‘Of course,’ Gwen snapped, as if she’d known this all the time. How was she to choose monitors when she didn’t know the children?
‘Who were your monitors last term?’
A boy and girl raised their hands.
‘You’d better come and help me today as well. I shall select new monitors later in the week.’
The two children went round the room collecting halfpennies from those who paid for milk. Gwen stood watching. Some children shook their heads or lowered them as the monitors passed. Gwen was opening the register in preparation when she heard a low voice say, ‘I don’t need no milk.’ The words were almost snarled. She looked up to see the milk monitor standing beside a boy with a gaunt, frowning face and large, deepset eyes. She was struck by the intensity of his expression.
‘All right, I only asked,’ the monitor replied.
Gwen picked up the register.
‘Donald Andrews?’
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘Joan Billings?’
‘Yes, Miss.’
As she went down the long register, Gwen gradually became aware of the smell in the classroom. It was cold in there, but with all those little bodies breathing and giving off warmth there was already a frowsty, unwashed aroma which made her want to wrinkle her nose. In her last school most of the children had come from comfortable homes, and there had only been one child who smelt regularly: Eric Hutchings, the son of poor farmers on the edge of the town. He was out milking cows before school and there was no telling what he might come in smelling of. Here, though, the smell seemed to get stronger by the moment, as if emanating from every corner of the room. And one of the boys to her left couldn’t seem to stop scratching himself. His skin was dotted with spots of gentian violet.
The names went on. Suddenly, there was one she recognized.
‘Lucy Fernandez?’
‘Yes, Miss,’ came the miserable reply. Gwen followed the direction of the voice to see a head bent over the desk, hidden behind a curtain of dark hair.
‘Ron Parks?’
‘Yes, Miss.’ She caught Ron in mid-grin towards one of his pals. His teeth – surely she’d been mistaken? They looked black – the whole lot of them! It must be the light, she decided.
‘Joseph Phillips?’
A sullen, tight voice. ‘Yes, Miss.’ She looked up to see the boy with the pinched features who looked angry with the whole world.
Towards the end, when she read out ‘Alice Wilson’ and received a timid ‘Yes, Miss,’ the reply came from a girl on the far right, under the window, staring across at her in a slightly vacant manner. She had long blonde plaits and looked startlingly clean and well dressed compared with many of the others, almost like little Heidi off the alp. Taking in the sight of her charges, Gwen saw what a pale-faced, poorly dressed group of children they were. She was just starting to feel tender towards them when a ragged sound burst into the room and most of the children erupted into laughter, all watching their new teacher to see how she would react.
‘Jack’s farted, Miss!’ one of them informed her.
‘Where e’er you be, let wind go free!’ Ron cried, beaming. Startled, Gwen realized she hadn’t been mistaken. The boy had the blackest, most rotten set of teeth she had ever seen.
She stood composed, not a hint of amusement on her face, waiting for the laughter to run its course.
‘Have you quite finished?’ They stared back at her, some nodding. The boy in the back row was scratching himself frantically. ‘Good. I should think so. Now let’s get on with our lesson.’
She handed out exercise books and got the children to write their names on them, appointed someone to recharge the inkwells and got every child to check the nib on the cheap wooden pens which were lodged in the groove at the front of the double desks. These desks, each attached by an iron runner to a hard-backed bench, were crammed into the room in tight rows. There were a couple of framed pictures on the walls, one of a road with trees on either side, and one of the king.
We’ll need to get this brightened up a bit
, Gwen thought, remembering the church schoolroom she had taught in before with her children’s paintings stuck up all round the room. ‘Her children’ was how she had thought of them. And there had only been half as many!
All morning she was taut with nerves, on the verge of thinking she couldn’t manage, would never be able to teach these children anything. She couldn’t even understand what half of them were
saying
, when the Birmingham accent was combined with lisps or missing teeth or adenoidal pronunciation. By the time the dinner hour came and the green and white tickets were handed out, she had struggled through arithmetic, a spelling test and getting them to write a letter. She wanted to get the measure of them, who was able and who not. But her head was throbbing and she wondered how she was going to make it through the rest of the day.
‘So – you’re the new girl are you?’
Gwen saw the smiling face of the ginger-haired teacher waiting for her as she followed the last of the children out of the class at midday, some to run home, others to stay for the school dinners.
