by Jon Thorn
It was my final year at Westland Hall. I had started there, a rather shy and academic boy, fresh from my preparatory school, just thirteen years old. Now five years later I was on the verge of manhood, six feet tall, broad shouldered and full of vitality. The shyness had long since evaporated, but the academic bent had continued which had had the very pleasant result of my rising to the elevated position of Head Boy.
Head Boy. How I had looked up to that exalted creature when I was a fresh faced junior. How strange, but how wonderful, it now felt to be on the receiving end of that awe and admiration. The position was not merely an honorary one - it brought with it some very real power. I had the ear of the headmaster at all times, the right to impose a large range of sanctions and punishments on my fellow pupils and the privilege of my own set of rooms apart from the other prefects.
Westland Hall was an ancient institution, dating back to the second half of the seventeenth century. In many ways it was a very traditional place, but that autumn of 1961 it was at the forefront of innovation. For the school's board of trustees had decided, in full agreement with the headmaster, that for the first time in the school's three hundred year history, girls were to be admitted as pupils. Not that the school was to go fully co-educational, but that a select group of thirty young ladies would be allowed the benefit of education in the Westland Hall sixth form.
It had been a cause of huge speculation and interest throughout the final weeks of the previous term, and opinion was evenly divided between those who thought it a jolly good thing and those who saw it as the end of civilization as we knew it. The argument was most hotly contested in my own house, Dalton's, for we had been chosen to be the only house where girls were to be admitted. The reasons for this choice were fairly clear. As the largest house we had plenty of accommodation that could be adapted to female use, and indeed over the summer vacation the whole upper story had been converted for just that purpose. And secondly in Mrs. Thompson, wife of our own housemaster and a teacher in her own right, we had a ready-made housemistress.
So it was that Dalton's admitted the first girls to Westland Hall, and so it was that on that first day of term I encountered Pippa Hamilton.
Pippa Hamilton, eighteen years old, straight blonde hair held back in a shiny pony tail. Pippa Hamilton in her navy gymslip, her maroon blazer and her straw boater, standing beside an oversized trunk looking around her at the old school. I had never in my life set eyes upon such a gorgeous creature.
I had never intended to end up at Westland Hall, I had been very happy at Roedean and confidently expected to progress into the sixth form there. That was before the traumatic events of Christmas 1960. I have no wish to go into details but suffice it to say that the demise of Daddy's business and his subsequent disgrace meant that by the summer term of 1961 it was clear that Roedean was no longer an option and that other plans would have to be made. It was very tricky since I had completed one year in the Sixth Form and had already turned eighteen, and a new school would mean re-starting my A level courses.
It was unthinkable for me to go to the local school but equally clear that any choices we did make about my education would be severely constrained by our straitened financial circumstances. It was then that Mummy had come across the advert for Westland Hall. Girls in the sixth form of a boy's public school was certainly a novel idea, and one that Mummy would never have even considered, save for the fact that very generous bursaries and scholarships were being offered. I was a bright girl, and my Roedean background undoubtedly helped and so it was that after a few exam papers had been successfully sat, I was offered a place at Westland on terms that my mother was delighted with. The uniform was an expense, but an unavoidable one. It wasn't that different in style to Roedean's except for one delightful exception; instead of white knee socks, we were allowed opaque black stockings! They made me feel so grown up just to put them on. And so it was that in September 1961, in my brand new uniform, I unloaded my trunk from the boot of our Rover and stood looking up for the first time at the imposing edifice of Westland Hall.
My reverie was interrupted by a voice, a man's voice.
"Hello," he said. "Tom Elliot, how do you do?"
I thought he was a master, although he was quite young. I shook his hand. "How do you do sir? Pippa Hamilton," I introduced myself.
He laughed, but it was a pleasant laugh not a mocking one. "You don't have to call me sir," he said smilingly. "I'm not one of the beaks, just the Head Boy... and a fellow member of Dalton's House." He looked over at my trunk. "Want a hand?"
"Yes please... Tom." I could feel myself blushing scarlet.
I gave Mummy a quick hug, said my goodbyes and then turned to follow Tom as he shouldered my trunk and headed off through an open doorway. He led the way up an imposing wooden staircase to the very top of the house. He stopped on the landing where an older woman stood waiting. She smiled at him. "Nice to see you doing the gentlemanly thing, Tom."
He grinned then turned back to me. "Mrs. Thompson, may I introduce Pippa Hamilton? Pippa, your new housemistress."
Mrs. Thompson shook me warmly by the hand. "Welcome to Westland Hall, Pippa, and welcome to Dalton's. I'm sure you'll be very happy with us." She glanced back at Tom. "Thank you Tom, I'll look after Pippa now. You can see if there are any other new arrivals who need your assistance."
