In the sixth form school had become a life I enjoyed. I handed in my homework on time, and got good marks. My teachers started talking about Oxford entrance. A special new uniform was designed for the sixth form girls: a royal blue skirt and tunic, over a white top of our choice. It didn’t even look like school uniform. We experimented with very short skirts, and lacy transparent tops. Some of our male teachers gazed at us lasciviously, and we enjoyed and were troubled by their attention.

My Latin teacher, Mr Crowther was not like the others. He was a handsome Yorkshire man, who had lost one of his legs in a rugby accident. He walked with a stick and a slight limp, and had to press a lever on the wooden leg to sit down. In Latin classes we spent a lot of time discussing how societies could be organised more equally, moral dilemmas, relationships. One day he said to us ‘You are the chosen ones; the same thing happened to me, you will have a different life to the rest of your family’. We wondered what he meant.

I was a bit doubtful about doing ‘A’ Level Latin, but Mr C. seemed to take it for granted I would continue and I didn’t like to disappoint him. One of the perks of the ‘A’ Level course was being invited round to Mr C.’s house for dinner. He lived round the corner from school, in a detached modern house, with his wife Anna and two little girls. These evenings were completely unlike anything we did at home. They were, I suppose, my introduction to the middle-class dinner party, but because I felt at ease with Mr Crowther it was not as terrifying an initiation as it might have been. When I got there with the others in the Latin group the little girls were still up and very pleased to see us as they knew bedtime would be a bit delayed. When they finally went to bed we felt very grown-up indeed, and the conversation turned to the kinds of political and philosophical subjects we were used to discussing in class with Mr C., as well as more domestic matters – should you wash up straight after a meal, or leave the dishes and enjoy the rest of the evening? I could imagine my mother’s reaction to that idea, but when Mr C. argued in favour of savouring the meal it all seemed perfectly normal and natural, especially since the argument was accompanied by Anna’s home-made meringues with fresh cream. They were even more of a revelation.

Our women teachers did not invite us for dinner, but we liked them and wanted to be them, or at least the young ones who were married, mostly, and soon disappeared to have babies. In earlier years Miss Lewer, our French teacher had been a figure of fun, with her spinsterish bun and flat sandals. By the time we were in the sixth form we were fond of Miss L. and appreciative of her sound teaching. Thanks to her I knew my French irregular verbs, and never forgot to make the agreement with the preceding direct object. She told us one day that we didn’t have to marry to be happy, but we didn’t believe her.

Suddenly Miss L. was taken ill, and we visited her in hospital. We never really found out what was wrong with her, just that it was something to do with her lungs. She told us she knew something was wrong when she felt out of breath walking up to our classroom on the third floor. She asked how our French lessons were going with the replacement teacher, and we said it’s fine, even though it wasn’t. In fact the lessons were spent on jokes and flirtations. When the teacher wanted us to read aloud from the Whitmarsh textbook he would ask us to cast our beautiful eyes on to the next page. I was flattered, but worried that we were going to fall behind with our French. We were in dangerous territory, fair game in our short blue skirts.

 

This was my second visit to France, in summer 1969, and I was to go with my exchange partner’s family to a wedding. It was difficult enough working out which clothes I could take with me for a three week stay in France that might involve the town, the countryside and the seaside, and definitely meant living up to a level of chic I had never encountered before in my life. I had already explained to my mother how Madame Martel would visit her couturière each season and have a set of perfectly co-ordinated clothes made for her. They even matched her beautiful auburn hair. She also had different perfumes for summer and winter. To a girl who kept a little bottle of eau de cologne in her satchel, this was something to aspire to. I once caught a glimpse of Madame M. naked in her bedroom, dressing. Quite how I found myself peeping at her bedroom door is a mystery. But the image of very white skin and a small, neatly curvaceous body is still quite vivid, merged with Bonnard paintings of women dressing that I have seen since this moment. As my voyeurism suggests, I was fascinated by Madame M., by the whole performance of being a middle-class French woman, from getting up at six to get langoustines from the market for the soufflé, to the sexy voice and laugh, the delicately rouged cheekbones and perfectly coiffured hair.

