‘Don’t you think, Harold’ – Ariadne leant towards him and laid a hand on his arm – ‘that rats are, well . . .
vermin
?’
‘Er, yes, I suppose they are,’ Mr Purvis agreed, his plump face colouring. He edged his arm away and picked up a slice of limp toast.
Gwen sighed and downed the last of her tea. Meals at the table with Ariadne made her sympathize with how a fly must feel caught in a cobweb, though in fact Ariadne more or less ignored her: it was Mr Purvis she was spinning her thread round and round. But Gwen felt more uncomfortable than ever after what happened last night. Or at least, what she
thought
happened.
Ariadne served tea at six-thirty sharp. Gwen left her room and started off down the murkily lit stairs, assaulted by the depressing smell of boiled swede. Mr Purvis appeared at the bottom and started up the stairs with surprising energy. She saw his bald pate moving towards her through the gloom. He looked up, suddenly noticing her, murmured, ‘Oh! Sorry!’ and flattened himself to one side to let her go by, but as she passed him he began to turn again, too quickly, to continue up the stairs. They all but collided and as they did his hand closed over her left breast, just for a second, so that afterwards she was left wondering if she had imagined it. Yet she knew she hadn’t. She kept her eyes on her plate and ate up her singed bacon as fast as possible. Ariadne wiped her full lips with her hanky and complained about the cold.
Gwen prepared herself hurriedly for school – a deep blue ribbon in her hair today – and rushed out, screwing up her eyes against the sudden bright sunlight. She knew now exactly the right time to catch the tram and could get to Canal Street on time in order not to incur Mr Lowry’s fury.
Two weeks had passed in a blur. Each night she came home to the house in Soho Road exhausted, washing herself in a basin of water and sinking into bed early, not even kept awake by the sound of Mr Purvis’s trumpet. After a time it had become clear that Mr Purvis’s repertoire consisted only of one tune, which he told her was ‘I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls’, a piece of information which just about helped her to recognize the trumpet’s wandering vagaries. At least it didn’t stop her sleeping. It was a struggle even to stay awake long enough to write to Edwin, though she did manage it twice a week, sending him cheerful letters full of the doings of school, and receiving equally jolly ones from him about his life in the parish. He always signed off his letters, ‘Look after yourself, old girl. Much love, E.’
She was getting used to Canal Street School’s routines, and the sheer size of it compared with the tiny church school in Worcester – the high ceilings and windows, the ominous groans of the plumbing, the smell of disinfectant and the ragged, grubby state of the children. As the days passed the mass of faces began to settle into individuals, and she learned their names and, gradually, their characters: the naughty ones; the ones like Joey Phillips and Ernie Toms, who always had the elbows of their jumpers out and holes in the seat of their pants; the little boy who scratched and scratched all day, his skin encrusted with the last stages of impetigo; the tooth-decayed grin of Ron Parks; and the vague, slow-witted look of the blonde girl, Alice Wilson.
And there was Lucy Fernandez. Lucy stood out, with her long, dark-eyed face and thick hair, and her lurching gait, hampered by the caliper on her leg. She was a timid child in class, and during Gwen’s turns on dinner duty, she watched Lucy hugging the edges of the playground, obviously trying not to attract attention to herself, keeping out of the way of the able-bodied girls as they flung themselves about with their hoops and skipping ropes. The others called her the ‘cripple girl’. This was not usually meant unkindly, just as a statement of fact. The only one who started to hang about at Lucy’s side was Alice Wilson. Gwen found this strange to begin with as Lucy was clearly a very intelligent child who picked up everything straight away, whereas Alice, though having neat handwriting, hardly seemed to be able to follow the work or complete anything properly in her exercise book.
That morning, though, the class were all to discover something else which made Lucy Fernanadez different. Gwen was standing by the blackboard, writing up long multiplication sums. 643, she wrote, adding x 46 underneath it. Light poured in through the long windows, sunbeams dancing with dust. The class fidgeted, longing to be out playing.
‘Now.’ Gwen pointed at the chalky numbers with a ruler. ‘Who can tell me the first thing we have to do?’ She moved the ruler between the six and the three. ‘Alice?’
Alice Wilson squinted at the blackboard. A desperate expression came over her face and she blushed in confusion. Some of the others had their hands up and a couple sniggered at Alice’s discomfort, but Gwen persevered.
‘Quiet, the rest of you! Come on now, Alice – six times three? Surely you know that by now?’
