Miss Carter's War Page 3

  As she entered the room twenty girls shot to their feet and said, to say, ‘Good morning, Miss . . . er . . . er . . .’

  ‘All right, sit, girls. I think some introductions are in order, don’t you? I am Miss Carter, this is my first day as a teacher, and I’m very scared.’

  The girls first looked astonished at her honesty, then a few laughed.

  ‘I’m going to call the register and would you help me by standing up when you answer so that I can endeavour to put a face to the voice.’

  As they answered she did her best to turn the amorphous olive green group into individuals. Pauline had pigtails and the new National Health steel-rimmed spectacles, Heather was scrawny and wriggly, and Julia looked peaky and had a steel caliper on her leg indicating a past ordeal with polio. Amongst the skinny youngsters, only the unusually plump Wendy gainsaid the meagre war-time rations to which they were still restricted, suggesting noble sacrifice by her parents, or, more likely, black-market savvy. Hazel was uncommonly beautiful with ash-blonde hair and green eyes, and gazing adoringly at her from the adjoining desk was Barbara, ablaze with acne. That was enough to take in on her first day. The others remained indeterminate. They were a motley crew. Marguerite wondered if the impression given by their delivery of ‘Present’ or ‘Here’ and by the way in which they rose to their feet and recited their names would prove, on further acquaintance, to be accurate. Bold, shy, showing off, serious, giggly, flirty – all twelve-year-old life was here.

  One girl, with a pudding-basin haircut and Bambi eyes, couldn’t say her name at all. As she obsessively twisted a strand of hair round a finger, she gasped like a dying fish in her attempt to talk.

  Marguerite went up to her and placed a calming hand on the girl’s back.

  ‘Don’t worry, there’s no hurry.’

  Her neighbour interpolated, ‘She’s Irene, miss. She’s a bit shy.’

  Marguerite examined the register. ‘It’s Irene Brown, is it?’

  The class held their breath. After an agonised pause the girl muttered, ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘Thank you, Irene. Well done. That’s very helpful.’

  Marguerite rejected the chair in favour of standing in front of her desk to address them.

  ‘Right. Now we are going to look at one of Shakespeare’s sonnets. I understand you all have a Shakespeare. Will you get it out, please.’

  The lids banged open and the girls rummaged inside their desks. All except one.

  This was Elsie Miller, ‘the scabby girl’. Marguerite had no problem distinguishing her from the others as her face was bright purple from the gentian violet painted on it in an unsuccessful effort to ameliorate the disfiguring impetigo scabs. When Elsie had grudgingly risen to answer the register Marguerite had seen that her tunic was crumpled, and blouse grubby, unlike the rest of her first-day-of-term classmates. Her ‘Here, miss’ had been surly and her eyes downcast as she slumped back in her seat.

  She was in the same position now. Alarm bells rang in Marguerite’s head but she said, ‘Elsie, have you lost your book?’

  A snarl.

  ‘I ent got one.’

  Marguerite decided not to engage with the reason.

  ‘Oh well, Pauline, will you please share with Elsie?’

  Pauline reluctantly moved very slightly closer to her unsavoury neighbour. Elsie shoved her book away.

  ‘Don’t bother, four-eyes. I ’ate Shakespeare anyway. It’s rubbish.’

  The class began to shift and giggle. Even the affronted Pauline. Marguerite sensed that Elsie’s behaviour was a regular diversion.

  She steadied herself.

  ‘Rubbish? D’you think so, Elsie? Why, exactly?’

  ‘Because it’s gobbledegook.’

  ‘That’s a wonderful word. I think Shakespeare would have liked it.’

  Not to be appeased, Elsie shook her head violently, and waved her hands about in dramatic bewilderment.

  ‘I don’t know what he’s on about.’

  ‘Let’s see if we can find out, shall we?’

  Elsie gave an exaggerated shrug of indifference then, resting her chin on tightly clenched fists, she stared, eyebrows raised, at her teacher.

  This, thought Marguerite, is my first challenge. Her heart was pounding but she feigned calm.

  ‘Will anyone be very brave, and read Sonnet 29 out loud to the class?’

