Cross My Heart and Hope to Die Read online

We sighed together.

  I longed to have a real boy-friend, and anyone would do, temporarily, just so that I could chuck my imaginary one. I’d built up a complex of implications, half-truths and downright lies during my time at the grammar school, and I was sick of the whole business. It was such a drag trying to keep it all up.

  Once I got to university, I intended to abandon the entire edifice. I’d have achieved something then, and I’d be able to start my life afresh. I’d be my own person, and it wouldn’t matter if everybody knew what a primitive way of life we’d led at home.

  It sounds horribly snobbish, I know, but I was ashamed that we lived in a damp poky little farm cottage miles from anywhere, with no bathroom and an outside pump and a bucket lavatory at the end of the garden, and that my mother worked in the fields and my Dad was a shop assistant. I wasn’t ashamed of them, I was ashamed for them.

  No, that’s not honest either, because the only time Mum came to school for an Open Day, wearing a terrible straw hat with cherries on and saying all the wrong things in a stupid mincing voice, I was so ashamed of her that I could gladly have strangled her. But I know she couldn’t help it, she’d never had a chance to mix with different people and see how they lived. I was getting the chance, and making the most of it; no point in having an education if you stay exactly the same as you were when you started.

  It didn’t take long, when I first went to grammar school, to see that the girls were divided into those who came from ordinary homes like mine, and those who were different. The different ones fascinated me. They were so much more confident, so enviably relaxed, and they made me feel inferior. I knew that I was awkward and anxious, and I wanted to acquire some of their confidence, so from my first week at the school I watched and listened and copied.

  There was so much to find out, beginning with how to use a flush lavatory without being afraid that the chain would break if you pulled it too hard. At school dinners I learned not to hold my knife like a pen, and to put my knife and fork neatly together on my plate when I’d finished. And I worked on my Suffolk accent, shortening the broad vowels that would otherwise give me away as a country girl.

  I didn’t tell too many lies about my background. No need. I said that our house was right out in the country, and if anyone chose to imagine that it was large, attractive and permanently covered in roses, that was up to her. If the subject of our fathers’jobs came up, I said that mine worked in the family business. When school trips abroad were planned I wouldn’t admit that we couldn’t afford them, but said I had so much fun with Andrew-the-boy-next-door that I preferred to stay at home.

  Fortunately I lived too far away to invite any friends to tea, and the only girls from the village at grammar school were either several years older or several years younger than me, so I got away with it. By the time I was fifteen I was accepted as one of the middle-class girls, the confident ones who had a future.

  It’s only subsequently that I’ve wondered whether any of the other girls were in fact keeping up the same pretence as I was. When you know you’re a liar, and feel guilty about it, you imagine that everyone else is always telling the truth.

  Chapter Five

  The only person at school I did confess to was Sally Buckle. She was my best friend for four years. She lived in the town and I went to her house several times. Her Dad worked on the railway and they lived in a small terraced house near the station, and the first time she invited me home, because I’d missed my usual bus, we surprised her mother out in the back yard, shabbily dressed and with her hair in rollers, unpegging some corsets from the washing line.

  I don’t know which of us was most embarrassed. Their kitchen was in a terrible muddle, just like ours on wash day, and Mrs Buckle couldn’t have been more apologetic if Sally had brought Miss Dunlop to visit her. Poor Sally was squirming on her mother’s behalf, and I didn’t know what to say until it occurred to me to tell the truth.

  ‘My Mum would be green with envy if she could see your kitchen, Mrs Buckle – inside tap and hot water and everything. We have to fetch our water in buckets and heat it up in the copper on washdays. You are lucky.’

  She relaxed immediately. Obviously she’d been fooled by my carefully polished accent and thought that Sally had brought home somebody from a posh family, and you could see how chuffed she was at the thought that we were ordinary people and not as comfortably housed as they were. After that, we got on very well together and I had a standing invitation to go there whenever I missed my bus.

  Sally was the best friend I’ve ever had. We spent all our time at school together, and during the Easter and summer holidays we’d cycle to meet each other for a sandwich and apple picnic at least once a week. But then the railway junction at Breckham Market was reduced to an ordinary main-line station and Sally’s Dad was made redundant, so they had to move to Ipswich. We wrote to each other every week at first, but it’s difficult to keep up the same sort of friendship just by writing and our letters tailed off. I missed her tremendously, though. Still do.

  Another person who knew, or guessed, about the act I was putting on was Mrs Bloomfield, the deputy headmistress. She arrived at the school at the beginning of my last term, ready to take over as headmistress when Miss Dunlop retired at the end of the school year.

