Got stuck into a snit with some vile, right-wing, probably BNP idiots on the Telegraph website. I do this about once a year and it all makes me feel shaky with anger. Can't bear the kind of mindless, baseless assertions they come out with. Did you know that the far left encourage immigration as a means of destabilising "the system"? Or that Hitler was a far left-wing socialist (clue: Nazi = National SOCIALIST party?) Stupid, stupid people....
They probably feel the same about me, though.
But I'm right. Obv.
Saturday, January 08, 2011
Why Stephanie Owen
This was a story I wrote a while back which was published somewhere on the web - can't now remember where - I suppose I should really keep a track of these things somewhere. It was written by an anecdote a friend told me, but I suspect happens every day.
Why Stephanie Owen
That girl was so badly behaved at school. If you wanted to find Stephanie Owen, you knew where to look. Just hop along to Miss Collins’ study and there she’d be, waiting for the latest telling off. In fact, on one occasion I was the one sending her.
It was in the fifth year and I was one of the prefects. Stephanie used to go on about how she thought the ‘whole prefect thing’ was ‘an anachronism’, but she was just jealous. She was so immature. I can remember once when I was overseeing prep in the library and the second years were all behaving themselves and Stephanie and her friend Sarah were sitting in a corner and giggling. I had to maintain order, so after a couple of warnings I sent her out.
“Right, Stephanie. That’s it. I’m afraid I’m going to have to send you to Miss Collins.”
She laughed out loud.
“You are joking, Polly, aren’t you?”
“No – I’m not. Please get your things and go to Miss Collins.”
She and Sarah exchanged looks and screeched with laughter. Honestly, just like a pair of alley cats.
All the second years looked up at Stephanie, shaking her head and trying to speak.
“Oh, Polly Minter. You are just so funny...”
She was still almost crying with laughter as she went out of the door. Which wasn’t the reaction I was expecting. The second years all looked back at me.
“Well get on with it,” I said, “And the next person who opens their mouth will be writing 500 words on ‘listening to the grass grow’.” (I was good at those. My favourite was ‘watching the paint dry’.)
As I went back at my own revision I had the idea that they were laughing, but I couldn’t look up fast enough to catch anyone.
Stephanie and her little gang used to roam the school, talking too loudly, as if anybody could be remotely interested in their self-consciously left-wing opinions. I mean, really! How could anyone come to a school like the Charlotte Asprey and profess left-wing views? To prove their point, they’d be clad in skirts that were too short, jerseys that were too tight, shirts with three buttons undone and ties undone sufficiently to show their hoiked-up breasts. Presumably socialists can’t dress themselves properly. They would wear their hair loose around their shoulders and try and find excuses to come to school without their regulation shoes. Stephanie was the worst. “Sorry, Miss Plumley – my lace broke”, “Sorry Miss Plumley – Mum accidentally put them in with the washing”, “Sorry Miss Plumley, I was late and didn’t want to miss the start of school.” And Miss Plumley, who was ridiculously wet, would smile and let her get away with it. And as she teetered to the back of the class on her black platforms, chewing on the gum she’d temporarily stowed behind her molars, Stephanie would wink at me. These days you can’t use the word, but let’s face it - she was common as muck. God, I loathed her.
Stephanie was a scholarship girl who utterly abused the privileges afforded her by the generosity of the Governors. She never acquired the manners which characterise a Charlotte Asprey girl. She never really understood the standards expected by the school, the responsibility which a position in society demands. Or perhaps, as I sometimes suspect, she did understand, but simply chose not to conform . But then that’s breeding, I suppose. You’ve either got it or you haven’t. Someone like Stephanie, poor thing, was confused. She’d been taken out of her normal environment so of course she wasn’t going to fit in. Oh, she had that odd, rebellious little gang, of course, but she didn’t fit in properly.
