Miss Carter's War (37 page)

‘You know Elsie well, I understand, Miss Carter. I’d like your opinion. It strikes me she has a very good brain.’

‘She has.’

‘Maybe. But I left school at sixteen. I’ve only got O Levels. I should have—’

Dr Chapple held up his hand.

‘Should – that’s a forbidden word, remember, Elsie. Never mind the past. I’m not interested in that. What about the here and now? We’re not interested in why you lost your way, how hard done by you are, we’re only interested in what you’re going to do about it. So, Elsie, what are you going to do next?”

‘God knows.’

‘Maybe, but do you? We’re agreed it would be good to get away from London for a bit. Away from temptation until you feel really strong. The question is where?’

Marguerite said suddenly, ‘What about university?’

‘I’m forty, for heaven’s sake. They wouldn’t have me.’

‘Ruskin College in Oxford would. I was there a few months ago at a huge conference on the Women’s Liberation Movement. It’s a great place. You don’t have to be qualified. It’s for people who want a second chance in education. Any age.’

‘I’ve got no money.’

‘You can get grants and scholarships. The trade unions support people.’

Major Lily clapped her hands.

‘That sounds perfect for you, Elsie. You’re always reading. Even when you lost everything else you hung on to your books.’

Marguerite could see that Elsie was interested but before she could continue to persuade her Dr Chapple stopped the conversation.

‘Elsie, I suggest you go to your counselling session now and raise it with them. See if you feel able to make some kind of commitment to the group.’

When Elsie had left the room Dr Chapple shook Marguerite’s hand.

‘Thank you. That could work for Elsie.’

‘And thank you, Dr Chapple, for what work you are doing here.’

‘I’m just holding back a bit of the tide. I’m afraid I can’t make the powers that be understand that this problem is going to grow. That drugs could undermine the whole of society.’

‘Do you really believe that? I’m a teacher and it’s not a big problem at my school. Not like alcohol. I passed some youngsters coming here who may have been smoking cannabis and I know we hear about pop stars behaving badly but the habit doesn’t seem to me to be widespread. I’ve never thought reefers were particularly dangerous.’

‘It’s what they lead to. Organised crime is moving in on supplying illegal hard drugs on the street in a big way. Soon it will be out of control and not enough is being done to stop it. Even I may have to close. The Salvation Army through Lily here is wonderful, but our needs are growing and the money isn’t. Anyway, I live in hope. We are asking for government funding. We have an inspection due and, if they approve of us, they will cough up.’

Despite a flutter of fear at the word ‘inspection’ Marguerite said, ‘I’m sure they will.’

She offered to get information about Ruskin to Elsie but Dr Chapple insisted that any further action must be undertaken by Elsie herself without help.

On her return walk to the bus stop Marguerite felt much better. She was exhilarated by her meeting with Dr Chapple, but disturbed by what he had to say. She resolved to delve closer into the habits of her pupils and suggest the school start educating them into the danger of drugs. She needed to find out more herself and try to understand what was happening to youngsters outside the schoolroom.

She decided to start right away. Outside the café, instead of skirting round the alarming-looking crowd she went into the middle of the throng, smiling and nodding. Some of the youngsters looked suspicious, but others smiled back. One lad with blue hair stuck up like a cockatoo’s, and a nail through his nose, nudged his friend and pointed at her.

‘Diddle-oh – look.’

Seizing the opportunity, Marguerite stopped and asked, ‘What does that mean exactly?’

‘Er – nutter.’

‘Really? Diddle-oh. It’s a word I’ve not come across.’

The boy took a nervous step back.

‘While we are at it, can you tell me the words of the song they’re playing in the café? I’m finding them difficult to decipher.’

‘Are you taking the piss?’

‘Not at all. I teach English and I love poetry.’

Haltingly, with the help of one or two others, the boy recited, ‘ “Hey ho let’s go/Hey ho let’s go”. You do that three times.’

‘No, four,’ someone shouted.

‘All right. Four.’

As the boy got into his stride others joined in, clapping and chanting:

‘ “They’re forming in a straight line

They’re going through a tight wind

The kids are losing their minds

The Blitzkrieg Bop” ’

Now the whole crowd were singing, or rather shouting, the song. Marguerite had some difficulty hearing what the words were. One line, ‘Shoot ’em in the back now’, shocked her but when the performance petered out, she applauded them.

‘Thank you, that’s very kind. It has great energy, and a strange dark edge. I’m not sure what it means though. For instance “why Blitzkrieg”?’

‘Dunno. It’s just a word.’

‘Just a word?’

‘Yeah. don’t mean anything. It’s just a sound.’

A boy in a Japanese kimono, with green hair and white make-up, said, ‘I think it’s something to do with the war. I’ve heard my mum say it.’

‘They never stop talking about the fucking war. Oh sorry.’ It was a girl with a painted face, wearing a bridal veil and a sack fastened with nappy pins.

In preparation for the ambush she wears a Breton beret pulled down concealing her hair, Marcel’s leather jacket and peasant blue trousers. She covers her face and hands with camouflage mud. Maman would not be pleased at her ensemble, but she feels fully alive.

The girl continued, ‘I suppose you remember it an’ all, but it’s so boring. Boring, boring.’

‘Yes, I do remember it, dear. But it was a long time ago. It’s been so nice meeting you all today. Thank you.’

She left to a chorus of goodbyes and giggles, aware that they thought her weirder than she them. She was glad that ‘Blitzkrieg’ was just a meaningless word in a song to them. All the lyric was, as far as she could understand, vicious, but the young people were not. They probably got into office clothes and school uniforms when they went home. She found herself singing, ‘Hey ho let’s go’ four, five, six times, only stopping when a convertible Bentley drew up alongside her at a traffic light with the lion from the shop in the back seat. One of the two young men escorting the animal shouted, in a broad Australian accent, ‘Good day, madam. Meet Christian. He is going for a walk in the graveyard. Say hello to the lady, Christian,’ and the lion roared.

