by Susan Lewis
Turned out nothing did in the end, but best not start feeling sorry for myself because that won’t get us anywhere.
I found an old book on engineering in a second-hand shop last week by an American chap called William Barclay Parsons. Marvellous it is, and I only had to pay threepence for it. I got so engrossed reading it last night that I didn’t notice the time going on, and that rascal Gary stayed out on the green playing football until gone seven, when he should have been in bed.
I’m halfway along the Fishponds Road now, nearly at the Causeway where they’re putting in some traffic lights – about time too – when who should I bump into but Mrs Beach. She’s the mother of Glenys, who also started Red Maids this week. When we were leaving the school Mr Beach and I got chatting and he told me they lived around here. Mrs Beach talked about being able to help one another out with lifts and things if ever there was a need. Very nice woman. Her husband’s a solicitor, I believe.
‘Hello Mr Lewis,’ she says in a friendly way, ‘what a nice surprise.’
I can just imagine our Susan speaking like that when she grows up, and how thrilled Eddress would be to hear her. I wonder what she’ll be, a doctor? The manager of a big office? A travel agent? She likes adventure, so I can see her going round the world in a fearless way, leaving me worried sick at home, with just the odd postcard from places like Guam, or Singapore, or Timbuktu to reassure me she’s still alive.
It turns out Mrs Beach has just delivered a box of books to the War on Want shop we’re standing outside. I give a quick glance in through the window and catch Mrs Patel’s eye – she works in the shop Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and when she gives me a nod I know she’s keeping the books back for me to have a sift through first. Very kind of her, but no time today.
‘Have you heard from Susan yet?’ Mrs Beach asks.
I give a fatherly roll of my eyes. ‘They’re probably busy settling in,’ I reply with a chuckle. ‘You know what girls are like.’
She smiles indulgently. ‘We’ve had two letters from Glenys.’
Already? It’s only Wednesday.
‘Between us, I think she’s a little homesick, but she doesn’t want to worry us so she won’t actually come out and say so. Very stoic. The best way to be, don’t you think?’
‘Oh, indeed,’ I reply. I’m being a jolly, polite sort of chap, while feeling a bit miffed that our Susan hasn’t written yet, especially when she picked out the writing pad and pens herself. And hey ho to Mrs Beach that Glenys is so dutiful and stoic. Good old stiff upper lip, can’t beat it.
Time’s running on, so I have to hurry. One minute past the clocking-in time and I’ll lose a full half-hour’s pay. Which reminds me, I’ve got a union meeting tonight, so I’d better get my papers ready, because I might have to stand up and speak. I wonder if being deputy shop steward will stop them giving me a promotion?
Lucky our Nance and Doreen come every Wednesday to help with the washing and make the tea, or I wouldn’t be able to go up the union any more. Gary’ll be pleased it’s Wednesday, some nice tasty food to eat, thanks to his aunties, followed by one of his favourites, an orange and cream slice. Better make sure they don’t let him stay out too late playing football again, because the nights are drawing in now and he’s got school tomorrow.
I wonder how stoic our Susan’s being? I decide I rather like that word: stoic. I don’t get to use it very often, but here is a good opportunity: Wonder how stoic our Susan’s being?
Susan
I hate it here more than anything else in the entire world, and when Daddy finds out how horrid it is I just know he’ll let me go home. I’ve written it all in a letter, explaining how horrible and mean and stuck-up everyone is, but I don’t have any stamps, so I can’t send it. He’d better come to church on Sunday so I can tell him and then we can pack my bags and leave. I’m really worried that he might not come, because if he doesn’t I’ll be all on my own with no one on my side when the older girls poke fun at the way I speak, or the colour of my hair. I’d rather call it auburn than ginger, but they seem to think it’s really funny to call me names like carrot top, or rusty head, or gingey. It’s lucky I don’t wear glasses any more, because they’d probably take the mickey out of me for them too, calling me four-eyes and stuff like that. I’ll never forget the day the optician told me I didn’t have to wear them any more. I jumped up and down, clapping my hands with joy, and said to Daddy, ‘Come on, let’s go and tell Mum.’
