She's Leaving Home (43 page)

Centre stage passed to black baseball star Jackie Robinson who smiled and waved shyly, and was cheered to the echo. Then the Chicago rollerskater was half pushed, half carried to the front, spoke haltingly of his exploits and admitted his legs were tired.

Suddenly there was a commotion: another white man nearby had unfurled a red flag with an indistinct emblem and began to run towards the steps, yelling as he went. He wore a black shirt with the same emblem on the pocket and black gloves. The crowd separated and tried to scatter but there was no room to get away. For a moment shocked spectators froze in their seats. From what Michael could distinguish the man was a supporter of George Rockwell, the American Nazi leader, and was screaming for the right to speak.

Michael’s gorge rose in fury. Bloody Nazis! If they’d had their way there’d be no freedom marches. No free elections. No John Fitzgerald Kennedy. No Sammy Davis Jr. No Helen, come to that: her people had filled gas chambers by the million. No freedom of speech for anybody. The man had to be stopped, and preferably by another white.

As the fascist breasted him Michael lunged with his best football tackle, knocked the man off balance and wrestled him to the ground. By the time state troopers loped up three burly Negro stewards were astride his victim who was still spewing out maddened vituperation. The lone demonstrator was handcuffed and his rights read. As he was frog-marched away the Nazi flag was torn into shreds by those nearest and spat upon.

The solemn business started. Michael melted back into the crowd and listened in respectful silence as Bayard Rustin, credited with the day’s organisation but who would have been destroyed had it turned sour, spoke with tears in his eyes. ‘Already one of our objectives has been met. We said we would awaken the conscience of the nation, and we have done it.’

‘Amen!’

‘Yes, man!’

‘Tell them, tell them.’

The cries and chants surged around the hundreds of thousands in his audience. A camera turned towards Michael who nodded and smiled. A young black slapped him on the back. ‘We shall overcome, brother.’

At last a sigh went through the vast throng as Martin Luther King Jr mounted the rostrum. His head was bare in the sun. He raised both arms above his head and they shouted and stamped their feet for him. This was the hero, the leader, the man who walked with princes and Presidents, who articulated what lay deepest in their hearts. They had travelled for days to hear him. They had waited for him through the forenoon and the heat of the day. A collective hush fell.

He declaimed like an Old Testament prophet, measuring the time it took for each phrase to roll up to the Capitol building a mile away and return. Whoops and yelps greeted every pause.

‘Let us not satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of hatred and bitterness. The struggle continues, and will continue, until justice flows like water and righteousness like a stream…’

‘Halleluya! Amen, brother, amen.’

‘Even though we still face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream…’

‘Oh, tell it,’ murmured the multitude, entranced.

‘I have a dream, that on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave-owners will sit together at the table of brotherhood. I have a dream, that the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom… I have a dream!’

The people joined hands and rocked, slowly and ecstatically.

‘Dream some more…’

‘I have a dream, that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places shall be made plain, the crooked places will be made straight … and the glory of the
Lord
shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together…’

My God, thought Michael confusedly, this is how it must have been at the Sermon on the Mount. He grabbed the hands of both his neighbours and held on tight. Everyone scrambled to their feet as the old Baptist hymn began to float over their heads. With a quarter of a million others he opened his mouth. Throatily at first, then with increasing courage and conviction, he started to sing:

‘Enveloped in a common mist, we seem to walk in clearness ourselves, and behold only the mist that enshrouds others.’

George Eliot,
Leaves from a Notebook

The girls commented on it with both wonder and fear in their voices. Miss Plumb seemed to have lost some of her fierceness. The basilisk stare was still present but was no longer switched on at the least excuse. Her step down a corridor was perceptibly less dominant. Instead she appeared preoccupied. On more than one occasion pupils became aware that she was observing them, but privately, and she had passed on without remark or command.

‘Fallen in love,’ was Meg’s verdict as they sat in the library. ‘Somebody she met on holiday. A widower. A headmaster, I bet. Not a lady of great originality, our Miss Plumb.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ Brenda chided. ‘She’s too old. A confirmed spinster. She must be nearly fifty. People don’t fall in love at that age. They start counting the days till they can retire.’

