Miss Carter's War

by Sheila Hancock

  ‘Who said, Elsie?’

  ‘My father – the bastard. Sorry, that’s a lot of bastards. So I did. It was just until I made good. Just until I could manage. But I couldn’t, could I? “Useless bitch,” he said.’

  ‘Well, you’re doing something now, Elsie. You’re going to make good now.’

  ‘And a baby, Miss Carter. A joy, he said. A grandchild. I can’t see the baby – like this. I could love that baby properly – start again.’

  Marguerite thought of Bert’s description of Ethel’s loss.

  Elsie was rocking backwards and forwards.

  ‘I’ve lost touch with everyone – everything. Too busy enjoying the good life.’

  She looked around. A rat was scrabbling in a pile of rubbish. And then she started to laugh. Marguerite and Major Lily joined in, as did two drunks in the next-door box. As the three of them walked out, carrying Elsie’s books and bag of clothes, Elsie trailing her dog on a piece of string, maniacal laughter echoed round the hell they were leaving behind.

  Chapter 37

  Major Lily suggested Marguerite delay visiting Elsie whilst Dr Chapple grappled with her withdrawal from the various drugs she was on. He had offered her the chance of the gentler system of taking an oral version of heroin, methadone, with gradual reduction in the dose over a longer period, but he preferred, and she opted for, cold turkey ‘to get it over with’. At last, after four anxious weeks, Major Lily phoned Marguerite to tell her that Elsie wanted to see her. Both Tony and Donald offered to accompany her but she felt it was better for Elsie if she went alone.

  The clinic was in a blighted area of Chelsea, at the unglamorous end of the modish King’s Road, called, appropriately, World’s End after a local pub. It was a desolate place. Marguerite’s walk from the bus stop did nothing to quell the anxiety she felt. Badly bombed during the war, it was now a building site. Old terraced houses were being pulled down and replaced with high-rise blocks; side roads of derelict, once grand houses, were now inhabited by squatters. She noticed a poster on the side of a half-demolished building, advertising a car with the slogan, ‘If this car were a lady it’d get its bottom pinched.’ Marguerite was delighted to see someone had scribbled on it, ‘If this lady was a car, she’d run you down.’ On the main road there was an eclectic mix of shops. Dotted amongst the tacky local butcher, greengrocer, and fish and chips shop, were oddities like a cheap-dress boutique called Quick Nicker and one for antique clothing, named Granny Takes a Trip. As she was passing a furniture shop called Sophisticat, with what she thought was a stuffed lion in the window, she jumped out of her skin when the beast turned to look at her and opened its mouth in a toothy yawn.

  Another boutique called SEX was crowded with grotesque apparitions. Men and women, regardless of sexual orientation, wearing maxi- and mini-skirts, or trousers, made of leather and rubber, bedecked with chains, their hair shaved or dyed in vivid colours and glued into elaborate shapes, their faces made up like works of art. Others, wearing layers of ripped clothing, and a superabundance of safety pins in their garments and alarmingly their flesh, looked like ornamental paupers. She was troubled by the swastikas displayed on T-shirts and jewellery.

  Her ears were assaulted by the pounding beat of the music blaring out from one café she passed, where she had to step into the road to circumvent the pavement crowded with smoking, shouting, heedless youngsters. From the smell of the smoke and their hyperenergy, she suspected that they were boosting their excitement with something other than the milkshakes or coffees of the 1950s. She felt like Miss Fryer as she suppressed the urge to warn them of the risks they were taking of drifting into more dangerous waters. Or maybe it was too late. How far had the plague affecting Elsie already spread?

  On the shabby door of what looked like a warehouse was a hand-painted sign reading, ‘Care Understanding Research Education’. Fearful of what lay behind it, she could feel her heart pounding as she rang the bell. Major Lily let her in. Inside, people were drifting around or sitting on ancient chairs and sofas talking quietly. In a side room, she could hear someone crying and groaning and vomiting, and looking in, she saw a young man, covered in sweat, writhing on a bed, with someone sitting by his side, stroking him and talking calmly.

  Marguerite was worried.

  ‘Don’t you have nurses and doctors here?”

