Miss Carter's War (22 page)

‘Darlings, sorry I’m late, lines to learn.’ The stray pin in the hem of her frock suggested last-minute adjustments to her hard-won glamour as well.

The four of them were intrigued to hear about the new school. They thought it was an excellent decision, if not a safe career move.

Miss Allum, having imbibed quite a lot of Chardonnay, burst out, ‘To hell with that. Go where your heart leads you. Don’t do what’s expected of you. Or else – look at me.’

They all did. With some alarm.

‘I’m a lonely old maid who’s achieved nothing. I was engaged to a beautiful boy . . .’ She waved her left hand with the mysterious sapphire ring. ‘He died at Ypres and we never even made love. I wanted to, but it wasn’t done. I didn’t follow my heart. And I’m still a bloody virgin. Then I became a secretary. That wasn’t my heart’s desire either, I can tell you. Do you know what was?’

They held their breath.

‘This.’ And she crossed to the piano in the corner. ‘I was good – won competitions – I played for the troops during the last war – I loved it, but then my father died and my mother needed me at home.’

‘Why, was she ill?’

‘No, just lonely. Single girls were expected to look after their mothers. That was the done thing. I couldn’t swan off doing concerts around the world. So I stayed at home and gave piano lessons to bored children. Then she died. Children don’t want to learn the piano any more, it’s all washboards and electric guitars now, so I had to sell the house to provide myself with an income. And here I am. And here I shall stay till I die.’

Tony said gently, ‘Do you still play, Miss Allum?’

‘No, I haven’t touched a piano for years and years and years.’

Tony opened the lid of the piano and pulled out the stool.

‘Please, Miss Allum. Marguerite and I would love to hear you. A farewell gift.’

Tentatively the old woman’s hands explored the keys.

‘It’s out of tune. But here’s some Chopin, if I can remember it.’

Everyone was transfixed as she grew in confidence until the room resonated with the clarity of her playing. The fragile woman was suddenly powerful, commanding the music and her audience. When she stopped there was an awestruck silence. She looked round as though coming out of a trance.

‘Sorry, I’m out of practice.’

Mrs Schneider went over and hugged her.

‘Please, Miss Allum, use the piano whenever you want to. I’ll get it tuned. It will give me such pleasure to hear you.’

Mr Humphreys leapt to his feet.

‘And I’m going to follow my heart’s desire.’

Whereupon he fell to his knees in front of a startled Moira.

‘Moira the divine, will you marry me?’

Marguerite prayed silently that Moira wouldn’t laugh or be cruel. She needn’t have worried. The actress rose to the occasion.

‘Mr Humphreys, I love you far too much to marry you. You are a dear sweet man and I would eat you alive.’

Still on his knees, Mr Humphreys burbled, ‘Well, I’d like that. I mean sorry – I didn’t mean—’

Moira gently took his hands and helped him to stand.

‘My profession will always come first, I’m afraid. I heard yesterday that I have an amazing job in the West End. It could be what I’ve been waiting for. So I’m afraid I have to focus on that. But thank you so much for asking me.’

And she kissed him gently on the cheek.

In the flurry of goodbyes, Marguerite managed to ask Moira what the ‘amazing’ West End job was.

‘Understudy in the sodding
Mousetrap
. The actors’ graveyard. But I need the money. I’m washed up, passé, a failure, but I’d rather he went on being deluded into thinking I’m wonderful – from a distance. He’s the only person who does.’

‘Moira, you handled that beautifully.’

‘I’m a good actress.’

‘You are.’

‘But these tears are real. I’m very fond of you and Tony. Let’s meet in the Salisbury for a drink one day?’

‘Let’s.’

They smiled at one another. Knowing they probably wouldn’t.

‘The end of an era,’ sighed Moira.

‘And the start of another,’ said Marguerite.

‘Yes.’ Moira sounded bleak. Then she added wryly, ‘This is like the last scene of
Uncle Vanya
, when everyone’s left him alone with sad old Sonya.’

And suddenly, on the doorstep, Moira was a young girl:

‘ “We shall go on living, Uncle Vanya. We shall live through a long, long succession of days and tedious evenings . . . When our time comes, we shall die submissively, and over there, beyond the grave, we shall say that we’ve suffered, that we’ve wept, that we’ve had a bitter life, and God will take pity on us . . .” ’

There was a burst of applause from Mr Humphreys, standing behind her, tears streaming down his face.

‘Bravo, bravissimo.’

Whereupon Moira pivoted on her high heels, sashayed past him, and shouted back, ‘Right. Off to learn Miss Christie’s magic bloody text.’

As Mr Humphreys closed the door, strains of a Brahms sonata were heard under Moira’s cry:

‘Back to the real world, everyone.’

Chapter 22

The real world of Marguerite’s first day at Risinghill School was daunting. There was a marked contrast between the pupils’ arrival at the new Islington comprehensive and the lively scene that had delighted her at the grammar school in Dartford. Pushed around by the authorities into an uneasy alliance, the children from formerly separate schools showed resentment, bewilderment and some fear. Sartorially, too, they looked a mess.

Mainly to please the London County Council it was decided that they should wear uniforms. The colours chosen were grey and royal blue. It was obvious that the rule was unworkable. One of the four schools had had an uniform, so these pupils managed a motley mixture of the old and new. The rest did their best from scratch. Some of the boys had managed overlarge shirts that looked as though they had belonged to their fathers, and a few girls were wearing their mothers’ white blouses in satin or lace, similarly ill-fitting. There were quite a few new grey trousers and skirts, which was the most some could afford. There was not a hat in sight, Marguerite was pleased to see. Several pupils were huddled in coats which they refused to part with in the cloakroom in case they were nicked. One or two looked as if they had wandered out of a Dickens novel: their socks had holes in them, their shoes had soles hanging off, their clothes were ragged and dirty. The group of older pupils due to leave after one year had, not unnaturally, not bothered at all, and looked rather attractive, the boys in either Rocker gear of leather jacket and jeans, or Mod gear of sharp suit, and the girls in pretty dresses.

