Miss Carter's War

by Sheila Hancock

  That same evening she was doing some marking in her room while the pub downstairs was having its Saturday-night sing-song, with Florrie plonking out the tunes on the tinny piano. Usually, she quite liked the sounds of life below, and would occasionally go down and join the locals for a game of darts or cribbage. Tonight it made her feel left out. The conversation the night before had unsettled her. Thus, when she heard Bob shouting up to her, ‘Mags – phone – I think it’s him,’ she felt a rush of pleasure. She had dreamed up a story, which was nearly true, about losing his phone number, and then surprise, surprise, coming across it when throwing out her old knapsack. Jimmy seemed so pleased to hear from her that he didn’t care. He was coming round to take her out for lunch the next day, in case she disappeared again.

  Marguerite, according to Flo, had let herself go. It was so long since she had dressed to be attractive rather than comfortable and professional that she had become, Tony agreed, ‘dowdy’. She dithered for a long time between the slacks that she remembered Jimmy had liked and a dress that made her look younger than the threat of forty made her feel, after Tony’s sombre warning. Florrie, who was almost as nervous as she was, advised the dress, with a cardigan over her shoulders ‘in case it turns nippy’. Bob said she looked ‘a regular treacle tart’, and she waited in the saloon bar, where, thanks to Florrie, all the customers were agog to see the teacher’s new fancy man.

  His arrival went down very well. A roaring, dark blue MG, with the roof off, screeched to a halt and out scrambled the windblown Dish, who was even more handsome than she remembered. Ancient Agnes, who had spent most of her long life in the ladies’ bar at the back, staggered out to give her opinion, which was expressed with a startlingly loud wolf whistle. Florrie hugged her and said, ‘Blimey, he was worth waiting for.’ Jimmy took all the attention in his stride. He greeted the gaping neighbours charmingly and then offered Marguerite his arm. ‘Your carriage awaits, madam.’ This got a round of applause.

  ‘Sorry about all that,’ she said as they zoomed off. ‘They – we – don’t get much excitement.’

  ‘Well, I’d better live up to expectations. As it’s such a lovely day, I thought we’d drive down to Brighton, and have a picnic on the way. How does that sound to you?’

  Frightening, thought Marguerite. ‘Lovely,’ she said. She shouted above the engine, ‘The last time I was asked to go to Brighton was by Mr Worms.’

  He looked at her quizzically.

  ‘My driving instructor,’ she added.

  He looked again.

  ‘I didn’t go,’ she said feebly. ‘So it’s nice to go now.’

  She felt like an awkward schoolgirl rather than a mature teacher, and gave up any attempt at conversation. Gradually she relaxed and took in the scenery. It was good to get out of the city and feel the wind on her face. She occasionally exchanged smiles with Jimmy who seemed quite content not to talk. After about an hour, he drove down a side road and pulled the car into a field overlooking a sweeping view of lush Sussex countryside.

  ‘This is perfect. How did you know this place?’

  ‘I’ve been here before. Champagne?’

  He opened the bottle, and poured the drink into two glasses he took from a picnic basket.

  Raising his glass he said, ‘To CND.’

  Surprised, Marguerite clinked his glass. The champagne bubbles tickled the back of her nose pleasantly.

  ‘Are you still a supporter?’ she asked.

  ‘Not really. Are you?’

  ‘Yes, I march and petition and go to meetings, but I fear that after the Cuban missile crisis it’s difficult to persuade people to take a moral stance. Although in my opinion . . .’ She trailed off, aware that a political argument was not appropriate to the situation.

  Jimmy was laying out a white linen tablecloth on the ground, with china plates, and salad and ham in Perspex boxes.

  ‘Sorry, I’m boring myself, let alone you. This is lovely – you’ve gone to a lot of trouble.’

  He stood up and brushed a wisp of hair from her face.

  ‘You are worth it. I toasted CND because it led me to you.’

  She was about to respond with some quip about that not, perhaps, being Bertrand Russell’s prime objective, but she bit her tongue, and decided to enjoy the compliment.

  She smiled and said, ‘Thank you.’

