Read She's Leaving Home Online
Authors: Edwina Currie
As she flicked over the pages, Dr Swanson was struck by how often Mr Magnay’s name appeared in both the booklet and Elizabeth’s correspondence. If he were truly as benign as Elizabeth said, what was he doing with these new schemes to create comprehensive schools and to abolish selective tests at eleven-plus? Very little such pressure emanated from the Macmillan government, though if Harold Wilson won the General Election that was certain to alter. The City Council’s desire to be progressive was leading them in
quite
the wrong direction. She would mention it tonight. It would not be rude to highlight these errors to Mr Magnay’s face: on the contrary, it would be her duty.
Dr Swanson sucked her third peppermint. Whenever anyone peered into the compartment at the vacant seats she snorted intimidatingly till the person moved away. She was a thin, whippet-like woman with perpetually pursed lips as if she wished to say more than propriety permitted. Her grey hair was cut severely short. She wore neither make-up nor jewellery except a man’s watch. Her clothes were shapeless and mainly brown in colour, with trim laced-up shoes. The effect was both academic and arrogant. Yet her role as Dean of Admissions required her to be uncompromising and incorruptible. Personal likes and dislikes must not intrude. If occasionally a twinkle came to her eye; if sudden acts of impulsive kindness suggested a softer interior; if her preferred authors were John Donne and W. B. Yeats, Rupert Brooke and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, these facets would not emerge until her retirement, when she, believing herself largely friendless (and necessarily so), would be moved at how warmly both pupils and colleagues spoke of her.
Dr Swanson counted Elizabeth Plumb as one of those to whom she would give, were it required, unstinted help and advice. Of a professional nature, of course. Since the two worked at opposite ends of the country their relationship could not be much more than a warm acquaintance conducted mainly in writing. True, there had been avid discussions over tea and crumpets in Elizabeth’s room at St Margaret’s during undergraduate days, but exclusively over the virtues of
Portrait of a Lady
compared with
Middlemarch
. True, at moments she had gazed covertly at Elizabeth, but the right opportunity had never arrived. Neither then had had a taste for men, nor indeed for anything beyond academia.
Now Elizabeth had asked her to join Mr Magnay on stage for her school’s annual prizegiving at the Liverpool Philharmonic Hall, and Dr Swanson had graciously deigned to accept. Not least because it would give her the chance to meet, albeit briefly, the school’s likely candidates for St Margaret’s later in the year.
I should have told Helen. She’s a good sort. I should have blurted it out when we sat on the chairs at Lewis’s. I’d have twisted it a bit so as not to shock her. I could have said, I have a boyfriend, see, but it’s somebody in the family and we shouldn’t. I wouldn’t have said it was my Dad. How could I tell anybody that?
But she had a point when she complained we were growing apart. Put her finger on it exactly. We used to share confidences, used to laugh. I never liked talking about sex much because – well, I knew more than them and my knowledge didn’t come from magazines. I knew it wasn’t fun. I let them put it down to my being an RC, that we were a bit prim. Or else I let them think that without a mother I didn’t feel so ready to chatter about – feminine subjects. Helen is lovely, and so smart. She’s brave and prepared to challenge the rules. She knows something’s wrong and she’s hurt that I won’t confide.
Brenda’s the next best. She’s solid and wise. She doesn’t have a boyfriend yet, but she’ll find somebody eminently suitable at college and they’ll get married when she’s got a proper job. Bit predictable, Brenda, but that’s her strength and attraction.
Meg, on the other hand, is more mixed up than I am but doesn’t know it. Real sourpuss sometimes; I don’t entirely trust her. The centre of Meg’s world is Meg. She’d tread on others if she had to. But she’s scared of sex, deep down. Scared of commitment, perhaps. Or maybe as she says she doesn’t want to be dominated by men or be obliged to live her life through them. Is it always that way round? If she met the right kind of woman friend she might be happier. What am I saying?
We’ve got a lot in common – or we had. We’re the first generation of girls to take our education for granted, to be determined to make the most of it. It’s a ladder up and out for the four of us, though Brenda is contentedly conventional so she’ll return or not go far. Meg’ll scoot as far from home as she can. I’d have said the same about Helen but this American boy could prove a genuine alternative to college. He could be a spanner in the works – if her parents discover and throw her out. What would she do then? I don’t think she’d give everything up to chase after love, but you never know.
