She's Leaving Home (11 page)

Miss Plumb’s eyes flickered at the unnecessary boast. ‘Good. I want you to try
Tess
, then. And you can write me an essay on Hardy’s treatment of women in both novels when you have finished. Brenda?’

‘Baroness Orczy,’ Brenda confessed. ‘
The Scarlet Pimpernel.
I only read it for relaxation –’

‘
A Tale of Two Cities
for you. And if you don’t see why when you have reached the last page, I have made a mistake with you. Colette?’

‘I have been trying
War and Peace
, but I keep forgetting which character is which.’

Miss Plumb suppressed a smile. ‘A common problem. Keep it for the holidays. Here –’ she went to a bookshelf, ran her finger over the volumes, then selected one and handed it over, ‘– try Tolstoy’s short stories instead.
Master and Man
. Superb. Helen?’

‘Grahame Greene.
Brighton Rock
.’ It was a slightly mischievous answer, and Helen knew it. The headmistress pretended to be shocked.

‘A modern novel? Good gracious. And such seedy characters. Did you buy it?’

That was impossible. ‘No – I have a reader’s ticket for the Central Library in town. They have a new fiction section –’

With a dismissive gesture Miss Plumb moved on, but she did not suggest any alternative, and it occurred to Helen later as she rolled the conversation back through her mind’s eye that the teacher must have read the novel to have made the remark she did.

For the next ten minutes Miss Plumb outlined the Oxbridge system, the college and tutorial peculiarities, the byzantine entrance requirements and the additional studies necessary were the girls to have any hope. The discussion was littered with the names of Miss Plumb’s room-mates and fellow-students who had risen to positions of academic importance. It was name-dropping and
intended to impress, and largely succeeded.

Normally the colleges, each of which conducted their own examination papers and interviews, would not consider candidates until the seventh term of sixth form, that was until the autumn
after
A levels when results were known. For the private sector that arrangement was understood and built into timetables and curricula. For state schools whose families had little to spare it presented a serious barrier, for staying on required an additional year which could have been spent on a degree course elsewhere, hastening the arrival of a proper pay-packet.

‘However, I have had a long conversation with my friend Dr Swanson who is the Dean of Admissions for my former college, St Margaret’s,’ continued Miss Plumb. ‘She tells me that the Cambridge authorities have expressed alarm at the exclusive nature of the undergraduate intake. Far too high a proportion comes from privileged homes, especially from the Home Counties. Far too many boys, it is alleged, are made offers because their fathers were there, or because of sporting prowess. The worry is that future academic achievement might be at risk.’

‘Or that a future Labour government might change the rules,’ murmured Meg.

Miss Plumb pursed her lips. ‘Be that as it may, these worries may be to our advantage at Blackburne House. St Margaret’s is keen to attract more applicants from the state sector and from the north of England. Particularly in science. You, in other words.’

The girls sat quietly. Then Brenda spoke.

‘It’s natural you should want us to go to your old college, Miss Plumb, or one similar. But is that best for us? We don’t come from down south like you and our families haven’t got money to burn.’ She hesitated.

The headmistress’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Aha! This happens every year. I smell foolishness and ignorance. Just because you hail from the north and speak with Liverpool accents – scouse, isn’t it? – you think you’re not suited to our most ancient seats of learning. You think you’d be unhappy there, discriminated against, is that it?’

‘They’re a long way from home,’ Brenda explained half-heartedly. ‘Not many people like us.’

‘All the more reason for you to choose them,’ Miss Plumb concluded briskly. ‘Goodness, Brenda, I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t think you were all quite capable. And you are. Handpicked, each of you. Is that clear?’

Her gaze swept from one pale face to another. ‘Good, then we’ll have no more argument about it. I want four entrants next year – a record for this school – and I’d like four successes.’

She paused to let the message sink in. Before her Brenda relaxed and grinned broadly. Meg snorted. Colette kept her eyes down but ran her fingers through her hair, almost furtively. Only Helen, eyes fixed firmly on the teacher’s face, did not move.

‘It means that they will entertain applications from grammar schools
before
A levels – that is, this autumn, on the basis of our assessment of your likely grades. You can apply for the greatest centres of academia in Europe at the same time as you try for, say, Leicester.’ A note of triumph.

