Kentleys - How much cooking is involved?

I had been a pupil at TGGS from 1967-1974, and in1980 visited the school as an Old Girl, when Miss Debney (who had taught me Economic History, which I still love) suggested that I might like to consider applying for the post of Assistant Housemistress at Kentleys. My one question to her was “How much cooking is involved?”. I had reached the grand age of 23 and still couldn't even boil an egg.

Having considered and applied for the job, I was offered the post and started work at the end of the autumn half term break later that year. I had heard of Kentleys, we had boarders in my year, but I knew nothing about the house at the bottom of the school drive where about 20 girls resided and which became my term time home for the next 7 years.

I don't think anyone has ever written a history of Kentleys, and I'm afraid that the gaps in my knowledge of the facts about Kentleys are enormous. However, I do think that all the boarders would say that the names “Kentleys” and “Miss Woodrow” are synonymous. I didn't get to call her Mollie until after she retired, but apart from a few years at either end of its existence Mollie Woodrow was the Housemistress, whose warmth and kindness ensured that Kentleys was home for the boarders.

I moved into a large room on the first floor at the front of the house, with a bay window overlooking Pembury Road and Tonbridge. Miss Woodrow & I worked half a week each, being on duty together at breakfast each day and Wednesday mornings. We worked well together, probably as we shared a background of being alumni of the school and we had both trained as teachers. And, of course, our initials were the same – which mattered when it came to sorting out the duty rota. Our shared Wednesday morning gave us time to do some banking and shopping together in town. On our return to Kentleys, after a cup of coffee Miss Woodrow & I would don our overalls and she gave me cookery lessons in the large kitchen at the back of the house. She had taken note of my lack of cookery skills and was pleased to put hers into practice, as it was Home Economics that she had trained in. The first lessons were in making different types of pastry, but subsequent recipes were classic Kentleys' standbys, such as Italian Macaroni, Pizza and Quiche, all with ingredient measurements for 20 portions. When I left Kentleys it took me a long time to adjust to cooking for just one or two people – but to cater for a dozen was no problem!

To answer the question, though, “How much cooking is involved?” – there wasn't a lot, as there were domestic staff who did most of it, and, of course, the girls had their main meal at school, in exchange for a dinner ticket.

The domestic staff in my time, who cooked and cleaned, were Mrs Cook, Mrs Brown, Mrs Whittell and the stalwart, Mrs Draycott. Like Miss Woodrow, I think Mrs Draycott was part of the fabric of Kentleys. In some ways she was more important than the housemistresses because she always had a non-judgmental, sympathetic ear for the girls, and probably a shoulder to cry on. A frequent visitor at coffee break time was Mr Moore, the school caretaker, who might do small, odd jobs that we couldn't manage between us. Local tradesmen were also part of the Kentleys family: David, the butcher, Mr Voice, the grocer from St Mary's Road, and the laundryman, giving the housemistress job a sort of Edwardian below stairs quality.

Another familiar visitor was Dr Forsyth: if any girl was ill we would make an early morning phone call to his home, only a couple of hundred yards away, and he would pop in before going on to his surgery. More regular and common illnesses, such as upset stomachs and colds, were dealt with in the kitchen, using ingredients from the cupboard: a dose of kaolin & morph or inhaling a menthol concoction from an earthenware jar were good standby remedies.

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Kentleys routine

The boarders will have better memories than me of the daily and weekly routines of Kentleys.

Getting up times, breakfast, leaving for school, putting dirty laundry in the machine.

Whose hairwash day is it? Who can have a bath?

Strip and make your beds, washing up, peeling potatoes, laying the breakfast tables.

Preparing grapefruit for Sunday breakfast, choosing your birthday tea. Supper.

Doing prep, music practice, watching East Enders, and Top of the Pops.

Going to bed, lights out … which means stop talking… go to sleep!

Post. Pocket money. Daily Prayers. Go to church.

Then there were those occurrences that were not regular, but still as much a part of life at Kentleys.

Who is in my dorm this year? Where is the white line of Kentleys?

Fire drill. Head of House. Pancake Day.

Visiting Weekend: I'm going. I'm stuck at Kentleys.

