But he hadn’t been there for more than five minutes before he wanted to call her back. He realized now that he was in foreign territory. He could hardly understand anything that was happening, for although everybody seemed to be speaking English it was a quick slurred version of the language and quite unlike the gentle, careful enunciation of his father and the Rabbi. The words flew into the air, sharp as sleet, and were gone before he could make sense of them. He drifted hopefully from one chanting game to the next, but nobody paid him the slightest attention. It was as if he was invisible. Finally he found a group of small boys huddled in a circle beside the steps. They were speaking in low earnest voices and speaking Yiddish. But the wall of their backs excluded him, and when they became aware of his presence they began to whisper so that he couldn’t hear. It was cold in the playground and his loneliness made it colder.
Presently, a large man with long black legs appeared upon the top step and blew a whistle, and instantly everybody in the playground, except David, rushed to stand in line before him. The child was left alone and perplexed in the middle of a suddenly empty place.
‘Line, boy!’ the man barked. ‘In line!’
What line? Where was he supposed to go? There were ten or eleven rows of children standing raggedly to attention in front of those long black legs, but the sight of them only confused him. Six of them were lines of big girls, so he knew he didn’t belong there, especially as they were grinning at him and giggling behind their shawls. Beyond them was a complicated mass of muddled bodies, boys and girls about the same size as he was, but none of them was giving him any kind of sign at all. As nobody told him what to do, he stood his ground and looked patiently at the man with the long black legs, and waited.
‘Line! Line! Line!’ Black Legs barked, and the face at the top of his rigid column of flesh grew puce and seemed to be puffing its cheeks. ‘Line!’
There was a swish of skirts behind him and a strong hand seized him by the collar and lifted him off his feet so that his boots scrabbled against the asphalt and he found he was being shuffled forward, his shoulders hunched and his heart beating painfully with a sudden and unfamiliar fear. Above his shoulders a fierce fat face was mouthing cross words, ‘You do as you’re told, the minute you’re told, you understand.’ But what with the suddenness of the attack, the indignity of his forced march, and the bewilderment of being in the wrong and not knowing how he’d got there, David heard little and understood less. He wanted to explain and to tell her to stop, but the language inside his head was Yiddish, and by the time he’d struggled to find a few inadequate English words, ‘I vont I should valk by myself, please,’ they were beside the furthest line. The hand scruffing his collar gave him a final jerk that cut off his air supply, Black Legs glowered down at him, and the line shuffled forward towards the step, carrying him with it. It was as though they were being sucked up by some invisible force, up and up, into the awful black mouth of that high door above them. It was an unpleasant sensation. If this was ‘education’, he didn’t like it much.
Once through the door he found himself in an echoing chasm with a ceiling so high above his head that it made him feel squashed and insignificant just to glance at it. But there wasn’t time for more than a glance because the horde of small marching bodies was still moving onwards, and this time he was determined to keep with the line and not leave himself exposed to Black Legs and the clutching hand. So he followed the dirty coat ahead of him, watching it sternly, going where it went, waiting in a cloakroom while it hung up its cap and muffler, walking again. And presently they marched through another high door into a room smelling of wax polish and dirty clothes and full of desks, arranged in long straight rows, each one higher than the one in front of it.
It was a very big room, made of red brick and bottle-green tiles. The windows were long and narrow and set far too high up in the walls for him to be able to see out of them, and that made him feel imprisoned, as though he’d been cut off from the world outside. The floor under his feet was covered with wooden boards and above his head wooden girders crisscrossed the roof space. Heavily. At one end of the room a great fire blazed in a black grate, but it was too far away to bring him any comfort. He could see the heat but he couldn’t feel it. It wasn’t a comfortable room at all. Not a bit like home.
He was briefly aware that there was a figure standing on the other side of the room in front of the fire, a tall black figure with a frowning face, but then alarm stopped any sensation, because the line broke and became individual children again trotting and scrambling towards the rows of desks, all at once and all in different directions, and he was left behind and didn’t know what to do or where to go.