‘I’m Miss Dawson,’ she said in a soft Birmingham accent. ‘Millie. Nice to see someone else who doesn’t look as if they’ve come out of the ark!’ She giggled, and Gwen could only join in, feeling cheered already. ‘I gather you were late in. Did Glowery-Lowery whip you by any chance? He rather enjoys whipping people, I’m afraid. D’you want to come to the staffroom for dinner? You can meet the gargoyles in there.’
‘Yes . . .’ Gwen hesitated. She already liked Millie, with her friendly, freckly face. ‘Only I didn’t think to bring any food.’
‘Oh, never mind. My mother sends me off with enough for six every day. Come and have some of mine. So – how were the little demons this morning?’
‘It’s not what I’m used to,’ Gwen said. She was feeling overwhelmed by the newness of the experience, the state of some of the children. ‘I suppose they weren’t too bad – I just feel rather at sea. How I’ll even remember their names I don’t know.’
‘Oh, it’ll come to you. They’re not bad children, most of them. And when you consider what some of them are coming from . . . It’s been an eye-opener to me, I can tell you. If you live in a different part of Birmingham it’s like another world. I grew up in Edgbaston. The way some people live – it beggars belief.’
‘There’s one boy who’s forever scratching and he seems to have scabs all over his skin . . . Is that impetigo?’
‘Umm – I should think so. Nasty. Sounds as if he’s over the worst, though.’ Millie rolled her eyes. ‘If you want infestations you’ve come to the right place!’
She pushed the staffroom door open and Gwen saw a dingy space with a few old chairs scattered round and a table to one side with cups and saucers on it. No one else was in there yet.
‘You’ll want to wash your hands, and then you sit down and I’ll get us a cup of tea before you meet everyone properly.’ Millie disappeared into the little scullery at the back. Gwen felt tears of gratitude come to her eyes. The children had been testing her all morning to see what they could get away with and she had had to work hard to maintain authority over them. It was nice to feel taken care of now.
As she was waiting, the door swung open and a woman marched in. Her hair was a lifeless brown, pinned up in a bun, and her expression severe. Her lips were moving as she came through the door as if she was completing an angry outburst at some absent culprit. She caught sight of Gwen sitting near the table, so Gwen smiled and stood up, holding out her hand. The woman stopped. Close up, she was younger than she at first appeared. She could barely have been forty, but she was dressed in shapeless brown clothes and flat shoes which made her look much older.
‘Oh! My, my . . .’ She laid her hand over her heart as if Gwen’s presence had endangered its welfare. Her voice was high and whining. ‘Who are you? The new one?’
‘Yes – I’m Gwen Purdy.’ Gwen’s smile faltered.
How very rude
, she thought.
The woman stared at her. ‘I’m Miss Monk. How old are you?’
‘Actually, I’m twenty-one.’
The woman gave her an unwaveringly hostile stare. ‘
Twenty-one?
God in heaven.’ She tutted, apparently in outraged disapproval and went to the scullery. ‘Oh, for goodness sake, let me light it,’ Gwen heard her say impatiently to Millie.
Gradually the other staff trickled in from their classes. Millie brought tea over, shared her sandwiches with Gwen and whispered, ‘Don’t worry about old Monk-face. She’s like that with everyone. Goodness knows why she’s a teacher. She loathes children.’ Millie rolled her eyes and moved even closer to Gwen. ‘I think she’s really the limit, to tell you the truth – but no one dares gainsay her. Not even Mr Lowry. Actually, Lowry’s the root of the problem.’
Gwen frowned.
‘She’s mad for him,’ Millie hissed, with delicious glee. ‘And he never takes the blindest bit of notice of her.’
Millie was the most cheerful part of Gwen’s day so far. She added her own comments to the introductions after the other teachers had said hello and sat back to drink their cups of tea. Gwen’s headache started to ease.
She met Mr Gaffney, the teacher who had rung the bell outside as she first arrived. He was a gentle, middle-aged man with receding hair and trembling hands. ‘Something happened to him in the war. He’s very nervous. And he is one of the ones who’s never actually trained as a teacher,’ Millie said. And Mr Lowry was all right as long as you did everything to the letter. He was a Scout leader in his spare time. Very ‘pip-pip’. The dumpy-looking lady, Miss Pringle, who wore square-toed shoes, had been the one playing the piano during assembly.
‘She makes the children count whenever she gets lost,’ Millie whispered. ‘They only ever give her Form One and they spend half the day counting out loud. She writes where they’ve got to on the board and when she loses her thread they start again from there.’
