In my youth, I spent some years at boarding school in Yorkshire–for which I blame my youthful enthusiasm for the stories of Enid Blyton, which gave me a totally fraudulent image of the completely Jolly Times a gel might have at school. Well, not entirely Ms. Blyton’s fault, actually–my family was in Iceland, I needed schooling, and that was not available past 6th grade for English speakers in Reykjavik at that time (1962). The alternatives did not appeal:
- attending school at the American base in Keflavik, which was not only crammed with mostly male and obviously lustful sailors, but also a long and dusty ride on an unpaved road from Reykjavik.
- hideously expensive American schools
- losing a year or more to learning Icelandic and attending local school.
So, there it was. Boarding school, in England. Not just England–YORKSHIRE. Why Yorkshire, one wonders. Possibly, the price was right? After two years, my sister Faith had also exhausted the educational possibilities offered in Reykjavik, and came to join me–but having had a bellyful of my cranky whinging about Yorkshire, our parents moved us to the compliant and easeful south, where we spent a pleasant year in Eastbourne, “Sunny Suntrap of the South” (according to the enthusiastic Post Office stamp). The year at Moira House was a holiday after Yorkshire, indeed. After this, the tour in Iceland being completed, we returned to the states.
But, looking back, 50 years later, I remember Yorkshire with something approaching fondness. Having just reread a frivolous and engaging book by Georgette Heyer–my reading these days is nothing but frivolous and engaging–I suddenly remembered the first time I came across her books: in the library at Skellfield School, in Yorkshire. The school had once been a country estate–sold to pay the taxes, as so many others had been sold. (In parenthesis, let me add my laments to those of many others, that England decided to destroy its heritage, and tax all the great houses out of existence. Yes, yes, there is the National Trust–but, it can’t save more than a few. They have eaten the heart out of their own dear country.) Anyway, the stately home of somebody or other had been sold and made into a school. There was a grand and graceful staircase in the great hall, which ascended to a gallery above, upon which opened the bedrooms. How many bedrooms? How many girls? I have no idea. On the first landing of the carved oaken stairs, our Head Mistress, Miss Jones, was wont to address us of a morning—we would all be gathered in the grand hall reverently gazing up at her, as she said whatever it was that started the day for us. (Whenever I mentioned Miss Jones my father would break into song, “Have you met Miss Jones?” He couldn’t stop himself. It was his amiable weakness. He had a lovely singing voice, moreover)
So, at times I would go to the library, and browse those high dark shelves. It was a large room with tall windows, and it is only now, looking back, that I realize that the pictures on those walls must have come with the house—were not, for instance, chosen to edify the girls. Why else would a print of Ucello’s Battle of San Romano have been there? I stared at it often, trying to figure out what was happening. But never questioned why someone would have chosen to put it there. Certainly not in Miss Jone’s line, I shouldn’t have thought.
It has come to me–now that Miss Jones and the other tedious spinsters who toiled so diligently to educate us in the grim halls of Skellfield are all dead– that perhaps I was a little harsh on them, in my intolerant youth. It was not all bad, that time. And, Enid Blyton and Georgette Heyer afforded me many hours of entertainment, for which I am grateful.
Do you remember Miss Haddow, head of music? She was my aunt.
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Thank you, Joy! To my shame, I don’t remember her–my memory is so poor. But I always loved music, and it’s good to hear about times gone by! Blessings on your aunt.
Hope
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I was there 68/69, remember Kathleen Jones, the huge staircase we were allowed to use on Sat evenings and of course the ghost of the ‘Green Lady’, if I remember rightly there was a picture of her. Yellow dress for uniform in summer, the older students were allowed those maroon capes. The bullocks in the surrounding fields…..
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I certainly remember Miss Haddow as I was at Skellfield St Nicholas from January 1953 till 55, first at Sharow Hall and then at Cundall Manor
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What a thrill to hear from other Skellfielders! it is odd, how life brings us together and apart. There is a book by Orson Scott Card called Pathfinders, in which he imagines a person having the skill to see all the paths people have walked over time–and how they intertwine with others. A vast labyrinth of linking threads. I often think of that idea–and wish I could literally see it, as the boy in the book can. Anyway, hello from someone who shared an experience with you, long ago. 50 years and more!
Hope
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