Despite our privileged backgrounds, my classmates in the 1970s were no different from any other boys aged 11 or 12 in finding the subject of sex endlessly intriguing, says EARL SPENCER
Despite our privileged backgrounds, my classmates in the 1970s were no different from any other boys aged 11 or 12 in finding the subject of sex endlessly intriguing. Our actual knowledge of this special interest, however, tended to be rudimentary and confused. We were on constant high alert for words that alluded in any way at all to genitals, breasts or bodily functions. We had vague ideas about words that were sexual, but these were random notions rather than concrete knowledge.
Instead, my innocence was taken down a different course, where confusion, shame and self-doubt lurched out from the shadows. Unaware that such a crime existed, I had no idea that I had become a victim of sexual abuse. While I can't recall most of the other assistant matrons, there was one who will remain with me till the day I die. She was 19 or 20, tall and slender, with brown hair and rosy cheeks on a handsome face.
I presumed Please must be doing some form of rounds – maybe checking on our safety. I noted how she tiptoed to the side of each bed, pausing and chatting quietly to those still awake.The next night, the same thing: rustling, secrecy, torchlight and the whispers of boys and a young woman. I then heard the crunching of food being devoured: we weren't allowed to eat or drink in our dormitories, so I knew Please must have flouted the rules, bringing forbidden treats.
I was rigid in her arms as she kissed me on the lips. Then I felt her tongue push forward into my mouth. She tasted of peppermints. She toyed with us, keeping us tight on the end of her line. I'd beg her to wake me up, if I'd fallen asleep before her second nightly visit, and she said she would, but never did. Perhaps she wanted to punish those who were insufficiently committed to stay awake.
Instead, however, she promoted me to the second rank of her reverse harem: those she intimately touched. In the daytime, we hung out with Please in the Music Room, a small space pupils could use in their free time. She was a master of emotional manipulation: with a sudden huff or a deliberate turning of her back, she would publicly shun one of the children she was molesting.The other boys in her thrall would spot this change in her mood and side with her – displaying such open hostility that her target would feel compelled to leave the Music Room.
I still have a memento of this sexual trauma. A society portrait painter, Robert Tollast, came to the school in 1976, to capture in pastels some of Maidwell's boys. I sat for him, and he produced what looks like a simple, formal portrait of a privileged boy, in jacket and tie. I felt I'd been sent away from home because I'd somehow fallen short as a son. The last thing I wanted was to make the situation worse by being difficult, or questioning, since that might bring about even harsher rejection.
It's obvious to me now that making myself sick was a desperate attempt to get somebody adult to show me warmth and sympathy. I sought professional help, taking myself to a clinic near London where I set about laying out my past in the way I did when starting with a new therapist. I also tried to explain the sense of being powerless in a scary setting – one that was patrolled and controlled by a headmaster set on inflicting pain .
It amazes me still that I – always a stubborn child – meekly succumbed to the misery of the bleak path chosen for me. It just didn't occur to me to rebel.Recently, I rediscovered my 1976 diary, and was rocked by an inscription on its first page.
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