Miss Carter's War

by Sheila Hancock

  ‘I hadn’t realised.’

  ‘If I didn’t have fifty in a class, and teachers like that poor mouse, I could turn their lives around, but they have been branded as rubbish at eleven, so that is what they will be. We are producing a lost generation here.’

  ‘But things have improved. Girls at my school have been lifted out of their backgrounds to be given a tiptop education.’

  ‘But are they comfortable there?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure they are.’

  Then she thought of Elsie and Irene. Miss Scott raised a plucked eyebrow.

  ‘I hope so. I do so hope so.’

  Marguerite recognised in the headmistress the same reforming zeal as she herself had, but in Miss Scott it was swamped by exhaustion. Closeted in her safe little world Marguerite had had no idea such schools existed. She was so privileged to be at a grammar school, for all its sometimes irksome rigidity.

  When she reported back on her visit, Miss Fryer’s reaction was in accord with that strict ethos.

  ‘They are given too much freedom at that school, admittedly partly to do with overcrowding. You see, Miss Carter, during the war children ran wild. They must be tamed. They need tactful discipline from teachers and, essentially, parents too, with clear standards. Too much freedom breeds selfishness, vandalism and ultimately personal unhappiness. As you have witnessed at the secondary modern.’

  Marguerite wanted to dispute this opinion, but she would be challenging a woman who ran a successful school, liked by parents and pupils, from the standpoint of a teacher of a mere two years’ experience. Instead she arranged to meet Tony in the pub and bombarded him with her confusion. He was an invaluable safety valve.

  ‘Of course you can’t leave the grammar and go and teach there. It’s a dump. You would be wasted. Miss Scott is an excellent head, but she can’t turn it round. It’s the tripartite system. Grading them as successes or failures at eleven is absurd. It stinks.’

  ‘Well what can we do?’

  ‘Keep on doing the good job you are doing here. You are transforming lives because you are a brilliant teacher. Stick to what is possible.’

  ‘I can’t get those kids out of my mind. It’s so unfair. I’m really upset, Tony. Come back to my place, please. I need you.’

  Up to now they had met in public, but seldom had any privacy. She knew that he was frightened of compromising her reputation, and therefore her job, by letting their friendship become too intimate; Miss Fryer would never tolerate that sort of carry-on between staff members. Then there were his weekends away, which she presumed involved a woman, maybe married, but certainly ‘complicated’. Marguerite was not even sure what she wanted from Tony but, of late, she was feeling the need for a deeper understanding between them. Her Catholic guilt had always prevented her from having the sort of promiscuous sex life her fellow university students had had. In any case the bond with Marcel was difficult to break. She had been his, body and soul, in tempestuous circumstances, and no trivial affaire de coeur could compete with that. Other than the one fleeting episode when she lost her virginity, before she met Marcel, he had been her only sexual partner. At twenty-seven she was beginning to wonder if she would suffer the fate so dreaded by her age group of being ‘on the shelf’. She was panicked by a statistic in The Times: 96 per cent of adult women were married. But her work did not bring her into contact with, or allow her much time to meet, available men. Her ­colleagues seemed content to sublimate any urges by pouring their energy into their work. Maybe that would be enough for her too.

  But Tony unsettled her. Occasionally she felt the need for more than fun and chat with him. Dancing close to him at the Festival of Britain she had felt a surge of desire, which she suspected was mutual, but he had insisted that they get the last train home. In retrospect she was grateful that he saved her from the squalid business of a borrowed wedding ring and signing a hotel register as ‘Mr and Mrs’; that would have been no way to start a romance. Since then, she had got pleasure from the sight of him, brown and lithe and tousle-haired, playing tennis with the girls. She wondered what it would be like if their chummy hugs turned into something more satisfying. As for the scandal, with her need for comfort, Marguerite was past caring.

  She grasped his hand.

  ‘Please, Tony, come back with me.’

  He stared at her long and hard. He didn’t reply. The chatter and clink of glasses in the bar were the only sounds.

