‘There seems to be a lot going on, Pauline.’
‘Yes. It’s open all day and not just for concerts. And they have lots of festivals and free events. I want to show you something. There is a poetry library. Every book ever written.’
‘How do you know so much about the place, Pauline?’
‘Oh . . . well . . . just . . . I know someone who works here. Will you excuse me, I have to make a quick phone call.’
Pauline walked ahead and spoke briefly on her mobile.
‘Sorry about that. Follow me, we have to take the lift.’
On the fifth floor they crossed a large room towards stacks full of books, where people were sitting in comfortable chairs reading or at desks writing. It was very quiet. Pauline introduced her to a woman whose face seemed familiar.
‘This is Mrs Heydon, our librarian. She is a poet herself.’
‘It’s so lovely to see you, Miss Carter. Come round this corner. We have a room where we do performances and lectures. We call it the Voice Box.’
Marguerite was startled to see the room was full of people standing strangely still and silent. As she entered they started to cheer and clap. A small girl stepped forward clutching a bunch of flowers.
She said hesitantly, ‘This is to say thank you, Miss Carter.’
‘Elsie? I’m going mad. You can’t be Elsie?’
‘No, I’m Elsie.’
A smart, white-haired woman with tears in her eyes stepped forward.
‘This is Margaret, my great-granddaughter, named after you. Except we couldn’t cope with the French version.’
Marguerite was clinging to Marcel’s arm.
‘I’m sorry. Is this really happening? What’s going on?’
Pauline explained.
‘A few months ago I came to organise a conference in one of the rooms here and my contact turned out to be Elsie. When I told her you were coming on the march she said she’d arrange a get-together.’
Elsie was smiling now.
‘I work here on the creative team. Been here for two years now.’
‘I was terrified you were dead, Elsie.’
‘Well, it’s been touch and go. But I got my degree at Ruskin and despite everything I have ended up in my ideal job. With my friend. My true friend.’
Elsie pushed forward the blushing librarian.
‘Here is the woman you made me look after at school, who has spent the rest of her life looking after me.’
Marguerite clasped them both by the hand.
‘Irene?’
‘Yes, Miss Carter. I know I disappointed you and I so much wanted you to know it all turned out all right.’
Elsie took up the story, explaining that Irene had taken in her baby and brought him up as part of her family, so that his mother could keep in touch with him. Although he did not know until he was an adult he was Elsie’s son he already loved her as a close friend of his mother. When her life was out of control she lost touch with him but he was safe with Irene. The baby Elsie had heard her son, Dr Phillip Miller, mention in St Thomas’s Accident and Emergency was introduced as Matthew, now a handsome young man of twenty-seven who had inherited Elsie’s talent and was a budding actor. His daughter Margaret was this little replica of Elsie now holding Marguerite’s trembling hand as she met these ghosts from her past.
Irene introduced two daughters and a son, the daughters’ husbands and the son’s wife, or in modern parlance their ‘partners’, and their offspring. Marguerite was delighted to see they were a microcosm of the multicultural Britain she had seen thronging the rest of the building.
‘They all went to university, Miss Carter. So you see although I couldn’t make it I made damn sure they did.’
Looking out of the window, with their arms round Marguerite, at the chunky brutalist buildings clustered by the panorama of the Thames, Elsie and Irene talked of the ambitious plans to develop further the Southbank area with its art gallery, concert halls, film centre, and National Theatre into a place worthy of the legacy of the 1951 Festival.
‘Arts for everyone, not just the posh,’ said Elsie. ‘A place to discover, create and have fun. We’re even planning a garden on the roof of the Queen Elizabeth Hall over there, so people with no gardens can sunbathe and picnic or make love if they like.’
‘Well, I’m your man for that. Sorry, don’t misunderstand me. I mean you’ll need to construct some raised beds. A speciality of mine.’
A flashily dressed middle-aged man introduced himself as, ‘Mick O’ Sullivan, the truant from Risinghill, now a successful builder and cabinet-maker.’ He handed each of them a card along with some wine in a plastic cup.
