Primary School Confidential (11 page)

THE SMELL OF TEEN SPIRIT

At the age of twelve, I was sent off to a posh boarding school in the northern suburbs of Sydney to be turned into a well-rounded, intelligent, thoughtful global citizen, capable of doing anything I put my mind to because I am woman, hear me roar.

Twelve is a very young age to be let loose on the world, which was effectively what happened. Thirty girls from around Australia were thrown together in a dormitory and told to play nice. Add one geriatric old bag, the housemistress, whose accommodation was at the furthest point of the building, and hey—what could possibly go wrong?

The boarding house was an old Federation number with worn carpets and the smell of teen spirit. When you entered the foyer, the housemistress's apartment was to the left. On the right was a big staircase, which led up to a long hall. At the end of the hall
there was a room the size of a football field. This was divided into cubicles, each one housing four beds.

Next to your bed, you had a small chest of drawers topped with a mirror and next to that, a small hanging space.

The whole place smacked of neglect and was not exactly the sort of place that could be described as a lovely home away from home. I recall my mum unpacking all my belongings, making up my bed and then getting the hell out of there. I sat on the bed and ate an entire jar of green olives, watching as the three girls who were to share my cubicle came in one by one with their parents and their gear. Finally, it was just the four of us, sitting on our freshly made beds, looking at each other.

One girl started crying and the rest of us went over and comforted her. And then we heard other little whimpers floating up over the cheap partitions. Soon the whole room was awash with tears.

My six-year stint at boarding school taught me more about life than any part of the actual curriculum ever did. These years taught me to be rat-cunning, to question the establishment, to defy authority and to save my own arse.

I will not go into all of the dreadful things the class of '91 got up to, because some of you might actually have daughters at boarding school right this minute, and I fear that with the advances in technology since my day, things might have got even worse. But I will share with you my highlights reel—or should that be lowlights reel?—to give you a sense of what I took away from the experience . . .

A popular weekend activity among one group was to take the train to nearby Chatswood, a large shopping precinct only a few
stops away. The purpose of the expedition was shoplifting. And when I say shoplifting, I don't mean nicking a red frog from the counter of the local milk bar; I'm talking about expensive items that the boarders would then on-sell to the daygirls at a reduced rate. Levi's jeans, Doc Martens, dresses—everything was fair game. One girl in particular, a doctor's daughter from a country town near the Queensland border, was a kleptomaniacal genius. If it wasn't nailed down, she shoved it up her top. They grew so practised at it that eventually they began to take requests and stole to order.

For some reason—perhaps still wary after my long-ago ladybird-hairclip spree—I never got involved in this racket. I certainly played my part when it came to other shenanigans, though.

My first suspension was in Year 8. It was for something that, if you ask me, should have seen me hailed for showing early signs of entrepreneurial excellence, not derided as a common thief. You see, the Christian group in the school, known as the Crusaders, was going to hold a dance to raise money for some worthy cause (I can't remember what). One day, I happened to walk past the table they had set up to sell tickets at $5 a throw.

Now this dance was to be held in conjunction with the local boys school, so I knew that there would be much interest in attending, because . . . BOYS. So I waited until the two girls at the table were distracted, then I slunk over and swiped a handful of tickets.

By lunchtime, word had got around that one of the Year 8 girls (that would be me) was selling tickets to the hot event for half-price. I sold out of tickets in no time, and was just contemplating how I could get my hands on some more when I was approached
by a teacher, who told me that the headmistress would like to see me.

BUSTED!

Apparently, tales of my business prowess had reached the ears of some meddling do-gooder, who had turned me in.

I found the headmistress—a woman who looked uncannily like a Border Leicester sheep, if you can picture that—sat behind her desk, nostrils flared so wide you could make out the shape of her brain.

‘Sit down,' she thundered.

So I sat, and confessed all.

Then followed a solid thirty minutes' berating: I was a disappointment; I was wicked; I was no better than a common thief. By rights I should be expelled on the spot.

Then the door opened and in walked my mum. To be honest, I think she was more scared than me. The headmistress gave her a toned-down version of the lecture she had given me, and then I was sent home for five days to have a good think about what I had done.

On the way home, Mum was a bit cross with me, but not as much as I'd feared. When we got home she rang my dad and told him what I'd done, and I listened from the next room as they laughed about my business acumen.

I was suspended for the second time the following year. There was nothing clever or entrepreneurial about my crime this time; it was more of a straight snatch-and-grab.

Oh Lord, forgive me, because indeed I did sin. I stole in your house.

I stole the contents of the chapel plate.

Okay, so in my defence Levi's had just brought out a range of white jeans. WHITE LEVI'S! I needed them in my life.

On the day of my crime there had been a special collection so that the Crusaders could buy bicycles for Nepalese orphans. By some twist of fate, I had been put in charge of counting the collection, along with another girl whom I
thought
was my friend.

The bowls were heavy with coins and the final tally amounted to several hundred dollars. Well, several hundred dollars minus the thirty bucks that ended up in my pocket.

Later, as I was treating my mates to Paddle Pops from the canteen, a Year 12 girl approached with a message: I was to report to the office immediately.

BUSTED!

So off I went to that old familiar place. Though there had been some changes, I noticed, as I sat outside the headmistress's office; they had changed the art around.

The office door opened and out walked my ‘friend'. HER NAME WAS ANNABELLE KELLY.

God, it feels good to get that out. You might know her; she's now an architect up on the north coast of New South Wales.

About the changes I mentioned; it wasn't only the art. At the beginning of the school year, we were introduced to a new headmistress, as the older one had retired. But the change wasn't too drastic. This new headmistress was also sheep-like in appearance, which is to say that she didn't have hair—she had wool.

They must have had a handbook, these headmistresses, on how to deal with delinquents, for she delivered nearly the same speech as her predecessor, almost word perfect.

‘Why shouldn't I expel you right now?' she asked me.

So I told her that my parents would be super pissed off (though not in those exact words).

Then—because history was clearly repeating—the door opened and in walked my mother.

Addressing the headmistress, she lamented the fact that they were meeting each other for the first time under such dreadful circumstances, and then proceeded to charm the pants suit off the woman. She handed over a large cheque for the building fund and whisked me off for a week at home.

This time, however, the mood at home was less jovial than it had been during my last forced break. I actually had to do non-fun stuff, like sort out old files in my stepfather's office. It wasn't even in the office. It was a cold, stinky basement.

Plus my mum was pulling out the old ‘no speakies' punishment—aka the silent treatment—which is still very effective in this modern day. And when she did talk, it was to deliver long, sad lectures on the subject of disappointment. Ah, that word:
disappointed
. The worst one a parent can use.

I had learnt my lesson.

Thou shall not steal.

When I returned to school, I discovered that my friends had decided they didn't want me to get expelled—the prospect of which was only the puff of a ciggie away—so from then on each time I was the main suspect for a crime, one of them took the fall.

That was the thing about growing up in a small group of girls. We stuck together through thick and thin. We knew each other in a way that no one else ever will and it is a bond that has lasted. While time and geography have scattered us far and wide, that closeness and camaraderie has endured. I was lucky to have encountered such a great group of gals, for it is those school years
that truly shape who you ultimately turn out to be. I am grateful not to be in jail. I am grateful that my parents persisted with me despite my evil ways. I am grateful that social media didn't exist at that time. And, in a way, I am even grateful to Annabelle Kelly, that fucking nark. Most of the notorious criminals in the world started their careers as petty thieves—but I turned out to be a mummy blogger. The only thing I steal these days are an extra Tim Tam when I think no one is looking.

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