One afternoon, after the class was ended for the day, I was alone in my classroom correcting papers, when there was a knock and Mrs. Pegg entered. I stood up and invited her to come in.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Pegg.”
“Good afternoon, Sir. I see you’ve remembered me.”
I did not reply to this, but waited for her to continue.
“I want to talk to you about the room, Sir. You see I didn’t know that you was Babs’ teacher, you know what I mean.”
I knew what she meant then, and I knew what she meant now.
“I think we’ll just forget about the whole thing, Mrs. Pegg.”
“But I can’t forget about it, Sir. Babs has been after me day and night to come and talk to you about it. You can have the room if you like, Sir.”
“That’s all right, Mrs. Pegg. I’ve changed my mind about the room.”
“Have you got another one somewhere else locally, Sir?”
“No, Mrs. Pegg, I’ve decided to remain where I am, at least for the present.”
“What shall I tell Babs, Sir? She’ll think you’re still mad at me, that’s why you won’t have the room.”
There was very real concern in her voice. Barbara must be quite a girl, I thought, to be able to put the fear of God into someone as massive and tough-looking as her mother.
“Leave it to me, Mrs. Pegg. I will have a word with Barbara and explain the situation to her.”
“Oh, Sir, I’d be glad if you would; I didn’t mean no harm that day, and she won’t let me forget it.”
I was finally able to get rid of her. I did not believe for one moment that she cared whether I found a room or not, but, as was characteristic of so many of these women, she would have willingly submerged her own opinions and prejudices to please her daughter. I was not, on reflection, bitter about Mrs. Pegg’s refusal. It was understandable that in the present state of things a mother might be disinclined to have a male lodger sharing the same small house with her teen-age daughter; my being a Negro might even strengthen that disinclination, though it could not excuse her crudely discourteous behavior. What really mattered was that Barbara did not share her mother’s snap prejudices; if the young ones were learning to think for themselves in such things, then even that painful incident had been worth something.
Later that day I found an opportunity to talk with Barbara. I mentioned that her mother had wanted me to take the room but that I had decided to stay where I was.
“But you would have had it at first, Sir, if me Mum had let you?”
“That’s true, Miss Pegg, but you know we all change our minds about things.”
“Are you still mad at Mum, Sir?” She wanted so desperately to be reassured.
“No, I was a bit annoyed at first, but not now. I think it is very generous of both of you to make the offer and I am grateful. Tell you what, if I need to move at any time, I’ll let you know and if the room is available I’ll have it. How’s that?”
“That’s okay, Sir.”
“Good, now we’ll forget the whole thing until then, shall we?”
“Yes, Sir.”
She smiled, completely relieved. She was a good kid, and perhaps would, in due course, be able to teach her mother a few more lessons in the essential humanities.
Chapter
Fourteen
THE AUGUST HOLIDAY WAS a lazy time for me. I spent most of it in reading, visiting exhibitions, going to the theater, ballet, and concerts. I had two letters from Gillian, who was holidaying with her mother at Geneva—gay, informative letters about places visited, sights seen, and things remembered and waiting to be shared. It would be wonderful to see her again.
When the new term began nearly half the class was absent, away in the hop-fields of Kent with other members of their families. This was a routine, annual affair, a kind of working holiday in the country. Most of the moving spirits in the class were away and the others felt a bit lost, evidently missing them and as anxious for their return as I was.
Pamela was back at school, but seemed a somewhat changed girl. She was quiet, moody, aloof, and showed no wish to participate in the midday dance sessions which were once her favorite interest. I assumed that she was missing Barbara Pegg who was away in the hop-fields with her mother, and hoping that soon everything would be as before.
By the third week of September they were back, and, as I had hoped, much of the old spirit was soon reestablished. They told me about the fun and games they had had on holiday, of the money they had earned and the things they hoped to buy with it. Barbara Pegg was back and I expected that Pamela would quickly throw off the blues which seemed to have settled rather heavily on her, but, though she smiled occasionally, she remained wrapped tightly in some mysterious brooding disaffection, which seemed to take from her that wonderful vitality which I had so much admired.
She fell into the habit of remaining in the classroom during recess, and doing lots of little things for me without being asked, showing a strange aptitude for anticipating my wishes. She would keep my table tidy and fetch a cup of tea from the staffroom. Clinty laughingly complained that the girls were keeping me away from the women, and though I protested, it was true that each recess found me surrounded by a large group of my class, boys and girls, who never seemed to tire of asking me more and more questions about myself, and telling me about their homes, interests and hopes for the future. The realization that only about three months of school life remained to them stimulated their interest in everything.
I was introduced, in absentia, to most of the members of their families and very soon I learned of the new job “our Joannie” had secured; of the girl “our Alf” was going steady with; of the difficulties at home since “our Dad” was on strike at the Docks; when “our Mum” was expecting the new baby. I was part of it and very happy to be so much a part of it.
Sometimes I’d arrive in the morning to find a small parcel of wedding or birthday cake on my desk, always addressed simply to “Sir;” then at recess the child concerned would tell me all about it, whether it was from herself or some other member of the family. I was always expected to eat the piece of cake then and there with my cup of tea.