Helping him take round the wine Marguerite recognised Geoffrey Wilkins, who proudly told her he had been battling to get clause 28 repealed and it looked as if it was about to happen this year.
‘Wouldn’t Mr Stansfield be pleased?’
Marguerite hugged him.
‘He would, Geoffrey. He would.’
Before Marguerite could put names to any of the other faces Elsie clapped her hands and shouted, ‘Right. Shut up everyone for a minute. I want to propose a toast.’
Marguerite held Marcel’s hand very tight, fearful of losing control of her emotions. He put his arm around her as Elsie said, ‘Miss Carter, we got you here today because we want you to know how you influenced our lives. Most teachers never find out what they have meant to pupils and we thought we’d tell you before you pop your clogs.’
Now Irene stepped forward.
‘We are just a handful of the thousands of people that you have inspired. All going round amazing, or maybe boring, everyone by quoting those wonderful poems you made us learn. And here is a little present for you. My first published collection of poetry dedicated to you who told me I could do it. Better late than never.’
Elsie continued, ‘You gave us something to treasure for the rest of our lives. I came across a quote when I was working in the archives here. It’s from a speech made by some bloke called Lord Latham who was trying to persuade the establishment that the wonderful festival we went to fifty-two years ago was important. They thought it was a waste of money. There was a war going on then, the Korean War, just as we are threatened by another one now, so what he said is still true. This is it: “In view of the terrifying possibilities of the atomic bomb, the common bonds of culture will be the greatest insurance against future wars.”
‘That’s what you taught all of us here today, Miss Carter. And we, and hopefully our children, will continue to spread your message. But above all you believed in us, you fought for us, you’re bloody wonderful and we are deeply, deeply grateful.’
There was applause and cheers.
‘Speech, speech.’
Marguerite was moved beyond words but managed to say, ‘My dears, you’ve reminded me of something I sometimes forget. When we were here in 1951, I was down there by that wall and I said it to someone I loved very much, as I do all of you.’
She looked around at them all.
‘ “Oh, wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world, That has such people in’t.” ’
Chapter 54
It was icy cold when Marcel and Marguerite returned to France. For three days the mistral whirled the naked trees and long grass into a turmoil. Torrential rain sent streams and waterfalls cascading through the fields and lightning turned night to day, thunder rumbling towards them, shaking the shutters with its overhead ear-splitting blasts.
Marcel had been very quiet since they came back, then one night, sitting in front of the stove, with the storm howling outside, he said, ‘I can’t keep you here. I understand if you want to go.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Now I’ve seen your life back there, I realise this place and I have nothing to offer you to compare.’
‘And what do you think my life back there has to offer me?’
‘Marguerite, I saw that you are a highly esteemed
person and London is an exciting city.’
‘But that was exceptional. It was extraordinary and wonderful and I was so moved and relieved to find my life hadn’t been completely wasted and the march was thrilling, but real everyday life is not like that. What I remember most of our visit is your hand in mine and your arm round my shoulder when I needed it. Seeing your enjoyment.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. It is a terrible weakness, but I need to share my pleasures, to look after people, to be a busybody. It was lovely to find my busy-bodying had been useful in the past, but that is over now. They have all moved on. People have died. My loneliness and idleness was driving me insane. Now I have found you again. I too am moving on. Into an old age spent here with you. If you will have me?’
‘Oh, my dearest,’ he whispered and he led her upstairs where they made love gently, kindly, safe in each other’s arms.
‘Tomorrow the storm will end and soon spring will arrive,’ promised Marcel.
The next morning Marguerite set in motion the legal gifting of her flat to Elsie and Irene. She had discovered that Irene’s husband was dead and she and Elsie were living together in a rented bedsit, neither of them ever having had the money to invest in property. After their hard lives she hoped the flat would make them comfortable in their old age.
