I am up in the loft reading my school reports: ‘Disappointing’, ‘Tries Hard’, ‘Average Progress’. On two occasions there is a mention of ‘nice’ handwriting. You can feel the lack of engagement. I am entirely forgettable. I presumably provoked weariness. Occasionally there's a wry remark about lack of expectation - I was bound to get married anyway. Perhaps we were all supposed to feel grateful about the quality of the men being put my way.
Downstairs, when I ask Mum about the reports she says blithely that she never thought Aberlour House was right for me. Nor Gordonstoun. She’d looked at other schools but none of them seemed any better.
‘Maybe because they were all boarding?’
Her reply, unfortunately, is not in the diary. Neither is there any record of my resentment.