A Family At War, page 13
There's lots of fighting going on in Africa and we're winning. I've been reading all about it in the papers. There are new battles nearly every day and they print maps with great big arrows on them to show where we're advancing. The Italians are surrendering in droves. I think I'll draw a map with coloured pencils and stick it in the back of my diary and keep it up to date as the news comes in.
They keep cutting our rations and Mum's getting really fed-up with it. She says there's nothing under the counter, and you don't get enough butter to taste it, and there's never enough bacon to go round, and the meat's all gristle. Gran calls it cagmag and Dad says the same thing about it every Sunday. 'You don't call this meat, do you? This is Patagonian warthog.' Now she's got a new plan. She's going to share out the rations in a different way. She and Pat and Gran are going to have the butter and the sugar and the sweets and me and Dad have got to have margarine instead. She says Dad won't mind because he's going to have all the bacon so that he can have a good breakfast every morning.
'You won't mind margarine, will you,' she says to me. But I do mind. I hate marg. It tastes nasty.
'I like butter too,' I say.
'But you won't mind margarine,' she says. 'You're a good girl.'
And that was it. Now it's settled. Yesterday I had bread and marg for my tea, and it was horrid. I could taste it even when I scraped it on really thin. And this morning it's marg again and no sugar in my tea. I don't think it's fair. Everybody’s supposed to have their rations. Pat had butter and sugar.
It's Saturday and me and Marie and Margaret are up the hill, looking for mushrooms. It's too late for them really. We’ve only found four little ones and Marie says she's getting cold standing about in the field so we head off for the top of the hill and the road that leads down to Batford. There's a stile there and just as we're climbing over we hear feet tramping, like soldiers, and lots of people singing, all together like a choir. We think that's a bit funny so we stop to see what's coming and it is a troop of soldiers, all ambling along in a scruffy sort of way and singing at the tops of their voices. They're wearing the most peculiar uniforms, nigger brown with little round patches on them in different colours. We lean on the stile and watch them pass.
They've all got dark hair and brown skins so they're certainly not English and as they pass us they wave and stop singing to call out to us in a foreign language. 'Buon giorno.'
'I'll bet they're Italian prisoners,' I say. ‘We’ve taken ever so many Italian prisoners.’
Marie says I'm a proper old brain-box and Margaret says she wonders what they're doing wandering about the country singing. We can't ask them because we don't speak Italian, so we wave instead and they all wave back and smile like anything.
'I suppose they're the enemy,' Marie says as we walk home.
When I get back after playing out, I walk round the side of the house and go in through the kitchen door like I usually do. It stinks in there. The preserving pan is crusted with bits of old mash and the scrap pail smells worse than a pig bin, which is saying something. So I shoot through pretty quick, looking out to see where Mum and Gran are, because I don't want to do the wrong thing the minute I get back.
They're in the living room, sitting by the fire, and there's no sign of little Pat, so that's all right. But as I walk further into the hall I hear something falling down the stairs and then there's a sort of soft thud and a crash so I run to see what it is.
My lovely new doll is lying at the foot of the stairs with its face smashed in and Pat's half way down the stairs looking at it with her mouth open. I'm so angry it makes me shake. My lovely doll.
'You rotten little beast,' I yell at her. 'You've smashed my doll. That's my doll, I hope you know. Not yours. Mine. You've got no right to take my doll. You need a darn good hiding.'
She sets up a howl at once and Mum runs out of the living room so quickly her body's all bent forward. 'Now what?' she says in a very cross voice.
'She's taken my doll,' I tell her, 'and thrown it downstairs and smashed its face in. Look at it.'
She doesn't even give it a glance. She's too busy picking Pat up and cuddling her. 'Never mind darling. I won't let her hurt you.'
'You should give her the cane,' I shout. 'She's taken my doll and broken it. She's got no right to take my doll. She's a nasty destructive little beast.'
'You didn't want it,' Mum says looking at me fiercely. 'You never play with it. You left it in its box.'
