bright little face appeared around the classroom door. She had been to the dentist. I have often wondered what would have happened if that bus stop had been deserted. The man was obviously looking for somewhere to take us and that empty old house would have been perfect if it weren’t for the people waiting for the bus outside it. I also think that if we hadn’t been so terrified of being reported to the school, we’d have been more inclined both to stand up for ourselves and to get away from this man, and that we might not have been so afraid to report him.
The school was situated in a middle-class residential road, full of large detached houses. It was a neat-looking, biscuit-coloured, brick building, consisting of two wings at the centre of which was the chapel. One wing was the school itself and the other was the nuns’ living quarters.
There was no playground as such; we would be sent out to play on the drive or sometimes, as a special treat, ‘down the field’. The field was a green area at the back of the school that stretched a couple of hundred yards down to the perimeter fence, the other side of which was the Edgbaston reservoir. It was not a playing field; there were the odd few trees scattered here and there, and the grass was patchy and rough. No sports were ever taught or played there, although I do seem to remember the odd beanbag being flung about. So weather permitting, at lunchtime and at mid-morning break we were sent out on to the drive to play. Alongside it was a strip of lawn, about the same width as the drive itself, running along underneath the classroom windows and bordered by a concrete kerb. Upon this grass we were forbidden to tread. Many a child, myself included, had been summarily thrashed about the legs for simply letting the back of a heel touch it. So when I visited the school almost thirty years later I was filled with devilment to find that piece of lawn still there.
It was in the mid-eighties and I was up in Birmingham filming The Making of Acorn Antiques for the Victoria Wood Christmas Special . It so happened that I had been put up in a hotel just two or three miles from the school and one morning, finding myself with a couple of hours to spare, I decided to go and take a look. The school, as is so often the case, seemed to have shrunk, but was just as manicured and pristine as I remembered it. And there it was, the piece of lawn, the cause and the location of my and no doubt many others’ painful and humiliating public slapping. It was with joy in my heart therefore, and a pair of high-heeled boots on my feet, that I tramped up and down the full length of this lawn, several times, purposefully and with relish, digging my heels deep into the turf. I was hoping against hope that one of the Sisters would appear and tell me to get off the grass. Alas, no one came and I’m not sure how I would have reacted if one of them had come along and challenged my behaviour. In fantasyland I know exactly how I would have acted. I would have stood there, feet apart, hands on hips, and said: ‘Please, . . . make my day . . . Go on! Try and slap my legs.’
The nuns were of the classic penguin variety, wearing black, ankle-length habits with full skirts and waist-length, black veils that billowed out behind them like giant bat wings when they walked at speed. Under this, tightly wrapped about the head like a surgical dressing, was a starched, white wimple held in place by tiny white-headed pins, and covering their bosoms a stiff white scapular, upon which hung a big, black, wooden crucifix. Dangling from the waist, often accompanied by a bunch of keys, was a large set of dark, wooden, rosary beads that clacked and jingled when they moved, the sound of which served as an excellent warning that a nun was in the vicinity.
‘My name is Sister Cecilia.’
She had a big, pale, bespectacled face, covered in fine, downy hair, and she was the teacher in charge of the kindergarten. Almost immediately
The school was situated in a middle-class residential road, full of large detached houses. It was a neat-looking, biscuit-coloured, brick building, consisting of two wings at the centre of which was the chapel. One wing was the school itself and the other was the nuns’ living quarters.
There was no playground as such; we would be sent out to play on the drive or sometimes, as a special treat, ‘down the field’. The field was a green area at the back of the school that stretched a couple of hundred yards down to the perimeter fence, the other side of which was the Edgbaston reservoir. It was not a playing field; there were the odd few trees scattered here and there, and the grass was patchy and rough. No sports were ever taught or played there, although I do seem to remember the odd beanbag being flung about. So weather permitting, at lunchtime and at mid-morning break we were sent out on to the drive to play. Alongside it was a strip of lawn, about the same width as the drive itself, running along underneath the classroom windows and bordered by a concrete kerb. Upon this grass we were forbidden to tread. Many a child, myself included, had been summarily thrashed about the legs for simply letting the back of a heel touch it. So when I visited the school almost thirty years later I was filled with devilment to find that piece of lawn still there.
It was in the mid-eighties and I was up in Birmingham filming The Making of Acorn Antiques for the Victoria Wood Christmas Special . It so happened that I had been put up in a hotel just two or three miles from the school and one morning, finding myself with a couple of hours to spare, I decided to go and take a look. The school, as is so often the case, seemed to have shrunk, but was just as manicured and pristine as I remembered it. And there it was, the piece of lawn, the cause and the location of my and no doubt many others’ painful and humiliating public slapping. It was with joy in my heart therefore, and a pair of high-heeled boots on my feet, that I tramped up and down the full length of this lawn, several times, purposefully and with relish, digging my heels deep into the turf. I was hoping against hope that one of the Sisters would appear and tell me to get off the grass. Alas, no one came and I’m not sure how I would have reacted if one of them had come along and challenged my behaviour. In fantasyland I know exactly how I would have acted. I would have stood there, feet apart, hands on hips, and said: ‘Please, . . . make my day . . . Go on! Try and slap my legs.’
The nuns were of the classic penguin variety, wearing black, ankle-length habits with full skirts and waist-length, black veils that billowed out behind them like giant bat wings when they walked at speed. Under this, tightly wrapped about the head like a surgical dressing, was a starched, white wimple held in place by tiny white-headed pins, and covering their bosoms a stiff white scapular, upon which hung a big, black, wooden crucifix. Dangling from the waist, often accompanied by a bunch of keys, was a large set of dark, wooden, rosary beads that clacked and jingled when they moved, the sound of which served as an excellent warning that a nun was in the vicinity.
‘My name is Sister Cecilia.’
She had a big, pale, bespectacled face, covered in fine, downy hair, and she was the teacher in charge of the kindergarten. Almost immediately
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