Pieces of Justice

by Margaret Yorke

  Yes – she’d had a baby, a daughter. In the war. So the girl must be well grown by now, probably married and a mother herself.

  ‘Tell me, Naomi – what are you doing now, my dear?’ Miss Primrose boomed in the voice which had announced the school hymn, ‘Fight the Good Fight’, at the start and end of each term.

  ‘I run a bookshop, Miss Primrose,’ Naomi replied. Though over fifty, she was still slim and dark-haired.

  ‘It’s dyed,’ Mildred had whispered.

  ‘It’s not, you know,’ Daphne had answered, scrutinising the smooth jet strands.

  ‘How interesting,’ Miss Primrose said. ‘Are you holding up in these difficult days?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Naomi said, though increasing costs and falling sales were a serious problem. She looked round at the well-nourished women. Had any of them suffered as she had, felt joy and pain like hers? They all looked so smug, with their prosperous husbands or, in the case of the widows, their adequate pensions. She had never had any security. Even now, though Robert and she were together again after so many years apart, what if he died? There would be no pension for her. ‘Jemima—my daughter—is married now and she has a son,’ she said. Robert had always helped to pay for Jemima, but the girl didn’t know her father’s name.

  ‘How nice,’ said Miss Primrose, and the other ladies rustled in their seats. Fancy admitting to it! They’d heard rumours, of course, but hadn’t really believed—

  Daphne wouldn’t have invited Naomi if she had known.

  ‘Jemima?’ she asked, frowning.

  ‘My daughter,’ said Naomi, and longed to add, ‘and your husband’s.’ Aloud, she went on, ‘Oh, I’m not married. It was thought a scandal when it happened, but nowadays no one turns away from an unmarried mother. Most of us have probably at one time or another mentally prepared ourselves in case it should happen to a daughter.’ And these women would try to be understanding and tolerant if their daughters became involved with married men, she thought wryly.

  Suddenly Miss Primrose recalled something that had bothered her. She had recognised Naomi before any of the other women, but it was not because she had changed less than the others. She had changed a great deal – as a schoolgirl she had been quiet and shy, very unsure of herself, thin and plain. Now she had assurance, was slim but rounded, and she looked alive – she was the most alert-looking woman present. But more: Miss Primrose had seen her a few weeks before in a picture gallery with a grey-haired man who looked rather distinguished. They had not been paying much heed to the pictures, so rapt were they with each other, and this was what had struck Miss Primrose as unusual about them. It was rare to see a couple their age so mutually engrossed. She had assumed them to be husband and wife, but it seemed she was wrong.

  Over coffee, the photographs came out, and Miss Primrose admired families. Then her gaze was held fast. In one snapshot, smiling a little self-consciously, she recognised the man who had been with Naomi in the picture gallery.

  ‘My husband Robert,’ Daphne was saying with pride. ‘He’s a barrister – he gets some very big cases. He’ll soon be a judge, I hope.’

  After lunch they walked by the river bank. It was hot. Insects buzzed about, and the noise of the weir made background distraction. Miss Primrose attempted to talk to the women she had been seated away from during lunch. Each treated her with the old deference – habit died hard.

  ‘Tell me about Naomi,’ Miss Primrose instructed. ‘About her daughter – so unfortunate—’ Mildred might know the story.

  ‘Oh, she was silly – got herself involved with a married man in some wartime escapade,’ Mildred said. ‘I heard about it from Betty Butts – she died, you remember. She was a friend of Naomi’s.’

  There was a small silence out of respect for the deceased Betty Butts. Miss Primrose felt sad that some of her girls should not have survived their headmistress.

  ‘He’d married some addlepate during the war, Betty said – the man Naomi got mixed up with. Very pretty but no brains. And he had to stick to her or she’d collapse. He became quite well-known later on, I believe, though I don’t know who he was. Betty seemed to think his empty marriage drove him on to success – he worked hard because his wife was dull and his home life uninteresting.’ Mildred paused in her recital. ‘Some women are very stupid,’ she declared.

  ‘Had he legitimate children?’ Miss Primrose enquired.

  ‘Oh, yes, I believe so,’ said Mildred. ‘I’d forgotten about it until now – Daphne didn’t mention that Naomi was coming. She can’t have known anything about it – she seems a bit shocked. But then, she always was rather a prig.’

