Miss Purdy's Class (3 page)

Still coughing, she tried to nod her head. The tears she had been trying to hold back began to pour out. She sat on the bed, rocking in anguish.

Joey stood up, bracing himself, and frowning fiercely.

‘It’s all right, Mom. I’ll get us our tea. Don’t you worry.’

‘Joseph,’ she snarled. ‘Take Lena to school. Go on, clear off!’

Joey jerked his head at his sister. ‘C’mon.’

The door rattled on its hinges as it slammed shut behind Joey and Lena, letting in a blast of even colder air.

Dora sank her head into her hands.

The day had come – the first day of school. It was what she had willed herself to reach. What choice did she have? Her cheeks burned against her cold, bony hands. Christ, if only she had a few bob for a drop of summat to knock herself out! She couldn’t let herself feel. Not now. It was too late for that. As soon as her eldest left, she’d have to call Mrs Simmons in. She was the only one of the so-called neighbours who’d have anything to do with them now.

Her two young children sat lifelessly. Dora stared between her fingers at the filthy brick floor. A drop of sweat trickled down her back, though her hands were frozen. All she wanted now was to lie down and sleep and not have to wake. God, she and Wally had had dreams. And it had come to this, a slum house up an alley, backing onto the wharf with its dank, stinking air. She thought of her elder son’s pinched face and the pain she tried to keep pushed away in her twisted inside her. The lad was already like an old man. Man of the house, protecting her, going out raking in coppers by selling orange crates as firewood or buckets of horse shite. Christ Almighty. She had thought when Wally took her away from her father’s gross clutches everything would be a dream. And now . . .

Desperately Dora looked at her younger children.

‘Polly, Kenny – come ’ere.’

Warily, they came to her and she pressed their heads to her bony chest, sobbing. She couldn’t stop the pain now, had no way of numbing it. It felt as if her heart was cracking apart.

Joey and Lena went along the entry and out into Canal Street. Both children wore thick, scratchy socks and heavy boots from the
Daily Mail
charity. Joey’s were too big and his feet slopped about in them.

‘Why’s our Mom always crying?’ Lena’s long brown hair was a mass of tangles. The last teeth had fallen out of the old comb days ago. She tried combing it with her fingers, but it didn’t work.

Joey walked with the tough swagger of a much older boy, hands shoved defiantly into his trouser pockets. ‘She’s poorly, stupid. You know that by now.’ They passed the Golden Crown on the corner. Joey was trying not to look at it: his Dad’s watering hole. Many’s the time he’d waited outside for him, been handed a packet of crisps odd times when Wally was in a good humour.

‘I wish she’d stop crying,’ Lena said miserably. ‘Why can’t she get better? My feet hurt.’ She was hobbling. Her boots were too tight, her toes a mass of chilblains.

‘Oh, shurrup moaning,’ Joey said savagely.

The school was halfway along on the right, a redbrick, soot-encrusted building which announced, in figures carved into a stone plaque that it had been built in 1888. The middle of the building was topped by a low spire. Children of infant and junior age were moving towards it in gaggles of three or four, some family groups, some friends, and all from the neighbouring streets, separating into the entrances marked ‘Boys’ and ‘Girls’.

Gwen’s morning had not got any better.

‘Come on, come on . . .’ She found her lips moving. She was going to be late on her first day! The tram seemed to be forever stopping. The pungent smell of sweat was overpowering, with everyone crushed in there together, and she was all in a lather herself despite the cold. Her neat navy coat and hat felt too hot in here. And she was a bag of nerves. There hadn’t even been time to get the splinter out of her foot and she was conscious of its nagging little pain as she stood on the swaying tram.

As they lurched along, bell tinging, the glimpses she saw out of the window did nothing to cheer her up. Birmingham looked even more drab and cheerless than everyone had assured her it would be. All those factories and chimneys smoking – no wonder the buildings looked so grimy and the houses so mean and depressing. Everything seemed to be coated in black!

What
am
I doing here?
she thought glumly.
Mummy was right – this is horrible!

Edwin, however, had been rather in favour.

‘I must say, I think you’re jolly brave,’ he’d said. Edwin was nearly always enthusiastic. He seemed conditioned to be. ‘It’s splendid. You’ll be a great asset to me in the parish – used to mixing with anyone and everyone.’

