During the first few years at the senior school, though, my two main preoccupations, in common with most teenage girls — and many boys too — were music and affairs of the heart. These two realms of experience are of course intimately connected. The music about which I became passionate, believing it to be superior to any other form, was traditional "Dixieland" jazz. I became part of a small group of students, most of them slightly older, who were connoisseurs of this marvellous genre.
We would spend long afternoons sitting in the cramped bedroom of someone who owned a gramophone, and listen, enraptured, to melody after melody — some plangent, some joyful — created by the black musicians of the American South in the early decades of the 20th century. I can now only remember some of the better-known names — Louis Armstrong, Johnny Dodds, Kid Ory, Jelly Roll Morton, Bessie Smith, Bunk Johnson, Sidney Bechet — but at the time I could identify dozens of players or singers as soon as I heard their first notes. Some of my fellow jazz-fans had formed a band of their own — in which I occasionally played the drums — which would perform "jam sessions" in the school's large assembly hall.
But it was not only the strains of New Orleans blues which wafted back and forth across the campus. The air was also thick with our infatuations — requited and unrequited. I must have been about 14 when, to my surprise (and, I think, that of others), two of the school's most senior boys — they were doing their A-levels at the time — became rivals for my affections. This, for me, was heady stuff and I spent rather too long stringing them both along. Not that I didn't know which one I "loved" — I knew perfectly well — but I was reluctant to relinquish the other one, who was perhaps the more intellectual of the two. He used to write me long letters, one of which complained that I "turned him on and off like a tap". This struck me at the time as a brilliant metaphor, indicating a great future writer.
However, I did finally declare my commitment to the other boy. He was an accomplished jazz trumpeter and an excellent ballroom dancer. We embarked on what became a truly romantic relationship, pledging eternal love and future marriage. It lasted until he left the school to go to Cambridge.
It was part of Dartington's unwritten constitution that sexual intercourse was out of bounds. We went in for a great deal of kissing and smooching and even lying on beds together, but we were trusted not to "go all the way", and, as far as I know, we didn't. However, we spent many hours seeing our boy/girlfriends or, when not actually seeing them, talking about them, or when not talking about them, talking about other people's romances. This goes on in all schools to some extent, especially in schools where there are girls. But it would have been impossible, within a traditional educational system, to devote as much time to relationships as we did.
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