passed her eleven-plus and she occasionally produced brilliant, if sloppy, compositions. She took little obvious part in lessons, but the gradual improvement in her work showed that she was listening. Marguerite learnt not to praise her in front of the class, but showed her approval in comments written on her homework and the excellent grades she gave her. Whilst Elsie’s constant cry of ‘Why’ when asked to obey some rule was wearing, the same curiosity was invaluable for the critique of a literary text.
But she was trouble. Her reputation was that of a bully, and bullies were not welcome at Dartford County Grammar. She had been warned and Miss Fryer’s patience was nearly exhausted, so when Marguerite saw Elsie arrive at school minus her hat, and looking even more dishevelled than usual, she took her into an empty classroom to remonstrate with her.
‘What’s going on, Elsie?’
‘I had a bit of a fight, miss.’
‘What?’
‘And the police came.’
‘What on earth happened?’
‘It was my hat, miss.’
‘Your hat?’
‘Yes, they nicked it.’
‘Who?’
‘The secondary modern lot. They used to be my friends at primary but now they think I’m toffee-nosed because I’m at the grammar. They’re always chi-iking me. But this time they went too far.’
‘What did they do?’
‘They knocked my hat off and started throwing it around, miss. And I was worried because of the rule.’
‘Which rule?’
‘That we must always wear our hats in public.’
Marguerite had always thought this a pointless rule but didn’t say so.
‘They started poking fun at my tunic and my scabs.’
‘It’s a very nice tunic.’
‘No it ent, miss. My mum boiled it and it shrunk. Then that Baker-Jones snob from our upper sixth joined in and told them some things about my mum, cos she’s got a crush on one of the boys. So I hit her. And then I hit everyone I could. That shut them up. I’m a good fighter, miss.’
Lying behind a bush, heart thumping but the comforting sun on her back and Marcel by her side; they are flat on their stomachs, guns and grenades at the ready.
‘This one’s for Jacob and the lads,’ whispers Marcel. And she feels a rush of pride. There is a distant sound of engines. They grovel to the edge of the precipice. In the distance, three cars worm up the curving road. Gradually she can make out people in them. One man is standing in the first, which has the top down. He is scanning the area with binoculars.
‘He’s yours,’ says Marcel. ‘Arrogant swine.’
As he comes into focus she sees he has blue eyes. He is sternly handsome. Attractive. Aryan. Bastard. They round the last curve until they are nearly level. As she pulls the pin from the grenade he looks up and stares into her eyes in wonderment like a beautiful child. Then his head bursts open and splatters all over the other men in the car. Marcel fires at the cars with his Sten. From the other side of the road grenades and bullets are flying through the air.
‘Right. That’s it. Run.’
‘OK, Elsie, I’ll have a word with the head but I can’t promise anything. That sort of behaviour won’t do – you are supposed to uphold the reputation of the school. Remember our motto: “Quietness and Confidence”. You must control your temper.’
‘Thank you, miss. I’ll try, miss.’
‘Good.’
‘Miss—’
‘Yes, Elsie?’
‘Pamela Baker-Jones is an arseho – um – a bumhole. Don’t you agree?’
Miss Fryer had already heard from the police, and she was determined to expel Elsie.
‘This is not her first offence. She has let the school down on other occasions. She is slovenly and a bully. I don’t want girls like that at my school.’
Marguerite said, ‘Don’t you think her background is the problem?’
‘Certainly on the one occasion her mother deigned to attend a parents’ meeting she looked like a tart, which, rumour hath it, she is. Her father was aggressive with the teachers and smelled of
But she was trouble. Her reputation was that of a bully, and bullies were not welcome at Dartford County Grammar. She had been warned and Miss Fryer’s patience was nearly exhausted, so when Marguerite saw Elsie arrive at school minus her hat, and looking even more dishevelled than usual, she took her into an empty classroom to remonstrate with her.
‘What’s going on, Elsie?’
‘I had a bit of a fight, miss.’
‘What?’
‘And the police came.’
‘What on earth happened?’
‘It was my hat, miss.’
‘Your hat?’
‘Yes, they nicked it.’
‘Who?’
‘The secondary modern lot. They used to be my friends at primary but now they think I’m toffee-nosed because I’m at the grammar. They’re always chi-iking me. But this time they went too far.’
‘What did they do?’
‘They knocked my hat off and started throwing it around, miss. And I was worried because of the rule.’
‘Which rule?’
‘That we must always wear our hats in public.’
Marguerite had always thought this a pointless rule but didn’t say so.
‘They started poking fun at my tunic and my scabs.’
‘It’s a very nice tunic.’
‘No it ent, miss. My mum boiled it and it shrunk. Then that Baker-Jones snob from our upper sixth joined in and told them some things about my mum, cos she’s got a crush on one of the boys. So I hit her. And then I hit everyone I could. That shut them up. I’m a good fighter, miss.’
Lying behind a bush, heart thumping but the comforting sun on her back and Marcel by her side; they are flat on their stomachs, guns and grenades at the ready.
‘This one’s for Jacob and the lads,’ whispers Marcel. And she feels a rush of pride. There is a distant sound of engines. They grovel to the edge of the precipice. In the distance, three cars worm up the curving road. Gradually she can make out people in them. One man is standing in the first, which has the top down. He is scanning the area with binoculars.
‘He’s yours,’ says Marcel. ‘Arrogant swine.’
As he comes into focus she sees he has blue eyes. He is sternly handsome. Attractive. Aryan. Bastard. They round the last curve until they are nearly level. As she pulls the pin from the grenade he looks up and stares into her eyes in wonderment like a beautiful child. Then his head bursts open and splatters all over the other men in the car. Marcel fires at the cars with his Sten. From the other side of the road grenades and bullets are flying through the air.
‘Right. That’s it. Run.’
‘OK, Elsie, I’ll have a word with the head but I can’t promise anything. That sort of behaviour won’t do – you are supposed to uphold the reputation of the school. Remember our motto: “Quietness and Confidence”. You must control your temper.’
‘Thank you, miss. I’ll try, miss.’
‘Good.’
‘Miss—’
‘Yes, Elsie?’
‘Pamela Baker-Jones is an arseho – um – a bumhole. Don’t you agree?’
Miss Fryer had already heard from the police, and she was determined to expel Elsie.
‘This is not her first offence. She has let the school down on other occasions. She is slovenly and a bully. I don’t want girls like that at my school.’
Marguerite said, ‘Don’t you think her background is the problem?’
‘Certainly on the one occasion her mother deigned to attend a parents’ meeting she looked like a tart, which, rumour hath it, she is. Her father was aggressive with the teachers and smelled of
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