by Anne Bennett
All evening she seethed as she and Gran sponged at the stains and Gran sewed the rip. Then Janet ironed the coat and put it on a coat hanger to air in her bedroom. All night she planned, and the anger burnt and built up in her.
She strode into the playground next morning still raging inside. She had her coat on but left it flapping open, and she saw several knowing stares and nudges. The fuse was lit when a large girl called Eve shouted:
‘You found your coat then, Travers?’
Janet grabbed her by the neck, and despite her considerable bulk, dragged her across the playground and slammed her head against the wall. Several girls descended on her, but Janet seemed possessed of demonic strength. Her coat flowed out behind her as one recoiled from a thump in the stomach, another from a punch in the face, another from a savage elbow jab in the ribs.
‘Fight! fight!’ began the swelling murmur in the playground as Janet’s flailing legs and lashing feet hit out right and left. The other girls began slowly backing away, and Eve lay crumpled and crying at her feet. At that moment Miss James spotted the commotion from the staff-room window. She rushed down and right into the fray, where she surveyed the red-faced and still angry Janet, the girl at her feet and the group huddled around her.
‘What is all this about?’ she demanded.
‘Ask them,’ Janet retorted, indicating the girls in front of her. She was too cross to be cautious. ‘See if they’ll tell you what it’s about. They might because they’re all bleeding cowards, but I’m no telltale.’
Miss James’ lips pressed together. Oh dear, oh dear, she thought, why does Janet have to use such a tone and such bad language? I shall have to report it to Miss Phelps. It would never do for a girl to repeat it at home and say I took no action.
It was fortunate for Janet that at that moment a dumpy, shabbily dressed figure was leaving Miss Phelps’ office. All night she’d worried about the lass who owned the coat, and the look on her face when she’d given it to her.
‘It’s a disgrace,’ she’d remarked to her husband. ‘Call themselves young ladies and do that. That poor lass was so cut up. I’ve noticed her before. I think she’s a scholarship girl.’
Her husband was shop steward at his factory. ‘Hardly has parents able to afford to replace coats then,’ he said severely. ‘You should do something about it, Em.’
It was her husband’s words ringing in her ears that lent Emma Harris the courage to walk into the office of Whytecliff High School and ask to see Miss Phelps.
While the headmistress was still digesting what the cleaner had told her, Miss James knocked on the door. She ushered before her several girls in disarray, one of them holding her head and crying noisily.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ demanded the headmistress sternly. Several of the girls rushed to explain, but Janet stayed silent. She saw Miss Phelps’ eyes glittering with dislike. That’s all right, she thought, I don’t like you either.
Miss Phelps listened to the girls’ garbled explanation but kept her eyes on Janet. It wasn’t that she disliked Janet personally, she just didn’t care for any scholarship girl. She thought they lowered the tone of the school and brought out the worst in the other girls. There had been little trouble before the scholarship scheme, but since Janet Travers had arrived … well … And yet the teachers had nothing but praise for the girl’s intelligence and diligence. Really, it was most provoking.
The girls’ diatribe drew to a close eventually. It had consisted mainly of the declaration that Janet Travers had seemed to suddenly go mad, kicking and thumping, and had even banged poor Eve’s head against the wall deliberately. And she’d said a bad word too.
Miss Phelps looked at Janet. ‘And what have you to say?’ she said.
What was the point of saying anything? Janet thought. At least if I’m expelled no one will attack me at Paget Road Secondary and rip, damage or hide my things.
‘Nothing,’ she said.
‘Nothing, Miss Phelps,’ Miss Phelps rapped out. ‘You’ve been here long enough to know how to address a member of staff.’
‘Nothing, Miss Phelps,’ Janet repeated tonelessly.
‘You’ve heard what the girls say you did?’
‘Yes … Miss Phelps.’
‘Well, did you lash out, punching and kicking them?’
‘Yes, Miss Phelps.’
Miss Phelps couldn’t help a grudging admiration for the girl. Janet stood before her fearlessly, answering her defiantly, and had apparently been fighting off the others single-handed.