Then I remembered she wasn’t there any more, so we went to get a cup of tea in the caff near Gran’s instead and didn’t speak very much at all.
I wonder if Mummy’s looking down and can see that I don’t wear glasses now. I remember the way we giggled when I first tried them on, especially the round National Health ones, which they gave us for free in case my others got broken. I always loved it when Mummy laughed. I don’t suppose I’ll ever hear her laugh again, unless she has gone off to be with another family and decides to come back to us in a few years.
We might not want her then, but I expect we will.
I’ve decided that if Daddy tries to make me stay here any longer then I’m going to run away to New Zealand to be with my cousin Jacqueline and Uncle Maurice. Or I’ll go up to London to live with Auntie Kathleen who’s quite rich and always brings me a costume doll whenever she comes to see us. (Gary and I checked under the costumes once to see what they were wearing and found that lots of them didn’t have any knickers on. We couldn’t stop laughing for ages and Mummy kept laughing too, even though she didn’t know what we were finding so funny. We couldn’t tell her because it was rude and she never allowed us to be rude.)
I’m in the first-year classroom now, which is over the stable block. I suppose they must have kept horses here once, but now it’s showers and a cloakroom on the ground floor, with two classrooms full of prisoners on the first. We’re having a scripture lesson at the moment, which is called religious instruction here. Miss Dakin – or Dotty – who’s actually the headmistress, is teaching us. Everyone says she’s a man, and I think they’re right, because her voice is deeper than Harry Secombe’s, and she wears men’s lace-up shoes. She also wears a black cape like a magician’s that flutters behind her when she walks, so if she’s not a man she’s definitely a witch. I’m not listening to what she’s saying about Jesus, because it’s not true that He loves children, or He wouldn’t be doing this to me.
There are twenty of us in our class, twelve boarders and eight day girls. It turns out that I’ve met one of the day girls before. Her name’s Susan Cruse, which is funny, because we met on a school cruise that I went on with everyone from High Street about five months ago, just before I left. Our ship was called the Devonia and it sailed us to Olden and Bergen in Norway and Copenhagen in Denmark. I was seasick most of the way there, but it got better after a while and when I saw a glacier and the fjords I sent Daddy a postcard straight away to tell him that Norway was the most beautiful place I’d ever seen in my entire life. I didn’t know sea could be that blue – it’s not at all like that down Weston-super-Mare or Weymouth, and fancy there being a mountain made entirely of ice.
Susan Cruse and the girls from her school were in the same cabin as those of us from High Street, while boys from two different schools were in a cabin across the corridor. They were always taking the mickey out of us for something or other, but they weren’t nearly as funny as they seemed to think. In fact they were really smelly, and thought it was hilarious when they farted, so none of us ever went over to their side of the ship.
I don’t think me and Susan are going to become friends particularly – the day girls and boarders don’t mix very much, mainly because they, lucky things, get to go home after school while we’re stuck here. When lessons are over at half past three we have an hour’s free time before tea – unless, like me, you’re on offices, which means that when the bell rings at ten past four I have to go and lay the tables before everyone comes charging in for their chocolate-spread sandwich
es and Typhoo tea. After we’ve finished we have some more free time until prep at six, when we have to do homework, yuk, then we have supper before going to bed.
I’m sitting next to Laura in class, which is nice, because I like her and I think she’s probably going to be my best friend. She doesn’t seem to mind that I don’t talk in the same upper-class accent as her and Cheryl, and she shared some of her tuck with me during break today. That was probably because I gave her one of my mint humbugs on the first night. If we’d got caught by Cluttie we’d have been sent down on the landing and put on report, because food isn’t allowed in the dorm, but everyone has some. I think I’ll ask Dad to bring me some Marmite, because everyone seems to like that and if I share mine with Nina Lowe and her friends they might not be so mean to me.
‘Susan Lewis, are you paying attention?’
‘Yes, miss,’ I say quickly, even though I wasn’t.
‘Then please read to us. The Gospel according to Matthew, Chapter Five, verses one to sixteen.’
