What It’s Really Like Growing Up in an All Girls Convent
By: Jessie London
Tags: Childhood, Education, Memoir, True Story, Religion

What It’s Really Like Growing Up in an All Girls Convent

I was only 9 years old when I arrived at St. Magdalene’s Convent for Girls — this is my story.

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The school mission was to create a place of Catholic values, attitudes, practice and knowledge such that all girls will have the opportunity for their faith to be nurtured. Thus they will be able to widen and deepen themselves as ladies in preparation for this life and for the life to come.

​Excellent results were a given in this small, rural convent, with teaching delivered mainly by the nuns who lived there.

By the time I started school, the cane was no longer legal in the UK, but one still hung on the wall in each classroom.

Along with a crucifix.

And a small alter to Mary Magdalene.

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Votive candles were lit at 5am each morning by the Sisters, after they attended morning mass from 4.30am, and these candles burned all day long.

They smelled like wet sheep. And so did we by the end of the day.

On Day One, I was issued with:

A Bible

Rosary beads

A Prayer Book

A Hymn Book

A rota for chores

A bunk number

My parents kissed me goodbye with tears of pride and hope in their eyes.

I knew how much they’d sacrificed to get me in here; the fees were high and we had the disadvantage of being non-Catholic, although I think that the nuns held some hope on that score.

The school comprised of three stories, but was very small relatively speaking, housing only 150 girls at any one time. A stunning building with history and character to spare.

The top level of the main building, the attic in reality, was the dormitory where we slept on metal framed double bunks.

The Sisters took turns to sleep in the supervisor bunk, partitioned off at the end of the long room. We nicknamed this the The Coven.

Each morning, we’d kneel before the Cross

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Mass.

A misery endured by every girl.

For thirty minutes before school, we recited prayers and chanted the necessary responses through chattering teeth in the stone cold Chapel.

There was always a bit of jostling as each girl tried to get the seat at the end of the pew; there was a candle next to each row that would provide a little warmth for whoever got lucky.

Our hands held in prayer position at our chests, turned white and then a shade of blue as the cold crept in and the blood drained out.

Mass was led by The Cannon. A doddery old man that lived in the Convent and was treated like Justin Bieber.

When we passed His Reverence in the corridor, we were to stand aside, bow our heads and assume the prayer position until he had passed us, which took a long time because he shuffled rather than walked.

Sister Mary Thomas, the Head Mistress, was a formidable woman of 4ft9in. We were all terrified of her. She was razor sharp. Super smart. And a disciplinarian to the core.

During Mass, Sister prowled the pews, seeking out any girl who didn’t sing at full volume or forgot to bow her head when saying the word ‘Jesus.’

Half way through the service we’d get to shake hands with those around us and say ‘Peace be with you.’ We always dragged this part out as long as possible; moving around generated warmth and we got to hold hands too — double win.

One Mass per week was a special Mass and we celebrated the Eucharist.

This is when you eat the Body and drink the Blood of Christ.

This always made me super nervous because we were taught that it genuinely was His flesh.

Believing that I was surrounded by a 150 people, all eating Jesus’ body, was petrifying.

I regularly came close to fainting at this point of the service.

This is my Body, broken for you. Eat this in memory of me. This is my Blood, poured out for you. Drink this in memory of me.

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After the Canon performed the Transubstantiation and the offering was ready, we all lined up and he placed a wafer on each tongue, followed by giving a shared goblet to each girl.

Don’t worry, the goblet was wiped with a napkin in between mouths.

The Canon was supposed to say special phrases as he gave out the offering:

The Body of Christ.

The Blood of Christ

But he regularly muddled his words and said things like ‘the bloddy of Christ.’

Sister Mary Thomas would stand deferentially behind the Canon, as an Alter Server. You could see her biting her tongue and becoming more agitated with every fumble the Canon made, and there were many. By the end of Mass, she’d be positively puce.

As a non-Catholic, I had to go up to the alter last, crossing my hands over my chest to indicate to the Canon that I was not to be given the Body and the Blood.

She is not worthy. She shall not pass.

Instead, I received a Blessing — the Canon put his hand on my forehead and whispered to me. God alone knows what he said each day. I’m certain the Canon didn’t know.

After Mass was over, we’d all race the bathrooms and run our hands under the hot tap to try and warm them up.

Then it was breakfast — an enjoyable affair, where cooks who knew you by name would offer warm toast, cereals and fruit. Shame that we all had pins and needles throughout as the blood returned to our digits.

Soon it was time for Assembly and we all went to the Hall. We would all sit cross legged on the wooden floor for another thirty minutes and receive A Teaching from the Bible.

