One Day at a Time

by Susan Lewis

  When we get to the recreation area at the back of the hall some of the second and third form are already there, and because they’re older they get first turn with the record player. It’s OK, though. (I said OK! – I know it’s only in my head, but it came all on its own!) Most of them have really cool records that we can all dance to, and they like the ones we have too, so everything usually gets played. The Dave Clark Five were number one last week, but none of us has been able to get it yet, because most of us have run out of money.

  ‘You’re a really good dancer, Su,’ Peg tells me, as I try to copy her shoulder shakes to ‘Let’s Spend the Night Together’.

  ‘So are you,’ I say.

  The record’s all scratched and bumpy, because it’s been played so many times, but we don’t care, we all love it. It’s coming to the slow bit now, where Mick Jagger really gets worked up and Peg jumps right up in the air, so I do too. We love the Rolling Stones. Then suddenly there’s a big fuss going on, and someone hisses ‘Seaweed’ and like magic the record disappears just before Miss Sayward, the house-mistress, comes striding into the hall.

  ‘Whoever has it, hand it over,’ she commands in her reedy little voice. ‘You know very well that record is banned from this school. The lyrics are disgusting and you are most certainly too young to be listening to them.’

  No one moves. I don’t know who has the record behind their back, I’m just glad it’s not me. I’m not even sure who it belongs to, but even if I knew, I’d never split. It’s one of the worst things anyone can ever do, is split on someone else, especially to the teachers.

  ‘I’m waiting,’ Seaweed says, her hands on her hips, and her funny round face looking like a lollipop with glasses on top of her long thin neck.

  There are about twenty of us in the rec area and no one says a word.

  ‘You won’t be going anywhere until the owner of that record steps forward and hands it over,’ she tells us.

  I’m dying to look round to see who’s going red, but I just keep staring straight ahead.

  ‘Do I have to put you all in detention?’ Seaweed asks.

  A few girls start murmuring and I know why. When a day girl gets detention she has to stay behind for an hour on Wednesday. When a boarder gets one she has to miss an exeat and do a punishment. I can’t imagine anyone’s going to split, though.

  Seaweed looks at her watch. ‘Right you are,’ she says, ‘go and form a line outside my office so I can take down all your names.’

  ‘Please miss,’ Nina Lowe says, stepping forward.

  Seaweed glares at her. ‘So you’re the culprit. I had …’

  ‘No miss,’ Nina interrupts. ‘It’s not mine, and actually, miss, I don’t think it’s anyone’s.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd, girl. It has to belong to someone.’

  ‘It’s an old record,’ Nina tells her. ‘It was number one last January, and it’s now November …’

  ‘I don’t need its history, thank you very much. I simply want to know its ownership.’

  ‘That’s just it, nobody knows,’ Nina says. ‘It’s one of the general pile …’

  ‘Enough of this. Start filing up to my office, all of you. There will be no exeat for you next Sunday, and you can be assured Miss Dakin will hear of this.’

  ‘Please miss,’ I say, putting my hand up, ‘the record’s mine.’

  Everyone gulps.

  Seaweed glares at me. ‘Yours,’ she says acidly.

  I nod, but it’s a bit wobbly because I’m starting to shake.

  ‘How did you get it?’ she wants to know.

  ‘I bought it,’ I lie.

  ‘When? How? I’m sure your father doesn’t approve of this kind of filth, so I’d like to know who bought it for you.’

  I’m trying to think what to say. She knows very well that the sixth form buy all our records, plus, like Nina said, the record came out last January, before I even started at the school, so you probably can’t get it now.

  I’ve walked myself on to a tightrope.

  ‘My cousin bought it for me before she went to New Zealand,’ I blurt. ‘I’ve kept it because it reminds me of her.’

  I don’t think she believes me, but for ages all she does is glare at me. ‘Well, it’s a very odd choice of record to give to a girl as young as you,’ she informs me tartly. ‘I’ll be writing to your father about it. Is he coming to the cathedral tomorrow?’

  I nod. I wish I hadn’t done this now, but I don’t know how to get out of it.

  ‘Then I shall seek him out after the service. The record please.’

  I look around to see who has it. In the end, Angela Lyall from second form pulls it out from under a chair. I suppose she must have chucked it there before Seaweed came in.