‘Janet Travers is just one,’ she said to the gaggle of girls before her, ‘amongst so many.’
They shifted their feet uncomfortably. Belinda said, ‘We were taken by surprise, Miss Phelps.’
‘We were trying to protect Eve, Miss Phelps,’ put in Annabel. ‘I mean, Tra … Janet just went wild and dragged her across the playground.’
‘And yet Janet is much lighter and smaller than Eve,’ Miss Phelps said, with a smile at Eve. ‘Why was she able to do that, my dear?’
‘I don’t know, Miss Phelps,’ Eve said miserably. The marks of tears were still on her face as she continued, ‘She’s terribly strong.’
Miss Phelps looked at Janet. She gazed back, unafraid, her face expressionless.
A bell sounded for the start of school, and Miss James started.
‘Miss Phelps, I must …’
‘Yes, go,’ said Miss Phelps. ‘I will deal with this.’ She waited until the door had closed behind the English teacher and then said:
‘And none of you has any idea what Janet Travers’ apparent brainstorm was all about?’ she asked dryly.
The ‘No, Miss Phelps’ was said as a chorus.
‘It couldn’t then have anything to do with a coat?’
Janet’s head shot up in surprise, and the other girls showed every sign of consternation. Some flushed red, the colour drained from others; all were uneasy. Miss Phelps clicked her fingers at Janet.
‘Hand me the coat,’ she snapped.
She examined it carefully. She could still make out the faint marks and darker patches where someone had tried to sponge the dirt off, and she could see the tear in the lining that had been repaired. She felt angry that anyone should do such a thing.
‘Is this the first time something like this has happened?’ she asked Janet.
‘I’d rather not say, Miss Phelps.’
Stupid, misplaced loyalty, Miss Phelps thought.
‘Do you know anything about this?’ she said to the others.
‘No, Miss Phelps,’ came the chorus again.
‘I don’t believe you,’ said Miss Phelps, ‘and if I hear about one more thing like this – just one more, do you hear? – I’ll send for your parents.’
Janet was nonplussed. She wondered how Miss Phelps knew about the coat. However she’d heard, she thought, it had probably saved her from being expelled, and gave the others in her form something to think about. It was as if Miss Phelps was taking Janet’s part after all. She sent the other girls back to class with five hundred lines each to write: ‘I must not damage people’s possessions.’ As they were trooping out, she passed the coat across the desk to Janet and said, ‘You shouldn’t have any more trouble.’
‘No, Miss Phelps.’
‘Just one thing, Janet.’
Janet turned to face her headmistress, but did not speak. ‘Watch that language,’ Miss Phelps advised.
Janet smiled. ‘Yes, Miss Phelps,’ she said, and hurried to put her coat back in the cloakroom.
EIGHT
Janet had come top, or almost top, in all her exams. She was disbelieving and ecstatic. Her family were only faintly surprised.
They didn’t see what it meant. She’d be in 2a the following year. These were the fast-stream girls who did Latin as well as French and were expected to end up at Cambridge or Oxford. To Janet’s delight, her old class had been split up, and the majority of her tormentors were in the lower forms.
‘Go and tell Mis
s Wentworth – or Mrs Sunderland, I should say – about how you did in the exams,’ Betty suggested. ‘It may cheer her up, and God knows she could do with something.’
‘I will, Mom,’ Janet said. She felt bad that she’d neglected Claire. It was because of what was happening to her at school, but she still felt guilty. It was stupid really, because going to see her wouldn’t have helped her. No one could have known. She’d had a trouble-free pregnancy and labour, according to what people said. That was what made it so tragic.
Later, in Claire and David’s bedroom, she looked down at the baby fast asleep in the crib beside the bed. ‘Oh, Miss Went … Mrs Sunderland, she’s beautiful.’
‘Yes,’ said Claire tonelessly, ‘she is.’ She added, ‘Can’t you drop this Mrs thing now you’re not at Paget Road School any more? Call me Claire.’
Janet smiled. ‘Okay.’ She was shy with Claire after such a long time. Suddenly her exam results didn’t matter as much as the mite in the cot. ‘Are you sure?’ she said. ‘Are they sure, the doctors?’