That's so unfair I fight back at once and furiously. 'I had to or she'd have taken it.'
'Oh what nonsense. Why shouldn't she play with it? She's only little.’
'She's broken it,' I shout. 'Look at it. She's smashed its face in. You should smack her.' Pat's howling so loudly she's almost drowning me out.
'Don't you tell me what to do Miss,' Mum shouts back.
'It's not fair!' I yell. I'm too upset to be careful. 'That was my doll. She had no right to touch it. You should hit her.'
'That's it!' Mum says, putting Pat down. 'I've had enough.' And she stomps off into the living room and is back with the cane in her hand before I can say another word. Oh how wonderful. Dear little Pat's going to get the cane at last. Let's see how she likes that.
But it's in the air and swishing down towards my shoulders. I dodge out of the way, yelling that it isn't fair. I didn't break it. It was Pat.
I'm wasting my breath. She isn't listening. Her face is all red and twisted up. She's in one of her furies. 'I'm sick to death of you,' she shouts, hitting out. 'You're enough to try the patience of a saint.' She whacks me with every word, knocking me back into the corner where I can't get away. 'Nasty jealous vicious... You're just like your bloody father. You should never have been born. Never, never, never. You're rotten to the core.'
'It's not fair!' I scream at her. 'You're not to hit me.'
She stops for a few seconds and looks at me. 'And how are you going to stop me, you hateful little thing?'
'I'll run away.'
She stops and stands absolutely still, glaring at me. I glare back. 'You'll what?' she says.
'I'll run away.'
She gives me the most horrible smile. 'You do,' she says. 'It won't get you anywhere. I'll send the police after you and they'll soon have you back. And then do you know what I'll do with you?'
I'm still fighting. 'I don't care.'
'I'll have you put away in a home,' she says. 'That's what I'll do. I'll have you put away in a home as a moral defective. How would you like that?'
It's such a terrible thing to be told that I'm totally defeated because I know she could do it. Girls do get put away as moral defectives. 'No,' I say and drop my gaze.
It's like a signal to her. She lifts the cane and brings in down with a thwack. It catches me across the arms as I turn my body and then she's off again, shouting and caning worse than ever. 'You're rotten to the core! You should never have been born.'
I beg her to stop, cringing away from her. 'Please don't. Oh please. Please. I'll be good. I promise.' It's awful because I'm being a coward and I know it and feel ashamed of it, but I have to try to stop her. I can't bear this.
It doesn't do me any good. She goes on hitting and hitting until she's panting for breath and I'm lying on the floor with my hands over my head, crying. Then she puts the cane down on the windowsill at last and makes me stand between her knees and gives me the catechism. 'I have to punish you, you know that don't you, otherwise you'll grow up like your father and no one will love you.'
She goes on and on and I have to agree with her and to cry without making a noise. I say yes, when she says it was my fault, I agree that I had to be punished, that I shouldn't have shouted at her, that I didn't want the doll, that I'm spiteful to Pat, that I've got a nasty jealous nature that needs checking, but I know I'm telling lies. Everything's muddled up in my head because of the caning, but there's one thing I do know. It wasn't my fault.
After a very long time she lets me go. 'Go and wash your face,' she says, 'and let's have an end of it.' So I creep upstairs, past Pat, who gives me one of her awful smug looks, and into my bedroom. Now I can cry.
It takes a long time to cry through the muddle in my head. I know it wasn't my fault. I know it was unfair. I know I shouldn't have been caned. But what's the good of knowing if you can't do anything about it? If she wants to cane me she will, whether it's my fault or not. She can do what she wants and I can't stop her. If I run away she'll send the police after me and have me put in a home. I feel utterly and completely trapped, without hope.
When they call me downstairs for my dinner, I come down and sit at the table and eat what they put in front of me and don't say a word. I feel as if I never want to speak again. I don't speak for the rest of the day. I just keep out of the way and read. When they say it's bedtime I go to bed and close my eyes at once and pretend to be asleep, even though Gran's come up to tuck me in. I don't even say goodnight to her. I live through Sunday in the same way, reading and keeping quiet. And when Marie comes to call for me on Monday morning, I walk out of the house in silence and don't speak until we're two houses down the road.