So the question of what to wear for a French wedding seemed to me horribly complicated. Especially when my exchange partner Marie explained to me that I would be paired off with a young man, or cavalier, who would be my companion for the day. ‘Don’t worry’, my Mom said, ‘we’ll get something out of Grattan’. The catalogue came to the rescue, not for the first time. It was certainly much less scary than having your measurements taken by a stern French dressmaker. My mother and I hit on a little red, white and blue number – a short dress and matching coat, with a white collar. When it arrived, all wrapped up in brown paper, there was a big trying on session, and the outfit was found to be perfect. To complete the look we got a big white floppy hat from C and A; I already had navy shoes and bag, and white socks. Yes, socks. I suppose we thought tights would be too hot. The socks of course destroyed the fashionable impression created by the rest, but I was oblivious. I set out for Birmingham airport with every confidence in the outfit and my O level French.

In the days leading up to the wedding the Martels’ huge apartment became even more hectic than usual. Madame Martel spent long hours preparing elaborate meals for the wedding guests who would be staying with us, but still found time to check our outfits. When it came to mine she nodded in approval until her eyes rested on my spindly sock-clad legs: ‘Ah non, les chaussettes ça ne va pas du tout’. She re-appeared moments later with a pair of tights – I muttered a humble ‘merci’ and she whizzed on to the next candidate for inspection.

Then I was moved from my usual room into the youngest son’s attic, while he camped in his parents’ room. I realised only later that this move was necessary in order to put as much space as possible between me, the Martel girls, and the young male cousins who were coming to the wedding. I did not fare very well in my new attic abode, which was hot and infested with mosquitoes. I got so many bites that I had to spend ages every morning putting concealer on the ones on my face. This was not a great start to the wedding preparations. However, when the day dawned, the outfit, a lot of Rimmel concealer, pale lipstick and blue eyeshadow transformed me into a vision of such splendour that Monsieur Martel exclaimed ‘Vive l’Angleterre’ as I emerged from my gloomy lair.

I was introduced to Christophe, my cavalier, who had in fact stolen my room. I immediately forgave him. He was twenty-three and an actor, from Paris. I was so overwhelmed with admiration and desire for him, that I was completely tongue-tied. This did not matter much as we were immediately plunged into a series of incomprehensible rituals, involving a long church service, the mairie, and a procession between the two. Finally we arrived at the bride’s parents’ house, and champagne was served. We stood in the garden in hot sunshine, sipping our drinks, and in my case desperately trying to think of something to say.

After the apéritif we transferred to the salle des fêtes in the village for the meal. I sat next to Christophe. The first course was melon filled with port. I started to feel a little light-headed, and Christophe kept asking me if I was alright, with a concerned look. A different wine was served with every course after that, until we reached the pièce montée, a tower of choux pastry balls covered in caramel. After all of this I felt the need for a breath of air. Christophe followed me out, and we wandered down to the banks of the river Vienne. At last we managed to talk. He asked me if I believed in God, and when I said yes, he told me it was because I hadn’t thought about it yet – ‘parce que tu n’as pas réfléchi’. This was a touch patronising, but I didn’t mind. Eventually Christophe said we should be getting back, as otherwise everyone would think what everyone thinks when a young man disappears with a girl. In fact I had nothing to fear, or rather to hope for, as Christophe told me I was ‘trop bien entourée’, too well surrounded by family.

The next day we bathed in the Vienne. I caught a glimpse of Christophe, but conversation was limited to ‘Ça va?’ ‘Oui, ça va’. As I swam in the river, Marie rather cruelly but not inaccurately remarked that I was keeping my face out of the water so I would not spoil my maquillage. Someone else remarked ‘C’est pour Christophe’, and I blushed.

Monsieur Martel told me at dinner that Christophe was leaving early the next morning. So the next day I made a special effort to get up early, and went downstairs well plastered in Rimmel, and wearing a dressing-gown that was pale blue and 100% nylon, one of Grattan catalogue’s less successful efforts. Christophe and the other cousins chatted with Monsieur and Madame Martel, and I tried hard to participate, but without much success, for I was trop bien entourée. This was not the romantic goodbye I had dreamt of.

Four years later I spent Christmas with the Martel family. One evening there was a lot of giggling. I assumed they were doing the frogs’ legs trick again (giving me frogs’ legs without telling me what they were had been one of the big jokes of an earlier visit). Mais non. After dinner we watched TV: Shakespeare, Twelfth Night. It was not surprising they thought I would like this. Then suddenly, there was Christophe! Now a member of the Comédie française, and playing Sebastian. I acted out all the required expressions of amazement and excitement to the delight of my hosts, but the dream was dead. I was no longer sweet sixteen and only just out of socks.