Claire nodded. ‘One doctor told me to put her into a home and forget about her. She’ll never learn anything or be able to live independently; mongol children don’t, apparently.’
‘Put her into a home?’ repeated Janet in shocked tones. ‘You won’t, will you?’
Claire shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, but her voice was so low Janet had to strain to catch it. ‘Chloe may be mentally handicapped, but she needs at least the same attention as a normal child, don’t you think?’
She didn’t say that David didn’t agree. ‘So you think you know better than the doctors?’ he’d railed at her.
‘She’s our baby, she needs us.’
‘She won’t know the bloody difference, you stupid fool. She’ll grow up an idiot.’
Claire controlled the tears that she longed to shed and forgave the cruelty of David’s words, knowing that it was deep distress and the feeling that he had been cheated of a perfect child that had made him lash out at her.
He’d crossed the room and put an arm around her shoulders. ‘I know you’re upset, pet. It’s natural. God, I’m upset too, but the doctors know best.’
‘No, they don’t,’ Claire had protested. ‘They see her as a medical problem, a psychiatric case, not a baby to be loved.’
‘Face it, for God’s sake,’ David had yelled. ‘She isn’t a baby, not a normal baby. If you do what the doctors want and put her away, we can get on with our lives. We can have another child.’
Claire had flinched away from him. Her lips had been pulled back in a snarl of disgust as she spat out, ‘She’s our baby, David, not a defective wireless you send back to the shop and get a new, perfect model. Chloe is our daughter. She’s mentally handicapped but still our child. I can accept that, why can’t you? She feels cold and hunger and pain. Later she’ll feel afraid and lonely, and yet I’m advised to give her up to strangers. They are supposed to love her better than me, are they? I have an ache in my heart every time I look at her, but I already love her dearly and know she’ll probably always need me much more than a normal baby would.’
‘Is that your final decision?’
‘Yes, David, it is,’ Claire said. ‘Can you live with it?’
‘I don’t know,’ David had said.
He was still there, but the marriage was strained as David grieved for the child he might have had. It was so unfair that they should have an imperfect child. They were in good health, both in the prime of life. They’d done everything right.
As Janet looked down at the sleeping baby, Claire said, ‘I couldn’t give her up. Your mom couldn’t have given Sally away, could she?’
‘None of us could,’ Janet said. ‘We all love her. Even the twins are gentler round her. And I don’t see why Chloe should be different.’
‘Bless you, Janet,’ Claire said, for she needed support. Janet was aware without being told that it was a lonely path Claire was embarking on. It was only as she rode home through the balmy summer’s evening after tea that she wondered where David had been. She hadn’t asked and Claire hadn’t mentioned him at all.
All through the sunlit days of the summer holiday, Janet spent time at Claire’s almost every day. Sometimes she went by bus and took Sally, now an inquisitive toddler, with her. Sally, the youngest in her family, was enthralled by baby Chloe. Claire was full of plans for the future, but throughout the long, hot summer, Janet never saw David, and Claire never excused his absence, nor did she explain it.
Not surprisingly, Janet approached the start of the autumn term with trepidation. When she walked into her new classroom in September for the first time, she felt threads of apprehension still clinging to her.
She needn’t have worried. Most of the girls remaining from her first-year class were the studious and serious ones who had taken little or no part in the teasing of Janet Travers. Those who had taken part had mostly been on the periphery of the action and now wanted to forget it. They also wanted Janet Travers to forget it. A couple of months further on, their behaviour seemed to them immature and cruel.
Janet had noticed Ruth Hayman in the form room straight away. She was striking-looking rather than pretty, with thick hair so black it shone blue when the sun was on it. Yet her skin was alabaster white and only on her high cheekbones was there a tinge of pink. Her eyes were both unusual and beautiful. They were golden in colour and oval, almost oriental, in shape. In fact they looked similar in shape to Chloe’s eyes, Janet realised with a jolt. She studied the girl intently and dismissed her, knowing that such an aloof, haughty girl would not be interested in a charity child.
