Miss Purdy's Class

by Annie Murray

  Herbert worked as a toolmaker. Gwen was not especially cheered to hear he was coming back. She perched on an old stool and looked out of the back window at the dirty rooftops beyond.

  ‘Isn’t anyone else helping?’

  Daniel was peering into the machine. ‘Esther’ll be back soon. She’s gone out to buy a couple of things.’

  Not anything for lunch though, I’ll bet, Gwen thought, deflated by the fact that Esther was going to be there and had arrived long before her. No one in the party seemed to be very practical. They didn’t seem to care whether they ate or not. Esther just smoked long, thin cigarettes one after another, and Daniel didn’t ever seem to bother about eating. Gwen spent most of her time with the party starving hungry.

  ‘Right – l’m going to give this a go.’

  Daniel was just about to try again to get the machine started when Herbert slouched in. He was a sandy-haired man, thin as a greyhound, wearing a seedy black overcoat, even in the heat.

  ‘I shouldn’t do that if I was you,’ he said gloomily. ‘Let me look at it first.’

  He gave Gwen the briefest of nods. She wrinkled her nose as he passed her. He didn’t smell very nice. The two men busied themselves over the machine. Gwen soon grew bored, so she took out her copy of Ten Days that Shook the World. She was almost at the end now, but she’d had to struggle to get to grips with the Bolsheviks and Mensheviks and all the different parties and revolutionary movements. She began a chapter entitled ‘The Peasants’ Congress’.

  It was on November 18th that the snow came. In the morning we woke to window-ledges heaped white, and snowflakes falling so whirling thick that it was impossible to see ten feet ahead . . .

  ‘Well, comrades, how are we doing?’

  Esther’s booming voice cut jarringly through Gwen’s immersion in the Soviet snows.

  ‘I think I know what’s up,’ Herbert said.

  ‘Oh – hello,’ Esther said to Gwen in an offhand way. ‘What’re you reading?’ She bent over to look. She was wearing an extraordinary pair of baggy black trousers and a navy blouse polka-dotted with white tucked into them. Her plump arms protruded out from the short sleeves. ‘Ah – Ten Days . . . How sweet! Imagine being able to discover all that afresh again!’

  Gwen closed the book and stood up. She was an inch or so taller than Esther Lane. For a moment her eyes met Esther’s intense deep blue ones. Esther’s stare was provocative and, Gwen thought, rather scornful.

  ‘Well, we all have to begin somewhere,’ Esther said, moving away with an amused look. ‘I’m sure Daniel’s a very good teacher.’

  Gwen felt a flush rise in her cheeks, fully aware that Esther had not been referring to revolutionary politics.

  Esther joined the men leaning over the machine, deliberately excluding Gwen. Herbert was tugging at something inside the workings.

  ‘There,’ he panted. ‘If that don’t do it, I’m stumped.’

  A few minutes later the machine cranked into action and the leaflets came fluttering out. Bread Not Batons! it was called. It was about the means test.

  ‘Shall I help pile them?’ Gwen asked Daniel eagerly.

  ‘Yes, I can’t do a thing till I’ve been and washed my hands!’ Daniel laughed. ‘Nor Herbert.’

  Glad to have something to do, Gwen arranged the leaflets, which smelt strongly of ink, while the men disappeared outside to the toilet, where there was a tiny handbasin.

  Esther rested her cigarette in an ashtray on the desk and carried on with the printing, her dark brows pulled into a frown. After a while, without looking up, she asked, ‘So what do you do with your time?’

  ‘I’m a teacher. At Canal Street, Winson Green.’

  Gwen saw a hint of surprise on Esther’s face. ‘I say. That must be a challenge.’

  ‘And what do you do?’

  ‘Oh, I’m doing some research.’

  ‘At the university?’

  ‘Well, I use the library.’

  ‘Gracious,’ Gwen said, looking innocently across at Esther. ‘However do you support yourself?’

  She saw a slight flush rise in Esther’s cheeks. ‘My father’s a lecturer.’

  ‘Oh, I see – he supports you?’ Gwen felt triumphant. Here was this woman going on about the workers of the world and she was living off her father! ‘Well, how very nice! It’s so inconvenient having to work for a living.’