He glanced apprehensively over his shoulder at the black figure and saw that it was a woman, a long flat woman, like an ironing board. Everything about her was tight and severe, from the mean little bun of brown hair on the top of her head to the polished points of her narrow black boots. She wore a black skirt, so straight and so tightly buttoned that he could see the shape of the corset underneath it, and a severe black blouse, flat and pin-tucked and embroidered with hard jet beads. Apprehension grew, for this was not the sort of cushiony untidy woman he was used to in the stalls and lodging houses and crowded rooms of Fashion Street. This was a lady. The sort of lady his mother had pointed out to him, the kind you doffed your cap to. Almost instinctively he pulled off his cap and held it in his hands, twisting it nervously. The lady looked down at him, as sharp and straight and steely as a needle. She had a long sharp face and a long sharp nose, and behind a pair of fierce round spectacles small sharp eyes, glittering and black as the jet beads on her flat bosom, and equally uncaring.
‘Well!’ she said, and the word was a sneer. ‘Who have we here?’ Her mouth was thin and pale, and turned down at the corners as she spoke. As she lifted her head to look down upon him and disparage him, her throat contracted into long white ridges that reminded him of the icy edges on the piles of cleared snow outside.
He disliked her on sight, because she was ugly and made him feel afraid, and because he knew, instinctively, that she didn’t like him.
‘Don’t tell me it’s David Cheifitz,’ she said, ‘condescended to join us at last. Wonders will never cease!’
He stood mutely before her, aware of all the eyes that were looking at him, rows and rows of hard eyes and sniggering mouths. What was he supposed to say? His heart was beating painfully again, like it had when that other lady dragged him into line.
‘Well,’ she said again, ‘are you David Cheifitz? Or not?’
‘Yes,’ he said, and began to bite his bottom lip, bowing his head to hide his distress.
‘Yes what?’
What did she mean, yes what? Yes was yes, wasn’t it? He blinked at her, his eyes shining with the approach of tears.
‘Yes, Miss Killip,’ the lady said, and her voice sounded very disapproving. ‘Didn’t they teach you any manners at home?’
‘Yes,’ he said solemnly, trying to parry her dislike of him by a sensible answer. ‘They did.’
She swished across the room to him and seized him by the shoulder, far too tightly. ‘Speak when you are spoken to,’ she said. ‘Don’t answer back.’ And she gave him a sharp little shake, so sudden and so vicious that he knew at once that she really wanted to hit him and hit him hard. Then she marched him to a seat in the front row and pushed him down into it. ‘There’s your seat,’ she said, ‘and there’s your slate,’ banging it down on the desk, ‘and there’s your slate pencil. You copy everything I tell you to copy, understand. And woe betide you if I hear squeaking.’
What a terrifying lady she was. Why did she think he would want to squeak? It didn’t make sense. But he didn’t say anything, because he didn’t want to be shaken again, and besides, there wasn’t time. She was barking names, one after the other and the children were droning answers.
‘Aaronson!’
‘Present, Miss Killip.’
‘Adams!’
&
nbsp; ‘Present, Miss Killip.’
‘Bernstein!’
‘Got a fever, miss.’
‘Cheifitz!’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes what?’
‘Yes, Miss Killip.’ If only she wasn’t so fierce!
The list of names went on for ever and when the last had been called, an awful bell clanged, and all the children in the room jumped to their feet and stood rigidly and awkwardly to attention. By now he’d learned enough to copy what they were doing so he stood too.
‘Lead on!’ Miss Killip commanded, and they all filed out of the room again. Which was very odd considering they’d only just filed in. In fact, this education was turning out to be very odd indeed, and not a bit what he’d been led to expect. Mama had promised him he would learn to read and write. She’d never said anything about marching in and out of doors.