 

In the fourth year we were allowed to change the tunic for a navy skirt, the grey socks for ‘American tan’ tights. Tights had just come in, replacing the awful stockings. I am photographed again, looking at the camera, with a bit more of a smile, but still a diffident air. My hair has been cut by a hairdresser inspired by Vidal Sassoon’s geometric styles, and I can make it fall, curtain-like, over half my face. I like this arrangement as it gives me something to hide behind.

I know now that there are things I am good at, but I am often tongue-tied in social situations, and I spend a lot of time alone. I alternate between despair about not having a boyfriend or having greasy hair and spots, and the elation of learning, the joyous sense of life stretching out interminably in front of me. The fear of death that haunted my early teenage years has gone, replaced by a belief in my immortality, as powerful as it is illusory.

In our early teens my friend Janet and I were Girl Guides. The Guide Hut (where I had once danced to The Tornadoes) was behind the Church and we went there every Friday night. At first we were very good Guides, repeating every week the promise ‘to do our duty to God and the Queen and to help other people at all times’, and working hard to win badges. One of the first ones was ‘Health’. This involved putting ticks on a card declaring that you had changed your vest regularly and slept with the window open.

Health was a lot easier than Firelighting. We were taken to Cannock Chase to practice this difficult art. When I finally got the fire lit I was mortified to discover that I should have brought something with me to cook on it. I looked at the other girls’ ‘Cheese Dreams’ and ‘French Toast’ with envy, till one of them let me have a piece. Then there was orienteering, and knots. Once you had passed knots, you could progress to making things with sticks and string – wash stands, shoe racks and so on. All of these skills came into their own on the annual camping trips, where an embroidered flag was awarded to the inhabitants of the tidiest tent. Janet and I and our companions once won this honour, thanks to our expertise in the stick furniture line, and despite the fact that the wash stands were purely for show – at camp a cursory splash of cold water on the face each morning was as far as we went with washing.

 

Setting out for camp. Janet and I are in the centre of the group, standing on the grass. I am clutching an anorak, and not wearing my beret.

 

Our enthusiasm for being good Guides soon waned, perhaps as a result of the malign influence of the Church Choir, who would be queuing up outside the Church waiting to go in for their practice when we were already ensconced in our Hut. Unlike the Guides the Choir was mixed, and this was its main attraction. We would look through the murky windows of the Guide Hut at what my mother called the ‘goings on’. I think this was when I learnt the verb ‘to snog’. After that steamy start to the evening the Guides’ jolly songs and games seemed a bit tame, so on the pretext of needing more orienteering practice we would repair to the chip shop, buy a bag of chips and hang around till it was time to go home.

But on Sunday mornings the Choir looked angelic, and Janet and I were regulars at Sung Eucharist. Our church was a modern and functional brick edifice which did not seem to be quite the right setting for the traditional, ‘high Church’ service. Despite our unpromising surroundings, Janet and I got used to singing the responses and hymns, and inhaling a good dose of incense which along with the pre-communion fasting made us feel pleasantly faint. Occasionally Janet’s mother accompanied us, but my parents never set foot in the place. My devotion was a mostly personal affair, which my parents regarded with suspicion. They did not object to my attendance at confirmation classes, so Janet and I went along. I remember nothing of these classes, apart from the slight sexual tension between the pre-pubescent girls in the class and the post-pubescent curate who taught us. I wondered what the first communion would be like, whether I would see angels, or feel heavenly bliss.

My mother had not quite caught on to the significance of wearing white for the confirmation service, so she got me a short cream Crimplene shift dress. This was around the same time that I was introduced to stockings and suspenders, so that the knobbly texture of the Crimplene and the complexities of the underwear merged in my mind in a general feeling of discomfort and anxiety (would my stocking tops show when I knelt down?).

The confirmation service was held in the big church, St Michael and all Angels, which was built after the war, but in traditional style. It all seemed very grand, compared to our little church. I tried hard to concentrate on confessing my sins, and praying for the world, but the Crimplene, and the suspenders kept reminding me I was an almost grown up woman now, with a body, as well as a soul.