Marie says, 'Are you all right?'
That unlocks my tongue. 'Yes,' I say, in my brightest voice. 'I'm fine.' Because the one thing you mustn't do is to let anyone know what's happened.
It's lovely to be back at school, doing my sums and changing my reading book and being told how neat my writing is. If it wasn't for Pat being there too, school would be a perfect place. She comes up to me two or three times every playtime, wanting me to pull up her knickers or do up her coat or stop someone from being nasty to her, on and on. She doesn't grizzle now, she doesn't even say she'll tell on me, she just gives orders. She knows I've got to do what she wants.
It's been quite warm for the last few days and me and Marie are skipping in the big rope with a lot of others when Pat comes running up howling with half a dozen little-uns trailing after her. Now what? She doesn't look hurt. There's no blood or anything.
In between sobs she says one of the big boys has been pulling her hair.
'Which boy is it?' I ask. I don't really care but I have to show an interest otherwise she'll tell tales to Mum.
It's that horrible Derek, the cross-eyed boy who's always at the bottom of the class, the boy who blows up frogs with a straw, the school bully.
I'm suddenly filled with a frightening rage. If I don't do something Pat'll tell Mum. She'll say I let him pull her rotten hair. It'll be all my fault. I shall be in terrible trouble because I haven't looked after her properly. 'Right!' I say. 'I'll fix him. Where is he?'
He's on the other side of the playground but when he sees me charging towards him he takes off and runs into the building. I've gathered quite a crowd and they're all calling out and egging me on. 'He's gone in the lavvies! You can't get him in there.'
Can't I just! Lavvies are no bar to a rage like mine. I roar in after him, briefly aware of a row of boy's faces looking shocked, and drag him out into the corridor by his hair. The sight of him pushes my fury to exploding point. How dare he make my sister cry!
'Leave my little sister alone!' I yell.
'I never touched her,' he yells back. But there are kids all round us yelling that he did.
I punch him as hard as I can and he puts up his hands to defend his face. What a coward! 'You're yellow!' I yell and pitch into him as hard as I can.
Then it's a fight and I'm out of control, yelling and screaming and kicking. He fights too until we knock each other off our feet and land on the floor. Then he's on his back and I'm kneeling on his chest, banging his head on the floor with both hands, screaming at him. And the other kids are milling about us urging us on.
Then everybody goes quiet and there's hand on my shoulder. It's Mr Smith, the headmaster.
'That'll do,' he says. 'Go back to the playground all of you.' I stand up and look down at Derek and see that he's got blood on his chin. 'Go and clean yourself up,' Mr Smith says to him. Then he looks at me. I'm so out of breath I'm panting. 'You come with me.'
I follow him up the stairs. I expect I shall get the cane but I don't care. Having the cane at school is nothing. Derek has it all the time. Anyway I'm glad I beat him up.
It's very quiet in the head's study, and very neat. There's a desk beside the window and another one on the opposite side of the room and two armchairs. Imagine that. Mr Smith sits down in his chair by the desk. He's as calm as his room. I pull my sleeve down over my wrist so's he can't see the marks of the cane.
'So what was all that about?' he says.
'He upset my sister sir.'
'Oh did he? Is it settled now?'
'Yes sir.'
'Good,' he says. 'Now you see those brown envelopes on the table.'
I do.
'They contain all the National Savings takings for this week, one envelope per class. I want you to count out the money, class by class, and make a list of all the amounts in that account book. Can you do that?'
It seems a funny sort of punishment. 'Yes sir.'
'Good. Now I've got some letters to write so don't interrupt me.'
