Samantha Michelle Davies (SamanthaMD)
[A Comprehensive School somewhere in England in the late 1960's]
We all filed in the classroom and sat down.
The teacher came in and began to call the register.
Eventually my name came round
“Yes Miss Greenhough”
With the register over, the lesson began. This was the bit I was dreading. Getting my homework results.
The teacher, Miss Emily Greenhough who was the cause of many a ‘wet dream’ amongst my fellow 5th formers came round the class handing out our exercise books. As she did so, our beautiful teacher called out everyone’s marks. An 'A' here, a 'C' there.
As she came to me, she stopped.
She gave out a big sigh.
I looked at her slightly sheepishly.
“See me after school for Detention”
There was a general tittering amongst my fellow pupils.
“If there is any more noise then everyone else will join Thomas in detention”, said Miss Greenhough.
The class fell silent in less than a second.
“Good. Now the subject for today’s lesson is the reading you had from the lesson on Tuesday”
There was silence in the class.
“Thomas Parker. What was the reading you were set?”
“Miss, It was the D.H Lawrence short story, ‘The Clippy’”
“Alan Casson. What was the story about?”
Alan wasn’t interested in English Literature. Rumour had it that he was going to sign for Chelsea, complete with ‘Chopper Harris’ and ‘Peter Osgood’ as soon as he was 15 and able to leave school.
“I don’t know Miss”
The teacher smiled.
“Well then you can read the whole story tonight and write a 500 word précis on it for submission tomorrow”
“But miss, I have training tonight. A Chelsea scout is going to be there”
“I don’t care if God himself is going to be there, You are going to do this work or you won’t be leaving school this Easter or next if I have my way”
Alan sank back into his chair. He needed permission from all his teachers to leave at Easter rather than at the end of the Summer Term.
“Yes Miss” he replied with a defeated air.
Detention for 5th formers was held on Thursdays in the Library. I made my way to the library at the end of the day.
Miss Greenhough was waiting outside for me.
“Ah Thomas. Please follow me”
Slightly bewildered I followed her along the corridor back to the main hub of the school building. Then my heart sank. She turned right. That could only mean ‘The Headmasters’. I swallowed hard and resigned myself to a slippering in a few minutes.
[This is circa 1968 so corporal punishment in schools is still very much the order of the day]
We stopped outside the Headmasters Office. Miss Greenhaugh knocked on the door.
I heard a ‘come’ originate from inside the room.
We went inside.
The Headmaster, a Mr Worthy was sitting behind his desk.
To my surprise Miss Greenhaugh left me alone standing in front of the Headmasters Desk.
“Ah Thomas. I expect you are wondering why you have been sent here?”
He didn’t wait for me to respond.
“Well, it is about this essay you wrote for Miss Greenhaugh.”
There was no hint of a smile on his normally jolly face.
“Frankly Thomas, I’m worried about you. Where do you get these ideas from eh Laddie?”
“I… I don’t understand Sir?”
“These stories about… well some very odd behaviour. Dressing as a woman for one. Then there is the tying up of people. Would you like to explain where you get these ideas from? How old are you?”
“Sir? I’m fifteen in August sir”
He looked at me.
“And these ideas? Are you another April Ashley?”
I looked at my feet in shame.
“Do your parents know about this?”
I looked him right in the eye.
“Please sir. Don’t tell my parents. I’ll only get a beating from me dad”
“No lad. I won’t tell your parents but strictly speaking, I should do so this instant”
“I want you to see someone about your problem”
“My problem sir?”
“This dressing as a woman. The skirts, the stockings and this infatuation you seem to have with false eyelashes”
“Sir? I only mentioned that in passing. It was in the TV Times last week that one of the characters in ‘Please Sir’ wears two pairs of lashes.”
The Headmaster gave a reaction that included the words ‘piffle’ and ‘bollocks’.
“Have you…you been doing what you tell in your essay?”
“You mean wearing me mums clothes?”
“Yes. That is exactly what I mean”
“Why Sir? Does it turn you on?”
Mr Worthy went beetroot red in the face.
“Why you little tart”
I smiled back at him.
“Why Sir. I think you are embarrassed”
He huffed & puffed.
“I will arrange for you to see someone so that you can talk about your problem”
“My problem sir? I think you have greater problems than me to worry about”
“What do you mean?”
“Sheila Alnutt. She’s up the duff and starting to show. Mr Grainger is probably the father. They’ve been having it off in the back of his VW Camper Van since last years Windsor Festival. They shared a tent there. It were only 20ft from mine.”
Mr Worthy was about to burst a blood vessel.
“Get the hell out of here. We don’t want your sort in this school. You are expelled”
“Thank you Sir. I was going to tell you that I wanted to leave anyway. I’m going to work with my cousin at her Carnaby Street boutique in London. I’m going to change my name to Blanche Dubois”
As I left the room, I started to sing the closing chorus to ‘All you need is Love’.
Subject: Hidden Secrets
Martine sat at her dressing table. It was a Friday night. The Nice were playing at the ‘Roxy’ in Purley and everyone from school were going to see them. Keith Emerson was everyone’s current heart throb replacing Roger Daltry of the Who who was definietly yesterday's man.
She was nervous about going out that night. It was going to be her debut as Martine. She’d spent a lot of time on her makeup. Luckily her parents were down the Pelham Buckle getting pissed so she was alone in their Council House on the edge of the New Town.
She’d just managed to get into town after school that day and buy some ‘Eyelure Whoppers’ false eyelashes before Woolies closed. Everyone at School was talking about wearing two pairs of false lashes to give added Volume. Well, all the girls were talking about it. All the boys were talking about was how short the skirts that Sheila Alnutt would be wearing for the Physics lessons with Mr Grainger and whether or not she’d be wearing stocking or tights for his lessons.
Martine was more concerned about the padding of her bra and how well tucked in her ‘male’ parts were in view of the tight denim ‘mini’ that she was going to wear along with some yellow tights and black ‘wet look’ boots with a 2in heel.
It was nearly 8pm before she was ready to go out. She could tell by the closing tune to Coronation St coming from the TV that was on in the room below.
Martine grabbed the handbag she’d pilfered from the bottom of her mother’s wardrobe and ran out of the house and headed to the top of Langley Drive.
She just managed to catch the No 405 Bus to Purley. There she joined the queue of people waiting patiently to pay their 7/6p to get in to see Keith Emerson play the Hammond Organ as if it was an extension to his body.
She enjoyed the concert and was even chatted up by a boy from Hazelwick School. This made her happy but sad that none of her school friends had even noticed her.
At the end of the concert, she just managed to get the last No 405 bus home.
She’d just slid into bed after relieving herself dreaming about being in bed with 'Keith' when her parents came home from the pub. They’d been to the normal Friday after hours session. The landlord was doing his best to releive his regulars of the contents of their weekly pay packets.
Just before 1:00am her mother poked her head round her bedroom door.
“Night Night Arthur. Sleep well”
“Night Mum” replied Martine still dreaming of 'Keith'.
This story is semi Autobiographical. The first ‘pop festival I attended was Windsor in ’67. I saw Cream, Fleetwood Mac, John Mayall and Jeff Beck. Pink Floyd were due to appear and they were the reason I really went but Syd Barrett was in such a state they had to cancel. I leave it up to you to fill in the missing blanks.
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