Miss Carter's War

by Sheila Hancock

  She was about to try and explain that they were only colleagues, when Ethel fetched a small box from the dresser in which, wrapped in tissue paper, was a pair of exquisite lace gloves.

  ‘My nan made these. She worked in lace in Nottingham. I wore them at my wedding. I want you to have them for when—’

  ‘Oh no – I couldn’t.’

  ‘Please, lass. You’ve made me so happy.’

  Marguerite could not bring herself to hurt this gentle woman, so she took the gloves and said, ‘Thank you. I love beautiful gloves. I’ll treasure them.’

  She hoped that thus she had told the truth to Ethel, without crushing her sweet hope.

  Marguerite was relieved when Tony and his father returned, rather unsteadily, from the pub. As they ate their supper the conversation was stilted. Their life in leafy Kent seemed as alien as sub-Saharan Africa. Tony’s parents’ pride in their son’s escape from the treadmill of factory work and want was obvious, although his father expressed it obliquely.

  ‘I suppose it’s all caviar and them hoity-toity cocktail parties now you’re a smartarse down south.’

  Ethel insisted that Marguerite had her and Bert’s brass bed to herself, whilst they bundled into the back room that used to be Tony’s. Tony slept on the couch in the parlour. It was still dark when Marguerite was woken by a banging on her window. Leaping out of bed she looked out to see a man in a muffler and flat cap, wielding a big cane with a ball on the end. He was almost as startled as she.

  ‘Oh sorry, luv. Is Bert with you? Tell ’im to gerrup.’

  Puzzled, she went back to bed. Shortly after, the silence was broken by the clatter of clogs on the cobbles, and the dismal howl of the mill’s siren, bidding people to work.

  Bert was chuffed that the knocker-up would be spreading the rumour that he had a luscious redhead in his bed.

  Several of the neighbours joined Bert and Ethel to wave them goodbye. Bert shook his son’s hand and said awkwardly, ‘ ’Ang on to her, son. She’s a belter.’

  Ethel started to shake Marguerite’s hand then shyly kissed her instead.

  She whispered, ‘Thank you, luv.’

  As they drove away Marguerite’s mind was in a whirl. Had she misled these good folk by omission? Did it matter anyway? Having now seen his background, she realised the utter impossibility of Tony revealing his sexuality. The lace gloves were an emblem of the wedding that Ethel dreamed of. The community, the family were the elements that made these people’s hard lives bearable. And to them, that meant a man, and a woman, and their children.

  Tony thanked Marguerite for her tact.

  ‘Sorry it was such an ordeal.’

  ‘Not at all. I loved it.’

  ‘Not going to get a rave in the Good Food Guide though, is it?’

  ‘Nonsense. “Dinner of a regional dish using local ingredients, i.e. cotton to wrap pudding. Service first class. Ambience—” ’

  ‘A shithole,’ rasped Tony.

  ‘Not at all. “Historic architecture”.’

  ‘And sanitary arrangements?’

  ‘ “Warm welcome from hosts”.’

  Tony sighed.

  ‘What a miserable bloody existence.’

  ‘They don’t seem miserable to me, Tony. OK, the conditions are shamefully primitive and they work damned hard but, forgive me if I seem sentimental, they seem happy. It feels like a close community.’

  ‘Bloody suffocating. Thank Christ I fescaped.’

  ‘And how did you escape? You told me. A teacher inspired you. That’s us, Tony. It’s up to us.’

  ‘Well, I’m not doing a very good job for children like I was. Look at me, working in a posh grammar school increasingly packed with middle-class kids, whose parents get them privately tutored to make sure they pass the eleven-plus, and crowd out those without pushy parents.’

  Marguerite was stunned.

  ‘God, Tony. You’re talking about me. That’s what I do.’

  ‘Sorry, sorry. I always get angry when I’ve been back home. I’m not blaming you. It’s the system. I’m just as bad, making money teaching the privileged to swim.’

  They sat in silence as they left Oldham behind them and headed towards London.

  After about two hours they stopped for some tea from a Thermos flask that Ethel had put in the car.

  ‘Have I upset you, Mags?’