As for herself, Marguerite thought that nowhere in the world was spring more beautiful than in the Vaucluse. In the course of one week she watched the brown landscape burst into colour. The bare branches of the cherry trees covered themselves in a white froth of blossom. The vista gradually revealed every shade of green that exists. A group of silvery trees quivered constantly even when there seemed to be no breeze. And the sun, oh the sacred sun. It lit the mountains, woods and fields as it rose in the morning making them radiant, iridescent. Soon the ground was carpeted with buttercups, primroses and violets, and narcissi that made her swoon with delight at their perfume as she carefully walked through them, marvelling at the occasional rare orchid.
Wandering on her own one day down the path she was intrigued to see that someone had tucked some small sculptures into the roots of the oak tree; an artist had chosen to pay tribute to this venerable work of nature with his or her own works of art. Marguerite too would leave an offering.
She went back to the house and lifted down from the top of the wardrobe the leather hat box that had belonged to her mother. From it she took her Croix de Guerre, and the tobacco tin that contained Jimmy’s DFC. When she told Marcel what she planned to do he gave her his Croix de Guerre too, which he had some difficulty finding. She dug a hole beneath the oak tree, and buried all three medals, putting on top an ancient Roman roof tile that she had found in a freshly ploughed field. Maybe someone in a future generation would find these relics and wonder about some long-past, long-forgotten war. Or maybe they would disintegrate and disappear. The oak would outlive them. She embraced the tree but her arms did not even reach across the front. She dug her fingers into the 2-inch-deep crevices of the bark and looked up at its massive boughs stretching out around and above her and contemplated the miracle of its hundreds of years of existence. There were many birds in the tree but none had been impertinent enough to build a nest in it. She could hear a cuckoo in the distance mocking her strange ritual. She was alarmed that two of the huge lower limbs had no leaves and appeared dead. The tree had survived generations, observing the seasonal routine, and it was unthinkable that some disease should kill this giant witness to time. It was rooted deep in the world, it was more important than anyone or anything, more noble, more steadfast, more blameless. It deserved to be eternal. Then she noticed the mass of seedlings and young trees around it and realised it would be.
This continuity of nature would be her new mission. Instead of cultivating the lives of children she resolved to improve the land. She set about it with vigour. She gathered information about installing a wind turbine and solar panels to generate their own electricity and she pored over books on gardening and viticulture.
That winter a local farmer started to uproot trees in the forest to open up land for crops.
Marguerite was incensed.
‘That forest is full of wildlife and rare plants. It will upset the balance of nature to change it. It should be protected.’
She confronted the man in his tractor but he dismissed her with contempt as a meddler who should stay at home and gossip with the other old biddies. Marcel dissuaded her from threatening the man with her revolver.
‘Right. I’m going to the mairie. We must fight this. It’s not right.’
Marcel walked with her to the top of the track where he stopped and said, ‘I have to plant the potatoes for the winter. Good luck, ma chérie.’
‘Aren’t you coming with me? Do you disapprove?’
‘No, of course not. You are right, and you can win this. I am just relieved you have stopped trying to save the whole world.’
‘Well, I don’t have to. The world is in good hands. There will be no war in Iraq after that huge protest. They have got to listen. People Power works.’
Marcel looked at her with much the same expression as Tony had at Half-Full Lizzie Dripping.
She hesitated for a moment.
Then she stomped purposefully up the hill.
Acknowledgements
This book would not have been started without the enthusiasm of Alexandra Pringle, nor continued without her unfailing support. Her guidance and that of my editor Gillian Stern have been crucial to my journey on this new adventure of writing a novel. For forcing me to pay attention to detail I am grateful to Mary Tomlinson. And for boosting my confidence, to everybody at Bloomsbury, led by Alexa von Hirschberg. And my wise agent Paul Stevens. And the ever-calm Clare Eden.
My own memory of the period this story covers has been supplemented by the books of Dominic Sandbrook and David Kynaston among many others, mostly borrowed from the London Library. The staff there have led me to newspaper reports, diaries and illustrations, as well as relevant books.