She would talk to anyone. ANYONE. I saw her once on the bus laughing and smoking with some oik from the local comp. He was practically drooling into her chest. I wasn’t on the bus, of course. Mummy was driving me to maths coaching – I just happened to glance up. And she and her lot used to drink cider in the park in school uniform. In fact I once went and had a discreet word with Miss Collins about it. After all, it was a suspension offence. But nothing happened. In my opinion, she didn’t take it seriously enough.
In the sixth form mock election Stephanie stood for Labour. Helena Cumming stood for the Conservatives and polled 647 votes. Stephanie polled 22. Which was as it should be. She laughed and said she supposed that that was what she got for standing on a socialist ticket in a school where they gave out deportment badges. I couldn’t see what that had to do with anything.
After she and I both left to go to university I forgot about her. Well, you would, wouldn’t you? We weren’t exactly moving in the same circles. I met Rupert at university and we married the year after we graduated and had Henry and Jemima within a few years. After Rupert came out of the army he took over his father’s successful bathroom fittings company. We have a very nice life together. Henry’s busy, of course, and so am I, but we make time to play golf together. Henry’s doing Media Studies at university. Jemima, who’ll make a lovely little mother, goes to the Charlotte Asprey where I’m one of the Parent Governors. In fact, between ourselves, I’m under some pressure to take up the Chair next year, which is a real honour when you consider that the outgoing Chair is none other than Lady Olive Portland, the famous biographer.
Now I’m not one for politics and all that. Rupert and I vote Tory. What else is there to say? How people can go on and on beats me. It just causes friction at dinner parties, as far as I’m concerned. Or it would if I didn’t skilfully change the subject whenever we’re in danger of veering into that sort of territory. So when Lady Olive approached me in the run-up to Founders Day I was caught entirely off-guard.
“Polly! You never told me that you were in the same year as Stephanie Owen!”
“Who?”
“Stephanie Owen!”
“Oh! Yes, yes... Yes, I was.”
“Well, don’t you think that she’d be the ideal choice to speak to the girls at Founders’ Day? A terrific role model, I should say!”
“Well...”
“I can’t believe that you didn’t mention her when we were discussing the matter at the last Governors’ meeting!”
“Well...”
“Recently appointed Parliamentary Under-Secretary for International Aid? I’ve heard she’s tipped for a cabinet position. Extraordinary achievement for an old CA girl! Was she always such a crusading firebrand at school?”
She was smiling lightly, waiting for a reply, but I couldn’t speak. When I recovered myself I croaked.
“She drank cider in the park in school uniform.”
Lady Olive looked momentarily confused, then burst into laughter.
“Did she really? What a character!”
I laughed along uncertainly.
“She probably smoked behind the bike sheds as well,” she volunteered.
“Yes, she did.”
Lady Olive shook her head merrily as she composed herself.
“Anyway, Polly, I think you’d be the appropriate person to write to her and invite her to speak at Founders’ Day. Stress how much of an inspiration she’d be to the girls. You know the sort of thing...”
“I don’t know her address.”
“Oh Polly, you are funny! Stephanie Owen MP, House of Commons, of course! Actually, Right Honourable Stephanie Owen MP.”
“She never married, then .”
“Polly Fanshawe! Don’t you ever read the papers? She’s married to Nick Martin; you know, the union chief – can’t remember which one... health, I think. You don’t get left-wing dynamos like her using taking their husbands’ names!”
She tinkled that by now rather annoying laugh. As if it wasn’t a ridiculous idea. As if it wasn’t a silly bit of left-wing nonsense. As if it wasn’t MOST un-Charlotte Asprey. Why bother getting married, for heavens’ sake, if you weren’t going to have the same name as your children?
“Actually, you’re right, you know. Writing to her would be silly. Why don’t you just call the House directly? I’ll get her number from Bernard.”
“Oh, you don’t need to trouble Sir Bernard!”