  Three girls thrust up their hands while the rest hid their faces.

  She remembered one of their names. ‘Thank you, Brenda. Take your time.’

  Brenda, who was small, buck-toothed and keen, struggled through the poem, murdering the meaning and rhythm.

  ‘ “When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,

  I all alone beweep my outcast state,

  And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,

  And look upon myself and curse my fate,

  Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

  Featur’d like him, like him with friends possess’d,

  Desiring this man’s art, and that man’s scope,

  With what I most enjoy contented least;

  Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,

  Haply I think on thee, and then my state,

  (Like to the lark at break of day arising

  From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s gate;

  For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth brings

  That then I scorn to change my state with kings.” ’

  When the girl had made it, red-faced, to the end, Marguerite asked, ‘What do you think, class? Do you like it?’

  There was little enthusiasm. Anyone showing signs of approval was silenced by a glare from Elsie. She was in danger of being more in control of the lesson than Marguerite. Perching on the desk to relieve her shaking legs Marguerite continued, ‘Can anyone sum up what the poem means?’

  Blank silence.

  ‘I’ll give you a clue. In a sonnet, which this is, often the last two lines tell you what it is about.’ They all studied the page with furrowed brows, muttering or mouthing the lines.

  Before anyone could answer, Elsie grabbed Pauline’s book and piped up, ‘Tarts make more money than kings.’

  Unflinching, Marguerite assumed serious interest.

  ‘But, Elsie, do you really think a prostitute would describe the sex she sells as “sweet love”?’

  There was an intake of breath. This was not the sort of discussion that a teacher should engage in, or indeed anyone in polite society. Even Elsie, caught off balance by challenge rather than reprimand, was disconcerted. Taking advantage of this Marguerite swept on. Hoping that Miss Farringdon would not pop in to check on her, she decided to abandon any attempt to parse the poem and stick to interpretation.

  They next discussed whether they had ever ‘bewept their outcast state’. After some coaxing from Marguerite, they came up with examples that laid bare their insecurity about the way they looked, exam results, shyness and unanimous envy of the ravishing Hazel, who, in turn, revealed her jealousy of the effortlessly brilliant Miranda. All told, they concluded the clever poet had got it about right. ‘With what I most enjoy contented least’ puzzled them, until Wendy described how the Crunchie bar, which she had queued for the day before, was her most favourite sweet in the world, but when she had finished it, and even while she was eating it, she felt a bit disappointed and miserable.

  They had more of a problem relating to the second half of the poem. Although, after some argument, they accepted that the word ‘sullen’ was a bit odd, but nevertheless a fair description of, for instance, the playing field on a gloomy day, only two of them had seen and heard a lark ‘arising’ when they were evacuated to the country. They had some difficulty in finding comparative surges of ecstasy in their war-torn young lives. The upward swoop of the all-clear siren after a raid, a rainbow after rain, a father returning after four years’ absence were all discussed, but eventually they settled for the robin that sometimes perched on the tennis net singing its h
eart out. Brenda preferred her budgerigar.

  Throughout these revealingly honest exchanges Elsie was silent, although she didn’t interrupt and Marguerite could see that her eyes were registering what was being said.

  Marguerite risked engaging with her.

  ‘Now, Elsie, with your classmates’ help, is the poem any clearer to you? Is there anything about it that you can identify with? Does it at least make you think?’

  ‘A bit.’

  Marguerite sensed some progress.

  ‘I thought about the day my brother got out of the shelter without his shoes on and started shaking his fists and jumping up and down shouting “Bugger off, bloody Bosch” at the jerry planes going over. But they didn’t notice his bootless cries.’

  The class sniggered, waiting for Marguerite’s reaction to Elsie’s shocking bad language. Yet again, Marguerite doggedly chose the option of deflecting Elsie’s defiance by taking her seriously.