‘Maybe it’s not a man but another woman.’ Helen wondered at her own mischievous remark; her adventures with Michael had opened up such possibilities for her, broken so many taboos. She had begun to glimpse what a sexual relationship could mean, even for those who concealed their feelings under a stony exterior. ‘Like Virginia Woolf and her Violet. Don’t you think it’d fit dear Miss Plumb perfectly?’

Brenda was shocked, Meg amused. ‘You shouldn’t talk like that, Helen, it’s not nice,’ said Brenda. ‘I don’t know about Miss Plumb, but you’ve changed too. Not quite the reserved little Jewess you were a year or two ago, are you?’

Helen smiled. Where once she might have regarded Brenda’s words as hurtful now she recognised their truth. She spoke calmly and without offence.

‘We are on the cusp, Brenda. Look, our schooldays are nearly over. The law says we’re adults, or nearly: we all have National Insurance cards, we can get married without a parental say-so.’

‘God! Why should you want to do that? Anyway, you can’t vote, and you can’t do much else without your father’s signature till you’re twenty-one.’ This, with a sniff, from Meg.

But Brenda had not missed the mention of marriage. She touched Helen’s arm. ‘Might you run off and get married? Without your parents’ permission, I mean? I know you’re keen on your Michael – you moon about him often enough – but you’re not planning a midnight dash to Gretna Green, are you? Honestly, it’s not a great idea.’

‘If you do, let us know. We’ll be your witnesses.’ Meg’s narrow face reflected a wistful envy.

Helen had not responded. The question of a quick marriage had never arisen – indeed, marriage had not entered the frame – but she let herself consider it briefly, then slowly shook her head. ‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure. I agree – it doesn’t seem too smart to me either. And girls like us don’t need to. We can clear off far more responsibly, and have the option to return, if we get into university.’

‘A shotgun marriage is exactly what Colette’s father would fix for her, though.’ Brenda began to sort out her books. ‘Talking of Colette, where is she? She doesn’t seem to be part of our gang since the start of term. I worry about her. This morning she looked like death warmed up and when I went into the cloakroom before break she was standing over the sink like she’d been sick. I asked her but she said she hadn’t.’

‘I think they knock her about at home,’ Meg said shortly. ‘But if she won’t pipe up, what can you do? Her best bet is to stick at her studies and get out that way.’

The three settled soberly to their tasks. Helen glanced at her friends under her eyelashes. All of them had changed. Their companionship was less jolly, with a sharper edge than before: friends since they had entered the school six years earlier, they were no longer children. Brenda was a handsome, curvaceous young woman. Her bosom strained against the girlish white blouse; the school
tie looked provocative against that smooth throat. Brenda would have no trouble with boyfriends, not least because her expectations of men were set by the brothers she adored. Provided Brenda never suffered hardship or bad luck she would be content, and radiate contentment to those around her.

As for Meg, her ambition drove her harder than before. The slight frown between the brows had become permanent. Her caustic tongue created distance as if she were reluctant to allow affection or consideration for other people to hold her back. It was becoming harder to like Meg, though she showed no signs of wishing to quit the small coterie.

And Meg was right, Colette’s behaviour had become erratic and more secretive. Not that the girl had ever been forthcoming about the unpleasant circumstances at home, other than to hint that they were best not described. Loyalty must come into play here, of course: none of them willingly, publicly, criticised their families, for that was equivalent to running down oneself. And it could be that the Irish girl felt that once expressed and given substance, her problems could no longer be rationalised away. Perhaps she was afraid that the authorities might try to interfere, which could only make things worse. Her friends were accustomed to the world-weary impression she gave that she knew far more about the outside world than they did, but that this unasked-for maturity brought her no peace.

If she got the chance, Helen would cajole it out of her at lunchtime. Neither was rostered for playground duty; they would be at liberty for a precious ninety minutes. Faron’s Flamingoes were on at the Cavern, a good group but not one which would pack the place out. Together they could let down their hair and recapture some of the carefree innocence of a bare few months before.