The term began, and this time Janet was left alone to get on with her life, which was better than being tormented, but only slightly. Then, one day, she came out of school in a stream of girls, and when they’d broken up to go for their various buses, she realised that just in front of her was Ruth. She hadn’t noticed before that they went the same way, and she wondered idly if she’d be able to get into conversation with her at the bus stop.
She quickened her pace a little. Ruth was striding forward briskly. Her black hair in the thick plait she sometimes wore to school bounced on her back, beneath the felt hat.
At first Janet was hardly aware of the group of three girls between her and Ruth. She knew they were there and laughing about something, but she didn’t connect it with Ruth. That was, until she got close enough to hear what they were saying.
‘I think our Ruthie’s a chinky Chinese,’ said one, pulling her eyes up at the corners in a parody of an oriental. ‘They wear those plaits in China.’
‘She’s not Chinese,’ said another. ‘She’s a snobby cow. Doesn’t talk to the likes of us.’
‘She has no reason to be snobby,’ said the first girl in a loud voice meant to carry. ‘She’s only a dirty Jew.’
The first girl danced a little closer to Ruth and began to sing a ditty. The others soon joined in.
Jew girl Hayman what a stink,
Slanted eyes just like a Chink,
Big large nose she never blows,
Long and hooked just like a crow’s,
Bandy-legged, turned-in toes,
The Jew is as ugly as a witch,
Ruth Hayman, stuck-up bitch.
Janet felt sick. The cruelty she’d experienced was too recent for her to be able to pass the girls’ behaviour off as common or garden teasing.
Ruth turned round to face them, and Janet saw the stricken look on her face and her sad eyes where tears lurked behind the lashes. ‘Leave me alone,’ she said angrily. ‘Go away and leave me alone.’
Janet recognised the fear, because she’d felt it herself, but she didn’t think the other girls would know just how frightened Ruth was. Then, suddenly, Ruth looked up and saw Janet watching. Their eyes locked. At that moment Janet knew she couldn’t rejoice in her own freedom and see such treatment meted out to others without doing anything.
She raced forwards, pushing past the jeering girls, who’d sp
read over the pavement in front of Ruth. Then, turning to face them, she said with scornful disdain, ‘What sort of cowards are you that three of you pick on one person all on their own?’
‘What’s it to you?’ the first girl demanded. ‘It isn’t any of your business.’
‘Well, I’m making it my business,’ said Janet.
‘You do know,’ said the second girl with a supercilious sneer, ‘that you’re taking the side of a Jew?’ She spat the word out. Janet didn’t bat an eyelid.
‘I’d take the side of a Martian against cowardly bullies like you,’ she said, ‘so get going or I’ll make you.’
‘We wouldn’t fight,’ the second girl said in shocked horror.
‘It’s so common,’ said the third.
‘Like me, you mean,’ said Janet, and added with an ironical laugh, ‘No, I don’t engage in ladylike pursuits like stalking behind someone just to sneer and make fun of them. And as for your little rhyme, your English teacher would be interested in the profitable use you make of your time. Make it up all by yourselves, did you? Perhaps a copy should be sent to Miss Phelps too?’
The three girls stood in stunned silence for a moment. They understood Janet’s veiled threat only too well. Then the first girl, who seemed to be the leader, said, ‘You don’t frighten us, you know.’
Janet leapt forward and grabbed her by the tie. ‘That’s a pity,’ she said. ‘Are you sure?’
The girl felt her friends melt away from her. She said in a squeaky, frightened voice, ‘Leave me alone, you … you bully.’
Then Janet laughed. She pushed the girl away from her and said with scorn, ‘Why don’t you grow up?’ Then she linked her arm through Ruth’s and led her away. The other girl had stood, stunned to silence by Janet’s intervention, and it wasn’t until they turned the corner to the bus stop, with the bus in sight, that Janet realised that far from being upset by the incident, Ruth was amused and amazed by Janet’s performance.
‘You were marvellous,’ she said as they climbed to the upper deck of the bus together.