For information about Risinghill School I am grateful to ex-pupils Isabel Sheridan and the Risinghill Research Group, who will be publishing a factual version of the school’s history. I was also helped by the builders working on the site of the school, little of the original of which remains, it having been replaced by a fine comprehensive, the Elizabeth Garrett Anderson School. I think Duane would have been pleased. I am indebted to Leila Berg’s version of what happened there in her book Risinghill: Death of a Comprehensive School.
For insight into attitudes towards education, among other sources I used the Black Papers by Cox and Dyson.
For help in the difficult task of researching events in the Vaucluse area during the war, I am grateful to my friend Elizabeth Evans, who also accompanied me in locating the frequently forgotten places where they happened.
Roddy Maude Roxby was invaluable in recalling Dr Chapple’s CURE organisation.
The Imperial War Museum has endless potent, sometimes deeply moving, artefacts and reports of events during the war.
For research into the history of the South Bank I am grateful to Judy Kelly and Siân McLennan.
I am grateful to Kate Marsh for her patience in typing out my handwritten copy with all its numerous rewrites.
The poem attributed to the character Irene on pages 55–56 was actually written by the then thirteen-year-old Gemma Currens from the Lochend Community High School during a writing retreat led by their inspirational teacher Gordon Fisher, which was organised by the Arvon Foundation and funded by the John Thaw Foundation. The poem is called ‘Midnight’s Child’. Gemma has now left school but is still writing and performing.
I have learnt so much over the four years of writing this book. I am deeply grateful to all my teachers.
The author and publishers express their thanks for permission to use the following material:
Extract from Two Cheers for Democracy by E.M. Forster reproduced by kind permission of The Provost and Sch
olars of King’s College, Cambridge and The Society of Authors as the E.M. Forster Estate
‘There’ll Always Be An England’. Words & Music by Ross Parker & Hughie Charles © 1939 Chester Music Limited trading as Dash Music Co. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured. Used by permission of Chester Music Limited trading as Dash Music Co.
‘Suicide at the Trenches’ and ‘Everyone Sang’ by Siegfried Sassoon. © Siegfried Sassoon by kind permission of the Estate of George Sassoon.
‘Midnight’s Child’ © Gemma Currens.
Extract from Saint Joan by George Bernard Shaw reproduced by kind permission of The Society of Authors, on behalf of the Bernard Shaw Estate.
Extract from ‘How Much Is That Doggie In The Window’. Words and music by Bob Merrill © 1952 (Renewed) Chappell & Co., Inc. (ASCAP) All Rights Administered by Warner/Chappell North America Ltd..
Extract from ‘The Rock Island Line’ by Lonnie Donegan © 1956 TRO Essex Music Ltd. of Suite 2.07, Plaza 535, King’s Road, London SW10 0SZ. International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission.
Extract from ‘The Blitzkreig Bop’. Words and Music by Joey Ramone, Johnny Ramone, Dee Dee Ramone and Tommy Ramone (Jeffrey Hyman, John Cummings, Douglas Colvin and Thomas Erdelyi) © 1976, 1977 by Mutated Music, WB Music Corp, and Taco Tunes. Copyright Renewed. All Rights for Mutated Music in the United States Administered by BMG Rights Management (US) LLC. All Rights for Taco Tunes Administered by WB Music Corp. International Copyright Secured All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation.
Extract from ‘To My Friends’ taken from Collected Poems © Estate of Primo Levi and Ruth Feldman, and Brian Swann. Reprinted by permission of Faber and Faber Ltd..
A Note on the Author
Sheila Hancock is one of Britain’s most highly regarded and popular actors, and received an OBE for services to drama in 1974 and a CBE in 2011. Since the 1950s she has enjoyed a career across film, television, theatre and radio. Her first big television role was in the BBC sitcom The Rag Trade in the early 1960s. She has directed and acted for the Royal Shakespeare Company and the National Theatre. Her first book, Ramblings of an Actress, was published in 1987.
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