Miss Carter's War Read online

  ‘I will do my best, Headmistress.’

  Miss Fryer came round the desk and shook Marguerite’s hand.

  ‘Thank you, and welcome. Now, come and meet the rest of the staff. They are in the tower.’

  ‘Oh, what have they done?’

  The raised eyebrow told her the joke was an old one, so, eschewing frivolity, Marguerite settled for silence as she followed the headmistress’s purposeful stride along a classroom corridor. The smell of floor polish and the head’s faint Parma violet perfume was pleasant as she went up a flight of stairs, through a small wooden door that led to a spiral staircase, and then another door, behind which she could hear chatter and laughter.

  Miss Fryer tapped at the door and, giving an alarming wink to Marguerite, waited a moment for the noise to subside. After the faux pas of the tower joke Marguerite was too frightened to react. A wink back would surely be misplaced, so she smiled wanly.

  ‘Good morning, ladies and gentleman.’ Everyone leapt to their feet, apart from the one man in the room, who rose slowly, with a reluctance bordering on impertinence.

  ‘Forgive the interruption. Here is our new recruit, Miss Carter. I know you will make her welcome. Will you please do the honours, Miss White? I must be elsewhere. Do please sit down, Mr Stansfield, don’t mind me. Save your obviously waning strength for the term ahead.’

  The staff room was a perfect square, as befits a tower, but that was the only regular thing about it. Compared with the impeccable order of the teaching area she had passed through, it was chaotic. There were battered armchairs over which, after the headmistress’s exit, various women draped themselves; some had books, one knitted, another had a copy of The Times.

  Miss White, Maths, a cheerful woman with Eton cropped iron-grey hair, introduced her to the teachers in the room, pointing out that others were round and about preparing for the start of term tomorrow, when all hell would break loose. Two middle-aged women were marking a pile of books on a small table, throwing the completed ones onto the floor. One, Miss Lewin, History, had brown hair plaited and twisted into earphones either side of her face, the other, Miss Haynes, Domestic Science, had blonde hair but her plaits were looped over the top of her head. Other than that they had few identifying features.

  Miss Lewin lifted her reading glasses to squint at Marguerite.

  ‘Oh God, you’re young.’

  ‘I’m twenty-four.’

  ‘Exactly. Promise me you won’t be earnest. I’m exhausted already and term hasn’t even started.’

  Miss Haynes, the other plaited one, rapped her hand with her marking pencil.

  ‘Shut up, you old drear. What kind of welcome is that?’

  She stood and shook hands with Marguerite.

  ‘We are catching up with last term’s exam marking. We give them the results tomorrow, poor things. Should have done them in the hols, but Miss Lewin and I went camping in France and tried to forget that we were teachers for a bit. I believe you’re French, aren’t you?’

  Marguerite stiffened.

  ‘Half French. My father was English. I left France when I was a child.’

  ‘Oh I see. That accounts for your excellent English.’

  ‘My accent is not perfect, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Nonsense. It’s hardly noticeable. It’s charming. We were in the Vaucluse. Do you know it?’

  A silence.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The sky is azure, the distant mountains sepia, the ravine clad in a palette of manifold greens, the verge is ablaze with red poppies, pink valerian, purple orchids, yellow gorse, chaste white daisies. On the road are strewn body parts and pools of crimson blood.

  ‘But one is aware that there are scars. It is hard for us to imagine what it is like to be occupied.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Miss Lewin snorted.

  ‘The Vaucluse was Vichy France. I should think they had a pretty cushy time, thank you very much.’

  Miss Haynes hit her quite hard with the pencil.

  ‘Will you shut up.’

  Miss White tugged Marguerite towards a handsome woman, sitting on a hard-backed wooden chair and intent on a complicated-looking petit point picture on a wooden frame.

  Miss Yates, Latin, gave a cursory nod of greeting.

  ‘Sorry. Can’t look up. Tricky bit.’

  In the corner, an unkempt, wispy-haired woman, Miss Tudor-Craig, Music, was sitting legs akimbo, humming and chuckling to herself as she beat time with her hands.