  ‘I devote most of my time to the party,’ Esther retorted, busying herself with the printing.

  The men came back then and for the remainder of the morning they all worked hard. Daniel and Esther discussed a pamphlet that they were working on, but although Daniel sat for some time at the desk with Esther, Gwen knew that his attention kept returning to her. Once he came over to her by the machine and put his arm round her.

  ‘All right, comrade?’ He looked deeply into her face. His cheeks were shadowy with stubble.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She smiled, putting her arm round his waist. She felt close to him and as if she belonged, was part of what was going on.

  By about two-thirty, Herbert murmured something about having to ‘get back to the Missis’ and slunk out.

  ‘Thanks, comrade!’ Daniel called after him.

  Herbert raised a fist in reply, which, given how puny he was, made Gwen want to giggle.

  Her stomach was gurgling with hunger by now.

  ‘Shall I go out and get us something to eat?’ she suggested, since obviously no one else was going to.

  ‘That’d be nice,’ Daniel said, glancing up from the desk where he was writing furiously.

  It was good to be out in the sunshine. Gwen felt odd being in the street, amid shoppers leading small children by the hand and messenger boys on bicycles, the ordinary world where people were not interested in the revolution. She bought three cheese and pickle cobs and three iced buns and hurried back to the office with the paper bags in her arms.

  As she pushed open the squeaky office door, the sight that met her made her feel as if she’d been punched. Daniel was still sitting at the desk and Esther Lane was standing behind his chair, leaning over him, arms wrapped round his neck. Seeing Gwen at the door she straightened up, unhurriedly, fixing Gwen with a defiant stare. Gwen was too shocked, too hurt to speak. Daniel smiled, apparently oblivious to the shock on Gwen’s face.

  ‘Those look a treat. Thanks, Gwen.’

  No one, she noticed, offered to pay her for their share. I suppose I’m the one who’s working, she thought. She couldn’t look at Daniel. She was close to tears. Daniel took his food back to the desk and he and Esther continued to work.

  ‘Won’t be much longer,’ he said, looking over at her. ‘Just get this done and we’ll go.’

  Gwen nodded. The lump in her throat made it impossible to eat.

  The hurt sat in her like a stone for the next hour until Daniel pronounced that he’d finished and they could go. They had a brief discussion about which of the party workers had been out chalking up details of the public meeting they were holding on Sunday night.

  ‘Thanks then, Esther,’ Daniel said eventually, picking up his jacket. ‘Gwen and me’ll be off now.’

  ‘All right, Daniel,’ Esther said in her smoky voice. She ignored Gwen. ‘See you tomorrow night?’

  ‘Right you are.’ Daniel took Gwen’s arm and they headed out into the balmy afternoon. ‘This is nice.’ Daniel turned his face up to the light. ‘Let’s go somewhere different. How about Cannon Hill Park?’

  ‘Daniel.’ She couldn’t contain herself any longer and pulled at his arm to stop him. ‘I don’t understand what’s going on. Are you in love with Esther?’ At last the pent-up tears ran down her cheeks. She felt miserable and stupid.

  ‘Hey, what’s the matter?’ He pulled her into his arms. They were standing by a shop window in a busy street, but she couldn’t have cared less. ‘Why’re you asking me that? Old Esther – how could you think that?’ He pushed her away a fraction to look into her eyes. ‘She’s got a bit of a thing about me,
that’s all. Nothing that matters. I think she sees me as a romantic example of the working class – you know, from the valleys and that.’

  Gwen looked up at him. ‘Romantic – you?’ She tried to smile through her tears, then grew solemn again. ‘You’re not . . . in love with her?’

  ‘No!’ Daniel laughed. ‘Don’t talk daft! She’s just one of those Bohemian types – goes draping herself round anyone.’ With his thumb he gently wiped her eyes. ‘You’re my lovely. You know you are – haven’t I told you enough times?’

  She pouted, more playful now. ‘No!’

  ‘Well, you are.’ He kissed her nose. ‘Come on – let’s go somewhere where I can really show you.’