Sister Mary Thomas delivered these magnificently; she was a superb orator and public speaking brought her to life. Sister made the Bible stories accessible, relevant and always gave us food for thought.

Assembly sometimes contained moments of comedy too.

Regularly, after Assembly was over, we’d stand up and a couple of younger girls would flop to the floor, legs asleep. It once happened to me, but we soon learned to test that our limbs were working before we rose.

Someone would often fart. The wooden floor would vibrate with the sound and everyone would look around accusingly.

Very occasionally, the caretaker would stand outside the assembly hall sweeping leaves or planting. He never stopped whistling. Sister was driven mad by this and would open a window and shout;

‘Bill. Bill! Would you kindly stop that idle whistling. You know the Devil is a whistler!’

We couldn’t help but giggle.

As we left the Assembly Hall, Sister would inspect our uniform

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A bit like being in the army, every item had to be perfect.

Our uniform was poo-brown with a custard coloured trim.

We had to wear a proper tie, which would serve us well in the future as we could impress our husbands with our tie-tying skills. The ability to tie and tie has landed me many a hottie…said no girl ever.

Hats were a must too — a summer hat and a winter hat that must be worn at all times when outside and carried in a certain way when inside.

Outdoor and indoor shoes were also a requirement and these must be of a ‘feminine style and good design.’

Underwear also had to be Brown

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How did the Nuns check?

Sister stood beneath the steep staircase as we came down on a morning and looked up each skirt.

My friend Dianne was once caught wearing red knickers and had to ‘offer service’ for a month. Basically, Dianne cleaned the toilets and waited on the Canon hand and foot for four weeks.

Brown underwear was always in short supply

Several girls urinated on the floor in Assembly or on their chairs in Class.

Puddles under desks weren’t an unusual sight.

We were only permitted two bathroom breaks per day and with only two cubicles, you could queue all lunch time and still not make the loo.

Periods were particularly tough if you had a heavy flow. Girls frequently bled through onto chairs. Menstruation was never discussed and was a monthly ordeal for us all as we tried to make it through the day.

Whenever we saw a girl red faced, wheeling the mop bucket, we knew.

Never have I taken for granted my ultra strong bladder and light flow.

Lessons were strict, but good.

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I learnt an awful lot from the Sisters and other teachers too.

We didn’t have computers, although the internet (dial-up only) and PCs were available at the time. We learnt to type and took traditional secretarial exams to prove our typing speeds and accuracy.

We never typed letters, memos or even real words. We learned to type by copying random letters and alphanumeric combinations from a master sheet.

sfds, fj2k, 6jdi, 4njkd, 3niofn, 6nsnkfld, jionsiof6, hjk5d

Takes far more skill than:

Mary had a Little Lamb.

Or so we were told.

In sport we played lady-like games; tennis, petangue, shuffle board, golf.

In Science we were taught the truth about our bodies, but teaching was inline with Catholic doctrine; sex after marriage, natural contraception only, no abortion and so on.

We were also taught that tampons were not to be used, external pads only.

Smoking was something that only evil people chose to do.

As was drinking alcohol — the devil’s own drink.

Unsurprisingly, there was some rebellion.

One girl soaked a tampon in ketchup

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and put it on the podium in Chapel accompanied by a note that said:

No Shame

Another girl made a fake confession to the Canon, telling him of threesome she’d had with boys from the neighbouring school.

She described multiple orgasms behind the caretaker’s shed and asked if the Canon could help her with splinters in her backside.

An inquisition ensued but no one ever discovered who the girl was.

Several girls formed ‘unnatural’ relationships.

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The Nuns never knew; I don’t think that they even realised that lesbianism existed to be honest.

One pair of pupils, Jane and Gerty, were so in love that they walked the playground arm in arm, sat next to each other in every class and traded a month’s dessert to be in the same bunk. They finished each other’s sentences and passed notes in class with such speed that Fagin himself would have been proud.

One Friday, they both went home for a visit and Jane didn’t return to school.

Gerty was so devastated that she became ill. Sister Mary Thomas cared for her personally, spending hours at her bedside trying to encourage her to eat soup and pray. Eventually, she was sent home ‘to convalesce.’

Upon Gerty’s return to school months later, she brought Sister flowers to thank her for her care. Maybe she’d told Sister the truth, maybe she hadn’t, but Sister looked out for her for the rest of her time in the Convent.

I’m pretty sure that Jane’s parents discovered the relationship.