“Nonsense, dear. No trouble. I’m sure he spends most of his time in Westminster fast asleep... He only wakes up when one of the younger lady MPs comes into the tea room. And you know how all these old men go on about buxom ‘Ms’ Owen and her, how shall we put this... her feminine credentials!”
No, actually. I didn’t. And I didn’t want to. But as Lady Olive made her excuses and moved away it looked as though there was no way of preventing the reestablishment of my acquaintance with Stephanie Owen.
So a few days later I braced myself, picked up the phone and dialled.
“Hello, may I speak to Stephanie Owen, please?”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“My name is Polly Fanshawe.”
“And what are you calling in connection with, Ms Fanshawe?”
“Mrs.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s MRS Fanshawe.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“I’m calling with an invitation for ...Ms Owen.”
“I’m her PA. Perhaps you can give me the details and I’ll see if she can make it.”
“No, I’d rather speak to her directly. We were at school together.”
“Oh, I see. What was the name again?”
”Polly Fanshawe.. Minter as was.”
“Just one moment Ms...Mrs Fanshawe.”
She put me on hold. I nearly hung up. But then...
“Polly! How are you?”
“Stephanie! I’m fine. Fine.”
“Good, good. Well... Goodness me, this is strange!”
“And you?”
“Yes., fine, fine. What are you up to these days?”
“Oh, you know... the usual. Husband, children, dogs, school...”
“That sounds nice.”
God, what a pointless waste of time. What was wrong with a nice little letter on headed notepaper from Lady Olive Portland in her capacity as Chair of the Governors? Why did I have to endure this excruciating conversation with a ghastly woman I hadn’t seen since she was a ghastly girl and whom I’d have been happy not to see for the remainder of my natural life?
“What can I do for you?”
”Well, the Governors of the school have asked me to invite you...”
“The Governors? Are you one?”
“Yes. They’ve asked me to invite you to speak at Founders’ Day.”
There was a silence at the other end of the line. I had the distinct impression of suppressed laughter, but I’m probably just being paranoid.
“Really? They want me to come back and speak at the CA? Aren’t they nervous about what I’ll say?”
“I think you’ll find that the Charlotte Asprey is a very open and modern school.”
“It’s changed quite a bit, then?”
There it was again, that slightly breathy sound. I had to bite my lip, I can tell you. Where would she have been without the benefit of an education from my old school? Working in Woolworths, I shouldn’t wonder.
“What date is Founders’ Day?”
“July 12th.”
“July 12th... let me see...”
Oh for heavens’ sake.
“Let me see... Oh dear. No Polly, I’m so sorry, but as I suspected, I can’t make it. I’m going to be in Belize on the Tuesday and Wednesday.”
“I’m sorry – did you say you’re not coming?”
“I can’t, I’m afraid.”
“Well...”
“Look, I’ll tell you what - I’d really like to visit. Why don’t you talk to my PA and see if you could get a reservation in my diary for next year? Do you have the date?”
Was she really saying no? The greatest honour that her old school could accord her – and Stephanie Owen, a gum-chewing reprobate who practically had her own naughty chair in the Headmistress’s study, was turning down the chance to address the girls? The cheek of it took my breath away.
“I don’t have the date.”
“What a pity. Well, what can I say? I’m really sorry, but you know how it is. In this job I’m discovering that my diary gets booked up unbelievably rapidly.”
“Yes, well, we all have busy lives.”
Miss bloody High and Mighty.
“Of course, of course. Well. I’m afraid I’m going to have to go, Polly. I’m late for a meeting.
Thank you for calling. Perhaps we’ll speak again.”
“Perhaps.”
Over my dead body.
“Bye then, Polly. All the best. Give my love to the school.”
“Will do. Good bye.”
I hung up and for a moment I felt faint with anger and frustration. Why, of all the wonderful girls in our school, all the fabulous, friends in our year, why had greatness been thrust upon the likes of Stephanie Owen?