  When she felt Marguerite’s eyes upon her she said, ‘Want to join the choir, whoever you are?’

  ‘Oh, well, my voice is not good, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Nonsense. Do this. Doh ray me fah soh lah te doh.’

  Marguerite tentatively did as she was bidden.

  ‘Perfect. A soprano. Tuesday after school in the hall.’

  Miss White squeezed her arm and pulled a face just as a youngish woman with lively blue eyes and a fresh complexion rushed into the staff room.

  ‘Oh good. Marguerite, meet Mrs Conway, Hygiene.’

  ‘You’re married?’

  Mrs Conway laughed.

  ‘Yes, it’s allowed. Marriage for teachers has been legal for five years now, you know. I don’t think Miss Fryer really approves but she thought it better to have a married woman teaching reproduction.’

  ‘Too late for me,’ shouted Miss Trevelyan, Geography, who looked about sixty. ‘No one’ll have me now. Too late to procreate, so I make do with other people’s children.’

  ‘I’d have you any day,’ the man piped up.

  ‘You! Lawksamercy.’ Miss Trevelyan raised her hands in mock horror. ‘I don’t want any reds under my bed.’

  ‘Who said I’d be under it?’

  Mr Stansfield, Sport, was obviously cock of the roost. Sprawled on the sofa, reading, his tie loose and shirt unbuttoned, he was handsome and knew it.

  He stared at her with mocking blue eyes and ran a hand through his unruly hair as he said, ‘You’re far too young and pretty to join us sad sacks. Don’t look so scared. We don’t bite. Well, on rare occasions, some of us have been known to have a bit of a nibble.’

  ‘Shut up, Tony, ‘said Miss Haynes. ‘You’ll frighten her off and we badly need some fresh young blood.’

  He licked his lips.

  ‘Mmm, delicious.’

  Marguerite had no idea how to respond so she opted yet again for a wan smile.

  Miss White offered her a cup of tea and put a battered kettle on the gas ring.

  ‘What did you think of Miss Fryer?’

  ‘She looks a little odd. She’s a giant, isn’t she?’

  Miss Yates rose to her feet, revealing that she too was over six foot but beanpole-thin. Folding her work into an embroidered cloth bag with wooden handles, she said, ‘She is certainly a giant. In every sense. But only to pygmies.’

  As she closed the door behind her, Miss White explained that Miss Yates and Miss Fryer shared a house, and she was her deputy, so was therefore somewhat biased, but the headmistress was indeed a fine woman.

  Marguerite was mortified.

  ‘I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m not doing very well, am I? Shall I go out of the room and start again?’

  One of the overworked plaited women reassured her that this room was their sanctuary to relax in; in the tower the staff were free to let their hair down and say whatever they liked, in contrast to the rest of the school where numerous rules had to be strictly observed by staff and pupils alike. They invited her to sit with her cup of tea while they briefed her on the protocol. No running in the corridors, no talking anywhere between classes, and then only when addressed by the teachers. Hats to be worn at all times outside the school when in uniform, skirt length just below the knee, lisle stockings in winter, white socks in summer, pupils to rise when staff entered the room and say ‘Good morning’ in unison and of course only ever use a teacher’s surname prefixed by ‘Mis
s’.

  ‘My goodness,’ said Marguerite. ‘Is breathing allowed?’

  The teachers explained that the school was run on fiercely competitive lines, end-of-term results being read out and put up on noticeboards in order of achievement. Any girl consistently near the bottom was given remedial classes and, if she didn’t improve, asked to leave. On Speech Day, once a year, the staff wore their caps and gowns, which the girls judged by their relative prettiness, as opposed to the prestige of the college they represented, which none of them had heard of anyway.

  ‘Why don’t you be a devil and take your hat and coat off?’

  Mr Stansfield, rose to help her.

  ‘Mmm, racy gloves.’

  Marguerite wondered at the daring innovation of allowing a man into this female stronghold, but surmised that there were few women highly qualified in sport and physical training and Miss Fryer wanted the best for her girls. He was heavily outnumbered and the headmistress would doubtless keep a strict eye out for any hanky-panky. Which, judging by the way he was stroking her leather-clad hands, she would need to.

