CHAPTER 11 - A LADY IN DISGUISE

In my long life I have seen many tragic and sad events, from bullying and persecution to a plethora of wonderful things that have changed my life. This story perhaps puts a personal belief into perspective for all human beings, as something of a lesson in life that supports my view that all humans have great potential. This story begins when I was at school.

In 1955 I was in a class of 55 children, all very different individuals from a variety of backgrounds. There were a few whose parents had money and even a car, many from teaching families and a goodly number who had chosen a technical high school instead of a grammar school education, mainly because of the diversity of that brand-new system.

I lived on King Street in Great Yarmouth. On my side of the street, the even numbers, all the houses were in one piece and undamaged, but on the other side, the majority of houses had been bombed during WWII and were derelict.

Yarmouth is famous for its rows, the narrow pathways that weave between the blocks of houses, many of which were built in Charles Dickens’s time. Dickens wrote his most famous work, ‘Oliver Twist’ in a hotel on the sea front of Great Yarmouth at a time when there was great poverty, except for a time in the 1950s when it was once Europe’s main fishing port for herring.

As I looked from my bedroom window across the road to the fallen-down houses, I could see people living amongst the bricks in abject squalor and total poverty. At night, dim lights were hung by the windows as their only source of light, often a Hurricane Lamp or sometimes when it was freezing cold, a small fire.

Some of the inhabitants of these rough houses had lived through WWII and the majority had had no chance to live in a house with water, a bathroom, a lavatory and somewhere safe to sleep. There was always a lot of children of my age living there, who ironically were always smiling. In the summer-sun the rows were full of young children paying and parents caring for one another’s children, sometimes sitting outside knitting and sewing, and jovially passing the time of day. I remember that I never saw a woman smoking, but almost every dad I saw was!

Anyway, to continue. There was one family that stood out from the rest. There were thirteen children, all under adult age, so perhaps twins or triplets, or even an adoption. I used to walk down the rows to the shop for my mother and I was always aware of a young girl, nose often running, dressed in rags, who always played a penny whistle. I could hear her playing when I was lying in bed and it was such sweet music, and whenever I passed her by, she gently smiled at me.

To look at Rosie Hogg was to see a very sad girl with a rather dirty face as though she hadn’t washed. Her teeth were green, as most of our teeth were in those days after the war, and even passing her by there was a smell of rank-staleness.

The summer of 1956 passed, and it was time to go back to school, to walk the four and a half miles to Gorleston on Sea, where my school was situated.

During assembly that morning, that first school-morning of 1956, the new intake of eleven-year-olds stood in front of the school, all freshly blazered and neatly presented, new black leather shoes and beautifully combed hair except for one poor girl. It was Rosie Hogg, the girl who lived in the bombed building. She had won a scholarship to my school, and she really did stand out. As that class stood there to be introduced to the school in assembly, them facing us and us facing them, I was aware of a large gap either side of Rosie Hogg. I noticed a few trying to stand away from her and there was some tittering from the main school.

I will not attempt to give her school-life story, but enough to write that in mathematics, when anyone couldn’t get the answer right, the teacher would threaten the so-called dunces, that unless they got the answer correct, they would have to sit next to Rosie Hogg!

Rosie really did look a poor child., only eleven, and was rejected, even by her teachers. Rosie never cried and never complained, and there was something about her that was striking. It was her ability to go through her schooldays without a whimper. There were many times when she was bullied and teased, once because she wore no nickers, and although teased about that, and her dress often pulled up by other girls, that was something in common with a few girls, mostly in front of boys, teased by both boys and girls who were out for a lark!

During country dancing, Rosie had no partner, and although the teacher tried, nobody would pair off with her, so that was the teachers’ opportunity to show some humanity and partner Rosie.

Rosie was at the school until she left at fifteen and was the poor girl who everyone ignored because of her demeanour, and because she was poor. One day the teacher said to the class when Rosie was sitting at the back, that she had other siblings who would be coming to the school in time if they passed their scholarship at eleven. He then looked at Rosie and said, “Hogg, how many of your kind are there? Are they all like you? I hope they are better dressed than you are young child. Ha ha”

When I attended that school, I only went on the bus once, on the first day, and for the next several years I walked to school and back every day. Often, depending on coincidence, I could see Rosie Hogg walking fast towards Haven Bridge on her way home to her bombed house across the road from mine. We never spoke, I was avoiding her and was even teased for walking home near her because my friends said often that I loved her! “You love Rosie Hogg. You love Rosie Hogg. You’re going’ to marry her”.

