Miss Carter's War Page 19

  Marguerite was dumbfounded. She and Tony were a hundred per cent behind the ethos of the school and proud to be part of it. Duane was one of the most inspirational teachers Marguerite had ever encountered, and she could not believe that the powers that be were not impressed and grateful for the success of his work. She knew nothing of the rumours, but Miss Scott had told her that it was increasingly difficult to find good teachers, which was why class sizes were becoming unwieldy. Marguerite knew there were some who would not apply because they found the school’s unorthodox approach alien, but she now wondered whether the talk of closure was putting people off. Where were these rumours coming from?

  The staff room was even more divided now. Duane had engaged foreign teachers to help the diverse nationalities of the intake, and they were not welcomed by the diehards. There were frightened supply teachers covering for regular staff who were treated with contempt by some. Mr Fletcher’s dislike of the headmaster and constant undermining mockery of his approach had several more sympathisers now. As a teacher of long-standing, he probably knew councillors and governors well enough to report his version of what went on in the school.

  It was true that some of it would not look good to outsiders. For instance, when the headmaster discovered that Mickey O’Sullivan, a constant truant, was frightened of maths and history, he made a deal with the boy that he could skip them and do carpentry instead, a lesson he enjoyed. It worked. He turned up for all his other lessons. Duane said, ‘He may never be a mathematician or a historian, but at least he’ll be able to spell, and write his name, and make a table.’

  The school council was also likely to be frowned upon by those who believed that children should do as they are told, and if not be punished as a matter of course. But Marguerite thought it a wonderful way to make children think seriously about justice and living in a community. On one occasion, a school cleaner reported that her shopping basket had been stolen. Duane reported this in assembly, and asked the culprits to come and talk to him in his study. To their credit and his, two boys did. When he told them that they must give the basket back and apologise they admitted they had already eaten most of the contents. The school council was called upon to adjudicate. One child immediately suggested, as she always did, that the boys should be caned.

  Duane countered, ‘Well, that wouldn’t bring back the food, would it?’

  ‘No, but they’d be punished for doing such a rotten thing.’

  Duane pointed to the two boys sitting hunched in front of them all, one near to tears.

  ‘I think being here with you all cross with them is a fairly awful punishment. Look at them. They don’t look very happy, do they?’

  One of the girls said that they should pay Ada the cleaner back what her shopping cost.

  ‘Right, good idea. Let’s do the sums. How much was it? And how much do Alan and Jack have?’

  After some intense calculations, it came to light that even if they put aside a percentage of their money from paper rounds and Saturday work in the market, it was going to take the boys several weeks to repay Ada.

  Then Kenneth White, who was good at art, had an idea.

  ‘Why don’t we sell some of our work in the market to raise the money? And if we make more, then we can give her a present to say sorry.’

  One of the girls, whose father had a vegetable stall, persuaded him to give them some space, and they not only achieved their objective, but also showed the public how excellent was the work done in the art and handicraft classes.

  ‘How much better a school council,’ said Marguerite to Tony, ‘than a caning, surely?’

  Tony agreed. ‘That sort of thing goes on at Bedales, Summerhill and Dartington all the time. But they’re middle class, so that’s considered OK.’

  Mr Fletcher, who overheard them, interrupted.

  ‘Those parents have chosen to send their kids to an experimental school, and paid through the nose for the privilege. Ours thought they were going to a perfectly normal school.’

  Marguerite was riled.

  ‘Are you saying it would be more normal if we beat the children?’

  Mr Fletcher smiled.

  ‘Well, let’s see what the inspectors think.’

