I was a scholarship pupil at an expensive girls’ boarding school. I was bullied by teachers and abused by my boarding housemistress. The headmistress was vicious, humiliating me almost daily in corridors for being a ‘charity case’. It was pure hell. My recurring nightmare for thirty years was having to go back to school.
The only person who was kind to me was the chaplain, and when he died about fifteen years after I left, I went to his funeral. There I bumped into a woman who had briefly taught me, and was persuaded to go to the annual reunion to confront the pain of the past.
Just driving into the town gave me a panic attack, and I had to stop the car to be sick in a lay-by. Once there, I saw my old headmistress, now a frail, elderly lady, who was badly affected by a stroke. She couldn’t speak properly and she dribbled as she tried to drink tea. I looked down at this pathetic woman, and I was glad - glad that she couldn’t hurt me again, and glad that she was now humiliated by old age.
I wish I could be charitable and forgiving, but I can’t find a shred of compassion, even now when she is long dead.