  ‘Best not, lovey.’

  Then he said, ‘But I tell you what, we’ll have one of our treats. Next week, Judy is appearing at the Palladium. I’ve got two tickets.’

  ‘Judy?’

  ‘Garland, woman. The one and only. It’ll be a night to remember.’

  Chapter 9

  On the night they went to the West End of London there was a pea-souper of a fog, which made it difficult to see more than a few feet in front of them. Even inside the theatre it was faintly misty, and people were coughing and wiping their eyes. There was an atmosphere of excitement. Marguerite was surprised at how many of the mainly male audience knew Tony, and greeted him effusively. One blond young man ruffled his hair.

  ‘Oh vade the bona riah,’ he said. Then he cast a glance at Marguerite.

  ‘Who’s the palone? Lovely lallies,’ the young man said, sizing her up.

  When he’d gone she grabbed Tony’s arm.

  ‘What’s going on? What’s he talking about?’

  ‘Oh that’s Polari. Our secret language.’

  ‘Our? Whose? What do you mean?’

  He avoided her eyes.

  ‘Come on, there’s the bell. Mind you, she’s bound to be late.’

  The red plush of the Palladium was tatty, and the gilt tarnished. The star was indeed late. About half an hour late. During which time the excitement in the auditorium rose to fever pitch, so that when, at last, the tiny woman in a sequinned jacket and black tights on exquisite legs came onto the stage, there was a great roar of welcome, then a gasp when she seemed to stumble. The whole performance was nerve-racking for Marguerite. Garland forgot the words of one song, and ordered the conductor to start again. The audience were now at her feet, and even though her voice was cracking, and every now and then she stood stock-still as if she wasn’t sure where she was, they lapped up every moment. Occasionally she would take a number at breakneck speed, frantically striding the stage, and batting her arms about as though to thrash the song out of herself. It was disturbing to Marguerite, but the audience seemed in seventh heaven. She was conscious of Tony watching her reaction. When this big-eyed waif sat on the edge of the stage, legs dangling into the orchestra pit, tremulously singing ‘Over The Rainbow’, it had even Marguerite gulping back a sob.

  After the tumultuous reception, during which Judy threw kisses, and picked up the flowers thrown onto the stage, Tony insisted on following the crowd of shrieking people to the dingy stage door. When, after a long wait, Garland ventured out of the theatre, to whoops from the crowd, she looked genuinely surprised and delighted, although presumably it happened every night. Her tiny frame was cocooned in white fur, and diamonds flashed from head and wrists. She seemed supernatural, insubstantial, as though her quivering white face might melt into nothing. She grasped hands and laughed and joked hysterically, devouring the devotion. Tony was in the thick of it. Marguerite had noticed, through the smog, a group of policemen surveying the scene, disgust etched on their faces. When eventually the adored diva had been manoeuvred into her Rolls-Royce and had departed, waving, several men, including Tony, hugged each other and Marguerite saw a policeman ostentatiously write something in a notebook.

  One of the them gave a warning.

  ‘Vade lilly law, boys.’

  And the crowd quickly dispersed.

  Tony came towards her. They stood silently facing each other, the fog swirling round them.

  ‘Now you know.’

  ‘My God, Tony. Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘The clues were there.’

&nbs
p; There were no buses or taxis running, but they groped their way on foot to Charing Cross Station. Neither spoke, except to warn the other of a kerb or an obstacle. They kept their distance. There was a long, silent wait for the train and it drew away very slowly. They managed to find a compartment to themselves. Tony yanked at the strap of the window to close a small chink and closed the door to the corridor, before sitting opposite her.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I thought – hoped – you’d realise. You’ve seen life. You went through the war, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘That doesn’t make me an expert in sexual deviance.’

  Tony flinched.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me straight out?’

  ‘I was terrified.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Everything.’

  He looked terrified, quite unlike the exuberant man she was used to. He seemed to have shrunk, huddled into his duffel coat, scarf around his chin, hands deep in his pockets, slumped down in the seat.

  ‘You should have told me before.’