And as for Helen herself: she needed no reminder that a Rubicon had been crossed. The line between herself and her childhood was receding fast into the distance. In the weeks after their first love-making there had been as many meetings as could be arranged both before and since Michael’s furlough home. Her body, her entire system had responded to him, with a flush of hormones which made her eyes sparkle and skin glow. She was quite certain that her breasts had enlarged a little and her hips filled out, though she had not put on any weight. The mirror told her she looked more womanly, with a sweeter aura than before. No one would any longer dismiss her as a mere schoolkid.

Helen pondered what might have happened to Miss Plumb. Could it have been something similar? Love it might well be: the most surprising people fell in love and were transformed as she felt she had been. Michael, she reckoned, had become more confident, more courteous, if that were possible. Her love had made her more outspoken, braver, as well as far more sexually aware, but she could well understand that if love came late it might make a person turn in on herself. Perhaps it was love rediscovered, or love challenged in some way. If Miss Plumb were indeed distracted by an affair of the heart, and if that induced this milder, more considerate manner with her charges, long may it continue. Helen let herself daydream, and hoped the teacher was as happy as she was.

‘She’s probably going through the change of life,’ Meg muttered sourly, as if she could read Helen’s thoughts. Brenda threw an exercise book at the cynic, and brought the speculation to an end.

The object of their interest was in her study nearby. On the desk lay the three-page letter in exquisite French which had arrived at the weekend. How elegantly he listed his excuses, how obliquely he hinted that a repeat visit would not be appropriate. His wife had not discovered their liaison, he insisted, but had made it clear that he was expected to dance attendance on her more often. Opportunities were limited. It might be preferable not to risk – and so on, complete with an apposite quotation from Verlaine.

The recipient was distracted, yes, but not distraught. In fact that was the source of the greatest puzzlement as she read the letter for the umpteenth time.

He deserved her hatred. Miss Plumb knew from the evidence of her own eyes that each page was a pack of lies. Though it had been hard to tell from the distance, that woman on Charles’s arm
had not walked like an elderly lady nor one yet middle-aged, so it could not have been Madame herself. He had no daughter. Had she been a daughter-in-law, surely his son would have been present.

Miss Plumb recalled her favourite fragment of early philosophy – Occam’s Razor. Don’t invent entities, was the maxim of the fourteenth-century Franciscan friar. If several unconnected scraps of information lead to one rather obvious conclusion, then that conclusion is probably the correct one. If thunder and lightning were in the air, Gods might appear, spirits might dance, but the most likely outcome was – rain. If two men stood over a recently killed corpse and one looked guilty, he was more likely to be the murderer. Miss Plumb chuckled – it didn’t always work. But if an ageing Lothario were spotted with a pretty young woman on his arm in circumstances in which he had
half-heartedly
endeavoured to cover his tracks, she was quite possibly his new mistress. It stood to reason.

‘I am getting old,’ Miss Plumb whispered to herself. ‘It had to happen sooner or later.’ Then she realised that the emotion most strongly urging itself to the fore was not self-pity but annoyance. ‘But then so’s he. He’s ten years older than I am. Silly fool.’ She swivelled round in her chair and stared grimly out of the window, then back again towards the fireplace, having gauged that Charles, to the south east, was roughly in that direction.

‘Well, here’s my prayer for you,
cher
Charles. Thank you for our wonderful years. Thank you for saving me from a fate as a loveless dried-up husk: at least I know what it’s all about. But may you find no joy in your new conquest. May your manhood shrivel to a flapping bag of useless skin. May it humiliate you from now on, you who were so proud of your prowess. Serve you right, dammit. Grow old gracefully, and be kind to your wife.’

