What can I remember? Probably not a lot and I can’t vouch for the accuracy of the actual memories, but I do remember my first form teacher. Mrs Nurse. She was very old and very tall and very grey haired and very nice. She taught my class English. But she was actually a PE teacher, and she often wore a long divided skirt, a garment rarely seen outside the confines of St Augustine’s Priory.
As an English teacher, she was adequate if unimaginative. We had to read Great Expectations that first year, I think. It was interminable. I don’t think we ever finished it. Whatever happened to Pip? We also had an English textbook which she followed slavishly but I don’t think anybody minded that we had to write stories and do comprehensions and exercises etc.  Everybody knew exactly what to do and how to do it.  

But there was one thing that I haven’t seen since and that was box analysis. It was the only time we were allowed to use coloured pencils in our exercise books: we had to parse sentences and separate them out into subject and predicate, do clause analysis, sort out adverbial phrases of time, motion and place and put them into boxes, which were either green or red depending on what was asked of us. Personally, I really enjoyed it – it was mainly mechanical and easy, and I think it taught me a lot about the structure of language. It has, however, never been since – I certainly wasn’t encouraged ever to use it as an English teacher myself.
But Mrs Nurse was funny. She used to encourage us to use our noddles, a word I hadn’t heard before and it still makes me smile. I think of her towering over us and pretend shouting, waving her long arms around and losing the chalk.

She made me welcome and comfortable in the classroom and so I soon settled in. The class was a large one, and most of the girls had been in the school since they were five or even younger, and so it must have been a surprise for them when about eight or ten new, scholarship, girls turned up.  I remember being embarrassed by this, as I had an assisted place, which meant that my father did not pay any academic fees, and I got my books for free.  That’s when it became significant.  Most of the other girls had to buy their own textbooks, which were shiny brand new, whereas I got old handmedowns from the school itself – and I had to give them back!!  That I found hard, because I liked to keep stuff.

Anyway, there were about forty of us and everyone I remember was very friendly and kind, thanks to dear Mrs N.

Generally, that first year I found very easy as I had covered most of the work in my previous school, but my one bugbear was PE and Games.

Clumsy Child Syndrome – or dyspraxia as it is now more kindly known, was a decidedly misunderstood condition.  I couldn’t catch a ball, walk in a straight line, hit a hockey ball with the right part of the stick, or carry a cup of liquid without spilling it. (Have things improved, you may wonder?) I couldn’t jump over the horse, climb a rope or coordinate my arms and legs to be able to swim.  Nightmare.  For me, certainly.  And, as it happened, also for my teachers.

And this is when dear Mrs Nurse came into her own. 

That first year the school went through its first major inspection for years. Her Majesty’s inspectorate scuttled through the whole institution, looking for whatever they needed. For about a week the teachers were on edge, obviously hoping for the best.  It was the sort of place that heads would roll if things hadn’t gone well.

In all the lessons I sat back, totally relaxed that I knew what to do or say. I answered all questions, did as I was told, etc. But in Latin I don’t know what got into me. Miss Crowfoot asked the class several questions, all of which I knew the answer to, but I did not raise my hand or volunteer any engagement. The lesson over, we ran out to the playground. Miss Crowfoot stopped me, “Why didn’t you answer any of the questions?” I remember looking at her a bit surprised and very disingenuously saying, “I thought I would give some of the other girls a chance, for a change!” She was not best pleased.

But back to Mrs Nurse, who took me aside one day, and asked if I would like to spend the next PE lesson in the Nuns’ Library, which was next to the Refectory.  Would I? I was thrilled. 

She took me there, let me choose a book – Eve Curie’s biography of her mother Marie – and put me in a corner which was not visible from any angle from the door. I was in seventh heaven, and Mrs Nurse could run her lesson as enthusiastically as she liked without having to deal with my fear, and tears or just mere inability.

Sadly, she never let me do that again, but somehow managed to let me attend her lessons without too much damage to my self-esteem. 

Hockey was the worst. I hated it. It hurt. And it seemed that we played it all the time. Most of my class played every lunchtime. Or maybe that was later.  But I still shudder at the thought.

Little did I know that first day in Form Three would lead to all these experiences. There is plenty more to write about, but one last note. I had arrived from a very secular school to a very religious one.

Here we were expected to pray at every available opportunity.  By the time I had entered the classroom I had already said morning prayers, two graces and prayers during assembly. More of my thoughts (and actions) about that next time.