Miss Carter's War (48 page)

The day of the march was freezing cold. In Marguerite’s wardrobe still hung her old Afghan coat as well as Tony’s duffel, which she could not bring herself to part with; it fitted Marcel perfectly and he declared himself honoured to wear it, so they set off to the rallying point on the Embankment looking much as she and Tony had in all their previous demos over the years. But this one was very different.

It was on a scale that Marguerite had never seen before. They sought out the CND contingent and were told by the excited leader that it was reckoned that nearly two million people were congregating in London and about thirty million worldwide. It was the biggest demonstration in history, making the disorganised little march to Aldermaston in 1958 to rid the world of these same weapons look tame.

Marguerite did think to herself:

I shouldn’t be doing this again. Forty-five years later. We should have learned by now. Surely we should?

But this was different. The magnitude of this protest could not be ignored. Surely?

Even Marguerite was overawed by the size of the crowd as they started to walk towards Parliament Square, so she was concerned for Marcel for whom Apt market on a Saturday was too crowded. But he was having the time of his life. He had palled up with some French students who had handed him a saucepan, which he was vigorously banging with a wooden spoon, in time to the group’s drums and whistles.

The column was very slow-moving as it was over three miles long, winding its way past Parliament, 10 Downing Street, Trafalgar Square, Piccadilly Circus and along Piccadilly to Hyde Park. Marcel was having a splendid guided tour of some of Marguerite’s favourite haunts, accompanied by British people of all colours, classes, and ages. He asked Marguerite to translate the slogans for him. There was a big contingent with a banner declaring, ‘Eton College Orwell Society, people not profit, peace not war’.

When Marguerite pointed out they were from one of England’s top public schools Marcel was very impressed that a kingdom could be so egalitarian.

‘They won’t be once they leave and become the ruling class,’ she snarled on Tony’s behalf.

Marcel admired the many largely home-made banners and chortled with delight at their absurdity: ‘Boring middle-aged men against war’; ‘Make tea not war’.

One very big banner had a long message which Marcel judged must be a worthy quotation. He loved it when Marguerite told him it meant, ‘Notts County supporters say make love not war (and a home win against Bristol would be nice).’

His favourite and Marguerite’s was held by two small children and a middle-aged woman. Written in crayon it read, ‘Auntie Jane says no to war’.

Pauline was very solicitous. Marguerite was touched that, despite her being one of the organisers of the march, she kept darting back to see if they were all right. She found time to explain that she worked for the Quaker Peace and Social Witness, a job that had taken her all over the world putting her childhood campaigning zeal into practical use.

After the speeches were over in Hyde Park and people began to light fires and get down to some partying, Marguerite and Marcel decided it was time to leave. Pauline came running after them suggesting that they could meet up for lunch the following day.

Marguerite was delighted.

‘That would be lovely, Pauline. But where? I’m a bit out of touch. It’s eight years since I was last in London and it’s changed so much.’

‘It certainly has. Have you seen the Millennium Wheel?’

‘Only from a distance.’

When Pauline suggested they meet there Marguerite hesitated. Over the years she had avoided going to the site of the magnificent Festival of Britain. Its savage annihilation for political reasons came to symbolise to her the destruction of visionary ideas by mindless authority. She had seen too much of that in her life. The last time she went there was with Tony after Churchill’s funeral when he told her that he had fallen in love with Donald. That led to another ending she preferred not to dwell on.

She was about to suggest they went somewhere else when Pauline said, ‘I love that place, Miss Carter. It has such wonderful memories for me. Do you remember when we all went to the Festival?’

Pauline was suddenly the ardent young teenager and Marguerite could not crush her enthusiasm.

‘Lovely idea, Pauline. Where shall we meet?’

‘There is a plaque in the pavement not far from the Wheel that marks where the Skylon was. Let’s meet there.’

The next day Marguerite and Marcel crossed the new bridge that had replaced the dingy old Hungerford Bridge footpath over the Thames to the South Bank. It looked as though it was suspended by lots of giant umbrellas that had lost their covering fabric. Marcel was transfixed by the views up and downstream of the river. Although she was impressed by the gigantic Wheel Marguerite was saddened when she saw the area that had been packed with the wonders of science and art was now bland stretches of grass and pavement. Nevertheless the crowds of people queuing for a trip on the Wheel or enjoying some winter sunshine on the grass seemed to be having fun.

Pauline seemed very excited to see them. She was dressed in a smart coat and her hair looked fresh from the hairdresser’s.

‘My goodness, you’re very soignée, Pauline. I feel a real country bumpkin.’

‘You’re still as beautiful as ever, Miss Carter.’

Marcel, who had been introduced as ‘a good friend’, Marguerite not being sure how to designate his role, smiled when she translated what Pauline had said and nodded vigorously.

Pauline pointed out where the Skylon had been and, taking them to an area of rough ground being used as a car park, she indicated some broken-down steps which she told them had been those leading to the Dome of Discovery.

‘That’s the only thing left of the Festival, I’m afraid.’

Marguerite did her best to conceal the anguish she felt at the sight of all that remained of the time when she, everyone, had been so full of hope; so determined not to do nothing, to change the world. A few shattered steps leading nowhere.

Marcel put a comforting arm around her waist as they followed Pauline towards the Royal Festival Hall. People huddled in gloves and scarves were picnicking on tables outside. Marguerite laughed remembering Tony’s prediction.

‘It did take on then. Alfresco eating.’

As they went inside Marguerite was astonished. The place was buzzing with life. Hordes of children were pouring up the stairs to attend a matinee performance given by some school choirs, another group of youngsters were playing gamelan instruments in the foyer.

‘There seems to be a lot going on, Pauline.’

