Is It Just Me? (29 page)

A few years later, we realised this teacher wasn’t quite who we thought she was. She wasn’t our Samantha. It became clear that Miss Manning lived in a three-room bungalow with Miss Jenvey. They had three cats between them. Miss Manning taught Religious Education, and Miss Jenvey taught P.E. Furthermore, Miss Jenvey had a wardrobe consisting solely of ‘weekday tracksuits’ and ‘weekend tracksuits’ (the weekend ones had fluorescent stripes down the sides of the legs, and would sometimes be worn with Birkenstocks). The idols had fallen. We had no one –
no one –
who was in any way fit to teach us the mysterious and wonderful ways of luuurve. We remained heartily confused.

We did have sex education classes, of course. I understand that, in these enlightened times, Sex Ed is pretty comprehensively taught. Condoms on bananas, lengthy discussions about the emotional impact sex can have on a young lady, etc. But in 1987 in a deeply traditional girls’ boarding school, Sex Ed was, if anything, more perplexing than frightening . . .

All 200 girls from ages fourteen to sixteen were summoned to sit in the school hall one morning, having heard from Milly in the fourth form that we were to be dealt a lesson of ‘sheer, dirty filth’.

Miss Black the headmistress entered, looking embarrassed and hot. Miss Webb the biology teacher trotted in miserably behind her, and pinned a crude pencil-drawing of the human reproductive organs to the blackboard. All 200 girls tilted our heads to one side and squinted.

Miss Black then stepped up to the lectern, her gown billowing dramatically behind her, almost knocking the lectern over. She recovered and cleared her throat.

‘Now – ahem – good morning. Today is your’ – at this point Miss Black lowered her voice – ‘sex education lesson.’ Her voice went back to its previous pitch. ‘Please observe the posters behind me,’ she said, indicating with a long stick, ‘which show the basic layout of the’ – again, the lowered voice – ‘
pubic
areas of the body.’ Back to the normal level. ‘Whether you know it or not, you yourself have such an area. Of course, during the
sexual
act, the male and female
pubic
areas join, which is a lovely and smashing thing to do of an evening if there’s nothing good on the television. But know this, girls’ – she put her shoulders back and looked authoritative. This is it, we thought. – ‘if there IS something good on the television and you DON’T want to do it, then you are well within your rights to JUST SAY NO. Do you hear me? JUST SAY NO. JUST. SAY. NO.’

The headmistress stopped, embarrassed, and muttered something that sounded like, ‘Jolly good, that’s that, then,’ and scurried from the hall. It was only later that we learned that Miss Black occupied the third room in Miss Manning and Miss Jenvey’s bungalow, and had recently been through a very nasty divorce.

We did have one teacher who was actually a Mrs, and seemingly happily married with two children. So, after prep one night, encouraged by Milly who’d just got an invitation to her first black-tie ball, a few of us gingerly approached her for much-needed advice on the subject of flirting. She drew herself up to her full height and said, surprisingly, ‘Girls, it’s quite simple; it’s all about the breasts. You need to enhance them: throw your shoulders back, consider a plunging neckline, pad your bra with jelly, whatever it takes. Once the breasts are in play, the whole game changes. They’ll be putty in your hands.’

Well, this was a bit of a revelation (except to Twig, who was still size AA and had no need for a bra). The trouble was that that was really the only direct advice we’d ever been given. So we all acted upon it enthusiastically – a little too enthusiastically, perhaps.

A few terms later, at a Harvest Festival barn dance (oh yes), I spied a line dancer who rather took my fancy. I decided that now was the time to use that teacher’s stunning advice: I was going to employ my breasts. I was finally going to make them work for me. This was their moment.

I approached the line dancer, took a deep breath, and tried to bring to mind an interesting fact about my breasts. I came up with the words that, if you know me well, you may be familiar with: ‘Hi. When I’m naked in bed and I roll over, my breasts clap.’

He stared at me for a moment, and then line-danced gently away. Sex Education had failed me once again.

So is it any wonder Little M’s so frightened right now, as she embarks on what is her first date? She hasn’t got a clue what’s about to happen to her. From my privileged position in the future, I
could
tell her that what’s going to happen is this: she’ll meet the boy outside the village shop at half past four. She’ll be too nervous to speak, or make direct eye contact, so they’ll nod at one another, like spies on a mission. In an attempt to pay Miranda a compliment, the boy will say, ‘You’re really tall, aren’t you?’ Miranda will blush girlishly, and respond, ‘Yes. Jolly tall.’ They will then go into the shop and buy some white mice and Fanta, which they’ll silently consume whilst sitting on the verge outside the shop. Emboldened by sugar, the boy will lunge towards Miranda. She won’t have time to bend down to ‘tie her shoelaces’ and he’ll have grabbed the back of her head, mashing his face into hers until their mouths meet. Miranda and the boy will then separate. He’ll pass back Miranda’s white mouse that got wedged in his mouth at some point during the exchange. She’ll throw it over her shoulder, and it’ll hit a passer-by. They will then say a shy goodbye and return to their respective schools. Miranda will be red-faced and traumatised for a week, unable to talk about her experience, no matter how urgently and persistently her friends demand the details. The boy, however, will tell his entire dormitory that he and Miranda had ‘full sex’, which was ‘brilliant’. Miranda will then be surprised and rather delighted by the attention she receives at the next inter-school disco. The rumour, of course, is that she ‘puts out’. Which Miranda will think is a reference to putting out the bins at night. And she’ll be thrilled to be thought such a useful and handy person who’s willing to help with mundane domestic tasks. Which is why she’ll keep talking about bin liners, to the confusion of all those around her.

