Free Miss Carter's War by Sheila Hancock Page A

few sniggers.
    ‘It was a landmine, miss.’
    A hand went up. ‘My dad.’
    Another hand.
    ‘And mine.’
    And another. Three fathers in all, and two brothers. Marguerite came out of her whirlwind of fury and saw the pinched, sober faces trying to work out how to deal with such an outburst, from what was presumably a teacher.
    Marguerite herself was bewildered.
    ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
    This was even more alarming. A teacher apologising to them. Although they were not sure for what.
    An eager-to-please child, with unkempt hair, was thrusting her hand in the air.
    ‘That’s eight, miss. That’s right isn’t it, miss? Three, plus two, plus three. How many do you make it, miss?’
    ‘Yes, that is correct, dear.’ Marguerite hesitated. ‘I was going to say 51 million, but three friends, three fathers and two brothers is much worse. I’m so sorry.’
    And now they saw a teacher’s tears.
    Marguerite felt a cool hand on her arm. The head indicated the door, where a frail, youngish woman was apologising for her absence.
    ‘Never mind, Miss Wilberforce. 5c, Miss Wilberforce is back now, get out your books and get down to work.’
    As they walked back to her room, the headmistress sighed as the noise-level rose again behind them.
    ‘She won’t last the week.’
     
    Over a cup of tea Marguerite apologised for her unprofessional behaviour. She was embarrassed by her outburst. Miss Scott was sympathetic.
    ‘I deal with this on a day-to-day basis. I have grown accustomed to it, but I remember when I first came to this school, after the wonderful theories of teaching I learnt at college, and then a post in a civilised little Direct Grant school in leafy Surrey, I too couldn’t believe it, but now I know it’s true and I have to get on with it.’
    Marguerite was dumbfounded.
    ‘How on earth do you cope?’
    ‘I suppose because I care about them – if that doesn’t sound too wishy-washy. As you found out, those kids have suffered. Bombing, evacuation, fractured families. And now, when they expected peace to be wonderful, it isn’t. There’s dreariness everywhere. Only bomb sites to play in, rationing, and prefabs to live in.’
    Marguerite said feebly, ‘Well, there’s the National Health.’
    ‘True, their teeth will improve, but the education they’re getting is lamentable. We’ve let them down.’
    ‘But their behaviour towards you—’
    ‘They’re youngsters with no hope, no self-respect. So why should they show it to others? They have sat in their primary school class and heard the names read out of the successful with grammar school places, and realised that they were going to be dumped in a secondary modern or a tech. Herded together with all the other failures.’
    ‘I hadn’t realised.’
    ‘If I didn’t have fifty in a class, and teachers like that poor mouse, I could turn their lives around, but they have been branded as rubbish at eleven, so that is what they will be. We are producing a lost generation here.’
    ‘But things have improved. Girls at my school have been lifted out of their backgrounds to be given a tiptop education.’
    ‘But are they comfortable there?’
    ‘Yes, I’m sure they are.’
    Then she thought of Elsie and Irene. Miss Scott raised a plucked eyebrow.
    ‘I hope so. I do so hope so.’
    Marguerite recognised in the headmistress the same reforming zeal as she herself had, but in Miss Scott it was swamped by exhaustion. Closeted in her safe little world Marguerite had had no idea such schools existed. She was so privileged to be at a grammar school, for all its sometimes irksome rigidity.
    When she reported back on her visit, Miss Fryer’s reaction was in accord with that strict ethos.
    ‘They are given too much freedom at that school, admittedly partly to do with overcrowding. You see, Miss Carter, during the war children ran wild. They must be tamed. They need tactful discipline from teachers and, essentially, parents too, with clear standards. Too