A look of slight disappointment crossed his face, but he quickly recovered himself. "Of course ma'am. Be seeing you, Pippa." He gave me another broad smile as he headed back down the stairs.
Despite my natural anxiety at being in a new place, I was starting to relax. Tom was nice and so was Mrs. Thompson. If everyone was like that at Westland then it would be a very happy two years.
Much to the surprise of the sceptics amongst us, the girls fitted into the life of the school with utmost ease. I think it would have been different if they had been younger, but being sixth-formers, they did have a maturity and a self-confidence that meant they could adapt to the unusual situation quite quickly.
They certainly made a difference to Dalton's. The house somehow had a better, more relaxed atmosphere. Even the most loutish of my fellows made the effort not to be quite so rude and boisterous when one of the girls was around.
For me, the first few weeks of term were busy ones. I was finding my feet as head boy as well as coping with the demands of my A-level subjects. There was little time for leisure but that didn't mean I wasn't enjoying myself. I revelled in the responsibility, which I took very seriously, and made it my aim to be both fair and firm, particularly towards the more junior members of the school. That isn't to say that there weren't some unpleasant moments. Having to deliver a beating to a whole dormitory who had persistently refused to quieten down after repeated warnings, was not a happy task, but one that I didn't shirk from, for keeping good order in the school was an important part of my role. I met regularly with the headmaster, and he seemed pleased with the way I was handling things.
I kept an eye out for Pippa. It soon became pretty clear that she had brains as well as looks. The scholarship she was on was no mistake; she really did have an exceptional mind. She held her own in the debating society and asked intelligent questions when we had guest lecturers. She also read beautifully, one could hear a pin drop when she was reading the lesson in chapel. In the house she was fairly quiet, not one to draw attention to herself, unlike some of her companions. But neither was she withdrawn or unpopular. She was always friendly towards me, but without giving me any romantic encouragement. I couldn't say I really got to know her until the five pound note incident.
My hope that my life at Westland would turn out to be a happy one was certainly borne out in those first few weeks. Although there were some snide comments from the boys, these were usually from the more junior members of the school, and so could easily be ignored. I enjoyed the subjects I was studying. The masters were good teachers, and the lessons I found stimulating. I especially enjoyed English, a subject where Tom Elliot was one of my classmates. Very early on I sensed that there was attraction there, but did my utmost not to encourage it.
There were just thirty girls at Westland, all resident in Dalton's under the watchful eye of Mrs. Thompson. We were a diverse group - some who had boarded before, others for whom this was their first experience of life away from home. Of course there were those who were a little homesick in the first few weeks, but generally we all pulled together and helped each other out. I say generally, because there was one notable exception to the rule: Claire Deschamps. With her Huguenot name, her aristocratic parents and her privileged upbringing, she thought she was a cut above the rest of us. She had fair hair - habitually worn in a pair of plaits, and a little retrouve nose, which with its upturned end made her look as though she was constantly sneering - which nine times out of ten she actually was! Claire Deschamps would not have been a problem apart from the fact that we were sharing a study together. In Dalton's, each girl had her own small room but studies were shared one between four. Most of the time we hardly spoke, for it was clear that she considered me beyond her contempt; indeed I don't believe she had ever said anything to me of substance before that fateful day.
It was a Wednesday evening. Wednesday afternoons were always taken up with school sports, and I had enjoyed a game of tennis in the soft autumnal sunshine. I returned to my room to put my things away and then went to the study to do my prep. Claire was already there, at her desk, reading her book - she ignored me. As I turned to reach up to a high shelf for my dictionary there was a sudden crunching sound from beneath my foot. Surprised, I took a step back and looked down. There on the floor was a rather lovely gold watch. The only problem being that it wasn't quite as lovely as it must have been in the few moments before I trod on it! Now the glass was broken and the hands were bent.
Claire swivelled round in her chair and saw immediately what had happened. She bent over and picked up the broken pieces.
"You stupid, clumsy cow," she said angrily. "Look what you've done. That watch was a sixteenth birthday present from my Papa, and you've ruined it."
I was dreadfully embarrassed. "Oh Claire, I'm awfully awfully sorry," I said. "I just didn't see it on the floor. It was an accident."
Claire's mean eyes glinted. "Accident or not, you're going to pay for this."
"I'm sure it could be mended, it's just the glass," I said anxiously.
"We'll see. Whatever it costs to get it fixed, you'll be getting the bill."
Not to be reposted, reproduced or distributed, in part or whole.