  She may be, and you’re complaisant, thought Miss Primrose, filled with dismay.

  ‘I must talk to Naomi,’ she said, and the ranks of her girls eddied and flowed to allow this to happen.

  ‘My dear Naomi, you look much younger than all your contemporaries,’ Miss Primrose informed her wayward pupil.

  Naomi laughed.

  ‘Perhaps I’m the only one of us who isn’t playing a role,’ she said. ‘The others all seem to be performing the roles they think are expected of their husbands’ wives.’

  ‘That’s all most of them are capable of,’ said Miss Primrose. ‘Though they are valuable citizens, I’ve no doubt. Good to their neighbours and excellent cooks. Home-made jam and full freezers. You’ve had a hard time, Naomi.’

  ‘In some ways. But I’ve put that all behind me long ago. Jemima is married – she’s happy. I’ve had a lot of happiness too. And I can retreat into my solitude now when I close up the shop. As you can, Miss Primrose. You always could, couldn’t you? Being head must have been lonely – it is at the top of any concern. But that’s a compensation, isn’t it – enjoying solitude?’

  ‘That’s true, my dear.’

  ‘And are you enjoying today? Seeing your girls, if you still think of us like that? Do we disappoint you?’

  ‘I wish I could have seen some of the others – those who were too busy to come today. There were some with brains,’ Miss Primrose said wistfully. ‘You have brains, Naomi. You always had, though perhaps your school career was undistinguished.’

  ‘It was,’ said Naomi. ‘And I don’t know about the brains. Perhaps. At least by using one’s mind one can fight against grief.’

  ‘I hope we meet again after today, Naomi,’ said Miss Primrose. ‘You are one of St Wilhelmina’s better specimens.’

  Naomi laughed. ‘The others might not agree,’ she said. ‘They probably think I was a disgrace to you and the school.’

  Dimly Miss Primrose remembered that first war. Dick had been killed on the Somme. She thought of his serious young face as he asked her to marry him on his next leave. They had told no one their plans, and there had been no next leave. She had gone up to Girton. After all this time she had almost forgotten, but not quite. Naomi, at least, had borne a child to her lover.

  Miss Primrose thought about Robert Blythe. It was a good name for a judge. If he was so indiscreet as to meet Naomi where he might be recognised and fail to mask his emotions, he might never grace the bench.

  ‘Daphne’s children. Do you know what they’re like?’ Miss Primrose asked slyly. ‘What do they do?’

  ‘The boy’s a solicitor. The daughter’s a Cordon Bleu cook. They’re both married,’ she said, and turned her brown eyes upon the faded but very alert blue ones of Miss Primrose.

  ‘Do they have children? Grandchildren for Daphne?’ Miss Primrose pursued.

  ‘Not yet. Expected, however,’ said Naomi. And then, a little maliciously, she added, ‘They live some way away. They fear interference.’

  ‘I see.’ Miss Primrose nodded. ‘Thank you, my dear. Good luck with your shop.’

  Naomi, dismissed, drifted away and found herself next to Mildred.

  ‘Funny old thing, Primmy, isn’t she?’ Mildred said. ‘I think she’s enjoying her day. She’s still spot on, though.’

  ‘Yes, she is,’ said Naomi. ‘Remarkable. But so many old la
dies like her are, don’t you find? Riding bicycles and mowing their lawns. Tough.’

  ‘I wonder if we’ll be as tough if we live so long,’ mused Mildred, rather surprisingly.

  ‘Only the tough or the cosseted survive to a great age,’ said Naomi.

  Miss Primrose was ahead of them, walking with Daphne. The sun beat down on their heads as they drew near to the weir, the white one with the velvet snood and the grey one, old-fashioned lacquered set immovable, broad shoulders bent slightly to the small old lady beside her.

  No one saw how it happened. One minute the two were walking along the bank above the weir, conversing; the next there was some sort of scuffle as Miss Primrose appeared to stumble. A cry rang out, then a real scream.

  Daphne was gone, swept into the river and instantly over the weir. By the time the others had rushed forward to look for life-belts she had vanished.