  ‘I didn’t dare.’

  ‘But you could have trusted me.’

  ‘I don’t trust anyone. I can’t. The punishment for being what I am is too great.’

  ‘You’re being melodramatic.’

  ‘You think so? Have you not read all the stuff about Guy Burgess? Everyone is much more concerned about his being homosexual than about his giving away state secrets. Did you see the Sunday Mirror this week? A warning to avoid “these evil men”, with a handy guide – “How to Spot a Homo”?’

  ‘Please stop. I don’t know what to say. I’m lost.’

  The ticket collector slid the door across and Tony sat up straight and showed him his ticket, saying chirpily, ‘All right, mate? Awful weather.’

  The man left, and Tony again pushed the door tight.

  He lowered his voice. ‘I can’t risk telling anyone outright. Even you. My whole life and my job are in jeopardy.’

  ‘Does Miss Fryer know?’

  ‘She’s probably guessed, but doesn’t discuss it openly, apart from saying occasionally, “Take care.” She’s a good woman, and knows her own living arrangements could be questioned, although I’m sure nothing much happens between her and Miss Yates. The police and the Home Office are flummoxed by lesbians anyway. And homosexuality, come to that.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Exactly. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you.’

  Marguerite felt sullied by his news. Tony was suddenly a stranger, who had a secret life that she didn’t dare to think about. She felt foolish, and revolted by his prancing friends at the Palladium.

  ‘Have you been using me as a cover?’

  ‘I swear to you on my mother’s life that I haven’t. I love you with all my heart.’

  Marguerite began to cry.

  ‘How can you say that? You’re a homosexual.’

  ‘My being homosexual does not in any way alter what I feel for you. In fact it makes it more important, because I’m not permitted to have the sort of relationship I should have. That’s probably why I was so frightened to tell you. You are everything to me.’

  ‘Except for sex.’

  ‘Sadly, yes. It’s my huge loss.’

  ‘And mine. Oh Tony, and mine.’

  He crossed to her seat.

  ‘May I?’ he said.

  She nodded and he folded her in his arms, where she sobbed into his Fair Isle jumper saying, ‘We’ll be all right, my darling. You’ll see, we’ll be all right.’

  The ticket collector tapped on the window.

  ‘All right, miss?’

  She turned her tear-stained face towards him.

  ‘He’s just told me—’

  She felt Tony stiffen.

  ‘That I don’t understand him.’

  ‘That’s what they all say, miss. You watch out.’

  Chapter 10

  After Tony’s revelation Marguerite felt foolish and bereft. Foolish that she had thrown herself at him, foolish that she had beguiled herself into believing that they could have a proper relationship, and bereft at the possibility that they would now have no relationship at all, for to do so would necessitate her accommodating to a world she preferred not to acknowledge.

  She was vaguely aware that such perversion went on, but it was not discussed. Even in France, when she and her group of résistants were forced to live closeted together in hiding for months on end, the bawdy talk she overheard was always about women. When she was at Cambridge, there was a group of epicene students who affected devotion to Greek male love, but most of them were now respectably married. She had once been deeply embarrassed by an Army officer friend, in a pub, expressing loud disgust that a couple of men in his regiment were ‘poofs’, ‘pansies’, ‘queers’, but until now it was not a subject she had dwelt on. Marguerite could not get out of her head the overexcited squealing men at the Palladium. She could not adjust her version of Tony as a strong amusing partner, and, yes, potential lover, to fit that image.

  For Marguerite, sex was something that came from love between a man and a woman, which ideally led to marriage. She was brought up as a Catholic to believe that you remained a virgin till your wedding night. She had sinned, but war had turned the old morality upside down – not without risk for women, who were still cast out of respectable society should they fall pregnant. Fear was a woman’s bedfellow. But during the war, another fear took precedence. Fear of loss and death. In those dramatic years passion ran rampant. Love could be dangerous, if wrongly bestowed.

