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‘Your Mrs Danvers was quite horrid to Priscilla when she arrived late and she threatened to report her. The child was almost in tears when her only crime was to rescue a cat. The woman didn’t see me until I made myself known and said I’d deal with it.’ She paused. ‘I don’t like her.’
‘None of us do. But she’s been here for donkey’s years and thinks she runs it.’
‘I’m going to keep a close watch on her and if I find she’s being unpleasant to the children I shall take it further.’
‘It would serve the old bat right.’ She hesitated, then said, ‘Just one thing, Lana.’
Lana wondered what was coming. She braced herself.
‘Thanks for doing the cottage. It looks a bloody treat.’
Lana gave an exaggerated sigh of relief. ‘Long as you keep it looking that way,’ she said.
The rest of the evening passed in more or less friendly conversation. Janice told her a bit about Wendy Booth.
‘Nice woman. Engaged to be married, poor dear.’
‘Have you met him?’
‘No, I don’t need to. Don’t trust any of ’em.’ Janice pulled a face. ‘He’s in the Merchant Navy – that’s all I know. She doesn’t see him for months on end.’
A cold chill slid down Lana’s spine. But this sailor was alive, whoever he was, and Dickie was dead. She felt Janice’s curious gaze.
‘What about your love life? Have you got a bloke hidden somewhere?’ Janice asked.
‘Not really,’ Lana said, her eyes pricking. ‘Look, Janice, I’ve enjoyed the evening and I don’t want to sound rude, but it’s been quite a day, so I think I’ll turn in early. Do you mind?’
‘Suits me,’ Janice said, her lips tightly pulled.
‘I’ll say goodnight, then.’
Janice simply nodded.
After cleaning her teeth, Lana drew the blackout curtains. She’d laid out her nightdress earlier so she slipped it on and climbed into bed. It was still only just gone nine but the room was cold. She would read for a few minutes in the dim bedside light. Tomorrow was going to be a day to reckon with.
She sat against the pillow, the iron bedhead digging into her shoulders, her book propped up against her bent knees, but couldn’t settle to read. Her mind was too busy thinking about Janice. She’d felt the teacher’s resentment loud and clear but had been shocked at what she’d had to go through, hearing her husband tell her to her face he’d fallen in love with another woman. Janice was attractive with her dark hair and dark brown eyes, but she obviously hadn’t laughed much lately. Lana had the distinct feeling that Janice didn’t normally go into the kind of detail she’d poured out yesterday evening to most people.
But Janice had been better company after she’d disclosed the reason why she’d been so upset to share what she’d thought of as her cottage. Lana wished she’d been brave enough to tell her about Dickie. It would have been a relief to talk to a stranger about him.
To stop herself from wallowing in self-pity she opened her book and bent her head to focus on the print, but the words blurred one into the other and she yawned again. This time she felt herself drifting …
Lana was up and dressed and had eaten her breakfast before Janice came downstairs, bleary-eyed.
‘There’s tea in the pot,’ Lana told her.
‘I feel as though I’ve spent the night boozing,’ Janice said, rubbing her eyes. ‘Don’t know what’s the matter with me.’
‘Maybe if you had something to eat in the mornings you’d feel better,’ Lana said briskly. ‘There’s a little porridge left over. I was going to give it to the birds.’
‘They’re welcome to it.’ Janice pulled a face. ‘But tea’d be nice.’
‘I’m off then – first day.’ Lana tried to keep any apprehension from her voice, but Janice gave her a sharp look.
‘One bit of bad news,’ she said. ‘Mrs Danvers will have to show you where everything is as Wendy and Joan Ford and I have classes first thing. I don’t think you’ve met Joan. She teaches the younger ones.’
‘I can cope with Mrs Danvers,’ Lana said. ‘You should see the kind of headmaster I came up against at my last school.’
‘Do you mean you were a teacher like Wendy and me?’ Janice demanded.
Lana nodded, furious with herself for letting that piece of information slip out.
‘So you’ve not had any experience as a headmistress?’
‘Not exactly,’ Lana admitted. ‘But I’ve been in teaching all my working life and—’
‘So’ve I,’ Janice interrupted, ‘but they turned down my application.’ There was deep resentment in her tone.
Oh, not another thing for Janice to get worked up about.
‘I’m sorry,’ Lana said, meaning it.