When I was thirty years old, I was sent a letter by the school secretary asking me to arrange for what she called ‘the class of 55’ reunion at the school. Formal dress and best everything was the rule.

It was a chance to write to all those who had been in my class at that time and invite them to attend. Of the fifty or so who were in that class, only five couldn’t make it so there was quite a gathering. Doctors, lawyers, soldiers, businesspeople, nurses, craftspeople, plumbers, builders, etc.

None of us could possibly imagine what our friends had become.

I had no address for Rosie Hogg, so she never received an invite and there was no internet or Smartphones in those days. It was a very posh affair, £8 each for a great buffet, a band and such pomp as you couldn’t imagine. Even our teachers were there, those who were still alive anyway. Ironically, our bullying mathematics teacher was long-gone, so there was much delight. He was a nasty man!

The first session of welcoming drinks was to re-introduce one another, to re-connect and speak about the past after we had left school. One chap, who was a right pain and was often beaten over the arse in my company, a fellow miscreant, who had left school with no GCEs, seemed to be quite rich as he was adorned, as all the men were, in a well-cut tuxedo.

It was Frank Williams. I approached him and passed the time of day wondering what he was doing.

“Oh Skinny, I’m in business.”

Indeed, he was in business, he had his own printing company and after an apprenticeship with William Clowe’s in Bungay, he took up photogravure and printed and illustrated super bibles. By the time he was twenty-six he had his own house, a villa in Crete and three children. He drove from London in his rather flashy car and was the centre of attention at the ball. His beautiful wife was with him, as all our wives were, except mine as she was deceased, and she stunned the ball!

There were many who had done well materially and there was great joy in re-connecting, telling stories and exchanging details of biographies. Even the few teachers who were there seemed to be very different, less aggressive, understanding and full of memories of the children they had taught.

A couple of the ladies from my class were seemingly gossiping about the boys and one asked the question, “I note that Smelly isn’t here”.

There were giggles and of course I had no idea of who was ‘Smelly’. A few others joined the gossipers and soon it was a heaving mass of mature but quite silly people who were beginning to take the micky. My name was mentioned because they didn’t imagine I would be the host or dress as I did, in a suave tuxedo.

The seven years as a regular soldier had certainly sharpened me and so I felt that I ought to begin to speak about my life, so I tapped on a wine glass and everyone sat down at their tables. I thanked everyone for coming and said the usual things one says at such a time and mentioned those who were not there. When I mentioned Rosie Hogg, there was much camouflaged tuttering, because she hadn’t been able to come to the event.

After my speech there was much mingling, and I did the rounds. I was with Ken, who had been my friend, and together we met the individuals and by midnight we were ready to end the reunion and head for home. Many had a long way to go.

I stood outside the school foyer so I could say goodbye, as one does as host, when I saw a woman, I didn’t know but who I assumed was a wife of one of the chaps. She was stunningly beautiful, dressed in an expensive ball gown, with Italian leather shoes, so cool, and a hair style as though it had been done by a five-star hairdresser.

This beautiful woman was about to get in a silver Mercedes, as her husband, I assumed, opened the passenger door to get in the front seat. They were such a lovely couple, and everyone admired them both, especially the lady. It was my duty to tick the register so I could declare who had come to the reunion, so I walked around to the driver’s side and asked who he was.

“My name is Philip Monro, and I am a GP. This is my wife, who went to this school in the 1950s.”

“Oh, I said. I am so sorry I didn’t honour her or even recognise here. People change you know, so accept my apologies.”

I walked around and the lady opened the door and thanked me. I asked her maiden name when she was at school after she introduced herself as Mrs. Monro.

“Don’t you remember me? I lived opposite you in King Street. I am Rosie Hogg, and I have been honoured to attend, although I never thought I could come when I received your invitation through my friends”.

I was stunned, so stunned, and a little embarrassed so I had to engage in a conversation. “What happened to you Rosie when you left school?”

“Ah well, that’s quite a story. I managed to get a job as an office extra in London and after a few years, after my degree, I was given a job with Givenchy in Paris, as a fashion adviser, and that’s how I met Philip. He was a newly qualified doctor and I fell for him whilst walking around the Musee D’Orsay, in Paris. I love art, and so does Philip. Thanks for having me”.

I learned a great deal from that brief conversation, overheard by many of her old class. I received many letters the following week, mostly commenting on the beautiful lady who lived as a child in a bombed house.

One never knows what life offers!