war poets. She Roneoed copies for all of them of Rupert Brooke’s ‘The Soldier’, and Siegfried Sassoon’s ‘Suicide in the Trenches’.
Rupert Brooke irked them. They all knew men who were buried in ‘some corner of a foreign field’ and for them, the bitter loss overrode the patriotism. The Sassoon spoke more to their understanding of the fate of ‘a simple soldier boy’. As Hazel Evans read the final verse Marguerite noticed that Irene was trying to hide the fact that she was crying.
‘ “You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you’ll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.” ’
It was Marguerite’s custom to walk about between the desks during lessons to keep contact with the girls, rather than pontificate from the front. As she passed Irene, without comment, she handed her a handkerchief.
After the lesson, Irene lagged behind until the rest of the class had filed out. Marguerite did not rush the girl, but waited in silence, until she managed to blurt out, ‘Thank you, miss, I’ll take it home and wash it.’
‘There’s no need for that, Irene. It’s a sad poem, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, miss, but so is war. He tells it so well.’
‘I agree. It’s a short poem, but we feel we know that young man, don’t we? Someone who “slept soundly through the lonesome dark, and whistled early with the lark”.’
‘Yes, miss, and then, in the horrible trenches, he’s “cowed and glum” and then it’s so sad, when “none spoke of him again” after he shot himself.’ The girl’s eyes started to fill again.
‘Here, Irene’ – Marguerite flicked through her book – ‘let’s look at a more cheerful one.’
‘This one was written when peace was declared in the First World War – the armistice. Will you read it for me? I’ve lost my glasses.’
Rapt, Irene forgot her timidity and read out the text of ‘Everyone Sang’. When she finished the last two lines, ‘O but Everyone/Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done’, she looked confused.
‘Does that mean there’ll always be poetry?’
‘Maybe, Irene, or maybe – that as well as dreadful times there will always be joy.’
‘That’s lovely, miss. Oops, sorry, not “lovely”. Positive, thoughtful, comforting.’ She handed Marguerite her hanky. ‘Thank you, miss, I’m sorry if it’s snotty.’
Marguerite laughed. ‘You keep it, Irene. And the book as well.’
‘Really, miss?’
‘Yes, really. Now wipe your nose.’
Thereafter Marguerite came upon the girl in corners of the playground, or vacated classrooms, deep in contemplation of her precious book. She still said little in class but would seize opportunities before and after lessons or in the dining hall, if Marguerite was on duty, to catch her on her own, and discuss that, or other collections of poetry she had borrowed from the library.
One of Marguerite’s other lame ducks was the dreaded Elsie Miller. From a family of three girls and two boys, she was not an attractive child. Her dirty clothing, along with her impetigo, made most of the other girls give her a wide berth. She was ill-mannered and rude to the teachers, always ‘answering back’, but Marguerite found that almost a relief from the oppressive rule-abiding ethos of the school.
‘Elsie Miller, stop talking in the corridor.’
‘What if I see an unexploded butterfly bomb, can’t I tell people?’
Elsie once sat alone for a whole afternoon in the canteen when she was ordered not to leave the table until she ate her cabbage, which she swore was full of caterpillars, and come home time, ‘accidentally on purpose’ knocked it on the floor. Tony valued her skill on the hockey field, but had to constantly remind her she should whack the ball, not her opponents’ shins. Marguerite was certain that underneath this ferocious exterior was a good mind waiting to develop. She had, after all,
Rupert Brooke irked them. They all knew men who were buried in ‘some corner of a foreign field’ and for them, the bitter loss overrode the patriotism. The Sassoon spoke more to their understanding of the fate of ‘a simple soldier boy’. As Hazel Evans read the final verse Marguerite noticed that Irene was trying to hide the fact that she was crying.
‘ “You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you’ll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.” ’
It was Marguerite’s custom to walk about between the desks during lessons to keep contact with the girls, rather than pontificate from the front. As she passed Irene, without comment, she handed her a handkerchief.
After the lesson, Irene lagged behind until the rest of the class had filed out. Marguerite did not rush the girl, but waited in silence, until she managed to blurt out, ‘Thank you, miss, I’ll take it home and wash it.’
‘There’s no need for that, Irene. It’s a sad poem, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, miss, but so is war. He tells it so well.’
‘I agree. It’s a short poem, but we feel we know that young man, don’t we? Someone who “slept soundly through the lonesome dark, and whistled early with the lark”.’
‘Yes, miss, and then, in the horrible trenches, he’s “cowed and glum” and then it’s so sad, when “none spoke of him again” after he shot himself.’ The girl’s eyes started to fill again.
‘Here, Irene’ – Marguerite flicked through her book – ‘let’s look at a more cheerful one.’
‘This one was written when peace was declared in the First World War – the armistice. Will you read it for me? I’ve lost my glasses.’
Rapt, Irene forgot her timidity and read out the text of ‘Everyone Sang’. When she finished the last two lines, ‘O but Everyone/Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done’, she looked confused.
‘Does that mean there’ll always be poetry?’
‘Maybe, Irene, or maybe – that as well as dreadful times there will always be joy.’
‘That’s lovely, miss. Oops, sorry, not “lovely”. Positive, thoughtful, comforting.’ She handed Marguerite her hanky. ‘Thank you, miss, I’m sorry if it’s snotty.’
Marguerite laughed. ‘You keep it, Irene. And the book as well.’
‘Really, miss?’
‘Yes, really. Now wipe your nose.’
Thereafter Marguerite came upon the girl in corners of the playground, or vacated classrooms, deep in contemplation of her precious book. She still said little in class but would seize opportunities before and after lessons or in the dining hall, if Marguerite was on duty, to catch her on her own, and discuss that, or other collections of poetry she had borrowed from the library.
One of Marguerite’s other lame ducks was the dreaded Elsie Miller. From a family of three girls and two boys, she was not an attractive child. Her dirty clothing, along with her impetigo, made most of the other girls give her a wide berth. She was ill-mannered and rude to the teachers, always ‘answering back’, but Marguerite found that almost a relief from the oppressive rule-abiding ethos of the school.
‘Elsie Miller, stop talking in the corridor.’
‘What if I see an unexploded butterfly bomb, can’t I tell people?’
Elsie once sat alone for a whole afternoon in the canteen when she was ordered not to leave the table until she ate her cabbage, which she swore was full of caterpillars, and come home time, ‘accidentally on purpose’ knocked it on the floor. Tony valued her skill on the hockey field, but had to constantly remind her she should whack the ball, not her opponents’ shins. Marguerite was certain that underneath this ferocious exterior was a good mind waiting to develop. She had, after all,
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