  It was Naomi who ran along the bank and found a boat which she paddled right up to the foot of the weir. But Daphne had disappeared.

  Miss Primrose, apparently suffering from heat stroke, was taken to the hospital where she spent the night. She recovered swiftly, and at the inquest on Daphne, whose body was washed up further down the river, she said she had fainted. Daphne must have tried to prevent her from falling and in so doing had lost her own footing and slipped into the river, which was notoriously dangerous there, above the weir.

  A verdict of accidental death was recorded.

  Six months later, Miss Primrose read in The Times that His Honour Judge Robert Blythe had married Miss Naomi Kent, quietly at Caxton Hall.

  ‘One of my more deserving pupils, Naomi,’ Miss Primrose recalled. ‘And never a prig.’

  I Don’t Believe in Santa Claus

  The bus would pick them up at the end of the lane. Timmy was to meet the others there. He wore his best gear; his hair was slicked down; there was a clean handkerchief in his pocket. He stepped along carefully, to avoid getting his shoes wet. It had snowed in the night, but now it was thawing and water dripped from every branch. Soon it would be dark; a few lights shone out from the houses he passed. Only five days to Christmas, and today’s party was just the first of the season’s festivities; it had been planned for months, and there would be games, competitions with prizes, and presents for everyone.

  When he reached the meeting-place, Jean and Wendy were already there, waiting; no one else. Timmy sighed. As usual, the fellows would be outnumbered.

  ‘I wonder what there’ll be for tea,’ said Jean. ‘Chocolate cake, I hope.’ Her eyes gleamed in anticipation.

  ‘Greedy,’ said Wendy. ‘You are awful.’ She smiled at Timmy. ‘Sit by me in the bus, Tim?’

  He recoiled. ‘You two sit together,’ he said. ‘I’ll be all right on my own.’

  ‘I hope I won’t feel sick in the bus,’ Jean said. She did, sometimes.

  Timmy wondered forlornly if there would be anyone at the party who might become his friend. He yearned for one, someone who would share his interest in wild flowers and birds; not difficult things at all, you’d imagine, and approved of at home, but no one seemed to cater for them.

  Several times he’d tried to avoid these expeditions, especially the organised parties. He didn’t like games such as Musical Chairs and Forfeits, he’d protested. They embarrassed him; he was too old for them. Everyone laughed at that. Dolly had tweaked his tie and told him it was time he found a girlfriend; there were plenty to choose from.

  But they were so awful: giggly, like Wendy and Jean, with shrill laughs and loud voices. There didn’t seem to be any quiet ones.

  The bus arrived, stopping with a sigh of its air brakes and splattering Timmy’s trousers with water as it went through a large puddle beside him. There’d be trouble about that when he got home.

  He climbed up the steps after Wendy and Jean. Mrs Baxter, one of the organisers, stood at the top checking them off on a list. The bus was nearly full.

  ‘All there? Wendy—Jean—there’s a seat at the back for you. And Timmy, take that one, will you, next to Janet?’

  Timmy knew when protest was useless. Besides, no single seats were left. He subsided into the place indicated with barely a glance at Janet, whom he did not know. Maybe, if he didn’t speak, she’d stay quiet on the journey although she’d think him rude. He’d been told often enough that he mustn’t be shy, must come out of his shell.

  He had thought of playing truant today, hiding somewhere until the party was over and the bus had brought everyone home. But where could he go? And he’d be missed – there was always someone like Mrs Baxter checking up, someone who would fuss if anyone failed to appear.

  Now she was making them all sing. Carols, because it was Christmas. Timmy resolutely shut his lips tight. He wouldn’t sing.

  After some time he realised that Janet wasn’t singing either. Her hands, in knitted gloves, were folded on her lap and she was sitting quite still beside him. He stole another glance at her. She looked about his own age, he thought, though he wasn’t very good at estimating things like that. She had curly hair and wore a blue woollen cap. He couldn’t see her eyes.

  He looked quickly away. She wouldn’t do as a friend. That must be a fellow, one who would enjoy walking over the fields looking for rare species. Females didn’t like such things; all they thought about was clothes, and getting you to carry things for them. But if only he could find someone, they might be allowed out together when the summer came.

