Like all girls in their early teens, we hero-worshipped the stars of the day — Tony Curtis, Gary Cooper, Ava Gardner, Elizabeth Taylor. (Many years later, at a smart London party, I spent some time politely talking to a stocky middle-aged woman, all the while wondering how I could make my getaway and meet some of the more glamorous people in the room. It was only when another guest joined us that I discovered I'd been talking to Ava Gardner.)
On free afternoons, we would often walk to the lovely gardens adjoining the great medieval Hall. There an open-air theatre had been created, surrounded by immaculately groomed hedges. At its edge stood a large stone statue of a reclining woman, known as Big Bottom Bertha. She had a tiny bullet head and huge hindquarters, and was unmistakeably the work of the sculptor Henry Moore. We would spend many hilarious hours climbing around on this curvaceous figure and re-enacting some of the love scenes we'd witnessed on screen. "Take me, I am yours", "I crave your tender touch," we would wail. This activity took place exclusively among girls. Boys, as is well known, are much smaller and less developed in their early teens than girls.
Because the school was part of a large, cultural community (there was a music school for adults at the Hall itself), it attracted many artistic people and was rightly renowned for its teaching of arts and crafts. We had a wide range of opportunities: we could learn all kinds of musical instruments; we could paint in many mediums in a well-equipped art room; we could be taught how to make clay pots and figurines by a professional potter in a studio complete with potter's wheel and kiln.
I embarked on several artistic activities with great enthusiasm — but I never advanced very far. As soon as I reached the stage when a bit more effort and concentration were required, I quickly lost heart. For example, I made great strides at the piano, learning quite intricate pieces off by heart; but when it became impossible to make further progress without learning to sight-read, I soon stopped going to lessons. The same happened with my attempts at pottery. At first I produced some amusing, oddly shaped vases and ashtrays. Then, when I began to realise that making proper pots, just like becoming a proficient piano-player, required a great deal of practice, I gave up on this challenging activity altogether.
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