Miss Carter's War (28 page)

The girl gave it to him and, in her determination to be courteous, curtsied as she did so.

‘You can look it up. I feel inclined to congratulate Sammy on an apposite use of language. Don’t you agree, class?’

They were a few mumbled ‘Yes, miss’es amongst the giggles.

‘Maybe one could question the choice of the word “old”. Perhaps “middle-aged” would be better, do you think?’

The children were now falling about with laughter.

‘Yes, I think so too. So—’ She crossed to write on the blackboard. ‘We now have’ – the chalk squeaked as she wrote – ‘ “you stupid middle-aged prick”. Excellent. Descriptive, vivid, and above all accurate. Congratulations, class.’

Councillor Jackson turned on his heel and stormed out of the room. The pupils stamped and cheered. Marguerite was shaking. She had allowed her pent-up fury to make her behave rashly. But at least she had shown the children that you can stand up to destructive and ignorant authority figures. Speak truth to power. Albeit ideally less rudely than she had. Anyway it had made them all feel a lot better and she knew, in her heart of hearts, that the stupid middle-aged prick was going to condemn them anyway.

Chapter 28

The future of the school remained uncertain. Duane and the staff that supported him did their best to keep things as normal as possible for the children’s sake, as, for many of them, the school was the only stability in their lives. Mr Fletcher and his gang slunk around looking furtive. Marguerite did her best, after her outburst with the inspector, to restrain the fury she felt towards them for the harm they were doing to the youngsters she loved and admired. She forced herself to write an abject apology to Councillor Jackson for her behaviour, pleading that it was her ‘time of the month’. She judged that, inhibited puritan that he was, he would be too embarrassed to take the matter further if it involved discussing female functions. It irked her to be so craven but the well-being of the school was paramount.

This preoccupation came at a cost to her private life. Especially in respect of Jimmy. Whereas she knew she had given many of her pupils the confidence that comes from self-respect, the teacher in Marguerite felt she had not addressed Jimmy’s feeling of inferiority. She wanted him to realise that he did not have to impress her with smart restaurants and champagne. Having made a crack in the veneer of his glamorous lifestyle, she wanted to delve into his real world, the world he had opted to keep secret from her. It was not easy. How to suggest they choose less expensive amusements without highlighting his lack of money? Such was his view of how a man should behave, it was difficult to suggest that she pay her way, let alone his, although she was better off than him. It boosted his ego to invent enjoyable distractions from her woes at work. When she raged at the neglect of the governing body to acknowledge the children’s massive efforts to make the play such a triumph she would have liked him to discuss it with her, but he merely came up with, ‘Let’s go for a slap-up meal at the Savoy. That’ll cheer you up, old girl.’

Rather than say, ‘You can’t afford it,’ she said, ‘There are some lovely little cafés in Soho, I believe. I’d love to go to one of those and then maybe visit where you work.’

He said at once, ‘Soho is not your scene, Marguerite. You wouldn’t like it.’

‘You’re so wrong about me, Jimmy. Stop thinking about me as some stuck-up teacher. I love Soho. I often shop there.’

‘That’s different. Not the Italian delis and nice restaurants. We’re talking serious sleaze here. I want to take you to nice places.’

Marguerite was determined not to let go of the opportunity that his honesty over his earnings had presented. As with the children at school, she needed an all-round picture if she was to help him out of the corner which he seemed to have got himself trapped. For such an accomplished lover he was lamentably lacking in confidence, and that limited his ambition to make something of himself.

When she shared those thoughts with Tony he said, ‘Blimey, you sound like his mother.’

‘Oh sod off. I’ve got Florrie lecturing me on not taking care of my man, then you mock me for doing so.’

‘Sweetie, don’t take any notice of me. I’m just an ageing poof. What do I know? Let’s face it – neither of us is going to get a job with the Marriage Guidance Council.’

