A Kiss and a Promise (19 page)

She was still thinking how lucky they had been when Sandy gave a shriek. ‘Are you or are you not watching the perishin’ toast?’ she shouted. ‘I smell burning.’

Mabel gave an equally ear-splitting scream and dived across the kitchen, pulling the grill pan out from under the flame just as the edges of two of the four pieces of toast actually caught fire. She grabbed a fish slice and beat the toast until it merely smouldered, then turned the slices and began to sprinkle grated cheese on the uncooked sides. ‘Sorry, sorry, I was dreaming,’ she told her friend.

‘I’m quite looking forward to the start of the new term,’ Sandy said, just as the kettle boiled. She took it off the stove, which was a modern gas one, a great improvement on the one they had been using when they had shared a room in Wigan, and began to make a pot of tea. ‘In schools like this the kids really respond to teaching, and though I’m no saint, I went into teaching in order to make things better.’

‘Yes, well, whatever the reason, we’ll soon know if we’ve done the right thing,’ Mabel said. The cheese was bubbling nicely and she switched off the grill and arranged the slices of toast on two plates. ‘Do you want some pickle with this, or a nice big blob of tomato ketchup?’

‘I think I’ll go for pickle this time,’ Sandy said, beginning to pour two cups of tea. ‘What do you think of our revered headmistress, eh? She’s not much like Miss Bristow, is she?’

Mabel thought about the past few years. She and Sandy had lived in the same tiny Suffolk village and gone to the old-fashioned little village school. There had only been two teachers, Miss Brown, who taught the children until they were nine or ten and Miss Bristow, the headmistress. Both teachers had the soft accents of rural Suffolk, and had ruled their pupils mainly by threats of ‘tellin’ your mum and dad what a bad child you’ve been’ when someone proved obdurate. It was a mixed school, though the teachers preferred the girls to sit on one side of the aisle which divided each room into two, and the boys on the other. Infants, of course, mixed far more freely, and in the playground it was pretty well a free-for-all, though again girls tended to keep to themselves, despising the rougher games which the boys enjoyed.

Sandra and Mabel had both come from large families where money was scarce. They lived in adjacent cottages a short walk from the centre of the village and their fathers were farm labourers who made ends meet by growing a good deal of their own food in the long, narrow cottage gardens. There were seven young Holmeses and five young Derbyshires, and it had speedily become obvious to both girls that if they were ever to escape from the rural poverty which surrounded them, they would have to work hard at school.

Miss Bristow had thoroughly approved of their desire to better themselves, particularly since most of their fellow pupils were not in the least interested in education but spent their time in school gazing out of the window and longing for the end of the day. So she had arranged for them to have what she called ‘extra tuition’ after school for half an hour each day, and had actually invited them into her own home – the schoolhouse, attached to the school itself – during the holidays to learn to play on her old upright piano, to go further into the mysteries of mathematics than the school could take the generality of its pupils, and to read her large library of assorted books. She had never charged their parents for any of this help, though Mr Holmes and Mr Derbyshire, well aware of the dearth of good jobs in the small village and the cost of transport to anywhere else, had seen that the teacher was supplied with eggs from their hens, vegetables from their gardens and fruit from their trees, even if it meant sometimes having to tighten their own belts.

When the time had come for the two girls to leave, Miss Bristow had suggested that they become pupil teachers, for the numbers at the school had grown from thirty to fifty, and she and Miss Brown were very stretched as a result. As pupil teachers the girls learned invaluable lessons in discipline, whilst they continued to work with Miss Bristow at holiday times and after classes were over. Then, when they were eighteen, she had told them of a one-year college course which would gain them a proper teaching certificate, if they had decided teaching was the career of their choice.

The year in college had been happy beyond their wildest dreams, and they had worked harder than ever, emerging at the age of nineteen with excellent references from all their college teachers, and with the teaching certificates which would ensure them jobs in the profession of their choice.

Naturally enough, they had begun to look for work immediately, and would have had little difficulty, had it not been for the fact that they were determined to stay together. They realised, of course, that they could scarcely hope to get jobs which would enable them to live at home, for the village was tiny, many miles from the nearest town, and had a thrice weekly bus service. So they had looked and looked, and when they found the school in Wigan which wanted teachers for Standards I and II respectively, they had applied at once, and got the jobs. They had moved into lodgings, but after two years Mabel had decided she would like to teach rather older children so they had begun to scan the education journals again. They had eventually found the advertisement for an infant teacher and a person to teach Standard VI at Rathbone Street School in Liverpool. They had applied, been granted interviews, and been offered the jobs; so here they were, settling into lodgings once more.