‘Well, at least when they go into Form Two they’ll be able to count!’ Gwen grinned.
A little later the rounded lady in the blue and green blouse whom Gwen had noticed during assembly came in and shook Gwen’s hand warmly.
‘Welcome to the school.’ Gwen felt the plump hand in hers. She couldn’t help noticing that the woman’s nails were green underneath. She must have been doing painting with the children, Gwen thought. She looked up into a round, rather plain face, which was full of life.
‘I’m Lily Drysdale.’ The woman’s eyes shone. ‘I hope you’ll be happy here, dear.’
‘She looks a bit dotty,’ Millie said, when the woman had moved on, ‘but she’s completely on the ball. And she’s a real poppet. Nothing she wouldn’t do for the children – especially the ones most in need.’ Millie leaned closer and whispered behind her hand. ‘And things aren’t quite what you might think. I’ve heard she lives with a man – a
lover
!’
‘What – you mean they’re not married?’ Gwen giggled. The woman was so
old
and so odd looking!
‘
Miss
Drysdale!’ Millie whispered. ‘Hard to believe, isn’t it? I think she’s one of these arty types. I admire her really – the way she is with the children. I could never be like that. I wish I could. I always wanted to be a teacher, from when I was little.’ She looked curiously at Gwen. ‘Did you?’
‘Not really,’ Gwen admitted. ‘I thought I’d better do
something
. Couldn’t stomach nursing and I thought secretarial work sounded so dull. Oh dear –’ she laughed – ‘that doesn’t make me sound very dedicated, does it?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Millie said. ‘By the way, I do like your frock. What a lovely colour! It won’t stay clean for long here!’
Millie told Gwen that her ‘friend’ Lance was a teacher as well. ‘I met him at the Martineau Club – on the Bristol Road. Oh, you must come some time. It’s the teacher’s club – Lance teaches at a secondary school. He’s a dream. Oh!’ Millie caught sight of the ring on Gwen’s finger. ‘You’re
engaged
?’
‘We’re marrying in August.’ Gwen smiled at her enthusiasm. ‘Edwin’s a clergyman.’
‘Oh.’ Millie sounded less enthusiastic. Gwen wondered whether to her a man of the cloth would seem the height of dullness.
‘But he’s very . . . well –’ she searched for a word to sum up Edwin – ‘
jolly
really.’
When Gwen went in to take the afternoon register, she was struck afresh by the pallid, undernourished look of many of her charges. The class that looked back at her in Worcester had been mostly bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked children, who after dinner would have come in fresh from playing in the field behind the school. She felt a pang of pity for these urban juniors, cooped up between grimy rows of houses. Already, in the afternoon register, she noticed one absence.
‘Lucy Fernandez?’
Silence.
‘The cripple’s got lost on the way,’ Jack Ellis jeered.
There were sniggers round the class.
‘Enough!’ Gwen reprimanded sharply. ‘Has anyone seen her?’
‘No, Miss,’ the class droned.
The afternoon seemed to go on and on. There was no hint of brightness in the day; cloud and smoke lay in a pall over the city. They sat in dreary greyness until Gwen was forced to turn the lights on. She stood in front of the rows of desks and tried to hold the class’s attention by reading them a book about the Romans in Britain. Often, when she looked up, Ron Parks was picking at his thumbs or grinning at the boy next door. Joseph Phillips, who was right in the middle, stared down at his desk top, his eyebrows pulled into a stormy frown.
‘Ron, Joseph, are you listening?’
Ron, chastened, stared innocently at her. Joey Phillips glanced up for a second as if she was summoning him from another world, then looked down again. There was something about him that disquieted her.
She struggled on, and when the bell rang at four o’clock she almost cheered with relief.
Walking back in the freezing afternoon to the tram stop opposite Winson Green prison, she felt as if her whole body was full of an urgent, heavy ache. It was some time, sitting on the tram, before she knew it for what it was: homesickness. The day hadn’t been so very terrible, she reasoned with herself. She’d managed the children, just about, and Millie Dawson looked as if she’d be a good friend. And she didn’t want to go home, did she? But it
felt
terrible, and the thought of going back to Ariadne Black’s house did nothing to cheer her. It was the first time she’d been properly away from home. Birmingham felt big and cheerless and she longed to see a familiar face. If only good old Edwin was here with his buoyant approach to life to put his arms round her!