Consequently at the first assembly, taken in two parts to accommodate the size of the new school, Michael Duane took the pressure off, in view of the differing family circumstances, by declaring uniform optional. It was the start of many adaptations he made to deal with the circumstances as they presented themselves. This volte-face caused some concern in the staff room amongst those teachers who believed in making rules and keeping them.

It was a harrowing day of children getting lost in the vast building and becoming overexcited and unruly. The only time when silence reigned, apart from the sound of gulping and sighing, was when the skinny youngsters warmed their little bottles of free milk on the radiators, and then, holding them with both hands, eyes closed, slowly sucked on the straw, savouring the precious fluid as if it was the finest wine.

At the end of the exhausting day the head held a staff meeting in which he outlined his policy of making the school a place where the children were treated with the respect so many had been denied; where they felt no fear and had a refuge from the violence in the outside world.

‘Schools should be for the less fortunate, what home is for the fortunate.’

‘Sentimental claptrap,’ snarled Mr Fletcher when Mr Duane had left. ‘He doesn’t know the dodgy little herberts round here. Give them an inch, and they’ll take a mile. He won’t last a minute.’

Mr Fletcher was an unsmiling man, with the ramrod back and stentorian voice of an ex-sergeant major. He was as disorientated as the pupils by the enforced change, and, in addition, aggrieved at being overlooked as headmaster, a job for which he considered himself eminently suited, with his war record and knowledge of the behavioural problems of the local children. He resented Mr Duane from day one. The atmosphere in the staff room had none of the warm friendliness of Dartford. The newcomers were ignored by the old guard of teachers from the previous schools, and even the sexes seemed to separate. Inspired by Mr Duane, Marguerite comforted herself that, when things settled down, they would all unite in the common cause of creating a successful comprehensive.

Marguerite’s first English lesson the next day with the twelve-year-olds was a disaster. Although it was supposed to be the A stream, the class was mainly composed of less able kids that had to be incorporated to make the form a viable size. She made the bold decision to do the sonnet class that had always proved successful at Dartford. The format, with variations, was a good introductory lesson, in which she could learn a lot about the pupils’ ability and background and they could relate to her.

This time nobody would offer to read out the sonnet and when she did so herself it was deemed ‘a load of shit’. Trying to get the class to expand on this brought no response. Using every technique she knew she still could not get them to participate in the lesson. She panicked, and gradually lost control. Eventually the children were chatting, giggling, looking out of the windows, reading comics. They were bored by her and showed it.

Marguerite was desolate. She had never experienced failure like this as a teacher even at the beginning of her career. She happened to pass Michael Duane in the corridor and, as he had told the staff, and indeed the pupils, that his door was open at all times, she asked to speak to him.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Duane. You may have to let me go. My training and experience have not equipped me for this job.’

‘That’s true of all of us, Miss Carter. We are all starting from scratch. Allow yourself time to get to know the children. Forget about the exams and syllabus. It’s about educating them as opposed to just forcing them to learn.’

‘But they won’t respond. They won’t talk to me.’

‘That’s no surprise. A lot of them have been told to shut up all their lives. In overcrowded homes it’s “Belt up and watch the telly”, “Don’t answer back”. At school they weren’t allowed to talk in the corridors and certainly not in the classroom. They were given the cane for “talking” as if it were a crime. Is it any wonder they are inarticulate? So count that as your first task. Teaching them to talk.’

Easier said than done, she thought, but then sternly reminded herself that she had handled difficult pupils before. Irene and Elsie were the first of many. But one at a time. Not a whole classful.

On playground duty later she broke up a row between two groups. Each accused the other of being the cause.

‘Well, he’s a Bubble, ain’t he, and they always pick on the Turks. They’re worse than the Bacon Sarnies.’

Marguerite defused the row by asking for a translation.

They clamoured to instruct her:

‘Bubble and Squeak – Greek. Bacon Sarni – Pakistani.’

‘Four by Two – Jew.’

All these nomenclatures seemed to be used with no special rancour, it was just how people were categorised, whether in anger or friendship.

The next day she gritted her teeth and announced to the class that they were going to do poetry. She ignored the groans.

‘I’m going to start with rhyming.’

They slumped in their desks until they saw what she was writing on the blackboard. It was her newly learnt Cockney rhyming slang. She requested any more suggestions, and once they had got hold of the fact that their everyday language was a kind of poetry they joined in with zest. Some were difficult to unpick.

My old china: china plate. Mate.

Use your loaf: loaf of bread. Head.

Would you Adam and Eve it: believe it.

Apples and pears: stairs.

Sweeney: Sweeney Todd. Flying Squad.

Without flinching she included Hymie Cohen’s suggestion of, ‘Apple: apple tart. Fart.’

Never having worked with boys before she assumed this was usual behaviour.

Then Rita Oshenado undermined her gender stereotyping with, ‘Barclays: Barclays bank. Wank.’

As Marguerite wrote them on the blackboard she hoped no governors or LCC inspectors were around. Mary O’Shea came up with the curious, ‘Brahms and Liszt: pissed. Drunk.’ When questioned, she had no idea that it referred to composers. Marguerite saw an opportunity to open new doors at some later date.

As the lesson progressed they had begun to have fun with language, and the idea of poetry had become less frightening. They began to invent their own words. She was henceforth to be called Juicy.

Juicy tomater: Miss Carter. Because of your ginger hair, miss.’