4. Pretoria, 1978 - Stupid being ladylike
In which Eleanor discovers being good isn't fun.
Eleanor loves school. Until she gets a stern lesson in playing like "a lady". 
Eleanor
We tumble out of the Grade One classroom, heading straight for the jungle gym. It’s cold faded metal inviting us, away from stupid desks, and sitting still, and being behaved.
I like school. I know my letters already, and now I’m already reading the little Ladybird books Mummy gets me each week. It’s my reward for not sucking my thumb. The promise of books is the only thing that makes me think it might be worth stopping.
Our teacher is kind but firm. She never yells or raises her voice. She’s as old as Granny. Older maybe? She’s more wrinkly. I think she’s been teaching Grade One since forever. I like her.
But the sitting still part and being behaved: that’s hard. But I’m determined. I’m Mummy’s daughter after all. I don’t want her to be ashamed of me. She's the head English teacher in the senior school. Already one of the other girls has been sent to the headmaster once. I’d be mortified if that happened to me. I would never be able to look Mummy in the eye.
We live for recess.
I swing on the monkey bars. My arms swing firmly, bar to bar. The metal round and cold and worn smooth under my hands. It feels so good. I head over to the split bars and swing myself up so I’m hanging upside down, my knees hooked over the bar, hands almost touching the ground, blood rushing to my face.
“Eleanor Williams! Come down right now!”
I look around, confused. Mrs Wellington, the Grade Two teacher, is beckoning to me, a cross look on her face. I let go of my knees, doing a short handstand. Come upright. Dust my hands off against the blue and white checkered school dress we all wear, and walk meekly over to her. I have no idea what I’ve done wrong that she looks so cross.
“Your panties were showing,” she hectors me. “That’s not ladylike. Don’t let me catch you doing that again.”
Defiance rises in me like a wave about to crash onto the beach. Of course my panties were showing. I was upside down. Gloriously upside down. What was I supposed to do—hold my dress up with my hands or something?
I open my mouth to protest.
“No talking back,” she stops me before I get a word out.
And she marches off, stiff backed, to her classroom.
My shoulders slump. Tears well in my eyes. Stupid school. Stupid rules. Stupid being ladylike.
Bonus Material
In Mrs Wellington’s own words: Eleanor’s report card