So I get on with it, counting out the coins very carefully and stacking them in piles of sixpences and shillings, thrupenny bits and pennies so that they make up into pounds. It takes quite a long time - the bell goes for the end of play when I've only done two classes - but it isn't hard and when I write the totals in the account book, that's easy too because I can see how someone else has done it last week. When they're all neatly written in, I add up the column and put the total underneath in my neatest figures. Then I put the pen down feeling I've done a good job.
'Very good,' Mr Smith says, looking over my shoulder. 'Now come with me.'
We go down the stairs again and along the corridor to my classroom. It takes a long time because he's got a limp and can't walk very fast. When we get there he opens the door and signals that I'm to walk in ahead of him. I sit down at my desk and wonder what's going to happen next. He's standing by the teacher's desk now and they're talking, but too quietly for me to hear what they're saying.
I don't find out what it is until Friday afternoon. Then she comes across to my desk with the results in her hand and says not to bother getting out my reader. 'Mr Smith's waiting for you in his study,' she says.
I feel quite worried as I walk upstairs. He's not going to cane me now, surely.
But when I knock and he tells me to come in, he's sitting behind his desk, with the school secretary sitting in her chair to one side of him and they both look up and smile at me. 'Ah,' he says, 'here's my little secretary. National Savings Beryl, if you please. Same as last time.'
It's wonderful to be his little secretary. Much better than sitting in the classroom trying to read while everybody's on the move. A feather in my cap. I shall tell Mum and see what she has to say about it.
It doesn't impress her a bit. 'Oh yes,' she says. 'Lay the table will you.'
CHAPTER 12
I’ve been down to London so many times now I’m quite used to it. I got here in ever such good time this morning. I was so early Mr Garnsworthy hadn't gone to bed when I arrived and he always goes up directly he's eaten his meal. He says he's done in after a night on the print. So me and Dardy had a flying start and got all our shopping done before dinner and now we've got the afternoon to ourselves and are sitting by her nice warm fire in the kitchen, talking.
She's taken her photograph album out of the drawer and she's showing me pictures of her daughter Renee, who died of diphtheria when she was ten, which is really sad. She looks a dear little girl, with a round face and a little snub nose just like Dardy's, and shy, standing on a stool behind Dardy's back and clinging on to her arm, and Dardy looks much younger and very straight, all tightly done up in an old-fashioned skirt and blouse with a corset underneath, not easy and cushiony like she is now. She turns the page and there's another picture of her daughter, this time with another girl a bit older.
'That's your mummy,' Dardy says.
'Is it?' I have to look twice to be sure.
'She was a pretty little thing,' Dardy says looking at the picture. 'Your grandma used to put her hair in rags every night and curl it up for her. It was all nice soft curls in those days, fair curls, and she had the prettiest little dresses. That one was white broderie with a pale blue sash. I remember it to this day.'
It's hard to imagine Mum ever being a girl in a white dress with nice soft curls. Her hair's all tight waves now and more yellow than what you'd call fair, and she's sort of barrel shaped with a sticking-out stomach and her dresses look like uniforms with stern collars and cuffs and buttons down the front and square shoulders. 'What was Uncle Leslie like when he was little?' I ask. 'Have you got a picture of him?'
'He was delicate,' Dardy says, turning over the pages to look for it, 'poor little man. He had fits. We had to be very careful with him.'
'What, real fits?' I ask. 'Falling over fits?' I've seen a boy with one of those in the playground and I thought he was dying.
'It was only when he was little,' Dardy says. 'He grew out of it later on. But he was ever so poorly when he was little. And then of course he had to have glasses. Mr Parodi was so cross when he had to have glasses.'
'Why? It wasn't his fault.'
'You'd have thought it was the way he carried on.'
I'm beginning to see my uncle in a new light. 'Did he get the cane?'
'I expect so. They caned most boys in those days.'
'I mean at home. Did he get the cane at home?'
'No. Not as far as I know.' I'm really glad and I'm just going to say so when she goes on, 'He got the belt. Mr Parodi thought it would make a man of him. Ah, there he is. That's your Uncle Leslie.'
