Miss Purdy's Class

by Annie Murray

  Joey woke sometime during a sunny day. It was bright outside and he felt a sudden increase in energy, like a flame drawn by the wind. John lay very still. He was silent now. His face looked different and sunken. When Joey went to prod him he saw the lobes of John’s ears were nibbled away and there was blood. Joey didn’t think about it any more. He left the barn and walked away without thinking of the curtain or the pan and knife. His clothes were dry by now. There was nothing to think about except putting one foot down, then the next, on and on along the fringe of the field, watching his feet because at first the slanting sunlight seemed too bright to look into and if he raised his eyes everything seemed to whirl and spin around him and the space was too wide, the sky so high and far it made him dizzy. He did not think about food now. There was no food. He had no memory of when he had last eaten. He stumbled on and on across the fields, lurching like a drunk, not looking for anything or heading anywhere.

  Fifty-Two

  It was drizzly the next day, and cold, and the men marched as briskly as they could, sometimes slapping their arms round themselves to try and keep warm. Some carried banners. At times they broke into song. The ‘Internationale’ was a good marching song and it helped pass the miles to sing. They sang political songs and songs from the valleys and in some places they earned money by singing. They had walked east, through Bristol and Bath and were now passing through Berkshire on their way to London, sleeping in church halls or workhouses, wherever hospitality was offered to them.

  Two young men were marching together, talking, sometimes joining in the rich-voiced singing or discussing the impact the march would have when it reached Hyde Park. The government had to listen and abolish the means test.

  ‘Catch you up in a mo’, Dai,’ the younger of the two said. ‘Call of nature . . .’

  ‘Careful now,’ the other teased. ‘Cold out, today!’

  Despite the days of walking, the man vaulted with ease over a five-barred gate into the nearest field. He was dark-haired and lithe and had been toughened up by a collier’s life. He disappeared behind the hedge, which glistened with water droplets. Having relieved himself, he straightened his clothes and turned to rejoin the marchers, but something caught his eye a short distance away in the field. It looked like a little heap of discarded clothing. This seemed a rum place to throw away clothes. He narrowed his eyes, peering at them. He thought he made out an arm, stretched out to one side of the bundle and, frowning, he moved closer.

  For a few seconds he could not make sense of what he saw. The pinched face was obviously that of a child, though it had the worn, exhausted look of a very old man. There was a twig-like arm, and yet the creature seemed to have been stuffed, clown-like, into a set of clothes far too adult and bulky looking for him.

  Leaning down, the man said, ‘Hello, there. Can you hear me?’

  There was no reply. He pushed gently at the body and assumed the boy was dead. Conscious of the march moving inexorably on ahead of him, he thought, well, nothing for it, and scooped the emaciated little body up into his arms. It was floppy as a rag doll, but not cold and stiff: there was still life in the skeletal frame, just. Poor little beggar looked close to death though! Whatever had become of him? The young man was full of rage suddenly. That was the reality of capitalism, of the country under this betraying government: children were starving to death, not just in the valleys, but all over!

  As he began to walk, the child gave a slight moan and his big, prominent eyes flickered open for a second.

  ‘It’s all right, little man,’ Daniel said. ‘I’ll take you somewhere safe. D’you know where you are?’

  There was silence. What could he do? He’d have to take the child to the nearest house where they would have pity on him. A church perhaps, or a farm?

  ‘Muur . . .’ the boy groaned.

  Asking for his mother, Daniel thought. God alone knew whether there was anyone for him in this world.

  He was almost back to the gate now, and about to shift his stance and put the boy over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift to climb over, when he heard something else which riveted him to the spot. No – he was imagining things – he could only have been mistaken.

  ‘What were you trying to say then, lad?’ he asked gently.

  Quite clearly, just once, the little boy parted his parched lips and with a huge effort, murmured, ‘Miss Purdy . . .’

  Fifty-Three

  ‘Gwen, dear, there’s a letter for you – and a telegram!’