‘That’s true,’ Gwen agreed. It was not a thought that had occurred to her, but she was glad he was pleased. It made everything easier.

The tram moved along the high wall of the prison and stopped near to the end of Canal Street.

‘Anyone for the nick?’ the driver shouted.

As she crossed over the road and hurried towards the school it began to rain. For a moment she felt a powerful desire to be back in her old school in Worcester. She could sleep in her own bed instead of Ariadne’s, and not have her clothes stinking of smoke or Harold Purvis staring at her chest over the kippers. For a moment she thought of getting back on a train and admitting to them all that she’d been a fool. All she’d have to do then was carry on as before and wait for her wedding. Simple. Predictable. But no. She didn’t really know why she was here, doing something her family kept saying wasn’t ‘her’, but she burned with the conviction that she just had to be. And she’d show them she was right. She pushed her chin out and looked ahead of her along the street, freezing rain stinging her cheeks.

Two

The child had an iron caliper on her leg.

She was among a group blocking the gate into the school. There were four of them, dark haired, dark eyed and Gwen guessed they were all from one family. In the middle of the knot they made, the little girl was crying miserably.

‘You’ll be all right,’ the tallest boy was saying as Gwen reached them. He had a sing-song accent that Gwen couldn’t place. The older girl took the hand of the crying one and started to pull her into the school playground. She seemed in a panic.

‘Come on, Lucy, you’ve got to go in. We’re gonna be late, else. You’re all right, you’re near our mam now. See you later!’

The clock in the school tower said five to nine.
Oh Lord,
I’m
horribly late!
Gwen realized. But hearing the girl’s cries, her distress tore at Gwen. Poor little mite.

‘I don’t want to go in here,’ she was sobbing. ‘Don’t make me, Rosa. Let me come with you!’

Two other children pushed past them to get through the gate. Gwen hesitated. She couldn’t just walk by, so she went up to the children.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘She doesn’t want to go in, Miss,’ the older girl said. She must have been eleven or twelve and had a strikingly pretty face. The four of them drew back, fearful at being challenged by a teacher. ‘She can’t go with us no more – she’s got to go to this school. Only she won’t go in.’

‘You all go to a different school?’

‘St Joseph’s, Miss,’ the girl said.

‘Well, you get along. I’ll see to her.’

They obeyed, glancing back at their distraught sister. Rosa called, ‘See you later, Luce!’ and they departed briskly along Canal Street. The remaining sister was sobbing more quietly now.

‘What’s your name, dear?’

The girl looked fearfully up at her, and seemed slightly reassured by seeing a pretty, smiling face.

‘Lucy Fernandez,’ she whispered.

‘Well, Lucy, I’m Miss Purdy, and this is my first day too. Shall we find out where you are supposed to go?’

The girl nodded, still wary. She sniffed and reached up to smear the tears across her face. Head down, she limped along beside Gwen dragging her calipered leg. In the playground a number of mothers were standing talking. One of them was a huge prizefighter of a woman with a red, beefy face. Gwen quailed. They all looked terrifying and very rough. And how dark and drab their clothes were! Her spirits sank even further.

As they reached the girls’ entrance, a teacher came out and rang a big brass bell, shouting, ‘Into your classes!’

‘Ah, there you are at last,’ a voice said as soon as Gwen set foot inside. She realized this must be Mr Lowry, the headmaster. He seemed to have been waiting for her and stood peering through his spectacles at a brass pocket watch, evidently most displeased. He was tall, thin and balding. Lucy Fernandez immediately slipped away from her side and disappeared from view round a corner.

‘I hope this isn’t going to set the standard, Miss . . . er . . . Purdy.’ He snapped the watch shut and slipped it into his tweedy pocket. ‘The very least I expect is that you will be punctual; you should have been here at least fifteen minutes ago. We’ve a couple of minutes before assembly. Let’s proceed to your classroom now. Meeting the other staff will have to wait.’

‘I’m ever so sorry, Mr Lowry,’ Gwen babbled as they moved along a corridor at high speed. ‘Only I wasn’t sure how long it would take, and I missed the tram . . .’

