Authors: Sheila Hancock
Miss Carter's War (8 page)
‘Thanks, miss.’
‘Your parents will be pleased.’
‘My mum will.’
‘Not your father?’
‘Dunno, miss.’
‘Don’t know?’
‘He don’t say much.’
‘Oh?’
The girl hesitated for a moment, then abruptly turned and left the classroom.
Over a drink with Tony, Marguerite shared her growing frustration that they were battling against some of the girls’ environments away from school.
‘There is only so much you can do. Concentrate on that, for heaven’s sake, or you’ll burn out.’
‘But, Tony, I can’t bear the waste. For example, l know, with time and effort, Elsie and Irene can be something special. If I had my way, they’d be taken away from their useless parents.’
‘Whoa, that is going down a very dangerous path. And anyway they love them, I’m afraid, even if you don’t.’
‘I want my girls to rule the world.’
He laughed.
‘You’ve got your feet firmly placed in mid-air, and it’s wonderful to watch.’
‘I’m going to get those two girls to university if it kills me.’
‘I love it when you’re determined. You look like a juicy apple with your red cheeks and red hair. Go on, give us a smile.’
‘Oh Tony. You’re so good for me. You’re my light relief. I know I get too serious.’
‘Yes, you are in grave in danger of being dull, like brother Jack.’
‘How d’you know he was her brother? There is nothing in the verse about Jack’s relationship with Jill.’
‘Are you suggesting that there is a sexual connotation in our well-loved nursery rhyme? That fetching a pail of water is a euphemism for a bit of how’s yer father?’
‘Could be.’
‘Anyway, you dirty girl, that’s not the Jack I’m referring to. I’m talking about the one who did all work and no play.’
‘He didn’t have a sister.’
‘He may have done, you know-all English teacher you. It’s probably his nasty sister that said it in the first place, about hard-working Jack.’
‘And now you’re saying it about me.’
‘I am merely suggesting a bit of play would be good for you.’
‘What kind of play?’
‘What are you suggesting? Mind your tongue, you hussy. Don’t you dare sully my innocent Lancashire mind with your mucky French ways. Do you want to hear about my treat, or not?’
‘Go on.’
‘When we take the fourth form to the Festival of Britain I have permission from the head for you and I to stay behind after we get them back to the coach.’
‘Really? It’s “you and me”, by the way.’
‘Yes, there’s plenty of staff going, and then “me” has tickets for a concert at the new Royal Festival Hall.’
‘Oh how wonderful. A day and night of glamour.’
In anticipation of the evening Marguerite secretly wore a daring chiffon blouse with her worsted skirt under her teacher’s grey gabardine, and donned her nylons and ‘racy’ gloves. With her hair in an elaborate chignon, she braved Miss Fryer’s raised eyebrow, in the hope of perhaps making inroads into Tony’s ‘complications’. The girls were enchanted by these small concessions to chic and fought to shield her hair with their umbrellas and offers of plastic pixie hoods.
Traipsing round the thirty acres of the Festival in drizzling rain with twenty at first overexcited then later wet and whingeing schoolgirls was not quite the uplifting experience Marguerite had hoped for. She wanted the girls to be as thrilled as she was. The Dome and various other exhibition halls were crammed with past and future scientific and industrial developments in Great Britain, but the scale of the information on offer overwhelmed them. Marguerite tried in vain to stir them to patriotic pride in the art and engineering on display, the panoply of brilliant design. The science teacher Dobbin, so called because she once told her class she was ‘a little hoarse’, led them to see the miraculous automated tortoises. She had devoted a lesson to the mechanics involved, to impress upon them that the reason for their visit was educational. These tortoises were the way forward. Or would have been if the display did not have an ‘Out of Order’ notice on it. The Henry Moores were deemed ‘a bit lumpy’ and the John Minton mural ‘peculiar’. The pièce de résistance, the Skylon, balancing on a few cobwebby wires, reaching up to the sky like a V2 rocket about to be launched, was given a wide berth by the girls, used to similar-shaped objects trying to kill them.
