‘ “We, the representatives of our respective countries, believing that since wars begin in the minds of men, it is in the minds of men that the defences of peace must be constructed, and believing that the peace must be founded, if it is not to fail, upon the’ – here the girl took a deep breath – ‘intellectual and moral solidarity of all peoples, have resolved to combine our efforts to form an association of the peoples to be known as the World Federation of United Nations Associations.” ’
Having made it to the end, she beamed with pride.
‘That’s us. There’s going to be lots of us all round the world. So that’s good, isn’t it?’
And she took her seat amongst the people on the stage. Above her chair was a plaque dedicated to the sixty young men from the school who had died in the two wars. Marguerite could see that the poignancy was not lost on Tony.
Then the politicians had their say. A bumbling aide introduced the town’s Tory candidate as ‘Margaret Roberts, now Margaret Thatcher after her marriage to the distinguished Major Denis Thatcher who is in paints’. She was transformed by her recent triumph at the polls; she may not have won, but the number of votes she had secured was a remarkable result in a Labour stronghold. Being married to a rich man probably helped as well. Her hair was several shades lighter, and her frock, a vivid blue to match her eyes and her politics, was short enough to reveal shapely legs, enhanced by elegant shoes, the high heels of which improved her previous clomping walk. She spoke with vigour of the danger of unilateral disarmament at which Tony groaned only very quietly, so as not to disrupt the meeting so efficiently organised by the young activists.
As they left the hall, Tony linked arms with Marguerite and muttered, ‘Dear God, what have we done to these children – we so-called grown-ups? What kind of future have we given them?’
She and Marcel creep through the lavender field, the perfume makes her head swim; or is it the fear? The house seems deserted but the door is wide open. They enter cautiously, guns at the ready. There is a whimpering sound. As they go into the parlour the little boy clings to his mother, lying dead on the floor in a lake of blood.
‘Please don’t hurt us,’ he says.
‘I think a stiff drink is in order.’
Several beers and whisky chasers later, Tony blamed his mood on a headache brought on by suppressing his natural instinct to shout at politicians in deference to Pauline and Hazel. And ‘complications’ in his personal life. Plus ‘the slight worry that we may be about to blow our world out of the solar system’.
Marguerite offered him a Veganin, ignored the ‘complications’, and insisted that things would change for the better.
‘The stakes are so high now – total annihilation – the world will have to come to its senses.’
‘Give or take the odd bomb-owning lunatic that may not have any senses to come to.’
‘They will be defeated. Good will prevail.’
‘Ever the bloody optimist. Little Lizzie Dripping.’
‘Who’s she?’
‘Dunno. It’s what we people oop north call people we love.’
When he said things like that she sometimes wondered how much he meant it. She half hoped that their warm relationship would develop into something more serious if he sorted out his ‘complications’. But she was content to leave things as they were. Her working life was all-consuming.
Her pupils were her raison d’être. They were the future. Forget about the past.
Yes, for pity’s sake, forget that.
Chapter 6
From the window of the tower Marguerite would often feast her eyes on the girls’ lithe bodies as they leapt around in their skimpy gym skirts doing PT outside in the sun. She earnestly hoped that their beauty would not be drained away, as it had been from the careworn mothers she met on Parents’ Day, nor their bright eyes dimmed by disappointment with their lives, scarred by war and want. She did everything she could to build their confidence; if they achieved something or amused her with their giggly humour, she would give them a hug. It would be no exaggeration to say that she loved them. The more unprepossessing, verging on hopeless they were, the more she endeavoured to transform them. Her Messiah complex, Tony called it.
She was never bored. She relished the challenge of changing her teaching techniques according to age group. Her relatively stylish clothes and slight accent made her the target of many a schoolgirl crush, which she learned to handle with tact. She gave equal energy to all her classes but she could not help having a soft spot for her very first pupils.
