Miss Carter's War (25 page)

‘Shame to waste it,’ she said, stretching luxuriously in the chair. Her foot touched his under the table.

‘Yes. I hate waste. We’ve wasted six years, Marguerite. Let’s not waste any more time, eh?’

‘No. Today has been lovely, Jimmy. You planned it so perfectly. An antidote to my daily grind.’

‘I thought when I met you you were wonderful. But perhaps you took life too seriously.’

‘I have a friend who tells me that.’

‘Really? A boyfriend?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Oh. Is it serious?’

‘Yes, but not in the way you mean.’

The little-boy grin.

‘So, will you see me again?’

‘Of course. You are a joy to be with. “Happy happy Liver”.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘It’s what Wordsworth calls the skylark. And that’s what you seem to be. You relish life. You do it so well. It makes me feel very dull.’

‘That’s the last thing you are.’

‘I’ve so liked being with you, Jimmy. I don’t want to go back. I understand the last couplet so well now.’

‘How does it go?’

‘ “I, with my fate contented, will plod on,

And hope for higher raptures, when life’s day is done.” ’

Jimmy frowned. ‘That’s very sad. I don’t want you to feel like that.’

He took both her hands in his.

‘Let’s go for a walk.’

He paid the waiter and, as they left, he gave a regal wave to the still-transfixed clientele. He led her round the corner to the eighteenth-century crescent with its restored black-tiled façades.

‘That’s where Laurence Olivier lives,’ he said. ‘And this is where my friend lives. They’re away. I have the key.’

He looked searchingly at her. ‘Shall we go in?’

She nodded.

Once they were inside the door, all the pent-up passion exploded. He led her, or rather dragged her, up the two flights of stairs to a lush bedroom with a four-poster bed. There they ripped off each other’s clothes, and spent the next two hours doing what they both admitted in gasps was what they had lusted to do since the picnic several hours ago. They groaned, they panted, they laughed uproariously, as they explored each other’s bodies. Jimmy was an expert lover and guided her to new experiences. At one point it crossed her mind it was like an orgasmic gymnastic display. Of Olympic standard.

When at last they lay, breathing heavily, side by side on the bed, Jimmy asked, ‘What was that bit “lift me, guide me” in “our poem” – for that’s what it is from now on.’ Marguerite managed to recite:

‘ “Lift me, guide me, till I find

That spot which seems so to thy mind!” ’

He rose on one elbow and looked at her shyly.

‘Well, did I lift you to the spot?’

‘Yes, yes, you did. Oh boy, you did. It was very much “to my mind”. Thank you, you clever little skylark.’

‘Good.’ He looked pleased with himself. ‘I think champagne is called for.’

In a corner of the bedroom was a fridge from which he took a bottle of champagne and poured it into two beautiful glasses.

‘Lalique,’ he said, as he gave one to her.

‘Wow, your friend must be very rich.’

‘Yes. Stinking.’

Marguerite looked around the room that she had scarcely registered until now. It was luxurious. Voluminous silk curtains in the windows overlooking the sea, as well as draped around the ornate bed, deep pile carpet, adjoining marble bathroom with gold fittings. They put on their crumpled clothes and, carrying their glasses, Jimmy showed her round the rest of the house with its library, replete with first editions, stylish all-white lounge and dining room, with a massive table for serious entertaining.

‘Won’t he mind you bringing me here?’

‘It’s a she. No, she won’t mind. We’re related, distantly. Anyway, she’s in America at the moment. Can you stay the night?’

‘No, I have school tomorrow.’

‘Phone and say you’re ill.’

‘It’s tempting but no, sorry. I have to be there. Do you mind if we go back now? It’s getting late. Shall we clear up here?’

‘No need. There’s a housekeeper who comes in every day. I’ll leave a note and a couple of quid. She’ll be very happy with that. Come here.’

He pulled her to him and looked into her eyes.

‘Don’t leave me again, Marguerite. I need you and I think that you need me.’

Being needed she was familiar with, but apart from Tony, her needing someone was a puzzling concept for Marguerite. Everyone knew good old Marguerite was strong, she was independent, she was reliable, and she was, she realised, often lonely. With Jimmy today she had felt an overwhelming physical closeness that even with Tony, whom she did love, she could not experience. She had adored being cosseted, wooed and possessed. And yes, she needed that.

She kissed him and said, ‘When shall we meet again?’

They agreed on the following weekend and drowsily drove back to London. The pub was closed when he dropped her off at King’s Cross Road. She let herself in, crossed the bar with its smell of stale beer and climbed the stairs, thinking how much had changed since she descended them that morning.

Florrie poked her head round her door.

‘How d’it go, lovey?’

‘Bliss,’ replied Marguerite.

‘Oh wonderful. The punters will be thrilled. You go for it, girl.’

Yes, she thought, as she lay in her too-large bed. I will. Why not? I’ve got nothing to lose.

Chapter 25

Duane had called an urgent staff meeting. Whilst they waited for the headmaster Tony cut to the chase.

‘Did you have it off?’

‘We made love, yes.’

He hugged her.

‘Welcome to the Permissive Society. Better late than never.’

Michael Duane bounced into the staff room with his usual energy.

‘I’ve called you together to discuss the rumours that I know are going around about our school. We have achieved much in our first four years. We have already had some good O level results. Our probationers are down to nine from more than ninety, which is remarkable, and I hope you all agree that the ever-increasing cooperation of the families means that we have become a true community school.’

