by Anne Bennett
ANNE BENNETT
A LITTLE LEARNING
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work
of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
HarperCollinsPublishers
The News Building1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
This edition published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017
Copyright © Anne Bennett 1999
First published in 1999 by HEADLINE BOOK PUBLISHING
Anne Bennett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Source ISBN: 9780007547821
Ebook Edition © July 2017 ISBN: 9780007547838
Version: 2017-07-11
Dedication
I would like to dedicate this book to my editor
Kate Bradley and my agent Judith Murdoch for being major
components in my security blanket. Thank you both.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Author’s Notes
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author
About the Publisher
Author’s Notes
This book, A Little Learning, is where my writing life began, for this is the first book I ever had published, originally for Headline Publishers but later bought and re-issued by HarperCollins. At the time, I was living in beautiful North Wales, moving from Birmingham after I had been invalided out of teaching because a spinal injury left me unable to walk and in a wheelchair.
As I had time on my hands – a luxury I hadn’t had before – I decided to take to writing seriously. I had been dabbling from when I was a child though I never dreamt I would ever make my living this way. I initially researched and wrote about the origin of nursery rhymes, something that has always intrigued me, and then books for the children I had taught, which were never published and are still in manuscript form. I then wrote short stories for Writing Magazine which I received every month though never submitted to them until 1995 when I wrote a spoof romance for a writing competition centred around Valentine’s Day and won second prize which was a year’s subscription to the Romantic Novelists’ Association (RNA).
Although I didn’t want to write straight romance I joined and found they ran a critique service called the New Writers’ Scheme (NWS) and as they would consider all stories with an emotional content, I sent my first submission in September of that year. My reader said it was good, but not good enough for publication and explained why it wasn’t. So, armed with that assessment, I wrote my second novel in 1996 making sure I didn’t make the same mistakes again. This time a different reader said it was too wordy and suggested losing 30,000 words. It meant a rewrite which I completed in four months before sending it to Headline Publishers.
The editor at Headline liked it but also suggested changes and corrections which I took on board and eventually that book became this one which they published in the spring of 1998 after offering me a two-book contract. Altogether I had four books initially published by Headline before we parted company in 2001 and I joined HarperCollins. I found Harper Collins an amazing publishing house to work for and have sixteen books published by them in addition to the Headline ones.
I have now been in the writing business for twenty-one mainly happy years and I am busier than ever and consider myself a very fortunate person doing a job I love.
ONE
‘Do you really want to sit the exams for grammar school?’ Duncan asked his sister, hardly able to believe she did.
Janet spun round in excitement. ‘More than anything,’ she said.
Duncan stared at his sister in astonishment. He couldn’t understand her, and that bothered him, because he and Janet had always been very close, at least till this business. He couldn’t deny she was excited, it shone out of her. He’d never thought of Janet as pretty. He was the good-looking one, with his blond curls and brilliant blue eyes. When he was younger, people were always saying he was too pretty to be a boy and what a shame his sister was so plain. He’d never looked at Janet much, she was just his sister, but he looked at her now. He noted that the mousy hair, that Mom made her keep short because of the risk of nits, seemed to have more body and was somehow fluffed out around her face. Even her eyes, usually a nondescript sort of deep grey, sparkled with excitement and transformed her whole face. Her skin had lost its sallowness and her mouth didn’t seem so large, caught up as it was in a beam of happiness.
Duncan couldn’t help grinning back at his sister. Janet’s delight was infectious. He shook his head as he said, ‘Well, I can see you’re pleased, Jan, but I don’t see what you’ve got to be pleased about.’
‘Oh, Duncan, it’s what I’ve always dreamed of.’
‘Well,’ Duncan said, ‘if it means that much to you I hope you pass, but I still think you need your head testing.’
Janet watched Duncan kicking a ball up the garden for his young twin brothers to run after, but didn’t run after them. They’d all been sent to the garden because their parents wanted to talk, and Janet knew what about. Though her father had come round a bit about the exams, in the beginning he was all for not letting Janet take them at all. She knew he was worried about the expense of it all, like keeping her at school all those extra years and buying her uniform. Her mother said she’d just fix it and Janet would like to believe her, but how would she find money they hadn’t got? She chewed at her thumb nail and wished she could hear what was being said inside.
‘Well, say our Janet passes this bloody exam you talked me into letting her sit,’ Bert said glumly, ‘how the hell are we going to afford the uniform? This bloke at work told me it costs a bleeding fortune.’
