Boarding School Diaries: Part 1 and 2

Part 1.
A primary end
 
The curtains are about to literally close on my primary school days. I’m 11 years old, dressed in my dad’s beige mac and wearing a West Bromwich Albion tie from my Grandad. For the last three nights, I was Captain Smolsky in Bugsy Malone. I wanted to be Bugsy, but there’s a boy in my class who is smaller with olive skin, and he really looks the part…unfortunately. Claire says he has pretty eyes. I like Claire a lot, but I think she prefers Ollie, or Bugsy as he’s now known.
 
To be honest, I’m not sure I’d have remembered all of the lines anyway. So here I am, standing on the stage in South Brent Village Hall with my classmates on the final night in July 1986. In my head it seems like hundreds of people are in the audience, just like when we went to see Cats in London, but it’s probably more like 150, maybe less. There’s mum, I wave, she waves back, and takes a photo of me. It’s chaos on the stage. We all have party poppers and all you can hear is laughter and pop pop pop.
 
Mrs. Steele starts to play on the piano for the last time tonight. Balloons and streamers fall from above as we stand in lines and sway from side to side, arms around each other’s shoulders. We sing, “We could have been anything that we wanted to be” which then becomes “you give a little love and it all comes back to you, you know you’re gonna be remembered for the things you say and do…” We all look at each other and we sing the line about 3 or 4 times. It makes me think, will people remember me for the things I’ve said and done? Right now, it’s just smiles and laughter, I don’t want it to end – sing it again, I think.
 
It's the last part of the song, we all wave at the audience, a few more poppers are set off. The curtains close. That’s it, not just for Bugsy, but the end for Class 5, and end of our time at South Brent Primary School. It’s also the end of my time in this village I’ve called home for the last four and half years.  
 
We will all go our separate ways, although the vast majority will head to Secondary School in Totnes. It doesn’t have the best reputation, dad days. I think that means there are bullies there, I don’t know, but the thought of going there scares me, but it's not something I have to worry about. Nope, not me, I’m off to a boarding school in Wales.
 
Boarding. Sleeping away. No kiss goodnight, no reading under the duvet or playing with my Airfix planes. I’ll be sleeping next to other kids in a big room. Nowhere to just be me, always surrounded by people, even in the showers apparently. I love my bedroom so much. I have a lot of books, a suitcase full of Lego, some boardgames, lots of Matchbox cars, and lots of teddies on the bottom bunk.
Well, right now a lot of it is packed in tea crates and boxes. We still have a week to go before we move to Saundersfoot.
 
We’re moving there so mum can be closer to her parents in Tenby, she misses them a lot and feels lonely in Devon, especially as Dad is in Oman.

Mum said Dad took the job in Oman because he needed to deal with the loss of his dad. I don’t really understand this if I’m honest. Why not just stay with us so we can help him feel better? They did argue a lot, maybe that’s why he’s there, I don’t know. Surely not, my parents would never, ever separate, even though they sort of have. It’s because of Grandad, I tell myself, yes…that’s the reason he’s in Oman.
 
Dad says I need to board because the state schools are bad and I’ll hate it. I’m a gentle kid - I think he thinks I’ll be ripped to bits and bullied. The thought of a school with 1,500 kids scares me, but then again, the thought of sleeping away from home kind of scares me, too.
 
I took the 11-Plus exam and studied for it in the evenings. It didn’t go well. I even went to the headmaster’s house who tried to tutor me. At one point, he looked at me and said, “Are you missing something on TV tonight?” Probably, it was a Saturday, I wanted to watch the A-Team, not sit here with the headmaster explaining what four fifths of a pizza was.
 
I took the exam and pretty much failed, aside from telling a nice story about a Souq in Oman, the rest was a disaster. I think my dad thought I’d breeze it, like some perfect private school boy. So that meant I couldn’t go to the REALLY posh schools, I’d need to go what was called a feeder school.
 
I’m weekly boarding at a school in Porthcawl. Dad’s still in Oman, and mum hasn’t passed her driving test yet, so she’ll have to ask her sister to drive every Friday and then drop me off on a Sunday night.
 
I’m pretty nervous, because aside from 2 nights at Cub Camp, I’ve never slept away from home without mum and dad. I’d love to take Puppy with me – he’s not a real dog, he’s my teddy. I know that 11 seems a little old for a teddy, but I think a lot of the kids in my class have them, too – it’s just we don’t talk about it. I still play with Matchbox cars.
 
A couple of months ago, dad was home from Oman, and we went on this big trip to visit lots of schools. Llandaff Cathedral School, Brecon College, Wells Cathedral School, and others I can’t remember, but all big and pretty intimidating.

They all sort of felt the same. I had to take tests at each school and have an interview with the headmaster. I was very nervous and even said a week has 5 days because I thought it was a trick question.  I think he thought I was stupid, I certainly felt it. Right there in that study that smelled of pipe smoke, I felt like a tiny insect sitting in the large leather chair as the grandfather clock ticked. Make this end, I thought.
 