Pamela was always there, just on the edge of things, listening, observant and silent. She seemed to have become overnight a grown woman; her hair no longer hung down in a pony-tail but was carefully plaited in two large braids which were in turn carefully fixed at the back of her head in an attractive bun. Her grave expression added a certain dignity to every moment. I felt that I could probably help her if I only knew what the matter was, but I could not intrude on her privacy, and I decided to wait until she got over it or some occasion presented itself for me to help. They mattered to me, all these children, and anything which bothered any one of them bothered me too.
One morning during recess Denham brought a new football to me; with him were Potter, Fernman, Jackson and Seales.
“Please, Sir, will you help us to lace this up? Mr. Weston promised to attend to it for us but now he says he’s too busy.”
The way in which they put a request always amused me; it seemed to suggest there could be no question of my refusing. They came to me with the complete assurance that whatever the case was I’d be agreeable and helpful. There was no denying them.
“Okay. Denham, let’s have it.”
The girls wandered away to leave us men with our work; only Pamela returned, somewhat apart. We pumped the ball hard, and while two of the boys held it firmly down on the table I laced it up tightly. In threading the thing through the last eyelet hole, however, the steel lace slipped and made a small wound on my finger, from which the blood slowly trickled.
“Blimey, red blood!”
Potter’s large friendly face wore a look of simulated surprise, and the other boys burst into laughter at his goggle-eyed stare. Pamela moved over quickly to Potter.
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p; “What did you expect, fat boy? Ink?” she hissed at him; then calmly, disdainfully, she walked away to sit straight and aloof in her seat.
“Cor!” Denham gasped at the sheer venom of her attack.
Seales and Fernman merely stared from Potter to Pamela and back again, wordless with surprise. Poor Potter was flushed with embarrassment and stammered:
“I didn’t mean anything, Sir; what I meant was, your color is only skin deep.”
I finished the lacing and opened the drawer of my table to find the strip of Elastoplast I kept there. I was annoyed with Pamela for the unnecessary and quite vehement attack on Potter, but could think of nothing I could do about it without worsening an already delicate situation.
The boys walked over to Pamela, who observed their approach with cool unconcern.
“What’s up with youse?” Denham planted himself squarely in front of her, and stuck his jaw forward belligerently.
“Are you addressing me, Denham?”
“Yes.” Pamela watched him and waited.
“All right, Miss Dare then. What’s up with you?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Denham.” She was cool, taunting.
“Pots was only being funny, and you had to go for him like that, and right in front of Sir. What did you want to call him ‘fat boy’ for?”
“He’s fat, isn’t he?”
Pamela’s gaze shifted from Denham to Potter and traversed him from top to toe.
“I was only having a little joke and Sir didn’t mind,” Potter offered, lamely, quailing under Pamela’s examination.
At this, Pamela rose in one fierce, fluid motion. Eyes blazing, she stood straight before Potter and in her anger seemed to tower above him, her voice thick with emotion.
“Doesn’t mind? How do you know he doesn’t mind? Because he’s decent about it and never lets on? Daft, that’s what you are, the lot of youse, daft, stupid, soft!”
I sat down and watched, mesmerized by the concentrated anger of this red-headed Fury, who seemed to grow larger as she continued, her eyes boring into the helpless Potter.
“How would you like it if they were always on to you, fat Potter? Idiots, that’s what you are, idiots! My life, the silly things you ask!” She screwed up her face and fell into scathing mimicry:
“Do you ever wash, Sir? Do you feel the cold, Sir? Do you ever have a haircut, Sir? Stupid, that’s what you are, all of youse.”
“Cor, good old Pamela!” exclaimed Tich Jackson.
Pamela swung around to fix him with her eyes, but Tich quickly altered it to:
“I mean, Miss Dare.”
“Sir said we could ask him anything we liked, didn’t he?” persisted Denham. He was unable to match Pamela’s quick cutting intelligence, but he stood firm, trying to cope with one idea at a time.
“You shut up, Denham. Call that asking questions, always on about his color and that? Can’t think of anything else to ask about?”
As if unwilling to spare any of them she suddenly turned on Seales, who had, as usual, been playing the part of interested bystander.
“And you, you ought to know better.”
“Steady on, what have I done? I didn’t say anything.” He sounded rather alarmed.
“You never say anything. You’re colored too, but you just sit back and keep your mouth shut. Are you scared of this lot?”
She was wonderful, tremendous in her scorn and towering anger: Boadicea revivified, flame-haired, majestic. Seales watched her for a moment, with a patience that made him centuries older than the virago before him.
“I really don’t think they meant any harm, Miss Dare. When they ask questions they’re only trying to find out about things they don’t understand.”
Pamela was not to be mollified. “Then why don’t they ask you if they’re so keen to find out?”
“I’m not Sir, Miss Dare, I only wish I was.”
Denham tried once more to make his point. “Sir doesn’t need you to stick up for him. Who do you think you are?”
