“Right, it’s a date.” Smiling, she hurried out.
I walked back to the group of children and into a barrage of questions. It was the first time they had seen her in our classroom and their quick minds were full of meanings and speculations.
“Is Miss Blanchard your girl-friend?” Tich Jackson queried. “She’s smashing, isn’t she?”
By agreeing that Miss Blanchard was smashing I managed to parry the first part of the question. The girls began to discuss Gillian’s hair, clothes and shoes, and the conversation was steered into smoother water. Pamela said nothing; I had the feeling she did not share their enthusiasm for Gillian.
When Thursday came I felt as excited as a sandboy, and it was with a feeling of relief that I heard the final bell at 4.30 p.m.
Gillian looked very lovely in an ensemble of light gray with a ridiculous little black hat perched saucily on her head. Weston followed us through the gates, and I thought to myself: “I’m damned sure he wishes he were me.” We caught a bus and changed to another at Aldgate, where we sat in front on the upper deck. Gillian immediately linked her arm in mine and we were together in a private, wonderful world of pleasant whispered, unimportant talk about anything and everything which caught our attention en route. We would play a game of our own invention which we called post-chaise. For this purpose the bus was a stagecoach, and each stop a staging post or inn; we took turns at thinking up appropriate names for the stops, befitting their surrounding. For instance, the Aldgate stop was “Ye Pump and Bells” after Aldgate Pump and the nearby Church tower; the next stop around the turn into Leadenhall Street was “Ye Axe and Virgin,” and so on. The one who failed to produce a reasonably good name would be debited with a point. Points were valued at fifty a penny. It was great fun, and we rocked with laughter at our own attempts at improvisation.
The film was wonderful and we left the cinema somewhat subdued by the artistry and sheer reality of it, and walked through Piccadilly Circus to catch a bus for Chelsea.
The “Poisson d’Or” was, as Gillian had said, très élégant. It was one of those smart little restaurants that win a reputation and a following overnight, and then as quickly lose it. On every table, in place of flowers, was a live goldfish in a small glass bowl. The walls were decorated to depict a fish’s world of waving weed and coralline forms, and the indirect lighting was cleverly manipulated to produce an effect of underwater movement. I felt sure that a meal here would be an expensive affair.
The mâitre d’hôtel came forward and directed us to our table, with a questioning glance at me. We sat down and chatted quietly, both of us very much aware of the special something between us, recognized, but waiting to be acknowledged. Eventually we both realized that the service was being exceptionally slow, especially to our table, for other diners seemed to have waiters hovering around them all the time.
Presently a waiter brought us a bill of fare which he placed on the table, and departed. Annoyance was large in Gillian’s eyes, but I took it up and we spent a little time carefully choosing the food. The waiter returned and took our order, his manner casual with an implied discourtesy, and he was so long returning that I became really uneasy and annoyed. What was the fellow playing at?
He came at last with the soup. Whether by accident or design, some of the soup was spilled from my plate on to the cloth. I sat back expecting that he would do something about it as good service demanded, but he merely stood there looking at me, with a faint sneer on his face. Gillian reacted suddenly. With a swift movement she gathered up her gloves and handbag. “Let’s go, Rick.”
Head high, she walked ahead of me towards the doorway through a gauntlet of inquiring eyes. I collected my coat from the cloakroom and quickly joined her.
Outside she turned to me, her eyes like coals in her pale face.
“Will you take me home, please?”
I signalled a passing taxi. Inside the taxi she sat as far away from me as the seat would allow, as cold and distant as any stranger, her face averted to gaze unseeing at the passing scene. I felt suddenly let down and I wished I were far away from her and the school and everything.
What had I done? Was the waiter’s stupid discourtesy to be blamed on me? She had chosen the place, yet at the first sign of bother she had turned on me. Was that all that our friendship meant to her? The taxi stopped at her direction outside a block of flats in a quiet street near the embankment. She got out and hesitated while I paid the driver, then turned and ran up the steps. I watched her, expecting that she would disappear forever inside, but she turned and said:
“Aren’t you coming?” in a tight, angry voice. This Gillian was a stranger, a cold, hateful stranger. I was tempted to hurry away from her, but she meant too much to me. I’d see it through, whatever it was. I followed her inside.
Her flat was on the ground floor. We entered a room which was small but comfortably furnished with deep chairs and an old-fashioned overstuffed sofa. Three low bookcases were ranged round the room, their tops laden with an array of bric-à-brac, bits and pieces of ornamental pottery and brasswork, silverware and glass. The carpet was deep-piled and on the walls were a few prints by modern impressionist painters. Three doors led off from this room, I guessed to bedroom, kitchenette and bathroom. Everything here was in harmony except ourselves.
Gillian threw hat, handbag and gloves on to the sofa with an impatient gesture and invited me to sit, then began to move about the room idly fixing and straightening the things on top of the bookcases. Her actions were jerky and hurried, as if she were unsuccessfully trying to control some high-powered dynamo inside her. My eyes followed her every movement; I was tense waiting for the outburst which I was sure would come. At last with a few quick strides she pushed open one of the doors and was gone.
