JEAN WALSH (HUGHES), our President, sent the following:-

* I am writing to thank you all for your good wishes on my retirement from the office of Treasurer of the Past Pupils' Association, and for the beautiful arrangement of flowers which was given to me at the Re-union in July; it was indeed very kind of you.

I shall look forward to reading news of you all in future news so do please keep on writing in with family news, careers, holidays and special anniversaries.

A Happy Christmas and God bless you all.

Jean Walsh"

"A personal reflection on the Millennium reunion 2nd July 2000

"A trip down memory lane," ...

The phrase pops up every time one finds oneself transported back in time by a sound or smell or sight of a place which conjures up a piece of the past - a piece of one's personal history.

But the experience I had on the first Sunday of July was less that of a "lane" - which implies a linear progression from one point to another - as of a series of corners.

I had hoped, when persuaded by "Herbie" (Linda Hooper, nee Herbert) to join the very special reunion of past pupils of the Convent, that a number of boarders from my year would be coming along too.

Time to catch up with friends with whom I had shared such a major and formative part of my past. Time to have a rare and privileged opportunity to see the old building in which we had laughed and cried, worked and played our way into the adults we have become.

As it turned out, there were only two of us boarders from our year, though there were quite a few who'd been day-girls, and others who I knew well from the years below.

Many faces at first seemed only vaguely familiar, somehow dim or clouded, but then a voice or a smile cleared the picture and I suddenly could see in the woman the girl I had once known.

Many others, of course, I had never known - they had been there too long before or after us. But all had shared something of the experience of life at "my" school.

When the time came to go round the old place, I found myself separated from the people I knew, and was therefore alone in the crowd which meandered round the once-so- familiar corridors. It was then that I discovered that I was not on a journey down a lane".

I didn't have to travel along to be transported, but with every corner, even before I turned it, I was there.

Turning left into the chapel is a shock! All those steel racks for books where once had been the pews! But wait... look up and there is a fragment of stained-glass window peeping through.

There is such a crush of people in the confined aisle that it takes a long time to get to the front, but suddenly I am there on the exact spot where I received my first Holy Communion, and blushing to remember how, as I raised my head and put out my tongue for the host, my veil had fallen off!

Oh the shame! I turn to the side, expecting to see the statue of the Virgin Mary in front of the confessional door - another shock; instead of the Virgin there is a model of a human torso with the organs displayed in glorious technicolour!

But oh, as I climb the spiral staircase which now occupies the place of the marble altar, there surrounding me are the stained-glass depictions of the Crucified Jesus and the saints, which for twelve years afforded visual focus for my prayers.

As I leave the chapel and ascend the back stairs I know, even as I reach the first turn, that the window will be there. Yes! I am so tempted to climb out and retrace our midnight steps along the roof of the "covered way", expecting to find fragments of a long- abandoned feast of soggy crisps.

But no, I might just as easily find the ghost of Sister Mary, standing on the parapet, rubbing the back of her left hand with the palm of her right, up and down very fast... Too scary!

Turn the next corner and there'll be the lower dorm loos, ('Lobby' we called it. Why? I've never worked out why the wash-rooms and loos were called lobbies). Yes and Oh, the floor is just the same!

How could I have forgotten that geometric pattern of coloured tiles. If the minutes were laid end to end how many hours had I sat on one or other of the loos staring at that floor, daydreaming, often overhearing voices beyond the door? I remember one conversation distinctly.

"Hello"
"I'm not speaking to you
"Why not?"
"You cheated;
"When?
"I shot you and you didn't die!'
"Oh, sorry."


Now I'm in the Lower Dorm and can't resist getting out the photos taken of the 'usual suspects' one crazy night. They attract a huddle of eager faces, gasps and giggles of recognition.

The progress is not linear even as the melee moves along the straight corridor, but is a series of moments, the surprise being the expectedness of each new recognition. "Miss Gobells room," says a voice, and there she stands; hair forever grey, face powdered, spectacles glinting.

"Now, what was this?" says another. "Needlework Room" I reply. I know: it took me all term to make an olive green skirt with white spots which I never wore and which eventually became a duster.

As a few of us turn into the Oratory some (younger than me, probably day-girls) don't recognise it, but all are instantly hushed by the still-lingering presence of peace. I breathe in long and deep, hoping to take away with me a little of the air of tranquility.

(Continued)