The boys all looked so smart but so much older than me, even the ones who were the same age. One boy showed us around - he sounded so posh. I thought he was 16 but he was actually 13. He asked me if I liked rugby - no, I said, never played it.  I’m not ready for any of this. Latin words are everywhere at every school and the boys say sir all the time, sometimes a few times in one sentence.

Dad wants me to go to Brecon College, but the headmaster didn’t think I was ready, so St John’s is one of their feeder schools. We went there to visit and they said they’d take me. It made me feel like I was being sold.
 
Everything happened so fast. One minute I’m walking from the car with mum and dad hoping none of this was happening, and the next minute we have a school uniform list. I don’t know what it’s going to be like not having a kiss goodnight. I’ll be sleeping in a room with other boys, no private space, no teddies, no Matchbox cars under my bed, no glow in the dark stars on my ceiling.
 
Back in the village hall, the last balloons and streamers fall down. We bow to the crowd and wave, punching the balloons and throwing streamers over each other. These have been my friends for the last few years.
 
Friends I’ve played with, biked with, built dens with, raced up and down stairs with,,wrestled with, laughed and sometimes cried with - in sun and snow, we did it all.
 
Smiling faces both on the stage the sound of clapping. I wave at Mum, she’s waving back and taking pictures with the other hand. Click. Flash.  I think she’s crying, not sure why, maybe happy tears. Dad is over 4,000 miles away. It’s late there, maybe he’s at the officer’s mess and thinking of me. Maybe he’s back in the flat and watching a video as the air conditioner whirs away, or maybe he’s gone for one of his walks alone in the desert, he likes that. Sometimes he sees scorpions and jebel cats.
 
We’re leaving in a few days to our new house in Saundersfoot, then mum and I will fly to Oman. I’m pushing away the thought of boarding school, and instead I’m thinking about 6 weeks of holidays and having mum and dad together - like a real family.
 
The next day at school and it’s the last day. One last school dinner, one last break time kick about, one last swapsies with Panini stickers, one last putting my chair up on the table.
 
I think about Christmases in particular- on the last day of term we’d bring in our toys and board games. The frost-covered playground, the frozen pond, the smell of satsumas in the classroom, the sound of carols from Mr Edginton’s radio, and the headmaster dressed as Father Christmas handing out nuts.
 
It’s now summer 1986 and this school book is about to close. When I left the house this morning, the removals truck hadn’t arrived yet, but the house didn’t look like our home anymore. Tea crates packed and stacked - we came here from Australia 4 years ago and brought them with us, so they’re a little battered.
 
I hope I can say goodbye to my house before we leave for Wales. There’s mum waiting for outside the school gate. She’s chatting with other mums and dads. Auntie Margaret is with her, she has to sit beside mum because she’s only got a provisional licence. Uncle Tony and my cousins are in their car.
I can feel myself wanting to cry as I say goodbye to friends and teachers.
We drive away, I sit in the back on mum’s Escort.
“Mum? Why are we turning left? I want to say goodbye to my room…”
“No…we need to get on the motorway…”
“ Please…mummy, please…” I feel utterly beside myself.
“No James, we don’t have time!”
I’m begging now. My Aunt Margaret gives me a disapproving look. She never liked me.
Mum shouts at me to stop. She’s very tired. Carless Whisper on the radio, which crackles when we pass by power lines.
Tears. Lots of them, until I’m too tired to cry and I fall asleep when we join the M5 near Exeter.
When I wake up, we’re nearing the Severn Bridge. Goodbye England and welcome to Wales.
This feels weird. There’s the sign for Porthcawl, I’ll be back there in 8 weeks, but now at least I have Oman to look forward to. I push away thoughts of boarding school and pretend none of this is happening. We stop at Pont Abraham services to use the loo and have a drink.
I buy a copy of the Beano summer special and feel ok for a while.
 
We finally arrive at the new house before the removals truck. Our home is a bungalow. I thought bungalows were only for old people?
 
My bedroom is weird. There’s a double bed – someone else has actually slept in this bed….this can’t be happening. There’s a dressing table and built-in wardrobes with glass knobs. It’s like some sort of strange Bed and Breakfast. The garden is tiny. It doesn’t feel like home to me. Take me back to Devon, take me back to playing in the fields and wading through the streams in wellies. Take me back to Dartmoor rain and the smell of creosote and freshly cut grass on the housing estate.
Cheer up, James, says Mum, but I just want to be back in my old bedroom.
I'm 11 now, and I couldn't stay at the school anymore because we're all moving on.

Just six hours ago I was at my primary school putting my chair up. Now I’m in standing in a bedroom for a grandmother. I reach into my pocket. Football stickers and some blades of grass from the school field. It’s 9pm and still daylight. Tonight, we’ll go into Saundersfoot for dinner. Mum says we can go to Wimpy. This makes me smile, I love the milkshakes. 
Maybe things will be ok after all.