They were in another even larger room with a very high ceiling, and they were standing in lines again, long silent lines with all the other children he’d seen in the playground, arm against arm, their dirty clothes very smelly in such close-packed formation. He could hear grown-up feet walking about somewhere beyond the lines, and skirts swishing, but he couldn’t see anything except the rough coat of the boy in front of him, and that made him feel captured and vulnerable. Then Black Legs’ voice bellowed, ‘Face front!’ and all the lines turned so that they were facing the north end of the room where Black Legs himself stood silhouetted against the chill white light from a row of very high windows, like a black beetle on a plate. ‘All things bright and beautiful!’ he barked, and while David was wondering what this meant, a piano began to play, and the children started to sing.
Now what was he supposed to do? He took a surreptitious glance to right and left and saw that mouths were open wherever he looked, so he opened his too, and moved his jaw up and down, and tried to look the same as all the others. And that seemed to work, for the song went on and nobody shouted at him or descended to shake him. And when it was over, Black Legs commanded them all to close their eyes, which they did by covering their faces with their hands, and then he spent a long safe time droning on and on in a deep and miserable voice. So that was all right.
From time to time during the drone, David dared an occasional peep through the adaptable shield of his fingers. Black Legs wasn’t looking his way, so it was safe enough. In fact, Black Legs wasn’t looking at all. He was rolling his eyes about in a very odd way, showing the whites like horses do when they’re frightened. And when his voice dropped at the end of each droning pronouncement, he dropped his chin too, right onto his chest, and closed his eyes and sighed heavily. David felt quite sorry for him to be so uncomfortable and so unhappy, standing there in front of them all with the white light dazzling in through the window behind him. Perhaps it was because he’d been made to wear such an uncomfortable collar that morning, a stiff white band encircling his neck. It was hard to swallow with something tight round your neck like that, and it would rub horribly.
The last peep had gone on rather too long, so he closed his eyes again, because he was trying to be good, because he had promised. And he was suddenly and inexplicably rewarded for his good behaviour by a revelation. He could still see the window. Even with his eyes tight shut. How could that be? He stood quite still, concentrating hard on this unlooked-for image. There was no doubt about it. It was the window. He could see the frames as clear and black as though they’d been drawn in charcoal. And he knew what charcoal drawings looked like because he was allowed to draw with it at home. But the light flooding and pulsing between those black frames was bright red, a vibrant shining colour, so satisfying that he felt really sad when it began to fade.
He opened his eyes and peeped again. And there was the white light, patterned by the brown frames just as before. He stared at it for a long time, wondering how it was possible to see things so clearly with your eyes shut, and hoping it would happen again. And when he closed his eyes again, it did. What a marvellous thing.
He was still enjoying the image when Black Legs’ peroration came to a groaning end, and the sharp barking voice in which he gave commands returned abruptly. ‘Stand! Be quick about it! We haven’t got all day. Turn!’
The lines shuffled back the way they’d come, and light and colour and speculation about them were trampled away. The slate was still on his desk where he’d left it, and he did his best to be a good pupil the way he’d promised, patiently copying the letters onto the slate, his teeth set on edge by the scratching and squeaking of slate pencils all around him. So that was what she meant! He used his own pencil with great caution, the tip of his tongue protruding with concentration. And he made a good job of it, for copying was easy. He’d been copying letters at home for the last two years and could write both his names, a feat which gave his parents enormous pleasure and invariably earned praise. Today, even the fierce Miss Killip grudgingly allowed that his efforts would ‘do’, but added with a sneer that he’d better copy everything out again as he’d been so quick. She made him feel as though she was trampling on him. Nevertheless he was beginning to feel more at home in this echoing foreign place. He’d recognized several faces from Fashion Street, and on his way back to the room after the thirty freezing minutes that were ‘playtime’ they’d shown him where to hang his cap and muffler, and he’d contrived to walk dose enough to the fire to garner a little warmth. Copying figures came next, and that was as easy as letters. But then, just as he was feeling that education wasn’t so bad after all, everything went inexplicably and terribly wrong.