  ‘Thank you,’ Seaweed says, snatching it from her. ‘You won’t be seeing it again, any of you. And you, young lady,’ she says to me, ‘are in detention. Now, off to bed …’

  ‘But miss, it’s not time,’ someone complains.

  ‘Do as you’re told. Up to bed and no more backchat. We’ve got a big day ahead of us tomorrow, so an early night won’t do any harm.’

  As she ushers us all past the dining hall, towards the back stairs, Laura presses herself in next to me.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ she whispers. ‘It’s not yours.’

  ‘I know. Shut up.’ I’m too angry with myself to talk to anyone.

  ‘You’re mad,’ Peg hisses as we reach Maryflowre and Seabreake landing. ‘You’ll miss your exeat now.’

  ‘Get lost,’ I snap at her. I don’t need reminding, thank you very much.

  Cluttie’s on the upper landing with Harry Worth. ‘No talking!’ she bellows as those of us from Discoverer and Speedwell swarm past. ‘Caroline Phelps! Why are you wearing those stockings?’

  ‘They’re all I have, miss,’ Caroline wails.

  We all look. There’s so much darning in them they might have been knitted.

  ‘Report to me in the morning, we’ll sort you something out. I want you all looking your best for Founder’s Day.’

  ‘I heard we’re going to be on the news,’ Glenys whispers to me and Laura as we stomp past the doors to Discoverer and along the corridor to our dorm.

  ‘Red Maids always are on Founder’s Day,’ Laura tells her. ‘We actually saw Cheryl last year. We could make her out, going into the cathedral.’

  ‘Su Lu, it’s my turn for a bath tonight,’ Sadie says, coming up behind us, ‘but you can have it if you like.’

  I don’t want to have a bath. All I want is to get into bed and pretend I’m not here, because only someone really stupid like me would try to rescue everyone from a detention.

  ‘I’ve got some Marmite left, if you want some,’ Sarah McGinty offers. ‘You can have the rest of it, if you like.’

  I know she’s being kind, but I shake my head, even though I normally love burrowing down under my blankets to dip my finger into the jar and then lick it till every last trace is gone. I wonder what’s happening about the midnight feast. They won’t let me come now I’m not bringing any wine. I don’t care. I don’t want to go anyway. I just want everyone to leave me alone, but they won’t because bloody stupid Johnny’s supposed to be bringing me a letter. Everyone says it’s an honour to have one, provided he says something nice, but I know he won’t, so as far as I’m concerned he can stay in his grave, or wherever he lives, and bloody well rot.

  After washing my face and brushing my teeth, I change into my pyjamas and get into bed. By the time Cluttie turns up for lights out I’m already asleep. It’s how I’m supposed to be when Johnny comes, so I stay that way for hours and hours and in the end I pretend not to know when someone (not under a white sheet, or with a wooden leg) turns up at the end of my bed to slide something underneath.

  Chapter Six

  Eddie

  I HAD TO push the flipping car this morning to get it going. The starting handle let me down, and with no one else about to lend a hand, I had to put Gary in the drive
r’s seat to steer. He was thrilled. Little monkey, he had us swerving around all over the place, like he was in a bumper car up the fair. Good job there were no other cars in the street or I could be in a lot of trouble today.

  What a job it was, huffing and puffing and shoving it up the hill so I could let it run down again. By the time the engine caught I was all hot and sweaty, and I’d managed to get grease on my only clean white shirt. Luckily, my suit jacket is covering most of it up, and at least Gary was only a few minutes late for school. I had to give him a note to explain why he was still wearing his daps, though I didn’t tell the whole truth, because I don’t want people knowing that we can’t afford a new pair of shoes yet. I said his old ones were still up the menders and I’m hoping to get them back at the weekend. The truth is, they really are too small for him now so there’s no point wasting money getting them repaired, having failed to do it myself, and what with strikes and having to take a day off for our Susan’s Founder’s Day today, heaven only knows when I’m going to be able to afford some new ones.

