Miss Carter's War (30 page)

Her mouth was dry.

‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’

‘Why didn’t you tell me about Jimmy straight away?’

‘Fair enough.’

Theirs was a curious relationship. The rules were not clear. Each had thought the other would be upset about a serious commitment to someone else, although they had no claim on any conventional sort of loyalty. Marguerite was shocked at how devastated she felt about Tony’s news. She managed a smile, but found it difficult to know what to say.

‘Why, that’s wonderful, Tony. What’s he like?’

‘He’s a hoofer with the Royal Ballet. Far too beautiful and clever and young for me. Can’t think what he sees in me.’

‘He’s lucky to have you.’ And she meant it.

‘Why don’t you and Jimmy come to supper and meet him?’

‘No – no, not Jimmy. One thing at a time.’

Marguerite did not want to introduce Jimmy to Tony, partly because she didn’t think they would have much in common, but also because they belonged in separate compartments of her life. It was less complicated that way.

Normally when she was going to meet Tony she felt her spirits rise, but when a couple of evenings later she walked round the terraces of Myddelton Square, she felt disorientated. The ground was shifting under her feet at work, and in her private life. The front door had been newly painted in shiny dark blue. Before she could ring the bell, the door opened. ‘Marguerite. I’m so pleased to meet you at last.’ His voice was soft. ‘I’m Donald. Welcome.’

Whatever she had expected of ‘a hoofer from the Royal Ballet’ it was not this. Donald was tall and slender, yes, and his dancer’s feet turned out, but he was quietly courteous with no trace of flamboyance.

‘Come into our humble abode.’

It was anything but humble. Tony’s flat was transformed from its usual messy state. It shouted baroque style. The walls were covered, floor to ceiling, in paintings and photos, some of which were of Donald in dance pose. The sofas and cushions were upholstered in rich velvets and brocades and the curtains were silken. In the corner a table was bedecked with exquisite china and lit with candles. She could see Tony watching her from the kitchen.

She said, ‘Tony, this is beautiful.’

‘Oh it’s all him. As you know, I’ve always lived in a slum from childhood onwards. But he’s got taste. That’s the only reason I’ve shacked up with him.’

‘Get back into the kitchen, slave,’ said Donald. Marguerite noticed the look that passed between them. She felt like an outsider.

The meal was delicious but Marguerite could not settle into her changed role in Tony’s life. The proud smiles, the gentle mockery, the touching, the ease with one another bespoke a closeness between the two men that she was not part of. They both made every effort to include her, but she was a visiting friend. Donald had taken over her role, and she could not find a new one. It was an awkward evening. When it ended, Donald took her to the door.

In the hall he said, ‘Marguerite, I know how close you and Tony are. That won’t change. I promise you.’ And he kissed her on the forehead. Marguerite could see why Tony felt as he did. It didn’t help her to think that Donald was a thoroughly nice man.

As she walked back to King’s Cross Road, her throat and jaw were stiff with held-back sobs. It was absurd, she knew that. She had been having an affaire de coeur, and Tony had never objected, in fact he had been delighted for her. She had no claim on him, but the thought of someone else taking first place in his life was unbearably painful to her. She was ashamed of her selfishness. She passed a telephone box and considered calling Jimmy at the club, to come and comfort her, but she knew that he would not comprehend why she felt as she did and it would probably trigger a jealous outburst. Instead she had a brandy in the saloon bar and poured her heart out to Flo, as she cleared up the pub after closing time.

‘Well, lovey, perhaps it’s all for the good. He’s a nice man, Tony, but now you can concentrate on Jimmy. There’s more future in that for you.’

Marguerite was not keen on contemplating the future. Surviving the present was taking all her energy.

The final decision about the school had been taken. It was to be closed in its present form, and reopened under a new headmaster, charged with changing the liberal, ‘unruly’ ethos created by Duane. Duane and Miss Scott would be ‘let go’, a euphemism, Marguerite learned, for being sacked. Her instinct was to resign in protest, but Duane, ever concerned for his pupils, persuaded her to stay as a much-loved teacher and give the children some sense of continuity. Tony too would stay on as sports master. It was a wretched outcome and Marguerite was in despair.

On the final day of term, when the five-year journey that they had all been on was terminated, there was an overall sense of disbelief. The children, especially the seniors, were distraught. Tough boys, whose lives had made them ready for anything, were yet crying in the toilets. Long after the rest of the school had gone home, Duane’s study was full of troubled youngsters. Never had Marguerite admired this exceptional man more than on that last day. He focused entirely on building up the confidence of his children and their parents. He restrained a gang intent on destroying the school – ‘If we can’t have it, no one else can’ – explaining that nothing was gained by harming others because you had been harmed. His behaviour demonstrated what a terrible injustice had been done to him.

The young man is squealing for mercy. François laughs. ‘You showed none when you betrayed that woman. She was murdered in front of her child, you bastard, now it’s your turn.’ A shot. The pleading stops.

‘François, what have you done? The girl in the flowery dress was the traitor.’

‘No, it was him. She was just his girlfriend. She knew nothing apparently. Pity, but C’est la guerre.’

Once the school was empty, Duane flopped into a chair in his study and shared a bottle of whisky given to him by the market traders with Marguerite and Tony and Miss Scott. He thanked them for being his most loyal supporters. He was calm and controlled as he talked of his dreams for the future.

‘I suppose what I want above all is to teach not Maths or spelling, but kindness and wisdom. They are what the world needs.’

Marguerite had got Kenneth White to copy, in his best calligraphy, a speech by Winston Churchill. A girl in the carpentry class had carved a frame for it. They gave it to Duane. He read it in silence.

