a once-around with screwdriver and sponge, and as for the desks with their intricate chronicle of graffiti, either they could be sanded bare, or the opinions of generations of pupils could be allowed to stand. Mary found that she didn’t much mind either way. Beyond the superficial errors of spelling there was little that she felt justified in correcting, after all, when she read the collective wisdom concerning Miss Vine.
At the front of the classroom the mice had got onto the teaching desk and eaten the carton away from the chalk, so that it lay splayed. They had eaten the bitter leather from the corners of the gym mats piled in the corner. They had taken the barren seeds from the beanbags used for throw-and-catch. They took what the war could give them.
Mary gathered the chalk and found a pot for it. She wrote her name on the blackboard: Mary North . Then, to see how it might look, she rubbed out “North” and wrote Tom’s surname, forming the letters slowly and carefully in the exemplary hand required for blackboard work. When her fingers gripped the chalk, the pink blood shrank from the knuckles so that something of chalk’s nature seemed to seep into her.
Mary Shaw .
To see how it might sound, as she turned from the board she said brightly to the room: “Hello, class. My name is Mrs. Shaw.”
She lifted her hands to her mouth. Tom was standing in the doorway of the classroom. His efforts to disappear were to his credit, but unsupported by a pitiless physics that refused to let him vanish. He squirmed and tried to shrink behind the door, and gave up on that and instead pretended to have been whistling a tune. He gave up on that too, since if he really hadn’t heard what she had said, then here it was, inscribed on the blackboard in the Marion Richardson script that was favored for the modern and unambiguous manner in which the letters were formed.
You silly girl, she thought. If he has any sense he will never speak to you again. And the worst thing about it, as she watched his resigned smile, was that she really did like him a lot. His awkwardness was gone, in this moment when it finally couldn’t matter anymore. There was something honest in his surrender to the situation. It was only now that she understood how difficult it must have been for him, to like her and to be petitioned by her at the same time. All he had needed was for her to understand that things should be taken carefully and slowly. She dropped her hands and mirrored his sad smile.
“Sorry,” she said.
He watched her in the half-light of the electric bulbs.
“No,” he said. “It’s I who should apologize, Mrs. Shaw—it seems that I am late to this class. Have you already taken the register?”
She hesitated, then beamed. “Oh! I mean . . . well, as it happens, you are in time. I was just about to do it.”
He gestured at the rows of desks. “So may I . . . ?”
“Yes . . . oh, yes, sit anywhere. No, actually—sit down here at the front where I can keep an eye on you.”
She invested her face with the appropriate severity. He took a desk in the front row. His knees came halfway to his chin when he sat in the tiny chair. He laughed. She frowned. “Settle down.”
From the drawer of the teacher’s desk she took a pencil and the register book, blew off the dust, and opened it to the first clean page. At the top she wrote: Sparrows Class, Spring Term, 1940 . She wrote Tom’s name on the first ruled line.
“Tom Shaw?”
“Present.”
“Splendid,” she said, looking at his name on the clean page. “Well, you are my first.”
April, 1940
“I’M QUITE SURE YOU’RE doing it wrong,” said Hilda, wincing as Mary dug the comb into her scalp.
“This preposterous hairdo is wrong. I’m following the instructions exactly.”
“Oh do give it here,” said Hilda, snatching American Vogue and jabbing at the illustration of Step 3. “See? It says to tease. And you are back-combing.”
“I am teasing.”
“You
At the front of the classroom the mice had got onto the teaching desk and eaten the carton away from the chalk, so that it lay splayed. They had eaten the bitter leather from the corners of the gym mats piled in the corner. They had taken the barren seeds from the beanbags used for throw-and-catch. They took what the war could give them.
Mary gathered the chalk and found a pot for it. She wrote her name on the blackboard: Mary North . Then, to see how it might look, she rubbed out “North” and wrote Tom’s surname, forming the letters slowly and carefully in the exemplary hand required for blackboard work. When her fingers gripped the chalk, the pink blood shrank from the knuckles so that something of chalk’s nature seemed to seep into her.
Mary Shaw .
To see how it might sound, as she turned from the board she said brightly to the room: “Hello, class. My name is Mrs. Shaw.”
She lifted her hands to her mouth. Tom was standing in the doorway of the classroom. His efforts to disappear were to his credit, but unsupported by a pitiless physics that refused to let him vanish. He squirmed and tried to shrink behind the door, and gave up on that and instead pretended to have been whistling a tune. He gave up on that too, since if he really hadn’t heard what she had said, then here it was, inscribed on the blackboard in the Marion Richardson script that was favored for the modern and unambiguous manner in which the letters were formed.
You silly girl, she thought. If he has any sense he will never speak to you again. And the worst thing about it, as she watched his resigned smile, was that she really did like him a lot. His awkwardness was gone, in this moment when it finally couldn’t matter anymore. There was something honest in his surrender to the situation. It was only now that she understood how difficult it must have been for him, to like her and to be petitioned by her at the same time. All he had needed was for her to understand that things should be taken carefully and slowly. She dropped her hands and mirrored his sad smile.
“Sorry,” she said.
He watched her in the half-light of the electric bulbs.
“No,” he said. “It’s I who should apologize, Mrs. Shaw—it seems that I am late to this class. Have you already taken the register?”
She hesitated, then beamed. “Oh! I mean . . . well, as it happens, you are in time. I was just about to do it.”
He gestured at the rows of desks. “So may I . . . ?”
“Yes . . . oh, yes, sit anywhere. No, actually—sit down here at the front where I can keep an eye on you.”
She invested her face with the appropriate severity. He took a desk in the front row. His knees came halfway to his chin when he sat in the tiny chair. He laughed. She frowned. “Settle down.”
From the drawer of the teacher’s desk she took a pencil and the register book, blew off the dust, and opened it to the first clean page. At the top she wrote: Sparrows Class, Spring Term, 1940 . She wrote Tom’s name on the first ruled line.
“Tom Shaw?”
“Present.”
“Splendid,” she said, looking at his name on the clean page. “Well, you are my first.”
April, 1940
“I’M QUITE SURE YOU’RE doing it wrong,” said Hilda, wincing as Mary dug the comb into her scalp.
“This preposterous hairdo is wrong. I’m following the instructions exactly.”
“Oh do give it here,” said Hilda, snatching American Vogue and jabbing at the illustration of Step 3. “See? It says to tease. And you are back-combing.”
“I am teasing.”
“You
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