I took the book of poems from my briefcase and laid it on a low coffee table; the whole evening was irretrievably spoilt, and this was certainly not the time to present my gift as I had planned.
In a few moments she returned, apparently calmer. She was about to sit down when she saw the little package; she picked it up, tore off the wrappings, and looked at it. Then her hands dropped by her side in an attitude of despair.
“Damn you, damn you.” Each word was torn out of her like a dry, painful cough. “Why did you just sit there and take it?”
“I suppose you’re referring to the waiter.”
“Yes, why did you?”
“What was I supposed to do, hit him? Did you want a scene in that place?”
“Yes, I wanted a scene. I wanted a big, bloody awful scene.” The words sounded foul coming from her. She was glaring at me, her body bent forward at the waist, her arms raised slightly backward, like an agitated bird.
“What good would that have done?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. I wanted you to hit him, to beat him down, down…. ” She was nearly incoherent with anger and sobbing.
“It wouldn’t help, it never helps.”
“Why not? Just who do you think you are, Jesus Christ? Sitting there all good and patient? Or were you afraid? Is that it? Were you afraid of that damned little waiter that bloody little peasant of a waiter?”
“You’re being hysterical, Gillian; beating people up never solves anything.”
“Doesn’t it? Well, you tell me what does. You’ve been taking it and taking it, don’t you think it’s time you showed a little spirit?” She was becoming quite shrill now, like a fishwife.
“Someone else always has to fight for you, to take your part. Clinty stood up for you against Weston; the Dare girl stood up for you on the train; was I supposed to stand up for you tonight?”
I felt tired, awfully tired of the whole thing.
“Let’s not talk any more about it.”
“That’s right, run away from it.”
“Oh, let’s forget it.”
“Forget it? Do you know w
hat today is? I’d planned and planned for it to be nice and wonderful for us. Today of all days. I could have gone somewhere else or done something else, but no. I had to be with you, and you calmly tell me to forget it. Oh, I hate you, I hate you, damn black…. ”
With a scream she hurled the book at me and followed behind it, her hands stiff and clawing, like a demented creature. So forceful was her attack that I was nearly knocked off balance, but I grabbed her roughly, pinioning her arms, keeping her long nails away from my face. Hers was the strength of violent anger; for a while she struggled, silently and fiercely; then abruptly she went limp and leaned against me, moaning with her face against my coat.
When I felt sure that I could safely release her, I led her to a chair and she sat sideways, crying softly. I sat nearby, nervously watching her, knowing in my heart that this was the end; knowing that I ought to leave her now, but loath to go, drawing the moment out as far as I could. Presently she turned to me and asked:
“What are we going to do, Rick?”
“I don’t know, Gillian.” What could I say? There was a small flutter of hope in my heart and I held my breath, waiting for her next words.
“Is that the sort of thing we’d be faced with, all the time?”
She was speaking about us, both of us.
“Do you mean the waiter thing?”
“Yes, does it happen to you often?”
“Not often, hardly ever really. You see, it never happened to me while I was in the R.A.F., and since becoming a civilian I have not been anywhere social until, well, until we started going out together.”
I sat watching her, uncertain what to say. She had been hurt, humiliated by the waiter’s uncouth behavior, but had she not known or heard of that sort of thing before? She was English, and had spent all her life in England; was she truly free from the virus of racial intolerance?
“Didn’t you know that such things happened?” I asked.
“Not really. I have heard and read about it in a vague sort of way, but I had never imagined it happening to me.”
“It wouldn’t have if you hadn’t been with me.”
She looked up quickly, the hurt still strong in her dark eyes.
“What are we going to do, Rick?”
“It need never happen to you again.” In spite of myself, in spite of the love tearing at my inside, I was saying these things, not wanting to, but saying them.
“Is that what you want, Rick?”
I could not answer her. The whole thing was suddenly too big for me, too involved, too mixed-up with other people, millions of other people whom I did not know, would never know, but who were capable of hating me on sight because of her; not because she was beautiful and good and cultured and lovable, but merely because she was white.
“No, Gillian, that’s not what I want.” My mind was seeing the danger and the difficulties, but my heart was answering boldly and carelessly. She rose and came over to sit on the arm of my chair.
“I love you, Rick.”
“I love you, Gillian.”
“But I’m afraid, Rick, terribly afraid now. Everything seemed all right before, but now it’s all a bit frightening. How do you take it so calmly, Rick, don’t you mind about it?”
“Mind? Oh yes, I do mind, but I’m learning how to mind and still live. At first it was terrible, but gradually I’m learning what it means to live with dignity inside my black skin.”
And then I told her about my life in Britain, the whole thing, everything which led to my becoming a teacher and meeting her. She listened quietly, not interrupting, but soon, somehow, her hand was in mine, its firm, gentle pressure supporting, comforting, uplifting.
“I’m sorry, Rick,” she murmured when I had finished.
“Don’t be sorry about it, my dear. I just thought I should let you know the sort of thing which happened and is probably still likely to happen.”
“Oh, not about that, about the things I said to you tonight.”
