So, it became something of a vicious circle where I complied with all the confusing and nonsensical rules that operated within prep schools in those days but, inside, I was often furious and rebellious. That didnāt make my life easier.
Filling in the blanks
I must have had holidays and gone back home, but I donāt remember. I do recall going to stay with a family friend when my mother had returned to Africa for a visit, but I think that may have been a half-term break. The school was a long way from my home and so my mother didnāt visit as much as other girlsā parents did. That was hard.
I was lucky that friends would sometimes take me home with them for a Saturday or Sunday outing. But there were drawbacks there too. One girl (strangely, her name is one name Iāve never forgotten) invited me out and I was thrilled. āAre you sure?ā I asked her excitedly. She paused. āNoā, she answered. I can still feel the awful sense of devastation and rejection I experienced. I felt so humiliated.
I still went out with her. A part of me wanted to withdraw into my shell ā something Iāve done too often ever since ā but the other part was not going to be left behind for yet another exeat day when the school was eerily empty and I was isolated and alone. I enjoyed my day.
As I say, I donāt remember holidays so, looking back, it seems as though the four years of schooling at my prep school merged into one long endurance test.
Strangely, throughout all this period, I donāt remember feeling. I remember existing. I took part, but I was removed. At home I had probably been spoilt, perhaps used to getting my own way much of the time and I loathed those school rules. They were absurd. White gloves and cotton dresses in summer, itchy tweed from head to toe in winter. I shudder at the memory of it. I felt cold for one half of the year and claustrophobically restricted for the other.
And then there were the habitual requirements: church on Sundays, etiquette training, no talking after lights out and standing in the corridor if you were caught whispering in the dark. We wrote letters to our parents on a Sunday and they were read before they were sent. Complaints were not permitted. Looking back from an adult point of view, I feel as though the aim was to constrict and restrain each little person so that she fitted into a mould that was suitable for membership of the ruling class of the British Empire. The āuniqueness of the individualā was not on anyoneās radar at that stage. But times had changed, even in those days and this little girl found herself sandwiched between one generationās longing for lost glory and anotherās acceptance that such a life was gone for good.
On becoming an adult
I talk about my time at prep school because I think it was then that I changed and somehow lost the original āmeā. The damage had been done by the time I went on to my secondary school. Besides, that school was progressive and very focused on the individual. So, now I need to reflect on how this has shaped me and how I am at this middle stage of my life.
Five years ago, I would have said āabsolutely fineā and left it at that. Iāve been married and divorced (twice), I have a child who is now a fully grown adult seemingly leading a successful life and I have managed to pay for my own home. Financially, at least, I could be described as a reasonable success. And yet ā¦ and yet.
My marriages both ended in failure and it was an emotional blow each time. No, in the spirit of honesty, Iāll have to say that doesnāt describe my emotions accurately. I was completely devastated. I was desperate, but for what? I have no idea.
My first marriage came and went with my having absolutely no awareness of me at any stage. I was a child wrapped in an adultās body. I had no idea how to relate to another person. My first husband was also a former boarder. He seemed to have less trouble conforming and I think he was perplexed by me. For my part, I think I wasnāt very good at attachment. I was needy and insecure. And, ironically, Iād married a man whoād been moulded to fit in with the same rules that I was so busy fighting against. Looking back, I feel for the poor man.
Fortunately, we had a child, my beloved and only one who I would both kill and die for ā you see, extremes again. But that child has suffered too. Firstly because of the separation of parents and then because I remarried when my child was eight. The marriage lasted 15 years. I had moments of great happiness and fun but I also had long periods of despair and misery. The marriage had to end and it did. Painfully.
By that time ā and by now in my late forties ā I still had very little idea of who I was. I remember telling someone I could imagine myself as an amoeba, except with bones. I discovered that Iād probably been depressed and anxious for most of my life. And I was so tired. And alongside ā maybe adding to? ā went my regrets about how I was as a parent. I feel it was not just me who suffered, but my child too. I had tried hard to be a good parent, but had clearly slipped up. I should have been protecting my child, instead of that child protecting me. I still feel tremendous guilt.
Changing times
The change in me ā and the beginning of some hope for my future ā happened when by chance I came across psychotherapist Nick Duffellās book The Making of Them.1 It was a revelation. The book was all about young children going away to boarding school and how the experience might lead them to hiding behind a false persona, something that might affect them for the rest of their lives. I recognised me at once, realising that I had put in place a solid encasement to protect the child I once was and to hide the real me from the world.
That discovery was the start of my growing up. I began to look at a proud boast that I remained, internally, a 12-year-old. My connection with that age was, I suppose, due to my transition from prep school to my second boarding school. It happened on that birthday. I was on the train on my first day of senior school, knowing no-one and travelling with others in the same situation. A girl asked me how old I was. ā12ā, I said. āTodayā. I stayed stuck at that age for all those years. I grew to understand how that mental image was holding me back, not helping at all.
So far, Iām into my fifth year of learning ā ground zero plus five, I suppose, and itās not a 360 degree turn by any means. Iām not sure that old habits die, or fade away, mine still require a lot of attention.
My learned behaviour from that four-year period is entrenched within me. I obey rules ā I get very anxious if I feel Iām stepping out of line ā Iām very, very rarely late and I still eat what Iām given. Iām uncomfortable with people feeling sorry for me or expressing some kindness so I still have to brace myself when that happens. Oh, and I hate goodbyes and will do anything to avoid them. And Sundays are gloom-filled days, remembering either the dullness of the school weekend or the unhappi...