‘Nothing like a practice run if you’re not sure,’ Mr Lowry corrected her. Gwen felt flustered and unprepared to meet a new class. In the distance she could hear someone thumping out a marching tune.

The pianist, a middle-aged lady, was playing at the far end of the school hall beside the stage. A dark red cloth covered the back of the piano. There were high windows to the left and the floorboards were waxed and shiny. To the right were three classrooms, partitioned off from the hall by a wall which was solid up to waist height, but with glass windows above. A low rumble of footsteps approached and the classes began filing in one by one, filling up the hall in rows along the floor. Gwen saw a young teacher with red hair tied back leading a class in and showing them where to sit. She turned and gave Gwen a friendly smile.

‘You’ll take Form Four,’ Mr Lowry said. ‘Ah – and here come your charges.’

Gwen turned to watch her class file in. All between eight and nine years old, they moved in a restless, fidgeting caterpillar, staring and muttering, some of the more cheeky-faced boys chattering and poking each other. The line seemed to go on and on, a pale, skinny-legged, motley group of children in an assortment of ragged, ill-fitting clothes. Last in the line came the hobbling figure of the little girl with the caliper on her leg, her face still blotchy from crying. Somehow, Gwen felt pleased to see her.

Once all the school was gathered, they sang ‘Praise my soul the King of Heaven’ to the tinny piano. Mr Lowry was on the stage. He looked austere in his tweed trousers and jacket, peering at the children through his little spectacles. Gwen saw that now he had something in his hand which looked like an old riding crop. He only put it down when he picked up a book to read some prayers, after which the whole school parroted ‘Amen’.

‘Today finds us at the beginning of another new term,’ Mr Lowry said, picking up the crop again and fingering it. ‘And I want to begin by saying a few words about discipline in this school . . .’

Seated on a chair beside her class, Gwen felt her heart sink. There was no welcoming smile for the children from this headmaster, unlike at her old school. She had disliked Mr Lowry instantly and had already put him down as petty and probably a bully. She stopped listening to him and stared round her, trying to acclimatize herself. In front of her was the woman with red hair, who couldn’t have been much older than her. The other teachers looked as much of a hotchpotch collection of humanity as the children. Opposite her, across the hall, was a soft, rounded-looking lady with grey hair in a bun and a pink milkmaid’s complexion. She wore a full grey skirt and a blouse covered in striking blue and green swirls. Gwen thought she looked rather comforting. She wished assembly could go on for ever as she felt nervous and ill-prepared for what was to come.

When the children filed into their classrooms, Mr Lowry accompanied her. They stood at the door as the children came in, staring curiously at her and eventually organizing themselves behind the rows of desks.

‘Quiet!’ Mr Lowry bawled, although it already was quiet. The children seemed overawed by him. He glowered at them. ‘What is this pandemonium? That’s better – I should think so. This is your new class teacher, Miss Purdy. You will behave yourselves properly and you will work
hard
and be
polite
. Any trouble from any of you, and you’ll be in my office, and you know what that means, don’t you?’

There was silence. A few heads nodded.

‘What does it mean?’

‘The cane, sir,’ a boy said.

‘Quite right. So bear that in mind.’ And he turned on his heel, looked as if he might salute, then left the room.

Gwen was confronted by a sea of young faces all peering curiously at her. She felt suddenly overwhelmed and full of panic. She had never felt this nervous about teaching before. There were so many of them! Mr Lowry had said fifty-two – twice the size of her form in Worcester. She realized she had not even taken off her coat yet and summoning all her dignity she removed it and laid it on the tall teacher’s chair. She could feel the children’s eyes on her. Her crimson paisley dress had a full skirt which hugged her hips and she had fastened her hair with a matching crimson ribbon. Some advice came back to her that she had been given during her teacher-training course.
Start off tough with them . . . Then they’ll know where they stand with you.

‘Right,’ she said, stepping forward commandingly and wiping any trace of a smile from her lips. ‘We’re going to start off in this class as we mean to go on. Like Mr Lowry said, I expect you to be polite and hardworking. Now –’ she reached under the desk lid. To her relief, what she needed came to hand – ‘I’m going to take the register.’

A little girl at the front leaned towards her. ‘Miss?’ she lisped. ‘We’ve got no monitors yet. For the milk and biscuits, and the dinner tickets.’