For the last period of the day, she took the sixth formers preparing for Oxbridge entry, serious, ambitious girls whose company she normally enjoyed. As a recent graduate of Somerville she hoped she might be able to give them some good advice. But even they, on a Friday afternoon, fidgeted and stared out of the window, longing for the final bell to ring. Julie set them a Latin passage to translate, and stared out of the window herself.
So apparently she was now engaged and they were going to Wiltshire for the weekend so she could be assessed as a future daughter-in-law.
And she’d hoped for a weekend in Paris.
Susan, Cathy, and Penny sat sprawled at desks in the front row of the classroom as Julie came in with a pile of homework to mark. She sat at the teacher’s desk and read out their names, a ludicrous exercise when it was only three girls who were involved, but formalities must be observed.
Julie opened the first exercise book. The afternoon sun beamed through the tall windows full of dancing dust motes, and the room held the peculiar school end-of-day scent: female sweat, floor polish, mustiness, the lingering odor of school lunch.
She couldn’t help looking up and glancing at her three charges. She’d encountered students outside of school and been surprised at how grown up, how female, they looked when wearing normal clothes and not the hideous school uniforms. The gymslip, tie, and white shirt conspired to make Susan look dumpy, Cathy skinny, and Penny awkward. Susan chewed the end of one of her pigtails, Cathy yawned, and Penny froze halfway in pushing a piece of paper across her desk.
Julie stood and held her hand out. Penny, blushing, handed the piece of paper to her.
I love Paul so much I think I will die of it. Do you love him that much?
“Thank you, Penny.” She tore the piece of paper in half, dropped the pieces into the bin, and sat down again, trying to ignore the pain and embarrassment on Penny’s face.
Oh for God’s sake. Don’t fall for it. Don’t love someone that way. He’ll take you to some freezing damp country house that smells of dogs and let his mother bully you when you thought he’d take you to Paris and you’d spent half the night in a panic because you thought you’d lost your passport. And because he’s an English Freudian mess, he’ll be too scared to have sex there and he’ll drive back too fast with his hand in your knickers.
She looked up again. This was supposed to be punishment, but Julie considered it a dreadful waste of time. To make these three restless, bright girls sit in silence for an hour, doing nothing, was unforgivable. But of course you couldn’t make them scrub the floor, or sew straight seams, or stand on stools with signs around their necks.
“So what have you three hardened criminals done this time?”
They fidgeted, grinned.
“We told Mrs. Henderson what we thought of Sense and Sensibility,” Susan said.
“Really? What do you think of Sense and Sensibility?”
They giggled.
“It’s stupid,” Cathy offered.
“Why?”
“They’re such silly cows.”
“All through the book?” Julie responded to Penny’s comment. “Are they still silly cows at the end?”
“They don’t do anything,” Susan said. “Like Elinor waits around for that Edward bloke and they haven’t even snogged.”
“But don’t you have to wait for boys to ask you out? Isn’t it the same thing?” Julie said.
They looked at each other. “My mum won’t let me go out with boys,” Cathy said.
“My mum says I can get engaged when I’m sixteen,” Penny said.
“Oh, do you have a boyfriend, then?” Julie asked.
Penny shook her head.
“And the other one—whatshername—she’s daft, isn’t she. I mean, she doesn’t even know that bloke.”
“Marianne and Willoughby? You’re right, Cathy. She falls in love with a man who’s her fantasy.”
“Her what, miss?” Susan had produced a nail file and was attending to her nails.
“Put that away, please, Susan.”
“But I don’t get it,” Cathy said. “Those blokes just aren’t worth it.”
“And then Marianne marries the old boring one. I expect they read horrible poetry to each other in bed.” Penny’s comment set all three of them giggling. “I mean, why do they want to get married?”
“To be honest, it’s not my favorite Austen. I like Persuasion better,” Julie said, and they all stared at her.
“You mean, you like books like that?” Susan said.
