Miss Carter's War (27 page)

I’ll give her ‘Look after your man’, she thought. She continued the ministrations on the bed, insisting on him lying back and leaving things to her. He did. It perked him up no end.

‘Thank you, my angel. I feel a lot better now. How about a drink? Champers, old girl?’

The grin had returned.

‘I think coffee would be better. I’ll go down and make some.’

She enjoyed using the splendid kitchen with all its mod cons. Jimmy’s relative had installed the newest machines. One fully automatic monster for washing and drying clothes, even one for washing the dirty dishes. There was an electric coffee-bean grinder. As she used it the nostalgic aroma filled the kitchen. While she was waiting for the kettle to boil, she noticed that, when she had filled it, she had splashed water on a cheque lying beside it. Thinking to dry it out, she saw that it was made out to Jimmy and signed by Daphne Goldstein. It was for £100.

‘Good old auntie.’ Jimmy was standing in the doorway with a tumbler in one hand and a bottle of whisky in the other, which he indicated. ‘Hair of the dog. Getting a beastly hangover.’

‘She seems very generous. This auntie of yours.’

‘It’s a loan, sweetie. Bit short of the readies at the moment.’ He gulped back the whisky.

‘You don’t want coffee then?’

‘Yes. I’ll have that as well. And there’s some Fernet Branca in the cupboard. I’ll have a swig of that. Bit of an expert at hangovers.’

As he poured some of the liqueur into a small glass his hands shook.

‘How will you pay her back? Have you found a job?’

He swigged back the glass of brown, evil-looking liquid in one.

‘Ugh. It looks promising, yes.’

‘Doing what?’

He tapped his finger on the side of his nose.

‘Don’t want to talk about it till it’s all signed and sealed.’

‘You can tell me, surely?’

‘Why so serious? We’re together again. Let’s talk about that.’

He sat on a stool by the breakfast counter and gazed at her blearily.

‘Show us your knickers – go on.’

Marguerite was not to be diverted this time.

‘If we are to be together, we have to be honest with one another.’

‘Well, I honestly want to see your knickers.’ He moved towards her. She pushed him away.

‘No. we have to talk. I don’t understand what’s going on here. It makes me uneasy. Is your aunt supporting you? Is that how you manage to wear mohair suits and silk shirts, to run a car, to take me to smart restaurants and buy me presents? With the money she gives to you?’

‘No!’ He was now shouting. ‘She doesn’t give it to me. I bloody well earn it.’

He looked desperate.

‘OK. I’ll tell you. She pays me. She pays me a salary for taking care of the houses. I’m a glorified houseboy. Or I suppose, at forty years old, that should be house-man. Or servant. How’s that for a brave war hero?’

‘Is that why you haven’t got a place of your own? You can’t afford it?’

‘Oh I could afford something. I don’t just do housekeeping, you know. I’ve got other talents. I could get a grotty room somewhere, but I prefer to stay most of the time in luxury here or in Brighton. But I earn money all right. Haven’t you noticed in the pub? I can pull a nifty pint. Oh yes, I’m the toast of all the sordid dives in Soho. As a barman. And I occasionally do a turn as a waiter.’ He looked at her. ‘So now you know. Not in your class at all, I’m afraid.’

He stopped, hid his face in his hands and said quietly, ‘And that’s why I didn’t want you to know.’

‘Do you seriously consider I would think like that? You really don’t know me at all, do you?’

‘I know you’re clever and too good for me. And brave.’

‘So are you.’

‘You think so?’ His voice was mocking.

‘I know so. You got a medal for it.’

He poured himself another whisky.

She continued, ‘More importantly, this last year I have had a wonderful time with you. But looking at you now, in that ridiculous dressing gown, shaking and wretched, and hearing you tell the truth about yourself, now’ – she kissed his forehead – ‘now I love you.’

‘Really?’ His face lit up. Then the little-boy grin. ‘Prove it. Come upstairs.’