  Miss White slapped his wrist.

  ‘Stop it, Mr Stansfield. Behave.’

  Whereupon he threw his arms around the protesting Miss White.

  ‘Oh do that again, you naughty teacher. I love it.’

  Miss White extricated herself from his embrace and laughingly told Marguerite to ignore him, he was incorrigible.

  And full of himself, thought Marguerite. She had met his type at university. Men whose approach to women was monotonously sexual. But at least here, in this women’s world, it was not threatening.

  Miss White led her to a classroom and handed her over to her colleagues from the English department who were meeting to discuss the term’s syllabus. An elderly woman with tightly crimped hair, wearing a maroon velvet frock, lightly dusted with chalk, was standing in front of the blackboard. She sported a pince-nez on a gold chain, and several strings of assorted beads. Her appearance suggested she had been here since the school was founded. She indicated for Marguerite to squash into one of the double desks with three other women.

  ‘Welcome to the fold, Miss Carter. I am Miss Farringdon, head of English. I congratulate you on your degree. When I was up at Girton all I got was a certificate through the post with “Titular” scribbled on by hand. Was the ceremony impressive?’

  ‘Very. And moving.’

  ‘All those men must have enjoyed seeing you gals on your knees in front of them. I would have been tempted to do them a mischief while I was down there, but I suppose it would have been unseemly in front of Her Majesty.’

  A barking laugh set her beads rattling.

  ‘Now to work. Which is what really matters.’

  Miss Farringdon spread a lot of chalk on the board and herself as she illustrated her plans for the term.

  ‘As you see there are five of us to cover grammar, literature, and composition.’ The chalk squeaked as she drew a chart.

  ‘You, Miss Carter, will be general dogsbody while you learn the ropes. Have you had any teaching practice?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Since fees were abolished I am afraid we have taken on board some dodgy customers, even worse than the scholarship girls, so you need your wits about you. Watch out for a scabby girl called Elsie Miller, for example.’

  Miss Farringdon went on to explain that she had little time for the new emphasis on ‘creativity’, believing that could only come when you knew the basics. Her staff were to focus on grammar, spelling, handwriting, and vocabulary.

  ‘ “Nice” and “lovely” are strictly verboten.’

  These rules would apply to composition and dictation where marks would be deducted for mistakes, however clever the ideas. She had been shocked by a slovenly letter of thanks from one of the girls who left last term. In fact she had corrected it and sent it back. Girls would never make their way in life if they could not write a good letter. Marguerite’s mind wandered to Dr Leavis who took Cambridge by storm with his thrilling lectures on the glory of novels and poetry. He even cycled the two miles to Girton to speak to the women and enthused them about the value of language. His was a far cry from Miss Farringdon’s approach. She finished by telling them that Miss Belcher was in charge of the timetable, and would give them their instructions tomorrow.

  Marguerite felt dispirited as she walked down the corridor. The staff were not what she had expected. Some seemed jaded, even though term had not started. Then it occurred to her that several had lived through two world wars. Difficult to survive all that with much joie de vivre.

  Suddenly Miss Belcher swooped on her and proved her wrong. She was fiftyish, cheerful, verging on hysterical. A permanent smile wreathed her pretty face, but as her upper lip did not move when she spoke, the effect was of a ventriloquist’s dummy. Her voice too was reminiscent of Archie Andrews’, when she welcomed Marguerite effusively, linking arms with her, and begging her not to be discouraged by Miss Farringdon, who was a funny old stick, but loved her subject. Would she like to start tomorrow by having a go at the gorgeous Shakespeare sonnets with 2a? It would all be the most tremendous fun, and the girls were smashing, and weren’t they lucky to be teaching such a super subject. Marguerite’s stomach lurched at the thought of actually standing up in front of a class and teaching but she went with the gush.

  ‘Oh, yes, lovely. Thank you so much. I can’t wait.’