  ‘You’ve been very ill,’ they reminded him. ‘You can’t go off alone.’

  But he was as strong as the next one now. He clenched his fists as if to prove it. When the snow went, he’d show them. He’d walk through the fields, and the woods. Perhaps he could get hold of a bicycle.

  ‘A bike – that’s it,’ he said, not realising he had spoken aloud.

  ‘What?’ Janet asked. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Oh – I was thinking I’d like a bike, if I could get one,’ Timmy said.

  ‘Why can’t you?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t get much pocket money,’ Timmy replied.

  ‘You could save it up. Or earn it. Get a part-time job. Help in someone’s garden or deliver papers.’ To her, it seemed quite natural that he might do such things. And why not? Would they let him?

  ‘I don’t like parties,’ Timmy said. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Not much,’ said Janet. ‘I haven’t been to one for a long time. But if we all refused to go, what would happen to the tea? And then there’s Santa Claus coming today. He’d be disappointed.’

  ‘I don’t believe in Santa Claus,’ Timmy said grimly.

  ‘Don’t let Mrs Baxter hear you say that,’ said Janet. ‘If we don’t pretend, they get very annoyed.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Timmy, and waited to hear her answer, ‘Don’t care was made to care,’ like Dolly would, but she didn’t.

  She didn’t say any more at all.

  The party was held in the community centre, which had been decorated with streamers and holly. Taped carols played loudly. Long tables were laden with sandwiches and jellies; there were iced cakes and trifle. Balloons hung from the walls, and a tall Christmas tree covered in parcels stood in a corner.

  ‘Presents,’ said Janet, nodding.

  She was greedy like all the others, Timmy decided.

  ‘I got gloves last year. I got three pairs of gloves for Christmas,’ said Janet. ‘What I wanted was a book about birds.’

  ‘You should ask Santa Claus for one,’ said Timmy, looking straight at her for the first time. Her eyes were bright blue, matching her woolly cap. He looked away.

  ‘What did you get last year?’ she asked.

  Timmy couldn’t remember.

  ‘I was ill,’ he said. He’d been in hospital for a long time, and they’d rubbed his bottom with baby oil, to stop it from getting sore; that was what he remembered most. As if he were a little kid.

  ‘Oh.’ Janet asked no more questions.

  Timmy decided he might as wel
l sit next to her as anyone else at tea. She was certainly better than Wendy or Jean.

  ‘How quiet you are, you two,’ cooed Mrs Baxter, swooping at them with plates of jelly. ‘Two shy ones, eh?’

  Janet wriggled with embarrassment and Timmy thought briefly of throwing the jelly at Mrs Baxter. What would she do if he did? Stand him in the corner? But it was a Christmas party, and people weren’t put in corners at parties.

  In Musical Chairs, Janet carefully got out first by not trying at all to sit down. Timmy too had left it till very late but when he understood her intention, chivalrously took the last chair. He managed to be the second one out. They sat together and watched the others.

  ‘There’ll be Blind Man’s Bluff, and Statues,’ Janet warned.

  Timmy looked round for escape.

  ‘We could hide in the cloakroom,’ he said.

  They’d be parted, since the cloakrooms were His and Hers, but that didn’t matter. They slunk away.

  Mrs Baxter routed Janet out herself and a man was sent for Timmy. It was, in fact, Santa Claus, who banged on the door and asked if he was all right; then, when Timmy sheepishly emerged into the washroom, proceeded to put on boots, whiskers and scarlet robe.

  ‘Reckon you know all about me,’ he said, grinning. ‘No need to pretend in front of such a big boy.’

  He handed the presents off the tree. Janet got a piece of soap and Timmy a penknife.

  ‘You said you wanted a book on birds,’ he remarked.

  ‘Yes. I can’t tell them apart, except robins and sparrows,’ said Janet.

  ‘I’ve got several,’ Timmy volunteered, then blushed. What had he let himself in for? He couldn’t invite her home. Everyone would tease him.

  ‘If I get the bike, I could bring them over,’ he said.

  ‘I might get one too,’ said Janet. ‘A bike, I mean. I could go baby-sitting for it. We could go for rides in the summer.’

  ‘Now the draw,’ cried Mrs Baxter, clapping her hands for silence.