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Who could have predicted that my big sister getting school phobia would have such an incredibly life-changing effect on me?

That it would rip me out of my comfort zone. Move me from the red-brick Victorian terrace in which I’d been born and had grown for eleven years, where my best friend lived right next door and everything was small, comfortable, and familiar, and land me in a strange city, a new school, and a crumbling flat.

My sister had been a big fish in a small pond at our primary school, which had only about three hundred pupils. She could stick up for herself with her sharp tongue or her fists if necessary. And she stuck up for me too, those few times I got bullied. I was grateful. But when she moved on to the secondary school, which was four times the size, she was out of her depth. A nobody, referred to only by her surname by the teachers.

She couldn’t handle the bullies, who were now so much bigger and nastier than her, nor the anonymity, and when she started playing truant daily, it was clear to my mum that a major change was necessary.

As a child, mum had attended the Rudolf Steiner School in Edinburgh. A school which aims to develop the whole child in a nurturing, low-pressure environment, rather than focusing primarily on academic achievement. Might it be worth a try for her?

My sister moved to Scotland and spent a year living with my grandparents to test the water. She was back in her small pond again, able to defend herself during conflict where necessary, and her classmates soon became her friends.

As she built her confidence, mine was severely challenged as we packed up our home and made the (terrifying) move to join her.

Mum had originally secured a mortgage using her and my dad’s incomes as teachers at the local Art College, plus a significant deposit donated by her parents. After my dad’s untimely death, she managed to keep up the payments herself to keep us in the house.

She got thirty grand for that house when she sold it, with only a small amount of mortgage still to pay off, and she managed to find a bargain three-bed flat in Scotland’s capital for just twenty-two thousand, leaving her a tiny bit of change for the necessary renovations. And there were many issues to be dealt with!

The front door was completely rotten, and the kitchen ceiling sagged so badly it touched the light bulb. There was a brown and cream swirling deep shag pile carpet running down the hall and polystyrene ceiling tiles in most of the rooms. 1970s hideousness!

Mum still needed to work, of course, so decided to continue as head of the Pottery Department at the Art College, whilst embarking on a Steiner Teacher Training. She would do this for a year, driving the two hours south, staying one night, then driving back the next evening to do the course two evenings a week and one full day at the weekend. In a year, she’d be able to stop the commute and start teaching, while she completed the second year of her training.

I’m not entirely sure when she slept, because in-between all of this, she’d renovate the flat.

My sister was thirteen and deemed mature enough to look after us both alone in the flat in Mum’s absence. This may have been overambitious.

Within a year, I was addicted to nicotine, drinking alcohol regularly, and had a criminal record.

Growing up, I’d been painfully shy and treated as a bit of a weirdo at that school (not surprising really as my Mum was atypical in the small town. A meditating vegetarian! She’d send me to school with a packed lunch of something bizarre like rice balls wrapped in seaweed, with a miso dressing. Oh, and a toothbrush for afters. Meanwhile, most kids were enjoying their school dinner of sausage and chips, finished off by a finger of fudge. Yearn.)

But at the Steiner School, I was immediately accepted! I’d found my tribe. Other kids with unconventional parents.

And everyone took a packed lunch!

This education style suited me well also. There was such a strong emphasis on creativity and imagination, as well as a focus on social and emotional development. This way of teaching brought me out of my shell, encouraged me to express my opinions verbally, and revel in the creative subjects. I excelled in handicrafts, often got given one of the lead roles in drama, sang my heart out in the choir, and shone in the art class.

I thrived on my newfound popularity. The girls wanted to be my friend, and the boys hoped for more!

“Hey, do you want to go halfers on a bastard?”

“Excuse me, can I break your hymen?”

Two of the most charming chat-up lines I received that I’ve never quite managed to forget.

I hung out on street corners smoking with my friend Tiffy. I’d make her scrounge fags of strangers because she was Swedish, so could always feign she couldn’t understand them if they came back with a negative response.

She asked a lorry driver who was passing by slowly with his window down. He said ‘sure!’ and passed her one down, smirking. ‘Do you want to smoke that in here with me?’ he asked. ‘Your friend can come up too!’, he winked.

‘F**k off!’ we both sniggered at him, walking off arm in arm to enjoy our smoke.

We were just stamping it out when the policeman appeared: ‘You’ve been reported for underage smoking.’

(That bastard lorry driver must have grassed us off!)

He pulled out his notepad. ‘Can I take your name and address, and where you got the cigarette from?’

We told him we’d just found it on the street, then Tiffy gave a false name and address, and I followed suit. We’d only recently got criminal records for shoplifting, and I was terrified about what would happen to me if they worked out who we were and told my mum.

I couldn’t stop worrying about it over the next few days, so I pulled up my big girl pants and told her myself. Just in case. Ultimately, I was a good kid, with a conscience. It was not possible for me to lie. If I was put on the spot, I would immediately crumble into tears, and the truth would be out.

Fortunately, I had a brilliant relationship with my mum. We always got on well, and I told her everything. She trusted me to be honest, so always had my back. Even through these teenage years.

I worked hard at school, did my homework, learned my lines, practiced piano, helped with cleaning and cooking, oh yes, and the decorating.

By this point in the story, Mum had bought a new front door, fitted a new kitchen and repaired its ceiling, replaced the hideously swirly hall carpet with a tasteful flecked oatmeal, had all the doors dipped and stripped back to wood, and painted each room in neutral shades. Sunlight bounced off pale walls and honey-coloured wood and mum felt proud of the new home she’d built for us.

The living room had a classic Victorian-style bay window, flanked on either side by floor-to-ceiling paneling, four panels wide. A considerable amount of wood. She and I agreed it would look amazing, stripped back, and it became my labour of love for some considerable time.

After experimenting with various chemicals, I decided that the heat gun was the most successful approach. I spent hours, bubbling up the layers of old gloss paint and thick, dark brown varnish, with the smell of burning hanging in the air. A thorough sanding got rid of the final dark remnants and covered the room in a thin layer of dust. Then a final waxing to strengthen the colour of the wood and its grain.

‘It looks fabulous Julia. Good work! You should be proud of yourself.’

Praise of this kind was rare from mum. Only dished out when truly deserved. I took it and was, indeed, very proud.

You can see the result of the stripped wood paneling behind us in this photo. It’s of me and my first love ready for a cross gender fancy dress party.

The hall was massive in this flat, large enough for a table tennis table, so our house was naturally the party house, and we got up to all kinds of naughtiness while Mum worked and studied.

She was happy in her new life. Completely absorbed by the philosophy of Rudolf Steiner and all that came with it. The school became her second home, and she was committed from that moment on.

Unfortunately, the teaching at the school didn’t pay as well as the teaching at the college had, so Mum had to find additional income. ‘No problem,’ she declared, ‘we’ll rent a room out!’

Looking back, I realise now that we never had an empty bedroom in our house. Not once. If she had a spare room, she made additional income from it.

She moved out of her bedroom and into the living room (the room with the wood panels). Her room had a little alcove off it, so she popped a camping stove, microwave, fridge, and sink in it and ‘voilà, a second kitchen!’.

Apart from the tenant, who I only encountered on rare, awkward moments when we were both heading to the bathroom at the same time, it was mostly just the three of us women.

My Mum, my sister, and me.

We learned from mum how to be independent, strong-minded, wilful, and confident women. A resourceful, resilient and determined team.

‘All for one, and one for all’

A few boyfriends came and went from Mum’s life over those years. Some I liked more than others. Then there was one who came and stayed for good.

My drama teacher!

We didn’t know then quite how much he was about to change our lives.

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