  Major Lily pointed.

  ‘They are all medical staff. Peter insists on no uniforms or white coats, as our members often have a horror of hospitals. They all look after one another. This floor is used solely for consultations and treatment. Nobody goes upstairs until they are clean.’

  They went up some ramshackle wooden steps and entered a large room, where a frail-looking girl was working on a potter’s wheel. Several others were sitting on the floor or on wooden chairs sketching. A rangy, long-haired young man with a beard and a sweet smile was walking around discussing their work. On one side of the room was a big table around which some were eating soup, apparently made by the woman with shaking hands who was ladling it inaccurately into bowls.

  No one leapt up to help her, they just watched patiently.

  One of them said, ‘Well done, Stella. You’re doing fine.’

  They all looked badly in need of sustenance but seemed relaxed and comfortable with one another. People were coming in and out and it was difficult to see who, if anyone, was in charge.

  Major Lily stopped by one door with a glass window. Inside were about six sitting in a circle talking.

  ‘That’s a group therapy session – afraid we can’t interrupt that.’

  A door at the end of the big central room was open, and inside Marguerite could see a man perched on a desk, and talking to Elsie on an armchair in front of him. Unlike everyone else, with their sloppy jeans and T-shirts, he was smartly dressed in a grey suit and what Marguerite recognised as a Rugby School tie, her father’s old school. His hair was cut into a neat short, back and sides revealing a large broad forehead. With his glasses and small mouth he was not a handsome man, but had the same all-seeing, compassionate eyes as Michael Duane. He certainly seemed to be enthralling Elsie, who was listening to him intently.

  Seeing Major Lily and Marguerite hovering in the doorway, he beckoned them in.

  ‘Welcome – welcome. I’m Peter Chapple. Join our conversation. We were expecting you, Miss Carter. Elsie and I were just discussing her next commitment.’

  ‘Commitment?’

  Marguerite hugged Elsie then sat on the chair he set down next to her.

  ‘Yes. We work here on making commitments to the group. Elsie, are you comfortable talking in front of Miss Carter?’

  ‘Yes. She’s my friend.’ She took Marguerite’s hand.

  ‘We are a self-governing therapeutic community, Miss Carter. When people come here their only distinguishing feature is their sex. All have an addiction problem. Everyone is equal. We support one another. We make commitments to our group. Starting with what seem like easy things to most. Getting here on time in the morning, which is a big step if your life is as chaotic as Elsie’s has been. Then we gradually add different things to aim for. Having a bath, helping cook the meals, helping the others withdraw. Elsie has made amazing progress. As you can see.’

  Marguerite said, ‘You look so much better, Elsie.’

  ‘Thank you. Yes, I feel it. Thanks to Peter.’

  And indeed Elsie was transformed from the woman who a month ago had staggered out of the Waterloo Bull Ring. She was clean and neatly dressed. Her face was deathly pale but her eyes were clear and steady. Her bare arms and legs were scarred but not bleeding and oozing pus. Even her dog looked more perky.

  ‘You know Elsie well, I understand, Miss Carter. I’d like your opinion. It strikes me she has a very good brain.’

  ‘She has.’

  ‘Maybe. But I left school at sixteen. I’ve only got O Levels. I should have—’

  Dr Chapple held up his hand.

  ‘Should – that’s a forbidden word, remember, Elsie.
Never mind the past. I’m not interested in that. What about the here and now? We’re not interested in why you lost your way, how hard done by you are, we’re only interested in what you’re going to do about it. So, Elsie, what are you going to do next?”

  ‘God knows.’

  ‘Maybe, but do you? We’re agreed it would be good to get away from London for a bit. Away from temptation until you feel really strong. The question is where?’

  Marguerite said suddenly, ‘What about university?’

  ‘I’m forty, for heaven’s sake. They wouldn’t have me.’

  ‘Ruskin College in Oxford would. I was there a few months ago at a huge conference on the Women’s Liberation Movement. It’s a great place. You don’t have to be qualified. It’s for people who want a second chance in education. Any age.’

  ‘I’ve got no money.’

