Читать книгу A Fickle Wind - Elizabeth Bourne - Страница 9

Chapter Three

The biggest change for me was that my father was now home on a permanent basis, and that was wonderful. The only other noticeable changes were that there were no air raids and people didn’t end their sentences with, “God willing” after they said, “See you tomorrow.” That is big, I grant you, but we had expected so much more.

Ration books and shortages of food, clothes, coal, fuel, sweets, toys, and fun—which had been our old friends for years now—continued for many more years. The rubble in the streets became part of the landscape. Buildings, roads, and houses were in great disrepair. Scaffolding, once erected, became entrenched. Nothing was completed.

Britain was on her knees. There was no money. The average Brit began to wonder who had won the war. In short order, it seemed, America had started to help financially restore the previously occupied countries of Europe and rebuild Germany and Japan. I had heard the term lend-lease bandied around for years, and I believe it continued after the war, but it was apparently a drop in the bucket when an ocean was needed. Of course, I did not really understand any of this then. But it was obvious to me that we weren’t going to return in any great hurry to the idyllic “before the war” status.

However, I had a personal challenge coming up that absolutely dominated my worry wall. The exact words had not been spoken, but I was under no illusion about the expectation that I was to pass the Eleven Plus exam, often called the Scholarship. On a national level, all eleven-year-old children had the opportunity to sit for this examination. It was extremely important to one’s future prospects.

Remote locations were selected, strange children flanked us in unfamiliar rooms, and no known teachers monitored us. A small percentage of children would score high enough to qualify for a grammar school or technical school education—their choice—the balance moving on to what was then called a secondary school, where their education would be complete at age fifteen.

With the advantage of the grammar or technical school, one could aspire to attend university or be educated to a level that would provide better career opportunities. I recall being at a spiritualist meeting with my mother and aunt where an eleven-year-old girl was singled out by the medium and told that she should stop worrying because she would pass her Eleven Plus. I was ten at the time and envied her so much, as I was already sick with worry. I was a good student, but one could always have a bad day, go into a panic, or just go blank. Anything was possible. How I fretted! My parents would be so disappointed if I failed. Horrors! But none of the vagaries of life descended on me that day, and all was well. A new episode in my life began.

My parents and I selected a school that was about a half-hour bus journey away. It was really very exciting— and enlightening. It felt as though I were entering a whole new world. The residential area that surrounded the school was lovely. I had never seen such beautiful houses, nestled in trees, with upswept lawns leading to covered-porch entrances.

Some of the students came from circumstances similar to mine, but many did not. I had not previously been exposed to children from these privileged backgrounds, but I was comfortable with them and found it easy to make friends. Within a couple of days, I had formed a firm friendship with Stella, the girl who would be my best friend through the rest of my school years. We are back in touch after many years without contact—an interesting experience I shall share later.

I overheard a conversation between my parents that helped me relax tremendously. My mother said they couldn’t expect me to do as well at this school as I had done in grade school, as the competition would be so much steeper. And if my mother said it… well! I took it to heart and relaxed my worry wall. I excelled in the classes I liked—English and history—but was dismal in math and science. No university potential here. But that was okay, inasmuch as my neighborhood friends were all going to work at age fifteen. They were able to buy clothes for themselves, which I envied, although it took about three months of saving their weekly wage to buy a pair of shoes. Of course, they had to contribute at least half of their wages to the household for “room and board.”

Those school days were relatively uneventful, but two incidents stand out in my memory. It was mandatory to buy a school lunch if one did not live close enough to go home. I paid for my daily lunch but ate little, as the food was deplorable. We were allowed to bring snacks for our mid-morning and afternoon breaks, and I decided these would suffice. So, on returning for my second year, I decided that my family shouldn’t waste the money on school lunches.

When the class count was taken for home and school lunches, it was off by one. Much consternation ensued until I volunteered that I wasn’t on either list. Even more consternation as to why. I explained my case and said that I would like to bring my lunch. Out of the question! I countered with the idea of eating more on the breaks and skipping lunch altogether. They looked flabbergasted.

I’m sure a staff conference followed with concern as to what would happen if it became public knowledge that they were denying a child her lunch. The senior mistress called me in to her office several days later with their mandate: I would be allowed to bring my lunch but would have to eat it in the headmaster’s office every day! In that facility, he was king. He sailed through the corridors, black robe flowing, with people almost genuflecting as he passed.

Much to the senior mistress’s horror, I agreed! And that’s what happened. Stella was panicked. How could I do that? She was terrified of the man! So, for the rest of that term, I sat outside his office every day until his lunch was served on a tray, and then I was admitted to sit on a chair in the corner and eat. He glared at me over his glasses when I entered and then proceeded to ignore me until we were both finished and I was dismissed. After a while, he broke the ice, but he soon gave up on me when he heard I had no plans to go to university. At the beginning of the following term, there was an announcement that anyone who wished to do so could bring lunch from home. To say I was pleased would be an understatement!

The second recollection, on which I have reflected many times, was actually just a class discussion. It was at a time in Britain when many families were emigrating to the colonies, particularly to Australia, where for ten pounds one was given passage on a ship with the proviso that one stayed for two years. The government was betting that such a stay would be for a lifetime, as it invariably was. Britain was still not doing well economically; many men who had returned from the war were still out of work. Women had entered the workforce to help with the war effort and were reluctant to return to their previous status. They had acquired their independence and their own paychecks and weren’t about to give them up. Could this have been the seeds of the women’s liberation movement? I think perhaps so. Anyway, the colonies needed the manpower and could use some of the overflow.

We were a class of about forty children. The teacher decided to poll the class. First question: Would we ever want to emigrate to one of the colonies? Second: If we had decided to do so and our parents objected, would we still go? With little thought, the majority of the class said no to the first question. The 10 percent who said yes to that question said no if the second question came into play. I was the sole dissenter. I said yes to both. I recall thinking it was extraordinary. I concluded my mother’s dictate that I stand on my own two feet was working—actually to her detriment later. Or was that dictate not meant to include her? I think not!

Learning shorthand and typing was my “career” choice. Stella and I had decided to be secretaries and labored our way through our lessons together until high school graduation, when we nervously started the interview process for our first jobs. What if we couldn’t read back the letter they dictated? What if we couldn’t spell some of the words? What if we didn’t look right or speak right? Or just what if…?

Actually, Stella’s first interview was a disaster, at least according to her, and she immediately changed her mind about her career. They dictated and she typed back a fairly long letter, but when she produced it, she had put the carbon paper in the wrong way, and the imprint was on the back of the original, with nothing on the copy. She was mortified and decided then and there that secretarial work was not for her. She interviewed at a bank and learned how to operate a National Cash Register—very boring work—which she did for the remainder of her working years. That was so unfortunate, as she was, in fact, a better student than I at shorthand, and she had often helped me.