by George Friel
Miss Ancill wrinkled her nose the way anyone does at a bad smell.
‘I don’t believe it,’ she said. ‘Mr Alfred? Never! When could he do these,’ she quoted distastefully, ‘these “indecent practices”? Where? It’s a piece of nonsense.’
‘I can’t imagine it myself,’ said Mr Briggs. ‘But I’ve got to make sure. I can’t just ignore the Director’s letter. I’ll have to ask questions. Oh dear! The trouble that man has given me! If this gets in the papers it will put me in a fine position!’
Miss Ancill advised him to call in Mr Brown and Mr Campbell for a conference.
‘I’d question the girl first,’ said Mr Campbell.
‘Mind you,’ said Mr Brown. ‘I don’t believe there’s anything in it. But I must say I think he has brought this on himself. He has been far too thick with one girl at least.’
‘Oh yes?’ said Mr Briggs.
‘Rose Weipers,’ said Mr Brown. ‘The very one named.
He has her in his room every day at lunchtime. And he locks the door. He doesn’t know, but I’ve seen him.’
‘There’s your where and when answered,’ said Mr Briggs sadly to Miss Ancill.
‘Let’s get this girl Weipers in,’ said Mr Campbell.
‘Get the truth out of her, and you’ll get a line on the others.’
‘If any,’ said Miss Ancill.
‘I’m not questioning any girl alone on a thing like this,’ said Mr Briggs. ‘That could put me in the cart too.
Improper talk alone with a schoolgirl? No, thanks. I’ll have her mother here.’
‘Yes, I think you should,’ said Miss Ancill.
‘Or her father,’ said Mr Brown.
‘Or both,’ said Mr Campbell.
‘Just the mother, I think,’ said Miss Ancill.
The attendance-officer opportunely arrived and was immediately sent away again to tell Mrs Weipers to come to the school at once on an urgent matter.
‘All we can do now is wait,’ said Mr Briggs. ‘I expect we’ll have the Director or one of his Deputies out here sometime today. I’d better have something definite for him. Because if that letter’s true, well, it’s a very serious business. There will have to be official action rightaway.’
‘I’ve never known a teacher suspended on the spot,’ said Mr Brown. ‘Quite an event, eh?’
He clapped his hands and rubbed them.
Rose’s mother came in bewildered, ushered by the janitor. Jean toddled plumply at her heels.
‘I had to bring the wean,’ Mrs Weipers said.
She looked at the three grave men and the single woman. They frightened her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said humbly. ‘But I’ve no one to look after her.’
Jean, aged three when Martha mentioned her to Graeme Roy, was now turned five and waiting to be admitted to the infant school when the new session started. She ambled round Mr Brigg’s room, stopped at a shelf of specimen copies and pulled the books out one by one to use them as building-bricks. She dropped one.
‘Jean! Behave yourself, you!’ Mrs Weipers said. A worried woman. Not well.
She rose, stopped, and dragged Jean over beside her.
When they were both settled Mr Briggs resumed the explanation Jean had interrupted. But he was so indirect and allusive that Mrs Weipers wasn’t sure if he was telling her Rose had been assaulted by a teacher or a teacher had been improperly approached by Rose. When she was thoroughly confused he gave her the anonymous letter to read.
‘You’ll understand why I had to send for you,’ he said, going on talking even as she was trying to make it out.
She was a poor reader at the best of times, with the best of print, and the scrawly handwriting, bad spelling and lack of stops made it trebly difficult for her.
‘Oh my goodness,’ she whispered when she took in the meaning of ‘indesent praktises’.
‘I’ll have to question Rose,’ said Mr Briggs. ‘It’s my duty. I can’t ignore such a terrible letter. And I’m sure you’ll want to exercise your right to be present.’
Rose was as baffled as her mother. When she saw the drift of the headmaster’s questions she froze. At first she said she hardly knew Mr Alfred. She only got him three periods a week. Mr Briggs asked about money. She admitted Mr Alfred sometimes gave her money. Mr Briggs asked how often. She said once a week. She didn’t like the way he kept glancing at a piece of pale-blue notepaper. She guessed somebody had written something that wasn’t nice about her and Mr Alfred. The girls were always writing something about somebody.
‘But why should he give you money every week?’ Mr Briggs asked.