“Yes. If you’re lucky, you’ll like Austen too, one day.”
“I don’t know why anyone would want to read it if they didn’t have to,” Penny said.
Julie looked at them, at the marking in front of her, and weighed the odds of girls in future begging for detention with Miss Morton, who actually talked to them like human beings, talked to them about boys. Was this really a good idea? And what if word got back to Mrs. Henderson that the most junior member of staff, the lowly Latin teacher, had had the audacity to trespass upon the sacred groves of English literature?
“What if the men in the book were the Beatles?” she said.
“There’s only three.”
“Yes, but John’s married,” Susan said to Cathy. “Even though I love him best.”
“Not Ringo,” said Penny.
“Why?” Julie said, intrigued by the elimination process.
“He’s too short. He’s only an inch taller than me.”
“But we don’t know how tall Marianne or Elinor are,” Julie said.
“He’s not handsome enough either,” Penny continued.
“What if something happened to John’s wife and he was terribly unhappy and then we met and I—”
“That’s awful!” Cathy cried at Susan’s suggestion, and Penny shook her head at the terrible thought.
“So,” Julie said, enjoying herself. “We have Edward Ferrars. Which Beatle do you think he is?”
“Which one’s he?” Susan said.
“He’s the stupid one,” Cathy said. “He’s the one who goes out with the stupid girl.”
“Lucy Steele,” Julie translated, “but he’s in love with Elinor.”
“Ringo,” Penny said. “He lets himself get pushed around by the other three because he’s short. Like Edward lets himself get pushed around by his mother, who wants him to marry the stupid girl. And he’s too quiet and shy to do anything about it.”
“George is the quiet, shy one,” Susan said with an air of authority. “Besides, Ringo’s too short for Elinor.”
“That’s interesting,” Julie said. “Why do you think she’s tall? Austen doesn’t give much in the way of physical description, although she does say that although they’re both very good-looking, Marianne is the prettiest.”
“Of course she’s tall,” Susan said. “She’s always telling people what to do. Even her mum.”
“Like you,” Penny said, “except you’re short.”
All three of them giggled.
“But he’s a vicar,” Cathy said. “None of the Beatles would ever be vicars.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much about that,” Julie said. “It was quite a normal job for someone like Edward to have in those days.”
They nodded.
“Look, they don’t do anything,” Susan said. “The girls. The sisters. Any of them. They just hang around waiting for someone to propose to them. And they do needlework and go to parties and stuff, but they don’t have jobs.”
“If you married one of the Beatles, would you have a job, Susan?” Julie asked.
“No. He’d need me at home, cooking his tea, and I expect I’d have a baby.”
“So if Paul arrived in this room and dropped to one knee, holding out a big bunch of roses, you’d say yes?”
“I’m not old enough. He’d have to wait for me but I expect he’d get me a ring and all that. But I wouldn’t do it before we’re married.”
“So you wouldn’t have a
job either, then. You’d leave school and get married the next day.”
“But Elinor and Marianne didn’t go to school,” Susan said. “I don’t think they did. They’re older than us. And they haven’t even been out with any boys until Edward turns up.”
“They’re posh,” Penny said. “So they don’t have to have jobs, and only boys went to school then. Posh schools. It was the olden times.”
They all nodded in understanding.
Penny continued, “Now it’s different. They keep telling us we have to do well in our O Levels so we do three A Levels and go to university, but Miss Creegan, when she talked to us about careers, said we should think about teaching as a career because we could get married and then go back after we’ve had children and have school holidays with them.”
“So do you think it’s much different?” Julie asked. “It seems like there are still the same expectations for girls, from what you’re saying. What if you don’t want to get married or have children?”
They all stared at her again as though she was a green thing from a spaceship.
“So we have George, the quiet, shy one, as Edward. Who’s next? How about Colonel Brandon? What do you know about him?”
“He’s old,” Susan said in disgust.
“That’s exactly what Marianne thinks of him when she first meets him. She criticizes his waistcoat.”