Chapter 2: Calm before the storm
 
Saundersfoot station, 8am, just mum and I with two black rickety Delsey suitcases. The air smells damp as the birds chirp in the trees that line the single track at this tiny request stop station. We’re the only ones here, not a lot of people use this station, but today, we’re catching the train to Swansea, changing for Reading, then taking the bus to Heathrow for the night flight to Muscat on Gulf Air via Abu Dhabi.
 
It’s July, and we’ve been in our new house for barely a week. It doesn’t smell of us yet, and the loft is packed with crates and boxes yet to be unpacked. It’s our second time out to Oman.
Dad’s on a military base and he lives in a two-storey block of beige flats that sit in the flat but rocky jebel. Roads cut through the nature and lead to the officer’s mess and military buildings a couple of kilometers away. From our balcony, we sometimes have a barbeque and watch the lights of night flights taking off, and I’m always glad I’m not on one of them, but I know I’ll be heading back to a new world of boarding school eventually.
 
There’s a constant whir of the air conditioner to keep us cool, and the summer temperatures go up to over 40c. Our kitchen is huge but pretty much empty, aside from some juice and snacks. Cupboards are bare, as we eat at the officer’s mess every night with all the other expat officers and their families. It’s pretty posh with the waiters in red cummerbunds walking from table to table dishing up lobster, steak, and curry. If you order dessert, they bring a sweet trolley to the table. Dad says each meal works out at about 1 Pound 50 each, so we can order what we like. The drinks by the pool are pennies, as are the club sandwiches. It’s a very different world to popping to Tesco on a Saturday.
 
The families, like us, are not a bunch of rich people, but the Mess has got everything you could wish for. It’s like one giant paradise playground for us kids, and pretty much the same for the parents, too. Beyond the military guards and the barrier is an oasis of fun and fantasy. My Oman friends, as I call them, will also be arriving. We’ll look for scorpions, play squash and tennis, although not very well, and then swim until our toes and fingers look prune-like. We’ll stay until we’re told for the 5th time to get out, then dry off as the sun sets to the sound of a distant call to prayer.
 
Dad has a white Toyota Corolla from the Oman Navy. All the cars on the base are white. He’s a Lieutenant Commander, which means a Toyota for him. The higher the rank, the bigger the car. Ashley is a boy I play with sometimes – his dad is a colonel in the Army, so he has a Toyota Cressida. Ashley brags about it a lot, but they’re all hire cars, and no one stays in Oman forever. I wish I could stay at a school here, but I know dad doesn’t want to stay for years and years.
 
So every day, I walk to the officer’s mess early in the morning before the pool opens. I know the staff pretty well and they always give me a high-five.  There’s Nizar, Lopez, Alfred, and Fernando. They’re all from a part of India called Kerela and they only get to see their families once or twice a year. I’ve seen the photos of them on the beach. Once Lopez started to cry a little and I patted his back as he wiped his eyes. Sometimes, they’ll share some Indian sweets with me when I go into the kitchen to talk with them. Jelebi is my favourite – they’re orange spirals of sticky sweetness.
 
I love this time with them. They’ll make scrambled eggs on toast, then I’ll take it to the anteroom, which is basically just a big room full of lots of couches, coffee tables, books, and magazines. They have loads of copies of Autocar and National Geographic, which I pour over in detail – well, the pictures at least. There’s always a smell of cigar smoke in the air from the night before when Navy, Air Force, and Army expats sit and chat over a glass or three of something strong. Some drink a bit too much, you can tell by their skin, dad says.
 
At 10am, the pool is open, and as soon as the maintenance guy gives me the thumbs up, I jump in and destroy the glassy calmness. A cannonball jump from the diving board, as a million tiny bubbles race past my face and tickle my pasty white, which will tan in no time and leave a white Speedo-shaped band around my waist in no time.
 
We travel a lot that summer, to forts, mountains, souqs, beaches, and remote villages. Dad borrows a beige Land Rover and we visit Sur, Nizwa, and Sohar. Oman is pretty quiet really, it only started building proper roads and shops in 1970. We sometimes go to the Intercontinental Hotel for their buffet night or the Sheraton for Chinese food, then maybe an ice cream from Dairy Queen in Medinat Qaboos. It’s really posh up there – so many beautiful white villas with pretty gardens and pools. There’s also a small toy shop and I sometimes buy a small Lego set if I have some pocket money left.

The supermarkets are very cool because they’re full of American products I’ve never seen before. I love this breakfast cereal called Crispy Wheat and Raisins and crisps called Pringles. Oh, and also M&Ms, I’ve never seen them in the UK, but I can’t stop eating them.
 
Now and then my stomach flips when I think of boarding school, then I look around me and realise I’m in my favourite place in the world. It’s July, and September feels like an eternity away.
It isn’t. I don’t know any latin, but I know one expression.

Tempus fugit.