‘Does that mean we are more likely to get in?’ Brenda could not conceal her curiosity. She is like a big daft Labrador puppy, Miss Plumb thought, with all that breed’s energy, loyalty and generous nature. Meg is a snappy inbred terrier, Helen a long-established workmanlike sort with a touch of class – a spaniel, perhaps, or an old kind of hound which ran with kings. And Colette? Poor Colette, such a brilliant mixture, with no pedigree whatever, and no predictability about either stamina or temperament. But were I obliged to choose, it would be Colette.

‘On the contrary,’ Miss Plumb answered sternly. ‘You will be attempting papers when you have completed barely half the A level syllabus. And you will be competing with girls a year older – or, in Helen and Colette’s cases, two years older and that much more mature. You won’t be the only ones, of course,’ she added hastily at the look of alarm on the two faces, ‘and these considerations will be taken into account. The college is seeking potential, not mere paper qualifications.’

The prospect of being pioneers intrigued them. Miss Plumb waited. Helen broke the silence.

‘So: are we guinea pigs, or are they genuinely keen to break the mould?’

‘Mixed metaphors, Helen. You will have to learn to avoid them. But I take your point. My own view is that we have a unique opportunity and must endeavour to make the most of it.’ 

She reached for a pile of folders. ‘Now will you please go and work in the Library and come back in one at a time. Helen, you will be first, so stay where you are.’

As the others filed out and shut the door Miss Plumb flicked through Helen’s dossier. The girl sat patiently. Yet it was all she could do to keep her hands from trembling.

‘So: Helen Majinsky. You are supremely capable of going on to university; your previous examination history is exemplary and your current teachers think highly of you.’

Helen nodded. ‘I like the courses. Mrs Egerton in particular teaches very clearly.’

The headteacher smiled inwardly at the tact and grace of the remark. ‘Have you persuaded your parents to let you go?’

‘So far. My father has said he will sign. At least he said “We’ll see” when he could have refused point blank. But nobody mentioned  Oxford or Cambridge. That’s different.’

‘Why?’

Helen shifted restlessly. ‘It’d mean being away from home – so would, say, Manchester or Leeds, but they’re not so far and I could get home for weekends.’ She did not add, they have big Jewish communities and synagogues which I would be expected to join so they could keep an eye on me. And relatives, so I would be denied the freedom of halls. Denied freedom of any kind.

‘Thoroughly bad proposal. The greatest benefit of undergraduate life is the friendships you make which you’ll keep for ever. The student who endlessly dashes home misses a great deal. Anyway Oxford and Cambridge are hardly the end of the world. Your parents could come to visit you.’

‘I don’t think they will – or that they would see it like that. It’s not mere physical distance – it’s so hard to explain and I don’t quite understand it myself, since I don’t
feel
the same way they do. It’s broader than that. Something to do with a fear that if I do go, I’d be pulled away from them for ever.’

Miss Plumb’s eyes narrowed. ‘That does not have to happen unless you want it to.’

Helen could feel a lump form in her throat. It came to her suddenly that if she were not very controlled she might cry. From her sleeve she pulled out a handkerchief and began to twist it in her hands.

‘But if I do get into Oxford or wherever, it’s much more likely that I – wouldn’t ever properly come back. I’m aware of that, and my parents are too. Yet I don’t want –’

She stopped. In an effort to keep her eyes from filling with tell-tale tears she lifted her chin and stared out beyond the teacher’s head to the rooftops and skyline beyond. Miss Plumb checked herself and swivelled around so that her back was almost to the girl.

‘You don’t want to stay, yet you don’t want to leave, is that it?’

Miss Plumb turned back and leaned across the desk, fixing her most potent glare on Helen.

‘Now listen to me. You owe it to yourself, Helen Majinsky. What have you been taught daily in this school? That you should do your best under all circumstances. You are very bright – not quite up to Colette, who I know beats you in exams. But you are more certain to complete a degree course and put it to good use. If you develop that potential, you are doing with your brains what God intended when He gave them to you. You have a commendable sense of duty to your family, Helen, but you also have a duty to yourself. In so doing, you’re far more likely to benefit the rest of mankind, and your own race, if I might venture an opinion. Far more so than if you stayed in this city and became a – became a secretary, say.’

