CHAPTER 1
PART ONE
FIONA : FOLLOW YOUR HEART
My parents said I was just “slow”. In fact my nickname at home became “Flo Slow”.
It didn’t particularly worry me. I mean I had to accept it, because my marks in school where, at best, mediocre.
Part of the problem was being born into an extremely high achieving, totally academic family. My father, Richard Carlyle, was the President of Unilever for several years before he retired at the age of 45. My mother, Mary Carlyle, was the Head of Science & Technology at Stellenbosch University from the age of 30. She too retired at 45. My older brother, Mark, (21 years older than me) was a master of Anthropology at Harvard, and a total nerd. My older sister, Elizabeth, (18 years older) started an import/export company which had grown to one of the largest companies in the world with an annual turnover of 75 Billion (or so she continually quoted).
And then came me. I was born when my folks turned 46 and had already been happily retired for a full year.
They were fond of saying that I was their “surprise” . The word surprise was never preceded by adjectives like “happy” or “lucky”, although occasionally they would say “their one and only surprise”. And I guess this just about sums it up. Everything else in their lives had gone according to a very structured plan.
In fact, as young as four years old, I remember them sitting with a spreadsheet trying to ascertain what my strengths were and trying to make a plan for my life. They had a lot of time on their hands remember. They were unsure as to whether they should steer me in the direction of academics or business, because obviously our family had both qualities – in abundance.
By the time I was 8, those spreadsheets had been abandoned, and new spreadsheets labelled “What Fiona CANNOT do” were multiplying and lay about in huge batches on sideboards and desks in most rooms in the house. You see, despite the great business and academic acumen in our family, tidiness was not necessarily considered a great character strength, nor accorded any great value.
I, on the other hand, loved order. From a very young age, I would pack and repack my clothing according to colour, material or weight and numerous other characteristics – all of which, according to my parents, defied all logic. I would walk around the house collecting all the spreadsheets and dog-eared books and make piles characterised by date, or size, or whatever other categories I could find to separate them into.
I continually felt alienated from my family, and several times asked them to consider very seriously whether they were really sure I was their daughter. At these moments my father would give my mother a quizzical look and my mother would get quite annoyed and proclaim loudly that there was absolutely no doubt.
My masses of red hair and freckles and my tall but slender frame did not grant any reassurance about truly belonging to my statuesque family of golden haired gods.
I probably felt the most affinity with my brother, Mark. While we still didn’t have much in common, he at least appreciated my sense of order. He always said he would love to have me with him on one of his adventures to an archaeological site to classify remains. And that is probably one of the few times that any member of my family said they wanted me for anything, which naturally made me feel closer to him.
So I progressed through Junior School, just scraping by from one grade to the next. All of which was a much bigger problem for my parents than for me.
My real problems started when I was in Grade 7, and we had to start considering a High School for the following year.
My folks felt they had to find the RIGHT High School for me, and in their minds at least, there just did not seem to be a good match.
I think they felt a little embarrassed by my unimposing grades. They had both been top of their classes in every subject, as had both my brother and my sister. They had such reputations to live up to – they were known to all their friends and colleagues as the “Clever Carlyles”. How were they possibly going to explain me?
Until one evening, when a friend was visiting and discussing another friend who had just opened a new high school in KZN Natal. This is how the conversation went:
“Oh, I just wish you could meet her, Mary” exclaimed Rose, “You and Richard would love Amelia – and love the concept of her school.”
“But it is a MUSIC school, Rose.” said my bewildered mother, “Why on earth would we send Fiona to a music school? She has never shown an interest in any of the arts, and you know we have NO musical talents in our family. None of us even listen to music.”
“It is not just a music school, Mary. The intention is to apply equal importance to academics. It is for students who have a desire to dabble in the arts but still want to achieve well in academics. Their motto is “Follow your heart – but bring your brain with you!” said Barbara animatedly.
“Alfred Adler” said my mother thoughtfully.
“Who?” asked Rose.
“Alfred Adler. He was a physician ...and the founder of Adlerian psychology, sometimes called individual psychology.”
“What has that got to do with anything Mary?”
“Oh, he wrote that line ... Follow your heart but bring your brain with you.”
“Well, the point is...” said Rose, “ That it is a very small school which means small classes and individual attention. Not to mention that there will probably be some other .... um .... odd students who also don’t fit the normal mould”
“Well, THAT’s a point,” said my mother, “I have no idea what happened to the mould Fiona was manufactured from.”
Later that evening I overheard the conversation between my mother and father....
“So just how small is the school?” asked my father.
“Apparently it only started last year, and they are expecting about 30 kids next year.”
“Anybody we know?”
“Most unlikely. Which is a good thing, right?”
“Absolutely.” said my father adamantly, “But what does Fiona know about music? Surely she would have to do an audition?”
“Well, normally yes, but Rose says that Amelia is a good friend and is battling to find funding. We could make a substantial...”
“Contribution?” interrupted my father.
“Yes dear. A donation that would be for a good cause. And our first FAMILY contribution to the arts.” said my mother.
“Which is something we have discussed for quite a while,” interrupted my father again, “A contribution to the arts. I like the sound of that.”
“And who knows?” smiled my mother, “Perhaps Fiona will discover some hidden talents.”
“She might even become the next Madonna” said my father, “Madonna made a LOT of money, didn’t she?”
I don’t remember exactly how the rest of the conversation went, but within three weeks I was on my way from Johannesburg to the Natal Midlands for an interview and audition with Miss Catherine Pilkington, Head Mistress at the St Cecilia’s Girls Choir School.