Betty knew only too well that it did – she’d checked it herself – but if Janet passed, then somehow the money for the uniform had to be found.
‘We’ll afford it, don’t you worry,’ she said fiercely.
‘Look, old girl,’ Bert said, ‘I don’t want to put a damper on the whole thing, but exactly how are we to pay for it all?’
‘I’ll get a Co-op cheque out,’ Betty promised. ‘That will do for the uniform at least, and paid in weekly, it won’t be so b
ad.’
‘And how will you pay for that?’ Bert persisted. ‘A five-pound cheque won’t cover this.’
‘I know,’ Betty said impatiently. ‘I suppose I could go back on the twilight shift at the sauce factory. Our Breda could put a word in, and they always said I could go back.’
‘I know that’s what they said, but I don’t think it’s right, you working nights like that just to send our girl to grammar school,’ Bert said.
‘Don’t you see!’ Betty cried. ‘I’m going to work so she won’t have to work like me. I’m going, to give her a chance.’
‘You said all this before,’ grumbled Bert, ‘when you and that Miss Wentworth talked me round for her to put in for the bloody exam in the first place.’
‘Yes,’ Betty said, ‘and that’s because you said at first that education was wasted on girls.’
‘And so it is.’
Betty stood up in front of Bert and banged her fist on the kitchen table. ‘Listen, you blooming numbskull,’ she said angrily. ‘All my life I’ve worked. From the age of fourteen I was serving in the tobacconist’s shop at the corner of Corporation Street, often for twelve hours a day. Then we wed, and when Duncan was small and Janet a wee baby, I was office cleaning from five in the morning till eight, and then again at night in the chip shop to make ends meet. Then after the war our Breda got me set in the HP Sauce factory at Aston Cross. So don’t you tell me about education being a waste.’
‘I know you’ve worked, love,’ Bert said soothingly. ‘You’re one of the best, none better.’
‘Well, I want better, better for my daughter,’ Betty cried. ‘I don’t want her working like I had to, like most women have to.’
‘Yes, but when a woman’s married …’ Bert began, but Betty leapt at him again.
‘Her life stops, is that it?’
‘Not at all,’ Bert declared stoutly. ‘Some say it begins.’
‘Oh yes it does,’ Betty said. ‘You’ve a house, a husband, children, less money than you’ve ever had in your life and more to do with it.’
Bert had his set face on, so Betty tried again. ‘Look, Bert, I’m not blaming you. It’s just the way it is. But the world’s changing now. When you and all the other men were charging around Europe killing Germans, the women were holding the fort over here. They were doing jobs women had never done before!’
‘I know that.’
‘But you must see that that sort of experience would change a woman’s outlook on things.’
‘Till the men came back.’
‘No,’ Betty cried. ‘Six years is a long time. Women won’t just give up and go back to the kitchen sink. Things will have to change. Miss Wentworth was even telling me that married women will soon be officially allowed to teach. I mean, they did in the war, because they had to, and then they expected them to go back to their husbands. Only some didn’t want to, and some of the poor souls didn’t have husbands any more, but they still had a family to bring up.’
‘It’s this Miss Wentworth who’s filled your head with such nonsense,’ Bert said stubbornly.
Betty knew he had a point, for she had listened to the teacher and to her vision of the new, emerging Britain, where women could take their rightful place alongside men.
‘Women like your Janet, Mrs Travers,’ she said. ‘Intelligent women. The time will come when men and women will work side by side, and that will include married women. Even when they have children, they will be going back to work. It will eventually change the face of the world.’
Betty had kept quiet. She didn’t say that women had been working for years and working bloody hard and yet it had changed nothing. Sarah McClusky, her own mother, had worked from dawn till dusk and for a pittance. They’d lived in Summer Lane then, the bottom end of Edgbaston. The houses were back to back with dilapidated roofs and walls, crowded around a central courtyard which housed the shared lavatory and brew’us, where the washing was done, and where the tap was that served the whole yard. Betty remembered the stench from the small industries and workshops that abounded in the area that made the atmosphere smoky and gloomy and dirty as it discharged its gases into the air to mix with the smoke from thousands of back to back house chimneys.
Betty looked at Claire Wentworth and realised she didn’t know the half of it, not her Janet either; she hoped her children would never know poverty like there was then. It was the threat of that that made her mother trudge across to the other side of Edgbaston to clean the homes of the gentry. Winter or summer, and often the only thing to protect her from the elements was a shawl, and the well cobbled boots on her feet might have cardboard inside them to try to keep the wet out of the soles worn through.