  ‘You can get grants and scholarships. The trade unions support people.’

  Major Lily clapped her hands.

  ‘That sounds perfect for you, Elsie. You’re always reading. Even when you lost everything else you hung on to your books.’

  Marguerite could see that Elsie was interested but before she could continue to persuade her Dr Chapple stopped the conversation.

  ‘Elsie, I suggest you go to your counselling session now and raise it with them. See if you feel able to make some kind of commitment to the group.’

  When Elsie had left the room Dr Chapple shook Marguerite’s hand.

  ‘Thank you. That could work for Elsie.’

  ‘And thank you, Dr Chapple, for what work you are doing here.’

  ‘I’m just holding back a bit of the tide. I’m afraid I can’t make the powers that be understand that this problem is going to grow. That drugs could undermine the whole of society.’

  ‘Do you really believe that? I’m a teacher and it’s not a big problem at my school. Not like alcohol. I passed some youngsters coming here who may have been smoking cannabis and I know we hear about pop stars behaving badly but the habit doesn’t seem to me to be widespread. I’ve never thought reefers were particularly dangerous.’

  ‘It’s what they lead to. Organised crime is moving in on supplying illegal hard drugs on the street in a big way. Soon it will be out of control and not enough is being done to stop it. Even I may have to close. The Salvation Army through Lily here is wonderful, but our needs are growing and the money isn’t. Anyway, I live in hope. We are asking for government funding. We have an inspection due and, if they approve of us, they will cough up.’

  Despite a flutter of fear at the word ‘inspection’ Marguerite said, ‘I’m sure they will.’

  She offered to get information about Ruskin to Elsie but Dr Chapple insisted that any further action must be undertaken by Elsie herself without help.

  On her return walk to the bus stop Marguerite felt much better. She was exhilarated by her meeting with Dr Chapple, but disturbed by what he had to say. She resolved to delve closer into the habits of her pupils and suggest the school start educating them into the danger of drugs. She needed to find out more herself and try to understand what was happening to youngsters outside the schoolroom.

  She decided to start right away. Outside the café, instead of skirting round the alarming-looking crowd she went into the middle of the throng, smiling and nodding. Some of the youngsters looked suspicious, but others smiled back. One lad with blue hair stuck up like a cockatoo’s, and a nail through his nose, nudged his friend and pointed at her.

  ‘Diddle-oh – look.’

  Seizing the opportunity, Marguerite stopped and asked, ‘What does that mean exactly?’

  ‘Er – nutter.’

  ‘Really? Diddle-oh. It’s a word I’ve not come across.’

  The boy took a nervous step back.

  ‘While we are at it, can you tell me the words of the song they’re playing in the café? I’m finding them difficult to decipher.’

  ‘Are you taking the piss?’

  ‘Not at all. I teach English and I love poetry.’

  Haltingly, with the help of one or two others, the boy recited, ‘ “Hey ho let’s go/Hey ho let’s go”. You do that three times.’

  ‘No, four,’ someone shouted.

  ‘All right. Four.’

  As the boy got into his stride others joined in, clapping and chanting:

  ‘ “They’re forming in a straight line

  They’re going through a tight wind

  The kids are losing their minds

  The Blitzkrieg Bop” ’

  Now the whole crowd were singing, or rather shouting, the song. Marguerite had some difficulty hearing what the words were. One line, ‘Shoot ’em in the back now’, shocked her but when the performance petered out, she applauded them.

  ‘Thank you, that’s very kind. It has great energy, and a strange dark edge. I’m not sure what it means though. For instance “why Blitzkrieg”?’

  ‘Dunno. It’s just a word.’

  ‘Just a word?’

  ‘Yeah. don’t mean anything. It’s just a sound.’

  A boy in a Japanese kimono, with green hair and white make-up, said, ‘I think it’s something to do with the war. I’ve heard my mum say it.’

  ‘They never stop talking about the fucking war. Oh sorry.’ It was a girl with a painted face, wearing a bridal veil and a sack fastened with nappy pins.

  In preparation for the ambush she wears a Breton beret pulled down concealing her hair, Marcel’s leather jacket and peasant blue trousers. She covers her face and hands with camouflage mud. Maman would not be pleased at her ensemble, but she feels fully alive.

