She's Leaving Home (60 page)

Outside the study window the clouds scudded through an untidy sky. The sash frames rattled with gusts of wind; drops of rain worked their way through the thin putty and trickled down the inside of the pane. The squall was the tail end of a hurricane which had nearly but not quite blown itself out as it crossed the Atlantic. Helen shivered and pulled her cardigan cuffs down over her wrists. It would be rough at sea.

‘Well, Helen. Are you ready?’

The call from Cambridge had come. Miss Plumb smoothed the tweed skirt over her thighs and tightened the narrow belt a notch. Her shoulders became square, her gaze bold, direct, almost stern. To Helen the gestures were unmistakably masculine as if the headmistress were the captain of a warship steadying his men before a great naval battle.

‘Part of me is paralysed with terror, to tell you the truth, Miss Plumb. But I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. You’ve prepared us thoroughly.’

The teacher acknowledged the compliment. ‘You’ve certainly been reading widely. What was that I saw you deeply engrossed in yesterday – Aristotle?’

‘Yes – the Nichomachean Ethics. I found it at the back of the library here.’ Helen felt herself blush and lowered her eyes. She did not intend to boast but rather hoped the teacher’s response would guide her to the correct pronunciation of the book’s title and more information about it.

Miss Plumb’s mouth twitched. ‘Did you follow it?’

‘Up to a point.’ Helen bit her lip. The teacher had failed her test; the girl lacked the courage to inquire directly on such a triviality. ‘Fortunately I found what I needed in Book One. And there was a detailed commentary.’

‘Aristotle: the greatest teacher of all. If my profession had a patron saint it should be he. Politicians too – have you got as far as what he says about them?’

Helen shook her head.

‘I can’t recall it exactly, but it’s on the lines of: “Politicians have no leisure, because they are always aiming at something beyond political life itself: power and glory, or happiness.’”

The girl made a note. ‘That’s true for most of us, isn’t it? We aim not merely to live day by day, but towards ultimate objectives.’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ the teacher responded briskly. ‘Not if you mean that
most
people operate that way. Rather the opposite.
Most
people – the working classes, or what the Greeks called the
hoi polloi
– George Orwell’s proles – live from day to day, buffeted by a fate they regard as quite beyond their control. Oh, they have objectives. Survival is their main objective. Staying obscure and keeping their heads below the parapet are the means they adopt. Exposure is danger: the tall poppy is cut down first. Happiness, if obtained, is a bonus that comes by accident. Other motivations are frequently instinctive, not rational: both love and hatred of their fellow men, and such obvious drives as – as greed, and necessity.’ The headmistress fixed her fiercest stare on the girl. ‘But you’re far ahead of such people, Helen. At least, if anything you’ve learned at Blackburne House has sunk in, and I’m sure it has.’

Helen waited. Miss Plumb had not mentioned duty. Or love of one’s family, or the love of a man and a woman. Above the schoolyard two grey seagulls fought to combat the wind, their cries muted and intermittent. Miss Plumb tapped a forefinger on the desk.

‘Your life
is
under your control. You can do with it what you wish. The sole limitations are your inherent abilities, your determination, your stamina. This school should have equipped you to leave the proletariat behind. You will not be ordinary, unless perversely you choose to be. You’ll do
more than merely survive. The stairway upwards beckons.’

‘Up to where – to what?’ Helen itched to return to the forthcoming interview but sensed that the discursive remarks were important. Michael singing ‘Three Steps to Heaven’ as the two lounged on a gravestone came vividly back to her. Miss Plumb had unerringly struck recognisable chords. A conflict appeared inevitable between ambition and service. The struggle made her feel disloyal and horribly selfish. Yet Michael often said much the same as he urged her to cut loose from the world she knew.

But to what? How would she know if her talents were equal to her ambitions? How could you tell whether you could do something until you’d tried it? What should she try? And what happened if she failed? Miss Plumb who came from afar like Michael would have broader ideas than her parents but the teacher’s world was limited in its turn. The experience of everybody she knew was so restricted.