‘Not your fault,’ Janice said, her brow furrowing. ‘I bet it’s because I’m soon to be a divorced woman bringing shame to the school. I suppose I’m lucky they didn’t get rid of me.’ Janice gulped down the rest of her tea and rose to her feet. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better get ready to face another day. Good luck, Lana. I’ll be interested to hear how you get on.’
Mrs Dayton looked up from her typewriter as Lana opened the office door and strode in.
‘Oh, it’s you.’
Lana fought down the bubble of anger at such rudeness. She pasted a professional smile on her face.
‘Good morning, Mrs Danvers.’ Lana hesitated for a theatrical moment, then said in a mortified voice, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I mean Mrs Dayton, of course.’
The woman threw her a look that was supposed to have turned her to stone, but Lana didn’t bat an eyelid. Instead, she continued in an extra pleasant voice: ‘I know you must be busy but I wonder if you can spare me half an hour to show me my office, and where things are generally – keys and such.’
Mrs Dayton gave her a pitying look.
‘Your office,’ she said, mockingly. ‘You will be sharing my office.’ She jerked her head towards the second desk, pushed tight into a corner.
‘Is that where the previous headmaster sat?’ Lana asked with an innocent expression.
‘Of course not,’ the woman snapped. ‘His office is through there.’ This time she jerked her head towards a closed door. ‘And he’ll be coming back once this war is over.’
‘But until that time it will be my office while I’m taking his place,’ Lana said firmly, with a smile she was far from feeling. Aware of the woman’s malevolent eyes on her, she marched over to the door and tried the handle. It was locked. She turned. ‘May I please have the key, Mrs Dayton?’
‘Mr Benton specifically asked me to keep it locked at all times.’
‘The key.’ Lana held out her hand, palm upwards.
Pursing her lips, Mrs Dayton opened a drawer and took her time looking for it. Finally, she handed it to Lana without a word.
‘Thank you.’ Lana looked towards the files on Mrs Dayton’s desk. ‘I think I’ll find my way round Mr Benton’s office and leave you to get on. Perhaps after lunch you’ll show me what you’re working on – explain exactly what your rôle is.’
‘I am his personal secretary,’ Mrs Dayton said, leaving a gap between every word.
‘That’s very good news,’ Lana said, smiling. ‘I’ll be depending upon you to do the same for me.’
One – nil to me, Lana thought, as she unlocked the door with a tremulous hand, thankful Mrs Dayton couldn’t see it. She mustn’t show any sign of weakness. She shut the door behind her and walked over to Mr Benton’s desk. He was a methodical man by the look of it; nothing on it except a telephone, an ashtray, a lined pad and a few pencils in a holder.
She spent the next hour checking the records for the number of children who attended: sixty-three in total, according to the cards in the index card drawer. She made a mental note to read through each one giving brief information on age, date of birth, subjects studied, et cetera before the week was out. Their school reports must be kept in a separate file, she thought, searching in another drawer. Yes, here they were. She removed half a dozen files and opened one. It was Priscilla’s, from her previous school, The Liverpool College for Girls, dated 10th January 1943.
Priscilla Morgan, b. 21st March 1931.
The Liverpool address had been crossed out and a new one inserted: Bingham Hall, Bingham, Liverpool.
Subjects: Arithmetic, English, Scripture, Geography, History, Art, Needlework.
Priscilla can speak a little German, taught to her by her aunt whose husband was German. Both subsequently lost their lives in the Liverpool Blitz in August 1940. Priscilla particularly enjoys literature and has played the lead twice in school plays with great aplomb.
Priscilla understandably has difficulty with her school work since her parents sadly were killed in January 1943. It is recommended that she attends Bingham school to sit the last year again, now that she will be living at Dr Barnardo’s orphanage, Bingham Hall.
Once she is able to come to terms with her bereavement, and with her determination, I am sure she will do very well in the future.
Freda Daunton (Miss)
Headmistress
Poor Priscilla. How humiliating for her. Lana skimmed the report again and grimaced when she read that Priscilla could speak some German. She hated the idea of British children learning that language. But it would be useful if Britain lost the war— She brought herself up sharply. How could she possibly think like that? Of course they were going to win. The alternative was too horrible to contemplate.
There was a knock at the door and Mrs Dayton walked straight in and handed her a sheet of paper.
