Tommy Glover's Sketch of Heaven

by Jane Bailey

  “But what if they’re being naughty?”

  “Oh, then you must admonish them, of course. But even the most difficult child should be praised at least twice as often as he’s told off.”

  I thought of some of the children I had been taught with in this very class. “But what if they don’t do anything worthy of praise?”

  “Oh, there’s always something you can find: sitting quietly for a change, nice straight back, nice big smile, shirt tucked in … and if you don’t praise them when they’re getting things right, how will they ever know when they’re on the right track?”

  I nodded vigorously, and wondered if this accounted for my own excellent assessment, despite my slacking off into a po-faced void this afternoon. Then she did venture to ask if I’d been feeling quite myself since the dinner hour. I could see the tempting possibilities of unburdening myself to her, but the story was too long and too harrowing to relive again so soon, even if I did long for her to practise her tip and absolve me from all guilt past or present in a glorious smiling affirmation that I had done the right thing, and quite possibly deserved a star.

  As we stood in the school porch I asked if I had time for a short walk before I helped her with the tea. But Miss Pegler was a woman who liked her kitchen to herself, and she shooed me away with enthusiasm.

  I made my way across the village through the same lanes I had followed home as a girl. I had it in mind to visit Joyce and Jack, but my courage weakened with each step. How was it that I had managed to write only one short letter in all these years and even that not in gratitude for taking me in? I wasn’t ungrateful. I could see what a minefield it had been for them to take in a stranger, a child who reminded them in size and shape of the one they had lost. I had chosen to imagine, in my childish way, that there was a time limit on gratitude, and that if I let enough time slip past the need to express it would disperse into thin air. But now I could see that the very opposite was true, and the road up to Weaver’s Cottage seemed suddenly unnavigable.

  Then off to the right I saw the path. It was overgrown now with nettles and cow parsley, but it was no longer forbidden. There was no one to stop me visiting Heaven House, and with a delicious defiance I headed off towards the derelict building through the stingers.

  I had seen it at a distance from the road many times, but never from the front porch. Even though it had been besmirched by Fairly, something of the old magic made me quiver. Here it was, right in front of me, the house I had ogled secretly every time I walked to and from school, whose windows I had so wanted to see into, whose strange routines I had longed to decode.

  It stood there before me disgraced, scorn poured all over it, but dripping instead with new-leafed Virginia creeper and budding clematis. The front door, once a handsome bottle green, was flaking and revealing an older blue beneath. It was locked, and I wandered around to the back of the house to find another way in. My lungs were filled with a fierce pungent smell that ripped apart the seams of my memories like a wild animal. It was woodland garlic. I could see its snowball florets carpeting the roots of some beeches to the side of the overgrown garden. The back door was shut but the glass had been broken, and I found it unlocked.

  Inside were signs of more recent life: this year’s children’s comics, chipped cups, a smell of chip wrappers, writing on the wallpaper (‘Liz loves Don true NO SHE DONT’). I moved slowly up the hallway, looking in each room as I went. I gazed up at the high cornices; there were no clues as to what had happened here: the rooms were bare but for the odd bottle or chewing-gum wrapper.

  Upstairs was no different except that the old beds, stripped of their mattresses, were still there in rows. The sadness of the two stark dormitories caught me by surprise. For the first time I could see how it was: two rows of beds, two rows of boys. All thrown in together. No love, no praise, nothing to aim for but escape. Above each bed was a hook and an unfaded rectangle of wallpaper. I found myself suddenly grateful for the lack of clues. Pictures of long-lost mothers would have been too sentimental to bear. I went over to a large cupboard by the window and looked inside. I was still searching and not sure if I wanted to find anything. It was empty: nothing but a musty smell and old cigarette packets.

  I looked out of the broken window on to the garden. It had started to rain and the dampness made me shiver. I shouldn’t have come. Searching for the truth is a dangerous thing to do, unless you’re prepared to live with what you find. What was it he had done that was so dreadful? I felt trapped between my fear of knowing and my desperate need to find out.