Lady Olive was terribly disappointed. I couldn’t understand why. The question of a Founders’ Day speaker was not a problem – there was that rather nice girl from two years below me who’d had a book of chocolate recipes published. But Lady Olive immediately busied herself setting a date for next year’s Founders’ Day with the current headmistress, specifically in order to be able to book Stephanie Owen, which I thought was over-keen.
For days afterwards I felt unsettled and most unlike myself until Rupert, recognising my malaise, presented me with a Hermes handbag, which made me feel a great deal better.
It was in the fifth year and I was one of the prefects. Stephanie used to go on about how she thought the ‘whole prefect thing’ was ‘an anachronism’, but she was just jealous. She was so immature. I can remember once when I was overseeing prep in the library and the second years were all behaving themselves and Stephanie and her friend Sarah were sitting in a corner and giggling. I had to maintain order, so after a couple of warnings I sent her out.
“Right, Stephanie. That’s it. I’m afraid I’m going to have to send you to Miss Collins.”
She laughed out loud.
“You are joking, Polly, aren’t you?”
“No – I’m not. Please get your things and go to Miss Collins.”
She and Sarah exchanged looks and screeched with laughter. Honestly, just like a pair of alley cats.
All the second years looked up at Stephanie, shaking her head and trying to speak.
“Oh, Polly Minter. You are just so funny...”
She was still almost crying with laughter as she went out of the door. Which wasn’t the reaction I was expecting. The second years all looked back at me.
“Well get on with it,” I said, “And the next person who opens their mouth will be writing 500 words on ‘listening to the grass grow’.” (I was good at those. My favourite was ‘watching the paint dry’.)
As I went back at my own revision I had the idea that they were laughing, but I couldn’t look up fast enough to catch anyone.
Stephanie and her little gang used to roam the school, talking too loudly, as if anybody could be remotely interested in their self-consciously left-wing opinions. I mean, really! How could anyone come to a school like the Charlotte Asprey and profess left-wing views? To prove their point, they’d be clad in skirts that were too short, jerseys that were too tight, shirts with three buttons undone and ties undone sufficiently to show their hoiked-up breasts. Presumably socialists can’t dress themselves properly. They would wear their hair loose around their shoulders and try and find excuses to come to school without their regulation shoes. Stephanie was the worst. “Sorry, Miss Plumley – my lace broke”, “Sorry Miss Plumley – Mum accidentally put them in with the washing”, “Sorry Miss Plumley, I was late and didn’t want to miss the start of school.” And Miss Plumley, who was ridiculously wet, would smile and let her get away with it. And as she teetered to the back of the class on her black platforms, chewing on the gum she’d temporarily stowed behind her molars, Stephanie would wink at me. These days you can’t use the word, but let’s face it - she was common as muck. God, I loathed her.
Stephanie was a scholarship girl who utterly abused the privileges afforded her by the generosity of the Governors. She never acquired the manners which characterise a Charlotte Asprey girl. She never really understood the standards expected by the school, the responsibility which a position in society demands. Or perhaps, as I sometimes suspect, she did understand, but simply chose not to conform . But then that’s breeding, I suppose. You’ve either got it or you haven’t. Someone like Stephanie, poor thing, was confused. She’d been taken out of her normal environment so of course she wasn’t going to fit in. Oh, she had that odd, rebellious little gang, of course, but she didn’t fit in properly.
She would talk to anyone. ANYONE. I saw her once on the bus laughing and smoking with some oik from the local comp. He was practically drooling into her chest. I wasn’t on the bus, of course. Mummy was driving me to maths coaching – I just happened to glance up. And she and her lot used to drink cider in the park in school uniform. In fact I once went and had a discreet word with Miss Collins about it. After all, it was a suspension offence. But nothing happened. In my opinion, she didn’t take it seriously enough.