‘The only guide to man is his conscience; the only shield to his memory is the rectitude and sincerity of his actions. It is very imprudent to walk through life without this shield, because we are so often mocked by the failure of our hopes and the upsetting of our calculations; but with this shield, however the fates may play, we march always in the ranks of honour.’

As he carefully put the gift back in its wrapping, only then did the tears flow.

Chapter 30

The next few months in Marguerite’s life were a period of transition. The new headmaster, Mr Pryor, was a good, if unimaginative man, and apart from insisting on more focus on exams and adhering to a curriculum, left her alone. Marguerite endeavoured to maintain the techniques of teaching she had developed under Duane’s regime, and her dedication to, and delight in, her pupils. She was able to continue to treat them with respect and concern. But her pride in her work had gone.

At school her relationship with Tony was unchanged. Their support of one another was a safety valve for their frustration at the new regime. They helped each other cope with the loss of an ideal, a dream.

‘Oh Mags, why do the petty bureaucrats always win?’

‘Illegitimi non carborundum.’

‘OK, smartarse. What does that mean?’

‘Don’t let the bastards get you down.’

She wished that Jimmy was more understanding of her distress. On their sporadic dates he was intent on having a good time to cheer her up.

‘Don’t be gloomy, Skylark. It’s only a job.’

As time went on, Donald and Tony did all they could to include Marguerite in their social life. There were parties at their flat, which Jimmy didn’t want to attend, full of exquisite men and women from the ballet company. Marguerite marvelled at their capacity to drink and smoke until the small hours of the morning, despite having an early start for class the next day, which continued with rehearsals and performances until eleven o’clock at night. After which they would party again. She went to the Royal Opera House with Tony when Donald had a role and marvelled with him at his lover’s dark beauty and breathtaking agility. She joined them, after the show, at a nearby café, full of theatre people letting their hair down. It fascinated her to hear these other-worldly creatures she had seen magically leaping and twirling an hour or so before reducing their artistry to the mundane.

‘You’ve got to lose some weight. I nearly got a rupture doing that last lift.’

‘You’re supposed to grip my leg, not my fanny, on that arabesque, you know.’

She enjoyed herself with both of them but she could not stop the stab of pain when she had to go away and leave them alone together. When she tried to explain how she felt to Jimmy he was, as she thought he might be, unsympathetic.

‘Why do you want to be some sort of fag hag when you’ve got me?’

Sometimes, observing Donald and Tony’s obvious devotion, she wondered what exactly she had ‘got’ with Jimmy. Sex. No gainsaying that. ‘Joy and jollity be with us both’, as Wordsworth had it. She would think back to Jimmy’s wooing of her on that first trip to Brighton. It had such grace and thoughtfulness. But Wordsworth also said of his skylark, ‘There is madness about thee.’ Jimmy’s jealous moods could be disturbing but she had learned to handle them, more often than not with a bit of ‘joy and jollity’. She uneasily wondered whether she actually enjoyed the drama and subsequent passion.

‘Marguerite, move. The bastards are dead.’ She stares at him blankly. It is as if she is deep, deep underwater. He kicks her to her feet, dragging her behind him by the hand, running and weaving through olives and aspens, jumping over rocks and bushes, the dry pine and rosemary scent tickling her nose and the dust flying round their feet. They get to the safety of Marcel’s home where the ancient oak stands. She leans panting with her back against the huge girth, hands outstretched behind her feeling its strength. Clinging to reality.

‘Oh Christ. Oh Christ.’

Suddenly Marcel is thrusting against her. Laughing and crying she grips him to her, digging in her grimy fingernails; they are ripping, tearing, clawing at each other’s clothes and bodies in orgasmic triumph.

Because of their jobs, Jimmy and she could not meet as often as Marguerite would have liked, and they were limited by the uncertain availability of his boss’s two houses. There was tension between them about the time Marguerite spent with Tony and Donald.

Tony suggested, ‘He’ll feel a lot better about it if we get to know him. Why don’t you bring him round to dinner? Is he a homophobe or something?’

It was not something they had discussed, but considering his relationship with the sexually ambiguous habitués of the Dominion Club, Marguerite thought it unlikely. To eliminate any doubt in her friends’ minds, she agreed with Tony that they should have a cosy dinner for four in his and Donald’s flat.

She held Jimmy’s hand as they waited at the blue front door. It was clammy.

‘You look so dishy,’ she said reassuringly. He was in an immaculate grey mohair suit, with a blue-silk open-necked shirt that enhanced the colour of his eyes. She wondered if he had spent all his earnings on making a good impression on her friends.

They welcomed him warmly and Donald thrust a glass of champagne into his hand.

‘You probably need this. It must be like meeting the in-laws. We’re pretty nervous ourselves.’

Jimmy was surveying the room.

‘What a lovely place you have,’ he said politely.

He wandered over to the wall of pictures.

‘Smashing paintings. Is that you?’

He pointed to a picture of a dancer.

‘Yes.’

Jimmy looked closely at it.

‘
Le Corsaire
?’

‘Well spotted.’

Jimmy squinted at a sketch of a ballerina squatting, tying her shoes.

‘She did a lot of ballet paintings, didn’t she? Dame Laura Knight.’

‘How did you know? It’s not signed.’

‘I recognised her style.’ Jimmy peered at a photo.

‘That’s a Cartier-Bresson, isn’t it?’

‘Right again.’

Jimmy moved along the wall, entranced.

‘You’ve got some fabulous watercolours.’

Tony took Marguerite into the kitchen.

‘Come and be my commis chef, like the old days. We won’t get any help from Madam once she starts talking Art.’

He stood and put his hands on her shoulders.

‘I’m doing your mother’s cassoulet. I thought it’s what she might have cooked when she met your new boyfriend. I know a couple of poofs are no substitute for her, but we care about you very much, Mags. Is that all right?’