I don’t want to lose them. I want to cling to them, keep us together as we’ve always been. They’re all I have. Yet I can’t confess, so Helen believes I’m being difficult and want out. It’s not true, quite the opposite.
There must be a way I could broach the subject. How would Helen react, I wonder, if I started asking her about contraception? The word is taboo in my church. It’s a mortal sin – sex is for procreation and that’s final. I bet she leaves it to her Michael but the pair of them will be careful, they won’t take chances. They have too much to live for and look forward to. I have nothing.
Nothing. Not even my Dad’s mate Jimmy who tried to be kind. He got killed, I heard. Unloading a cargo of pineapples which had gone half-rotten and started to ferment. The fumes in the hold must have been a mixture of alcohol vapours and he passed out instead of staying alert. When he didn’t come up they found him crushed under a pallet. The men had a whip-round for his wife and kids. These accidents happen down the docks all the time.
It means I have no one. No one who knows and might help. Nobody. I am completely alone.
Prizegiving will be such a farce. Pretending to be normal. Everybody smiling and applauding. It should be branded on my forehead that I sleep with my father. And that I can’t stop him. I can’t see an end to it. I can’t see anything at all.
‘Pleased to meet you! We are honoured to have you with us.’ Mr Magnay shook Dr Swanson’s vigorously. What a bouncy little man he was – as different to the etiolated dons of Cambridge as could be imagined. No wonder everybody warmed to him. Dr Swanson permitted herself the ghost of a smile.
The introduction took place in what must be the green room for concerts. A diminutive glass of sherry had been accepted. Behind in the body of the hall the noise rose steadily to a loud hum. Since attendance was compulsory, all 400 girls were present in uniform, most with several members of their families. The concert hall, one of England’s finest and a short walk from the school, would be full.
Academic gowns were to be worn. Mr Magnay didn’t bother: his status came from something more significant than a mere degree. Dr Swanson’s PhD in red and blue edged with white fur was the most distinguished, rather more so than Elizabeth’s more modest version. Nearly half the staff, it appeared, had studied at Liverpool or Manchester – fine in their way, but how dull to stay so close to home. No graduates of the new universities mooted in Dr Robbins’s report had yet appeared; Dr Swanson rather approved of such ancient cities as York, Norwich and Exeter as fresh locations. They’d give the frightfully staid Redbricks – the Victorian seats of learning – a run for their money.
Dr Swanson buttonholed Magnay. ‘I really must tackle you, Director.’
He was instant solicitude, his voice betraying a slight Geordie accent. ‘So pleased you could find the time to come. We want to send you our best –’
‘That’s the whole point. If you persist with your plans to – ah –
comprehensivise
the schools, isn’t that the jargon? – then you’ll ruin the best and waste a great deal of effort on the riff-raff.’
Magnay’s earnest brow furrowed. ‘We are anxious to improve education for all,’ he explained. ‘The children attending such establishments as the Liverpool Institutes reach levels among the highest this country can achieve. But that applies to less than twenty per cent of each age cohort. I have a responsibility to the rest, whose standards, frankly, are deteriorating.’
‘But you can’t have it both ways.’ Her bold stare to the fore, Miss Plumb joined in. She had told Dr Swanson of those Kentish children in the lee of the ramparts at Chinon: clearly she felt emboldened. Around the three of them conversation paused. ‘Either you ensure that the most able children become an elite or you’ll strive mightily with the masses and get nowhere. You’ll have to level down, not level up. The cult of mediocrity will rule. This country, which we both care about, Mr Magnay, will go down the plughole. Not to speak of this city,’ she added gratuitously.
Magnay looked uncomfortable. Dr Swanson divined that he had put much the same points to his councillors, most of whom had left school at fourteen or earlier, and been rebuffed.
