Miss Purdy's Class (16 page)

Blushing, she said, ‘I’m dreadfully ignorant, I’m afraid.’

Daniel watched her in silence for a moment, as if trying to decide something. Then he got up. ‘Just a moment. Let me show you.’

Taking his crutch, he went to the tiny cupboard under the stairs. Gwen heard a sound like a tin box opening. A moment later he came limping back with a big leatherbound book. She was startled. Of course Catholics had statues of Mary and Jesus, but somehow she hadn’t imagined Daniel to be religious. Religion was another thing her family didn’t talk about at home. They simply went to church on Sundays and that was that. Even Edwin, in a funny way, didn’t actually say much about what he believed. It was taken for granted that it went with his calling, with the dog collar.

‘Are we going to do a bible study?’ she asked, flippant in her uncertainty.

Daniel stared at her, then burst out laughing as he put the heavy book down on the table. The sound of his laughter passed right through her.

‘Well, it’s my Bible,’ he said, moving his chair closer to hers. ‘And I dare say Jesus Christ would find a lot in here to agree about. Though Mam might have a go at me for saying that!’

Gwen leaned down to read the gold lettering on the spine. ‘CAPITAL. KARL MARX.’

‘This,’ Daniel said solemnly, his hand stroking the worn maroon leather, ‘is the message of justice and liberation for mankind.’

She was struck by his certainty, felt in herself immediately a hunger to understand what gave him such passionate conviction. Daniel sat down next to her and in those moments she became aware of an overwhelming combination of feelings, as if her whole being, mind and body, was subject to an electric current stimulated by his physical proximity, by his words, the fact that he was about to tell her his thoughts. Once again all the hairs on her body were standing on end, as if raised by a magnet. She gave a small shudder, as if something had stroked her all over.

‘You cold?’

‘No! I’m perfectly all right,’ she said, smiling.

Daniel opened the book. Its flyleaf was covered in tiny writing in a neat, copperplate hand. Gwen saw a note. ‘Read page 786. This chapter is one of the classics of Socialism.’ As Daniel turned the pages, she saw that there were footnotes and annotations in the margins, and sheets of paper inserted between pages, again all closely written over. She read various chapter headings, ‘Commodities and Money’, ‘The Labour Process’, ‘Division of Labour and Manufacture’. Her eyes met Daniel’s.

‘All that writing – did you do that?’

‘Oh yes. I’ve studied every line of it.’

‘But it looks so . . .
dense
.’

‘It’s not easy. But there were lectures, see. I went to the Labour College down London for a time. Now I study on my own, keep it going like.’

‘I’ve heard of it. But I don’t know
anything
,’ she said wretchedly.

And Daniel began to talk. He talked about the working classes, about how the only way they would achieve justice for themselves was by uniting together against the enemy, which was the capitalist system. He talked and talked about Marx and his writings, some of which she understood and some she didn’t. How, in the course of history, capital had become the basis of commodity production. The workers made something from materials that cost almost nothing, and through giving their labour turned it into something that could be sold for profit.

‘Profit is theft from the workers of what is rightfully theirs,’ he said.

Gwen nodded, trying to keep up with him.

‘The capitalist owners have the power to keep the workers in their place. Capitalism survives on their exploitation. And while we’re all divided, our energy sapped, nothing is going to change. Our task in the Communist Party is to unite the workers, that’s when we’re powerful. I’ve seen it – I’ve caught glimpses of it, Miss Purdy, in the valleys, in the coalfields, when the workers unite and speak with one voice.’ His voice was low and passionate. ‘And it’s a vision. A force and a vision of what could be. So yes –’ once again he laid his hand on the book. It was a strong, fine hand and she found herself longing to lay her own over it – ‘it’s my Bible. My vision of the heavenly city if you like. Against oppression and the scourge of fascism.’

She watched him, entranced. For moments, as he talked, he reminded her of Edwin, talking without pause, eager to voice his ideas. But with Edwin she tended to find her mind wandering, whereas with Daniel she was caught by the earnest force of his words. She felt as if her mind, her life, was expanding as she listened to him, as if a wide window was being flung open onto a way of thinking and seeing that she had never experienced before.

‘But . . .’ she stammered, ‘how?’

‘By making them wake up! By education, by speaking and showing people that they don’t have to lie down under oppression! By showing them that unity is our strength. That’s what I do, you see. That’s my life’s work.’

This last statement resulted in a pause, during which Paul Fernandez came in from work. Gwen felt as if she had been woken from a dream.