  I’ll have to make some economies somewhere though, because what a fuss the school is making about a simple pair of daps, sending me a letter telling me that ‘plimsolls are only for gym’ and they hope to see Gary wearing his proper shoes in the future. I can just imagine what Eddress would have had to say about that. Knowing her, she’d have marched up the school and given them a piece of her mind and a wave of a fist. I felt like doing it myself, but it wouldn’t do any good. And I have to admit they had a point when he came home soaked to his skin last night. You should have seen the state of him. Our Nance had had the brainwave of using shoe polish to turn his white daps black, in the hope it would make them look more like shoes. It wasn’t too bad an idea, as it turned out, until it started to rain. I don’t know how long it took me to get his feet clean, and though I boiled his socks in bleach and detergent for over an hour, I had to throw them out in the end.

  Poor chap. I feel terrible about him not having any shoes. We’ll get it sorted out soon though. Our Nance has offered to lend me the money, but like I tell the kids, ‘Neither a borrower, nor a lender be.’

  ‘You’m going to struggle to afford them principles if you go on like that,’ our Nance’s husband, Stan, told me last night in a rare spurt of communication.

  He’s right, I suppose. I don’t expect I’ll get much more than ten quid in my wage packet this week, and how on earth I’m going to make that last till next Friday heaven only knows. It’ll be a lot of beans on toast for a while, or egg and chips, which’ll please our Gary no end. I’ll have to ask the milkman if I can pay him next week, the same for the baker, but I’ll have to find the rent because we’re already a couple of weeks behind with that. At least if our Susan asks for something today there’s the half-crown Nance and Stan gave me for her last night, because all I’ve got in my pocket is enough for the bus fare back to work in case the car decides to conk out on me again.

  This is a special day for the Red Maids, so I couldn’t let our Susan down. I just hope I manage to get there on time, because I’ve still got to pick up her gran, and all the coughing and spluttering going on under the bonnet isn’t sounding at all promising to me.

  Susan

  Everyone’s been going on and on since we got up this morning about my letter from Johnny. They all crowded round when I pulled it out from under my bed, and I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw it. It’s much bigger than I expected, and all crumbly and ancient with really old-fashioned handwriting, and a wax seal with the image of a three-masted ship on it, like on the back of a halfpenny. (That’s the emblem of our school.)

  Here’s what it said:

  Susan Lewis, RM 74, Speedwell House.

  Susan, I have been watching you since you arrived at the school and I am pleased to say that you are a good friend to the other girls, who all like you, and I believe you will set a good example to those younger than you when the time comes. Congratulations.

  It’s signed John Whitson.

  I couldn’t stop smiling and laughing after I read it. I’d been so nervous about what it was going to say, and then it turned out that I needn’t have worried at all. He says everyone likes me. I thought they might, but I was never really sure. I’m going to keep this letter for ever.

  I wish I could take it to the cathedral to show Dad.

  Remembering what else has happened I feel my heart starting to sink. I’ll have to tell him about the detention Seaweed gave me, which is something else everyone is talking about today. I’m a real heroine now, because I saved everyone from missing an exeat, which I’m glad about, I just wish I wasn’t going to miss mine. Dad’s going to be really cross, and I’ll have to stay here all on my own on Sunday when I could have been at home with him and my friends and Gary. It wouldn’t be so bad if the record really had been mine and I still had it, but I don’t. Seaweed’s probably smashed it up by now, which is what most of us feel like doing to her.

  At nine o’clock sharp all us boarders gather on the forecourt outside the school’s front doors. Under our big red capes we’re wearing our best Sunday frocks with zips up the front, and our thick granny stockings with black lace-up shoes. We’re also wearing straw bonnets that tie in bows under our chins and make us look like Quakers off the porridge box. We’re all complaining about how dumb we look, but I don’t think any of us mind all that much really, apart from the older girls, because they do look a bit stupid dressed up like Easter dollies at their age. The day girls are just wearing their red gaberdines and normal black hats, and they have to walk behind all of us. Dot and Celery (that’s Miss Dakin and Miss Ellery the history teacher) will lead in Dot’s car, and the rest of the teachers will follow behind in a bus.

  It’s a bit mean that we’ve got to walk while they’re allowed to ride in the warm.

  I hope everyone I know is watching the news tonight so they can see me.