She ruffled his hair.

‘You’re hopeless.’

She loved his sudden changes of mood. She would have preferred him to make some verbal commitment, but she nevertheless felt they had moved into a deeper stage of their relationship.

‘I am now really in love with him,’ she told Tony at rehearsal the next day. ‘He’s vulnerable and needy, and I want to help him.’

Tony looked quizzical.

‘Not sure that’s a perfect formula for falling in love, is it?’

‘Maybe it is for me.’

Chapter 27

The last week of rehearsals was a challenge. Even Tony was worried.

‘Some of the kids are getting very edgy about the play. It’s going to be tricky controlling them. They’re very overexcited.’

‘As Mr Fletcher and his cronies never cease telling me.’

Marguerite feigned a confidence she did not feel.

‘I’ve got all of them together for the first time this afternoon. I’ll talk to them.’

Tony was right. As the youngsters crowded into the hall for the rehearsal it was bedlam.

Marguerite used a loudhailer to get their attention.

‘OK, calm down, all of you. We have a lot of work to do, so you’re going to have to shut up and concentrate. Neither one of your favourite things, I know, but there is a lot hanging on this performance of yours. It’s no secret that our school is in danger. We want to show them how good we can be, and what a splendid school this is. That means behaving courteously to our visitors, and towards each other, and doing your parts as well as you possibly can. OK?’

There were cheers and shouts of ‘Yea!’.

‘Right, school. We’ll show ’em, won’t we?’

Even louder shouts and cheers.

‘OK, you have been given the order you appear in, so be ready to come on when it’s your turn.’

The rehearsal was a shambles with Marguerite yelling orders through her megaphone and Tony and the supporting staff trying to herd the confused children into place. Throughout the week intensive rehearsals continued until everyone was exhausted, but gradually the play was taking shape.

On the night of the performance the children were terrified but determined not to let the school down. Marguerite was backstage helping them dress in the wonderful costumes made by the needlework group, which included some boys, surely destined for a great future in tailoring. The hall was packed with people standing round the sides. It seemed the whole of Islington had turned up, some of them doubtless to see what the tearaways from this comprehensive of ill repute would get up to. Marguerite thought that the governors and LCC representatives would have to admit that it was a true community school.

The school orchestra played an overture, composed by the pupils and guided by Mr Davis, the head of music. Those who took conventional instrument classes were augmented by others with musical saws, mouth organs and washboards. The result was triumphantly tuneful and witty. The curtain drew across to reveal an Irish Virgin Mary, holding an Indian baby and standing beside them an Afro-Caribbean Joseph. Mary explained that she was expecting guests, and there followed a succession of extraordinary performances. The children had responded to the idea of trying to cheer up a poor family, who were tired and uncomfortable and had a new baby to take care of. An experience not unknown to many of them.

The Greek children, arms around each other’s shoulders, swayed gracefully in circles and lines, the Turkish girls did a rather wriggly belly dance. The Irish contingent, led by a no-longer truanting Mickey O’Sullivan, did a wondrous jig, bodies erect, and small feet going like the clappers. The steel band had everyone jiving in the aisles, and the audience also, as hoped, joined in with Timothy’s farm noises. A surprise item for Marguerite in this sequence was Ahmed entering astride two of his friends in an elephant skin.

The music was beautiful. The choir sang ‘Greensleeves’ and some African chants, and an English boy and an Indian girl gave a poignant performance of the duet, ‘Somewhere’ from
West Side Story
. Miss Allum, now a much-loved member of staff, had transcribed a piece of Mozart to be played by four of her star pupils on two pianos. Five of the juniors played Bob Dylan’s ‘Blowin’ In The Wind’ on combs wrapped in lavatory paper; the result was surprisingly haunting. There was poetry, jiving, acrobatics, a stage full of youngsters doing the new twist, and audience and children doing a spirited rendering of a song by their favourite group the Beatle’s, ‘She Loves You’. Even Marguerite, her sweaty hand clasped by Tony, was astounded by their confidence. They did what they had practised but with added zest. When Hymie Cohen’s Elvis Presley split his pants, his giggling backing singers spontaneously created a circle round him as he shimmied off the stage.