  ‘Not at all. I’ve been deliberating.’

  Marguerite looked him in the eye.

  ‘Oh Lord, you’ve got your “not do nothing” look. Deliberating about what?’

  ‘Us. You’re right, Tony. We’ve gone off track. We need a rethink.’

  Chapter 19

  The Oldham odyssey had a profound effect on Marguerite. She knew such living conditions existed and that there were inequalities in education, she had seen evidence of that several years ago at the secondary modern school; what shocked her was that she had allowed herself to forget about it.

  For over a decade she had been a good, dedicated teacher but that wasn’t really difficult in a well-run grammar school. In her time at Dartford several of the original staff had retired, including Miss Belcher, whom she had succeeded as deputy head of English. She sometimes, in the staff room, caught the newcomers looking bemused as she waxed lyrical about some pupil’s work. They were much more confident and blasé than she had been when she started, having been to teaching colleges where they learnt child psychology and classroom technique. They were, in popular parlance, cool. She realised she had become Miss Belcher in their eyes, one of the old school. She had a career for life, on good money, in a pleasant environment, and was, it dawned on her, stagnating. Contentment had never been one of her goals. She had always thrived on challenge, adventure. Why had she changed? Her discontent, increased by her Oldham visit, culminated in an unpleasant row in the staff room.

  About a dozen teachers were gathered in a self-congratulatory mood, having just heard that two girls had been accepted for Oxford and four others for top universities.

  ‘Well done us,’ shouted Miss Farringdon, beads and bangles rattling as she raised her teacup for a toast.

  ‘Hear, hear, splendid,’ echoed the others.

  Marguerite hid her face in a book. One of the plaited ones, Miss Haynes, noticed.

  ‘What’s the matter, Marguerite? Aren’t you proud? This is a lot to do with your coaching for the interviews.’

  ‘Thank you. It’s just – oh I don’t know – it’s all very well. For us. But even if our school is doing a great job with most of the girls, what about all the rest, in other words the vast majority? In secondary modern schools. Techs. The tips.’

  Miss Farringdon, due to retire at the end of term, had abandoned any pretence of tact.

  ‘Those children are as thick as pigshit.’

  Marguerite was furious.

  ‘Do you really believe that?’

  ‘It’s a proven fact. That’s why they’re at the secondary modern.’

  ‘I beg to disagree. I don’t believe there’s a child in the world that hasn’t got a talent for something. It’s just a question of finding it and developing it. That’s our job, for God’s sake.’

  Miss Farringdon was adamant.

  ‘Not everyone can be clever. Someone’s got to mend our bloomin’ pipes and build our houses.’

  ‘But should they be made to feel inferior?’

  Miss Lewin sought to impose calm.

  ‘Well, what’s the answer?’

  Tony, who had been silently listening, said, ‘Well there’s the new comprehensives. One’s just opened in Kidbrooke.’

  Miss Farringdon waded into the fray again.

  ‘Oh heavens. They sound awful. Too big. Too soulless. We need the grammar schools for the clever ones. Let’s face it, however altruistic you are, you’ve got to admit that some will always be cleverer than others.’

  Marguerite said, ‘You keep saying “clever”. Define that. What in hell’s name do you mean, “clever”?’

  Tony put
a calming hand on her shoulder.

  ‘I think what Miss Farringdon means is some will be more academic, better at Latin and Greek. But surely the others can excel in different ways, Miss Farringdon? If they’re all under the same roof, taking some of the same lessons and all doing sport together, but specialising in what they’re good at, no one will feel inferior. The girl who is a good cook will reach cordon bleu standard, and be as respected as the Greek scholar. The dim-witted boy who is brilliant at football will be admired by the boy who gets a scholarship to Oxford.’

  Even Miss Farringdon seemed impressed by Tony’s advocacy.

  ‘My goodness, this is a side of you we don’t often see.’

  Miss Haynes demurred, ‘You’ll have to abolish the public schools and grammars to make it work. Otherwise the mix will be unbalanced.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Tony. ‘It won’t work otherwise.’

  ‘But that would be tragic. You would lose some wonderful schools.’