  We start off down the drive, doing our best to match our steps. Girls from Upper Sixth are keeping their eyes on us young ones, making sure we don’t lag behind which would make the second form trip over us, because we’re right at the front. As we turn out on to the main road lots of people are standing on the pavement waiting to watch us go by and wave.

  I feel all proud and tall and I’m loving walking along with all my friends. I know everyone likes me now because Johnny’s letter said so. I’m not taking any notice of Nina Lowe and the snide little remark she made earlier about me only getting a nice letter because I saved everyone from detention last night. She’s only saying that because no one’s on her side any more, so she won’t be able to be mean to me in future. And because she’s a nasty, fat, ugly pig.

  We march across the Downs, keeping our eyes straight ahead as we’ve been told to do. I think it’s a bit rude not to wave back to those watching and driving past. The television camera’s going to be in Clifton, outside the university, apparently, and then it’s going to follow us down the hill to College Green, which is in front of the Council House, and into the cathedral. These are the most important places in Bristol, Dad says, so I’m very lucky to be a part of all this. I expect my friends in Greenways will be really jealous if they see me on the news, because none of them have ever been on telly.

  I hope Gran manages to come, but if she does I hope she doesn’t talk too loud. She’s a bit deaf, so she tends to shout, and the way she speaks is all slang and common. I don’t want anyone looking down their nose at her, or making fun of her, because that would be horrible when she’s really lovely and wouldn’t hurt a fly – apart from Reggie, but he’s not a fly so he doesn’t count.

  As we go down over Blackboy Hill it starts to rain so we pick up our step. Luckily it’s not very heavy, but it could turn into a downpour and if our bonnets start to wilt we’ll look really stupid for the news. If that happens I’ll just keep my head down and pretend to everyone later that I wasn’t there. My hands are freezing inside my cape and one of my suspenders has come undone. My brassiere’
s a bit tight, but I’m too embarrassed to ask Dad for a new one. It makes me feel all strange and sick inside to think of him knowing that my bosoms are growing.

  We’re going past the university now, but I can’t see a camera. There are lots of people around, though. This is a bit like the Whitsun parade up Kingswood, when everyone puts on their best clothes to go and watch all the marchers and bands. I rode on the Salvation Army lorry last year, playing my tambourine. It was nice, but this is much more important.

  By the time we get to the cathedral the rain has gone off, but there’s a bitter wind and most of us have got mud splashed up the backs of our legs. Some of my friends are using their hankies to try to wipe it off, but I don’t have one, so I can’t. I’m much more worried about the stocking that’s hanging on to one suspender. It’s already bagging round my ankle and if it comes down altogether I’ll feel so soft I’ll want to die.

  The cathedral is massive and cold and dismal. I can’t see Dad and Gran anywhere as we start filing in. Visitors are supposed to be here first, but we pass by the people at the back so quickly that I don’t have time to get a good look at who’s there. We take up all the front rows. I’m right on the end of one, next to the aisle, with Laura next to me and Sadie and Cheryl behind. Everyone’s whispering and the organ’s playing, great big fierce chords that rattle the stained-glass windows and send shivers down the spines of the saints. Someone said the Pope was taking the service, but that can’t be right because he’s Catholic and we’re Church of England. Dad was a Catholic when he was little, in Wales. He’s the same as us now, though.

  I’d love to meet some Jewish people. They had a terrible time in the war, Hitler killed millions of them. Makes you wonder if there are any left. If there are, I think I’ll say one of my special prayers for them today, because we all believe in the same God. I learned that in RI this week, and that Jesus was a Jew. I couldn’t believe that at first, but after Dot explained it, it started to make sense. I wonder why Hitler killed Jesus’s people, if he was Christian. I’m glad he’s dead now. We don’t want people like him in the world, they make it too dangerous to go out anywhere, and if he kills you just because you’re Jewish then there’s no knowing where he might stop. I hope all the Jews he murdered are getting their own back on him in heaven now, except he’ll definitely have gone to hell. I wonder if the little Jewish children are mixing with the ones who died in Aberfan. We had a special memorial service for them at St Peter’s last month. Lots of us cried, even though it’s been a year now since the coal pile collapsed and crushed them all to death. Dad didn’t have any relatives who perished, which was lucky because many of them live close to where it happened.