But I think that it’s best not to tell Little Miranda this. She’ll find out soon enough. Let’s keep Mum.
^*
knocks on the door of the sports cupboard
^*
Little M? It’s twenty past four. Time to get out now. You’re going to be late.

I can’t go. I’m too scared. I don’t know what we’ll talk about. I’ve learnt the rules of football, so we could talk about those . . .

Um . . . well, I don’t think you’ll be doing too much talking.

WHAT?! D’you mean we’ll . . . we’ll be doing the thing that can’t get you pregnant in Germany?

Oh! Well – I wouldn’t want to ruin it for you. But – no. Don’t you worry about
that
.

Right, but – OK, I’m NOT happy about what I’m about to do, but I am going to officially swallow my pride and ask you for some advice. Namely – what happens? What do people DO on dates?

Um – well – they – sometimes they have some food, and sometimes they talk about . . . stuff . . . and – um –

Come ON! I’m going to be late.

Um . . . oh, right, yes. Oh! I know. Here’s a dating tip: ‘Don’t play hard to get with a man who’s hard to get.’ There.

That doesn’t sound like something you’d say. Were you quoting from something?

I was quoting from
Sex and the City
.

But what about your
own
life experiences? I mean, you’re not married, so you must be out dating men all the time. Right? Am I right? Please tell me I’m right.

Um . . .

Oh God. This is a disaster. You don’t know anything, do you? You’re some kind of weird virgin nun loser.

No! And, RUDE. I have had relationships; they just didn’t come about via this sort of . . . formal dating ritual thing.

Well, how did they come about, then?

One of them had a swimming pool. And, as you know, we love swimming, so I sort of stuck around. For five years, until I’d had enough of the smell of chlorine. And the other one worked in a bakery where I used to buy crumpets every day, and things just sort of . . . happened.

Two ‘SORT OF’ relationships? Is that it?

Well, then there was one man. I mean, we were kind of in a relationship. He’d come round, we’d have a meal, he’d often see me in my dressing gown, he was enigmatic, there was little conversation . . .

Wow. What was that all about?

Well, it was sort of . . . I suppose it was kind of more of a business relationship. He was sort of bringing the food round. And sometimes we’d share a keema naan if I’d over-ordered.

He was the TAKEAWAY MAN? You had a relationship with the takeaway man?

Um – well, it wasn’t really a relationship, as such. He just sort of brought the food several times a week, and I ate it, and I paid him, then we went our separate ways.

Right. Because I don’t think that actually counts as having a relationship. I think that’s just ‘ordering lots of takeaways from the same place’.

It’s kind of intimate! And he gave me a birthday card once, so –

You used the takeaway place so much they knew your birthday? Mortificato. This really isn’t what I want to hear. What about being taken out? Romantic dinners à deux? Restaurants and wine?

There have been quite a lot of restaurants and wine.

BY YOURSELF DOESN’T COUNT! Tell me, Big Miranda – am I about to go on our first and last date?

Yes. Sort of. Ooh – actually. Not quite. We do go on one more official, organised date. Although, it wasn’t actually technically MY date. You see, nowadays there’s a thing called ‘internet dating’ – it’s like Lonely Hearts, but lots of people do it. You put all your details on the computer, and then if people like them they contact you, and you can go on dates to get to know each other.

But what’s to stop people just lying to make people like them?

Absolutely nothing. That’s the flaw and possibly the beauty of it. But it’s not the only way. There’s also ‘speed dating’, if you’d rather meet someone face to face before you decide whether or not you want to spend an evening with them.

Speed dating?

You know those police identity parades they use to catch criminals? It’s a bit like that. Except instead of trying to pick a criminal out of a line-up, you’re trying to pick a boyfriend. And instead of just looking at them you talk to them as well, for three minutes. And instead of being in a police station, you’re in a bar. And instead of having to be sober, you pretty much have to be drunk.

This is Sodom and Gomorrah! This is how you meet people? Lying on the internet and drunken, three-minute identity parades? Maybe Miss Jenvey had the right idea after all. I’m off to buy a selection of weekend tracksuits and a cat –

No! Wait. I’m giving you the wrong impression. You don’t HAVE to do internet dating or speed dating. I’ve only really done it by accident. There was a man who was waiting in a restaurant for his internet date. I was also there about to meet a friend, but she’d just called to cancel and I was feeling a bit sad. Then suddenly this man jumped up and said ‘Hello!’ and handed me a flower. And I was so surprised I took the flower and, before I knew it, he was sitting me down and offering me a glass of wine. I mean you would, wouldn’t you, in that situation? You’d take the wine? And it was only when he said, ‘You don’t look very much like your profile picture’ that I realised something was amiss and that he’d mistaken me for his internet date. But it was too late to back out by then: I’d already demolished half the bread basket. So I had to play along. It did mean pretending I was interested in homeopathy and batik, and had trekked the Inca Trail on my gap year, but it was worth it – at least, until his actual date turned up and threw a glass of wine in my face, obviously.

So you STOLE someone else’s evening?

I wouldn’t say that: I prefer ‘borrowed’. Who knows, it could well have been the beginning of a beautiful relationship.

Was it?

No.

This is officially awful now. What about flirting? Tell me we’ve finally got that down pat.

No. No, siree. I refer you to the ‘breast-clap’ incident. Though I did try flirting one other time, at a party. We’d got onto the subject of our favourite childhood games and I found myself saying in a sexy whisper to a man from whom I was pretty sure I was getting all the ‘Let’s kiss later’ signals, ‘Do you like hide and seek? Meet me in that cupboard in five.’ I winked, and then slipped into the cupboard when no one was looking. I thought that was amazingly brave and a pretty good chat-up line, to be honest.

I am impressed.