  Miss Farringdon let out one of her raucous laughs.

  ‘Well, Mr Stansfield, they didn’t do that – your lot – when they were in power, did they? And no wonder, even Atlee went to a public school.’

  Tony rallied, ‘But Rab Butler and Morrison, and Aneurin didn’t. They are determined and the public will be behind it. Only five per cent go to public schools and eighty per cent don’t get to grammar schools. My lot, as you put it, will get back and make it happen, you mark my words.’

  Miss Farrington neighed with laughter again. ‘Pity they didn’t take the chance while they had it. Too late now. Can’t see Macmillan abolishing Eton and Harrow.’

  That night, as they did the washing-up together at Marguerite’s flat, she said, ‘How come you know so much about these comprehensives?’

  Tony looked uneasy. He told her that he had contacted Miss Scott, the secondary modern head, whom he had heard was moving to a comprehensive opening in a rough area of Islington. She was to be deputy to an inspirational new headmaster.

  ‘Good for her. I don’t know how she has stuck it so long.’

  ‘Mags. Let’s sit on the sofa. I want to tell you something.’

  ‘What? Is it something bad? You’re frightening me. Please don’t say you’re leaving me—’

  ‘You make it sound as though we’re married. I told you in Ullswater. I’m worried about our relationship, and what it’s doing to you. You need a man who can give you much more than I can. Who will treat you like the desirable woman you are.’

  ‘I’m happy with you.’

  ‘Well, you shouldn’t be. Anyway that wasn’t all I wanted to say. After our visit to Oldham and you saying we needed a rethink, I’ve felt really unsettled.’

  ‘So have I.’

  ‘For you Dartford is perfect. Getting bright girls to achieve their best is what you do brilliantly and I suspect that when Fryer retires you could well get a headship. I’m just an ageing PT teacher with no great career path ahead. I only have my ideals. Dartford is a great school, but I need to move on.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Look, Mags, I’ve been intending to discuss this with you but I wanted to find out more about it before I did. I want to work with children from backgrounds like mine. That’s why I came into teaching. I’ve lost my sense of purpose. The new headmaster of Miss Scott’s school seems full of new ideas and he’s looking for staff.’

  That was when Marguerite realised that this odd relationship was absolutely indispensable to her. She could not imagine her life without Tony. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing someone else that she truly loved.

  He looks awkward, out of place in the bustling airport. She hands him a piece of paper.

  ‘This is my hotel in London, Marcel. If you change your mind—’

  ‘I won’t. You must follow your dream. I don’t belong in it.’

  ‘You could, you could—’

  ‘No. But, Marguerite—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I will always love you. Till the day I die . . .’

  ‘Well . . .’

  But he turns, blows a kiss over his shoulder and is lost in the crowd.

  Marguerite leapt to her feet.

  ‘I’m coming too.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It sounds exciting. I’m in a rut here. I want to “follow my dream”. A fresh start. That’s what I need.’

  Yes, that was exactly what she needed. To move on. Move on. With Tony.

  Her idealism came gushing back.

  ‘Yes, Tony, a fresh start. Wonderful new things! We will change the rotten world after all!’

  Tony stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. He laughed, but he sounded solemn.

  ‘Take it easy now, Lizzie Dripping. Take it easy.’

  Chapter 20

  Marguerite’s walk, in the drizzling rain, from the Angel tube station to Risinghill Street for her interview at the new comprehensive, was not as uplifting as her approach to Dartford County Grammar School for Girls on her first day as a teacher eleven years ago. But her eager anticipation was, if anything, more fierce than it had been then. The grimy tenements, bomb sites still not cleared, the chaotic Chapel Street market with its rotting waste, starving dogs and raucous shouts were all grist to her renovated reforming mill. The queue outside the pie and mash and jellied eel shop was, to her, made up of salt-of-the-earth Londoners, and she laughed as they whistled when she clacked by on her high heels, thinking: With a bit of luck, I’ll soon be one of you.