Can I go … to a friend for tea… to Guides… to youth group… to play tennis/swim at school?

Outings: on the train to London, in the school minibus Ten Pin Bowling, strawberry picking, a picnic in a field somewhere.

End of term entertainment, packing. See you next term/next year/will I ever?

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Snapshots – Memories of Kentleys

Kentleys was good at creating “family” type events or occasions. One small celebration that the girls often took upon themselves, was to make Mothers' Day cards for the housemistresses. One particular Mothering Sunday, Miss Woodrow was delighted that one of the girls had thoughtfully given her a bunch of daffodils when they returned from church. The next day Miss Woodrow remarked to me that on her way to church on Sunday morning there had been a wonderful display of daffodils in a flower bed at the bottom of Pembury Road, but that on her way home on Sunday afternoon the display was noticeably diminished.

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The Christmas dinner each year was attended by the Headmistress. This particular year the sitting room had been festively decorated for the occasion with seasonal arrangements of candles amid holly and fir cones. The girls, all dressed up, welcomed Miss Mitchener in the sitting room, where sherry and talk of Christmas holidays flowed.

At the appointed time we all took our seats in the dining room and enjoyed the traditional Christmas dinner, but because it was my day off I had another event to attend that same evening and left early. As I passed the sitting room I heard a strange crackling noise: the candle arrangement on top of the TV had ceased to be a Christmas decoration and had become a small bonfire worthy of November 5th! Thankfully, disaster was averted.

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At some time during my time working with Mollie Woodrow she had to have a few weeks off work following an operation. Her ad hoc deputies were kind members of the teaching staff who did the odd sleep-over shift, until a 3rd Year 6th girl came to be the Assistant Housemistress's assistant. It was nothing to do with her, nor the fact that Miss Woodrow wasn't there: this next accident could have happened at any time, and it probably had happened before. I can't remember what time of day it was when we discovered water dripping from the light bulb in the walk-in larder next to the kitchen. It didn't take us long to realise that the ceiling plaster was also bulging! Who was it that had left the tap running in the bathroom above, with the bath plug still in place!?

Having dealt with the water upstairs, we still had to deal with the water in the pantry. Some of the senior girls came to the rescue, donning waterproofs, and brandishing a home-made spike, they carefully pierced the bulge, for a controlled release of water. No deluge, and another disaster averted!

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Accidents do happen, especially to teenagers, and I remember having to take one girl to hospital to have the cast on her broken left arm renewed. All was progressing well with the healing, and she was able to go home, probably for the half-term holiday. As I welcomed the girls back on their return to Kentleys, I was astounded to see that now Jane had her RIGHT arm in a sling. One broken arm is an accident, but a second broken arm is beyond careless!! Having caused the desired effect, Jane and her Mum declared I had been “had”! Thankfully no more broken arms to deal with!

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The night of 15th October 1987 was memorable for me. I was back in Kentleys to sleep. I was woken by windows rattling and girls screaming, however the din quickly abated and I turned over and resumed my sleep. When I woke properly for my FINAL duty at Kentleys, the world outside had changed somewhat. The Hurricane had hit, though thankfully again, no-one was hurt in our vicinity.

One of the fir trees in the garden had been blown over by the hurricane and I think there were only one or two slates off the roof. There had been no further damage to the building thanks to the quick thinking of the then Housemistress, Mrs Walsh. She had got the girls to open the windows of their dorms, thus equalizing the pressure inside and outside the building. However, to this day, I don't know how she achieved the other miracle of the night, getting the girls to settle down and go back to sleep!

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Not all the events I remember about Kentleys were near accidents or disasters. I had been working with Miss Woodrow for three years when she announced her intention to retire. She was held in fond esteem by all the boarders and staff, and to mark her retirement one of the then 6th Form boarders came to me with a proposal: could we hold a Surprise Farewell Party for Miss Woodrow?

It was a great enterprise, with much subterfuge and planning, with all the boarders playing their part. It was realized that although Kentleys was the reason for Miss Woodrow's existence, we couldn't hold the party there: it was too small and how could the party be kept a secret and be prepared for at the same time as living normal life, if it was to be held there?