‘Mabel! I asked you what you thought of Miss Mackie and you went off into a dream. She’s very different from Miss Bristow, but I reckon she’ll turn out to be all right, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I think so,’ Mabel said absently. Their new headmistress was neither elderly nor soft-spoken, as Miss Bristow had been. Miss Mackie was probably forty or so, with a strong Liverpool accent which the girls had found difficult to understand at first. She had thin, greying hair, pulled off her large bony face and fastened at the nape of her neck in a hard little bun, and a pair of glasses, gold rimmed and very small, which seemed to spend most of their time on a narrow piece of black ribbon hanging round her neck. She wore sensible flat shoes, masculine-looking pinstripe suits in grey or navy and was capable of out-shouting the noisiest pupils. She had warned both girls that punishment, frequently needed, was handed out by all teachers in the form of a ruler on the palm of the hand, but in special cases, where a member of staff sent an erring child to the head teacher’s study, she wielded a cane with great effect, either on the palm of the hand or across the backs of the legs.

‘I don’t believe in overdoing the cane,’ she had told them when they came to look round the school, ‘but this is a tough area, young ladies, and you’ll find some of the children do not take kindly to any form of authority. If you give an order and they flout it and go unpunished, then you’ll find they never obey you again. Naturally, this cannot be allowed, so corporal punishment is a sad necessity. Unless you can achieve instant obedience for any command you may give, a few smart blows with the ruler is much more effective than a thousand words.’

Neither girl had much relished this advice, for the children in their previous school had not needed such methods to keep them in line, but looking at the area surrounding the Rathbone Street school, Mabel had an uneasy suspicion that Miss Mackie was right; some strong deterrent would be needed to stop these children from overstepping the mark.

‘Shall we eat in here, or do you want to take it up to our room? The dining room’s awfully big and gloomy when there are only the two of us in it.’ Sandy had arranged the plates and cups on a tray and now looked enquiringly across at her friend. ‘Which is it to be?’

Mabel looked out of the kitchen window. The sun was shining and the garden was a pleasant enough place, though somewhat overgrown. Their landlady had explained that the garden had always been Mr Evans’s pride and joy and had been kept very neat. Since his death a couple of years previously, however, she had made no attempt to do anything out there, save to have a man in once a month to cut the grass.

‘Let’s take the tray outside,’ Mabel suggested. ‘I know it’s September, but the garden is pretty well sheltered and the sunshine’s beautifully warm. We shan’t get many more days like this, so we might as well make the most of it.’

Sandy agreed and presently the two of them settled themselves comfortably on the grass and began to eat. It was, after all, still holiday time, Mabel told herself, munching the cheese on toast. When the schools were out, she and Sandy could be girls again; time enough to revert to being teachers when term started.

‘It’s the last bleedin’ day of the holidays, Ginny Bennett, an’ if you won’t come with me, I’ll bleedin’ well go by myself.’ Danny Levitt’s face was one enormous scowl and he ran his hands, impatiently, through his curly mop of mousy brown hair, streaking his forehead with dirt. ‘I’m tellin’ you, there’s fellers what’d give their eye teeth for a day in New Brighton an’ all you’ve gorra do is either find the money for the ferry crossin’ or sneak on board when no one’s lookin’. What’s it to be?’

Ginny stuck out a mutinous lip. The two of them were down by the Pier Head, watching the ships draw into the landing stage whilst streams of workers jostled their way ashore and pushed past the children, perched on the rails of the floating bridge. ‘It’s all very well for you, Danny,’ she said crossly, ‘your hair ain’t bright ginger. Folks see me hair and remember it. I’ve gorras much chance of sneakin’ on to the ferry without bein’ noticed as a snowflake in hell. Oh aye,
you
could do it, ’cos you look like every other kid mooching about the waterfront, but I’m con-spicuous.’ She said the last word slowly and with great emphasis. ‘Con-spicuous, do you understand?’

