It’s been an emotional fortnight, torn between sadness and joy.
Granddaughter left her much-loved primary school, soon to set foot in the big, wide world of secondary. (I’m stressed oot already.)
It started with a prom, her and her three besties choosing almost matching dresses. My visions of bonnie, frilly frocks went for a Burton after the following conversation a pucklie weeks before the do.
Grandtoot: “Will I show Nana my dress online?” Her ma, hesitating: “I don’t think so.” That had a’ my red flags fleein’.
As it was, when I saw her in it and a’ the quines together, I couldnae have been prooder. Yes, more 16 than 12, but a’ affa bonnie. Bubbled a bittie.
On to the leavers’ show, the P7s putting on a super display of their talents. But it was my toot and many of her classmates who ended up in bits when the teachers showed a film they’d put together starring them all. Those sleeves must have ended up sodden – not a hankie between the lot o’ them – and that included the mums.
Last Friday, a piper played the leavers oot the school gates for the last time, flanked by a guard of honour of the younger pupils. Now, fa’s nae gan tae blub at that?
All that emosh had me thunderin’ doon memory lane, with thoughts of leaving Mile End Primary. Checked oot my diary of the time, forgotten how different things were.
My granddaughter already knows her friends are going to the same secondary and which classes they’ll be in. Back with the Christmas leavers of 1959, we’d sat the infamous 11-plus exam, but no results. So, we on to Rosemount Secondary in January, no idea who’d be staying there or – having passed – going to the High, Grammar, Academy or Gordon’s after the summer. Horrible situation.
Results finally came through during the Easter holidays. My two best friends were staying at Rosemount and I was for the High. How I grat.
Yes, I made lifelong friends at the High. As I watched my granddaughter’s show, I was transported back to our farewell concert in the Music Hall in June 1966. Mo initially narked because the only final-year parents allowed seats were those whose daughters had won prizes. (Nae me.) Happy because the rail-worker dad of my best friend (who won the German prize) wasn’t allowed time off, so her mum invited mine.
I’ve a crystal-clear image of standing in front of the huge organ pipes, singing: “Lord dismiss us with thy blessing”, hoping I had a good life ahead of me. Much of it was shared with that best friend, who tragically died in her late 60s. But I’m still huge pals with the two I’d to separate from at Rosemount.
My daughter remains joined at the hip with her four school buddies – lifelines she couldn’t do without. So, to my granddaughter and her pals, I hope you lovely girls stay together forever – friends through laughter and tears.
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of the Evening Express and The Press & Journal, and started her journalism career in 1970