  The girl continued, ‘I suppose you remember it an’ all, but it’s so boring. Boring, boring.’

  ‘Yes, I do remember it, dear. But it was a long time ago. It’s been so nice meeting you all today. Thank you.’

  She left to a chorus of goodbyes and giggles, aware that they thought her weirder than she them. She was glad that ‘Blitzkrieg’ was just a meaningless word in a song to them. All the lyric was, as far as she could understand, vicious, but the young people were not. They probably got into office clothes and school uniforms when they went home. She found herself singing, ‘Hey ho let’s go’ four, five, six times, only stopping when a convertible Bentley drew up alongside her at a traffic light with the lion from the shop in the back seat. One of the two young men escorting the animal shouted, in a broad Australian accent, ‘Good day, madam. Meet Christian. He is going for a walk in the graveyard. Say hello to the lady, Christian,’ and the lion roared.

  Marguerite roared back.

  The world is full of strange, wonderful ‘diddle-ohs’, she thought.

  Chapter 38

  The good work being done by Chapple inspired Marguerite to renew her ‘not do nothing’ vow. Her teaching job was not as all-consuming as it had been under the Duane regime. She had some leeway in her own classes, but the new strict syllabus requirements, and the worthy, but unadventurous, headmaster did not inspire her. She sought out new causes to support. An incident that happened not long after her visit to CURE reminded her of her earlier feminist interests which had somewhat dwindled.

  One morning Marguerite went into a newsagent’s for her Guardian. Behind the shelves of confectionery, she discovered a girl crouching on the floor, with a pile of magazines on which she was methodically sticking labels.

  When she saw Marguerite she stopped and put a finger in front of her mouth.

  ‘Shush. Don’t say anything, please.’

  Marguerite crouched down beside her. She saw that the magazine-cover photo was of a young woman kneeling on all fours wearing only a pair of knickers, her face turned coyly to the camera. The label went over the woman’s breasts and read, ‘this picture degrades women.’ The girl hastily gathered up the labels and started putting the marked magazines back on the top shelf.

  Marguerite took her wrist and whispered, ‘Let me help.’

  The two of them sat on the floor in amicable silence, grinning at
each other as they defaced the Penthouse Pets. When the shopkeeper appeared and threatened to call the police, they ran out of the door, the girl darting down a side road shouting, ‘Thank you, sister, whoever you are.’

  Marguerite shouted back, ‘Deeds, not words, sister.’ She outpaced the pursuing shopkeeper.

  Giving up, he bellowed, ‘You should know better at your age.’

  Incensed, Marguerite vowed forthwith to seek out further protest activity. She was delighted to find that the activist in her was still alive and kicking.

  She read of a group involved in a long-drawn-out strike by Asian women, many of whom were refugees from Idi Amin’s Uganda, who worked long hours for minuscule wages at Grunwick, a film-developing business in Willesden. For over a year the women had been striking for the right to belong to a union, a demand that was resolutely opposed by their boss, backed by the right-wing press and a posse of like-minded public figures and MPs. Coming in the wake of the shock of his father’s racialist attitudes, and because of its union focus, the campaign ticked all Tony’s boxes, so she had no trouble in persuading him to join her at a mass picket being organised in support of the women. On the day of the picket Donald was not well enough to accompany them. He had been suffering from flu for some time and Tony insisted that he take it easy. Donald was not too upset as he was not a born militant.

  The event started well. Tony and Marguerite were enjoying themselves. Thousands of members of various unions, universities, women’s groups and families thronged the streets round the factory. The multicolour trade-union banners, the bands, the chants were a splendid display of unity. They were moved by the sight of the tiny Jayaben Desai and her valiant band of strikers, resplendent in saris, leading the parade. Tony and Marguerite mingled with a contingent from the Teachers’ Union.

  Tony pointed out to Marguerite that the group of burly men behind them were the London dockers.

  ‘Those bastards marched in support of Enoch Powell. They seem to have changed their minds. Perhaps I should get them to go and talk to Dad.’