  They sat on the grass, on opposite sides of the cloth, and ate the food and drank champagne.

  ‘There’s no pudding,’ said Jimmy. ‘You must wait for that.’

  In her nervous state, Marguerite wondered about the possible sexual implication of this remark, although the champagne was beginning to take the edge off any concern. Jimmy took some cups and saucers and a Thermos flask out of the basket. He cleared the dirty crockery, and suggested they sit on the tablecloth, and sip their very good coffee. It flashed into her mind how pleased all the regulars at the Carpenter’s Arms would be to see her now. And, of course Tony. She would not allow herself to think of how much more relaxed and fun it would have been with him. Fun, yes. But this stirring in her body, almost a shudder, when Jimmy’s shoulder touched hers as he drank his coffee? No, this was different. And exciting. When his hand brushed hers as he took her cup, it was like an electric shock.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  She wasn’t sure, but she nodded. She needed to lie down. She was wonderfully aware of the sun on her face, the hum of insects in the grass and then soaring, breathtaking birdsong.

  She whispered, ‘That’s a skylark.’

  ‘Really?’ He lay down beside her and she pointed to the hovering bird, then gently she recited:

  ‘ “Up with me! up with me into the clouds!

  For thy song, Lark, is strong;

  Up with me, up with me into the clouds!

  Singing, singing,

  With clouds and sky about thee ringing,

  Lift me, guide me till I find

  That spot which seems so to thy mind!” ’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘First verse of “To a Skylark” by Wordsworth.’

  ‘Very sexy.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  He put his hands either side of her head, and leant over her.

  ‘Sometime I’ll show you.’

  Her throbbing body wanted her to say, ‘Go on then – now,’ but due to her years of abstinence, and a Catholic childhood, it came out as an embarrassed laugh and, ‘Maybe – sometime.’

  He grinned, kissed her briefly on the forehead, leapt to his feet, and pulled her up to stand, for a moment, slightly too close to him, before returning to the car.

  Chapter 24

  As Jimmy drove, she looked at his confident hands controlling the gears and steering wheel, and bare feet on the pedals. His profile, she decided, helped by the champagne, was that of an ancient Roman bust, strong nose and chin, sculpted curly hair. Under his thin shirt, his body looked firm and, as far as she could see through the open collar, smooth and probably hairless. She found herself longing to put her hand inside and find out. The vibration of the car accentuated the feverish pulses in her body. She was grateful for the bracing sea air when they arrived in Brighton. She very definitely needed to cool down.

  ‘Let’s go for a swim,’ he said.

  ‘I haven’t got a costume.’

  ‘I’ve got one for you.’

  ‘How do you know my size?’

  ‘I remembered exactly what you looked like.’

  Jimmy had the key to a beach hut belonging to a friend. He stood outside while she changed and blew a kiss of approval when she appeared in the costume. It turned out that it wasn’t just the head that was Roman. When he emerged wearing his brief swimming trunks, with a towel draped casually over his shoulders, he was the epitome of a Roman statue. As he turned to close the door of the beach hut the towel swung aside to reveal the burn scars on his back that Stan had spoken of. He picked her up and carried her over the pebbles, and when they got to the sand pulled her into the s
ea. They fell and rolled about in the waves. Marguerite had the surreal feeling that she could be in the sexy beach scene in From Here to Eternity, had they not been watched by sedate holidaymakers, sitting in deck chairs, the women fully dressed, the men in rolled-up shirtsleeves, with knotted hankies on their heads.

  After their swim, in the intimate darkness of the hut, Jimmy held a towel around her as she slipped out of her costume, then wrapped her in it and slowly, oh so slowly, patted and stroked her dry. Holding the towel as a screen, he turned his head away as she dressed. As she left the hut discreetly while he changed, she could not help glimpsing, as he removed his trunks, yes, oh joy, his buttocks were Roman too. Still tingling from her elemental thrashing in the sea, she felt excited. Her body was awakened by the challenging cold and the feel of Jimmy’s hands in the hut. She yearned for more.

  ‘Right,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Now for dessert.’