In the sixth form mock election Stephanie stood for Labour. Helena Cumming stood for the Conservatives and polled 647 votes. Stephanie polled 22. Which was as it should be. She laughed and said she supposed that that was what she got for standing on a socialist ticket in a school where they gave out deportment badges. I couldn’t see what that had to do with anything.
After she and I both left to go to university I forgot about her. Well, you would, wouldn’t you? We weren’t exactly moving in the same circles. I met Rupert at university and we married the year after we graduated and had Henry and Jemima within a few years. After Rupert came out of the army he took over his father’s successful bathroom fittings company. We have a very nice life together. Henry’s busy, of course, and so am I, but we make time to play golf together. Henry’s doing Media Studies at university. Jemima, who’ll make a lovely little mother, goes to the Charlotte Asprey where I’m one of the Parent Governors. In fact, between ourselves, I’m under some pressure to take up the Chair next year, which is a real honour when you consider that the outgoing Chair is none other than Lady Olive Portland, the famous biographer.
Now I’m not one for politics and all that. Rupert and I vote Tory. What else is there to say? How people can go on and on beats me. It just causes friction at dinner parties, as far as I’m concerned. Or it would if I didn’t skilfully change the subject whenever we’re in danger of veering into that sort of territory. So when Lady Olive approached me in the run-up to Founders Day I was caught entirely off-guard.
“Polly! You never told me that you were in the same year as Stephanie Owen!”
“Who?”
“Stephanie Owen!”
“Oh! Yes, yes... Yes, I was.”
“Well, don’t you think that she’d be the ideal choice to speak to the girls at Founders’ Day? A terrific role model, I should say!”
“Well...”
“I can’t believe that you didn’t mention her when we were discussing the matter at the last Governors’ meeting!”
“Well...”
“Recently appointed Parliamentary Under-Secretary for International Aid? I’ve heard she’s tipped for a cabinet position. Extraordinary achievement for an old CA girl! Was she always such a crusading firebrand at school?”
She was smiling lightly, waiting for a reply, but I couldn’t speak. When I recovered myself I croaked.
“She drank cider in the park in school uniform.”
Lady Olive looked momentarily confused, then burst into laughter.
“Did she really? What a character!”
I laughed along uncertainly.
“She probably smoked behind the bike sheds as well,” she volunteered.
“Yes, she did.”
Lady Olive shook her head merrily as she composed herself.
“Anyway, Polly, I think you’d be the appropriate person to write to her and invite her to speak at Founders’ Day. Stress how much of an inspiration she’d be to the girls. You know the sort of thing...”
“I don’t know her address.”
“Oh Polly, you are funny! Stephanie Owen MP, House of Commons, of course! Actually, Right Honourable Stephanie Owen MP.”
“She never married, then .”
“Polly Fanshawe! Don’t you ever read the papers? She’s married to Nick Martin; you know, the union chief – can’t remember which one... health, I think. You don’t get left-wing dynamos like her using taking their husbands’ names!”
She tinkled that by now rather annoying laugh. As if it wasn’t a ridiculous idea. As if it wasn’t a silly bit of left-wing nonsense. As if it wasn’t MOST un-Charlotte Asprey. Why bother getting married, for heavens’ sake, if you weren’t going to have the same name as your children?
“Actually, you’re right, you know. Writing to her would be silly. Why don’t you just call the House directly? I’ll get her number from Bernard.”
“Oh, you don’t need to trouble Sir Bernard!”
“Nonsense, dear. No trouble. I’m sure he spends most of his time in Westminster fast asleep... He only wakes up when one of the younger lady MPs comes into the tea room. And you know how all these old men go on about buxom ‘Ms’ Owen and her, how shall we put this... her feminine credentials!”
No, actually. I didn’t. And I didn’t want to. But as Lady Olive made her excuses and moved away it looked as though there was no way of preventing the reestablishment of my acquaintance with Stephanie Owen.
So a few days later I braced myself, picked up the phone and dialled.