Marguerite roared back.

The world is full of strange, wonderful ‘diddle-ohs’, she thought.

Chapter 38

The good work being done by Chapple inspired Marguerite to renew her ‘not do nothing’ vow. Her teaching job was not as all-consuming as it had been under the Duane regime. She had some leeway in her own classes, but the new strict syllabus requirements, and the worthy, but unadventurous, headmaster did not inspire her. She sought out new causes to support. An incident that happened not long after her visit to CURE reminded her of her earlier feminist interests which had somewhat dwindled.

One morning Marguerite went into a newsagent’s for her
Guardian
. Behind the shelves of confectionery, she discovered a girl crouching on the floor, with a pile of magazines on which she was methodically sticking labels.

When she saw Marguerite she stopped and put a finger in front of her mouth.

‘Shush. Don’t say anything, please.’

Marguerite crouched down beside her. She saw that the magazine-cover photo was of a young woman kneeling on all fours wearing only a pair of knickers, her face turned coyly to the camera. The label went over the woman’s breasts and read, ‘this picture degrades women.’ The girl hastily gathered up the labels and started putting the marked magazines back on the top shelf.

Marguerite took her wrist and whispered, ‘Let me help.’

The two of them sat on the floor in amicable silence, grinning at each other as they defaced the Penthouse Pets. When the shopkeeper appeared and threatened to call the police, they ran out of the door, the girl darting down a side road shouting, ‘Thank you, sister, whoever you are.’

Marguerite shouted back, ‘Deeds, not words, sister.’ She outpaced the pursuing shopkeeper.

Giving up, he bellowed, ‘You should know better at your age.’

Incensed, Marguerite vowed forthwith to seek out further protest activity. She was delighted to find that the activist in her was still alive and kicking.

She read of a group involved in a long-drawn-out strike by Asian women, many of whom were refugees from Idi Amin’s Uganda, who worked long hours for minuscule wages at Grunwick, a film-developing business in Willesden. For over a year the women had been striking for the right to belong to a union, a demand that was resolutely opposed by their boss, backed by the right-wing press and a posse of like-minded public figures and MPs. Coming in the wake of the shock of his father’s racialist attitudes, and because of its union focus, the campaign ticked all Tony’s boxes, so she had no trouble in persuading him to join her at a mass picket being organised in support of the women. On the day of the picket Donald was not well enough to accompany them. He had been suffering from flu for some time and Tony insisted that he take it easy. Donald was not too upset as he was not a born militant.

The event started well. Tony and Marguerite were enjoying themselves. Thousands of members of various unions, universities, women’s groups and families thronged the streets round the factory. The multicolour trade-union banners, the bands, the chants were a splendid display of unity. They were moved by the sight of the tiny Jayaben Desai and her valiant band of strikers, resplendent in saris, leading the parade. Tony and Marguerite mingled with a contingent from the Teachers’ Union.

Tony pointed out to Marguerite that the group of burly men behind them were the London dockers.

‘Those bastards marched in support of Enoch Powell. They seem to have changed their minds. Perhaps I should get them to go and talk to Dad.’

The huge crowd was trying to stop the bus carrying the non-striking workers into the building, so that they could put their side of the argument. But the police would not let the pickets get near enough to talk.

At first there was friendly banter with some of the police, who were also fighting for a wage increase. But their friendliness cooled when Arthur Scargill arrived with his miners. A policeman with a loudhailer started ordering people to clear the road.

‘They’ll never forgive them for winning at Saltley Gate,’ said Tony.

A very large man grabbed the megaphone from the policeman and said, ‘Me and my comrades built the bloody roads. I’m not going to be ordered off ’em by you, matey.’

He was backed by an aggressively shouting group with a banner declaring themselves the Workers’ Revolutionary Party.

‘They’re just here to make trouble,’ snarled Tony. ‘Middle-class wankers, the lot of them.’

Marguerite joined the women in the front when she saw one being roughly dragged away by a policeman.

‘We have a legal right to picket,’ she protested.

‘But not to obstruct the highway.’

The policeman pushed Marguerite away so violently that she fell to the ground. The mood was changing. The police were manhandling the women strikers, which incited their male supporters to attack them. Suddenly the pent-up fury of the last eighteen months’ battle exploded in a vicious fight between the police and the pickets. Men were shouting, women screaming. Marguerite instinctively started to defend the women, using techniques she had learnt long ago.

Grabbing her round the waist Tony shouted, ‘For God’s sake, Marguerite. You’ll kill somebody.’

Appalled, she let go of a shocked policeman whom she had in a choke-hold and gasped, ‘Sorry,’ as Tony thrust her away through the battling crowd. They passed a policeman lying on the ground with blood streaming from his head and a broken bottle beside him.

A boy in jeans stood by the unconscious man yelling, ‘Serves you right, you fucking pig,’ before being dragged away by his hair into a waiting police van. The police were now wielding batons and seemed intent on injuring people.

Marguerite and Tony joined a huddle clinging to each other in one of the small front gardens of the street.

Marguerite was bewildered.

‘What’s going on? Why are the police being like this?’

A man in a pinstriped suit said, ‘This is out of order. The police are definitely using undue force.’

A grey-haired woman, her coat-sleeve torn in the scrum, said, ‘These are not your usual coppers. They’re a squad called the Special Patrol Group formed to control public order. They’re thugs.’

Tony was incensed.

‘But we’re not bloody terrorists.’