“I think he’s John,” Cathy said. “He’s the oldest.”
“Yes, but he’s quite dashing, isn’t he?” Julie says. “He fights a duel, and he gallops around over the countryside to fetch Mrs. Dashwood when they think Marianne is going to die. He’s a good old-fashioned hero. And he’s got that lovely romantic streak, reading poetry to Marianne. Is John romantic and dashing?”
She tried not to smile as they all grimaced.
“Paul,” said Penny. “I think he’d be Paul. Because he’s kind. Paul has such lovely kind eyes.”
“No, he’s not handsome enough,” Susan said. “Colonel Brandon isn’t handsome. Paul’s gorgeous.”
“I think he’s George,” Cathy said.
“No, Cathy. Edward is George,” Susan said.
“Wait,” Julie said. “Let Cathy tell us why she thinks George is Colonel Brandon.”
“Well.” Cathy chewed a hangnail. “He’s quiet. And I think he looks sort of brooding and mysterious sometimes. But underneath it all, you know there’s all this passionate stuff. He could read you poetry and you sort of wouldn’t mind too much.”
“Then Ringo could be Colonel Brandon. Because he’s short and he’s got a funny nose but his heart’s in the right place. And he’s funny. John’s funny too, but Ringo’s funny in a nicer way,” Susan said.
“I can’t see Ringo galloping around on a horse like Miss Morton said,” Cathy objected. “I can’t really see any of them on horses.”
“I’ve got a picture of them on bicycles,” Susan said. “It’s not that far off.”
“Miss Morton, why doesn’t Colonel Brandon marry their mum?” Penny asked. “She’s old, too.”
“That’s a very good question, Penny, and none of the critics and academics who write about Austen have ever come up with a satisfactory answer. I suppose, simply, they didn’t fall in love with each other.”
Penny blushed with pleasure.
This was interesting, Julie thought. It was a ridiculous concept, but the girls were thinking and arguing, and despite their prejudices against the book and Mrs. Henderson’s effectiveness as a teacher, they had managed to absorb something of what it was about. But Willoughby, she thought—Willoughby would be interesting because the girls had elevated the Beatles to some sort of romantic sainthood.
Meanwhile their conversation had deteriorated to a discussion of favorite pictures, in particular the ones that had come out just that week in Jackie, a magazine Julie deplored for its silliness regarding boys, but which was revered in the school.
“Willoughby,” Julie said. “What do you think of him?”
“I think Marianne’s really stupid,” Susan said. “She doesn’t even know him.”
“I agree to a certain extent,” Julie said. “But as you mentioned earlier, she led a very sheltered life. She didn’t go to school or really do very much outside her family. So is it fair to blame her for being stupid? Everyone expects her to marry, just as Miss Creegan expects you all to marry.”
Susan glanced at Julie and then at the other two girls. Julie gave her an encouraging smile.
“Willoughby’s like a real boyfriend,” Penny said. “He brings her flowers.”
Cathy and Penny giggled.
“Well, that’s what boys are supposed to do,” Penny said. “It said in Jackie last week that if he was serious about you, he’d give you flowers. And the lock of hair thing, it was what they did in olden days, wasn’t it, Miss?”
“It was,” Julie said.
“I’d love to have a lock of Paul’s hair,” Cathy said dreamily. “It’d be so romantic. I’d sleep with it under my pillow every night.”
“So Willoughby acts like a real boyfriend, but do you think he really loves Marianne?” Julie asked. “Everyone seems to think he’s serious about her. Later he tells Elinor he was in love with Marianne, but by then it’s too late.”
“Yes, it’s easy for him to say it then,” Cathy said.
“Wait a mo,” Penny said. “If Willoughby’s not a nice person, how come everyone else thinks he is?”
“That’s an excellent point, Penny,” Julie said. “I really think Brandon should have had a word with Mrs. Dashwood or Sir John Middleton.”