Gerty and I stayed friends to this day, but neither of us know what happened to Jane. Gerty is now married to Tim and is one of the happiest people I know.

I fell in love with a girl in the year above me

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I wrote her anonymous letters and slipped them into her desk.

She always replied kindly, but one day explained that she was going to marry her father’s best friend’s son once she left school. She did.

To this day, she doesn’t know it was me that sent the letters.

The biggest rebellion was by a quiet girl named Kitty

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She was tiny, meek and a top student.

One Monday morning, after a weekend at home, Kitty walked into assembly late. Sister Mary Thomas was in the middle of a teaching and lost all words, falling silent as we all turned to look. Kitty had dyed her hair black. Not even pink or blue. Just black.

The outrage! The shame! Cry havoc!

Sister took Kitty to her office and we never saw her again.

Years later I bumped into Kitty in Walmart. Turns out she was ‘asked to leave’ the school.

Apparently, the hair wasn’t her first act of rebellion, having taped a party popper to the side of the Church Tabernacle just a week earlier.

Her parents had to pay all remaining tuition fees for the year and she attended a regular state school thereafter. Kitty’s now a Financial Advisor, making big bucks in London with a five year plan to retire by 35 and move to Cyprus with her Wife (an Interior Designer) and their daughter who’s never been to Church.

Kitty still has black hair.

Kitty lives in Cyprus now.

When I turned 14, I was bullied

by a girl who became overly possessive of me.

I was very quiet and shy but was gradually making more friendships and she became insane with jealousy and launched a bit of campaign against me; spreading rumours about my parents, disclosing my love affair with a married man (untrue — that was what she was up to) and letting everyone know that I had a flatulence problem. Funny now really. But at the time, it rocked my world.

This hate campaign took a massive toll on me.

My grades dropped. I lost weight and began struggling with food — something that stayed with me for years. Sister Mary Thomas noticed the decline and called my Mom in for a chat.

I don’t know what was said, but I do know that it stopped the following week.

The girl in question came late to the next class, in tears and made a public apology to me before taking her seat.

She never bothered me again.

As an adult, I asked my Mom about this period of time. She recalled the visit to Sister Mary Thomas perfectly. Sister was pretty memorable. Mom told me that Sister had simply asked if there was anything at home that could be causing my distress. When my Mom had confirmed that there wasn’t anything, Sister had told Mom that she’d suspected for a while that the culprit was ‘a wolf in sheep’s clothing’ and she would ‘ferret her out.’

I was eternally grateful to Sister for noticing and for protecting me. Had the bullying continued, it would have left a far deeper scar.

Not far from the Convent school was

Looking Back Now

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There are so many take aways for me from my time in the Convent.

While some of the views that the Nuns had were archaic and, in my opinion, misguided, they were good people. Caring people. Who wanted the best for us.

The Nuns expected us to adhere to their rules. As long as we did that, we’d be okay. Being different, being unique, was not something that they would accept and any individuality was crushed with a firm hand.

On the whole, I remember the Nuns very fondly, as do many others. I write this knowing some of my school friends really do not share my view.

I still struggle enormously to this day with the teachings of the Catholic church. Particularly their teachings around women and relationships. After years of seeing Sister Mary Thomas defer to the doddery Canon, I’m certain that equality in Catholicism is desperately needed.

Additionally, the teachings around homosexuality, contraception and abortion, as well as on other topics, are entirely contrary to my own.

Although still hugely powerful in the Western world, Catholicism is, in my view, cutting itself off from modern society. By failing to reevaluate the Church’s doctrine on so many things, I truly believe that its days are numbered.

I remain a spiritual person, indeed, I am Christian. But my views are very liberal and progressive and do conflict with a lot of established teachings.

My brother is gay and I will jump for joy at his wedding.

I am openly bisexual.

I am pro-choice.

I am a feminist.

I am a joyful part of a blended family of multiple race, religion and background.

I am outspoken when I hear teaching that I feel compromises the rights of others to live their fullest lives.

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The biggest take away for me personally and the one that has formed the decisions that I make around the education of my own children is this:

I do not believe that single gender educational establishments are best for children.

I personally found that I was unable to form good relationships with boys my own age when I left the Convent and went to a regular college.

My grades dropped enormously and I was hugely intimidated and confused by these alien creatures that I’d never seen up close before.

It was several years before I could form healthy friendship with men / boys.

Additionally, all of the girls together, day in day out, created an atmosphere that was almost toxic. I believe that this wouldn’t have been as intense if the school had been a normal size, mixed gender establishment.

For this reason, I send my children to a mixed gender state school in a small, rural community.