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Chapter 5: Being Confident

When I was five years old and in my first class at school we used to end the day with a little ritual. Sister Anselm would stand at the front and make a big exaggerated sign of the cross and say the end of day prayer. That would be followed by, “Good afternoon, children.” “Good afternoon, Sister,” we would chorus back, and line up by the door. Only when the line was straight and silent did we hear the, “Off you go”.

Then came the day that Sister Anselm wasn’t in the room and we saw an older boy clanging a bell up and down the corridor, signalling going home time. We watched – horrified – through the glass partition as all the other children filed down the corridor to go home. We were going to be left! We’d be stuck in school until tomorrow! I remember realising what had to happen, we had to do the ritual. I walked to the front of the class. I stretched out my left hand, so the other children would stretch out their right hands (I knew exactly how to do it) and began, “In the name of the father…” and said the prayer. Then I said, “Good afternoon, children,” followed by, “Line up,” followed by, “Off you go”. All the children started to file out. Good. Job done.

Then Sister Anselm arrived. She was a small nun with pinched cheekbones and a particularly long nose. She was in such a flurry that her cane with the frayed end (which she held at all times) was getting all caught up in her robes and long rosary with its huge beads that hung down from her waist.

She ushered us back into the classroom and spluttered out, “Who? Who said you could go?”

I put up my hand. “I did, Sister.”

She was beside herself with fury and banged her cane up and down on the desk in front of me using, repeatedly, the favourite phrase of all nuns, “You bold girl.”

I sat and watched, head bobbing, as the cane went up and down thinking, What did I miss out? I said the prayer, I said good afternoon…  I had no sense that I had done anything wrong, even though Sister Anselm clearly thought I had.

I think back to that five-year-old girl and wondered what had possessed me to do that (I was already terrified of Sister Anselm). All I can remember is feeling strongly that something had to be done – the ritual – and I was prepared to do it (none of the other children objected, I suspect they were all relieved).

What I lacked then was the vision to understand the consequences of my action, yet still make the choice to go ahead and do it.

And by the time I was capable of understanding the consequences, I had acquired determination and stubbornness, which are the useful companions of confidence.

It would not be the only time in my life when I would be the one to act while others watched. As I got older, more than a few times I would be in the position of being the one to stand up for something – or to someone – while others promised to do so and then reneged. The consequences weren’t always pleasant, but I did it anyway. My sense of ‘rightness’ gave me the confidence to overcome my fear of the consequences.

I had certainly been given a strong sense of right and wrong by my parents, but ‘doing the right thing’ mainly consisted of obeying God and obeying your parents. Maybe my confidence developed in reaction to being controlled and a fierce desire to forge my own way and work out for myself what the right thing was in any situation. I don’t recall many instances of being empowered at home where the phrase most frequently used was, “Do as you’re told.”

Confidence has been defined a number of ways, but most people are in agreement that confidence is a feeling of trust in one’s abilities, qualities, and judgement (OED). How had I developed such trust in myself at five years old? My confidence was enabled by my being a quick thinker and very articulate. These additions to my skill set meant that I could hide any ignorance that might expose me as a buffoon (always my biggest fear) and talk my way out of most things.  The picture at the beginning of this chapter is from when I was 17 and compering a Scottish evening for the whole school. As I was about to introduce the next dancing act I glanced to the side of the stage and saw to my horror the cassette tape being painstakingly wound back into the cassette. The tape hung down in loops and ribbons.  I had to adlib in front of the whole school for 10 minutes while it was fixed so the concert could continue.

The gift of thinking quickly came to my rescue many times. When I was 13 years old, I had to go to the Headmistress, Sister Olivia, with a message. She was a tiny woman who walked quickly and looked quite young when she smiled, until you got up close to her and saw all the lines on her face and the beginnings of a moustache. Her smile hid a mean streak that many a girl experienced first-hand.

Yet, whenever a priest appeared, Sister Olivia would flirt outrageously, giggling and fluttering her eyes. We hated her.

There were only two things you could get expelled for: dyeing your hair and leaving the school premises without permission. I did them both during my school days at the Convent Grammar School.

The first time was on the day I walked into the Headmistress’s office, forgetting momentarily that my brother’s girlfriend had dyed my hair the evening before. I had gone darker with a touch of auburn, but my hair was definitely not the dull brown it had been previously. Girls at the time were into dyeing their hair blonde but, of course, I wanted to be different (something else my confidence has always allowed me to be), probably because dyed blond hair in those days looked pretty dreadful – dry and straw-like, with dark roots showing – the mark of a ‘common’ girl, according to my mother.

Sister Olivia spun round in her chair and adopted a surprised and horrified expression, “My dear,” she exclaimed, “Your hair!”

