Moving between memories of childhood boarding life and the realities of adulthood, Reunion reflects on friendship, loss, resilience and the extraordinary way in which shared experiences shape who we become. Rich with familiar Windermere details and quiet moments of recognition, it is both a love letter to St Anne's and a celebration of the women who, decades later, returned not as schoolgirls, but as confident, compassionate individuals whose connection to one another remains undiminished.

Reunion

No longer little girls deposited at grand front doors,

we coalesced again from four corners of the globe,

not crying for our mothers as they drove themselves away

but confident women, counting our successes.

We climbed the steps from the tennis courts,

the familiar blend of apprehension and excitement rising –

eager to shed our skins, discard the nerves and jump back in

to camaraderie, girlish laughter, stories of what life has shown us.

We skipped alongside each other, waiting in queues for life’s adventures,

bubbly exteriors hiding silent inner gatherings; 


we amassed impressions then, without noticing –

fuel for future developments of heart, mind and worldly enterprise.

Memories supplant reality; in the entrance hall, I see no tables of fizz 


and finger food. Girls buzz around trunks, baggage lightly shouldered:

we find our dormies, stake our claim, pile away possessions,

stash fears and homesickness like soft toys under the duvet.

Bereaved by Daddy’s death two weeks into term, my sorrow

casts a veil over this new life, so different from my child’s life at home.

I ask other girls what their dad does, saddened now by the dismay I see 
                                                                                 

in their eyes

when I in turn give reply. Plugged into my Walkman, at night I cry.

But the corridor draws me on: blind to beautiful tables, I hear prefects’ voices,

every soul in line, we attempt stillness, full-mast socks, suppress fidgets, 
                                                                                 murmurs, whispers.

At the word, we stride purposefully into the school day, slide into place,

sing hymns, say prayers, our home selves sent to sleep for a spell.

At the old careers’ corner, where I chattered away the queue for tea,

I find my old friends Clare and Cecil, beaming smiles captured

in clear digital images as we embrace the moment of reunion:

today’s confidence and colour in contrast to the grainy snaps of yesteryear.

Our adult selves raise a toast to school dinners, apple crumble, finding friends –

not on screen but at the dining tables, or filing in to Evening Prayer:

What announcements would there be? Which vesper would we play?

Day by day, dear Lord, of Thee three things I pray….

We were trained in mountain rescue, we built canoes,

we camped and dipped in Windermere, off the jetty at Hodge Howe.

Girlish figures draped in dressing gowns, we cradled mugs of cocoa,

maybe cornflakes, before lights out, chattering and stretching, sleep creeping slow.

Now, we stand tall, converse, articulate, not slouching on soft slopy chairs.

This building saw seven years of me, finding solace in study, musical sensibility, scents
and sounds in lovely grounds, the shimmering lake and distant fells.

I stride along the corridor, remembering rooms for study, staff and fun.

There’s the ceiling where I will forever see evidence of midnight mischief,

Jelly cubes which did not go to ground, tell-tale carrots on the bell,

above another waiting space where I watched others cocoon themselves 


under the payphone hood, willing themselves back home, as I clutched my list of news.

Dormy feasts a highlight – and also a terror as we tiptoed round.

Sharing secrets after lights out… and sleeping on the floor.

Harsh morning bells, matron stripping off warm sheets, sleepy-headed girls trudging 


to a row of sinks and loos, splashing away dreams – privacy only in the mind.

Tears rise, up the back stairs, remembering laundry gathering,

Sweeping and scrubbing, ‘more welly!’, before finding form rooms.

Up to sick bay and the dormy corridor, today’s classroom displays unseen –

just vivid bunk bed scenes, stitched up with aeroplane beds or apple pies.

We laugh and explore together, finding spaces where we learnt to rub along, 
                                                                                                      giggled

our chores away, remembered the break-time rush to pigeon holes for the post.

Letters safely stowed in blazer pocket, saved for after classes. Connections

savoured, spun out as far as they would reach, a scarf to keep out the cold.

Ghosts came to greet us, our former selves checking rotas and bath charts:

we found our way through childhood into adolescence together.

We were like sisters, but spaces in the mind reverberated louder

than girlish chatter. It was alright; I am alright. I can soothe myself now.

Views from bay windows like inner selves remain the same, and we come down 
                                                                                                                        to lunch

in the company of yesterday’s strangers, once again close, family. A chuckle

or a dimple, a direct gaze, a wrinkling around the mouth – remembered energies

rush us close, stories float and rise in spring sunshine, gilding skin and smiles.

Now we are global travellers, with our own kitchens and bathrooms,

sleeping and cooking on our own terms, comparing notes and dreams.

Intervening years have seen us all laugh, cry, strive, succeed, fail sometimes –

but we don’t have to stow ourselves in lockers, we can set our faces to the wind.

I mother my own children, wrap arms round muscular shoulders, no longer

thin-limbed tots, and grief’s anxiety spills from places where once I tucked it away.

I step confidently into new roles, I sing and play, but old sadnesses seep through

My alter ego of joy and adventure in surprising ways. It’s kintsugi, welded in me.

Now adults, we pull with smooth strokes through the lake, find ourselves

free on the shore to compare creative endeavours and climb mountains; curious 


and enlivened by our day of reunion, we celebrate and embrace

ourselves for future discovery, enterprise and connection.

We spent a thousand days together as our selves formed, moulded

like clay in the pottery studio, training for life as we ran round the hockey pitch.

The thought of being 30 then made us laugh outright: future unformed and inconceivable.

A misty glass clears: in our 50s, we are real people in the real world, 
                                                                                                           forging forwards.

Clare Roberts (Johnston)

St Anne’s, Browhead, Windermere, May 2026