  I kept thinking back to the register I had taken, and the names on it. Chudd. There had been a Chudd. I kept seeing Betty in the lane with her big breasts and her tight buttons and her bare legs. I kept seeing the look in his eyes, torn between loyalty and lust. I had only partly understood it. Then it had spelt only disloyalty; now it spelt a child in a class I was teaching. I leant on the wall by the window and closed my eyes. And in this strange ambiguous state of things I hoped it was true. For if it was not, then I had to contemplate that other possibility, and that was too dreadful to consider.

  If I was going to see Miss Lavish again, if I was going to face it, then I would have to prepare myself. I looked across at the rusty bedsprings. Could it be that the reason Tommy had not given evidence against Fairly was because he too …? I screwed my eyes tight shut. It was so unthinkable I couldn’t believe I had allowed the thought to pass by. It was this place, this building. I wondered how anyone could want to rehouse a school on such an evil site as this.

  I had come back here to be close to him. There had been a choice. I could’ve accepted a placement in a nice quiet school in Cheltenham. I had volunteered for a rural location, hoping to be nearer. I hadn’t expected to be right here. And now that I was, I could see how much my need had played a part in it. I had longed to see this place again, but without the guilt I felt every time I remembered it. I had imagined being an anonymous Miss Green, able to get close to my memories of Tommy without facing what anyone thought about me. Time had twisted my childish guilt into remorse. I had become Tommy’s murderer: I had been responsible for the death of the only boy I had ever loved. For every boy I had met since had been compared to him. If there was a hint of Tommy in his voice or his look or his smell I would show a relentless, irrational interest in him. As soon as he betrayed himself by not being enough like Tommy, I lost interest. Tommy was my blueprint. I couldn’t bear to hear Miss Lavish destroy him. I couldn’t contemplate any damage to his memory. I shouldn’t have come.

  My heel stood on something and I bent down to pick it up. Right up by the skirting board a slim dark green object was wedged into the lino. It was only about three inches long. I turned it round in my fingers; a thin slice had been carved out of the green pencil for the owner’s initials: ‘G’. I was about to toss it aside when I saw that it had been sharpened right up to this letter, and that there had almost certainly been another letter which had been removed with the sharpening. I stared at it, then I kissed it and pressed it close to my cheek. It was a timely reminder of everything good and tender about Tommy. I clutched it tightly in my hand and left the building as quickly as I could, before any more evil thoughts defiled my memory of him.

  It had stopped raining, and the birds had begun to sing enthusiastically, restating their territory all over again. I stood for a while in the back garden of Heaven House. I spotted a fox in the bushes, but it only froze for a moment and then trotted off indifferently. A blue tit flew on to a windowsill and twittered about happily, seemingly unmoved by the demons all around. I put my hand up against the stone as if I might feel something similar. It was cool and damp. I loved this stone. It reminded me of the bruised grey film of hardboiled eggs, its golden yellow just beneath the surface. It was Cotswold stone: good stone. The clematis saw no problem with it, nor the creeper, the ivy, the tits or the house martins, the song thrushes or the sparrows. The structure was sound and there was solid yellow stone under the surface. I wal
ked away feeling glad that it had a second chance. Perhaps it could, after all, be transformed by children.

  Tea for two

  Miss Pegler’s elaborate preparations produced scrambled eggs on toast and tinned fruit.

  “Would you like salt and pepper on your eggs?”

  “Both, please.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve run out of pepper.”

  “Oh, well. Just salt’s fine.”

  “Good, good.”

  She ate slowly, watching me take each mouthful.

  “Do you like pineapple?”

  I hesitated. “Yes.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have any. I only have peaches.”

  “Peaches are lovely too.”

  She put them in front of me, and smiled. I knew I should make conversation but I could think of nothing cheerful to say.

  “I’ll buy pineapple tomorrow,” she said.