Irene Brown perplexed her. In the class situation it was well nigh impossible to deal with chronic shyness, as drawing attention to it only made the sufferer more withdrawn. Because Irene never joined in discussions, it was difficult to get to the bottom of her problem. Marguerite could forge no bond with the girl. The breakthrough came of its own volition. It was not part of the syllabus, but after the United Nations Associations meeting, which many of them had attended, motivated by Pauline and Hazel, it seemed apposite for the girls to look at the war poets. She Roneoed copies for all of them of Rupert Brooke’s ‘The Soldier’, and Siegfried Sassoon’s ‘Suicide in the Trenches’.
Rupert Brooke irked them. They all knew men who were buried in ‘some corner of a foreign field’ and for them, the bitter loss overrode the patriotism. The Sassoon spoke more to their understanding of the fate of ‘a simple soldier boy’. As Hazel Evans read the final verse Marguerite noticed that Irene was trying to hide the fact that she was crying.
‘ “You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you’ll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.” ’
It was Marguerite’s custom to walk about between the desks during lessons to keep contact with the girls, rather than pontificate from the front. As she passed Irene, without comment, she handed her a handkerchief.
After the lesson, Irene lagged behind until the rest of the class had filed out. Marguerite did not rush the girl, but waited in silence, until she managed to blurt out, ‘Thank you, miss, I’ll take it home and wash it.’
‘There’s no need for that, Irene. It’s a sad poem, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, miss, but so is war. He tells it so well.’
‘I agree. It’s a short poem, but we feel we know that young man, don’t we? Someone who “slept soundly through the lonesome dark, and whistled early with the lark”.’
‘Yes, miss, and then, in the horrible trenches, he’s “cowed and glum” and then it’s so sad, when “none spoke of him again” after he shot himself.’ The girl’s eyes started to fill again.
‘Here, Irene’ – Marguerite flicked through her book – ‘let’s look at a more cheerful one.’
‘This one was written when peace was declared in the First World War – the armistice. Will you read it for me? I’ve lost my glasses.’
Rapt, Irene forgot her timidity and read out the text of ‘Everyone Sang’. When she finished the last two lines, ‘O but Everyone/Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done’, she looked confused.
‘Does that mean there’ll always be poetry?’
‘Maybe, Irene, or maybe – that as well as dreadful times there will always be joy.’
‘That’s lovely, miss. Oops, sorry, not “lovely”. Positive, thoughtful, comforting.’ She handed Marguerite her hanky. ‘Thank you, miss, I’m sorry if it’s snotty.’
Marguerite laughed. ‘You keep it, Irene. And the book as well.’
‘Really, miss?’
‘Yes, really. Now wipe your nose.’
Thereafter Marguerite came upon the girl in corners of the playground, or vacated classrooms, deep in contemplation of her precious book. She still said little in class but would seize opportunities before and after lessons or in the dining hall, if Marguerite was on duty, to catch her on her own, and discuss that, or other collections of poetry she had borrowed
from the library.
One of Marguerite’s other lame ducks was the dreaded Elsie Miller. From a family of three girls and two boys, she was not an attractive child. Her dirty clothing, along with her impetigo, made most of the other girls give her a wide berth. She was ill-mannered and rude to the teachers, always ‘answering back’, but Marguerite found that almost a relief from the oppressive rule-abiding ethos of the school.
‘Elsie Miller, stop talking in the corridor.’
‘What if I see an unexploded butterfly bomb, can’t I tell people?’
Elsie once sat alone for a whole afternoon in the canteen when she was ordered not to leave the table until she ate her cabbage, which she swore was full of caterpillars, and come home time, ‘accidentally on purpose’ knocked it on the floor. Tony valued her skill on the hockey field, but had to constantly remind her she should whack the ball, not her opponents’ shins. Marguerite was certain that underneath this ferocious exterior was a good mind waiting to develop. She had, after all, passed her eleven-plus and she occasionally produced brilliant, if sloppy, compositions. She took little obvious part in lessons, but the gradual improvement in her work showed that she was listening. Marguerite learnt not to praise her in front of the class, but showed her approval in comments written on her homework and the excellent grades she gave her. Whilst Elsie’s constant cry of ‘Why’ when asked to obey some rule was wearing, the same curiosity was invaluable for the critique of a literary text.