All day she would clean and return home weary and bone tired to a meal Betty would have to have made after her day at school. It was her job, as the elder girl, to clean and cook as best she could and, with her elder brother Conner, give an eye to the little’uns Brendan, Breda and Noel. Twice a week Sarah would bring home a large laundry basket covered with a sheet, and Betty would know her mother would be in the brew’us all the rest of the next day washing for her employers.
It was no mean feat to wash clothes then, even for a family, and yet Sarah wasn’t the only woman to take on extra. She would creep from her bed at five the next morning and poke Betty awake as she slept in the attic in the bed with her younger sister. Bleary eyed, Betty would stumble after her mother in clothes hastily fastened around her and her feet in the boots given free to the poor children by the Daily Mail. In her hand she would carry a bucket of slack to light the copper, and inside the brew’us her mother would be filling it up bucket by bucket from a tap in the yard. Betty would begin to maid, or pound, the clothes in a dolly tub and then scrub at the offending stains. At some point her mother would take over and Betty would return to the house to wake and feed her brothers and sisters and her father too.
In the brew’us, Sarah would boil all the washing in the copper and then swill the whites in a bucket tinged with Reckett’s Blue before starching. When the children returned at dinnertime, to bread and dripping they made themselves, Sarah would be mangling the clothes, and if the day had been fine and dry, by hometime she was ironing the lot with a flat iron heated in the fire, for the clothes would have dried on the lines that criss-crossed the yard. If however it was wet, the clothes would be strung above the fire and around the hearth, and the house would be cold and smell of damp washing.
But no one complained, for the washing Sarah took in to supplement her cleaning paid the rent and put food in hungry children’s bellies. Even Sean who was often unable to provide for his family said little, and in actual fact, Sarah’s job didn’t disturb him much at all and as long as his own laundry was always done, his dinner always on the table, the fire kept up and the children seen to, he didn’t moan much. The house might have got a lick and a promise rather than a good going-over, the stove might not have been blackleaded every week, nor the brass polished, nor the step scrubbed, but those were things the men didn’t notice.
Until the slump, Sean McClusky had been employed at Henry Wiggins and Co in Wiggin Street which produced nickel and steel plate, but as the depression bit deeper, he was just put on short time and then out of work altogether; it was her mother who then put food on the table, Betty remembered. Yet her father would never do a hand’s turn in the house and it hadn’t seemed strange. Without work, he would loll on street corners with mates in the same situation, or sit listlessly in front of the fire for which his wife’s money had bought the coal.
Miss Wentworth painted a view of life Betty didn’t understand, or quite believe in. Her own jobs, like her mother’s, had been chosen to fit in with Bert and the children.
In time life had become easier for the McClusky family. Betty married Bert which was no surprise to anyone, and the family moved from Summer Lane to the new sprawling council estate of Pype Hayes, north of the city, where Betty in time was also given a house. Money was easier as the younger McCluskys
were all at work, and Sean got a job making tyres at Fort Dunlop in 1937. Then war was declared. Bert Travers was called up, along with his brothers-in-law Conner and Brendan, while Noel volunteered and Breda went to work in the munitions.
‘Come on, our Bet, the money is desperate, so it is,’ she’d urged her sister, but Betty had shaken her head.
The years had been hard on her parents and she thought she couldn’t leave them in charge of Duncan and Janet all day, whatever the lure of the money. Breda soon sported the uniform turban like all the rest of the factory girls, wore scarlet lipstick and smoked strong-smelling cigarettes. Her language, Betty noticed, was pretty strong too. She’d have had her lugs scalped if she’d tried such talk, she told her sister.
‘Da says that and worse,’ Breda had protested.
‘That’s different, he’s a man.’
Then Breda had laughed. ‘I think you can give yourself a pat on the back for noticing that, Bet, for I’d never have worked it out on my own.’
But Betty’s attitude changed when her youngest brother, Noel, was killed in the first year of the war. He was just eighteen years old. Betty thought she’d never get over it, and yet she had to cope because her parents were bowed down with grief. Eventually, anger at the waste of Noel’s life replaced the sadness, and this anger was further fuelled by the blitz of Birmingham that began on 25 August 1940.
When Tyburn Road was targeted the following evening, it was dangerously close to her Pype Hayes home, threatening her family. She decided that knitting balaclavas and cowering at home was no longer good enough for her. ‘I need to do something, Mammy,’ she appealed to her mother, ‘or I’ll feel Noel has died in vain. But I can’t do it without your help.’
