“How much further?” my daughter Felicity asked.
I glanced at the diagonal yellow line which ran across the sat-nav’s screen. “Nearly there, darling.”
‘In three hundred yards you will have reached your destination,’ announced the electronic voice on cue. And there, at the far end of a menacing avenue of dead elm trees, stood a gaunt stone gateway, with the brooding Victorian profile of St Trinian’s in the distance. It looked, for all the world, like an amalgam of a Normandy chateau and Gormenghast Castle.
The rusty entrance gates were chained and padlocked shut. Above them, across an old Latin inscription etched into the stonework, crudely-painted whitewashed graffiti had been scrawled: ‘WE ARE THE BEST, SO SCREW THE REST.’
Seated at a small trestle table in front of the gates were what appeared to be identically-dressed identical twins. Both girls wore the school’s regulation dark blue pleated skirts, white blouses and socks and navy blue blazers. Each sported a white Panama hat and wore huge sunglasses. Fixed across the front of their table was a hand-written sign on cardboard which read: ‘CYRIL’S SPLIFFS – 3 FOR £5’. One of the twins got up and strolled towards my car. Her name badge said: ‘NIKKA.’
“We have an appointment at two o’clock with Miss Pixie Hoffmann,” I told her.
“Can I see your Visitor’s Permit?” she demanded in a rather surly manner.
“I didn’t know I needed one.”
“Those gates don’t get opened without one, comrade.”
“Well can you arrange one for me please?”
“Sure.” She pulled a roll of blue cloakroom tickets from her blazer pocket. “That’ll be £10,” she said, proferring a grubby stub.
“But that’s outrageous!”
“Nina!” The second girl got up from behind the table and ambled across, swinging a rounders bat. “£20 or Nina here will stove in one of your headlights. And that’ll cost you a lot more than twenty quid to get fixed. Oh, and we don’t take Euros or Turkish lira.”
“I thought you said £10.”
“Never heard of inflation?” snarled Nikka, as Nina began thumping the end of the bat menacingly into the palm of her hand. I parted with a £20 note. She blew a blast on the sports whistle which hung from her neck.
“Cyril! Gates!”
From a ramshackle shed inside the grounds, a dishevelled old man in grease-covered overalls emerged and staggered towards the gates, swinging a huge bunch of keys. After several attempts with the wrong keys, he finally got the gates unlocked and pushed them open. A hip flask was sticking out of his back pocket.
A desultory hockey practice was ending as we skirted around the perimeter of the playing fields. I parked my car in front of the huge school building. Felicity was too busy studying St Trinian’s imposing frontage to notice that a skull and crossbones was flying from the flag mast on the roof.
We nervously entered the tiled Reception Hall, where I announced ourselves to a well-endowed black receptionist with a huge Afro hair-do, wearing a tight-fitting pink T-shirt which announced: ‘I’M UP FOR IT”. She checked her list of expected visitors. “Err, Miss Hoffmann is tied up just at the moment,” she began, before breaking off into untrollable giggles. Regaining her composure, she picked up the phone and tapped in a code. “I’ll tell her you’ve arrived, Mr. Dodsworth. Please take a seat.” On the corner of her desk was a small pile of visiting cards reading: ‘Angie_Sinn’s Scissoring for Beginners. Room 69’.
Even at 10 feet away from the receptionist’s desk, I could clearly make out screaming coming down the phone. “Stop it, Deacon!” The girl gave me a knowing smile. “Miss Hoffmann will be with you shortly.” Felicity fidgeted nervously.
A few moments later, a tall, svelte figure clad in a body-hugging black latex catsuit appeared in the hall. She strolled across to the solitary poster affixed to the school’s notice board. It read: ‘BOUND HEAT DOUBLE BILL. Dungeon of Delight & Emma’s Bares All.’ Across it, she pinned a yellow strip reading: ‘MIDNIGHT TONIGHT IN THE DE SADE SUITE.’ She shimmied towards us. “You must be Mr. Dodsworth.” Fitted snugly around her throat, like a dog collar, was a silver band. “I’m Emm_du_Jour. Come to see Miss Hoffman, haven’t you?”
“That’s correct.”
“Pity, you and your daughter, can’t stay for the films tonight – it’s a spanking good programme. I’m in one of them.” She wandered off.
On hearing the sound of high heels on the wooden staircase, the Afro-clad receptionist looked up as Miss Pixie Hoffmann elegantly descended, on the arm of a clerically-clad gentleman, wearing a broad smile. With her blonde hair in a side-chignon, she wore a sensible two-piece business suit, with two long ropes of pearls as the only adornment. The pair halted in front of us. Her perfume was unmistakably Ysatis.
“Mr. Dodsworth, I presume?” said the Deputy Head Mistress. “May I present Canon Chausible? He is one of our longest-serving School Governors.” I couldn’t help noticing several smudged lipstick marks on his face.
“And this must be Felicity. Welcome to St Trinian’s, my dear,” he purred. Holding out a limp hand, on the small finger of which was a large ruby-studded signet ring. “And do you enjoy Bible studies?”
“Very much.”
“And what is your favourite story, my child?” asked the Canon.
“The Good Samaritan, I think.”
“The elderly cleric shook his head. “Oh dear me, no. New Testament? We prefer the Old Testament, don’t we Miss Hoffmann? Ever read the story of Sodom and Gomorrah, Felicity?” he asked with a lascivious smile.
“Can’t say I have.”
“The one about Lot and his daughters is another good one!”
Starting to blush, Miss Hoffmann tactfully slipped her arm from the old man’s vice-like clutch. “I shall now be taking Mr. Dodsworth and Felicity to my office, Canon. Then we will tour the buildings, before taking tea in the Refectory.”