  Standing in front of a ramshackle pub at the top of the market she looked across the busy road to Risinghill Street on the other side. It was not an imposing sight. There were several reeling winos outside the church on the corner, opposite which was a huge blackened wall of a decaying warehouse, and beyond a group of wretched slum houses. Dodging the heavy lorries, she crossed to look closer at her possible future workplace. A pinched face was staring out of a broken window in one of the houses. Marguerite smiled up at the woman.

  ‘Piss off,’ the face mouthed.

  The short road terminated in a high wire fence, inside which was a building site. It did not look as if it would be ready to house two thousand children in six months’ time, but Marguerite was moved to see this phoenix rising from the ashes of all the dereliction. A surly doorkeeper led her across the rubble to a hut near the entrance. A tap would not be heard over the banging and clanking of the builders, so Marguerite tentatively opened the door. Sitting at a desk, head in hands, a picture of despair, was Miss Scott, late of the secondary modern. Suddenly aware of Marguerite, she leapt to her feet, immaculate as ever, with her black hair now in a pageboy style and wearing a two-piece navy suit with a white blouse. She shook Marguerite’s hand warmly.

  ‘Oh heavens, am I glad to see you. Forgive me, you caught me off guard. I’m helping the headmaster with the staffing. I have had a dispiriting morning interviewing people who believe that “six of the best” is a “jolly good thing” and “never did me any harm”. Or worse, men wearing grubby jeans, saying they took up teaching because they didn’t know what else to do. Lord, there is some rubbish in our profession.’

  Marguerite was startled. At Dartford some teachers were obviously more able than others but none could be categorised as ‘rubbish’. As for the cane, though it was legal to thrash children, the subject had never even been discussed.

  Miss Scott continued to pour out her frustration.

  ‘We are going to need high-calibre teachers here. It’s going to be a mighty struggle to make it work. We will be an unwilling amalgamation of four different, and I do mean different, schools, plus the intake from local primaries. We’ll have one group in their final year, who are not going to feel any loyalty to the new school. Plus – and this is the saddest thing for me – there are good grammars and posh schools in the area which will have creamed off the top stream, therefore our share of high-flyers will be less than one per cent, so it is not truly a comprehensive. Most pupils will be ordinary working-clas
s kids but we’ll have ninety on probation, many on the books of the NSPCC, some deemed educationally subnormal and a third immigrants with little or no knowledge of English. Would you like to sit down?’

  ‘Perhaps I’d better.’

  ‘There’s more.’

  ‘Oh really?’

  ‘The building is a disaster. Four exits for them to escape, seven playgrounds, several dining rooms, perfect in every way for bunking off and causing mischief. Michael Duane, our head, is doing his best to remedy some of this, which is why he’s not here. He is giving them a belated input from someone who will actually use this architectural folly. We have been forced to take on two of the heads and a lot of the staff of the previous four schools, who will be reluctantly answerable to Mike, who doesn’t believe in the cane or expelling people, whereas they have always ruled with a rod of iron – literally in some cases, except that the rod was made of wood. Several of the children have fathers in Pentonville Prison up the road, and a few of the mothers operate as prostitutes.’

  ‘No competition to Cheltenham Ladies’ College then?’

  ‘Not really no. They’re single sex.’

  Marguerite laughed.

  ‘Of course, silly me.’

  ‘We’re mixed. In every sense of the word. A thoroughly mixed bag. Two of the four schools have been single sex up to now, so imagine the fun and games when the boys and girls are let loose.’

  Miss Scott looked anxiously at Marguerite.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’

  ‘I’m thinking that you personally seem to have jumped out of the frying pan into the fire.’

  ‘No, there’s one big advantage—’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A visionary, dedicated, remarkable headmaster.’

  On cue a tall man in paint-bespattered corduroys and crew-necked sweater burst into the shed.

  ‘Trying to get rid of some of the grey walls,’ he said, indicating his stained yellow hands. ‘Diana told me about you. I hope you’ll join us. Please excuse me. I have to change into my respectable headmaster’s suit and tie. I have a governor coming. I’ll change in the builders’ Elsan toilet. It’s going to be thrilling. Has Diana asked you about being head of house? And about doing French as well as English? Do become part of our family. We – they – need you.’