Miss Plumb was sitting upright, her gimlet eyes fixed on her pupil. ‘It’s up to you. What is it you want from life? Upwards to academic excellence if you wish, as a don. Or elsewhere in education – you could become a headmistress, Helen, though I fear the authority of the role is about to diminish. Or an administrator, like our distinguished Mr Magnay who gave you your prizes at the Philharmonic Hall.’

The girl pulled a face. Miss Plumb laughed. ‘Now, now. Without men of his vision – and adaptability – Liverpool would never have had the fine schools for which it is renowned. Though he is due to retire shortly and I believe may leave the city. However – where was I? Ah yes, your choices. Well! If your aim is a high salary I would advise accountancy or the law. Girls are now accepted as articled clerks. The wealthiest parents I know are solicitors and barristers. Women like Recorder Rose Heilbron are celebrated. In all of these, Helen dear, a Cambridge education is invaluable. It will open many doors.’

‘But that’s not why I want to go there,’ the girl answered slowly. ‘At least…’ She stopped. ‘I mean, it seems a bit shallow to want so little afterwards – a well-paid job or money in the bank. I want to be a useful member of society, but first I want to learn for its own sake. If I was only interested in a degree for vocational reasons I’d read chemistry at Manchester. But at Cambridge I can go into
any
lectures and sit in
any
classes. So I could be a scientist and a – a rounded human being too. I want to read, and think, and listen at the feet of the great. I want to sample
everything
. Otherwise how will I know what suits me?’

‘Admirable. A hungry mind is the most precious possession. But you do have to earn a living at some stage also. Very few families round here can afford to support a perpetual student.’

The teacher was gazing at her oddly. In that book-lined study with the river in the distance, the Atlantic beyond, the gulls wheeling and crying so near the glass that their individual feathers were visible, to dream did not seem absurd. Helen’s voice dropped. ‘I live in a community of closed minds, Miss Plumb. While I can, I want to explore. Then I shall feel less like an idiot. And it’s a practical matter too. If I’m to reject the philosophy I was brought up with, I have to replace it with – well, something. If I’m to have a purpose in life, I want it to be my own, not someone else’s and particularly not one foisted upon me by my ancestors.’

With a sense of urgency, of having grasped an essential principle which could gain strength through articulation, Helen rushed on: ‘Look: if I get to Cambridge I could attend lectures by a Nobel Laureate in the Cavendish Laboratory where the structure of the atom was discovered. But next day I could sit at the feet of F.R. Leavis and ask him about – the influence of Aristotle, I suppose.’ She halted. ‘D’you think they would regard me as a complete moron if I did that?’

‘I’m sure Dr Leavis would be impressed,’ the teacher responded smoothly. In the face of Helen’s burst of enthusiasm her expression had been thoughtful. The girl had not mentioned her religion directly but it was plain that dissatisfaction with its tenets formed part of her frustrations. That
was not a matter on which Miss Plumb felt able to advise. ‘However, I would recommend that you first read just a
little
more. Here –’ Miss Plumb walked to the tall bookcase and rummaged on a shelf. ‘Try this. Bertrand Russell. You’d probably find his
Wisdom of the West
an entertaining and lighter version with its pictures and diagrams, but
The History of Western Philosophy
should keep you engrossed on the train down. He has the most remarkable encyclopaedic knowledge: you would find him an excellent guide.’

Helen accepted the book shyly. She sensed she was being mildly teased. ‘I don’t want to sound a fool.’

‘You won’t. You aren’t. The sole thing that’ll put them off, my dear, is if you don’t sound at all. They’re not interested in solid dependable types with nothing to say for themselves. They are seeking precisely that spirit of inquiry which you have enunciated so effectively, and the power to express it. The gift of the gab, my friend Dr Swanson called it – frightful phrase, but that’ll captivate them. You have it. So keep your brain working as busily as it usually does; jot down in advance some points you might wish to make; have a couple of questions handy in case, and don’t be frightened.’

‘Easier said than done,’ Helen whispered, but her hour was up. In her hand the small closely printed book felt formidably weighty. She collected her papers and went slowly out.

For a long moment after Helen had gone the headmistress sat on. Thirty years before Elizabeth Plumb had thirsted in the same way. Her options had been so much more narrow. To be a career woman then had been a path of sacrifice and unconventionality: for many people the spinster headmistress was an object of both awe and pity. Neither sentiment would affect Helen. Miss Plumb fidgeted and tidied the items on her desk, and deeply envied the good fortune of the new generation.