  Ariadne was all of a flutter, the envelopes in her hand as Gwen came in from school.

  ‘I hope it’s not bad news!’

  Ever since she had told Ariadne what had happened with Daniel, her landlady had adopted an even more motherly role towards her.

  ‘Oh, you poor, poor young thing,’ she had exclaimed with tragic eyes. ‘And you thought he was the One didn’t you? I know you did – I could see it in you when you were with him. And he was so polite and handsome.’

  Gwen took off her hat and shook the rain off it, then hung up her coat, somehow not wanting to know what the news was. It was bound to be from home – her mother or father ill or some other unpleasant problem she would have to face. Wearily she took the envelopes and went into the back room, where it was not so dark. Ariadne followed like her shadow. The handwriting on the letter was Billy’s. She smiled faintly. His letters were always bubbling over about something he had read and she found them uplifting. First, she tore open the telegram.

  ‘Oh my dear – what is it?’ Ariadne saw Gwen’s first reaction, one hand going to her heart.

  All she saw at first was the name at the bottom, DANIEL, and the rest took her time to make sense of, her eyes going over and over it:

  HAVE FOUND JOEY PHILLIPS STOP IS IN WALLINGFORD WORKHOUSE STOP VERY SICK STOP WANTS YOU STOP DANIEL

  Gwen looked up at Ariadne, completely bewildered.

  ‘Where on earth is Wallingford?’

  It was the middle of the next day when she stepped out onto Wallingford station and asked the way to the workhouse.

  ‘We don’t call it the workhouse any more,’ one woman she made enquiries of told her severely, then instructed her to follow the Wantage Road.

  All morning Gwen had been in a turmoil of emotion. The slightest thing made her tense and overflowing with tears these days. It had not taken a second’s hesitation to decide she would not be in school. Once she discovered that Wallingford was far to the south in Berkshire, though, her confusion increased. For Daniel to be there obviously had something to do with the route of the march, but however had Joey got right down there? And hearing from Daniel again stirred up all the sad and bitter feelings which had not yet even begun to subside in his absence. Sitting on the train, she was full of her old hunger for him, as if his very being was imprinted on her, and yet the thought of him now gave her nothing but pain. Every time she thought of him, she could see the tired, pretty face of Megan Hughes, the hurt in it, and what Daniel had done in leaving her and his son without any apparent regret or care.

  She looked out at the damp autumn countryside and let herself think over all the close, happy times she and Daniel had shared together, allowed the sense of hurt and betrayal to overwhelm her for a time, and tears ran unstoppably down her cheeks. She was caught in a painful collision of emotions, longing both to be held in his arms and to punch him hard in the face.

  Walking along to the workhouse, she wondered, had Daniel come here himself, carrying the boy? Had he left the march? She had no idea exactly where the route had gone. Or had Daniel handed him to someone else? How on earth had he found him?

  The workhouse was a sturdy-looking brick building and she was admitted by an equally sturdy-looking woman whom she took to be the matron. In the hall inside, she explained that she was looking for a little boy, Joseph Phillips.

  ‘I’ve come to take him back to Birmingham,’ she said. ‘I’m his teacher.’

  ‘Birmingham?’ The woman looked incredulous. Her tone was brisk b
ut not unkind. ‘Well, what’s he doing down here?’

  ‘I’ve really no idea. He disappeared from school months ago. We’d have to ask him how he got here.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think he’s in a fit state to tell you that at the moment. He’s very poorly – I was surprised he lasted the first night after they brung him in.’

  ‘Who brought him?’

  She looked surprised by the question. ‘A farmer, so far as I know.’

  Not Daniel then, by the sound of things.

  ‘I really want to take him back with me today,’ Gwen suggested.

  ‘Ooh no!’ The woman pursed her lips and kept shaking her head. ‘Oh, dear me, no – he’s far too ill to be moved. Oh no, I don’t think so.’

  Gwen sighed. Perhaps the woman was right. How was she going to manage with a sick child all the way back?