  The one that walked into the middle of Marguerite’s English lesson was a cadaverous man, wearing metal-rimmed glasses and a grey three-piece suit. Councillor Jackson stood at the door, looming over the class, saying nothing, until Marguerite invited him to sit down, and listen to the poems that four of her pupils had chosen to learn. It was an eclectic mix of a brave attempt at a Shakespeare sonnet, a few words from the Beatles song, ‘Love Me Do’, and Timothy Barker, who was mentally slow, managed ‘Old Macdonald Had A Farm’, encouraged by animal noises from the class, who knew what a mighty effort it was for him to participate. It was hard to believe, when she remembered what they were like in the early days, how they now loved these performances. There was much laughter and enthusiastic chatter. Marguerite sneaked a look at the inspector to see if he too was having fun. He was not. His only comment as he left was an incredulous, ‘You did say that was an English lesson, didn’t you, Miss Carter?’

  After Councillor Jackson’s frosty reaction, it was no surprise to hear from Duane that the overall report was bad. He had been given a list of criticisms. ‘The children do not hold authority in awe, and friendliness often degenerates into informality’ being one of them. Were it not for the word ‘degenerate’ Marguerite would have considered the comment was meant as a compliment. The inspector was particularly offended by the CND symbol painted on the playground wall. Mr Duane pointed out that all schoolchildren wrote on walls; he even understood that carving names on wood was not unknown at Eton, but of course they were sometimes famous and successful names, so that was all right.

  Duane was doing his best to put on a brave face in public. Staying late one night with a troubled student, Marguerite had passed his open door as she left, and saw him slumped at his desk, a glass of whisky in his hand.

  She went in.

  ‘Mike, its serious, isn’t it? Are we really in danger of being closed down?’

  He looked bewildered.

  ‘No, I can’t believe that. It’s absurd. Surely no enlightened education authority could be influenced by the predilection of one or two officials. Because that’s what it is. Most of them have never been near the school. They couldn’t close it on the evidence of a lot of tittle-tattle, could they?’

  ‘We must stand up to them.’

  Duane looked exhausted.

  ‘I’ll try. But the opposers are as fanatical as I am. They are deeply religious and puritanical, and I am anathema to them, with my humanist assemblies, and sex-education lessons, and, in their eyes, lack of discipline. They mean well. They think I am dangerous. Perhaps I am. People with a mission often are.’ He looked at her. ‘I recognise the same reforming zeal in you, Marguerite.’

  ‘Tony calls it my Messiah complex.’

  ‘It’s a sort of conceit, really. We think we are right, and want to change things to our way. That can lead to terrible things. Hitler thought he was right. So did Stalin.’

  ‘I don’t think we are quite in their class.’

  He poured her a glass of whisky, and topped up his own.

  ‘Do you know what drives me?’

  ‘No, I sometimes wonder how you keep going, though.’

  ‘I’ll tell you something. I was amongst the first troops into Buchenwald concentration camp. It was not just the horror of what we found there – Jesus Christ, such horror – but my own behaviour. Such was my rage I stood by and allowed – watched – relished further atrocities, carried out by my troops in retribution.’

  The man hung by his neck from one lamp-post, the woman by her feet from another, her skirt falling back mercifully to hide her tortured face, but much to the delight of the children, displaying her soiled underwear. Marguerite recognises the bloated purple face as Marc, the member of the Milice who had hit Antoine with his gun as he sent
him to his death. And she is glad he has suffered.

  ‘It was the depth of human degradation all round. The worst of what we are capable of. So I wanted to cultivate the best in our young. I crave a better, gentler world.’

  Marguerite thought it best to stay silent. There was a long pause.

  ‘Forgive me, Marguerite. I have never talked about this before. Even to my wife. But I believe you will understand, from things Tony has hinted at in your past.’

  ‘I do,’ said Marguerite, continuing quickly. ‘We will fight back. Make them realise how good the school has become. You said a lot of them haven’t even visited. I have an idea that I would like to pursue. I have been wanting to do a school play for some time. As part of our propaganda offensive, let’s invite all the critical bastards and show them what we can do.’

  He smiled.

  ‘You’re right. I have been being too defensive. We need to make them see what it’s really like here. A school play would be a good start. Thank you. “We shall overcome”, eh?’