He pretended he was puzzled.
‘It’s for going to the shops for him,’ said Rose.
‘Just for going errands for him, you mean?’ said Mr Briggs. ‘And that’s all? He doesn’t ask you to do anything else when you come back? When you’re alone.’
‘No,’ she said.
She was only beginning to see what he was thinking.
There were tears in her eyes. Her lower lip was wobbling.
‘Did you tell anybody Mr Alfred was giving you money?’ Mr Briggs encouraged her to speak.
‘Yes,’ said Rose. ‘I told Senga Provan.’
‘I see,’ said Mr Briggs.
He wagged his head wisely.
‘It was no girl wrote that letter,’ said Mrs Weipers.
Rose was just as intelligent as any headmaster. She saw it the moment Mr Briggs saw it. If that bit of pale-blue paper wasn’t the usual scribbling of some girl in her class but a letter from outside she knew how it came to be written. And remembering what else she had told Senga she hurried to get her story in before she was asked any more questions about things that seemed to be known anyway.
‘I told her he kissed me,’ she said. ‘But I just made that up.’
‘Are you sure?’ Mr Briggs asked. ‘That’s rather hard to believe. A sensible girl like you. Why on earth should you do that?’
The brimming tears overflowed. She began to cry. She knew it made her look guilty, but she couldn’t help it. Mr Briggs went on probing. If she had made it up she had been very naughty, telling lies about her teacher. But was she telling the truth now? He kept at her. Was she quite sure Mr Alfred had never kissed her?
Rose blubbered. She nodded her head and shook her head, not knowing what she was doing. All she knew was she couldn’t speak. Mr Briggs watched and relaxed. He had plenty of experience in asking questions and assessing witnesses. He saw through Rose. He knew why she wept. He saw the innocence in her that had heard of evil but never met it. He was convinced the charges in the anonymous letter were false. But he was curious about Mr Alfred’s behaviour. He took his time. He let the mother have a word.
‘Don’t be frightened, Rose,’ said Mrs Weipers. ‘Your mammy’s here. Tell the master the truth.’
Rose admitted Mr Alfred had kissed her. Yes, often.
‘At first he just held my hand!’ she tried to suggest how things start and then you can’t stop them.
She couldn’t explain it better for crying. She wept for herself and for Mr Alfred too. She hated them all, even her mother, for finding out Mr Alfred loved her.
‘What kind of a kiss?’ said Mr Briggs.
‘Just on my brow,’ said Rose. ‘It was nothing. I hardly knew.’
‘Did he ever lift your dress?’ said Mr Briggs. ‘Even once.’
Rose turned to her mother to hide her face on the breast that had nursed her.
‘No, no!’ she screamed.
‘Wheesht,’ said Mrs Weipers.
Jean began to cry and tried to hug Rose round the legs.
‘Did he ever touch you?’ said Mr Briggs. ‘Anywhere he shouldn’t, I mean.’
Rose shook her head.
‘Some of these people,’ said Mrs Weipers. She stroked Rose’s thick untidy hair from crown to nape as Mr Alfred had often done. ‘If they have anything to say why can’t they come out into the open and say it? Wheesht, ma wee hen! Your ma knows
you’re a good girl.’
Mr Briggs apologised.
‘It’s an unpleasant task, Mrs Weipers,’ he said. ‘But it had to be done. I’m sure you would be the first to agree we can’t afford the least suspicion that a girl of Rose’s age could come to any harm here. Even an anonymous letter, it’s got to be investigated.’
‘The fire’s the place for it,’ said Mrs Weipers. ‘Not a word of truth in it, not a scrap of evidence.’
He spoke to Mr Alfred alone later. He didn’t ask him what he had been doing. He told him. He told him he had seen Rose and her mother and knew he had been kissing the girl and giving her money. He let him see the anonymous letter and gave him some fatherly advice though he was the younger man.
He sprawled back in his swivel-chair to set the tone of an informal, friendly chat. Mr Alfred sagged before him in a position vaguely suggesting a soldier standing to attention before a superior officer.
