My Story: A Class Act

By Florence Cartlidge
From Reader's Digest Magazine


Growing up in bomb-blitzed Manchester during the Second World War meant times were tough, money was short, anxiety was rife and the pawnshop was a familiar destination for many families, including mine.

Yet I could not have asked for more enterprising and optimistic parents. They held our family together with hard work, dignity and bucketloads of cheer.

My sturdy and ingenious Pop could turn his hand to almost anything and was never short of carpentry and handyman work. He even participated in the odd bout of backstreet boxing to make ends meet. For her part, our Mam was thrifty and meticulously clean, and her five children were always sent to school well fed, scrubbed and attired spotlessly, despite the trying conditions.

The trouble was, although my clothes were ironed to a knife-edge, and shoes polished to a gleam, not every item was standard school uniform issue. While Mam had scrimped and saved to obtain most of the gear, I still didn't have the prescribed blue blazer and hat band.

Because of the war, rationing was in place and most schools had relaxed their attitude towards proper uniforms knowing how hard it was to obtain clothes. Nevertheless, the girls' school I attended made it strict policy that each of its students was properly attired, and the deputy headmistress who ran the daily assembly made it her mission to teach me a lesson.

Despite my attempts at explaining why I couldn't comply, and despite the fact that I was making slow progress towards the full uniform, every day I would be hauled out of line and made to stand on the stage as a shining example of what not to wear to school.

Every day I would battle back tears as I stood in front of my peers, embarrassed and, most often, alone. My punishment also extended to being barred from the gym team or to not taking part in the weekly ballroom dancing classes, which I adored. I desperately wished that just one teacher in this horrid school would open their eyes and see all I could do, rather than constantly telling me what I couldn't do.

However, in my 12-year-old mind I had no choice but to see the punishment through. I knew it was of paramount importance not to let my well-meaning mother know about this ritual humiliation. I didn't dare risk her coming to the school to speak up for me as I knew the blinkered, hard-nosed staff would similarly mortify her and that would mean two of us unhappy and indignant. And, heaven forbid, if she ever told my father he would have instantly been on the warpath in my defence.

Then one day our family won a newspaper competition for a free photographic portrait sitting. I was beside myself with excitement: my imagination fuelled by glamorous shots of the popular Hollywood temptresses. I couldn't wait to tell my friends the thrilling news.

That was, until Mam told me that I would have to wear my best, lace trimmed bright green dress to school that day, as the portrait sitting was straight after classes. She had no inkling of the torment I faced, and trying to bluff a day off school would have worked only if I'd suffered a sudden case of amputation or bubonic plague.

There was none of my usual pleasure in putting on the cherished dress that day. Heavy-hearted I dragged myself to school, an emerald green target in a sea of blue. At assembly I didn't bother to wait for the command but trudged up to the stage of my own accord to endure the sniggers of the other girls and the beady eyes of the deputy head.

Tears of frustration threatened to break free as I wondered for the umpteenth time why the callous teacher couldn't look past my clothes for once and see the obedient and eager-to-participate young girl beneath.

After assembly our first class was English Literature, my favourite lesson with my favourite teacher. I consoled myself that I could at least lose myself in Charles Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities for a while at the back of the class to recuperate and regain my composure. Imagine my dismay when, immediately the class began, Miss McVee ordered me to come and sit in the front row, directly before her. I slowly rose and, blinking back tears, headed to the front of the class. Surely Miss McVee hadn't crossed into the enemy camp, too?

With downcast eyes and bowed head, tears once again threatened to betray my dejection, even though I had always tried my hardest not to show how miserable I was at being singled out time after time.

As I took my seat at the front, Miss McVee cocked her head to one side and looked me up and down carefully. And then she came out with the most welcome sentence I had ever heard at that mean-spirited place.

"My dear, I declare you are the brightest and loveliest sight in this entire dreary school. I am only sorry that I shall have the pleasure of looking at you for just one lesson and not the entire day."

The block of ice that was my young heart thawed instantly and my shoulders rose back to their full height. I'm sure the smile I gave that woman must have been the widest she'd ever seen. I floated through the rest of the day buoyed by the warmth generated by her thoughtfully chosen words.

Although English Literature was her forte, that day Miss McVee taught me, and perhaps the whole class, a lesson in compassion that I have never forgotten. She taught me that one kind word in a time of need can last a lifetime. Indeed, her thoughtful words strengthened a part of my soul that has never been weakened by anyone or anything since.

Florence Cartlidge migrated to Australia in 1956 and now lives in Perth. Now 77, she has two daughters, Lynn, 51, and Cheryl, 46, and a grandson and great granddaughter.

READER SUBMISSIONS for this feature can be sent to mystory@rd.com We'll pay $500 for any original and previously unpublished story used.
From Reader's Digest Magazine