‘Afternoon, Miss Purdy,’ he said shyly. He was the fairest of the Fernandez children and very like his mother. Gwen guessed him to be about sixteen.

She roused herself. It was time to get home! She was going to be late for tea, and there was no telling what Harold Purvis might accuse her of getting up to.

‘Goodness,’ she said, ‘time’s getting on – and I had marvellous intentions of going to see that boy, Joey Phillips – the one whose mother died. I’ll have to go tomorrow now.’

‘I waylaid you,’ Daniel said.

‘No, I was willingly waylaid. It’s been very interesting – thank you.’ Her words sounded feeble compared to the way she felt.

They stood up and for a moment were unnervingly close to one another. Gwen stepped back.

‘I’ll be here a while longer,’ Daniel said. ‘Will you come and see us again?’

‘Lena. Lena!’

Joey whispered urgently to her in the darkness. There was no reply. He could only hear her rasping breaths beside him.

‘Wake up – you’ve got to get up!’ He shook her, desperate now. Lena’s only response was a little catlike whimper.

All day Joey had waited, trying not to show the neighbours anything of what was going on inside him.
Barnardo’s
. They passed the word around the room with each new visitor, whispered or spoken aloud as if he was deaf or didn’t exist.
Tomorrow morning.
Someone would be coming to take them away. In his mind it was always a man, so tall that his head was out of sight up in the sky, and he would have huge hands, gripping chains which he’d wrap round them like the strong man in the Bull Ring then drag them away to the orphanage.
Orphanage.
The word clanged in his mind over and over, like an iron door slamming shut.

All day he said not a word, but the fear twisted and tightened in him. At last the Simmons family had made their rowdy way up to bed and Joey and Lena were put downstairs to sleep on a straw mattress. Lena had hardly opened her eyes all day. In the evening she woke for a short time and sipped some milk, but then she sicked it up again and went back to sleep.

‘Poor mite.’ Mrs Simmons gave a quivering sigh. ‘Let’s hope she feels better in the morning.’

The room was very dark. Joey lay back for a moment. He could hear the fire shifting, the tap dripping in the yard. There was a smell of bleach. He could not sleep. His heart was thudding. The thoughts hammered at him again. The man from the orphanage was coming in the morning! He had to get away, out of here. Whatever he had to do, they were not taking him away. But what was he going to do about his little sister?

‘Lena!’ He tried again. For the first time since his mother died, tears came into his eyes. He thought of Miss Purdy. Maybe she’d help, but she wasn’t here. He tried not to let himself think of her because it gave him an ache inside. No one was here – not even Lena. Who did he have in the world? Dad – where was he? That was another thought he tried never to have.

The memory of his father’s back disappearing down the entry that day made him cry in earnest. He lay curled tightly on his side. The night pressed round him. He thought of the dark roofs outside, the streets, endless streets beyond them, and he sobbed. Afterwards, without meaning to, he slept.

He woke with a jolt, heart banging hard. He could see the dim shape of the window, the table across the room. Dawn! And they were coming to get him!

‘Lena!’ Frantically, he made a last attempt to rouse her. She did not move.

‘Lena – come on!’ He shoved her. There was no reaction. He’d have to leave her! They’d have to take Lena, but they were never taking him. He’d rather die.

He was seized with the urgent need to relieve himself and he went into the scullery and peed in the bucket under the sink. Then he helped himself to half a loaf of bread. Without a backward glance he went to the door. As he was feeling for the latch, his hand met a garment hanging from the hook on the back. Mr Simmons’s coat. He hesitated. It felt threadbare and soft. It would be far too big, but it would keep him warm. He had nothing of his own. With a jump he managed to get it off the hook and wrap it round him. He tore the loaf in halves and put a piece in each pocket. Then he let himself out into the silent yard.

Fourteen

After the last bell the next afternoon, Gwen walked to the gate among the crowds of children, trying to convince herself that she was not excited, not hoping that Daniel Fernandez would be waiting outside. When she made her way out to the street, Lucy was standing there and smiling shyly up at her.

‘Walking home on your own today?’ Gwen asked.

‘I think so.’ Lucy nodded.

There was no Daniel, but instead, waiting a little way along the road, was Millie Dawson. Some of the younger children were gathered round her and a few others called, ‘Hello, Miss Dawson!’ to her in daring voices.

Gwen waited, smiling, until the children had moved on. ‘Hello! ‘What’re you doing here? It’s lovely to see you!’