  ‘Actually, Elsie, you have hit on something interesting there. Well done. Maybe Shakespeare chose the word “bootless” not only to mean useless, but also to have connotations of poverty. Not like your brother, who just forgot his shoes, but people who can’t afford them. Just as he uses that funny word “haply” not only to mean “perhaps” but possibly also because it sounds a bit like “happily”.’ Elsie was glaring at her but said nothing. ‘Words are such useful things. I have an idea, class. How many of you collect stamps?’

  Several hands shot up.

  ‘And cigarette cards?’

  Many more.

  ‘Autographs?’

  Almost the whole class.

  ‘How about instead of just collecting your friends’ and teachers’ signatures, you collect words instead? Have a notebook or even use your autograph albums and every new word you discover or like, write it down. Elsie’s “gobbledegook” is a good one and there are several in the sonnet. Then you can find ways of using them in your compositions, perhaps in unusual ways, like Shakespeare’s “sullen earth”. Shall we try it with our robin? Chose some adjectives to describe him.’

  First up was “lovely”. Mindful of Miss Farringdon’s briefing, from which she had strayed, Marguerite now toed the party line.

  ‘But, Heather, “lovely” could refer to anything. The sun is lovely, so, to my mind, is this sonnet. You are lovely—’

  A blush and a snort at this.

  ‘We need a word that is specific to our robin.’

  ‘Cheeky’, ‘Christmassy’, ‘wounded’, ‘brave’, ‘chirrupy’, ‘pushy’, ‘lovable’ (whispered by Irene), ‘obese’ (from Wendy), ‘bleeding’ (this grunted by Elsie), the adjectives flowed out of them. Going with the tide, Marguerite decided the girls were sufficiently at ease with one another to return to the subject of ‘sweet love’, a subject potentially uncomfortable for pubescent girls. It was a dangerous area to explore. Sex was a totally forbidden subject in lessons except for a rudimentary look at the basics in Hygiene. Aware of the ticking time bomb of Elsie, Marguerite steered the subject firmly into the area of gentle loving. They came up with touching examples.

  ‘My granny when I cry.’

  ‘My mum when she plaits my hair.’

  ‘When my dad holds my hand as we cross the road.’

  ‘Yes, I like it when I go trainspotting with my dad. He doesn’t shout.’

  ‘My brother’s nice when we go bird-nesting.’

  Pets featured heavily in the list led by Brenda’s budgerigar.

  Anxious to include her, Marguerite crouched by Irene’s desk.

  ‘What about you, Irene? Is there someone you value more than anything in the world?’

  Her reply was barely audible but definite.

  ‘My baby brother.’

  The ideas were flowing now, and the class were visibly enjoying themselves, their relationship with their teacher relaxed and cordial. So much so that Rosemary Lewis, wide-eyed and brainy, dared to ask, ‘What about you, miss?’

  ‘Well, let me see,’ replied Marguerite. ‘I remember being cuddled by my mother.’

  Her arms holding very tight, the soft perfume, her cheek wet against hers. ‘Don’t worry, ma petite, Maman and Papa will see you again soon.’

  Marguerite could sense they found the thought of this kind of physical parental love slightly embarrassing. Only one girl, Helen Hayes, with ringlets that spoke of time spent with curling tongs, offered the observation, ‘It’s nice when my mum kisses me goodnight, before putting out the light,’ and then, judging by the flush creeping up her neck, wished she hadn’t.

  Marguerite checked that she had neglected no one, so that they were all involved with the discussion. Even Irene was attentive and as engaged as was possible at this stage. The only remaining renegade was Elsie.

  Marguerite decided to go for broke.

  ‘And you, Elsie, what “sweet love” do you remember?’

  It was a mistake. A grave mistake. There was no clever-Dick rejoinder from Elsie. That Marguerite could have dealt with. There was a look of bewilderment. The girl was struggling to find an effective riposte but there was just a stricken silence.

  Marguerite’s growing confidence had overreached itself and led her into deep water; she was aware of invading the girl’s complex privacy. She, of all people, should have known better. She could think of nothing to say, except a muttered, ‘I’m sorry, Elsie.’ The girl looked up and examined Marguerite’s face curiously, then shrugged and turned away.

  Marguerite moved on swiftly.