There was a murmur of agreement from most of the staff, although Marguerite noticed that Mr Fletcher and his gang of naysayers were pursed-lipped. Duane continued, ‘However, some of our governors and a couple of the councillors on the LCC are not altogether happy with us.’ He laughed. ‘I have even heard absurd false rumours that they may close us down. Some of our methods are difficult for people to understand at first, but the results speak for themselves. We will continue to care for and respect our young people in the way we believe is right. I warn you there will be some inspection visits by these sceptics, but I urge you not to be put off by them. You are doing a great job. Thank you.’

Marguerite was dumbfounded. She and Tony were a hundred per cent behind the ethos of the school and proud to be part of it. Duane was one of the most inspirational teachers Marguerite had ever encountered, and she could not believe that the powers that be were not impressed and grateful for the success of his work. She knew nothing of the rumours, but Miss Scott had told her that it was increasingly difficult to find good teachers, which was why class sizes were becoming unwieldy. Marguerite knew there were some who would not apply because they found the school’s unorthodox approach alien, but she now wondered whether the talk of closure was putting people off. Where were these rumours coming from?

The staff room was even more divided now. Duane had engaged foreign teachers to help the diverse nationalities of the intake, and they were not welcomed by the diehards. There were frightened supply teachers covering for regular staff who were treated with contempt by some. Mr Fletcher’s dislike of the headmaster and constant undermining mockery of his approach had several more sympathisers now. As a teacher of long-standing, he probably knew councillors and governors well enough to report his version of what went on in the school.

It was true that some of it would not look good to outsiders. For instance, when the headmaster discovered that Mickey O’Sullivan, a constant truant, was frightened of maths and history, he made a deal with the boy that he could skip them and do carpentry instead, a lesson he enjoyed. It worked. He turned up for all his other lessons. Duane said, ‘He may never be a mathematician or a historian, but at least he’ll be able to spell, and write his name, and make a table.’

The school council was also likely to be frowned upon by those who believed that children should do as they are told, and if not be punished as a matter of course. But Marguerite thought it a wonderful way to make children think seriously about justice and living in a community. On one occasion, a school cleaner reported that her shopping basket had been stolen. Duane reported this in assembly, and asked the culprits to come and talk to him in his study. To their credit and his, two boys did. When he told them that they must give the basket back and apologise they admitted they had already eaten most of the contents. The school council was called upon to adjudicate. One child immediately suggested, as she always did, that the boys should be caned.

Duane countered, ‘Well, that wouldn’t bring back the food, would it?’

‘No, but they’d be punished for doing such a rotten thing.’

Duane pointed to the two boys sitting hunched in front of them all, one near to tears.

‘I think being here with you all cross with them is a fairly awful punishment. Look at them. They don’t look very happy, do they?’

One of the girls said that they should pay Ada the cleaner back what her shopping cost.

‘Right, good idea. Let’s do the sums. How much was it? And how much do Alan and Jack have?’

After some intense calculations, it came to light that even if they put aside a percentage of their money from paper rounds and Saturday work in the market, it was going to take the boys several weeks to repay Ada.

Then Kenneth White, who was good at art, had an idea.

‘Why don’t we sell some of our work in the market to raise the money? And if we make more, then we can give her a present to say sorry.’

One of the girls, whose father had a vegetable stall, persuaded him to give them some space, and they not only achieved their objective, but also showed the public how excellent was the work done in the art and handicraft classes.

‘How much better a school council,’ said Marguerite to Tony, ‘than a caning, surely?’

Tony agreed. ‘That sort of thing goes on at Bedales, Summerhill and Dartington all the time. But they’re middle class, so that’s considered OK.’

Mr Fletcher, who overheard them, interrupted.

‘Those parents have chosen to send their kids to an experimental school, and paid through the nose for the privilege. Ours thought they were going to a perfectly normal school.’

Marguerite was riled.

‘Are you saying it would be more normal if we beat the children?’

Mr Fletcher smiled.

‘Well, let’s see what the inspectors think.’

The one that walked into the middle of Marguerite’s English lesson was a cadaverous man, wearing metal-rimmed glasses and a grey three-piece suit. Councillor Jackson stood at the door, looming over the class, saying nothing, until Marguerite invited him to sit down, and listen to the poems that four of her pupils had chosen to learn. It was an eclectic mix of a brave attempt at a Shakespeare sonnet, a few words from the Beatles song, ‘Love Me Do’, and Timothy Barker, who was mentally slow, managed ‘Old Macdonald Had A Farm’, encouraged by animal noises from the class, who knew what a mighty effort it was for him to participate. It was hard to believe, when she remembered what they were like in the early days, how they now loved these performances. There was much laughter and enthusiastic chatter. Marguerite sneaked a look at the inspector to see if he too was having fun. He was not. His only comment as he left was an incredulous, ‘You did say that was an English lesson, didn’t you, Miss Carter?’

After Councillor Jackson’s frosty reaction, it was no surprise to hear from Duane that the overall report was bad. He had been given a list of criticisms. ‘The children do not hold authority in awe, and friendliness often degenerates into informality’ being one of them. Were it not for the word ‘degenerate’ Marguerite would have considered the comment was meant as a compliment. The inspector was particularly offended by the CND symbol painted on the playground wall. Mr Duane pointed out that all schoolchildren wrote on walls; he even understood that carving names on wood was not unknown at Eton, but of course they were sometimes famous and successful names, so that was all right.

Duane was doing his best to put on a brave face in public. Staying late one night with a troubled student, Marguerite had passed his open door as she left, and saw him slumped at his desk, a glass of whisky in his hand.

She went in.

‘Mike, its serious, isn’t it? Are we really in danger of being closed down?’