Her persistence paid off, and Jimmy was persuaded that a guided tour of his Soho haunts would be diverting fun for her. She arranged to meet him in a restaurant he had chosen in Greek Street. Meandering from Piccadilly Circus tube station to the back streets of Soho, Marguerite realised Jimmy was right. She had not been to Soho for several years and was astounded by the change. The village atmosphere of quaint shops run by all nationalities had been spoilt by the sex trade. The narrow alleys and roads were disfigured by myriad signs advertising so-called clubs, and frighteningly young girls stood in halls and at the bottom of filthy stairs, offering membership, entitling men to see ‘live kinky sex show’ or some such delight. There were dozens of new bookshops, which did not look as though they stocked Jane Austen, and other premises that sold objects and clothing that spoke of more complex sexual adventures than she had ever encountered. Yet again, thought Marguerite furiously, the powers that be had sought to impose their wrong-headed order on a situation of which they were completely ignorant. The women selling ‘a good time’ on the streets of Soho in the 1950s had been part of the community. By passing a law to ban them, did they imagine the whole thing would go away? Be restricted to lords and government ministers like Profumo cavorting with naked girls in stately homes? Which was perfectly all right, unless the minister in question told a lie in their sacred House of Commons. Then, blame the man who organised the parties, and drive him, Stephen Ward, to suicide and forget all about it. That’s the way to deal with it, they thought. Banish it from sight. Get rid of the prostitutes. Close down difficult schools, and banish their trouble-making headmasters.

It was a relief to walk into the cosy atmosphere of Bianchi’s restaurant, where she had arranged to meet Jimmy, and be greeted by a gracious Italian-looking plump middle-aged woman with a London accent.

‘Jimmy has told me about you. Welcome.’ And she led Marguerite to a table in the corner where he rose to greet her.

‘She’s lovely. I approve,’ said the woman. ‘You will have the risotto as always, and I suggest my special ravioli for the lady.’ And she disappeared into the back kitchen. It was apparently not up for discussion.

Marguerite was surprised.

‘She knows you.’

‘Yes, I’m a regular here. Have some wine. It’s a very good little Pinot Grigio.’

She looked around at the tables laid with immaculate white cloths and shining cutlery and glass and at the photos of famous diners on the walls.

‘I was thinking more of a little café, when I suggested Soho. This seems quite posh.’

He raised his eyes to the sky.

‘Don’t worry, I can afford it.’

It was a delicious lunch, and Marguerite enjoyed it, despite Jimmy’s strange discomfort. The owner herself looked after them, whilst a waiter served the rest of the quite small room. Out of the corner of her eye Marguerite saw him give Jimmy a thumbs-up sign. Which Jimmy ignored.

The proprietor came to the table.

‘Did you enjoy your meal?’

‘Very much. Thank you. It was delicious.’

‘I’ll have the bill, please,’ said Jimmy.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said the woman. ‘It’s on me. And you needn’t come in tonight. We’re not very busy.’

Marguerite was stunned.

When they got outside she said, ‘You work there.’

Jimmy’s eyes darted as if searching for an answer.

‘What’s up with you, Jimmy? I was bound to find out. And what does it matter? It’s a lovely place, the owner is fond of you. Why pretend?’

He looked genuinely bewildered.

‘I don’t know. I suppose I just can’t face—’

‘What?’

‘What I am.’

‘As far as I can see you are someone these people are very fond of. What’s wrong with that?’

‘I want you to respect me.’

‘Well, I won’t if you keep lying to me.’

She was angry and unsettled about this strange behaviour, but mindful of the fact that some children behave badly to draw attention to themselves, she decided to ignore her inclination to leave. Besides, he looked so forlorn.

It started to rain.

‘Let’s get inside somewhere.’

He brightened at once.

‘OK, let’s go for a drink.’

‘We can’t. The pubs are closed till 5.30.’

‘Come with me. Anything is possible if you are in the know. You want the truth? I’ll show you somewhere else that I work.’

Jimmy took her arm protectively as they walked to the next street. They passed a group of reeling football fans regaled in red-and-white scarves and rosettes, whirling their wooden rattles and shouting. Their chanting was brought to a halt by a Brylcreemed, silk-suited man stepping from a filthy doorway, followed by a dazed-looking, near-naked, nubile girl. Above him was a crudely hand-painted board with the stark promise of ‘A live double-act show on bed’. Some negotiation went on and the football fans stepped sniggering inside.