‘You’ll be needing this,’ she said. ‘Your timetable for the term.’ With that, she spun on her heel and was about to leave when Lana stopped her.
‘Mrs Dayton? One moment, please.’
‘Yes.’ The woman still had her back to her.
‘It might be easier if you could face me.’
Mrs Dayton turned, a scowl on her heavy features.
‘In future, would you please knock and wait for me to tell you to enter,’ Lana said crisply, but her heart was beating hard. It was going to take all her grit to be a match for the woman and show her right away who was boss, however nervous she felt inside. She pulled herself up straighter in Mr Benton’s black leather swivel chair. Somehow sitting at his desk gave her a modicum of confidence, and she couldn’t help a wry smile as she looked directly in Mrs Dayton’s eyes. ‘You see, Mrs Dayton, it might not always be convenient for you to walk straight in.’
‘Very well.’
Lana was rewarded by a hard stare from cold dark eyes, but at least this time the woman marched out, slamming the door behind her.
Lana shrugged. No wonder the teachers called her Mrs Danvers. If there was any trouble she was sure it would come from her direction. Sighing, she glanced at the teachers’ timetable. Good. Her first class in English would be the first period after dinner – two o’clock.
She busied herself in the office, studying the curriculum and preparing for her English class. It seemed they were mostly ten- and eleven-year-olds, and as Mr Shepherd had warned her, Priscilla would also attend. They were reading Great Expectations. From what she now knew of the child, at least Priscilla would shine in that class.
Lana was at her desk in the class well before the children filed in at two o’clock. Mentally she counted them. Thirty-two. She smiled.
‘Good afternoon, children. I’m your new English teacher, Miss Ashwin.’
‘Good afternoon, Miss Ash-win,’ they chimed.
Lana noticed Priscilla was in her place at the side, mouthing the words.
‘You may be seated.’ There was a scrambling and scraping of chairs. Lana waited until they were still. ‘What I’d like you to do is to stand up, one at a time, and tell me your name and I’ll repeat it, so I can get to know you all.’ She glanced at a child on the end of the first row, and nodded.
A thin girl got to her feet. ‘Jennifer Sands.’
The child had difficulty saying her “s’s” and a boy sitting close to her sniggered. She’d have a word with him later.
One by one they stood up and stated their names. Priscilla, sitting on the side, was last.
‘Priscilla Morgan.’ She looked round the class silently, warning anyone not to disagree. ‘And I don’t like being called “Pris” or “Prissy”.’
‘Thank you, Priscilla, and thank you to the rest of the class. Now turn to your books. I believe you’re reading Great Expectations.’
‘We’re not reading it.’ A tall boy with challenging eyes shot his hand up. ‘Mr Benton used to read it to us as if we’re all babies.’
‘I see.’ Lana drew in a breath. She was on home ground now. ‘Gregory?’
‘I’m Greg, Miss.’
Lana nodded. ‘Greg, would you tell us where you’ve got to?’
Greg flipped over the pages and ran his finger along one of the paragraphs, miming the words.
‘Page twenty-eight.’
‘Good.’ Lana looked at him. ‘You can have the part of the convict. Now who would like to play Pip?’
She quickly gave out a half-dozen parts to the children who volunteered by raising their hands. Lana noted Priscilla sat as though in a world of her own, but she was sure the girl was taking everything in.
‘I’ll read the narrative,’ Lana said. ‘Any questions before we start?
‘What’s “narrative” mean?’ a child from the back of the class called out.
‘Anybody know?’ Lana scaled the room. To her delight Priscilla raised her arm.
‘The bits in between people talking,’ she said.
Lana smiled. ‘Well put.’ She paused, taking in the children’s response. ‘Do you all understand?’
‘Yes, Miss,’ they chorused.
‘I don’t mind reading the narrative,’ Paul, a tall, red-headed boy volunteered.
‘Excellent. Perhaps you’d like to start us off, then.’
On the whole they were fairly capable readers, though most of them put little expression in their voices. Except one child who read his part as though he was acting on the stage. She couldn’t help but hide a smile. She remembered his name was Robin. His reading was excellent. When she came to write a school play for the children to act, he’d be a good choice for one of the main parts.