Miss Killip began a new lesson. ‘Drawing!’ she commanded fiercely. ‘Sit up straight!’ and she brisked between the desks, slapping down a small green copy book and half a well-bitten pencil in front of every pupil. Then she stood with her back to the fire and gave them their orders. ‘When I give the word, and not until, James Murphy, you will open your book at the first page and draw what you see. You will not bite your pencils. You will not lick your pencils. You will not talk. Do you all understand?’
A crowded chorus, ‘Yes, Miss Killip.’
‘Very well then, you may begin.’
At the word ‘drawing’, David felt almost as happy as he’d been when he saw the lovely red light. He opened the book eagerly and found that the first page was headed by a border of wide leaves, but contained nothing else except a series of printed lines. He considered them carefully and happily, deciding what he would draw, just as he did at home before he made the first shape with his charcoal. The black lines reminded him of the window frames, and he wished he had a red crayon so that he could fill in the space with red light. If he turned the book round so that the lines rose vertically before him, it would be easy enough to draw round shapes at the top and turn the lines into windows. Which he did, and was pleased with the pattern. But that wasn’t enough, of course. He liked a picture with figures in it. His father perhaps, in his flat-brimmed hat, or his mother wrapped in her shawls. He drew heads easily now, with round eyes and a curve for a mouth and a line to suggest a nose, and since the autumn he’d been drawing whole figures, Humpty Dumpty shapes with stick limbs and three-fingered hands, and straight feet both pointing in the same direction. He would draw a figure standing in front of the window. Black Legs. Of course. He set to work quickly, with a long egg shape for the gentleman’s head, and his arms raised, their three fingers pointing upwards like forks. If education was drawing, David was going to like it a lot.
He was so absorbed that he didn’t notice that Miss Killip was standing beside him, until she made a curious growling noise in her throat. He looked up at her with the slow rapturous smile of satisfied endeavour.
She was pink-nosed with displeasure. ‘And what do you think you’re doing, may I ask?’
The question puzzled him. He didn’t think he was doing something. He was doing it. The edge to her voice alarmed him. Had he been naughty again? He noticed that all the other children in the room had stopped work and were watching avidly, and that was f
rightening too. It made him feel that something awful was going to happen.
‘Look at it!’ she said, sternly. ‘Lines all over the place. Dirty smudges. Where are your leaves?’
What leaves? Why did she always ask such silly questions?
‘Well, come along, boy. I asked you a question, I want an answer. Where are your leaves?’
‘Leaves I have not got,’ he said politely.
‘Leaves you have not got,’ she mimicked. ‘I can see you haven’t got any leaves. And why haven’t you got any leaves, eh? Tell me that. Because you’re a naughty little boy!’
Was he supposed to bring leaves to this place? There weren’t any leaves in Whitechapel, particularly in the middle of January. ‘Cabbage leaves ve have at home,’ he offered timidly, trying to placate her because her mouth was growing tighter by the minute.
She bent forward stiffly like a jack-knife beginning to shut and pushed her cold face right up against his forehead so that she was glaring straight into his eyes. ‘Just because you’ve got a pretty face,’ she said, ‘you needn’t think that gives you the right to be cheeky. Where are your vine leaves?’ One bony finger pressed down onto his drawing book, stabbing at the border of leaves.
He looked at them with surprise, having forgotten all about them, but he was more frightened than ever now, because the sight of them was making her snort with anger.
‘This page is a disgrace,’ she said. ‘Lines where they shouldn’t be. And what’s this?’ She turned the page sideways and realized, with a shock that was visible to the entire class, that she was looking at a crude cartoon of the Reverend Jamieson, hands raised for the blessing. ‘You irreligious little monster!’ she screeched. ‘How dare you draw the Reverend Jamieson!’ She seized him furiously by the shoulder and began to shake him. ‘That fine man is one of our benefactors. He is not to be mocked.’
A Time to Love Page 3