With the help of the school secretaries and the permission of Miss Mitchener, we wrote to as many ex-boarders as possible, booked the Small Hall and Domestic Science Room, made plans and lists and asked for contributions of skills, food or money. One special friend of Miss Woodrow, Mrs Lyndsey (an ex-school secretary) was key to the success of the whole event: she was due to see Miss Woodrow on the appointed day, and promised to bring her back to the school in time for the party. All went swimmingly, well, yes, an apt word. Part of the smoke screen in the week preceding the party was for the girls to pretend to go swimming after school (one of the perks of being a boarder), while in actual fact they were preparing dishes for the party in the Domestic Science Room.

The day of the party arrived, a normal school day, a normal Kentleys day. Which meant that Miss Woodrow was around for breakfast, before heading off for the day with Mrs Lyndsey….The phone rang, Miss Woodrow answered it. It was an ex-boarder, an invitee to the party; she didn't usually ring Miss Woodrow for a chat!…and the whole subterfuge nearly fell apart!! Somehow, Miss Woodrow only thought it was nice to talk to her, and the plan remained intact.

Apart from that hiccup, everything ran like clockwork, with everyone assembled in time to welcome Miss Woodrow to the party that she knew nothing about! Some of the ex-boarders had travelled a few miles for the event, so we were able to offer them dormitory accommodation for the night, a reminder of what it was like to be a Kentleyite!

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Miss Worsley's got a boyfriend!

That was the cry two or three times during my time at Kentleys. I think my “boyfriends” saw it as a challenge to get past the front door in one piece, if they ever came visiting.

But one took it in his stride, Trevor. He and I had been going out for about 6 months when I finally left Kentleys at the autumn half term break in 1987.

As mentioned earlier, Kentleys was good at traditions. As well as the slightly formal Christmas dinner, there were end of term parties galore, and although I was no longer working at Kentleys, I was invited back for that year's Christmas party, along with Trevor. We were well looked after and entertained, joining in the party games in the dining room. Pass the Parcel was announced and Trevor and I dutifully seated ourselves on the floor, ready to enjoy the misfortune of others as they tore off the paper and had to perform a forfeit. I hadn't noticed that Trevor and my seating arrangement had been carefully orchestrated, until the music stopped while I was holding the parcel. Gasps and giggles. All eyes were focused on me, the anticipation in the room was palpable! What had the girls lined up for me? Possibly a kiss under the mistletoe with Trevor? Could be worse!

Then I read the forfeit and wished the ground would swallow me up! “Go on Miss Worsley!!” was the cry. How could I tell a bunch of teenage girls that this might be the most pivotal moment in my life?!

“Go on Miss Worsley!”    “We're waiting Miss Worsley!”

Another look at the forfeit and I dissolved into embarrassed laughter; could I really do this? How would Trevor react?

“Go on Miss Worsley!”    “What does the forfeit say, Miss Worsley?” they taunted.

I took a deep breath…. It said “Propose to the person sitting on your left.”

Nothing for it, I took the plunge. “Trevor, will you marry me?”

The room erupted, so pleased with their success! So, no-one heard Trevor's reply, not even me. He laughed, sensibly demurred and the parcel moved on. I think that neither the girls nor myself had anticipated that the question would not be answered.

However, reminiscent of one of the great classics of English Literature:

“Reader, I married him!” with many Kentley girls at the wedding held the following year.

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Post Script

One of my more taxing duties was to prepare Sunday breakfast: a doddle you would think. Cutting the grapefruit was quickly learnt but there was a demanding list of preferences for boiled eggs. I never have liked or eaten boiled eggs myself and therefore had never cooked them. So, every Sunday, the challenge of the weekend was to cook about 6 eggs to the various tastes of 6 teenage girls: soft, medium or hard boiled.

I could never get it right, and of course the girls let me know. One girl was even generous enough to buy Kentleys an indispensable piece of kitchen equipment – an electric egg boiler. However, in my hands, the egg boiler was totally useless. In the end I think I delegated the responsibility of egg boiling to one of the interested parties, an egg eater.

And that is my philosophy even now: if Trevor wants a boiled egg for breakfast he needs to cook it himself!