She was absorbed in the children’s contributions but kept her eye open for anyone not taking a speaking part who wasn’t following the story. There was always one. To her disappointment it was Priscilla. She was looking towards the window, then must have caught Lana looking at her, as she turned back with that same expression of despair Lana had noticed when she’d first set eyes on the girl during the interview with Mr Shepherd. She was suddenly anxious for the child. There was no time to lose. She had to talk to her after the lesson.
By the end of the hour the children had become far more enthusiastic about Charles Dickens’s novel and if it hadn’t been for Priscilla looking so sad, Lana felt her first teaching hour in the new school was a success.
‘Priscilla, can you please wait behind?’
The girl looked startled, but nodded. She came up to Lana’s desk as the children filed out of the room, one or two looking back to see what ‘Miss’ wanted with the strange older child in their class.
‘What is your next class?’ Lana asked.
‘Needlework.’
‘With Miss Booth?’
‘Yes,’ Priscilla replied, her lower lip trembling. ‘I hate needlework.’
‘So do I,’ Lana said with feeling. ‘We’ll go to an empty classroom, but stay here and wait for me while I tell Miss Booth where you are.’
‘Do you really hate needlework?’ Priscilla asked when they were back in the empty classroom. She looked at Lana, doubt in her eyes.
‘Yes. I once had to make an apron. I was no good at it and the teacher told me my stitches were too big and that I’d never make a seamstress.’ She looked at Priscilla and grinned. ‘I never told her it was the last thing I wanted to do. But I wish I could tell her now that I’ve improved a lot since the war started.’
Priscilla rewarded her with a slight smile.
‘Sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to,’ Lana continued, hearing her grandmother’s voice, ‘because when we grow up there’ll be all kinds of things we don’t like. But in order to get on in the world we have to grit our teeth and do them anyway.’ Should she go on? Priscilla seemed to be listening. ‘I noticed you weren’t really enjoying the English class today.’
‘I can’t think of anything except when Mummy and Daddy are coming for me.’ Priscilla eyes were wet as she pulled her pigtail. ‘I try to learn everything in class but I can’t. When they take me home, I promise to get better marks.’
Lana had to make a start.
‘Priscilla, dear,’ she said gently, ‘they were killed by a motorcar in the blackout. The driver couldn’t put his lights on because of the regulations. It was an accident. Nobody’s fault, but they’re not coming back. Not ever. I’m so very sorry.’
Dear God, she’d said it.
Priscilla gave her a pained look, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
‘Of course they are, Miss Ashwin. I don’t know the exact date – that’s all.’
‘Priscilla, listen to me.’ Lana took the trembling child in her arms. ‘It’s terribly difficult to take in, but you must believe me.’
Priscilla sniffed hard, but firmly extricated herself.
‘May I please be excused?’ she asked, jumping up. She was out of the door before Lana could open her mouth.
Lana followed, walking slowly, the gap widening between her and the hurrying child, as she returned to her office, wondering what step she should take next.
Chapter Nine
Back in her office the telephone interrupted her train of thought. She picked up the receiver and Mrs Dayton’s voice said, ‘Will you take a call from Mrs Taylor, the matron at Bingham Hall?’
‘Oh, yes, of course. Please put her through.’ There was a pause. ‘Lana Ashwin speaking,’ she said.
‘Ah, good. I’ve got you,’ a pleasant female voice came on. ‘It’s Maxine Taylor, the matron just up the road from you. You’ve probably been told about Bingham Hall, the Dr Barnardo’s orphanage. The woman in the office said as it was your first day she didn’t want to disturb you. But I rarely take no for an answer.’
That damnable woman. Lana bit her lip in annoyance.
‘It is my first day,’ she said, ‘but I expect it to be a normal day, and I certainly don’t consider anyone an interruption if they need to speak to me. What can I do for you, Mrs Taylor?’
‘We’re planning to have a maypole dance on May Day for the children, and I wondered if you and the teachers and any of your pupils would like to come along. I thought it would be easier to speak to you first.’
Lana glanced at the desk calendar and flipped the page over to May. ‘Ah, it’s a Saturday,’ she said, ‘so no school.’ She paused. ‘It’s very kind of you.’
‘Not at all,’ came the brisk but friendly tones. ‘I don’t think the children here have mixed much with the village school children but I think they should. Otherwise, they’re going to view themselves as “different” for the rest of their lives – which isn’t healthy, in my opinion.’
