Rebecca Thornton Talks About Boarding Schools

I’m in my thirties now and these days, it’s rare that anyone other than my family and closest friends see me for who I really am. The strops, the make-up free face, the tears when it all gets too much. I still find it a relief now that I can come in from a day’s work or childcare and shut the door behind me and not see anyone else, bar my husband and kids.

I arrived at a girls’ only boarding school when I was thirteen-years old and I had no idea when I stepped through those gates, that I would be surrounded by people the entire time. People in your dormitory, people queueing with you for the shower, people first thing in the morning, last thing at night. I remember taking a walk alone, across a field, and a teacher thought I was trying to escape, or smoke. I was never quite sure which. In any case, I got escorted back – by my hand – and put in front of my housemistress. I was nearly eighteen-years old. The company was great, most of the time, though. All of us girls laughed so much together and found ways to pass the days (the usual mischief-making.) When there was a row, though, the atmosphere was unbearable: cold, silent and hostile. To avoid a scary confrontation, better to convey you were annoyed through nuance and looks. Everyone knew everyone else’s business and if someone was pissed off with someone else, all the girls in the year would take sides. The row would be up for discussion, twenty-four hours a day. Then, as if nothing had ever happened, everyone would make up and move on. I’m sure this happens in all schools world-wide, but there’s something weirdly claustrophobic yet isolating about being unable to escape from your emotions being publically spot-lighted.

Thank goodness we didn’t have social media in my day. On the flipside, the girls who remain my best friends to this day, are the ones who went through those years with me and have seen me at my utter worst. They still love me. I hope. They’ve reassured me when I had alcohol poisoning and alconoia. They’ve seen me crying because I’ve felt anxious about something stupid. They’ve seen me half-naked, singing to the Spice Girls, peeing my pants with laughter.