Eventually the sun came out and at last they were thrilled – by eating their jam sandwiches in an open-air café. Marguerite told the girls it felt like the Champs-Elysées.
‘It’ll never catch on over here,’ predicted Tony, ‘not with this climate.’
There were squeals of laughter when Pauline dropped her paper bag on the ground and a voice came over the loudspeaker.
‘This is your exhibition. Please help to keep it tidy.’
In time, the magic cast its spell on them. The citrus yellows, shocking pinks and reds that dominated the colour scheme cheered their beige wartime spirits. The waterfalls, the Thames beach with imported sand, putting on funny glasses to see a three-dimensional film, sending messages to the moon all thrilled them. They joined the crowds of women in their Sunday-best outfits and the men in demob suits on their highlight of the trip, a boat ride to the Battersea Festival Gardens. Marguerite noticed Irene’s face, wreathed in smiles, tics almost obliterated, as she stared at Rowland Emett’s crazy train. She was hand in hand with Elsie.
Miss Fryer actually let them all remove their school hats and have a go on the rotor, which Dobbin shouted was an example of centrifugal force, as she and the giggling girls were flattened against the revolving wall. Then they went on the helter-skelter. Miss Fryer turned pale as she watched them descend, serge tunic skirts blown up to reveal their green woollen school knickers. By this time, the girls were past obeying the blowing of the whistle around her neck and they whirled off to join a growing conga line that was weaving round the flower beds and rides.
The rule book was thrown away. It was as though they had been liberated from years in prison and had abandoned themselves to freedom. They had known so little joy in their young lives. They had almost forgotten how to have fun, or not to feel threatened. Now this glorious place, created with skill and love for pleasure, had touched their damaged spirits, and they let go of restraint and fear, wallowing in the gaudy jingoism. Yep, we won the war and look at us now. We may be bankrupt, but aren’t we clever? Marguerite and Tony squeezed each other’s hands with delight as they watched the capering youngsters. Even Miss Fryer smiled, albeit rather nervously.
Tiredness overcame the girls. Food rations did not provide fuel for sustained exertion. On the boat back to the South Bank site, they were subdued but happy. They took it in turns to sit next to the teachers, there being quite a battle to claim closeness to Mr Stansfield, who laughed loudly at their ‘what was best’ choices. Top of the list was seeing Dobbin’s suspenders and bloomers when she was on the rotor.
Tony agreed there had been a lot of underwear on display.
‘The brass band.’
‘The coalmine.’
‘The lovely, sorry, not “lovely”, er festive flowers.’
‘The tree walk.’
‘The funny clock.’
And, ‘Being here with you, sir.’
Marguerite saw the pleasure on Tony’s face at this remark. For all his frivolity he was a dedicated teacher, and as fond of his pupils as she was.
When the girls discovered that Marguerite and Tony were staying behind, there were some yearning looks directed at them as the coach departed. It had been exhausting coping with the myriad questions that arose about the exhibits and artwork, so the comfortable seats inside the huge modernist concert hall, with its protruding ashtray-like boxes, were very welcome. The music rounded off the patriotic day well with Elgar and Tippett. Marguerite found herself silently weeping, reflecting how her British father would have relished the event.
Tony took her hand and she saw his eyes were brimming too.
‘Not a dry eye in the house, eh?’ she muttered.
After the concert they joined the crowd dancing to Geraldo’s band. They danced elegantly together. Some of the people applauded their quickstep. Then they leant on the river wall, and gazed in silence at the floodlit buildings on the other side of the river. There were some gaps where the bombs had destroyed buildings, but the city looked proud and defiant, as it had when lit by the fires of the Blitz.