A light dawned in her face. ‘Eighteen, Miss,’ the child whispered.
‘Yes. Good. Now – what do we do next?’
Before anyone could answer there came a little clattering noise from the middle of the room. The children all craned round to see what was going on, then started giggling, staring at the floor. In the last fortnight Gwen had established her authority over them, but they knew she was not so fearsome that they couldn’t afford the occasional laugh in class.
‘What’s the matter?’ Gwen asked sharply.
‘It’s Ron, Miss,’ one of the girls volunteered. ‘His pocket’s got an ’ole in and his sweets ’ve fallen out.’
Ron Parks’s face was split in a black-toothed grin.
‘Ron, come up here.’
The boy got up. As usual he was wearing a thick wool jumper, which covered his shorts reaching almost to his knees, and was trying to clutch at the hole in his pocket, but as he came up to the front a trail of several more sugar-coated pellets dropped to the floor, red, yellow and green, rolling away under the benches.
‘What are those?’ Gwen asked.
‘Liquorice comfits, Miss.’
‘And what are they doing in your pocket?’
‘I was going to eat ’em after school, like.’
Gwen stared at Ron, trying to suppress at smile at the artless cheekiness of his face.
‘No wonder your teeth are the colour they are, Ron,’ she said severely. ‘Do you want to spend the rest of your life sucking soup off a spoon because you’ve got no teeth?’
‘Dunno, Miss Purdy.’
‘Why do you eat so many sweets?’
Ron looked bemused. ‘That’s what there is. I live in a sweet shop, like.’
‘Oh, I see.’ At this, Gwen could no longer prevent herself smiling. An image came into her mind of Ron’s entire family settling down in the evening with their knives and forks poised over platefuls of liquorice comfits, dolly mixtures and coloured marzipan. ‘You do know sugar rots your teeth, don’t you?’
‘No, Miss.’
‘Well, it does . . .’ She was about to enlarge on this when there came another crash to her left. Lucy Fernandez had toppled off her chair and into the space between the desks. Gwen rushed over to find the child lying rigid on her side, hands clawlike, her body convulsing.
‘Oh my goodness!’ Gwen cried. The child’s face was tinged with blue. Her eyes were half closed. She saw immediately that Lucy was suffering from some kind of fit, but she had no idea what to do.
‘Stay in your places!’ she cried, and ran next door. She was about to hiss ‘Miss Dawson’ to get Millie’s help, when to her horror, instead of Millie’s friendly face, she saw the severe features of Miss Monk. The woman’s head whipped round.
‘Yes?’ It was almost a snarl.
Gwen went up close. ‘Could you please come and help me a moment? One of my girls seems to be having a fit.’
Miss Monk turned to the class. ‘If any of you move or speak it’ll be straight to the headmaster’s office.’
‘Looking for attention, I expect,’ she said to Gwen. ‘Soon sort her out.’
To Gwen’s relief most of her class were still seated at their desks. One or two were in a huddle round Lucy Fernandez, but the others all looked frightened.
‘Out of the way! Sit down! How dare you block the aisle?’ Miss Monk roared at them. She cuffed one of the boys round the ear as he moved away, then stood looking down at Lucy. Peering over her shoulder, Gwen saw that the child’s face had returned to a more normal colour, but she was still convulsed, her body in spasm.
‘Hmm. Seems genuine,’ Miss Monk acknowledged grudgingly. ‘Need to get something in their mouths, stop them swallowing their tongues. Give me that rule.’
Taking the ruler which Gwen used to point at the blackboard, Miss Monk squatted down, flustered, a lock of hair working itself loose from her bun and hanging over one ear. She rammed the edge of the ruler between Lucy Fernandez’s lips, forcing it back as if she was taming a horse to accept a bit. Gwen winced.
‘Is that really necessary?’
Miss Monk’s brawny complexion turned even redder. ‘Are you questioning my judgement, Miss Purdy?’
‘No, but . . .’
‘Did you, or did you not, ask for my help?’
‘Yes,’ Gwen agreed. She clenched her hands to stop herself pulling Miss Monk away. To her relief she saw that Lucy Fernandez was beginning to lie still, her muscles more relaxed, but then she saw a pool of liquid spreading out from under her. Miss Monk noticed it a few seconds after and recoiled in disgust, backing away from Lucy’s prone body.
‘She’s wee’d herself,’ Gwen heard one of the children whisper.