“Then I shall bid you adieu,” said the Canon, kissing Miss Hoffmann’s hand. “Same time next Saturday?”
“Bien sur.”
Miss Hoffmann’s sparsely-furnished office appeared to reflect the occupant’s character perfectly: a tidy desk, a small vase of pink carnations and an empty in-tray. In pride of place above the desk – where normally an official portrait of The Queen might hang – was a signed photo of the famous burlesque dancer Vita Von Teese, dedicated: Pix darling, from Dita.’
In the far corner was a brass umbrella stand containing half-a-dozen riding crops, one of which was black leather with a diamante-studded grip. Somehow, I didn’t see this demure young woman as the equestrian type, riding to hounds in a trim tweed hacking jacket and jodhpurs.
“Does St Trinian’s practice corporal punishment, Miss Hoffman,” I asked.
“Rarely” was the ambiguous reply.
After the form-filling formalities had been completed, Miss Hoffmann led us via a rear door out onto an open paved quadrangle and through a door marked ‘Billy Jean King Changing Rooms.’
Lit from above by a skylight, the walls of the cavernous space were lined with dark brown wooden lockers. A few girls were changing after the lunchtime hockey practice, and out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a couple in an advanced state of cunnilingus. One girl knelt on the floor, her head buried between the opened legs of her partner, whose head was thrown back in ecstasy.
Miss Hoffman moved us on. “Now we’ll go upstairs so I can show you our newly-refurbished sanatorium. It’s going to be named the Vita Sackville-West Wing.” This sapphic reference was lost on Felicity, who asked: “Father, what were those two girls doing?”
Overhearing the question, Pixie Hoffmann came to my rescue. “Well you see, Felicity, the girl, sitting on the bench is only partially sighted. And the one kneeling on the floor was helping her to unlace her hockey boots.”
Upstairs, the door to the new sanatorium was ajar. Inside, a buxom young woman, naked to the waist, was being checked by an elderly matron, who wore a stethoscope around her neck. “We’d better not go in,” cautioned Miss Hoffmann. “Matron is carrying out one of her regular inspections. That’s Juliefungirl. Wants to be a pole dancer when she leaves St Trinian’s. She’s certainly got the figure for it, wouldn’t you say?”
I ignored the question as I was shocked to see that the old woman was slowly running the palm of her hand over the young girl’s breasts and nipples. Fortunately, this act of intimacy hadn’t been spotted by my daughter, who was busily studying an old framed photograph on the wall opposite of Virginia Woolf and Vita Sackville-West (both dressed as men) standing arm-in-arm in the gardens at Sissinghurst.
“Err, Miss Hoffmann?” I nodded back towards the sanatorium doorway. “Is that absolutely necessary?”
“Most assuredly, Mr. Dodsworth! Matron checks and measures all our girls’ titties – that is to say their mammary areas – at least fortnightly. Your daughter will be no exception – though for the initial check-up I will probably carry it out myself.”
Our guide halted us in the corridor beyond the sanatorium. “Please wait here while I check that the dorm is presentable.” From within, there was hysterical screaming, quickly followed by four bare-footed, scantily-clad girls running past us down the corridor.
“You may come in now,” said a slightly flustered Miss Hoffman, opening one of the tall sash windows. “So sorry – the girls were just making their beds.” A strong herb-like aroma hung in the air as we walked between the parallel rows of beds. “Communal showers are at the far end.”
“Communal?” I queried with alarm. Up to this point, the only two people who had ever seen my daughter naked were myself and my wife.
“Certainly. We make it a policy here at St Trinian’s to share everything – even ablutions.” Then her eyes seemed to glaze over slightly as she added: “Believe me, Mr. Dodsworth, for our girls sharing a shower can be a life-changer. Now, shall we take tea?”
St Trinian’s Refectory was certainly impressive and probably the oldest part of the school. Beneath its hammer-beam roof were oil paintings of former Headmistresses and Governors. I was slightly taken aback to see a full-length picture of Danny La Rue, dressed in a peacock blue ball gown with a purple feather boa. At the far end, raised on a dais, was the Staff Top Table, behind which was a long oak sideboard laden with exotic alcoholic concoctions. An elderly barman in a white mess jacket was asleep on a chair beside it.
The afternoon tea was a mouth-watering spread of home-made scones and raspberry jam, chocolate fudge cake (liberally laced with rum) and shortbread biscuits cut in the hourglass form of a female torso (not dissimilar to Juliefungirl’s), with a pair of currants and an upturned half-cherry completing the compositions.
Glancing at my empty cup, the young Deputy Headmistress asked: “Can I offer you something stronger?” She nodded towards the sleeping barman. “Old Corbyn mixes a mean Mojito.”
“A bit early for me, thank you.”
Refreshing our cups, the ever-attentive Miss Hoffmann turned to my daughter. “So, tell me, Felicity: are you looking forward to joining us here at St Trinian’s in the autumn?”
Always the cautious one, Felicity replied: “I think I’ll make up my mind after we’ve been to Cheltenham tomorrow.”
Descending the stone staircase down from the Refectory behind the petite Deputy Headmistress, I was having grave misgivings about entrusting my daughter’s education to this weird academy. Extortionist gatekeepers; a drunken groundsman; senior girls wandering around in latex catsuits; midnight bondage film shows; the camp Canon; that lecherous old Matron; druggies; locker room pussy-licking; and rude food in the Refectory. St Trinian’s, I decided, was a veritable mansion of depravity.
Cheltenham Ladies College seemed an altogether better bet – even if it had cost me £20 to make the discovery.