‘I think it’s a marvellous idea,’ Lana said with sincerity. ‘I’d like to talk it over with the teachers first, so may I come back to you in a few days?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Lana hesitated. ‘Before you go, Mrs Taylor, there’s something I’d like to ask you. It’s about Priscilla Morgan.’
There was a pause at the other end. ‘Ah, Priscilla. She hasn’t been with us long. A very sad case.’
‘Yes. The worrying thing is that she can’t come to terms with the accident. Both parents gone at once and she’s lost her home as well. She told me she’s waiting for them to come and fetch her. I tried to tell her as gently as I could that they were never coming back, but she was terribly upset and rushed off. It must be dreadful for her and I’m not sure how I can help. I wondered how she was coping at the orphanage.’
‘She’s very quiet and very good,’ Mrs Taylor said. ‘Too good. It’s not natural. I’ve tried to talk to her – we all have – but she won’t listen. We’re hoping time will be the healer.’
Lana bit her lip. It was well over a year since she’d lost Dickie and the ache was as strong as ever. But they were discussing Priscilla.
‘It might be a good idea for us to have a proper chat after the maypole dance,’ Mrs Taylor said. ‘Another month will have passed and we can assess the situation. How does she seem with the other children in class?’
‘She sits away from the others in her own world, mostly staring out of the window. Neither she nor the rest of the children take any notice of one another.’
‘I wonder if she should see a doctor,’ the matron said in a thoughtful tone. ‘I must admit I’m as worried as you, especially as she’s still eating very little at supper. What about dinnertime at the school? Does she—’
There was a loud crackling on the line and Lana couldn’t hear the matron’s next words.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch—’
The line went dead. Lana thought of asking Mrs Danvers to reconnect her but couldn’t face the secretary’s sneering tone, as though she couldn’t even take a simple telephone call.
She spent the next two hours sick with guilt, wishing with all her heart she hadn’t upset Priscilla. She should have got to know her better, gained her trust. Suddenly it had become unbearably stuffy in her office. She switched off the two electric bars of the heater and threw on her jacket. A brisk walk would clear her head.
Before the week was out Lana felt at home at Bingham school. In the main, the children were good, though the boys were somewhat raucous when they thought they could get away with it, which had the effect of making the girls quieter. Except Josephine, a cheeky ten-year-old. She interrupted whenever she felt like it. More than once Lana noticed Priscilla frowning at yet another interruption.
‘Please put your hand up if you want to ask or answer a question,’ Lana said to Josephine. ‘Other children want to ask questions besides you.’
The girl immediately swung both arms in the air. Another child who craved attention.
‘Only one hand is necessary,’ Lana said. ‘Keep the question in your head and I’ll come back to you. I believe Martin put his hand up before you.’
She nodded to Martin, but before he could open his mouth, Josephine said, ‘No, I put my hand up first, Miss …’
‘You will await your turn, Jennifer. And you will address me by my name.’
‘I’ve forgotten it.’ Jennifer’s tone was triumphant as she looked round at the class for approbation.
Fuming, Lana beckoned Josephine up to her desk to a class of sniggering children. She turned to the child.
‘Now, Josephine. Perhaps you would like to tell the class that you have a very poor memory and have already forgotten my name. And after class you will write my name out fifty times on your slate before you go home. And I have two more slates you can use as extras so there is no excuse the lines won’t all fit.’
Josephine tapped her shoe up and down as she boldly surveyed Lana.
‘Shall I remind you of my name?’ Lana said evenly.
The child hesitated as though about to say something insolent, but decided against it. ‘No, Miss.’
‘Then would you like to remind the class in case anyone else has forgotten?’
‘It’s Miss Ashwin.’ Josephine’s chest rose with her breath. ‘MISS ASHWIN!’ Her voice rose to a shout as she faced the class.
Giggles from the girls and more sniggers from the boys.
‘Very well,’ Lana said, putting a piece of chalk down by the blackboard. ‘That’s enough. You may go back to your seat. And I don’t want to hear another word from you until class tomorrow.’
Josephine made her way to her desk, then glared at Lana.
‘You never tell her off.’ The child pointed to Priscilla. ‘Prissy gets away with everything. She doesn’t do her homework and she can’t keep up with us in class even though she’s older than us. No one likes her here.’