“I’m not sticking up for him,” Pamela flared, “I’m just sick and tired with all your silly remarks. And who I think I am is none of your business, Mr. ruddy Denham. Red blood, indeed!” She used scorn as incisively as a surgeon’s scalpel.
Potter turned away, calling over his shoulder: “Come on, fellers, let’s go down; she’s crackers, she is.”
They turned to follow him and had reached the door when Denham, struck with a sudden thought, retraced his steps and said in a hoarse whisper:
“Know what’s eating you, you’re stuck on Sir, that’s what.”
Without waiting for her reply, he rushed through the door, leaving it to slam loudly behind him. Pamela remained standing where she was, mouth open, gazing at the closed door; then she looked towards my desk and our eyes met. I may have looked as foolishly surprised as I felt, for she blushed deeply and rushed through the door.
So there it was. Somewhere deep inside of me I had known it all along but had refused to acknowledge it, because, in spite of her full body and grown-up attitude, she was to me a child, and one who was in my care. I could appreciate that the emotional stirrings within her might be serious and important to her—it was not uncommon for girls of fifteen to be engaged or even married—but though I liked and admired her, she was to me only one of my class, and I felt a fatherly responsibility for her as for all the others. If Denham’s remark was evidence of a general feeling about it, things might be a bit sticky, but he had blurted it out so suddenly that I guessed it was merely an impulsive shot in the dark. I needed to discuss this with someone. Not Gillian, because that would mean I would have to acknowledge the truth of her warning, and I was in no mood to hear her say “I told you so.” Grace. Yes, she would be able to advise me in this, for, coming from the same background and stock, she had considerable understanding of the problems of these girls.
When Grace returned from the dining hall that afternoon I whispered to her that I wished to see her privately, and together we went up to her classroom. She listened without interruption until I had finished; then she said:
“Well, Rick, are you surprised?”
“Look, Grace, this is no time for jokes. I need advice because this thing is quite outside my experience.”
“I’m not joking, Rick. This sort of thing happens all the time wherever there are men teachers and girl students, from the Infants, right through to High School and University. Here, sit down and let me bring you up to date.”
We made ourselves comfortable and she continued:
“There hasn’t been a really good man teacher in this school for ages—I’m not including the Old Man. We’ve been having a procession of all types. The fellows these girls have seen here have been, on the whole, scruffy, untidy men who can’t be bothered to brush their teeth or their shoes, let alone do something about their shapeless ill-fitting clothes. Good God, these twerps tottle off to a training college and somehow acquire a certificate, a license to teach, and then they appear in a classroom looking like last week’s left-overs!”
In her vehemence she had risen and was walking up and down, her arms folded tightly across her bosom. Now she stopped in front of me.
“Then along comes Mr. Rick Braithwaite. His clothes are well cut, pressed and neat; clean shoes, shaved, teeth sparkling, tie and handkerchief matching as if he’d stepped out of a ruddy bandbox. He’s big and broad and handsome. Good God, man, what the hell else did you expect? You’re so different from their fathers and brothers and neighbors. And they like you; you treat them like nice people for a change. When they come up here for cookery or needlework all I hear from them is ‘Sir this, Sir that, Sir said’ until I’m damn near sick of the sound of it.”
Grace had got quite worked up as she was speaking. I had not seen her show so much emotion before.
“You see, Rick,” she went
on, “I’ve known these kids a long time, been teaching here nearly twenty years. I’ve seen many of them as nippers in their prams, so I know all about them and I like them, every one of the snotty-nosed little bastards. You’ve made good on this job, Rick. Only the other day the Old Man was saying the same thing to me. You treat them with kindness and courtesy and what’s more they’re learning a lot with you. Be patient with Pamela. She’s only just finding out that she’s a grown woman, and you’re probably the first real man she’s met. Be tactful and I’m sure she’ll pull herself together.”
I got up and moved towards the door. I had been given more than I had asked for, and I felt humble and grateful.
“Thanks for the chat, Grace, you’ve been very helpful.”
“Come and see Auntie Grace any time you’ve got troubles,” she laughed.
I was half way through the door when she said, as if in afterthought, “I like Miss Blanchard, don’t you?” I turned away without replying.
Grace was right. The emotional outburst must have released some of the tension building up inside Pamela, for in a little while she seemed to throw off some of her aloofness and bad temper, and once again entered into the community spirit within the classroom and at the midday dances. Now and then I would notice a look of worry on her face, but I could see nothing to account for it and hoped it would soon disappear altogether.
Recently, Mr. Florian had fallen into the habit of dropping in on us and entering into our discussions, thus adding to them the benefit of his wide and varied interests and experiences. It was a treat to have him there, perched on the side of one of the children’s desks with his arms clasped about his knees, his eyes shining with delight as he spoke or argued with them, prodding, cajoling, encouraging them to express their own views in a clear and fearless manner. He was like a favorite visiting uncle with a pocketful of surprises. I rather suspected that many of them would have liked to hug him, such was their feeling for him.