  ‘All right. I’ll come back and fetch him when he’s better. But may I see him? I’ve come a long way today.’

  Well, I suppose that’d be all right. He’s in the infirmary. I’ll get someone to take you.’

  A puny-looking young man was enlisted to lead her to the infirmary, where they walked between two rows of black iron bedsteads amid the sounds of coughing and hawking. From the far end came a terrible sound of groaning. On one bed she saw a tiny, crumpled figure lying like a fallen bird. It took her a moment to recognize the boy. Joey had always been a scrawny child, but now he was obviously extremely malnourished. His head looked disproportionately big, the skin tinged blue under his eyes, the rest of his face deathly pale. He lay prone, eyes closed, as if he had not an ounce of strength left to move. As she moved closer and leaned down to look at him, she saw his little hand, ingrained with dirt, the wrist so thin it looked fit to snap at the slightest touch.

  ‘You poor little chap, what’s happened to you?’ she whispered. Tears filled her eyes once more as she stood looking down at him. The state of him! He was nothing but a bag of bones.

  She wiped her eyes and knelt down beside the bed.

  ‘Joey?’

  There was no response. She could not see him breathing and, fearful, she hurried to check his pulse. But he was alive: she could feel a regular flickering through the veins. Gently she touched his hand, wrapping her fingers round his curled ones.

  ‘Can you hear me? It’s Miss Purdy.’

  He seemed to breathe more deeply, like a little sigh.

  ‘I’ve come to take you home, but they say you’re too poorly. But I’ll come back for you. All your class mates have missed you, you know – Ron and all the others. They’ll be ever so glad to see you.’

  She wondered if he could hear a thing she was saying. She looked at him, filled with gloom suddenly. Maybe he was too far gone. It looked as if he wasn’t going to make it.

  ‘Joey? It’s Miss Purdy.’

  And then she felt it. A movement in the wasted little hand, which gripped, at first almost imperceptibly round her finger, then clung on with a force which took her by surprise.

  She knew then, with a certainty which filled her with dread, that she couldn’t leave him here. He couldn’t be abandoned yet again. Not surrounded by all these strangers, dying old men with phlegmy chests. How could he ever really know for sure that she was coming back? She knelt there full of tension, trying to decide what to do.

  ‘Joey, listen to me,’ she whispered. ‘The matron says you should stay here because you’re not very well. But if you want to go today, I’ll take you with me. We’ll manage it somehow.’

  For the first time, his eyelids flickered. He did not speak, but the huge eyes looked at her suddenly with such urgent intensity that she knew the answer. Whatever the matron thought about it, they were going home. She was not leaving without him.

  By the time the train pulled into Birmingham it had long been dark. She had argued her case with the matron, who caved in without too much protest, especially when Gwen pressed a ten shilling note into her hand. Joey was dressed in a roughly sewn sort of nightdress of coarse cotton, which was far too long so that it covered his feet, but not nearly warm enough for the October weather outside. Gwen paid the matron more to take the blanket from his bed to wrap him in. She bundled him up carefully and they went in a taxi to Wallingford Station. He was as light as a paper kite in her arms.

  On the way back to Birmingham they found themselves near a kind, middle-aged lady, who introduced herself as a nurse, and helped Gwen to feed Joey a little of the milk diluted with water the matron had given her in a jam jar. It was a struggle to get him to take anything because he was barely conscious.

  ‘His system won’t be able to take too much at first,’ she said. ‘When you get home you’d be almost better off using a baby’s bottle to begin with. You’ll need to go very gradually. Dear me, what an awful thing – and in this country too! Where are you taking him to?’

  ‘Well, I’ve got lodgings in Handsworth. My landlady was a bit unsure, but she said I can take him back there at least for now. She’s not really used to children, you see.’

  ‘He’s not going to cause any trouble for a while, the state he’s in, is he?’

  When they got out at New Street Station, the woman helped Gwen lift Joey into a taxi.