“I understand; it is forgiven—it was nothing.”
For a while we sat united in our thoughts, needing no words, no further reassurance. Then she squeezed my hand and said, smiling:
“I’ll write to Mummy tomorrow. I’ve told her so much about you she won’t be surprised.”
“Won’t she mind?”
“I suppose she will, but she’s very understanding, really. We talked about it last time I was at home.”
“And your father?”
“Mother will get to work on him, I expect. Anyway I’ll write and say you’ll be down with me next weekend. I think you’ll like them, Rick; they’re awfully sweet, really.”
I stared through the window into the night. Life followed no pattern, no planned course. Before tonight I had not even kissed this sweet, beloved girl, yet now, for good or ill, the die was cast.
“Rick.”
“Yes?”
“I’m not very brave really, you know, about what people will say and things like that, but I do love you so completely, I’ll try to be good for you. I think we can be happy together, Rick.”
“Well try.”
She was crying again, very softly. I held her close, wanting to protect her forever, from everything. I was afraid, not for myself but for this sweet person who was so unhesitatingly prepared to link her life with mine. But others had met this problem before and had succeeded in rising above it. God willing, I’d try to do the same. We’d both try.
Chapter
Nineteen
THE SCHOOL SEEMED TO be the touchstone of my happiness. Since joining it I had experienced a new assurance and strength, and gradually I was acquiring a real understanding, not only of the youngsters in my charge but also of the neighborhood and its people. Sometimes I would walk through Watney Street, that short dingy thoroughfare of small shops lined on both sides with barrows of every description: fruit barrows, fish barrows, groceries, vegetables, sweets, haberdashery. Some of the barrows were really mobile extensions of the shops in front of which they stood, and served as display counters for the curious confusion of assorted goods which left little or no room for customers inside the shop.
The vendors soon knew who I was, and would smile pleasantly as I passed. Sometimes I would hear one say to another: “That’s our Marie’s teacher.” Or, “He’s teaching at Greenslade School. Our Joanie’s in his class, he’s ever so nice.”
Once I stopped at a fruit barrow. The large woman in bright apron and Wellington boots smiled as she weighed the apples.
“Our Maur’s got engaged last Sunday.” I knew that I was expected to know who “our Maur” was, but my glance must have betrayed my mystification.
“You know, Ann Blore in your class, Maur’s her older sister; got engaged to an American soldier, ever such a nice boy.”
Another time it was: “Our Jacqueline won’t be in today, been up all night with her stomach. Her Gran’s taking her to the doctor’s today. I sorta hoped you’d come this way so I could tell you.”
That one was easy. There was only one Jacqueline in my class.
Often I would stop and chat with these folks who were always eager to show their friendly acceptance of me, by drawing me into things concerning their children and themselves as though they believed I had a right to know.
Occasionally their conversation caused me some embarrassment, as when the stout Jewish fruit vendor, Mrs. Joseph, seeing me at the end of the queue waiting to purchase apples from her, calmly called me to the front and weighed and packaged my order, explaining to the frowning customers that I was “her Moira’s teacher and was probably in a hurry.”
There was growing up between the children and myself a real affection which I found very pleasant and encouraging. Each day I tried to present to them new facts in a way which would excite and stimulate their interest, and gradually they were developing a readiness to comment and als
o a willingness to tolerate the expressed opinions of others; even when those opinions were diametrically opposed to theirs. At first these differences of opinion set tempers alight, and the children were apt to resort to the familiar expletives when they found themselves bested by more persuasive or logical colleagues. Whenever this happened I deliberately ignored it, and gradually the attitude of the majority of the class to strong language proved sufficient to discourage its too liberal use.
I was learning from them as well as teaching them. I learned to see them in relation to their surroundings, and in that way to understand them. At first I had been rather critical of their clothing, and thought their tight sweaters, narrow skirts and jeans unsuitable for school wear, but now that they were taking greater interest in personal tidiness, I could understand that such clothes merely reflected vigorous personalities in a relentless search for self-expression.
Just about this time a new supply teacher, Mr. Bell, was sent to our school as supernumerary to the Staff for a few weeks. He was about forty years old, a tall, wiry man, who had had some previous experience with the Army Education Service. It was arranged that he should act as relief teacher for some lessons, including two periods of P.T. with the senior boys. One of Mr. Bell’s hobbies was fencing: he was something of a perfectionist and impatient of anyone whose coordination was not as smooth and controlled as his own. He would repeat a P.T. movement or exercise over and over again until it was executed with clockwise precision, and though the boys grumbled against his discipline they seemed eager to prove to him that they were quite capable of doing any exercise he could devise, and with a skill that very nearly matched his own.
This was especially true in the cases of Ingham, Fernman and Seales, who would always place themselves at the head of the line as an example and encouragement to the others. The least athletic of these was Richard Buckley, a short, fat boy, amiable and rather dim, who could read and write after a fashion, and could never be provoked to any semblance of anger or heat. He was pleasant and jolly and a favorite with the others, who, though they themselves chivvied him unmercifully, were ever ready in his defense against outsiders.
To Sir With Love Page 15