Oxford Street is deserted. Broken glass is strewn on the road. Just a few people are picking their way through the debris. He is in an RAF uniform. As he approaches she can see he is darkly handsome. She winks and he laughs and grabs hold of her. They waltz down the middle of the road, laughing, not saying a word. He is strong and young and reckless. One of ‘the few’, he eventually tells her. He has a night off, his wife is in Wales. She is about to go into training for an operation in occupied France. They have nothing to lose. Well, actually she does. And is delighted to do so. Chastity does not seem relevant when death could be just around the corner. They cling to each other in the tatty hotel room as the Blitz crashes and flashes outside. They give themselves to one another with passion and tenderness. The next morning they both go their own way with a gentle kiss, knowing full well they will never see each other again
.
‘I love being here with you, Tony. Are you glad you are with me?’
He put his arm round her and nodded.
‘My goodness. What a wonderful day. It feels like the end of a ghastly nightmare and we’re waking up to a world full of hope. I feel so excited about the future.’
Hugging each other, they watched the crowds still dancing under the stars, the lighted Skylon floating above them. The band upped the tempo. They were doing the jitterbug now, whirling and leaping, pale faces wreathed in smiles. Tony and Marguerite laughed and applauded.
She shouted above the band, ‘Look at them. Just think what they’ve been through. “O brave new world, That has such people in’t.’’ We are so lucky, what a wonderful time to be alive. Isn’t it?’
She held her face up to him. He put a finger gently on her lips and said solemnly, ‘Yes, my dear one, it is.’
She waited.
‘We must leave soon, Cinders, or we’ll miss the last train.’
The moment was lost.
Marguerite had never seen the secondary modern school on the outskirts of town. The building was ugly, thrown up in a hurry, just after the war. There were huts in the back to accommodate the overflow for which the main building was too small, and one scrubby grass field, marked faintly for both hockey and football together, which must have been confusing for the players.
The headmistress, Miss Scott, was surprisingly young and attractive. She wore a pencil skirt and white blouse, nylon stockings and high-heeled shoes. Her short black hair was bobbed, revealing pearl earrings. When Marguerite broached the reason for her visit, she soon realised the feminine appearance hid a steely determination. She was subjected to a diatribe, delivered in cool measured tones that belied their content.
‘I don’t think you are aware of what we are up against here, Miss Carter. You have clever pupils with supportive parents.’
‘Not all of them—’
‘Maybe, but the vast majority. We are left with the rejects.’
‘Surely—’
‘I’m sure you are going to say that with the right guidance they could improve. Too true. With the right teachers. But who would want to work here? Not you, for one. Lousy facilities, rotten pay and a school full of children who at eleven have been branded failures.’
‘I can’t believe that—’
‘Come with me.’
The headmistress led Marguerite down a grubby corridor towards a cacophony of shrieks and raucous laughter. Looking through the glass panel of the classroom door Marguerite saw a chaotic scene. There were about fifty youngsters running amok. Two boys were fighting viciously on the floor, others were banging their desks in rhythm to bloodthirsty chants, and girls and boys were bellowing with excitement.
‘Right. Fancy taking this lesson? It’s English. The teacher has no doubt gone to vomit in the toilet, which is probably preferable to confronting 5c. Be my guest.’
‘No I—’
‘Bit different from your grammar school girls, eh? Sitting with their hands in their laps, avid to learn.’
It certainly was different. Marguerite had never in her life seen children so out of control. She had come across wild individuals like Elsie, who, it was her professional credo, could be tamed, but this was a roomful of unrestrained children running riot. The sight of such chaos appalled her. The latent wartime fright that she was learning to master, with its dry mouth, lurching stomach and shaking legs, surged up inside her so that she feared she might faint. Her instinct was to retreat, run away, but she heard Miss Scott’s voice.
‘Right. Once more into the breach.’
Taking a deep breath, Miss Scott entered. The room quietened slightly until, as Marguerite followed her in, one boy wolf-whistled. He was reinforced by other cat-callers. With sergeant-major-like strength Miss Scott shouted, ‘Sit’, whereupon one lad jumped to attention and started goose-stepping with a finger under his nose.