  Marguerite felt her old optimism flooding back.

  ‘Yes. We shall. We bloody well shall.’

  Chapter 26

  The atmosphere at school was uncomfortable. The staff were keeping a low profile lest supporting Duane should jeopardise future employment were the school really to close. At work Marguerite leant on Tony, who was as determined as she to see off the backstabbers. What little free time she had, she now spent with Jimmy.

  Tony was not upset by this.

  ‘I’m delighted for you, Mags. I was so worried that I was in the way of your having a relationship.’

  That relationship continued to be a delight and distraction to Marguerite. Jimmy expressed little interest in her work, allowing her to forget about it whilst she was with him, which was a blessed relief. They had good times together. He was not as amusing as Tony, but he was attentive, and the sex was wonderful. Finding places to make love was sometimes a problem. Jimmy had just given up a flat, and not found another, so he was staying with various friends, and occasionally stayed overnight with Marguerite. He was welcomed at the pub, and would often drink with the locals, but her room was not a perfect setting for romance. The owner of the sumptuous house in Brighton had a second in Eaton Square, which they occasionally visited.

  Marguerite always felt slightly uneasy about using the house of someone she’d never met, as, putting it politely, a love nest, but Jimmy was very relaxed about it.

  ‘She likes me to enjoy the houses. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.’

  ‘But would she mind you bringing a girlfriend here?’

  ‘She’d be delighted that I had found someone as wonderful as you.’

  ‘But would she—?’

  ‘Shut up about her and give us a kiss.’

  Which was how Jimmy always successfully diverted her from conversations that annoyed or bored him. Such was Marguerite’s hunger for his lovemaking, it was a successful strategy.

  She discussed her affaire de coeur with Tony.

  ‘We don’t talk about anything very important. Although he is so passionate in bed, he doesn’t show much emotion about other things. It’s odd.’

  ‘Give it time, Mags. Men are not so heart-on-sleeve as you girlies.’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m gay. Oh. That’s the new word for us, by the way.’

  ‘Gay? How strange. Why?’

  ‘Well, some people think it stands for “good as you”, but I prefer to think it’s because we are rather jolly.’

  ‘You are, my darling, you are. But you are also serious sometimes. He isn’t. Except when we first met. He got drunk, and was genuinely upset about his wartime experience then, but he’s never talked about it since.’

  ‘Well, neither do you, Mags. Nor do a lot of people. We prefer to forget it, and move on.’

  She thought of Duane.

  ‘True. But I don’t know what he believes in, or what he wants out of life.’

  Tony gave her a hug.

  ‘Don’t be so intense. Just relax and enjoy it. He sounds a nice enough bloke, and he’s obviously besotted with you. As well he might be, lucky chap. Have a bit of fun, Mags. God knows it’s grim at work.’

  Actually, despite all the anxiety about the future, Marguerite was enjoying herself devising the school play. It was loosely based on the Nativity story, as it was to be performed at Christmas, and Marguerite thought it might be a good idea to counterbalance Duane’s humanism that so disturbed some of the school board. The theme was the bringing of gifts to the infant Jesus. There were two babies due to be born to parents about that time, one Muslim Indian, the other Chinese, and whichever arrived in time would be the real live Christ child. The gifts would be performances of songs, dances, poems from the country of origin of all the various ethnic groups in the school.

  For weeks the children made props and rehearsed in corners. Afro-Caribbean parents supervised the making of steel drums in craft lessons. The art department constructed and painted sets, Tony was arranging an acrobatic display, and for safety’s sake, the children had to be restrained from cartwheeling in the corridors. Anything the children suggested was considered. Timothy, after his triumph in recitation class, wanted, with the help of his kindly classmates, to give Baby Jesus all the animals in Old Macdonald’s Farm, which Marguerite agreed was a lovely present for a baby in a stable. She suggested they could get the whole audience to join in the singing, hoping against hope that it would include the sniffy inspector. The only idea she rejected was Ahmed’s proposal of a performing elephant.