The children gave everything they had got, and what they had got was joyful high spirits. Tony told them afterwards that he betted Joseph, Mary and Jesus would much have preferred their concert to a load of old frankincense and myrrh. Looking at the audience, Marguerite could see that they were uplifted and moved by the beauty of the children’s fervour, and she knew that the critics could not help but be swept up in this great surge of youthful energy.

At the end, all the performers took their bows, and stood in wonderment as the audience raised the roof with their cheers. Tony and Marguerite hugged each other and jumped up and down.

‘We’ve won, Tony, we’ve won. They’ll never close us now.’

Duane came up and congratulated them and the children.

‘What did they say? Did they like it?’

He hesitated.

‘I’ll tell you tomorrow.’

Marguerite was appalled.

‘They didn’t! You’re joking. How could they possibly not have?’

‘I’m sorry, Marguerite.’ He put his hand on her shoulder.

‘What? What did they say?’

‘They didn’t come.’

‘What? None of them?’

‘Not one.’

Marguerite shook her head in disbelief.

‘Bastards. What unutterable bastards.’

‘I fear their minds are made up. They couldn’t face us, although apparently we’re having one more inspection next week, so there’s still hope. I’m so sorry, Marguerite, it was a wonderful play and, whatever the outcome, all of us will be able to cherish this memory.’

When the news got about of the continued, every-growing threat to the school, the parents and local community, fired by the magnificent play, were incensed. People not used to political action, or indeed standing up to authority in any way, were galvanised into protest. A public meeting was held in which feelings ran high.

‘Why is nobody talking to us parents about this?’

‘Our kids have been mucked about. They’ve already changed schools once. Nobody cares about them.’

‘We’re not going to be shat on by a load of toffee-nosed gits in some office up West.’

‘Mr Duane’s a good man and a wonderful headmaster. It’s awful that they are being so insulting to him.’

The official reasons given for the proposed closure was that people didn’t want to send their children to the school, so the rolls were falling, and another institution needed the premises.

‘Of course the bloody rolls are falling,’ raved Tony, ‘with all the rumours of closure and the campaign of undermining by that arsehole Fletcher and his council cronies.

When the visiting inspector, Councillor Jackson, came again into Marguerite’s class he was openly hostile. Marguerite tried her best to be polite when he constantly interrupted with asinine comments. The children had been warned to be on their best behaviour and she could see the usually outspoken Sammy Bream actually physically biting his lip.

It was a senior class and the topic was contemporary playwrights, about which they were extremely knowledgeable after frequent theatre visits. It was obvious from the harrumphing that came from Councillor Jackson that he was not altogether happy about them discussing Pinter and Wesker, although Marguerite doubted he knew much about them. When it came to Shelagh Delaney’s
A Taste of Honey
he could contain himself no longer. He had heard about this one from the scandalised reaction in the tabloid press.

‘Really, Miss Carter, I do not think this is suitable material for young people.’

Sammy Bream had had enough.

‘Oh shut up, you stupid old prick,’ he shouted.

Councillor Jackson flushed bright red and responded, ‘Listen to me, young man, I do not think the fact that I consider a play about homosexuality, illegitimacy and mixed marriage unsuitable for children, makes me a prig.’

To prevent Sammy landing himself in more trouble, Marguerite intervened politely.

‘Excuse me, Councillor Jackson. I think you misheard Sammy. What he actually called you was “a stupid old prick”. It’s an easy mistake. I’ve made it myself. “Prick” is slang for a man’s genitals, “cock”, “penis”. It’s in the dictionary. Ursula, give the gentleman yours, will you?’