Miss Plumb drove on. It might be the sole chance she would have to say her piece to somebody influential, and to satisfy her own conscience. To stay silent on such an important issue was no longer an option. ‘A child needs some basic ability to appreciate history. And you can’t half teach science, for example. Either pupils can handle calculus or they can’t. Either they’re smart enough to master Latin – which, may I remind you, is still an entrance requirement for Oxford and Cambridge –’ (Dr Swanson nodded vigorously) ‘– or they are not. If my best staff are obliged to spend most of their time with the bulk of the pupils – let alone with the dimmest – then the most able children are certain to lose out. And, let me add, the brightest graduates will refuse to enter the teaching profession. A wholesale degradation will take place. Then where will you be?’
Mr Magnay opened and closed his mouth like a fish and looked dolefully from one formidable woman to the other. Miss Plumb glared, then pointed to the clock and steered her guests out.
The Philharmonic Hall itself, as they trooped out on to the stage, was to Edith Swanson a revelation and a delightful surprise. Its art deco lines swooped gracefully overhead to create a vast space without pillars or restricted views, airy and light. But it was Edmund Thompson’s carvings on
the high side walls which caught Dr Swanson’s eye, as they did those of every pupil, in whom annually were induced suppressed sniggers. For the good burghers of the city had agreed in all virtue a series of vivid depictions of gods and muses. Naked and prancing came Diana and Pan, Apollo and Bacchus, breasts high, thighs extended, nipples pointed skyward in ecstasy. Dr Swanson caught herself calculating the dimensions of Pan’s buttocks and suspected that the pubescent youngsters who blushed and smirked under her gaze had done much the same.
‘Remarkable,’ she commented to Elizabeth, who coloured slightly as she rose to her feet.
The next hour passed for those on the platform like most similar rituals. The choir sang Purcell without enthusiasm, Britten without skill and Rodgers and Hammerstein without panache, though the latter brought the most spontaneous applause. The first year recorder group, twenty children in a solemn semi-circle, played ‘Nymphs and Shepherds’ excruciatingly out of tune. A wind quartet of fourteen-year-olds murdered Schubert. Dr Swanson peered at her programme and noted with relief that Blackburne House did not run to a violin tutor.
Elizabeth was reading out her headmistress’s report. It had been a good year for hockey and netball. Examination results had been excellent. Why, oh why, Dr Swanson reflected, do these city grammar schools try to ape the great private schools? And not merely the girls’ versions such as Cheltenham Ladies’ College or Malvern which might have been understandable. Instead with their striped ties and subfusc uniforms they aped
the boys
. How bizarre and foolish. Eton or Harrow Blackburne House was not going to be, nor Winchester or Marlborough.
Yet the municipalities had something fine to offer in their own right. What was this school’s motto?
Non nobis solum sed toti mundo nati
. ‘Not for ourselves alone, but for the whole world was I born.’ In upper-class mouths that would sound pompous and condescending. Here it referred with pride to the tradition of service and of high-quality endeavour inculcated by the city, its forefathers and governors. And by such models as Mr Magnay, at least till now.
Dr Swanson glanced down the waiting lines of winners. First she must concentrate on the prizes themselves; every single certificate and sports shield had to be handed to its recipient. Fortunately Elizabeth was superbly organised and the girls well drilled. Up the steps they marched like martinets, shook hands, collected their awards, marched off. One or two, cheekier than the rest, waved to supporters in the audience and were raggedly cheered. Flashes popped on box cameras, mainly from the balcony.
The group that drew Dr Swanson’s main attention were the sixth-formers, applicants to university within the next couple of months. She made a mental note of Jones, B.R., Findlay, M.R.P., O’Brien, C.M. and Majinsky, H. amongst others. The scientists would have a marginally easier time than the rest, especially if they could offer evidence of all-round competence. Newer educationalists declared that Oxbridge interviews were inconsistent and tended to promote and perpetuate prejudice, but the Dean of Admissions knew better. Any of these who could talk her way through the ordeal, who had something to say for herself, who was – ah, interesting, would be much more attractive as a candidate. The ‘gift of the gab’, it had been dubbed, though Dr Swanson would not have employed the vulgarity. But it made those interviews such tremendous fun. At any rate for the staff.
The girl Majinsky caught her attention. Carried herself calmly; bright eyes, steady gaze. Had taken the chemistry prize and another for the short story competition – that augured well. Dr Swanson gave her hand a quick shake but did not let go.
‘You will be applying to university, I hope?’
‘Yes, I think so.’