On reaching eight years old, I was left at a Catholic boarding school for girls. I say left, because one of my earlier memories was sitting on the edge of a bed allocated to me, watching bemused, as other girls in the dormitory were shown by parents or siblings how to make their beds and put away their belongings. In preparation, I’d read Enid Blyton’s Malory Towers and watched The Sound of Music. Both were rose-tinted works of fiction: but nothing really, could have prepared me for an experience that impacts me to this day.
The school, set in many acres of undulating grounds overlooking the sea, was owned and governed by an order of Catholic sisters. The senior school, for girls aged eleven to eighteen, sat atop the hill adjacent to a large white villa and resplendent chapel. Prospective parents were received in opulent high-ceilinged sitting-rooms where pupils rarely, if ever ventured. At the bottom of the hill was a listed greystone manor house: the junior school, where I began my education.
In my view, the junior school was no place for young children. Allegedly haunted, it had dark wood-panelled walls, dated décor, leaded windows and a draughty cloakroom. There was no dining room; we walked three times a day, rain or shine, up and down the hill to the senior school to eat our meals. I don’t remember teddy bears or other comforts other than tuck, sweets that were portioned out once a week from a personal tuck box locked in a cupboard.
At nighttime, we were under the charge of two sisters (nuns). We knelt to pray before lights out “…if I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord, my soul to take…” If we were caught talking after lights-out, we’d be punished with lines to write before returning to our beds. Because my bed was nearest the door of our dormitory, I’d sometimes be woken and either left in a dark room downstairs to write lines or shut in the airing cupboard (I preferred the latter: it was warmer).
Matron was the sour, greasy-faced nun I was required to go to twice daily to receive medication. She took an instant dislike to me, calling me ‘disgusting’ and that I ‘should be ashamed of myself’. The contempt on her face is an ever-present memory. Fortunately, another girl also required medicine – an inhaler. She was bolder than me and would often make me laugh. One term, after returning from the holidays, she wasn’t there. She’d moved abroad and I was heartbroken, without a comrade.
Some girls thrived as boarders. Elitism was rife and there were favourites. Those whose parents were rich and donated money to the school; girls borne to local Catholic families; and those who excelled at sport or music or were naturally gifted appeared to enjoy their time at school. Photographs of their achievements lined the corridors, names of head girls were etched in gold on large wooden boards on the walls. Having a supportive sibling or two sometimes helped. Some of us, however, were targeted, bullied or abused. These included girls of divorced parents or those whose faces simply didn’t belong. There’s a contrasting range of memories listed in the school’s alumni Facebook page.
One girl in my class, was so unhappy she overdosed on vitamin supplements. She was 11 years old. Fortunately, it had little physical effect, but I’m sure the ridicule she received when others found out what she’d done had a more lasting effect. Another girl developed anorexia (eating disorders were common) and was eventually removed from the school, barely a skeleton. Leaving by one’s own volition, however, wasn’t an option. Anyone caught running away or stepping foot ‘out of bounds’ was immediately expelled. We were told this would be a permanent black mark on our record: the shame was unthinkable.
Over time, I learned to survive. We were to be grateful: our parents invested a lot of money in our education. I turned to humour, discovering a talent for mimicry and singing. I’d be asked to sing Disney songs to help others in my dormitory get to sleep. Otherwise, I stayed under the radar or sought the approval of others. In secret, I loved writing stories and doodling… English language and literature fascinated me. I wrote letters, learned poetry with ease and explored the works of the Brontës and Shakespeare. I wanted to study English at A level, and, despite achieving high GCSE grades, I wasn’t allowed to. By then, I didn’t have the courage to insist or leave and go to another school.
At around 13 or 14 years of age, we were herded into a room to watch the 1984 anti-abortion propaganda film: The Silent Scream with graphic images of late-stage abortions in a shamefully misleading attempt to prevent us from contemplating abortion, considered an atrocity by the Catholic church.
Ten years of Catholic boarding-school education has a lasting impression. It’s safe to say that the experience impacts every day of my life and relationships. I may have learned the social graces, but I struggle with social anxiety. Academic and professional achievements mask a pursuit of perfection to the point of exhaustion. I’ve collected diagnoses such as obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and major depressive disorder. Insomnia has me wake suddenly during the night in a state of inexplicable terror, most likely due to being woken during early years of boarding.
The history of Catholicism offers us little hope of acknowledgement or even atonement for the ill-treatment of those who suffered at Catholic boarding schools, steeped in the secrecy and shame of the ‘entitled’. I learned later in life that young Catholic women were sent away from their families and loved-ones to convents, to dedicate their lives to celibacy and devotion, sometimes against their will. Is it any wonder then, that some chose to deflect their pain towards those more vulnerable than themselves: the children in their charge?