  They took a tram down the Pershore Road and walked to Cannon Hill Park. For the remainder of the afternoon they strolled across the green spaces with their arms round each other. They bought ice creams from one of the Italian barrows and tasted the sweetness on each other’s lips. There were a lot of other people out enjoying the sunshine, but as the sun sank lower and prams were wheeled back towards the big houses of Moseley and children taken home for their tea, the park became quieter. They found a spot near the top of a gentle slope and sat together. Gwen was glowing with warmth and happiness, her fears about Esther Lane pushed aside. It was her Daniel loved – he could hardly help it if Esther had a crush on him.

  Daniel moved closer and put his arm round her back. They kissed, then sat close.

  ‘Did you . . .’ Daniel spoke suddenly. ‘I mean, I wondered if you’d had your . . . your monthly yet?’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Her cheeks went red. But she was touched that he was thinking of her in this way. ‘It started three days ago.’ She hadn’t realized herself just how much the worry of it had been needling away at the back of her mind until she knew it was all right. She was not going to have a baby! Look what had happened to Millie, after all. But even despite that, she couldn’t fully believe it would ever really happen to her. ‘You’re very well informed, for a man.’

  ‘I was worried, that’s all. My stupid fault – not using something to stop it. I don’t want to get you into trouble.’

  ‘Well, we won’t forget again,’ she said, looking into his eyes. They had not made love since that first time. There had been no opportunity.

  Daniel kissed her and she reached round and stroked his cheek.

  ‘I wish we had somewhere we could call our own,’ she said. She found herself full of longing just to lie back, to hold him and feel his weight on her and was caught up by surprise at herself. Was this her, feeling like this all the time, behaving in this way? And would they always have to sneak about and hide like this?

  With his lips close to her ear, he said, ‘If we wait here long enough, everyone’ll go home – except for the other lovers!’

  ‘Daniel! We can’t – not here!’

  ‘Can’t we? Why not?’

  She stared at him, her body aching with need.

  His eyes narrowed. ‘God, I want you.’

  ‘You’ll have to wait –’ playfully, she touched his nose – ‘till the moon comes up.’

  Twenty-Nine

  Joey started going out in the day with John. People stared at them. John’s height, his black clothes and huge matted beard attracted attention. The others in the house – except Micky – washed under the broken pipe at the back, but Joey had never once seen John wash or change. You could always smell him.

  ‘I do a bit of this – bit of that. Anyone who’ll give me a bob or two for a job,’ John told him. ‘If they won’t, then fuck ’em. I get this out.’ He reached into the pocket of the long, shabby coat and pulled out a mouth organ. ‘That can earn you a few pennies if you can make it sing.’ Which John could. His favourite tune was ‘Waltzing Matilda’.

  Some days John took Joey to the Bull Ring and he’d pick up an odd job around the market, carting potatoes, bringing in ice for the fish market. Joey liked the Bull Ring, the bustle and colour, the birds and animals in the Market Hall, the knife grinder showering sparks from his stone. All the smells, especially the rich aroma of cooked meat from the eating places up Spiceal Street could make his mouth run with saliva.

  ‘Why aren’t you at school?’ the market traders asked sometimes. ‘You’ll have the wag man after you!’

  ‘He’s helping me,’ John would say firmly. ‘He’s my lad.’ Joey knew everyone thought he was John’s son and he found he liked this. He had a deep, almost adoring, regard for Christie, but John was all right. You never really knew where you were with him, but when he spoke, to Joey’s ears he sounded like his dad.

  Joey kept a sharp eye out for the School Board man, and was always ready to duck under the nearest stall or run for it. Some days John went house to house, sometimes he was turned away rudely, at others he was invited in to do odd jobs: to chop a pile of logs, distemper the wall of an outhouse, hoe a vegetable patch. Despite the dole queues winding out of the Labour Exchanges – John wouldn’t go near them, or any other official body – he almost always found something to do in a day, even if in the end it was to stand in town and squeeze out some tunes. Sometimes they begged clothes off the rich people in Edgbaston and pawned them. And he would send Joey thieving: nipping into shops, even houses, for food.

  One day John stole a butcher’s delivery bike, which was propped outside a shop in Edgbaston.

  ‘We’re just borrowing it,’ he said.