  The play’s organisation took up all her breaks and evenings. Jimmy began to be fretful at her neglect of him. In the pub one night after hours, he suggested they went to spend the night at Eaton Square, as it was Saturday the next day.

  ‘Sorry, no, I’ve got a rehearsal.’

  ‘On Saturday? I never bloody see you. You care more about those snotty-nosed kids than you do about me. Sorry. I’m just jealous, because I want you to myself.’

  ‘Well, that’s sweet of you but it’s just not possible at the moment. This is important.’

  ‘And I’m not?’

  Florrie and Bob had stopped chattering as they cleared up behind the bar.

  ‘You’re being silly.’

  ‘I’m not one of your sodding kids. Don’t patronise me.’

  Jimmy downed his whisky.

  ‘I’m off. I’m sure you have marking, or making costumes, or something else to do. I don’t want to be in your way. Night, Bob – Flo.’

  And he was gone.

  Florrie came over to where Marguerite was sitting, carrying a brandy.

  ‘Here, get this down you. Mind if I say something?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Be careful. I know you love your job, but you should look after your man. That’s what women do. They have to come first. You don’t want to be an old maid, duckie, do you?’

  Marguerite didn’t see much point in quoting Simone de Beauvoir to Florrie. Anyway, the author’s battle-cry about women’s rights hadn’t seemed to bring Sartre’s mistress much joy; just an unfaithful, sometimes cruel, lover, and dodgy relationships with underage girls. Perhaps Florrie and the majority of women, all of whom thought the same, were cleverer than that revered intellectual. Not that Jimmy had talked about marriage, indeed not even about love, but the possibility was there, which was more than she’d had before she met him.

  Florrie persisted, ‘I don’t want to intrude, duckie, but what about kids of your own? I know you love your pupils but it’s not the same. My two boys have been the joy of my life and now I’m looking forward to being a grandma. You’ll miss out on all of that if you’re not careful.’

  ‘I think I already have, Flo. But honestly it doesn’t worry me. There’s probably something wrong with me that I don’t yearn for babies but I made the choice a long time ago to focus on other things.’

  ‘That’s sad. It’s not too late to change your mind.’
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  ‘Yes it is. I told you before, I loved a man once with all my heart. He was the only one I could have imagined creating a family with but I had this crazy vision of being part of something bigger.’

  ‘Bigger than love?’

  ‘Another form of love, I suppose. Love of humanity. Oh God! That sounds so pretentious, I’m sorry.’

  Florrie wouldn’t give up.

  ‘OK, but let’s get down to brass tacks. What about sex? Even you need a bit of that now and again. But you have to make an effort. You don’t want to lose him, do you, pet?’

  Marguerite thought of his grin, his hands, above all his expert Skylarking.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Well, get on that phone, and say sorry, there’s a good girl.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘All right. Don’t say sorry but just talk to him. You would if he was one of your stroppy kids.’

  ‘Touché.’

  Marguerite gave Jimmy time to get somewhere, and then phoned Stan to see if he knew which friend he might be staying with that night.

  ‘Sorry, miss. We’ve had a bit of a falling-out over something.’

  ‘No, Stan. That’s awful. What?’

  ‘I think it’s partly to do with me having found a girl. We’re going to get married. Jimmy and me have been muckers since the war, and maybe I’ve left him out a bit since I found Alison. I feel bad about it. But there are other things too – and I’m afraid my girlfriend doesn’t approve of him.’

  Suddenly Marguerite understood. No wonder Jimmy was so upset. His best friend had deserted him and then her. She felt guilty. She resolved to track him down even though it was now the small hours of the morning. Starting at Eaton Square.

  She rang the bell several times on the shiny black door. Then she nervously tried using the big lion’s head knocker, which she thought might be only for decoration. She was about to leave when the door slowly opened and a bedraggled Jimmy peered out.

  Squinting, he said, ‘Christ, it’s you.’