It would be a bad thing, Mr Briggs said, if one had a class with nobody in it one could like. To find that some pupils were loveable was one of the rewards of a poorly-paid profession, though one was very properly shy of mentioning love. But there must be no favouritism. It was a bad teacher that had favourites. If one found oneself becoming fond of one pupil in particular one must force oneself to give more attention to other pupils, who were probably more in need of affection. It was a bad thing to allow oneself to be emotionally involved. A bachelor was sometimes prone to do that. A man with a family would find it easier to maintain a sense of proportion. He would know girls could be little devils as well as angels. One mustn’t see girls through rose-tinted spectacles. He apologised for the pun. He hadn’t intended it. They could be as nasty as boys, yes, and even nastier. He could tell Mr Alfred things about girls that would shock him, things he had learnt as headmaster of a mixed comprehensive school, the things girls wrote on the lavatory walls for example. Worse than boys. It was a pity Mr Alfred wasn’t married. Of course he himself and Mrs Weipers were completely satisfied there was no truth in the anonymous letter as far as Rose was concerned, and there was no other girl actually specified. The accusation that Mr Alfred was guilty of indecent practices with any girl was something neither he nor anyone else who had seen the letter believed, nonetheless…
He saw he had slipped there. The words ‘nor anyone else who had seen the letter’ made Mr Alfred wonder how many people had been shown it. Miss Ancill for one he was sure. And probably Mr Brown as Deputy Headmaster. He jerked as if prodded. He was humiliated. Once more a harsh reality had invaded the privacy of his dreams. He remembered that in the poems of his youth he had tried to negotiate with reality. But in his middle age reality was no longer open to negotiations. It was bulldozing him. It tore up the love he had hidden under the soiled surface of his public life and heaved it aside like so much rubbish that was merely in the way of new buildings. He felt destroyed. He had no idea who had written the letter and Mr Briggs gave him no clue. All he could make of it was that Rose must have talked to somebody, somewhere, sometimes. She had wilfully made him look ridiculous.
Mr Briggs went on, man-to-man. If it came out that a teacher was in the habit of kissing a girl in his class, that could lead to many misunderstandings. Admittedly there were innocent caresses and innocent kisses. Paternal or pastoral attentions to children. But as Mr Alfred himself must be well aware Scotch reserve looked askance on kissing even between kin. And there were always people eager to make trouble, like the person who had written that malicious letter. Once they heard the word kissing they would be only too ready to impute sexual intentions to the teacher, especially if they heard the teacher was giving the girl money. In a position of trust, which every teacher occupied in regard to the pupils in his care, one must take great care to be like Caesar’s wife.
Mr Alfred felt no ambition to be like Caesar’s wife. He preferred to remain male, however inadequately. Yet while Mr Briggs was lecturing him he felt guilty enough of what he was charged with. There came into his mind the Gospel text that whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart. He didn’t like that text. He thought it unfair. But he knew how he had often looked on Rose. So the anonymous letter could claim the support of the Gospel for what it said about him.
He said nothing of that to Mr Briggs. He went dumbly back to his class unfit to teach again that day. He was hot with vexation, as if he had been surprised in an absurd position, like being caught in his shirt-tail and long hairy legs. His high love for Rose had been reduced to the occasion for a condescending homily from Mr Briggs, a man too discreet to kiss a growing girl who offered affection.
He stayed in town till the pubs opened. He wasn’t bothered about going home. His landlady was used to his irregular returns. He drank till the pubs closed, not to get drunk but just to brood. Still, he finished up not sober and walked the streets till past midnight.
Mr Briggs had his expected visit from the Director, who wasn’t inclined to judge Mr Alfred harshly. He understood him. But because of the letter it was decided to transfer him to another school.
When he saw nothing in the papers Gerald shrugged.
‘Ach, don’t worry, maw,’ he said. ‘We’ll get the old bastard yet.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Senga heard about the letter. The whole school heard about the letter. Miss Ancill told the janitor and the janitor told the cleaners and the cleaners told the parents. But Senga knew more. She knew who had written the letter, though the writer never mentioned it.
Having made her own good guess, Rose wouldn’t speak to Senga for a week. She walked past her in the street. She changed her place in class. But Senga was too articulate to let it go on. Her hurt was great, but it would be less if she was forgiven. She waylaid Rose and had her say. She didn’t waste time suggesting the writer could have been anybody. She wouldn’t make a mystery where they both knew there was none. She admitted her share. She explained how a few unwise words had been picked up by Mr Alfred’s enemy. She couldn’t tell how sorry she was.
