Miss Purdy's Class

by Annie Murray

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’ He was working himself up now.

  ‘No, Mr Lowry.’

  Stung by the boy’s sullen tone, the headmaster straightened up, laid the riding crop very deliberately on the desk and took up the cane.

  ‘You must be punished.’ There was exaltation in his voice. ‘Give me your hand, boy. You’re a disgrace!’

  Mr Lowry took a deep breath through his nose with each hard swipe of the cane on Joey’s hand. Six times he raised it and whacked it down. The boy flinched physically each time but his expression didn’t alter. There were no tears. Joey stood picturing that man he’d seen on top of his mother. One man, a stranger, who could have been any of the others whom she’d let use her. Pain went through him. He stuck his chin out and clenched his teeth. Mr Lowry stopped for a moment and Joey looked up at him. At the sight of Joey’s hard eyes something seemed to snap in Mr Lowry. He seized the boy by the shoulder and spun him round.

  ‘Bend over. You will be affected by me, boy. You will be.’

  Joey heard the cane as it came through the air. He screwed his eyes shut. Mr Lowry thrashed him again and again. Joey couldn’t count. He was lost in the pain. It cut through his buttocks, travelled in shock waves down the backs of his legs, but he didn’t cry out. Mr Lowry was grunting. At last he stopped and there was silence for a moment in which all Joey could hear was Mr Lowry’s panting breaths. The boy clenched his jaw and forced himself to stand straight, steeling himself against the pain, forcing it away in his mind as he had done with his feelings so many times in his life.

  Mr Lowry’s face was flushed. He ran a hand over his sparse salt and pepper hair.

  ‘Now.’ He laid the cane methodically back on his desk and adjusted the shoulders of his jacket. ‘I shall be checking with Miss Purdy, and I want to see an end to this truancy, Joseph. You will be in school every day from now on. If your record deteriorates again I may have to think about expelling you. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Lowry.’

  Joey left the room, his face blank of expression.

  ‘Joey – stay behind at the end of the morning, please.’

  Gwen knew Joey Phillips had had a caning that morning. But he had come in after his punishment, not wearing the defiant grin boys usually put on to show how little they minded. Nor were there any tears. He just looked as he always did: closed and indifferent.

  He stood beside her desk once the others had filed out.

  ‘You have school dinner, don’t you, Joey?’ He nodded, glancing at her, then away. Gwen sensed that he was somehow overwhelmed by the sight of her. She was wearing her pretty crimson dress again with a matching ribbon, which made her more colourful than anyone else around, except for Lily Drysdale. Gwen was darned if she was going to give in to the grime and just wear black and grey! She climbed down from her chair so as not to tower above the boy. He was still wearing the clothes she had given him a couple of weeks ago. They had not reached the rotten state of his last set of garments, but she wondered if they had parted company with his body at any time since she had handed them to him. Their state was of general, all-over grime. He had no shirt on, but seemed to have some sort of vest under the grey jersey and his neck and face were uniformly grubby. He was such a poor little thing! Up close this was even more obvious. His limbs were very thin, his pallor evident despite the grime. He stank of poverty. Yet, in his expression, beneath the puckered brows, was something that both puzzled and affected Gwen. In this pathetic, dirty child’s eyes was a mysterious strength. Over the past month, after she had offered him the clothes and he had accepted them with silent dignity – if not a word of gratitude – she had found herself paying more attention to him, watching him sometimes when he was bent over his sums or geography. His work was poor. His mind never seemed to be on his lessons. He didn’t make many friends. The only boy she saw him have anything much to do with was Ron Parks, who gave him sweets and asked him to play sometimes. He appeared indifferent to the other children, though sometimes he got into fights and usually came off best in them. She had once seen him leave the school with his little sister Lena trotting behind him, striding off like a man with a mission, and the sight had moved her. There was something about him, small and pathetic as he appeared, that was intimidating. In looking into Joseph Phillips’s eyes, Gwen felt she had struck up against rock.

  ‘Mr Lowry is very concerned and angry about you playing truant, Joey. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’ He spoke woodenly, looking at her only at waist level.

  She sat down on one of the little desks. ‘Can you not look me in the eye, Joey?’

