In which an old photo stirs memories

CANDID, CONFESSIONAL, CONTROVERSIAL

On Saturday, I opened an email. It was from a young woman, keen to trace her family tree. She had read that I went to school with her aunt, Sarah: Brentwood County High School for Girls. She asked if I had any memories of her aunt, whom she never met because Sarah died aged 12, 13? All her classmates knew is that she had a sore throat, then never came back. No one sat us down and spoke about what happened; we weren’t offered counselling. Her poor, bereaved mother would volunteer in the library each day – she was quiet, dignified – but we didn’t even broach Sarah’s death with her, or share memories and condolences. We were too scared.

I tried to get more details for Sarah’s niece. I contacted an old classmate, Lorraine. She emailed me a scan of a panoramic photo of us all, taken in 1971 (I don’t have any official school photos; my parents were always sent proofs, but we could never afford a print).

There’s me, kneeling front row. I have two long plaits. I look very serious, the saddest out of everyone. There is Heather, who played the violin and had psoriasis. And Gillian Saunders, the prettiest of them all. I can’t see my best friends, Karen and Frances.

I am most taken by the teachers. The headmistress, who married one of the builders commissioned to create a new sixth-form wing. Mr Smith, who would enter me in writing contests: I never won. Miss Goodwin, who took us for country dancing. We used to laugh at the fact she had lost most of her fingers, recoil at her grip. No one bothered to tell us that she had lost them fighting fires in the Blitz. That she never married, as so many women of her generation lost fiancés in the war. We never looked beyond ourselves. We weren’t curious.

And, with a shock, I see my sister, near the back. She has a feather cut and is smiling. She was always giggling; I was always dour, serious, afraid. She had passed the 13-plus to get in; she always said she was happier at her secondary modern. I feel a sudden pang. That we are so estranged. That it all went wrong. But then I remember that after that photo, she had said to me, ‘You might have the longest hair in school, but it’s also the greasiest.’ (Our bathroom wasn’t heated, was usually booked up due to seven children, two adults, so my mum could only wash me weekly, in the kitchen sink.) My sister used to kick me, all night, in our shared bed. Made me do her homework. Screamed when she got home to find her red cable knit was warm: I had borrowed it. I was made to tag along on cinema visits in Chelmsford, when she was seeing a married man, who had a baby. She was so volatile, I learnt to placate her, give her things to keep her calm. I think that my parents were scared of her.

When she became a nurse, on night duty, my mum and dad would have to be there to get her up, make her packed lunch, iron her uniform. I remember being at a horse show, sitting proudly on my horse Monty, wanting my parents to see me win a rosette, but they had to rush home to ‘get her up’, so missed me coming third.

I learnt to give people stuff because of her. With my sister, it was a thousand quid when her partner left her: she spent it on a TV. When she had a child, I lavished him with gifts. I learnt that the only way to survive was by giving people things: her, then my husband, White Pepper Guy. The most hurtful sentence I’ve ever heard? We were fighting, and I said, ‘It’s a shame, I was going to take you and your son to Ibiza. I’ve always taken you to lovely places. Africa. Babington House. East Sussex. Anouska Hempel’s hotel for our niece’s wedding. Bath.’

‘Bath!’ she spat. ‘That was only a weekend!’

It’s interesting how the perceived effect of one person can scupper you for a lifetime. Peering at those black and white faces, the white shirts, the ties, the skirts, the blazers with white piping, it’s a bit like the opening credits of a Netflix series. So mundane, ordinary. But I feel that the image wants to destroy me. And it bloody well has.

Peering at those faces, it’s a bit like the opening credits of a Netflix series