“That’s what’s wrong with them all,” Cathy said. “All of them! They’re so prim and proper they won’t tell anyone anything. Like Elinor won’t tell Edward she likes him and he won’t tell her about the other stupid girl, Lucy whatshername. And Elinor should have told Lucy to bugger off because Edward was hers.”
“Don’t swear,” Julie said, trying not to laugh.
“I wouldn’t tell a boy I liked him,” said Penny. “What if he didn’t like you back?”
“What if you were on a desert island with Paul? Or, what if you had ten seconds to live and you were with Paul?” Susan said. “You would then.”
“Don’t you think that’s what Marianne is trying to tell him at the ball in London?” Julie said. “It’s a very brave thing for her to do.”
There was a short silence in which Penny scrambled under her desk for a dropped pencil and Susan studied her fingernails. Cathy hummed quietly to herself.
“I don’t think any of the Beatles would do what he did,” Susan said. The other two nodded agreement.
“Yes, but if Paul did—I mean, if he dumped me and I was really ill and nearly died and he came to see me and he was married, I’d …” Penny’s voice faltered. “I think if Paul got married I’d die.”
“Just like Marianne,” Julie said. “Do you think you’d marry—who did we decide was Brandon?—let’s say it was George—afterwards, when you got better? If he told you he was in love with you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think I’d ever forget Paul,” Penny said. “But I quite like George. So I suppose I’d marry him if he asked. He is one of the Beatles and I’d see quite a lot of Paul, I suppose. But I’d never be friends with his wife.”
“That’s true,” Julie said. “Willoughby is still the Dashwoods’ and Middletons’ neighbor. You know, one of you—I think it was Susan—said that Marianne and Elinor were silly cows, and Marianne is certainly silly with Willoughby. But by the end of the book, do you think she’s still as bad?”
“Yes,” Susan said, to Julie’s surprise. “But in a different sort of way. She’s done what everyone has expected her to do—she’s got married to the first boy who comes along when she couldn’t marry Willoughby. Well, not really a boy, he’s an old man. I feel sort of sorry for Willoughby. If he really loved her so much, maybe he should have asked her to run away with him. If John asked me to run away with him, I would. Even if it was George, w
ho’s my next favorite, who wanted to marry me, I’d run away with John. Marianne could get a job if he needed money. In Woolworth’s or something.”
All three girls laughed. “Mrs. Henderson’s always saying that if we don’t go to university we’ll end up working in Woolworth’s,” Penny said, who still seemed to be brooding on the horror of Paul’s marriage.
“But if Marianne did that, she’d lose her reputation. Elinor would never speak to her again and probably Elinor wouldn’t be able to marry Edward. Women couldn’t do things like that then,” Julie said. “She probably wouldn’t be able to get a job either.”
“My mum would never talk to me again if I ran off with someone,” Susan said, looking quite pleased at the prospect.
“And how about Elinor?” Julie asked. “What do you think of her at the end of the book?”
Susan snorted. “She’s a right cold fish, miss, particularly if what you say about how she wouldn’t talk to her sister if she ran off with Willoughby is true. If she really loved Edward, she should have told him and married him without waiting for his mother to say it was all right.”
The others murmured assent.
“But it’s not right, miss, about Marianne. What if she isn’t really in love with Colonel Brandon?” Penny asked.
“That’s the great thing about Austen,” Julie said. “She knows when to tell us things and when not to.”
The girls looked thoughtful.
Julie looked at her watch. “Girls, I think you’ve demonstrated that when you put your minds to it, you’re capable of doing better work than you’ve done so far for Mrs. Henderson. I’ll let you go early this once, but I don’t expect to see you in detention again.”
They chorused their thanks and filed out of the room.
Julie followed them out and went to the teachers’ cloakroom for her coat. Now the school day was officially over, only the front entrance was open, and to her surprise she found the girls clustered there, deep in discussion.
“He’s more like a dad,” Cathy was saying as Julie approached.
Jane Austen Made Me Do It Page 23