“Hello, may I speak to Stephanie Owen, please?”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“My name is Polly Fanshawe.”
“And what are you calling in connection with, Ms Fanshawe?”
“Mrs.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s MRS Fanshawe.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“I’m calling with an invitation for ...Ms Owen.”
“I’m her PA. Perhaps you can give me the details and I’ll see if she can make it.”
“No, I’d rather speak to her directly. We were at school together.”
“Oh, I see. What was the name again?”
”Polly Fanshawe.. Minter as was.”
“Just one moment Ms...Mrs Fanshawe.”
She put me on hold. I nearly hung up. But then...
“Polly! How are you?”
“Stephanie! I’m fine. Fine.”
“Good, good. Well... Goodness me, this is strange!”
“And you?”
“Yes., fine, fine. What are you up to these days?”
“Oh, you know... the usual. Husband, children, dogs, school...”
“That sounds nice.”
God, what a pointless waste of time. What was wrong with a nice little letter on headed notepaper from Lady Olive Portland in her capacity as Chair of the Governors? Why did I have to endure this excruciating conversation with a ghastly woman I hadn’t seen since she was a ghastly girl and whom I’d have been happy not to see for the remainder of my natural life?
“What can I do for you?”
”Well, the Governors of the school have asked me to invite you...”
“The Governors? Are you one?”
“Yes. They’ve asked me to invite you to speak at Founders’ Day.”
There was a silence at the other end of the line. I had the distinct impression of suppressed laughter, but I’m probably just being paranoid.
“Really? They want me to come back and speak at the CA? Aren’t they nervous about what I’ll say?”
“I think you’ll find that the Charlotte Asprey is a very open and modern school.”
“It’s changed quite a bit, then?”
There it was again, that slightly breathy sound. I had to bite my lip, I can tell you. Where would she have been without the benefit of an education from my old school? Working in Woolworths, I shouldn’t wonder.
“What date is Founders’ Day?”
“July 12th.”
“July 12th... let me see...”
Oh for heavens’ sake.
“Let me see... Oh dear. No Polly, I’m so sorry, but as I suspected, I can’t make it. I’m going to be in Belize on the Tuesday and Wednesday.”
“I’m sorry – did you say you’re not coming?”
“I can’t, I’m afraid.”
“Well...”
“Look, I’ll tell you what - I’d really like to visit. Why don’t you talk to my PA and see if you could get a reservation in my diary for next year? Do you have the date?”
Was she really saying no? The greatest honour that her old school could accord her – and Stephanie Owen, a gum-chewing reprobate who practically had her own naughty chair in the Headmistress’s study, was turning down the chance to address the girls? The cheek of it took my breath away.
“I don’t have the date.”
“What a pity. Well, what can I say? I’m really sorry, but you know how it is. In this job I’m discovering that my diary gets booked up unbelievably rapidly.”
“Yes, well, we all have busy lives.”
Miss bloody High and Mighty.
“Of course, of course. Well. I’m afraid I’m going to have to go, Polly. I’m late for a meeting.
Thank you for calling. Perhaps we’ll speak again.”
“Perhaps.”
Over my dead body.
“Bye then, Polly. All the best. Give my love to the school.”
“Will do. Good bye.”
I hung up and for a moment I felt faint with anger and frustration. Why, of all the wonderful girls in our school, all the fabulous, friends in our year, why had greatness been thrust upon the likes of Stephanie Owen?
Lady Olive was terribly disappointed. I couldn’t understand why. The question of a Founders’ Day speaker was not a problem – there was that rather nice girl from two years below me who’d had a book of chocolate recipes published. But Lady Olive immediately busied herself setting a date for next year’s Founders’ Day with the current headmistress, specifically in order to be able to book Stephanie Owen, which I thought was over-keen.
For days afterwards I felt unsettled and most unlike myself until Rupert, recognising my malaise, presented me with a Hermes handbag, which made me feel a great deal better.
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