Free Miss Carter's War by Sheila Hancock

huts in the back to accommodate the overflow for which the main building was too small, and one scrubby grass field, marked faintly for both hockey and football together, which must have been confusing for the players.
    The headmistress, Miss Scott, was surprisingly young and attractive. She wore a pencil skirt and white blouse, nylon stockings and high-heeled shoes. Her short black hair was bobbed, revealing pearl earrings. When Marguerite broached the reason for her visit, she soon realised the feminine appearance hid a steely determination. She was subjected to a diatribe, delivered in cool measured tones that belied their content.
    ‘I don’t think you are aware of what we are up against here, Miss Carter. You have clever pupils with supportive parents.’
    ‘Not all of them—’
    ‘Maybe, but the vast majority. We are left with the rejects.’
    ‘Surely—’
    ‘I’m sure you are going to say that with the right guidance they could improve. Too true. With the right teachers. But who would want to work here? Not you, for one. Lousy facilities, rotten pay and a school full of children who at eleven have been branded failures.’
    ‘I can’t believe that—’
    ‘Come with me.’
    The headmistress led Marguerite down a grubby corridor towards a cacophony of shrieks and raucous laughter. Looking through the glass panel of the classroom door Marguerite saw a chaotic scene. There were about fifty youngsters running amok. Two boys were fighting viciously on the floor, others were banging their desks in rhythm to bloodthirsty chants, and girls and boys were bellowing with excitement.
    ‘Right. Fancy taking this lesson? It’s English. The teacher has no doubt gone to vomit in the toilet, which is probably preferable to confronting 5c. Be my guest.’
    ‘No I—’
    ‘Bit different from your grammar school girls, eh? Sitting with their hands in their laps, avid to learn.’
    It certainly was different. Marguerite had never in her life seen children so out of control. She had come across wild individuals like Elsie, who, it was her professional credo, could be tamed, but this was a roomful of unrestrained children running riot. The sight of such chaos appalled her. The latent wartime fright that she was learning to master, with its dry mouth, lurching stomach and shaking legs, surged up inside her so that she feared she might faint. Her instinct was to retreat, run away, but she heard Miss Scott’s voice.
    ‘Right. Once more into the breach.’
    Taking a deep breath, Miss Scott entered. The room quietened slightly until, as Marguerite followed her in, one boy wolf-whistled. He was reinforced by other cat-callers. With sergeant-major-like strength Miss Scott shouted, ‘Sit’, whereupon one lad jumped to attention and started goose-stepping with a finger under his nose.
    ‘Ja, mein Führer. Achtung. Sieg Heil.’ Some of the others joined in.
     
    The shrill commands. The clanging of boots on the cobbles. Through a crack in the shutter, the girl watches the three uniformed men stride down the street. The one in front has a clipboard and is checking the numbers. They stop outside Rachel’s apartment and hammer on the door. They shout up at the windows .
     
    ‘Be quiet. Shut up, shut up.’ Marguerite was shaking. ‘How dare you make a joke of it. The horror.’
    Coming to her senses, Marguerite was aware that she must have spoken. The children in the classroom were staring at this demented stranger. Miss Scott too was looking at her. Quick, take command of the situation. Control was essential. She wrenched herself into teacher mode, turning it into a learning opportunity.
    ‘Do you know how many people died in the war that you find so funny?’
    Silence.
    ‘Come along now. How many? D’you mind, Miss Scott?’
    ‘No, please go ahead.’
    The room was now quite still.
    ‘Come on, you were making enough noise just now. Cat got your tongues? How many?’
    A girl’s voice, quietly:
    ‘Three in our road.’
    A