Helen looked both startled and downcast. The teacher pressed home her case.

‘I believe in you, Helen. You have a spark in you which can best be nurtured by the finest education you can lay hands on. Then, my dear, you will be the better equipped in future to cope with the conflicting choices which are being forced on you now.’

The handkerchief was screwed into a tiny ball. The girl herself probably needed no convincing. What she did require were the arguments and vocabulary with which to convince her opposition. Miss Plumb tried one last time. She rose and moved to the other side of the desk and laid a hand on Helen’s shoulder. Her voice softened.

‘Your parents are proud of you, are they not? Of course they are. And you would do your utmost to make them even prouder. Helen, my dear, I can guarantee you this. Should you win a place at St Margaret’s younger than nearly everyone else, your name and photograph will be on the front page of the
Liverpool Echo
the day after your success. Writ large. Your parents’ friends would stop them in the street, wave copies under their noses and congratulate them. That’d work, wouldn’t it?’

Annie rolled over and opened one eye. ‘What’s the matter?’

It was pitch dark and quiet. Not a chink of light came through the curtains. The street lamp outside the house had long since switched itself off.

Daniel had thrown back the blankets and eiderdown and was seated on the edge of the bed, thin legs planted wide on the rug, bent over, his head between his knees. The white woollen vest and underpants, his usual night attire, were the same garments he wore in daytime. That was normal, but his silent distress was not.

He raised his head for a moment. She guessed that his face would be screwed up in misery. He ran his hands up and down his calves and the inside of his thighs, pressed hard and kneaded his knuckles in at the tight places.

‘Cramp,’ he muttered.

She peered drowsily at him. She ought to offer to get up and make him a drink. ‘That’s the third time this week. What did the doctor call it? Something sclerosis.’

‘Atherosclerosis. Fancy name for hardening of the arteries.’ He rubbed his thumb down the inside of one calf and pressed back his toes. The action made his feet tingle; the blood supply was returning. ‘Full of smart-alec information, the quacks, but they don’t give you anything to help.’

‘You been to see him again?’

Daniel ignored the question and Annie knew better than to repeat it. Her husband’s hatred and distrust of doctors was impelled by his fear of hospitals. He had seen sufficient of them when he was a kid and smelled enough carbolic, he declared, to last a lifetime. Had surgery been suggested he would have refused.

‘Says I got to stop smoking.’ Daniel stood up gingerly and moved around the room, slowly and quietly to avoid disturbing the children. The two spoke in low tones. ‘And not to drink. I don’t touch a drop, I told him. Shows how little they know.’

He had walked round to her side but did not sit. Instead he paced back to his own side, then repeated the manoeuvre, stretching the calves at each step. As her eyes adjusted she could see that his mouth had a grim twist.

It must have been eight or ten minutes before he stopped pacing. ‘Bit better,’ he murmured and sat down on the bed. He did not apologise for waking her, but tiredly patted her arm. ‘Getting old, lass.’

Then he lifted the covers and slipped his chilly legs inside.

Annie lay still. ‘You’re only fifty. Too young to be an invalid yet, surely?’ Daniel did not answer, though she could tell from the flicker of his eyelashes that he was awake.

She tried again. ‘Did the doctor offer to prescribe you a painkiller at least, or sleeping tablets?’

‘Oh, yes. Dope addict stuff,’ Daniel grunted in reply. ‘Barbiturates. If I’d have taken them I couldn’t drive. And you know, Annie, that without the car I can’t run the business.’

What did it mean, this hardening of the arteries? It obviously gave her husband a lot of pain. Combined with the interrupted sleep it made him peevish. His daytime behaviour was less tolerant and more erratic than it used to be. The pattern worried her. He could dismiss the repeated incidents and pretend they hadn’t happened but she could not. She had anticipated, naturally, that the time would come when age and decrepitude would overtake them, but not so soon. She was still capable of having children – it was out of the question, of course, but in her mother’s generation babies had arrived to women in their forties. Her own periods came with brutal regularity, so she must still be fertile.