St Augustine’s Priory. Form III. The first year of senior school. It would be year 7 these days. I had just arrived, and was settling in to the boarding system, just about, but the classroom was another kettle of fish. Luckily I didn’t find any of the work at all difficult (apart form PE and Games) – indeed I had covered most of the convent curriculum previously in Marlborough School, but the way of teaching was somewhat different – for one thing we had different teachers for every subject. I will write more about them another time – here I will just say that the girls stayed in the classroom throughout the working day, only leaving for needlework, art and breaks and of course the dreaded PE. We had lift up desks which we were supposed to keep tidy. Luckily no inkwells here, though.

We had eight 35 minute lessons a day – I’ve already told you about all the prayers we said throughout the day – and bells went loudly for the changeover. a new teacher would come – we would rise and say Good morning and then she (it was always a she) would ask us to sit down. No problem. That amount of exercise was just right for me.

For the first two weeks I was quite blithe about the work – French was new, but it was easy, history was excruciatingly boring, science was interesting though not in a good way, but I was quiet, and clever, and all was well.

Then the second Friday of the term, I got a shock. I still shudder when I think about it. The whole school was in assembly – as every day, and either before or after the prayers – I can’t remember now, the head mistress, Mother Mary Francis, stood in front of all of us and proceeded to read each girl’s name and her fortnightly marks, as well as her position in class. I couldn’t believe it. I was third. I was thrilled and that afternoon I told my father. His reaction was that I should have been first. That took the wind out of my sails at first, but then, over the next 5 years it put an enormous pressure on me – and I presume on the other girls whose marks were close to mine. We never discussed it. The fortnightly ritual was something to endure and try to ignore. What I only realised after I started teaching there in 1983 that the ritual persisted, and that it was the teachers who suffered more, having to prepare the marks and collate them. But in 1964 I was blissfully unaware of how stressful the teachers found the system.

At the end of every half term, all the fortnightly marks were collated again. This time they would be read out in a special assembly called a tableau. We sat on forms in a semicircle with all the teachers at the front. The marks would be read and we had to stand up. Horrible for the girls at the top end. Worse for those who came at the bottom.

Then there were the disciplinary marks. I became aware of these quite soon, as I found it very difficult, nay impossible, to keep my desk tidy. There were regular inspections, and if you didn’t make the grade you got a point. Four points became an order mark, and you could get one of those on its own. Terrifying. Even more so when I realised, after that first half term, what humiliations were in store for those with more than ten points. You could get them from any teacher for any minor misdemeanour. After the academic marks were read out the points were recited. More than ten meant you were in the first degree. You had not only to stand up but come out to the front, and be berated by the Reverend Mother.

It was mostly on the lines of how disappointed she was etc etc, but even so the humiliation and embarrassment was significant. Most half terms there were girls who were in the first or second degree – only once can I remember someone being in the fourth degree – but I have no idea what she did to be so bad. All these marks were recorded and sent home on school reports at the end of term, so there was no way your parents didn’t get to hear of them.

I found the whole thing absolutely torturous for the entire time. Everything was marked out of ten, and that was that. When I was in Upper Four, I remember coming first, and going up to collect my certificate. As I got up, slowly, clumsily, embarrassed, I heard a girl behind me, from an older class, say to her neighbour something along the lines, “How can someone who looks so stupid be so clever?” I know I wasn’t supposed to hear it, and I am sure she didn’t mean it maliciously, but to this day I have a horror of the word stupid, especially when applied to me, even in jest. (I was short and chubby with short hair, spots and glasses – hardly the epitome of the swinging sixties! )

I also have a horror – and this is more important, of this type of marking. It’s meaningless, pressurising, you don’t learn anything through it. I learnt for the pleasure of learning and because it kept me from thinking about other things – lessons made a change from novels, I suppose, and I needed the distractions.

I really do hope the school has now changed its systems and terminology – Mrs Gradgrind really should have left the room by now.