“Bloody hell Kathryn … " I heard a vibrant shout coming from behind me. "You look EXACTLY the same …!!!” Being greeted by my first name is so unusual, I flinched. Kathryn, there I said it. It means ‘pure’. Of heart, soul or mind who knows what Dad was thinking? I always thought it made me sound like an extra wife-let of Henry VIII as in ‘Kathryn of Arrogant’, waiting for the executioner’s axe. And as I embraced Dr Gillian, I felt the years melt away. Along with Glee-style choirs, prom dresses and box sets of Game of Thrones, the High School Reunion seems to have nudged its way across the Atlantic and swum ashore in the UK. Except they’re not a new phenomenon are they? Like knicker elastic, it all depends on the strength of your old school ties. A brilliant example of the HSR genre is the film Grosse Pointe Blank, mainly for its pitch-black humour, cutting-edge dialogue and Joan Cusack; strangely not John. She convinces her boss, a professional hitman, to attend his High School Reunion and predictably it goes downhill in a hail of bullets. I also adore Minnie Driver’s gold necklace and am still searching for a copy; one I can afford anyway.
Life, like my feathers, has been a bit flat lately until I was accosted in M&S by an old school chum. Shirley cornered me in Per Una and ordered me to attend our 50th school reunion. I remember being 11, it was painful. Imagine the burgeoning energy our 11 year old selves possessed? You could power a city with it. Back then I believed we would all become doctors, lawyers, dentists or artists; ready to save the world from itself. Yet I didn’t feel worthy somehow; it was the era of Apollo 11 and Neil Armstrong and I wanted to be ‘out there’. Instead, I left in the Summer of ’72 with a Fenwick’s perm and a secretarial course and today I’m in here, writing not saving. Still, with my curiosity ignited, I felt I had to give this reunion thing a go and ignoring my usual top-to-toe black option, I wore high-vis yellow last Saturday afternoon ultimately regretting this as I was temporarily swept along in the Gay Pride festivities. Eventually, I broke away from the crowd and ran for Silver Street and as I followed familiar faces through the door, I desperately wanted to hear tales of where the last half century had taken us all.
I had stories to tell too; trainee retail manager at 19, so bored with Leicester I ran away to Benidorm after a boy (best gloss over that one). Cabin crew (best not mention my liver needed two years to recover). Bit of this, bit of that, BBC. I started to bore myself as I glossed over the Body Shop era and dismissed the present. Would my stellar classmates understand my current dead-end job and the struggle to make ends meet while I write my magnum opus? I needn’t have worried; dentists had a particularly poor showing amongst the familiar faces. London and Oxbridge had called to many, those gifted with strong, passionate names so long fallen out of fashion. Judith, Teresa, Claire, Gillian, Helen, Angela and Elizabeth although I’ve missed a few for anonymity’s sake.
Together, we marvelled at our School Magazine with it’s 1970’s graphic front cover, funky style and chatty news of past, present and future great deeds. Gillian had pages in there, as did Julia and Anne; actually all the Annes featured regularly. I would have killed to get a piece of writing in this hallowed publication and it only happened once. Memo to my 11 year old self, smile on all photos, write better poetry and avoid gooey Aztek bars. In a sea of familiar faces now all wearing specs with varifocals, at last I found Debra. Her brilliance still shone through after half a century.
“Aren’t you a Consultant Gynaecologist?” I’d heard it through the grapevine.
“Nah! I’ve retired now. Never could stand Gynae.”
I bleated “But I googled you.” Crestfallen, I wanted to burn my IT management certificates.
“Must have been another doctor.” She said “if you google me, you get nothing. I’m quite proud of that.” If you google Raven + Leicester, all you get is a chippie in LE3 unless you want to buy my first book; please search the Kindle store for ‘A New Way to Fly.’
A group of us had attached ourselves to the bar, where Helen produced a colourful sheet of paper from her handbag.
“Remember these?” she asked. They were ticket stubs from gigs she’d been to with Gillian; a list of Prog-Rock heaven. “You liked Emerson Lake & Palmer, didn’t you?”