‘Oh,
really
,’ Miss Monk exclaimed. ‘Filthy little beggar!’ She stood up, and to Gwen’s horror swung her leg, and with her flat, brown shoe delivered a hard kick into the small of Lucy Fernandez’s back. The child let out a grunt, as if air had been expelled from her lungs. Gwen gasped.
‘What on earth do you think you’re
doing
?’ she burst out. ‘I don’t think that was necessary, was it?’
Miss Monk looked as if she was going to explode. She seized Gwen’s wrist.
‘Come with me, Miss Purdy.’
She forced Gwen out into the hall.
‘I’ll thank you not to question my judgement,
Miss Purdy
. Especially in front of a class of children. What do you know? Coming in here all dressed up like a fourpenny rabbit! You’ve only been a teacher for five minutes and don’t you forget it. It was no more than she deserved.’ Her face twisted with disgust. ‘Trying it on like that. Messing on the floor.’ She went to go back into the class, but turned for a second. ‘You needn’t go running to Mr Lowry. He’d never believe you.’
She marched back into the room.
‘Go and fetch a mop,’ she ordered a plump boy, Kenny Campbell. ‘And hurry up about it! Miss Purdy, make that girl get up now and stop malingering. That’s quite enough!’
Gwen was trembling with shock and rage, though she tried not to let the class see. Once Miss Monk had swept out of the room, she took a deep, emotional breath. She was appalled by what she had just witnessed. She had never before seen a teacher treat a child with uncontrolled viciousness. For a second she felt violently homesick for her old school, with its homely ways, and Edwin popping in from the church to help with assemblies. But she became aware of her class watching all this in cowed silence and tried to compose herself.
‘We must look after Lucy,’ she said, and was surprised she could sound so calm. Avoiding the pool of urine, she went to kneel beside the girl, laying a hand on her head. Lucy’s hair felt thick and wiry. She was lying still and appeared to be asleep, her pale face composed. She was not as strikingly pretty as Rosa, the sister who had brought her to school, but the slender line of her cheeks, her almost translucent skin and, when they were open, large dark eyes, combined to give her face an overall sweetness, and Gwen felt tender towards her, especially in the light of all the physical burdens she had to bear. She looked up at her silent class, sensing that in some way they had drawn closer together through sympathy with what had happened.
‘Jack – go and find Mr Gaffney for me, please.’ She knew the gentle assistant headmaster would help arrange to get Lucy home.
She would have liked to pour out all that had happened to Millie Dawson, but Millie had apparently been taken ill, which was why Miss Monk had taken her place. The staffroom felt lonely without Millie to chat to. Gwen went in at dinner time, dreading having to see Miss Monk again. The woman’s cruelty and bitterness horrified her.
She must be unhinged
, Gwen thought. Of course the children were aggravating and a trial at times, but there was no need for that!
Miss Monk was in the staffroom, but had settled herself in the corner with her back to the world and was reading a book in a manner that forbade anyone to come near her. For a moment Gwen felt like doing something childish to release her feelings – sticking her tongue out or thumbing her nose at the woman’s forbidding shape.
‘Would you like to give me a hand, dear?’
Lily Drysdale was in the corner near the scullery, kneeling in front of what looked like a pile of old rags, sorting through them. Seeing Gwen, her face lit up under its frame of soft, white hair. Looking at her, though, Gwen realized that despite her white hair and spectacles, Miss Drysdale was not as old as she had supposed. She was wearing an unusual dress with a large-buckled belt at the front, in a fabric of a thick, loose weave in a rich green, a colour she seemed to favour. She shifted back on her knees a little with a grimace, then gave a rueful smile.
‘Legs aren’t what they used to be!’
Drawn in by her, Gwen knelt down. ‘What are you doing?’
Lily spoke quietly. ‘I do what I can to give a bit of extra to some of the little ones. You’ll have seen the state of their clothes. Some of these families are living under such terrible strain. I ask around for contributions, you see. People have got to know – my neighbours and so on.’
‘How kind,’ Gwen said, touched. ‘There are certainly a few in my class whose clothes are in shreds.’ She thought of Joey Phillips. His filthy, ragged state was not the only thing that had struck her. She found her gaze often drawn back to Joey’s intense, frowning features. Just occasionally, when he was playing with Ron, or when his face relaxed, she saw that his pinched, wide-eyed face had a real beauty.