The journey seemed long for two eleven year olds. Having left our homes with the picturesque Campsie Hills as the backdrop, we were now bombarded with sounds and smells of the city. As we stepped onto a trolley bus taking us to Glasgow Cross, smoke and traffic noise overwhelmed us. The pungent aroma of a nearby distillery, as well as the smell from a camp coffee factory, attacked our senses and welcomed us into the Calton area. Our destination was Charlotte Street where the huge iron gates of the school were thrown open. Our Lady and Saint Francis Girls School was founded by French nuns who arrived with a vision to provide higher education for the girls of the East End. Eventually they were coming from all over the city to attend. As Susan and I walked through into the cloistered atmosphere which would be our second home, we didn’t realise then the impact the next six years would make in our lives. We would go from ‘crayons to perfume’ in the company of girls like us whose camaraderie would sustain us through school and prepare us for adult life. Although there was a religious atmosphere within the building, we never forgot we were in an East End school where industry, kindness, humour and grittiness were nurtured.
That first morning, we climbed a spiral staircase which opened out to an area known as the Wooden Corridor. There we were taken to Room 14 which would be our Form class for a few years A girl called Anne sat beside me and we immediately bonded with her, a friendship which lives on. Looking around the room at the identically clad girls in brown and blue we saw they looked as anxious as us. From that day, a dynamic began to form among us borne of shared experiences, creating friendships we never forgot even long after so many went their separate ways. I treasure the friends I still see and remember the others warmly.
Apart from attending science labs and the Gym, all our lessons took place in our form room. The teachers came to us in a long line. We anticipated their arrival by the rustle of their black cloaks, creating a sense of authority which silenced us. They would sweep in like stately galleons carrying their treasures of Maths, English, Latin, French and more. At the bell sound, they would exit, leaving imparted knowledge in their wake. For a brief few moments the class would erupt in a cacophony of chatter and laughter, immediately stopped by the arrival of the next cloaked wise one. You could hear a pin drop.
Sometimes one of us would be given a row. When this happened, the tense, silent wall of empathy and support emanating from each desk towards the unfortunate pupil was tangible. It was this solidarity that got us through the tougher days.
There were good times with the teachers too. Our annual trip to Millport was always fun and relaxed. We quickly colonised Cumbrae, hiring bikes, picnicking at Fintry Bay and then swimming in Kames Bay.
We were given a Christmas Dance in second year. No boys of course but we set aside functions, fractions and French and were delighted to do what girls do best, dance in a circle to the sound of pop music. There was Motown, the Beatles and the Monkees singing about Homecoming Queens. We only guessed at what that was but we all wanted to be one.
We lived through the Moon Landing, the summer of Hippy Love and the assassinations of Martin Luther King and RFK and by sixth year we were embracing decimalisation. Linda and I, by an amazing stroke of school serendipity, met the Beach Boys. We were also preparing to enter the adult world outside school. Then, tragedy struck.
Rona, one of the room 14 girls died suddenly and taken from her family, her best friend Eileen, and us. It was devastating and sad as dreams and promises lay before us that she would never experience. No university or college. No vocational work. No big romance. No career, no husband and children. All taken from her. She is always on the edge of my mind. Rona’s life and death made impact on us all. And the ‘Rona effect’ instructed me that I must try to recover from disappointment, loss and failures and appreciate second chances because Rona never got that opportunity. I hope she’s in a place of joy.
In my imagination , I think of us all together again one day in some celestial assembly hall, dancing and laughing and pointing to each other and remembering as Abba sings,
‘You are the Dancing Queen,
Young and sweet, only seventeen….'