Miss Purdy's Class (17 page)

Gwen could see that Mrs Simmons was genuinely in a state.

‘I’m ever so sorry.’ She felt tearful herself. ‘You’ve been a good neighbour and ever so kind to these children. You couldn’t have done any more than you have.’

‘I’ve done my best.’ Mrs Simmons mopped her eyes. ‘Only I never expected this.’

‘Do you have any idea where Joseph might have gone?’

The woman shook her head. ‘No. Not unless he’s gone off to look for Wally, that good-for-nothing father of his. He’s not been about here for months now. Be like looking for a needle in a haystack.’

Gwen took her leave and walked back slowly down the entry, full of misgiving at the thought of Joey Phillips roaming the streets. He was so small, so ill-fed and fragile. Whatever would become of him? Should she try to look for him? But Mrs Simmons said he had gone very early in the morning. He could be anywhere by now.

She found herself standing out in Canal Street, lost in thought, holding the bags of jelly babies, sherbet lemons and toffees.
What am I going to do with these?
she wondered.
I don’t want to eat them all.
She thought about taking them in to school to treat her class. Then another idea came to her. Where was the one place she really wanted to go, to be able to sit in a homely room and where she would find a large collection of children?

Hardly knowing she had decided to go there, almost daring herself, she found her feet straying past the school and pub and into Alma Street. She didn’t give herself time to think about whether she would feel embarrassed turning up at the Fernandezs’ house again so soon. The desire simply to go there was too overwhelming.

‘Afternoon, Miss Purdy,’ Theresa Fernandez greeted her as soon as she walked into the shop. She had a good view of the door, between the two rows of shelves and Gwen could see her, surrounded by tins and packets. At one end of the counter were all the cigarettes. ‘I don’t know if you’ve come to find Daniel, but he’s not in, I’m afraid.’

Gwen felt a pang of disappointment, but then she was almost relieved. She would have felt a bit foolish at him seeing her arrive here again. She could explain about the sweets and just leave them without embarrassing herself.

‘Will you have a cup of tea?’ Theresa asked. ‘Shop’s quiet, and I can hear if anyone comes in.’

‘Well, that would be lovely,’ Gwen said. She enjoyed the woman’s Welsh accent and her homely presence. She was wearing her black shawl today over a white blouse. There was something about Theresa Fernandez that felt solid, rock-like, as if you could rely on her for anything. And there was a great warmth about her. To her surprise, Gwen found herself saying, ‘To tell you the truth, I could do with someone to talk to.’

‘Could you, lovey?’

Once they were through in the back room, Gwen explained, ‘I really came to give you these sweets for the children.’ She put the bags on the table and explained about Joey and Lena Phillips.

Theresa was distracted from pouring the tea by Gwen’s story. She stood at the stove, her hand on the handle of the kettle as it warmed.

‘
Duw
,
duw
– there’s terrible, isn’t it? The little girl passing on like that! And you think that young lad’s out roaming the streets on his own?’

‘Well, I suppose he must be – unless he’s found somewhere else to go.’

‘P’raps it’s an auntie or uncle somewhere he’s gone to?’

Gwen sighed. ‘I hope so. He’s such a poor little thing. I hate to think of him out – it’s still cold, especially at night.’

Theresa sat down. Gwen wanted to ask where Daniel had gone, but it seemed so forward and she felt self-conscious. But his mother immediately said, ‘Daniel’s out at one of his meetings – least, getting ready for one.’ Gwen was taken aback by the impatience in her voice. ‘Just like his father was, only Daniel’s even redder than red. ’Twas politics killed my husband. Ate away at him till his heart gave up the struggle and now my Daniel
bach
’s going the same way.’

Gwen wasn’t quite sure what to say. ‘Don’t you agree with his work in the Communist Party?’

Theresa put her cup down and gave out a great sigh. ‘I have to struggle with myself, Miss Purdy. The priests say Communism’s an ungodly creed which we should never put in place of our faith and the Church. Our Daniel tries to keep the two side by side. He says you can be a Catholic and Communist. I don’t know.’ Another sigh. She got up and spooned tea into the pot while she continued chatting. She seemed glad to talk.