Without a flinch, I said, “I know, Sister! Isn’t it awful?” I put my hand to my head and adopted a similar horrified look. I continued, “My brother’s girlfriend is a hairdresser.” This bit was true, but it was the only part of my explanation that was. “She’s entering a competition and she needed to practise and swore to me that this would wash out. I’ve washed it and washed it but can’t get it out. I’m so upset.” I said all this in one long breath, trying to look as distraught as I could. I thought about bringing myself to tears but decided that was going too far.

Sister Olivia was momentarily taken aback, “What does your mother say?”

“Well, she’s furious, Sister. She says I can’t go out until it has all washed out. But I don’t want to go out, Sister, not with hair like this. I don’t want anyone to see me like this. I’ll just have to keep washing it.” The truth was, my mother had never even noticed and anyway, I don’t think she even knew those two school rules.

Sister Olivia concluded by trying to sound stern and saying, “Well, don’t let that happen again.”

“I certainly won’t, Sister. I’m not letting her anywhere near my hair in future.”

We looked at one another. She knew I was lying and I knew that she knew. But I had won this battle and now the lines had been drawn. My sense of achievement when I left Sister Olivia’s office when I was 13 still ranks very highly on my list of ‘What are you most proud of?’

I broke the second rule, three years later, when I was 16 and went off shopping with my friend Theresa after our exams and we were threatened with expulsion. Sister Olivia said she would have to bring it to the Board of Governors. My friend was terrified of the consequences she would face at home but I reassured her, “Look, there are far more important things they will discuss at the Governors’ meeting. I bet she won’t even bring it up. Besides which, we both have unblemished records in school and the school gets paid by the government for every student who goes into the sixth form, so she’s not going to lose out on that! Don’t tell your parents and watch the post. If a letter arrives for your parents with a school stamp on it, take it before they see it.”

So that’s what we both did and laughed at the ridiculous letter that said, “As long as there is no recurrence of this irresponsible behaviour we will allow Geraldine (and Theresa) back into school.” Our parents knew nothing of it until Theresa and I were 40 years old and I was invited to Theresa’s surprise birthday party. I told this story and everyone there, including Theresa’s mother, laughed.

By the time I was a teenager I had a strong sense of my own worth.

Sometimes I felt that others didn’t always see it though. Why was I the only girl not to have a boyfriend? What was wrong with me? And why were my friends so much more attractive than me, so that I always got the ugly friend? I had no idea what was fashionable and what wasn’t and was very self-conscious about my appearance. Maybe that’s why I developed such a strong sense of self – to withstand any disappointments. I just assumed I was brilliant. When I was 16 and in the fifth form, our form teacher Sister Paul Mary took us, one by one, outside the classroom and into the wooden hallway and told each of us some home truths. Sister Paul Mary was a very large woman with a very red face. Her bosom pushed out her white ‘breast plate’ over her long black robe and she leant on the cupboard outside the classroom while she delivered her verdict on our characters. Every girl came back in crying. I couldn’t imagine for the life of me what she was going to say to me. I went outside and she drew herself up to be even taller.

“I have only one thing to say to you,” she roared, “You’re bumptious.”

I had never heard that word before and assumed it was something good. I mean, why wouldn’t it be something good? “Thank you very much, Sister,” I said, demurely.

She nearly had a heart attack on the spot. “It’s not a compliment, child,” she spluttered. But that ability to always see myself in a very good light never left me.

The confidence I displayed at school was related to my understanding the system and working it to my advantage – as well as infuriating my mother, of course – such as failing my O Levels I didn’t think I needed.

Maybe I had realised early in my life that there was only me who would really have my back.

My father had always drilled into us, “You are here to save your own soul. Nothing more, nothing less.” I used to think it was a profoundly selfish attitude but now I see that it is really about personal responsibility. Not blaming anyone for what happens to you and making happen what you want to happen but always imbued with that sense of right and wrong.

When I became a teacher, I taught for seven years in various schools, teaching pupils from 11-16 years of age. It was assumed you would gradually move up the teaching grades but after two years on grade one, I applied for a grade three job. My teaching friends were incredulous, saying, “You can’t do that!” But I did, and when the head teacher asked me why I had applied for a grade three job and not grade two, I said, “Because I’m worth it and you will see that.” Those were the days when you could do what you wanted behind your classroom door. As long as your exam results were okay, no one cared what you did. I had a great time doing things with my students which would never make any curriculum, like including Edward De Bono’s Thinking Lessons in the timetable for my English classes, comparing the results from my brightest class with my non-exam class. The non-exam class were more creative thinkers by far. My brightest class had already been schooled into what to think rather than how to think.

I had decided that I would be a deputy head by the time I was 30 and running my own school by the time I was 35 and had no doubt at all that I would do it. But just at the point where my next position would have been head of department (and therefore, part of the senior management team of the school) I decided I didn’t want to teach for the next 30 years and there might be other things I could do just as well. I loved teaching and I was good at it but what about all the other million things I could do that I would also be good at?