I can feel myself starting to shake a bit as I open my Bible. Why did she pick on me to read out loud? It’s not fair, they’ll all start laughing at my accent and I can’t help the way I speak. Anyway, I don’t want to be posh and snooty like them – except maybe I wouldn’t mind being a bit more like Laura and Cheryl, but only because they’re nice, not because they’re a better class. I can feel Peggy Lamont-Jones watching me. She’s from Seabreake dorm, which is the one under ours. With a double-barrel name like that her dad’s bound to be stinking rich, he might even be a duke or a lord. She calls herself Peg Jones, and she’s got long dark hair that she wears in a single plait right down her back, and she’s so full of herself you’d think she was six feet tall instead of the little squirt that she really is. I’ve watched her quite a bit, but I’d never let on that I think she’s cool and really pretty because she’s not.
I find the right place in the Bible and using my finger to follow the words I start to read: ‘When he saw the crowds he went up the mountain. After he sat down his disciples came to him. Then he began to teach them by saying, Blessed are the poor in spirit …’
I stop as someone behind starts to snigger. I keep my head down so no one can see how red I’ve gone.
‘Carry on,’ Dotty barks.
Why doesn’t she make someone else do it, the horrible witch? ‘… for the Kingdom of Heaven belongs to them. Blessed are those who mourn …’
I hear someone mimic the way I said mourn and I have to swallow really hard before I can read on. ‘… for they will be comforted.’
‘Do you see a T in comforted, Susan?’ Miss Dakin asks.
I feel really fed up as I nod, because I know I shouldn’t have dropped it, but it’s too late now, she’s told me off, and lots of girls are laughing behind their hands.
‘Then pronounce it when you say the word, please,’ Miss Dakin tells me. ‘Let me hear it.’
‘Comforted,’ I say, making sure to use the T.
‘Very good, and if I hear the rest of you laugh again, you’ll all find yourselves on report.’
Good, that told them!
I read on to the end, knowing they’re all still snickering and sniggering and getting ready to mock me as soon as the lesson’s over, but if I don’t keep going she’ll probably give me a report and Daddy’ll be cross about that. He’ll say, ‘That’s not a very good start, Susan. I’m disappointed in you, because you can do better than that.’
He doesn’t have to put up with all these horrible snobs though, does he? Or stay locked up here while all his friends go to another school, or play out in the street, or have a cuddle with their mums when they’re feeling upset.
He’d also say, ‘… let your light shine before people, so that they can see your good deeds, and honour your Father in heaven.’ That’s verse sixteen, so I’ve finished now. Let someone else have a turn.
‘Well done, Susan, you’re a good reader,’ Miss Dakin tells me. ‘Now, let’s discuss the meaning of Jesus’s message to His disciples.’
Luckily, she doesn’t pick on me again, so I don’t have to join in. I try to listen though, because she’s bound to ask questions later and I don’t want people thinking I’m dumb as well as common.
At last the lesson’s over, and it’s the end of school. The jammy day girls pack up their satchels and go downstairs to the cloakrooms to get their coats. They have the same winter uniform as us, a dark red kilt, same colour V-neck jumper, white V-neck shirt and fawn socks, ugh! Why do the socks have to be fawn? I’d rather wear the thick granny stockings that are part of the uniform too, at least they look more grown up. My suspender belt’s been digging in me a bit today so I think I’ll have to put it on a looser notch tomorrow.
Me and Laura are on our way across the stable yard with the other first-form boarders when word starts going round that there are some third-form girls in the bootroom, which we have to go past. I know this means trouble, because I’ve already been told that the bootroom is where the serious blowing ups happen. I go all hot and wobbly inside, and quickly start saying sorry to Jesus for not paying attention all the way through RI, hoping that He’ll make sure it’s not me who’s in for it.
It is me though, because I can already hear my name bouncing in whispers from one girl to the next, until it reaches me and covers me in guilt for something I haven’t even done. Please God don’t let me be the only one to get blown up.
He’s still not listening, because a couple of minutes later I’m standing on my own in the middle of the bootroom with Nina Lowe and her crowd perched on top of the racks, looking down at me, or sitting astride the pipes, or slouching against the windowsill.
