Aquarius

I’m sad to leave Mrs. S—’s classroom. It has been a sanctuary for me: Mrs. S—  is sweet and kind; it’s like being taught by a favourite granny. She has white hair tied in a wispy bun and reading glasses on a chain, that she peers over to make sure we are paying attention to her as she reads us stories. I have a new friend that I sit next to in our desk-made-for-two. She has wonderful long auburn hair down to her waist; she wears it loose, held away from her face simply with a pale blue Alice band. We work on a craft project together: a seaside scene, complete with little dolls sitting in deckchairs. She is wonderfully gifted at art, and I like working with her. It is her dolls that we have used, since she has a collection of “Dolly Darlings”, which are sweet little dollies, perhaps four inches tall. Her favourite has a white shift dress decorated with a huge pink daisy, and a matching headscarf. This outfit has been supplemented with a homemade pink cardigan that seems magical to me: the tiny stitches must the work of knitting fairies, who, like the shoemaker’s elves, create otherworldly items while we sleep. I have only one Dolly Darling: she has a blue trouser suit with matching waistcoat. Her ginger hair is in pigtails, a hairstyle that I only hope for, as my hair is cut short, so short that I am often mistaken for a boy. My mother believes my hair to be angelic: “It looks like a golden halo!”, but I resent every trip to the hairdressers. 

As my time with Mrs. S— is coming to an end, we have a fete at school, which includes the annual fancy dress competition. My sisters and I are dressed as Miss World: Past, Present and Future. I’m Future, representing the Space Age. My wellington boots are sprayed with silver paint left over from Christmas; I have a skirt made out of tin foil and a hastily-constructed paper sash. I’m not sure where my silver helmet, complete with visor, came from. A mystery. More nocturnal fairies, perhaps. My oldest sister (Present) is dressed like Miss India, who has become the first woman from Asia to win the Miss World title. My mother has been busy on her turquoise costume, which has involved dying net curtains and yards of material to make a sari. My sister looks elegant in our inevitable group photo in the garden: one flip-flopped foot placed gracefully in front of the other. Miss World Past — my older sister — is wearing a floral crinoline, with a hooped skirt (held in place, funnily enough, by a hula hoop). It it has been difficult to construct, and it sits a little askew, as if the whole dress has had a few too many gins and is struggling to stay upright. She holds a matching parasol in one hand, and a vintage evening bag (Grandma’s) in the other. In an attempt to stand straight with the wonky dress, my sister holds her other arm out at right angles to balance herself, like a tight-rope walker. I stand awkwardly between Past and Present, arms away from my sides so I don’t squash my skirt.  

Come September, our new teacher, Mrs. C—,  turns out to be a younger version of Mrs. S—, a capable and enthusiastic teacher, eager for us to learn, forthright and warm-hearted.  But no bun. This is dawning of the Age of Aquarius, when everyone will be kind and understanding, wise and tolerant. Technology will fix all our problems. We will make friends with the Martians and live on the moon. Clearly, this age has not started yet, at least not in our house. 

It is the year of the Apollo 11 moon landing, and given that our family surname is Armstrong, this event promises to be a special moment for us. The moon landing comes towards the end of July, but at the beginning of the month an ancient, historic ceremony is being shown live on television. Prince Charles is to become the Prince of Wales, and Mrs. C— is keen for our class to watch the proverbial history-in-the-making. Our school only has a limited number of elderly black-and-white televisions, but Mrs. C— has a plan. If we cannot watch it at school, then she will march us all to her house to watch it on her new colour television set. I am baffled by this level of generosity, and curious to know what Mrs. C—’s house looks like. In my mind, teachers live in an entirely different universe to my own, so having the opportunity to enter into this inner sanctum is something I can’t quite fathom. Since it is a warm day, Mrs. C— wants to buy us all ice lollies, but the local shop can only provide orange squash, so we make do with that. Her house turns out to be disappointingly normal: cosy and comfortable, posher than ours, but nothing out of the ordinary. I wonder what other teacher’s houses look like, especially since I’m still coming around from my belief that our teachers live in the staff room and don’t have homes at all. The investiture is an odd affair: the son of the Queen kneeling at her feet to pledge allegiance, and have a fancy new coronet placed on his head. The Queen is dressed in sunshine yellow with, what appears to me anyway, a scooped-out melon on her head. Most odd. The castle, however, lives up to expectations as it appears to be something from a fairy story, except that it is mostly a ruin. Somebody should really look into that and do a few repairs. Novelty over, we traipse back towards school. The route passes by my house, and I have special dispensation to go straight home. I hop over the crumbling wall of our front garden and knock on our green front door to let my mum know I am home. 

Later that month, Neil Armstrong steps out of his seemingly fragile, toy-like space craft and makes more history. Unfortunately for us British Earthlings, his halting steps take place in the early hours of the morning; our household is fast asleep, oblivious to the goings-on in the sky above us.