‘I’m a selfish woman, I suppose. All my life it’s been going on, all my marriage, lockouts and strikes at the mines, never any work . . . I lived through it, like we all did. They were bitter times, Miss Purdy – still are for a lot of them. There was no choice. Then the means test. All the meetings, the protests. Arturo was in the thick of it, you see – never a moment’s rest, what with the miners’ lodges, the party, the unemployed. Meetings, leaflets, making speeches. Hardly ate or slept sometimes – and I told him, “You won’t do yourself any good, Arturo – you’ll kill yourself with overwork.” And that’s how it was.’ She paused, steam rising round her as she poured from the kettle.

‘One of the meetings, the first protest in Aberglyn, they were marching to the Public Assistance people, police all round, of course. Arturo was one of the ones speaking. He got up and gave it to them – oh, he had a voice on him! So loud and strong. He could have spoken to the whole valley and they’d have heard him!’ For a moment she smiled, and Gwen saw the love in her eyes. ‘Got to the end, just, and he collapsed. His heart. Never came back home alive.’ She carried the last things to the table and sat down.

‘That’s what’s made me selfish now. I suppose it knocked the fight out of me. Once we came up here I just wanted an end to it. There’s work here – something you can do, not just the colliery. I want my children fed and schooled, not picking cinders off the heaps in the winter just to survive. I want to forget it all . . . go to Mass Sundays . . .’ She shook her head. ‘But not Daniel. He can’t forget what he’s seen. He’s ablaze with it. Whatever I say to him falls on deaf ears. It was a police horse broke his leg – doesn’t stop him. Back for more! It’s no good me saying anything, any more than it was to Arturo. “I’m doing it for you, Ma,” he says. “For all of us – for the revolution.”’ Gwen could hear the mingled pride and anxiety in her voice. ‘And I say to him, “All I’ve learned about revolutions is that they end up with people losing their heads.” But will he take heed of me?’ She poured the tea. ‘I’ve seen politics tearing families apart and I don’t want it breaking up mine. So I hold my peace most of the time.’

‘Thank you,’ Gwen said, taking her cup. ‘I learned a lot from listening to Daniel yesterday.’ She felt like defending him. All his passion for people, for the workers of the valleys. Surely his mother shouldn’t be trying to dampen that down!

‘Oh, I dare say. He’s a one for book learning all right. And a proper firebrand with it.’ Theresa smiled ruefully, stirring her tea. ‘I suppose I’m just getting old. And there’s no stopping him, that I do know. Let’s put it away, love. Talk about something else. Tell me about yourself, now.’

‘Late again, Miss Purdy?’ Ariadne Black purred reproachfully as Gwen tore in, barely in time for tea.

One of Ariadne’s quirks was that although she insisted on being called by her own first name she never called Gwen anything except Miss Purdy. Gwen thought perhaps it was because she was a teacher. When it came to Mr Purvis, though, he was very definitely ‘Harold’. Tonight Ariadne was wearing a floaty dress in a pale coffee colour edged with chocolate brown, and smelled strongly of perfume.

Gwen stared at the plate Ariadne plonked down before her. Shrivelled chops with potatoes and cabbage, boiled to death as ever, and the house stank of it.

‘Thank you,’ she said with an effort. Thank goodness it was almost the holidays and she could get out of here for a bit! When she looked up, Harold Purvis was watching her with quiet insolence. Gwen put her head down and ate as fast as she could to get away from the pair of them.

That night, she was just falling asleep, when she heard the boards on the landing creak, then a soft, furtive knocking on a door at the back of the house.

‘Harold? Harold, darling?’

Gwen sat up, hugging her knees, barely able to believe what she was hearing.

‘It’s all right, darling. You can let me in,’ Ariadne pleaded in a purring voice.

Gwen put her hand over her mouth. She wasn’t sure if she felt more appalled or amused. Explosive giggles rose in her chest.

There was a pause, then the knocking again.

‘Harold, my beautiful great big panther . . . Come on, let your little pussycat in . . .’

Snorting, Gwen stuffed the end of the sheet in her mouth. What kind of household was she living in? Once more she thought of what her mother would say and the laughter began to erupt from her. She lay down, shaking with giggles so much that she didn’t hear the door along the landing open to admit Ariadne, then close again.

E
ASTER
H
OLIDAYS

Fifteen

‘Here we are – eat it while it’s hot.’

Gwen’s mother dropped a boiled egg into the egg-cup in front of her and sat down, opening out her table napkin.

Gwen obediently removed the top from her egg and dipped in a finger of toast. The yolk overflowed, rich yellow, down the side.

