This Much Is True

Mummy wrote a note to tell the school of my startling female development. Miss West, our games mistress, was extremely embarrassed by the whole thing. It was her unfortunate duty to discuss the matter with all who menstruated. She was one of the Oxford High School lesbians and wore divided skirts. I was given a note to go and see her. I turned up wondering what I’d done wrong, as that was usually what a note to see a teacher meant. Miss West gave an awkward snigger and said, ‘Miriam, I think we must have a little chat about how to, er… manage your periods.’ I could see she was embarrassed; I wasn’t at all. Miss West took a deep breath and resolutely continued, ‘In the pavilion… there are no, er… incinerators. So, on the days when we are playing hockey and you have your, er… period, I am afraid you will have to bring some newspaper to school and [snigger] wrap your… er… sanitary towel in a newspaper and, er… take it home [snigger]… in your satchel.’ (It was a sublime moment of high comedy. I related it to Dawn French in her series on comedy, and when Jennifer Saunders cast me in Jam and Jerusalem she allowed me to resurrect Miss West and her snigger.) Possibly I was the first one that had to face that conversation; before, when people had periods, they simply didn’t play hockey. I’ve no idea how other girls dealt with the problem until incinerators or those dreadful, smelly sanitary bins were brought in, because no one ever talked about it.

Neither Mummy or Daddy ever talked to me about the facts of life or any aspect of sex — that simply wasn’t discussed or mentioned. I learnt about the facts of life in that famous teaching arena: the school bike shed. SEX was the major topic. On certain days, our sports pavilion was let out to a boys’ school and once, when walking past, I saw a completely naked man walk across to the showers — in profile, with his dick sticking out in front. I think that was probably the first time I’d ever seen a penis, and I didn’t like it. And I never have.

At school, I was with the more snobbish group that didn’t have boyfriends, but we wanted them nonetheless. I used to spy on couples going off for little snogs. There was a particular bridge near Kidlington under which couples would lie and cuddle, and I used to stalk them. I’d lie in the bushes quite close by so I could observe their amorous scufflings. I suppose I got some pleasure out of it. Often I’d go with another girl. I don’t think we ever actually surprised anyone in flagrante, but it was close.

I was a well-developed girl — my breasts were large and lustrous, thrusting my nipples through the school jumper to the consternation of practically everyone. I remember an American soldier clapping his hands over them in the street when I was about twelve. He didn’t hurt or frighten me; I think he might have been drunk as his pals pulled him away from me before anything got nasty. I was quite flattered by the attention. Two of my father’s patients molested me. One had a motorbike and took me for a spin into the country. He stopped the bike, took me into a field and asked me to stroke his inflamed member. I did so willingly, stirred by the experience but not shaken. After I told my parents, I was never alone with him again.

When I was in the sixth form, my first boyfriend was a portly Indian gentleman who spotted me, a schoolgirl, collecting for the blind in Cornmarket, and approached me — most respectfully. He asked my father if he could take me to the pictures. Daddy consented and we went to the Scala in Walton Street. He took me out a few times; we never kissed, and I didn’t fancy him at all, but the rest of my form at Oxford High School all seemed to have boyfriends, so I think peer pressure was the initial motivator.

I then fell in with a group of other older men. I met them when I modelled at the Ruskin School of Art. I used to go along and stand or sit there, fully clothed, facing the class. Standing or sitting still for a long time could, of course, sometimes get a bit boring, but I met and had coffee with the artists, and I quite enjoyed that. One was a retired army officer in his seventies, of impeccable bearing — my parents thought he was delightful — called Major Harding. He was aptly named as he was an experienced groper, but not scary. His advances were gentle and almost affectionate. He talked about my eyes a great deal, and then moved on to my breasts. He asked if he could stroke them. I was seventeen, well brought up, but what woman doesn’t like having her breasts stroked? I responded merrily to Major Harding and when it became clear to him that I wouldn’t fuck but I would suck, we were on a roll. We met often to go to the cinema, or for Sunday tea parties. His pleasure gave me pleasure and proved the template for my sexual activities until I was initiated into the joys of lesbianism.