  Joey liked that day. John got the hang of the bike after a while and towards the end they had a bit of fun on it, whizzing down Rotton Park Road. The metal was hard and uncomfortable under Joey’s thighs, but he lodged himself sideways on the crossbar as John wobbled faster and faster along the streets.

  Joey clung on, excited, terrified, feeling an odd, bubbly sensation rising in him, a pressure in his chest. He heard noises coming out of his mouth and it took him a while to realize that he was laughing.

  One morning Joey woke in the summer dawn, sensing that something had changed. The room was very quiet. He lifted his head. The plank had been slid back from the window and he could see Christie squatting in the corner near Micky, his head bowed.

  Joey got up and tiptoed over to him. Siobhan was asleep nearby, curled up on her side with her chin tucked in, her face mostly hidden by her hair. She didn’t look peaceful: more as if she was hiding.

  Christie looked round at him. ‘He’s very sick, Joey boy. Our Micky’s not got long to go.’

  Joey looked down at the bloated body. Micky had not moved for days. Joey saw his belly going up and down, but his breathing was wheezy and shallow. Siobhan had kept saying he was sinking. They’d boiled water and tried to clean him up. He had a terrible smell on him. It hit you when you came in the room.

  ‘Poor old fella,’ Christie said.

  That evening, when Joey came back in with John, the stench was terrible. Joey could taste it, over the smell of stew and cabbage, like fur in his mouth. He went and crouched at the side of the hearth, hugging his knees, near John, who was stirring the pot. Joey’s stomach was twisting with hunger. Siobhan and Christie ignored both of them because they were arguing, though for once this was nothing to do with Siobhan’s drinking. She was sober, but distraught.

  ‘Don’t you dare go fetching one of them here! We don’t want them pushing their noses into our business, knowing we’re here! Christie, for heaven’s sake he’ll go running for the Guard and they’ll have us out of here – sweet Jesus, they might even send us home!’

  Christie was sitting by the fire, hands over his face. Joey could see that he was coiled like a spring. Christie spoke through his fingers.

  ‘I’ve got to, Shiv. You know I’ve got to. It’s the only thing left.’

  ‘Don’t bring one of them!’ She was sobbing. ‘They’ll see into my blackened soul, sure they will! I can’t stand it!’

  But Christie was not to be budged. ‘God knows he’s had little comfort in his life. And he was a right enough old fella.’

  Siobhan sprang up sudden
ly. Joey caught a glimpse of her white thighs before her skirt fell over them again.

  ‘I tell you, Christie O’Brien, you bring a priest to this house and I’m parting company with you – for good. I’ll not stop here a moment longer.’

  Christie snatched his hands from his face and stood up, so toweringly angry that at that moment he seemed to Joey twice his normal height.

  ‘Have you forgotten I’d still be training to be a priest myself had it not been for you? For your carrying on with Sean Flaherty? Did you forget I ran away from the seminary for you? For you, you selfish bitch. Don’t you think I mightn’t rather be back there now than rotting here in this filth and squalor? You never think of anyone but yourself, do you?’

  ‘You hated the seminary!’ Her voice rose. ‘You never wanted the priesthood and you know it – baptizing brats all your life in some God-forsaken country! Don’t you bring that down on my head! It wasn’t you wanted to go – you had no will of your own when Mammy was at you all the time. Sure, couldn’t one of her sons bring blessings on the family – be a priest and join the missions? Well, Paddy and Donal weren’t fit for it, were they? Mine wasn’t the only bastard baby on the farm, don’t forget!’

  ‘Keep your voice down!’ Christie shouted. ‘Will you have some respect for a dying man?’

  ‘I’ll not stay, I tell ye, Christie. I’ll go from you!’

  ‘Will you? Will you now?’ Joey had never seen Christie so angry. He was quivering, his face pushed right up close to Siobhan’s. It was as if she had twisted at something deep inside him. ‘And where will you go, Shiv? On the road? Selling yourself along the way? Or back in the spike bedding down with whores and drunks?’

  There was a long silence. The two stood with their eyes burning into each other’s in the firelight as if neither could let go. At last Siobhan looked down.

  ‘The rest of the whores and drunks, you mean, Christie.’ Her voice was low, and filled with an ache of shame. ‘For that’s what I am and in your heart you know it.’