  He looked up, just for a second, then dropped his gaze again, taking a step backwards and Gwen realized her mistake. Teachers were distant, foreign people to him, who often exercised control by fear and violence. Faced by her friendly, smiling eyes he didn’t know how to react.

  But she had begun so she persevered. ‘Where do you go to – when you skip school?’

  A shadow seemed to fall across the boy’s face. ‘Nowhere, Miss.’

  ‘Nowhere?’ she spoke teasingly. ‘Well, that can’t be a very interesting place to be.’ She wanted him to laugh, to show some sign of being a child. ‘Where’s nowhere?’

  ‘Just . . . about, like.’ He looked up, but not at her. He stared at the blackboard. That morning she had drawn the parts of a flower on it, with a bee drinking the nectar. Proboscis she had written, with an arrow pointing to the bee’s long tongue.

  ‘I see.’ She stood up. There was no getting to the bottom of it, that was clear. ‘Well, don’t do it again, that’s all. You don’t enjoy getting caned, do you?’

  ‘No, Miss.’ She couldn’t help noticing the utter indifference in his voice.

  ‘Let me see your hands.’

  He held out his wizened hands, in a way which reminded her of an organ grinder’s monkey. They were grubby, of course, and the left palm was red and sore.

  ‘Bathe it in some salty water when you get home,’ she advised him. ‘All right, Joey. You’d better go and get your dinner.’

  She watched him go to the door with an awkward, stiff gait. Gwen frowned.

  ‘Joey, are you in pain?’

  Over his shoulder he replied, ‘No, Miss.’

  Six

  ‘Cripple, cripple!’

  Gwen heard the shouts across the girls’ playground. A group of them, including Dora Evan, the class bully, had surrounded Lucy Fernandez. They had a long skipping rope and were swinging it, faster and faster.

  ‘Go on, cripple – get in and jump!’

  Gwen hurried over, saw Lucy standing, arms by her sides, her head down. Close to her was Alice Wilson, her eyes screwed up tight as usual, looking frightened and upset. The rope was a blur of movement.

  ‘What d’you think you’re doing?’ Gwen demanded. They stopped abruptly and the rope hung still in the air for a second then sagged to the ground. No one answered. She saw Dora Evans sniggering behind her hand.

  ‘You think it’s funny, do you, you wretched girl!’

  She was infuriated by the ignorant look Dora gave her through her slitty eyes and had to hold tightly onto herself not to lose her temper. ‘You think it’s amusing to bully someone who can’t do the things you can! How would you like to wear a caliper on your leg? Go on – away with you. Leave the poor girl alone!’

  She chased them away and they went up the other end with the rope.

  ‘Just try and keep out of their way, Lucy,’ she said.

  The two little girls linked hands and slunk off to stand by the blackened wall away from the bullies. Gwen watched them for a moment. What was it about Alice Wilson? The girl was obviously not as stupid as she appeared. Sometimes when Gwen asked her a question she was very quick off the mark. At other times she looked completely vacant.

  Late that afternoon it began to rain hard. The sky turned deep smoky grey, and rain drummed on the roof and ran in streams down the long classroom windows. Th
e last lesson was arithmetic. Gwen set the children to measure various objects in the room with the spans of their hands, so they were busy sizing up the desks and benches, the size of their friends from knees to the floor and writing the results in their exercise books. Joey Phillips had once again gone missing from school. Gwen was uneasy. He had been there for the afternoon register. During the first period he had asked to be excused to go to the toilets out across the playground. He never came back. Well, the boy would have to be taken in hand. But if only she could deal with it without Mr Lowry having to know.

  Gwen looked out at the rain and wondered if it was raining at home. Edwin might be out on his bicycle. She thought of him with a sudden pang. He was so safe, so kind. She’d be able to see him again as soon as the half-term holiday came. And I’m going to spend the rest of my life with him. The idea came to her as strange and unreal. Her mind wandered back to Joey Phillips. Was he out in this? He’d be drenched. She felt very uneasy. Why did she feel so worried about this particular child?

  ‘Have you recorded all your results?’ She collected herself and spoke to the class. ‘All right, finish up now!’