  ‘Yes!’ she said, ready for anything.

  Dessert turned out to be a dainty tea of slender cucumber sandwiches, strawberries and cream and a three-tiered cake stand of luxury gateaux, in the nearby elegant Royal Crescent Hotel.

  ‘Well, you’re full of surprises,’ she exclaimed as he poured the Darjeeling tea.

  ‘You’re a classy French bird. And I’ve got ideas au dessus de ma gare. I like a good tea.’

  ‘So do I. It makes a lovely change. Merci.’

  She did indeed appreciate the plush elegance of the hotel lounge, after the stark reality of Islington. She sank into an armchair and it dawned on her that this strange feeling she had was relaxation, something she had not felt for a long time.

  ‘Eat your tea, there’s a good girl.’ Jimmy was holding out a cream éclair. ‘Open your lips.’

  She did so, and he put it into her mouth. She bit into it. ‘Mmm, delicious,’ she murmured. The cream spurted onto her chin. He took a serviette and wiped it.

  Oh God, thought Marguerite. Now we’re doing Tom Jones.

  But she didn’t stop him feeding her with a tiny iced bun. The conversation in the hotel lounge had gone quiet. The other clients seemed to be ladies in hats and chiffon, and gentlemen in hacking jackets with moustaches. They were staring at Marguerite and Jimmy.

  When Marguerite pointed this out to Jimmy he said, ‘They’re just jealous. We are young and alive, and they are old and past it.’

  ‘Not that young,’ said Marguerite.

  ‘You’re by far the most beautiful woman in the room. The old colonels would give their eye teeth to be where I am sitting now. And thanks to the Lady Chatterley trial, all the old girls realise what they’ve been missing.’

  So do I, thought Marguerite, noticing anew Jimmy’s mouth sometimes pursed in a sideways grin like a naughty little boy. She picked up a remaining solitary strawberry, dipped it in cream and put it between his bewitching lips.

  ‘Shame to waste it,’ she said, stretching luxuriously in the chair. Her foot touched his under the table.

  ‘Yes. I hate waste. We’ve wasted six years, Marguerite. Let’s not waste any more time, eh?’

  ‘No. Today has been lovely, Jimmy. You planned it so perfectly. An antidote to my daily grind.’

  ‘I thought when I met you you were wonderful. But perhaps you took life too seriously.’

  ‘I have a friend who tells me that.’

  ‘Really? A boyfriend?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Oh. Is it serious?’

  ‘Yes, but not in the way you mean.’

  The little-boy grin.

  ‘So, will you see me again?’

  ‘Of course. You are a joy to be with. “Happy happy Liver”.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘It’s what Wordsworth calls the skylark. And that’s what you seem to be. You relish life. You do it so well. It makes me feel very dull.’

  ‘That’s the last thing you are.’

  ‘I’ve so liked being with you, Jimmy. I don’t want to go back. I understand the last couplet so well now.’

  ‘How does it go?’

  ‘ “I, with my fate contented, will plod on,

  And hope for higher raptures, when life’s day is done.” ’

  Jimmy frowned. ‘That’s very sad. I don’t want you to feel like that.’

  He took both her hands in his.

  ‘Let’s go for a walk.’

  He paid the waiter and, as they left, he gave a regal wave to the still-transfixed clientele. He led her round the corner to the eighteenth-century crescent with its restored black-tiled façades.

  ‘That’s where Laurence Olivier lives,’ he said. ‘And this is where my friend lives. They’re away. I have the key.’

  He looked searchingly at her. ‘Shall we go in?’

  She nodded.

  Once they were inside the door, all the pent-up passion exploded. He led her, or rather dragged her, up the two flights of stairs to a lush bedroom with a four-poster bed. There they ripped off each other’s clothes, and spent the next two hours doing what they both admitted in gasps was what they had lusted to do since the picnic several hours ago. They groaned, they panted, they laughed uproariously, as they explored each other’s bodies. Jimmy was an expert lover and guided her to new experiences. At one point it crossed her mind it was like an orgasmic gymnastic display. Of Olympic standard.