But she was trouble. Her reputation was that of a bully, and bullies were not welcome at Dartford County Grammar. She had been warned and Miss Fryer’s patience was nearly exhausted, so when Marguerite saw Elsie arrive at school minus her hat, and looking even more dishevelled than usual, she took her into an empty classroom to remonstrate with her.
‘What’s going on, Elsie?’
‘I had a bit of a fight, miss.’
‘What?’
‘And the police came.’
‘What on earth happened?’
‘It was my hat, miss.’
‘Your hat?’
‘Yes, they nicked it.’
‘Who?’
‘The secondary modern lot. They used to be my friends at primary but now they think I’m toffee-nosed because I’m at the grammar. They’re always chi-iking me. But this time they went too far.’
‘What did they do?’
‘They knocked my hat off and started throwing it around, miss. And I was worried because of the rule.’
‘Which rule?’
‘That we must always wear our hats in public.’
Marguerite had always thought this a pointless rule but didn’t say so.
‘They started poking fun at my tunic and my scabs.’
‘It’s a very nice tunic.’
‘No it ent, miss. My mum boiled it and it shrunk. Then that Baker-Jones snob from our upper sixth joined in and told them some things about my mum, cos she’s got a crush on one of the boys. So I hit her. And then I hit everyone I could. That shut them up. I’m a good fighter, miss.’
Lying behind a bush, heart thumping but the comforting sun on her back and Marcel by her side; they are flat on their stomachs, guns and grenades at the ready.
‘This one’s for Jacob and the lads,’ whispers Marcel. And she feels a rush of pride. There is a distant sound of engines. They grovel to the edge of the precipice. In the distance, three cars worm up the curving road. Gradually she can make out people in them. One man is standing in the first, which has the top down. He is scanning the area with binoculars.
‘He’s yours,’ says Marcel. ‘Arrogant swine.’
As he comes into focus she sees he has blue eyes. He is sternly handsome. Attractive. Aryan. Bastard. They round the last curve until they are nearly level. As she pulls the pin from the grenade he looks up and stares into her eyes in wonderment like a beautiful child. Then his head bursts open and splatters all over the other men in the car. Marcel fires at the cars with his Sten. From the other side of the road grenades and bullets are flying through the air.
‘Right. That’s it. Run.’
‘OK, Elsie, I’ll have a word with the head but I can’t promise anything. That sort of behaviour won’t do – you are supposed to uphold the reputation of the school. Remember our motto: “Quietness and Confidence”. You must control your temper.’
‘Thank you, miss. I’ll try, miss.’
‘Good.’
‘Miss—’
‘Yes, Elsie?’
‘Pamela Baker-Jones is an arseho – um – a bumhole. Don’t you agree?’
Miss Fryer had already heard from the police, and she was determined to expel Elsie.
‘This is not her first offence. She has let the school down on other occasions. She is slovenly and a bully. I don’t want girls like that at my school.’
Marguerite said, ‘Don’t you think her background is the problem?’
‘Certainly on the one occasion her mother deigned to attend a parents’ meeting she looked like a tart, which, rumour hath it, she is. Her father was aggressive with the teachers and smelled of alcohol. So there is little hope of them disciplining her.’
‘So she is being set a bad example at home. Can’t we try and do better here at school?’
‘She is surrounded by girls who work hard and behave themselves. Many of them have horrendous stories to tell.’
Marguerite tried another tack.
‘She is very bright. I seriously think she could get a State Scholarship and go to university.’