  There was a scurry of activity as final figures were written down. They were all finding their way back to their desks when Lucy Fernandez went down again.

  ‘Miss Purdy – Lucy’s having a fit!’

  Gwen rushed between the desks to the child’s side, panic rising in her. Miss Monk had said something should be put in her mouth to stop her biting her tongue. Was that right? It had looked so harsh and cruel the way the other teacher did it. Gwen knelt by Lucy and held her hand under the girl’s head as she began to go into spasm, surprised by the wiry force of her body.

  ‘Our Mom says you have to put a spoon in their mouth,’ a voice said. ‘D’you want me to go and ask for one in the staffroom?’

  Gwen tried to sound calm. ‘I don’t think that will be necessary. Just sit down all of you.’

  The bell rang out across the assembly hall then, signalling the end of school.

  ‘Go along all of you,’ Gwen said. ‘Go home. I’ll see to Lucy.’

  The children all hurried out, except little Alice Wilson, who hung behind. She peered down at Lucy.

  ‘Will she be all right, Miss?’

  The worst of the fit was passing and Lucy was growing still again and sleepy.

  ‘Yes, she will, Alice, don’t you worry,’ Gwen said, intensely relieved. Thank heavens, she didn’t seem to have swallowed her tongue! Once again, though, the pool of urine was seeping from under her on the floor. Alice didn’t seem to notice this.

  ‘How’s Lucy going to get home, Miss Purdy?’

  ‘D’you know where she lives?’

  ‘Number fifteen, Alma Street.’

  ‘Thank you, Alice. That’s not far. You run along home now. I’ll look after Lucy.’

  ‘Yes, Miss,’ Alice said, though with apparent reluctance. Once she had gone there was silence, except for the wind and spattering rain outside, the classroom clock’s ticking and the quiet breathing of the skinny, dark-haired child. Then Mr Lowry put his head round the door.

  ‘What are you doing, Miss Purdy?’

  When Gwen explained, Mr Lowry came closer and frowned at the child, prone on the floor. He tutted impatiently. ‘Oh goodness, what a nuisance. There’s not a child left in the building we can send for the mother.’

  Gwen felt her hackles rise. Anyone would think the child had fits on purpose! ‘Don’t worry, Mr Lowry. She lives very close by. And she’s only a little scrap of a thing. I’ll take her home myself.’

  Mr Lowry raised his eyebrows. He seemed to disapprove of any act of kindness. He and Miss Monk deserved each other, Gwen thought sourly. They’d be a perfect match, those two. After a moment’s thought he said grudgingly, ‘Well, I suppose that might be a solution.’

  ‘Yes,’ she muttered in the direction of his departing back, ‘and thank you for taking the trouble, Miss Purdy.’

  She put her coat on and scooped up the child into her arms. Lucy’s back and legs were wet with urine. Gwen wondered if she had a coat, but guessed that she probably didn’t. Hardly any of the children had top coats to wear, but ran along to school in the same clothes, rain or shine.

  It was pouring again. She hesitated by the door, but realized she could wait for ages and it didn’t seem about to let up. She stepped out, cursing that she hadn’t brought a hat, the rain seeping through her hair, cold on her scalp. It was raining so hard that when she turned out of the school gate she could hardly see her way along the road. A cyclist loomed out of the murk, head down, battling against the wind.

  Gwen’s hair was soon drenched, the cold water running down her face, dripping from her nose. A few people passed her, hurrying home. The splash of water from roofs and gutters was all around. Gwen leant forwards as far as she could, holding Lucy close to her, trying to protect her, and staggered along. Lucy slept on, undisturbed by the wet. Although she was a skinny child, her weight was still enough to be an effort and Gwen’s arms soon began to ache. She was glad to see the turning into Alma Street and the Alma Arms looking like a warm haven on the corner.

  The houses at that end of the street were small terraced ones. Some of them appeared quite cosy, though in others the windows were dark and desolate looking. She passed a few, then crossed a side street, realizing that number fifteen must be the shop on the opposite corner. The windows were lit up but with advertisements stuck all over them and so full of shelves of tins and packets that she could not see in. She also couldn’t manage the handle without putting Lucy down, though she managed to hoist Lucy up in such a way that she could knock.