‘Yes. It’s open all day and not just for concerts. And they have lots of festivals and free events. I want to show you something. There is a poetry library. Every book ever written.’

‘How do you know so much about the place, Pauline?’

‘Oh . . . well . . . just . . . I know someone who works here. Will you excuse me, I have to make a quick phone call.’

Pauline walked ahead and spoke briefly on her mobile.

‘Sorry about that. Follow me, we have to take the lift.’

On the fifth floor they crossed a large room towards stacks full of books, where people were sitting in comfortable chairs reading or at desks writing. It was very quiet. Pauline introduced her to a woman whose face seemed familiar.

‘This is Mrs Heydon, our librarian. She is a poet herself.’

‘It’s so lovely to see you, Miss Carter. Come round this corner. We have a room where we do performances and lectures. We call it the Voice Box.’

Marguerite was startled to see the room was full of people standing strangely still and silent. As she entered they started to cheer and clap. A small girl stepped forward clutching a bunch of flowers.

She said hesitantly, ‘This is to say thank you, Miss Carter.’

‘Elsie? I’m going mad. You can’t be Elsie?’

‘No, I’m Elsie.’

A smart, white-haired woman with tears in her eyes stepped forward.

‘This is Margaret, my great-granddaughter, named after you. Except we couldn’t cope with the French version.’

Marguerite was clinging to Marcel’s arm.

‘I’m sorry. Is this really happening? What’s going on?’

Pauline explained.

‘A few months ago I came to organise a conference in one of the rooms here and my contact turned out to be Elsie. When I told her you were coming on the march she said she’d arrange a get-together.’

Elsie was smiling now.

‘I work here on the creative team. Been here for two years now.’

‘I was terrified you were dead, Elsie.’

‘Well, it’s been touch and go. But I got my degree at Ruskin and despite everything I have ended up in my ideal job. With my friend. My true friend.’

Elsie pushed forward the blushing librarian.

‘Here is the woman you made me look after at school, who has spent the rest of her life looking after me.’

Marguerite clasped them both by the hand.

‘Irene?’

‘Yes, Miss Carter. I know I disappointed you and I so much wanted you to know it all turned out all right.’

Elsie took up the story, explaining that Irene had taken in her baby and brought him up as part of her family, so that his mother could keep in touch with him. Although he did not know until he was an adult he was Elsie’s son he already loved her as a close friend of his mother. When her life was out of control she lost touch with him but he was safe with Irene. The baby Elsie had heard her son, Dr Phillip Miller, mention in St Thomas’s Accident and Emergency was introduced as Matthew, now a handsome young man of twenty-seven who had inherited Elsie’s talent and was a budding actor. His daughter Margaret was this little replica of Elsie now holding Marguerite’s trembling hand as she met these ghosts from her past.

Irene introduced two daughters and a son, the daughters’ husbands and the son’s wife, or in modern parlance their ‘partners’, and their offspring. Marguerite was delighted to see they were a microcosm of the multicultural Britain she had seen thronging the rest of the building.

‘They all went to university, Miss Carter. So you see although I couldn’t make it I made damn sure they did.’

Looking out of the window, with their arms round Marguerite, at the chunky brutalist buildings clustered by the panorama of the Thames, Elsie and Irene talked of the ambitious plans to develop further the Southbank area with its art gallery, concert halls, film centre, and National Theatre into a place worthy of the legacy of the 1951 Festival.

‘Arts for everyone, not just the posh,’ said Elsie. ‘A place to discover, create and have fun. We’re even planning a garden on the roof of the Queen Elizabeth Hall over there, so people with no gardens can sunbathe and picnic or make love if they like.’

‘Well, I’m your man for that. Sorry, don’t misunderstand me. I mean you’ll need to construct some raised beds. A speciality of mine.’

A flashily dressed middle-aged man introduced himself as, ‘Mick O’ Sullivan, the truant from Risinghill, now a successful builder and cabinet-maker.’ He handed each of them a card along with some wine in a plastic cup.

Helping him take round the wine Marguerite recognised Geoffrey Wilkins, who proudly told her he had been battling to get clause 28 repealed and it looked as if it was about to happen this year.

‘Wouldn’t Mr Stansfield be pleased?’

Marguerite hugged him.

‘He would, Geoffrey. He would.’

Before Marguerite could put names to any of the other faces Elsie clapped her hands and shouted, ‘Right. Shut up everyone for a minute. I want to propose a toast.’

Marguerite held Marcel’s hand very tight, fearful of losing control of her emotions. He put his arm around her as Elsie said, ‘Miss Carter, we got you here today because we want you to know how you influenced our lives. Most teachers never find out what they have meant to pupils and we thought we’d tell you before you pop your clogs.’

Now Irene stepped forward.

‘We are just a handful of the thousands of people that you have inspired. All going round amazing, or maybe boring, everyone by quoting those wonderful poems you made us learn. And here is a little present for you. My first published collection of poetry dedicated to you who told me I could do it. Better late than never.’

Elsie continued, ‘You gave us something to treasure for the rest of our lives. I came across a quote when I was working in the archives here. It’s from a speech made by some bloke called Lord Latham who was trying to persuade the establishment that the wonderful festival we went to fifty-two years ago was important. They thought it was a waste of money. There was a war going on then, the Korean War, just as we are threatened by another one now, so what he said is still true. This is it: “In view of the terrifying possibilities of the atomic bomb, the common bonds of culture will be the greatest insurance against future wars.”

‘That’s what you taught all of us here today, Miss Carter. And we, and hopefully our children, will continue to spread your message. But above all you believed in us, you fought for us, you’re bloody wonderful and we are deeply, deeply grateful.’

There was applause and cheers.