‘Really,’ Ruth Purdy commented. ‘You’re no more tidy an eater than when you were four years old.’

Gwen said nothing. She tipped a helping of salt onto the edge of her pretty floral plate. Ruth Purdy liked everything to be dainty: bone-china plates and little tea knives. Gwen thought of the thick white cups in the Fernandez household and wished she was there instead. The clock ticked on the mantelpiece and her father coughed and tried to pretend he wasn’t eyeing the newspaper because his wife said it was rude to read at the table. Had her parents ever liked one another? Gwen wondered. It was her third day at home and already she was fit to scream.

‘So,’ her mother said, ‘today’s the ideal day for us to go to Mrs Twining and then Russell & Dorrell. We’ll start early and that’ll give us plenty of time . . .’

Ruth Purdy had been mentioning Russell & Dorrell, the large draper’s at the end of the High Street ever since Gwen arrived home.

‘It’s going to be hard enough for Mrs Twining making your dress with you away so much. We’ll have to squeeze in fittings. So we mustn’t leave it too late. It would be most unfair on her. And there are so many other things to think about!’

‘Edwin and I want to keep the wedding as simple as possible,’ Gwen reminded her. She pushed her teaspoon into the bottom of the egg with such force it smashed through the shell.

‘I know – but even so. Everything must be done properly. It’s
so
important to get it right!’

Important to whom? Gwen wondered.

‘And your father has his business to think of – haven’t you, Morris?’

‘Umm?’ Mr Purdy dragged his gaze away from the front page of the
Telegraph
. ‘Er . . . of course. Yes.’ He obviously hadn’t heard the question.

‘So you mean the purpose of our wedding is to enhance Daddy’s business reputation?’

‘No of course not – don’t be so silly, dear. I just mean there are standards. People in the town would expect us to put on a good show. That’s all.’

Gwen hurriedly drank down her tea and left the table before she said something she’d regret. Up in her room she stood at the window. There were tiny buds on the apple tree just waiting to burst into flower. The grass was sodden underneath, the sky a pale arc above.

How did I stand living here all this time?
she asked herself. She tried to imagine Daniel sitting at the breakfast table with her parents. She found herself setting the idea of him, his dancing eyes, that restless muscular body, his burning ideals, against the nervous respectability of her family. It was as if they were asleep, she saw. And until now she’d been asleep also. She ached to see Daniel. She had to be away from Birmingham for two weeks and how unbearable that felt!

She tried to force her emotions back to where they should be. Daniel was from another world. He wasn’t a true part of her life! Perhaps these feelings were just a reaction to the idea of marriage – to the closing down of the possibility that she should ever feel anything for anyone else. She shook her head. What did she really know about Daniel Fernandez? She had known Edwin for three years now and he was kind and true and had never let her down. How could she be so disloyal to him?

‘Well, you
have
grown up into a lovely girl, I must say!’

Mrs Twining was a small, plump lady with a tight little voice, several chins and bright red lipstick. For years she had run her tailoring business in a cramped upstairs room and had made a little dance dress for Gwen when she was only six years old. She ran her busy hands up and down Gwen’s body as if she was sizing up a cow for auction.

‘Lovely curves. Oh yes.’ She eyed Gwen’s breasts so intently that Gwen found herself blushing. ‘You’re very
full
, aren’t you? Oh I can make a lovely job – something pretty you’ll be after? Satin and tulle perhaps?’

‘Something quite simple,’ Gwen said.

At exactly the same moment, her mother said, ‘Silk, perhaps?’

Mrs Twining approached with her tape measure. Gwen quickly felt any control she might have over the situation slipping away.

‘Now,’ Mrs Twining said, when she’d taken the measurements, ‘come here a minute.’ She took Gwen’s arm and pulled her over to a long mirror on a stand near the window. ‘You take a look in there. You’re a lovely shape, dear – a real hourglass. I can do something really pretty with a full skirt and perhaps some lace across here.’ She ran a finger across Gwen’s chest. ‘Can’t display cleavage on our wedding day, can we?’

Gwen looked at herself, trying to concentrate on the matter of a wedding dress. Her oval, blue-eyed face looked back at her, her full lips, wavy hair tied back from her face, the same green tartan skirt and cream sweater, everything just as ever, and yet suddenly she was a stranger to herself, as if the outer Gwen, who looked the same as she had always been, suddenly did not match the person she felt herself to be inside in the least. Panic rose in her.