It dawned on her that Madame knew about her husband’s escapades and may even have been entertained by assessments of her rivals’ attributes. To have been the subject of such tolerant condescension was dreadful. Miss Plumb swallowed hard and raised an invisible toast towards the mantelpiece. ‘And thank you for bringing me to my senses. If I’m to enjoy my remaining years it won’t be through you, or any man. Unwittingly you’ve enabled me to see so clearly that I must rely only on – myself.’ There was a tap on the door. With a guilty start Miss Plumb dropped her hand and bid farewell for ever to her Frenchman. The letter was scooped up; it would not be destroyed, but put away to be mulled over when she was past caring any more, and then only as a source of nostalgic amusement.

‘Come!’

Helen Majinsky stood on the threshold with a blue Basildon Bond envelope.

‘Yes, Helen? Come in.’

The girl held out the envelope. ‘The usual at this time of year, I’m afraid. Request from my parents to let me have time off school for the High Holydays.’

‘Oh, you do have a most inconvenient religion.’ Miss Plumb took the note, saw Helen’s flush and immediately regretted the remark. ‘Let me see. Two days for the New Year, then soon after one more for the Day of Atonement. Is that the lot? I seem to recall there are more in the pipeline – Roseanne Nixon has asked for two more days for something else.’

‘That’ll be
Succos
. I persuaded my parents not to bother about that. The Oxbridge exams are right afterwards and I don’t want to lose any more time. It is not me that’s asking, Miss Plumb, it’s my mother and father.’

The dignified admonishment hung in the air. Miss Plumb sensed anger in the girl’s demeanour and felt slightly ashamed.

‘It is not I, dear,’ the teacher corrected automatically. She sighed. ‘I know it’s not you, Helen.’ That was the best she could offer by way of apology.

Miss Plumb swiftly recollected how to make amends. She rummaged in the top drawer of her desk. ‘Here, take these since I’ve seen you. That’s the main application form for UCCA, the Universities’ Central Clearing House for Admissions. And these – ah, got them.’

Two more printed forms were uncovered and handed over, together with, after a second’s hesitation, a new buff folder.

‘Yes. Those are for Oxford and Cambridge.’ Miss Plumb found herself speaking rather fast. ‘Take them home, get your father to sign each one. Do try to keep them clean, please. But don’t fill in the rest till I’ve gone through your answers with you.’

Helen had not sat down. Her face had become a mask, her eyes unnaturally bright. She stood perfectly still, the new folder in her outstretched hand, as if unwilling to break a spell.

‘I think that’s your route out, Helen, is it not?’ The teacher’s voice had regained some of its dry humour. ‘Go now. Bring them back as quickly as you can. And, Helen –’

The girl had reached the doorway but paused.

‘Yes, Miss Plumb?’

‘Not that you’ll need it, but just in case. Good luck.’

‘Golly, look at that. There must be hundreds here.’

Colette and Helen paused, crestfallen. From the steamy staircase of the Cavern came wails of an old Gene Vincent number,
Be Bop a Lula
. The long line of girls in high heels and men with slicked-back hair, hands in pockets, swayed and moaned as they shuffled forward:

Helen approached Paddy Delaney, the bouncer. From his greater height he stared around, bored and watchful.

‘Who’s the crowd for?’

‘There was a rumour the Beatles would appear. I keep tellin’ ’em, fat chance. An’ if they were, we’d’ve advertised it in
Mersey Beat
and charged a quid a time if we could have got away with it. But they don’t believe me.’

As he spoke a girl in the crowd began to groan. ‘Oh Paul, I love you so!’ Behind her, convinced that McCartney must have appeared as from nowhere, other girls took up the cry and began to surge forward. ‘Paul! Paul! He’s here! Oh, let me at him – Oh, Paul –’ Near the staircase a girl slipped and fell on her knees. The person at her side fell on top of her, and the youth behind, like dominoes. The noise increased; at the far end of the line out of sight it had turned to screams, steady and high pitched, as if a band of feral wolves had scented prey.

‘Bloody ’ell,’ muttered the doorman, and waded into the melee. He hauled the fallen girl off the ground and she stood trembling for a moment, crying and rubbing her grazes. ‘He’s not bloody coming, do you hear? Now stop that caterwauling or you won’t get in today or any other day.’