‘You’re just usin’ long words to make yourself sound more interesting,’ Danny said scornfully. ‘What you mean is, you dussen’t gerron the ferry wi’out a ticket, an’ that stingy ole bag as you call your gran ain’t likely to give you nothin’, norrif she can help it. My dad said t’other day that she wouldn’t give a body a cold unless they was willing to hand over cash, and it’s true, ain’t it?’

‘She’s tight wi’ money all right,’ Ginny admitted. ‘But it ain’t that, honest to God it ain’t, Danny. It’s – it’s gettin’ ready for school. I’m goin’ in to a new class – I missed most o’ last year – and I do truly want to look … oh well, like the others, I suppose. I’ve got me shoes, me stockings and a blouse. Nothing’s new apart from the shoes, but they all look awright. Only … only I’ve gorra have a decent skirt, either grey or navy, and tomorrow’s me last chance of gettin’ one. If only you’d help me!’

‘Tell you what, then,’ Danny said, after a pause during which he stared pensively out over the dancing blue waters of the Mersey. ‘If you an’ me tries to earn some coppers right now, before we goes home, would you come wi’ me tomorrer? I know it’s too late to hump heavy shoppin’ home for someone, or get ourselves some old orange boxes to chop up so’s we can sell ’em as bundles of kindling, but there must be something we can do of a summer evening!’

Ginny considered this. It was a generous offer because Danny had no need to scrap round for school clothes. His kecks might be worn and old, having been purchased for his brother three or four years previously, but they would be clean and patched. Mrs Levitt was always grumbling that she had more kids than was decent, but she worked hard to give them whatever she could and it sometimes seemed to Ginny that Danny’s mother spent every evening darning, patching and mending for her various offspring.

‘We could try, I suppose,’ she said rather doubtfully. ‘But a decent skirt is going to cost a bob or two. I dunno as we can make that sort of money, not this late on.’

‘Tell you what,’ Danny said suddenly. ‘Remember them big skips at the back of the market, where the stallholders chuck out stuff they don’t want at the end of the week and the dustbin men take it away to some old rubbish tip somewhere? Some of the fellers say you can pick up quite decent stuff now and then. Bobby Smith keeps rabbits and he reckons to feed ’em from old cabbage stalks an’ that, which he gets from the skips.’

Ginny drew herself up to her full height, which was only a couple of inches short of Danny’s, for all he was two years older. ‘I don’t mean to go scrabbling in the bin for filthy old fades an’ then find I can’t bleedin’ well sell ’em, ’cos all the kids are doing it,’ she said roundly. ‘An’ what good’s cabbage leaves? D’you think I’m goin’ to sew them together to make meself a skirt, eh? You’re off your bleedin’ rocker, Danny Levitt.’ This spirited reply started Danny giggling, whereupon Ginny tried to box his ears and in two minutes the two of them were rolling on the ground, each with a handful of the other’s abundant locks.

The fight ended when Danny managed to flatten Ginny, grab her by both wrists and sit on her stomach. By now they were both laughing, animosity forgotten, though Ginny said weakly: ‘Let me up, do, or I might have to bite you, though I know from experience that you taste horrible.’ The pair scrambled to their feet and climbed back on to the railings, dusting down their clothing as they did so. Finally satisfied that she had removed most of the dirt, Ginny took a deep breath, yawned and then said sarcastically: ‘Have you any other bright ideas, cleverdick? If we gorrenough wool, I dare say you could knit me a skirt!’

This set them off giggling again but presently Danny said reprovingly, ‘This won’t do, we’re wasting time. I know there’s a deal o’ fruit chucked away each night outside St John’s Market – don’t you hit me, Ginger, or you’ll regret it – but it weren’t those skips I were thinkin’ of. Paddy’s Market has skips too an’ there’s all sorts in ’em – broken china, odd shoes, clothes what are too worn to sell, bits o’ rag – oh, all sorts.’

‘I know, and you think that there might be a decent school skirt which would just fit me but had been chucked out by mistake,’ Ginny said wearily. ‘I’ve got rags of me own, ta very much – I’m wearin’ ’em now.’

‘Don’t you jump in?’ marvelled Danny. ‘Ain’t you never goin’ to give me a chance to finish what I’m sayin’? I’m not denyin’ we
might
find a skirt what’d fit you, but that ain’t the point. The point is that on a Friday there’ll be a full skip an’ today’s Friday, ain’t it?’