‘Very difficult, without the support of the home. I fear there will be more trouble, Miss Carter.’
‘She was provoked this time. The secondary modern girls were goading her.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me. They’re rabble. We’ve had a lot of trouble from them.’
Miss Fryer’s fingers drummed on her desk.
‘Very well, Miss Carter. On your own head be it. I know you have a way with the girls. I’ll give her one more chance.’
‘Thank you so much.’
‘Miss Carter, regarding another matter. We are here to teach. That is our job. It stops at the school gate. I understand you went to an anti-bomb meeting with some of the girls—’
‘How did you—?
‘I promise you nothing escapes my notice. Our task is to train their minds, and equip them to earn a living and to be well-informed, good wives, but we allow them to have their own opinions about how the world is run, with no influence from us. That we leave to others. Understood?’
There seemed little point in arguing so Marguerite nodded.
‘And best to stick to the syllabus, Miss Carter. It is carefully thought out. The war poets are deemed too disturbing for sensitive girls.’
Marguerite inclined her head and bit her lip as she made for the door.
Miss Fryer stopped her with, ‘Miss Carter—’
‘Yes, Headmistress?’
‘You really care, don’t you? Not just about Elsie?’
‘Yes, Miss Fryer, I do.’
‘Well, believe it or not, even after all these years, so do I.’
As Marguerite opened the door Miss Fryer added, ‘Oh, by the way, I would be grateful if you would find time to go and speak to the head of the secondary modern – Miss Scott is her name. See if we can’t improve the situation between us.’
Elsie was sitting outside in the corridor.
‘All right, Elsie, you have a reprieve. Now you go in and apologise, don’t answer back, in fact only say yes and no and thank you. And come and see me later.’
When the relieved Elsie came and thanked Marguerite, a rare gesture from her, Marguerite told her she wanted a favour in return.
‘You know Irene Brown is very shy, and I suspect she is sometimes bullied. Not physically but by being laughed at, or left out. I’d like you to keep an eye on her for me. Help her to stand up for herself.’
Elsie looked astonished at being given this responsibility. Marguerite knew that empathy was not nat
urally in her emotional make-up. The girl looked warily at Marguerite.
‘I’ll try. And thank you, miss.’
‘Two thank yous. That’s record. Now run along.’
‘Oh, but I mustn’t run in the corridor, miss, must I?’
Marguerite took her grubby hand and gently pretended to slap it.
Over time Miss Farringdon nervously entrusted Marguerite with more freedom, acknowledging her talent for developing the girls’ imaginations in their written work. In her mission to improve their creativity Marguerite got permission from Miss Fryer to restart the school magazine that had lapsed during the war. She let it be known that, apart from the usual house and club reports, she wanted original pieces.
She was on playground duty, surrounded by the usual gaggle of chattering girls, when she saw Elsie fighting with Irene. Elsie was dragging the struggling girl towards her, elbowing others aside. ‘Out of the way, you. Push off.’
She hurled Irene forward. ‘Go on, Irene. Do as I told you.’
Marguerite was devastated that her clever plan to benefit both Irene and Elsie had gone so disastrously wrong.
‘What on earth are you doing, Elsie?’
She was forcing Irene’s hand up towards Marguerite. In it was a torn sheet of paper. Elsie shouted, ‘It’s a poem, miss, for the magazine. And don’t you dare laugh, fatty.’ She turned, fists raised, towards the rotund culprit.
Marguerite was relieved to see her walk away with her arm round Irene’s shoulders, head bent sideways as if she were talking to a child, to which Irene responded with a smile.
Marguerite read the poem in the quiet of the tower staff room.
Darkness covers the bay.
The stars are cold and clear.
The moon gazing down upon me.
A breath grazes my cheek.
Grows to a sea breeze.
The rustling of the pine trees,
The grass shimmers with moon rays,
But it ends now.
The first pink blood of the sun bleeds the
Miss Carter's War Page 5