‘Don’t look at me,’ Nina snaps. ‘I’ve told you about that before.’
I put my head down and wish Mummy was here to make them leave me alone, or better still to put them all in their place, because she would, she was like that.
‘We’ve been wondering,’ Nina says, ‘why you haven’t got struck on anyone yet.’
I don’t answer.
‘Is it because you think you’re too good for us?’ she asks in a way that sounds surprised, but I know is sarcastic.
The others seem to find that funny, and I can see why, because they’re all much better than me.
‘Is it?’ she shouts.
I jump and shake my head. ‘No,’ I reply.
‘Then why?’
‘I – well, I didn’t think anyone would want me struck on them.’ I can feel my face going a deep, ugly, beetroot red.
Nina seems intrigued. ‘And why would you think that?’ she prompts.
I shrug. I don’t want to say because I’m common, but I know that’s what they all think of me.
‘You’re a strange thing,’ Nina tells me. ‘We don’t really want you in Speedwell, but I suppose, since we’re stuck with you, we’d better try to make something of you. Let’s begin with your failure to stand back for a fifth-former on the stairs this morning. I thought we made it abundantly clear the other night that you do not keep walking if an older girl is either coming towards you, or needs to get past. So why did Judith Harris have to tell you to stand aside?’
My heart’s beating really fast now. ‘Because … Well, Miss … Cluttie said that we have to obey only the written rules, or we’ll get into trouble.’
Nina’s hairy lip curls up like she’s been caught on a fishhook. ‘Are you completely stupid,’ she snarls. ‘You don’t do what Cluttie tells you. She’s a matron for God’s sake. You do as we tell you, and when we say stand back on the stairs, you stand back on the stairs. All right? Have you got that?’
I nod quickly and add, ‘I’m sorry,’ hoping it might help her to forgive me quicker.
‘Good. Now put your bag down and jump up and down on the spot ten times saying, “I’m an ugly ginger nut.”’
The others laugh, but someone says, ‘Oh come on, that’s a bit mean.’
‘Do it!’ Nina tells me.
I don’t want to, but I
’m too afraid to say no, so I put my bag on the floor and start to jump. ‘I’m an ugly ginger nut. I’m an …’
‘Louder. I can’t hear you.’
‘I’m an ugly ginger nut. I’m an ugly ginger nut.’
When I’ve done ten I stop and pick up my bag.
‘All right, you can go.’ I don’t think it was Nina who spoke, but I don’t care.
I’m halfway out of the door when Nina says, ‘What are you?’
I turn back. ‘An ugly ginger nut,’ I whisper.
‘And don’t you forget it.’
Laura’s waiting for me out in the corridor. ‘Are you all right?’ she asks. ‘What did they say? Oh don’t cry,’ she wails, and puts an arm around me as we walk on towards the main hall.
‘I’m all right,’ I tell her, shrugging her off. ‘I don’t care what they say. I don’t want to be here, anyway, and my dad’s going to take me home on Sunday.’ He will, I know he will, once I tell him what it’s really like here.
As we walk into the recreation part of the hall Peg Jones and her friends come speeding over to us. ‘What did they say?’ Peg wants to know. ‘Was it a really bad blowing up?’
‘She’s crying, it must have been terrible.’
‘I’m not crying,’ I inform them. ‘I’m just angry because they’re stupid.’
‘Ssh, don’t let them hear,’ Laura warns. ‘You don’t want to be in trouble again.’
‘Come on, what did they say?’ Peg urges.
I toss one of my bunches back over my shoulder. ‘Not very much,’ I reply, wondering if everyone really does think I’m ugly. I expect so, because I am. ‘They were annoyed that I didn’t stand back on the stairs this morning.’
‘On the stairs this morning,’ someone mimics, like a yokel.
I wish people wouldn’t do that.
‘Did they give you a punishment?’ Peg asks.
‘I had to jump up and down, which is really stupid. Anyway, I’m not scared of them, and I’m going to get my own back on them one of these days, then they’ll be sorry.’