  ‘You can’t possibly manage on the tram!’ she said. ‘Now let me give you a contribution to the fare. I think you’re a very kind person indeed.’

  She thrust a couple of half crowns into Gwen’s pocket and barely waited to be thanked.

  When the taxi reached Ariadne’s house, she had evidently been waiting on tenterhooks.

  ‘My dear – at last!’ she cried as the door opened. Seeing Joey in Gwen’s arms, her hands went dramatically to her face. ‘Oh, my word! Oh, look at that little mite. The state of him! Don’t you think he should be in the hospital? He looks . . . well, he doesn’t look as if he’ll last the night.’

  ‘I think I should put him to bed,’ Gwen suggested.

  ‘Oh yes – of course! I’ve got the little room up at the back ready . . .’

  It was no more than a boxroom, but there was a bed squeezed in which Ariadne had made up for him. Gwen told Ariadne of the help the nurse had given her and her suggestion about the baby bottle.

  ‘I’ll get one tomorrow,’ Ariadne said. They were both talking softly. She kept staring down at the tiny, frail figure in the bed, seemingly unable to get over the sight of him. ‘He’s really rather beautiful, isn’t he?’

  ‘I’m very sorry, Ariadne. Maybe you’re right about the hospital. I was so worked up about just getting him out of the workhouse and back here I hadn’t thought how much work it’s going to be looking after him . . . It’s too much to expect you . . .’

  ‘Oh, don’t say that,’ Ariadne burst out. She sounded really upset. ‘No one ever expects anything of me – that’s the trouble! They never have. And what have I ever done with my life, really? I mean I know I wasn’t sure about him coming. I’ve no real knowledge of children – never had the chance. But I’ll try – I want to! Poor little lad. It’s the least I can do!’

  Gwen hesitated, then dared to take Ariadne’s hand for a moment. It was knobbly with all her rings, and Gwen gave it a gentle squeeze.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You’re so kind.’

  Fifty-Four

  ‘Ron – stay behind a moment, please!’

  The rest of the class were hurrying out for their first breaktime the next morning.

  Ron came over to her desk and Gwen was disturbed to see a hunted expression in his eyes. It made her angry. He had always been such a carefree, sunny sort of boy. Whatever had been going on that afternoon in Mr Lowry’s office, and the treatment he received as a result, seemed to have left him in a state of anxiety.

  ‘Shut the door, Doreen!’ she called to the last departing child, then smiled reassuringly at Ron. ‘It’s all right. You haven’t done anything wrong.’ He looked up at her in a hangdog fashion and she weighed up in her mind whether to say anything. The consequences of the headmaster’s behaviour had af
fected Charlotte Rowley (though Gwen had very little sympathy for her) and Ron – not himself. How typical that was, she thought. She was on dangerous ground, she knew, saying anything against another member of staff to a pupil, but this was a question of justice.

  ‘Look, Ron – all that’s happened this term – nothing was your fault. It wasn’t fair, and you shouldn’t have to keep worrying. Try and put it behind you, eh?’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’ He stared at the ground, not seeming cheered by this.

  ‘I’ve got some news to tell you. Good news.’

  He looked up at her.

  ‘I went down south yesterday. That’s why I wasn’t here.’ She could feel her smile broadening. ‘And guess who I brought back?’

  Ron’s brow furrowed.

  ‘He’s very poorly at the moment and won’t be up to playing out for a long time. But tucked up in bed in the house where I live is your pal Joey.’

  Ron looked blank for a moment, then his eyebrows shot up.

  ‘Joey Phillips?’

  Gwen nodded, delighted to see a smile spread across Ron’s face once more. And some white teeth.

  ‘Is he coming back to school, Miss?’

  ‘Well, I hope so – eventually. He’s got a lot of resting to do first, before he’s well enough. But in a little while, a few days perhaps, I hope you’ll be able to come round and see him.’

  Ron was grinning now. ‘That’s bostin, Miss!’