  There was a pause, then she saw someone coming and the door opened with a ‘ting!’ To her surprise, a man opened the door. For some reason she had automatically assumed the shop would be run by a woman. In the dim light, the two things she took in about the man were his head of dark, curling hair and the fact that he was walking with a crutch and had a plaster cast on his left leg, the trouser leg rolled to the top of it. She also had the impression of someone solid and immensely strong. Gwen assumed this must be Lucy’s father. She could hear other children in the background and became aware of faces watching from the back of the shop. What a sodden spectacle she must look standing there!

  ‘How d’you do. I’m Miss Purdy – Lucy’s class teacher. I’m afraid she’s just had another fit.’

  ‘Mam!’ one of the boys shouted in the background. ‘It’s Lucy – she’s bad again!’

  ‘I see,’ the man said, and she heard that he was not local. He spoke differently from Lucy. ‘You’d better come in, then.’

  Gwen manoeuvred Lucy carefully inside, along a narrow way between two rows of shelves. Lucy’s feet caught the handle of a broom and knocked it over. They passed into the back room, which seemed crammed full of people, boys mainly. Rosa, the pretty elder sister, easily stood out among them. The man indicated that Gwen should lay Lucy in the chair by the fire, and as she put the child down, Lucy began to come round. Dazed, she looked round the room as if she couldn’t think where she was, especially when she saw her teacher standing there.

  ‘You all right now, Lucy fach?’ the man asked, bending over her, and she nodded. She seemed happy to see him. In the light, Gwen saw that he was much younger than she had imagined. His hair was black, wavy, the face strong, dark-eyed and weathered looking and she saw a kind warmth towards the child. His voice was deep but soft. She was still trying to place the accent.

  ‘Miss Purdy?’ Lucy whispered.

  ‘Yes, dear?’

  ‘Was it you brought me home?’

  Gwen nodded and saw the girl smile sleepily and her face was suddenly pretty. She could sense the man appraising her. Though he was standing slightly behind her, his presence was very powerful. She felt something coming from him that was abrasive, close to hostility, but it was not blatant enough for her to be sure and was belied by the teasing light in his eyes.

  ‘So you’re Miss
Purdy,’ he said. ‘We’ve heard a fair bit about you.’

  ‘All good, I hope? Gwen Purdy.’ She turned and held out her hand, though she immediately felt somehow foolish for doing so.

  The man hesitated, then a strong, rough hand took hers and shook it. ‘I’m Daniel, Lucy’s brother.’

  ‘I see.’ Gwen smiled, surprised. ‘I took you for the man of the house.’

  Daniel Fernandez did not return the smile. ‘That I am when I’m here. There’s no one else.’

  Gwen felt very awkward because of the serious, unwavering way he was looking at her. The crutch somehow added to his dignity rather than undermining it.

  ‘Thank you for bringing our Lucy home.’

  ‘Not at all.’ To herself she sounded posh now and prim, and she was conscious of her bedraggled appearance. All this seemed to put her at a disadvantage. She felt like a foreigner in what was obviously a house of limited means. This room was evidently the family’s only living room behind the shop, so that although it was sparsely furnished – other than the armchair by the fireplace there was a table and three chairs, and a dilapidated dresser stacked with crocks – it also contained the gas cooker and shelves, with a small scullery beyond, and everyone seemed to be squeezed inside. The room was lit by gaslight and the mantles ‘pop-popped’ in the background. The Fernandez children stood round, silenced by the momentous, unheard-of event of a teacher calling at their house. Once more, the man did not smile. He sank down, balancing on the arm of Lucy’s chair.

  ‘So – you’ve come to see how the other half live then, is it? See how the world’s workers get by?’ His tone was jaunty, but somehow provocative as well. ‘You don’t sound as if you come from round here.’

  ‘My family live in Worcester.’

  ‘Nice town, Worcester. Been through there myself. Comfortable place, I’d say.’

  There was nothing in his words that was actually rude, but they were spoken as a challenge. Gwen saw he had decided to tease her. Despite the laughter in his eyes, it got under her skin.