I had learned I didn’t want to do anything unless I was going to be really good at it.

If I tried a new sport and didn’t show Olympic potential in about 20 minutes, I packed it in. I knew I could make it as a teacher, so I wanted to turn my hand to something else I might be equally good at. If I didn’t excel, I would do something else.

I set up my own business, which I have had now for over 30 years. It combined all the skills I had learned over the years, not least of which was being my own boss and being a big fish in a little pond. While those two principles were in play, there was nothing that could destroy my confidence. When I went to see the local bank manager for a loan to set up my business, I asked for £5000 and had a hand-written list on one sheet where the top item was ‘clothes’. I hadn’t worked in a professional capacity for three years while I was being a mother to my first born and I needed a new wardrobe. Dungarees and trainers just weren’t going to cut it. The bank manager was a jovial Yorkshire man who was near to retirement so, with my strong Lancashire accent, we had our Northernness in common.

He leant back in his leather chair and faced me across his desk. “Tell me about yourself,” he said.

I spoke about what I wanted to do, writing self-instructional materials for learners in organisations and the details about what that entailed.

After a few minutes he said, “Well, I don’t understand a word you’re talking about but I’m sure you’re going to be very successful. How much do you want?” Of course, it wouldn’t be so easy for new start-ups to get money now.

I think confidence is an external demonstration of deeply held principles.

For me, these principles are a deep trust that everything will be okay and that I will be looked after. The Catholic religion gave me that initially. I trusted that God would look after me, no matter what. My parents gave me that security regarding finances. I knew that, no matter what, I could always go to them if I needed to. My children have had the same assurances from me and their father. But that trust is still there in matters not related to money. When I was going through my marriage breakup, which took five years and was very painful I would ask God – or the angels, my guides, anyone! – why it was so difficult and why I was hurting so much. I would always get back the answer, “You’re in the right place and you’re right on time.” That mantra has always sustained me and I have passed it onto many people to sustain them too. When I lost all my savings in a foolish investment which meant I couldn’t retire I knew I would still be okay. I allowed myself to be angry and miserable for three days, then I started with a new plan. I guess a love of planning helps too. If I make a plan and it doesn’t work, part of me doesn’t mind because I can just make a new plan and I love that part.

Yet, you can’t be confident of your plan if you’re not able to think clearly to devise a plan in the first place. So, the link between clarity of thought and confidence is established. And then the principle of ‘no such thing as a wrong decision’ kicks in. I believe that if you decide to do something and then you happen to get new information the next week, the next month, the next year, you just make another decision. It doesn’t mean that your first decision was wrong. Your first decision was based on the information you had at the time and your attitude and health at that time. It’s always: choose, and choose again, and choose again…

Maybe I developed my spiritual beliefs in order to hold up my confidence, to make sure it wouldn’t be dented. Or maybe my confidence allowed me the luxury of adopting the spiritual beliefs that suited me and my lifestyle.

But maybe the strongest characteristic of what you need for confidence is the willingness to take risks – to stand up and be counted – to put yourself out in front.

In the early years of my business, the idea of women returning to work was just taking hold as an issue – women returners was what people were talking about. A big recruiting agency was putting on a series of regional conferences and someone contacted me and asked if I would speak at my local conference in Nottingham. I asked what the launch event was and was told there would be a big national event at the Queen Elizabeth II Centre in London. I said I would rather speak at that one and they said they had all the speakers for that. I asked who was speaking, the keynote was being delivered by a cabinet minister. I knew then that he wouldn’t make it. He would be bound to be called into Downing Street at the last minute for an important Cabinet Meeting. I said, “Here is what I’ll do, I’ll keep my diary completely free for that day and if anyone pulls out at the last minute then know that you can call on me.”

Of course, the minister pulled out and I did the keynote in my first major public speaking engagement. The recruitment agency took a big risk too – no one had heard me speak before!

That gig started off my public speaking life. Confidence pays big dividends! Yet, I continue to ponder that continuum between confidence and bumptiousness. Can you have one without the other being present? I know there is a certain arrogance in my nature I have to work all the time to curb. Being confident yet still humble is a challenge for me. I’ve had to learn that knowing my own worth doesn’t mean I have to insist that everyone else knows it too! And loving myself has to lie alongside loving everyone else – and not supersede it.

Photo

The Scottish evening at school when I was 17 and was the compere.

Questions for Reflection

Would you describe yourself as confident? Where do you think that comes from? What messages did you have as a child that increased or undermined your confidence? What messages would you pass on to your children about being confident?

A Blessing While You Reflect

“Awaken your spirit to adventure;

Hold nothing back, learn to find ease in risk;

Soon you will be home in a new rhythm

For your soul senses the world that awaits you”

From John O’Donohue: Benedictus