  In her effort to get back her enthusiasm she seemed to have turned into Joyce Grenfell. She looked and sounded like a woman she didn’t recognise as Marguerite. The old Marguerite was passé, thank goodness. She was now a teacher, Miss Carter, English. And Miss Carter, despite being filled with trepidation, was, as Miss Belcher would put it, thrilled to tiny bits.

  Chapter 3

  The next day Marguerite watched from a window in the tower as the girls of Dartford County Grammar School returned for their first day of term. They had shining morning faces, but you could not say of these schoolgirls that they were creeping like snails unwillingly to school; they were skipping, laughing, chattering, arms around each other. Dotted amongst the crowd, stepping more cautiously, were a few solitary white-faced girls, presumably new like her, who were engulfed in immaculate uniforms several sizes too large for them, bought to ‘grow into’. The rest looked more comfortable. Some were already in their regulation navy-blue serge winter coats despite the soft autumn sunshine, others wore green blazers, with the school badge on the pocket, but they still wore three-pleat tunics with girdles at the waist, and the school’s maroon-and-green ties in the collar of the long-sleeved cream blouses. Everyone of course wore a green beret, or black velour hat with a ribbon of school colours. The uniform could not suppress their youthful vigour and ­individuality. It was to Marguerite a wonderful sight.

  The staff room was filling up with bustling teachers.

  ‘Look at them – all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.’

  Mr Stansfield joined her at the window.

  ‘We’ll soon put a stop to all that. A hefty dose of Caesar’s Gallic Wars is what they need. Eh, Miss Yates?’

  Miss Yates gave him a withering look.

  ‘Probably more fun than Das Kapital,’ don’t you think?’

  Miss White clapped her hands.

  ‘Now, now, girls and boy, enough badinage, we must take our places in assembly. Come with me, Miss Carter, and I will show you where to sit.’

  The staff were stationed in chairs set against the wall in the echoey hall. As the various classes marched in in silence, a small girl whose feet barely reached the piano pedals haltingly played a selection of Chopin’s sonatas. About thirty girls were seated on the stage on rows of benches, surreptitiously wiggling their fingers at friends in the body of the hall. Several glanced curiously at Marguerite, and nudged others to appraise the new teacher. She pushed back an errant wisp of hair and tried to look cool, calm and collected despite a thumping heart. The choir stood as Miss Tudor-Craig walked onto the platform. With her sturd
y legs astride, her squat body swinging in ecstasy, eyes closed, she conducted them in a rousing song, her contralto voice booming above the choir’s descant.

  ‘ “I vow to thee, my country, all earthly things above,

  Entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love;

  The love that asks no question, the love that stands the test,

  That lays upon the altar the dearest and the best;

  The love that never falters, the love that pays the price,

  The love that makes undaunted the final sacrifice.” ’

  The unequivocal message of the song made Marguerite uneasy, but the girls were probably more taken with the stirring tune than the sentiment of the words.

  Miss Fryer stood in front of the lectern.

  ‘Thank you, girls, that was beautifully sung. And thank you, Miss Tudor-Craig, I’m sure we shall be hearing more from your wonderful choirs during the term.’

  ‘Not half,’ shouted the music teacher. Even Miss Fryer laughed.

  Everyone listened avidly to the headmistress’s address. She spoke quietly with gentle sincerity, encouraging everyone to work hard and guard the reputation of their school. ‘The world is struggling to recover from dark times. You are the future, and have a duty to rebuild your country, using the opportunities that you are lucky enough to be presented with here. We are now going to sing “Jerusalem” and let us really mean the words.’

  Marguerite watched the girls’ eager faces as they vowed to build Jerusalem in England’s green and pleasant land. She believed with all her heart that they would.

  As they filed out Mr Stansfield whispered in her ear, ‘Not a dry eye in the house.’

  She did not look at him as she wiped a tear from her chin.

  Inspired by the assembly, Marguerite lost some of the nervousness about her teaching debut. She too would not cease from mental fight. She had spent the night before preparing her class, and was ready to test the water of her ability to enthuse girls with her love of Shakespeare.