“Liked?” I drooled over them and cried at Keith Emerson's demise recently. “I had all the vinyl.” But there was one gig missing. “We went to the Birmingham Odeon to see them.” Helen shook her head, having forgotten a defining moment when we three were finally free of parental ties. Memory’s a funny thing isn’t it? I shiver at the memory of my tiny black velvet jacket which wouldn’t keep a kitten warm on a freezing night.
“Didn’t we do country dancing in the gym.”
“I remember the Gay Gordons, Spangles and the Miners baby-pink lippy that made my teeth look yellow.” I only wear red these days but can’t remember my 30’s much or the country dancing? Neither of us went on the specially selected cruises or school trips and honestly, we didn’t miss much. I didn’t hang on to much school memorabilia either. Besides, Alphonse is such a hoarder of sheet music, we’d need to extend into next door’s attic to accommodate any more stuff. Don’t tell him but his next birthday gift is an industrial strength paper shredder.
Standing over a bowl of fallen apples yesterday, I remembered the Domestic Science lessons with Miss Leech who could easily out-stare Mary Berry. We made apple tart from scratch as tinned pie fillings and soggy bottoms were forbidden. I’d brought in fresh Lord Derby whoppers from our tree; one of four planted by my Dad who nothing about pomology. As I set about peeling them with a fairly basic kitchen knife Miss Leech was on me in a flash, exuding fury and admonishing me as a ‘waster of fine produce’. She demanded I change utensils to a potato peeler.
“I can’t hold it properly.” I stuttered and chin up, defiant as ever said “besides it doesn’t matter … we have trees full of apples at home.” I thought she was going to gut me with the dreaded peeler as she showed the whole class how much I’d squandered. I’ve never forgotten that lesson. Today, I don’t use a potato peeler for anything; I use a razor sharp tomato saw instead. Although I regret not doing Domestic Science up to my 5th year and quizzed Helen for some background.
“Why didn’t we get to choose?”
“We did Latin instead.” Yes, that makes real sense.
Still at the bar, I shared secretarial tales with Barbara when Bindu joined the throng, seemingly unchanged by early marriage and family, she asked us straight out.
“What would you change?”
“Nothing.” I chirped up.
“You know you’re the only one today who said that.” What use is fifty years of regret? My parents must have worked their socks off to buy that uniform with its velour hat for winter and a beret for summer. I was frog-marched by Mum into Rowbotham’s in Belvoir Street, which in1967 was Leicester’s answer to Diagon Alley, equally magical and expensive. I learned patience whilst waiting in line to be kitted out with Clarke’s indoor and outdoor shoes. They measured my width on a special gadget. I was EEE then and I still am. Soddit, I’ll never wear Louboutin’s.
Sadly I missed a chance to have a long natter with Viv who organised this amazing day. And Julie who had recently retired. I waved a sad farewell to Gillian and Helen, and so wanted to chat to Teresa and the others all afternoon. Of course, I’ve omitted some recognisable names to protect the innocent but if you want to know what 61 looks like, we are stronger and more beautiful than ever. Like an injection of high octane rocket fuel, I’m energised and ready to start again. So why am I standing sullen and silent in the Huddle Board session this morning? Ten excruciating minutes of quantifying our existence by numbers; files we filed, clinics we’ve prepared and things we’ve located which should never have been lost in the first place. I felt a roar of ruthless determination surge up from below and wondered who would attempt to push around someone with a peer group featuring so many incredible women? No-one.
Tip of the Beak: Only one of our number became a nurse despite the relentless nagging of the careers advice lady. I didn’t fancy the uniform and am so glad my life followed a different path. Last week, while I was helping one of our younger nurses get to grips with the relentless paperwork, we got chatting about the books she loves most. Mainly Harry Potter and chick lit, although I suggested she might like Robert Galbraith.
She confessed. “I don’t rate that Tolkien much though.”
“Really?” I have the books but no time to read them. “Why not?”
“Well that Lord of the Rings story just went on and on, and The Hobbit stuff with the spiders … ” I had a horrible premonition of her next words. “He just stole it from the Harry Potter books, didn’t he?”
“Not really. He died in 1973.” The year after I left school.
“Oh so he’s not alive then?” I didn’t to ask where she went to school but I knew it wasn’t mine.
Raven