  The roaring mob manhandles the girl down the narrow, ancient road, her head brutally shaved, a swastika carved, bloody, on her naked breast. They pass the church. The screams of hatred disturb the congregation’s celebration of the Stations of the Cross.

  How could she relate to this new Tony who had lied to her by omission about something so pivotal to their lives? Fortunately Tony, whether from fear or resignation, kept his distance. There was no need for their paths to cross except in the staff room, where they had always downplayed their closeness to avoid gossip. So the change in their relationship was not noticed. Marguerite decided to take on even more responsibilities at school to occupy her mind, and drive out any necessity for a private life. She wanted no more emotional complications. That way disorder lay. She considered contacting Miss Scott to strike up a friendship with a like-minded woman but decided even that would be a distraction. Her work was all she needed.

  Elsie and Irene and their contemporaries had just finished their General Certificate of Education exams. Most had done well, with many getting distinctions in English. Marguerite allowed herself some pride, but was immediately focused on pushing them to achieve top A level results at eighteen, which could gain them entry to university.

  She was shocked when Miss Fryer announced at a staff meeting after the exam results that eight girls would be dropping out of school, one of whom was Irene Brown.

  She protested, ‘But the girl is brilliant. She must go to university.’

  Miss Fryer smiled.

  ‘I’m afraid it is not your decision, Miss Carter. It is her parents’.’

  ‘No, it is Irene’s. Surely?’

  ‘I have spoken to Irene and she intends to leave.’

  Irene was sitting in the corner of the hockey field with Elsie.

  ‘Can I join you, girls?’

  Marguerite sat on the sweet-smelling newly cut grass. Elsie offered her a piece of the sliced Mars bar they were sharing.

  ‘No, I won’t take of your ration. I want to talk to you.’

  Irene concentrated on the daisy chain she was making, cutting a slot in the stem with her fingernail, and threading through the next flower.

  ‘Is it true you want to leave at the end of term, Irene?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘Why, for heaven’s sake? You’re doing so well at school.’

  ‘I want to get a job.’

  ‘But you’d get a better job
if you’d got a university degree.’

  ‘I’m sick of school.’

  ‘University is not like school, Irene.’

  Marguerite tried to explain the freedom, the fun, the excitement of her experience at Cambridge, but it was a losing battle with someone who knew no one apart from her teachers who had experienced it. She contemplated taking Irene on a trip to Oxford or Cambridge, but decided that could overwhelm a girl who she knew had never set foot outside Dartford except for her trip to the Festival of Britain.

  ‘What about your parents?’

  Irene shrugged.

  ‘My mum wants me to leave.’

  ‘She can’t understand what it would mean for you, or she would want you to go to university. Like Elsie’s parents.’

  Elsie laughed.

  ‘Oh, mine couldn’t care less, miss. I didn’t even discuss it with them. I might as well stay on. But I won’t get into any university. I’m not posh like you and the other teachers.’

  ‘Nonsense. You can do anything if you set your mind to it. Both of you. I’m disappointed in you, Irene.’

  Marguerite went to rise from the ground. Irene stopped her and, kneeling in front of her, put the daisy chain around her neck.

  ‘I’m so sorry, miss.’

  Seeing Irene’s defeated expression made Marguerite determined not to give up.

  After lessons, knowing that Irene would be staying for Poetry Club, Marguerite made her way to the girl’s home. She knew that this engagement with pupils beyond the school gate was frowned on by Miss Fryer, but her belief in Irene’s talent overrode her qualms. She could not believe that the parents would not want the best for their daughter and was sure that, given the facts, they would encourage her to improve her prospects.

  This was even more obvious to her when she saw where they lived. The council estate sprawled over several acres, and consisted of identical red-brick two-storey terraced houses. In front were tidy gardens, mainly monotonously composed of neatly mown lawns, with privet hedges behind the low garden walls. There were few flowers, but the houses were well maintained. Except for No. 210. The garden in front of this house was littered with bicycles in various states of repair. A clothes horse had blown over, scattering a load of washing over the neglected grass. Marguerite noted that the curtains were drawn over the front-room windows.