Millie smiled wanly from under the brim of her hat. ‘I’m on my way into town.’ She looked towards the school. ‘Everything much as usual, is it? How’s old Monk-face?’

Gwen rolled her eyes. ‘Crabby as ever. I bet you’re not missing her!’

‘No.’ Millie’s eyes filled. ‘I don’t half miss the rest of it, though. Look, Gwen, will you come and see us at the weekend? It’d be good to have a chinwag.’

‘Oh, Millie!’ Gwen saw the tears roll down her friend’s face. ‘Of course I’ll come – I’d love to! I’m sorry you’re feeling so miserable.’

‘I’ll get by.’ Millie tried to smile, wiping her eyes determinedly. ‘I seem to be forever crying these days. I think I’ll go mad if I can’t have a proper talk to someone! Look, I’ll have to go. See you Saturday – about three?’

Poor Millie! Gwen walked along Canal Street towards Joey’s yard with a heavy heart. She was going to Mrs Simmons and felt nervous about what was to come. In her hand was a big bag of sweets. She’d gone out in the lunch hour to find Parks’s Sweet Shop, which was tucked in the lee of the railway bridge where it passed over the junction of Canal Street and Wellington Street. During the school day they heard trains go by, steaming over the bridge. The windows were crammed with jars and bars of chocolate and toffee. Gwen thought of Ron’s terrible teeth and smiled to herself.

‘Yes, bab?’ the woman behind the counter had said. She was very plump, with thick brown hair, and wore spectacles and a big brown cardigan.

‘Hello,’ Gwen said. ‘Are you Ron’s mother?’

‘Yes.’ The woman immediately looked guarded and folded her arms beneath her large breasts. ‘Why?’

‘Oh, nothing to worry about.’ Gwen smiled. ‘I’m his teacher, that’s all.’

‘Oh ar . . .’ Mrs Parks still looked wary. ‘Miss er . . .?’

‘Purdy,’ Gwen said brightly.

‘Oh yes – he’s mentioned you.’

‘Nothing bad, I hope?’

Mrs Parks just looked at her.

‘He’s a good boy, your Ron.’

At this, the woman’s eyes lit up behind her spectacles and she nodded enthusiastically. ‘Oh, he
is
. They’re good ’uns, my boys. Golden, they are.’

Gwen had been taken aback and rather moved by this declaration. Imagine her mother saying that about her!

Now, as she came in through the entry to the yard in Canal Street, Gwen thought the back-to-back houses looked even more mean and dreary than she remembered. Immediately, though, her attention was taken by the two men standing outside Mrs Simmons’s house. They wore long, dark coats and one of them had, tucked under his arm, a child-sized white coffin.

She hovered at a respectful distance until Mrs Simmons came to the door and showed the men in. She spotted Gwen behind them.

‘Oh dear, what a carry on! You’re too late, I’m afraid, if it’s about the children.’

‘Whatever’s happened?’Gwen was appalled. ‘What d’you mean, too late? Is Joey – has one of them passed away?’

‘The girl. When we got up this morning she was laid down there, stiff as a plank . . .’ Mrs Simmons’s voice thickened. She groped in her extensive cleavage and pulled out a rag to wipe her nose. ‘And no sign of the boy. The people from the orphanage came this morning and I had to tell ’em the bird had flown! What they must’ve thought . . . He must’ve scarpered in the night . . .’ She stood back to let the men out again, thanking them. ‘I don’t know if he saw his sister’d passed on and it frightened him, or what. And my husband’s coat’s gone . . .’

Gwen stood, nonplussed, the bags of sweets in her hand.

‘Come in a minute – oh, my word – they’ve put her in . . .’

The coffin was on the table and Gwen looked in at the terrible sight of Lena’s little figure laid in it in her ragged dress, eyes closed, hands laid to rest on her stomach. Dora Phillips had been the first dead person she had ever seen. It was awful for this to be so quickly followed by another, especially a child. She could hardly take it in.

‘Oh God, how awful!’ she breathed. ‘Poor little thing. How could she have died?’

‘Well, she was bad last night,’ Mrs Simmons said. ‘You know, feverish, but I daint think she was that poorly. Ooh – I feel quite peculiar myself.’ She sank down on a chair and mopped her face with her apron. ‘There’s been that much upset . . . My Dolly was beside herself . . . And with the boy going off like that. It’s not good for me, all this – that it isn’t.’