  ‘Now we have about five minutes before the bell. Brenda, would you be kind enough to read the sonnet again, bearing in mind the things we have discussed?’

  It was a risk, but it worked. The girl gave a clear, sincere reading and when she finished the class applauded.

  ‘That was beautiful, Brenda. Hands up, class, if you like the poem better now.’

  A sea of waving hands restored her faith in her ability to teach. Daring to look at Elsie, she saw that she had her arm half up, although her face expressed nonchalance.

  ‘I am so pleased. There goes the bell. Class dismissed. Don’t forget to collect some new words. And 2a—’

  They hesitated.

  ‘Thank you all for making my first ever lesson so enjoyable.’ As they passed Marguerite in single file to go to their next class, Hazel Evans said, ‘You shouldn’t be scared. You’re a good teacher.’ And there was a murmur of agreement. She caught Elsie’s eye. The girl gave a slight, solemn nod.

  Marguerite could not remember ever feeling so happy.

  Chapter 4

  ‘You’re looking very pleased with yourself.’

  Mr Stansfield, in his sports clothes, was crouched on the floor in the rabbitry, smoking a cigarette. Marguerite backed out of the wire cage.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise there was anyone in here. I have a free period so I thought I’d explore.’

  ‘I’ve just finished morning gym sessions and I’ve got a break too. Let me finish my fag and I’ll give you a guided tour.’

  Marguerite said, ‘Haven’t you read the latest scientific research? Smoking is almost definitely linked to lung cancer.’

  ‘Well, I like to live dangerously. D’you want one?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Why don’t you sit down and join me for a chat. It’s a bit smelly but we won’t be disturbed till lunch break, when the monitors come to feed the beasts.’

  He spread his hanky on the stone floor and she crouched down beside him. He took another cigarette from the packet, lit it from his, and put it between her lips.

  ‘Sorry about that nonsense with Lewin yesterday. She’s an offensive old cow, but she lost a fiancé at the Somme and spent this last lot in the ARP dragging bodies out of bomb sites, so she’s a bit touchy about wartime service.’

  ‘I wasn’t offended.’

  ‘You must get fed up with all that anti-French stuff. But you’re only half French, aren’t you? How strange. Which do you feel most, English or French?’
<
br />   ‘Well, let’s say I miss the smell of a Gauloises, but I am loving this Woodbine.’

  ‘Where were you during the war?’

  ‘I served as a nurse. The FANY. You?’

  ‘Merchant Navy. Dodging torpedoes, mainly successfully. Anyway enough of that. Muddy water under a ruined bridge. What about today? How did it go?’

  ‘Wonderful. I’ve only done one lesson so far. I was nervous but in the end I really enjoyed it. Some of the girls needed a bit of coaxing, and one I handled badly, but on the whole, I feel I have come home. This is what I was born to do.’

  ‘Wow. So you’re enjoying it so far then, Mrs Lincoln?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I just can’t understand what a pretty girl like you is doing teaching.’

  ‘Don’t patronise me.’

  ‘I thought I was paying you a compliment.’

  ‘Oh, not again.’

  ‘What? I’m lost here.’

  Marguerite slowly blew out some smoke.

  ‘It’s something that happened in my final term at Cambridge. I was selected as the only woman of a group of five undergraduates invited to attend a seminar in America. I prepared my dissertation. Then, a week before we were due to depart, I was informed that I had been dropped, in favour of a male student. I went to see the lecturer in charge of the trip and asked him what I’d done wrong. I’d worked damned hard to prepare.’

  Mr Stansfield held out a cupped hand for her to flick ash into.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He smirked at me, with one eyebrow raised, and said, “You’ve done nothing wrong except be too damned attractive.” Then he winked and said, “One or two of the lads are worried you might be distracting, and to be honest I can’t guarantee I wouldn’t jump on you myself.” Ouch.’

  Mr Stansfield took her glowing cigarette stub from her fingers and crushed it out on his plimsoll.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I couldn’t believe it. I said, “Are you serious?” and he smirked even more and said, “Would you like me to be?” ’

  Mr Stansfield stifled a laugh. Marguerite leapt to her feet.