‘Poor sods,’ muttered Jimmy.

After edging past smelly dustbins, they groped their way down the dark stairway that led to their next port of call. At the bottom was a battered door. As Jimmy pushed it open, a voice from inside bellowed, ‘If you’re not a member – fuck off.’

Jimmy shouted back, as he went in, ‘No one’s a member, you silly moo, and watch your language. I’m bringing a lady to meet you.’

The room was small, dimly lit and smoky, with little more than a threadbare carpet, a piano, some sagging armchairs and sofas, and a wilting cheese plant. Seated majestically on a high stool at the bamboo bar was a woman with black hair scraped back from her face, and pencilled eyebrows over hooded eyes that missed nothing.

‘A lady? This place is full of ladies, duckie. Look at her over there and her in the corner.’ She pointed to a respectable-looking man in a suit, and a policeman in uniform.

‘I’m Mavis.’ She scrutinised Marguerite’s face. ‘Do you want a drinkette then, my pretty pedigree ginger pussycat?’

Marguerite asked for a gin and tonic. Mavis clambered off her stool and went behind the bar to pour the drinks. Marguerite noticed she drew a double whisky for Jimmy from the optic without even asking.

Marguerite whispered, ‘Is this a gay club?’

Jimmy explained, ‘It’s anything you like. Those two are perfectly normal, but Mavis calls everyone “miss” and “lady”. This is the Dominion Club – a dive where people come to drink when the pubs are closed. You’re supposed to be a member, but the membership is a question of whether Mavis likes the look of you or not. She’s very choosy.’

That was proven as a man with glasses tentatively came in the door and she bellowed, ‘Piss off – you’re not pretty enough to be a member of my clubette, four-eyes.’

Sitting on her bar stool again, she chain-smoked, adding to the choking fug. The cigarette in a long ivory holder, held in elegant blood-red-nailed fingers, was used to languidly point to the subjects of her savage wit. To a woman whom Marguerite recognised as the star of a current West End show, who was talking loudly about her latest triumph, she directed her cigarette accusingly. ‘If you don’t belt up, Gertie, you’ll be barred. You’re boring the arse off all of us.’

To which the victim replied, ‘You won’t bar me, Madam Muck. You need my money. I’m the only bugger who pays for my drinks.’

Mavis thought for a bit.

‘Yes, that’s true. You can stay.’

Turning to look at Marguerite, she asked Jimmy, ‘Does it talk, this one? Or is it just for decoration?’

Jimmy replied, ‘You’re frightening her to death, you awful woman.’

‘How dare you. I’m a sweet little lambikins. Well, she can stay because I love you. Give your mother a kiss.’ He did and she turned to Marguerite. ‘I adore him because he stood up to that naughty Mrs Hitler.’

A willowy young man appeared behind the bar.

‘Oh there you are, Amadeus. Get to bloody work. What do I pay you for, or rather what does the toast of the West End over there pay you for?’

She slapped the pianist on the backside as he made his way to the piano.

‘Classically trained. And he’s ended up in this shithole. Where did it all go wrong, Ludwig?’

Marguerite sat next to Jimmy on a lumpy sofa and looked around. It was the oddest social venue she had ever been to. It was as though a bizarre party was being given for people that one didn’t notice in the daylight outside, if it was still daylight – there was no way of telling. Time was suspended in this basement. They were creatures of the underworld.

Everyone seemed to know one another, and Jimmy. One Hogarthian old woman, who looked and smelled as if her clothes had not been washed for a long time, staggered towards them and leant over him. ‘Get us a drink, Jim,’ she slurred, giving a toothless smile.

‘Don’t you dare,’ Mavis intervened. ‘They won’t let her in the hostel if she gets any more pissed.’

She crossed to put her arm round the old woman and, with surprising tenderness, led her to the door and up the stairs. Jimmy told a shocked Marguerite that when she was young the woman had been a great beauty and modelled for several major artists, two of whom still came to the club.