That evening after supper Helen showed her parents the printed instructions from St Margaret’s College at Cambridge. The journey entailed the slow train towards London and a change at Bletchley, then another train to Cambridge; then back home via Bletchley once more. Miss Plumb had given her a travel voucher. An overnight stay was necessary.

‘You’ll get to know this Bletchley place pretty well,’ commented Daniel from behind his newspaper. ‘Sorry I can’t drive you, but I can’t close the shop. You’ll ring your mother when you arrive, or she’ll worry.’

‘I’ll give you some threepenny bits for the phone.’ Annie’s hands were restless. She started to stack dishes but her husband had not finished and motioned her to stop. He continued to read the paper and eat left-handedly at the same time.

‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to the moon. It’s still England.’

‘But it’s so far.’ Her mother began to twist her apron in her fingers. ‘What I don’t understand is why you can’t take your degree in Liverpool and live at home? It’d be much cheaper.’

In the pit of her stomach Helen felt the ache which gnawed whenever her parents began to talk about her staying put. In bed at night it would surface and invariably made her weep. How could she reveal to them the extent of her rejection of their life, their beliefs, of them? It was kinder not to. Provided she could indeed escape.

She tried another tack, though her smile was tight. ‘Did you never want to spread your wings, Mum? Never want to do something different from what everybody expected of you? Or you, Dad?’

Annie tossed her head. ‘No, never. I was completely satisfied. I wanted a house, and a husband, and a family. I didn’t trouble myself with silly fancies.’

Daniel raised his eyes and looked at his wife quizzically for a moment. To his daughter he shrugged. ‘It was harder then, Helen. The war. And circumstances – we’d call it poverty these days, I suppose, though everybody was in the same boat then. The opportunities didn’t exist.’

‘Well – didn’t you ever stand up for yourself, then, Mum? Never try to be somebody a little different? Never defy –?’ She paused and her voice faltered.

‘Never defy your parents, was what you were going to say.’ Annie flapped her apron at her wayward daughter. ‘Stubborn, you are. Won’t learn sense. No of course I didn’t. I accepted what was arranged for me by my family. We had no choice in those days. Your Dad’s right.’

Daniel chuckled softly. ‘Your mother’s forgotten. She had her moments. You get some of your spirit from her.’

It occurred to Helen that these were old issues alluded to, long buried. Perhaps it was cruel to resurrect them but her curiosity was strong. Whatever she might learn could be armour in conflicts to come.

‘Don’t talk rubbish,’ Annie replied crossly. ‘You get your stubbornness from your father, not from me. Never would be told. And your bits of wildness. D’you know he had plans once to go to Parliament? Him, an ordinary working boy and with half a lung after the TB. If that isn’t plain daft, I don’t know what is.’

Helen switched her gaze from one to the other in astonishment. Daniel had taken refuge once more behind the
Echo
. She touched his shoulder. ‘Did you, Dad? I never heard that before. I knew you were interested in politics, but I never thought you –’

‘I didn’t,’ he answered shortly. ‘Other people suggested it, but a bloke with no money had no chance. Even Labour MPs in those days came from the moneyed classes.’

Helen’s reading told her that was far from true but she did not correct him. It sounded like a well-rehearsed but slight excuse for inaction. A faint cloud of injustice seemed nevertheless to cling to her father and left her saddened. She wished she had known about it earlier; when they were closer, she could have questioned him. But it was ages since they had talked discursively. When she needed to unburden herself Michael was altogether more
au fait
with her feelings.

Annie prodded her daughter. ‘I can’t understand why you need more than you see around you. Women were made to be wives and mothers. They’re at their best and happiest when they have someone to take care of. Even those women who never married – look at them, the devoted way they look after elderly parents. Women biologically have a caring nature. We’re not suited to jobs and careers, except temporarily. Have your fling but then be ready to settle down. You should be doing like your friend Roseanne Nixon – getting engaged as soon as she’s eighteen. She’ll be married before she’s twenty when they’ve saved a bit, then she’ll make her mother a grandma. Now what more could any girl want?’