  Beyond her shoulder, perched on the piano, was a framed photograph of a young RAF officer, looking slightly embarrassed at having his picture taken. Normally I would ask about him, not just out of politeness, but out of curiosity. But this evening I couldn’t face the unhappy, heart-rending story that I knew would follow. He would’ve begged to marry her, she would’ve said let’s wait until after the war, he would’ve been shot down two days later, and she would’ve regretted it ever since. Better to let her chew on her peaches and chat on about how much she wanted a proper staff room. I didn’t want to hear that other stuff. No thanks. Although I might as well have done, for the thinking about it affected my ability to swallow.

  What was it with dead people? There he was, preserved forever in his frame, youthful as the day it was taken. Miss Pegler had had no chance to see whether, at their very next meeting, he might have pissed her off a bit, flirting with some other girl, getting a bit too drunk with his mates, making fun of her slightly beaky nose or her ever so slightly goofy teeth. She hadn’t had a chance to see whether he patronized her opinions or beat her black and blue after a night’s drinking or broke wind loudly after every meal. He was just there – like Tommy really – preserved forever in his perfection.

  I could barely eat. The peaches had become sweet young flesh (young officer, perhaps?) preserved in some chemical fluid.

  Miss Pegler began to pour the tea, and then looked anxiously at me. “Would you prefer coffee?”

  It felt like a trick question.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Good.”

  I took some forget-me-nots I had gathered into the classroom on my way to catch the bus. As I came out of the school I spotted Miss Lavish leaving the school house by the wicket gate and waving to Miss Pegler.

  “Kitty!”

  I looked away anxiously towards the bus stop.

  “I was hoping I’d catch you. Harry had a phone call – oh …” The bus rounded the corner and sailed past before I could reach the road. “Oh, heavens! Was that your bus?” She must’ve taken my frown to indicate annoyance about the bus. Much as I longed for Miss Lavish’s warmth and cocoa, I felt trapped by her bad news. “When’s the next one?”

  “Seven o’clock. It’s the last one.”

  “Of course it is. Come on back with me for some cocoa. Harry’s going out to his Sheepcote Players thing. They’re doing The Pirates of Penzance.”

  I feigned interest, and went reluctantly up the hill to her house.

  Those little white lies

  Miss Lavish was smiling when she sat me down (good sign). She poured me cocoa and force-fed me biscuits, then she sandwiched one of my hands between hers and frowned at my lap (not good at all).

  I could feel the nausea coming back. It was so sudden I had to put down the bourbon biscuit I had just munched into.

  “It’s Betty Chudd, isn’t it? It’s all right, I know. She’s had a child, hasn’t she?”

  “Betty Chudd? Heavens, she’s only been married two months. A dentist – lives in Gloucester.Tabby Chudd is pleased as punch – ”

  “But there’s a Chudd in my class.”

  “Mrs Chudd’s! She said it was an accident, but we’re not so sure. What with Joyce and Jack starting all over again, I think she got a bit broody.”

  “I see.”

  The clock on the wall seemed to tick very loudly, and Miss Lavish renewed her squeeze on my hand. I was certain I didn’t want to hear what was coming, but she was going to tell me, and I would have to bear it.

  “Tommy was so afraid of what Fairly might do to him that he ran away. Only he didn’t go to sea at all. Apparently he found work on a farm in Wiltshire or some place, and he telephoned Lady Elmsleigh every week to hear whether Fairly had gone or not, and begging her not to say where he was.”

  “But … he wrote to me – from his ship.”

  “He sent it to Lady Elmsleigh – she gave you the letter. I’ve had long, long chats with her, I can tell you. She’s never forgiven herself. Anyway, when he heard Fairly was looking for him he faked that telegram you had.”

  “Faked it? But he –”

  “Thought it was better you heard, you see, because if it went to Fairly, he’d have known it was a fake straight away. Also he was afraid you were too small to keep a secret like that – especially if Fairly got hold of you. He thought that if Fairly heard about his death second-hand, and especially if he saw you genuinely grieving, then it would be more convincing.”

  “But he wouldn’t have –”

  “He was going to tell you a few days later.”