  When at last they lay, breathing heavily, side by side on the bed, Jimmy asked, ‘What was that bit “lift me, guide me” in “our poem” – for that’s what it is from now on.’ Marguerite managed to recite:

  ‘ “Lift me, guide me, till I find

  That spot which seems so to thy mind!” ’

  He rose on one elbow and looked at her shyly.

  ‘Well, did I lift you to the spot?’

  ‘Yes, yes, you did. Oh boy, you did. It was very much “to my mind”. Thank you, you clever little skylark.’

  ‘Good.’ He looked pleased with himself. ‘I think champagne is called for.’

  In a corner of the bedroom was a fridge from which he took a bottle of champagne and poured it into two beautiful glasses.

  ‘Lalique,’ he said, as he gave one to her.

  ‘Wow, your friend must be very rich.’

  ‘Yes. Stinking.’

  Marguerite looked around the room that she had scarcely registered until now. It was luxurious. Voluminous silk curtains in the windows overlooking the sea, as well as draped around the ornate bed, deep pile carpet, adjoining marble bathroom with gold fittings. They put on their crumpled clothes and, carrying their glasses, Jimmy showed her round the rest of the house with its library, replete with first editions, stylish all-white lounge and dining room, with a massive table for serious entertaining.

  ‘Won’t he mind you bringing me here?’

  ‘It’s a she. No, she won’t mind. We’re related, distantly. Anyway, she’s in America at the moment. Can you stay the night?’

  ‘No, I have school tomorrow.’

  ‘Phone and say you’re ill.’

  ‘It’s tempting but no, sorry. I have to be there. Do you mind if we go back now? It’s getting late. Shall we clear up here?’

  ‘No need. There’s a housekeeper who comes in every day. I’ll leave a note and a couple of quid. She’ll be very happy with that. Come here.’

  He pulled her to him and looked into her eyes.

  ‘Don’t leave me again, Marguerite. I need you and I think that you need me.’

  Being needed she was familiar with, but apart from Tony, her needing someone was a puzzling concept for Marguerite. Everyone knew good old Marguerite was strong, she was independent, she was reliable, and she was, she realised, often lonely. With Jimmy today she had felt an overwhelming physical closeness that even with Tony, whom she did love, she could not experience. She had adored being cosseted, wooed and possessed. And yes, she needed that.

  She kissed him and said, ‘When shall we meet again?’

  They agreed on the following weekend and drowsily drove back to London. The pub was
closed when he dropped her off at King’s Cross Road. She let herself in, crossed the bar with its smell of stale beer and climbed the stairs, thinking how much had changed since she descended them that morning.

  Florrie poked her head round her door.

  ‘How d’it go, lovey?’

  ‘Bliss,’ replied Marguerite.

  ‘Oh wonderful. The punters will be thrilled. You go for it, girl.’

  Yes, she thought, as she lay in her too-large bed. I will. Why not? I’ve got nothing to lose.

  Chapter 25

  Duane had called an urgent staff meeting. Whilst they waited for the headmaster Tony cut to the chase.

  ‘Did you have it off?’

  ‘We made love, yes.’

  He hugged her.

  ‘Welcome to the Permissive Society. Better late than never.’

  Michael Duane bounced into the staff room with his usual energy.

  ‘I’ve called you together to discuss the rumours that I know are going around about our school. We have achieved much in our first four years. We have already had some good O level results. Our probationers are down to nine from more than ninety, which is remarkable, and I hope you all agree that the ever-increasing cooperation of the families means that we have become a true community school.’

  There was a murmur of agreement from most of the staff, although Marguerite noticed that Mr Fletcher and his gang of naysayers were pursed-lipped. Duane continued, ‘However, some of our governors and a couple of the councillors on the LCC are not altogether happy with us.’ He laughed. ‘I have even heard absurd false rumours that they may close us down. Some of our methods are difficult for people to understand at first, but the results speak for themselves. We will continue to care for and respect our young people in the way we believe is right. I warn you there will be some inspection visits by these sceptics, but I urge you not to be put off by them. You are doing a great job. Thank you.’