Her unhappiness made her eloquent. The affection that had been dammed for a week overflowed in her eyes. Rose was hard. But she couldn’t quarrel. She couldn’t rant and rave and accuse and denounce. She hadn’t the voice for that kind of part. She listened. She gave in. They became friends again.
Still a bitterness stayed with Senga. She had sued for peace with Rose, but she waged a civil war at home. The cause of it was never alluded to by either side, though both knew what the other was thinking. The week she was in disgrace with Rose she went on a modified hunger strike to annoy her mother. It comforted her to refuse food from an adverse party. She never missed a chance to be sarcastic.
She had come to have a sharp tongue, and she used it to cut those who wounded her. Perhaps it was guilt kept her mother from using heavy artillery to discourage these bayonet charges. Anyway she got away with them. Even Gerald had nothing much to say for a time. Senga didn’t enjoy her victories. They were too easy. She wanted stiffer opposition, then she would really show what vengeance could be.
She criticised Gerald’s clothes and the shoes he wore. She derided his haircut, even his walk. She mocked the way he spoke. His enunciation was poor. He swallowed half his words, he used a glottal stop, and he spoke so quickly that every sentence came over like one enormous agglutination of syllables. It pleased Senga to make him repeat what he said the few times he dared speak to her.
‘Pardon. What did you say?’
She gave a demonstration of clear speech in her very question.
‘We’ll have less of your airs, madam,’ said her mother. ‘Don’t you try and make a monkey out of Gerald.’
‘If people can’t speak properly they can’t expect to be understood,’ said Senga.
‘Feudcleanyurears,’ said Gerald.
‘Pardon,’ said Senga.
‘Do you think there’s nothing wrong with the way you speak?’ said her mother, crushing her with tone and glare, ironing ha
ndkerchiefs for Gerald. ‘You should hear your¬ self sometimes. But we’re not good enough for you. Oh no! You’re that superior.’
‘To him and his pals anyway,’ said Senga.
She was loaded with venom, ready to strike.
‘There’s nothing wrong with Gerald’s pals,’ said her mother.
‘Not much,’ said Senga. ‘Crowd of apes.’
‘Hoosapes?’ said Gerald.
‘And he’s in a gang,’ Senga tossed at her mother.
‘Hoosnagang?’ Gerald shouted.
‘You are,’ Senga turned, shouting back.
‘Oh, hold your tongue, you little besom,’ said her mother. ‘You’re aye nagging. What shirt do you want to wear tomorrow, Gerald?’
‘Mayella,’ said Gerald.
‘You don’t like the truth,’ said Senga. ‘Either of you.’
‘Gerald sees his friends after a hard day’s work,’ said her mother. She flattened the last handkerchief, stacked the lot. ‘They go out and enjoy themselves, and you choose to call it a gang.’
‘Because so it is,’ said Senga. ‘He’s in a gang all right. I’m telling you. You’ll find out.’
‘What gang?’ her mother demanded. Voice raised. Angry. ‘You let your imagination run away with you, you do.’
‘Just ask him,’ said Senga. ‘Ask him what they call his gang.’
‘Amnoinanygang,’ said Gerald.
He rushed across the kitchen with fist raised to thump his sister as he used to do. Senga hurried to a corner, turned her back to him, hands at her ears, reverting to her childish kyphosis at the threat of assault.
‘She’s not worth it, Gerald,’ said the mother. ‘Just ignore her.’
But Gerald was in a gang. It was called the Cogs. Nobody knew why.
Gangs were no novelty in the city. Between the wars they did some shop breaking and demanding money with menaces, but that was only on the side. They were never started for criminal purposes. They had no big boss in the background planning even petty crime. They were the local expression of religious sympathies amongst the irreligious. Their main activities were mutual aggression and breach of the peace. Like ancient Constantinople, the city had its factions of Blue and Green, his devotion to either depending solely on the adherent’s accident of birth. There were gangs that had a special loyalty to the memory of William Prince of Orange for beating the papishes at the Boyne in 1690. There were gangs that professed a parti¬ cular reverence for the Holy Father and a great dislike to King Billy. It was a matter of complete indifference to both sides that the Pope and the Orangeman were allies in that famous victory.