  Right, of course. I couldn’t have kept my mouth shut for more than two minutes about anything. But this didn’t make sense. I knew Tommy was dead. I knew Tommy was dead because I had grieved for him for eleven years. I had ached with guilt and longing throughout the dregs of my childhood and right through my teens. Every old song on the wireless, every lark in the morning, every moth, every spider, every reeking lane in spring, every whiff of wild garlic, every cow’s breath, every owl’s hoot, every boy’s head from the back … It had been a long, slow, messy burial. But he was dead. The smells of this room with its old piano came rushing at me like a gale. These too had been buried, but here they were: that musty, dusty, dead smell, redeemed by the vibrant one of leather from the sofa and apples on the sideboard. I saw my free hand on my lap and it didn’t seem to belong to me.

  “Of course, when he told Lady Elmsleigh what he’d done she was appalled. She came tearing round here – can you remember? – to tell you, only it was the day you were leaving –”

  “– and I’d just had some other bad news …”

  She reached out a cool hand and placed it on mine. “I’m so sorry, Kitty.”

  I stared at her elegantly veined hand. Strange words shot out from my lips. “Tommy’s alive!”

  She smiled. I looked at her intently. Everything seemed to hang on that smile.

  “Is he here now?”

  “I think so. But –”

  Her clock started to chime the half-past loudly.

  I stared at her sparkling grey eyes, trying to read what else there was to be said, parched for more information. But I was so excited by now that I wanted her to cut to the chase, I wanted to wind her up so she’d reach the conclusion. I was dying to hear as fast as possible, and the tension was so numbing that I couldn’t open my mouth to ask what I really wanted to know.

  “Come back after school tomorrow if you like.”

  I swallowed, disappointed, impatient. I felt unable to move, as though if I went out of her front-room door any number of unknown things could happen to me, and I wouldn’t be ready for them.

  “Go on,” she said, smiling in exactly the same conspiratorial way she had twelve years ago when she bent down and whispered, ‘Call me Lavinia.’ “Don’t be late for your bus!”

  Dear hearts and gentle people

  She took pity on me and walked with me to the bus stop.

  “I suppose he’s …”

  “Mm?” That glint in her eyes again. “He was so desperate to get married that he prop
osed to the first girl he met. That was after looking for you in London with Jack, of course.”

  “So …”

  “She turned out to be no good, with a man in Painswick, a man in Stroud, another in Cheltenham. Gracious, she was a terrible mistake! Then he made another big effort to find you again. He went to live in London to study – heavens! – he must’ve worn some shoe leather looking for you, Kitty. Anyway, he got engaged again last year – ”

  “So he’s …”

  “Married?” Her eyes sparkled gleefully at me again. “No. She broke it off.”

  “Poor Tommy!”

  She stopped and gave me a rebuking sort of a look. “You don’t mean that.”

  “I …”

  “She said he was too clingy. But we all knew the real reason.”

  “What?”

  She raised one mischievous eyebrow. “Well … it’s no fun being second best, is it?”

  There ahead of us was a woman whose walk looked familiar, and whose hairstyle had not changed in eleven years. She was wearing a splendid green-flowered dirndl and was flanked by children: a boy about eight, a girl about five or six, and another girl of about ten trailing behind – the Shepherd girl from my class. And beside them a man walking a bicycle – the same bicycle, lovingly maintained down the years.

  Miss Lavish looked at me and smiled expectantly. But the sudden vision took me by surprise, and I felt a little overwhelmed. I took deep breaths and gazed at Aunty Joyce’s hands holding the two smallest children, and at the five pairs of Shepherd feet clopping on the tarmac that used to be yellow stone.

  I slowed my pace. I didn’t want to catch up with the Shepherds, not yet anyway. I was seeing them as I’d always hoped they would be, all those years ago, and I wanted to keep my big mouth shut.

  “They’re going to the rehearsal in the hall. All the little Shepherds are in Harry’s production. Oh – and someone else you’ll remember: Heinrich Schmidt.”