  We’d got so used to Miss Dunlop and the rest of the middle-aged teaching staff that when word went round that the new deputy head was a widow we expected someone solemn and grey-haired. Mrs Bloomfield, when she arrived, was a revelation: about thirty-five, we estimated, tall and very slim with ashblond hair which she wore swept up into a knot, and fabulously dressed. We were all dazzled by her sophistication, and her widowhood gave her an added glamour because it was rumoured that her husband had been killed flying with the Royal Air Force.

  Mrs Bloomfield taught English, and Caroline and I had weekly tutorials with her that term. She made a point of treating us as students, not schoolchildren, which I suppose is why she lent me the book of uncensored poems. She was cool, detached and amused, and I really looked forward to those tutorials, partly because she made English literature so fascinating, but chiefly because I hoped that some of her confidence and poise would rub off on me. Well, no harm in hoping.

  At our second tutorial, Caroline was a few minutes late and Mrs Bloomfield had suddenly said to me, ‘I believe you come from Byland. I was born in Suffolk too. My father was a farm worker, we lived at Ashthorpe.’

  I had been astonished. I probably sat there gaping, unable to believe that anyone so stunning could have emerged from a background similar to mine. ‘I’d never have known, from your accent,’ I’d blurted out, and she had laughed. ‘I worked at it,’ she said. ‘Did you have to work at yours?’

  But then Caroline turned up, and that had put an end to the conversation. I was always hoping for an opportunity to continue it, though, and I had one to look forward to on that particular day.

  It was my turn to be one of the dinner-duty prefects. At least, it would have been my turn in ten days’time but I knew that Mrs Bloomfield was going to be on staff duty so I’d fiddled the rota. It was a spread-out school so there wasn’t really much chance of seeing her as we patrolled round, but it was worth a try.

  The first job, after school dinner – fish pie with mashed potato topping, followed by lemon sponge pudding – was to make sure all the girls went outside. Fresh Air and Exercise was one of Miss Dunlop’s manias. In winter all the layabouts tried to hole up indoors, but since we’d done exactly the same thing when we were their age, we knew where to look. I took the old building and Sandra Pell took the new wing and we flushed the kids out.

  ‘Must we, Janet? I’ve got a terrible cough.’

  I knew her, young Wendy Barnes from the Lower Fourth, a cheeky little monkey. She was making heartrending coughing noises, but spoiled them by laughing.

  ‘Go on with you,’ I said. ‘Get some nice fresh air and exercise, it’ll do you good.’

  ‘But it’s terribly cold. I’ll die
of exposure.’ Her friends had already run off (‘And don’t run in the corridors,’ I’d called after them, too late) and she was lingering for the sake of it.

  ‘Only if you stand still. Go on, I want to get outside myself.’

  ‘Are you going to play hockey?’

  ‘Certainly not, at my age. Out you go.’

  She grumbled and dragged her feet but I refused to encourage her any further.

  ‘See you outside, Janet?’

  ‘Not if I see you first. And don’t run in the corridors.’

  I put on my raincoat for warmth and started the outside patrol, keeping an eye on what was going on. There was hockey practice on the sports field. I’d been in the second eleven for four years, which must have been a school record because usually you either made the first team or were dropped to third. But I was too useful to be relegated – all that running home from school for fear of Andy Crackjaw, and then biking up and down the lane, must have strengthened my leg muscles. I was an accurate hitter, and I’d found that haring about the hockey pitch swiping at a ball was a good way of getting grievances out of my system. I packed it in as soon as compulsory games stopped in the sixth form, but I still sometimes joined in a practice. I watched the players wistfully, feeling rather old.

  Sue Larter, the second-eleven captain, saw me and trotted over in her tracksuit, looking madly healthy.

  ‘Like a bash, Janet?’

  ‘I’m on duty.’

  ‘It’s the only time you come out here these days. All that sitting about in the common room doesn’t do you any good, you’re not nearly as fit as you used to be.’

  ‘Ah well, I’ve got other interests …’

  ‘So I’ve heard. But are they as good for you?’

  Sue was a clown, always bouncing about full of cheerfulness and fresh air. But her offer of a hockey stick was tempting. I looked round. There seemed to be no crises that demanded my immediate attention so I slipped off my raincoat, borrowed the stick and waded in.

  A fast ball skimmed past and I ran, trapped it, dribbled round an opponent and whammed it across the centre. Lovely stuff. I felt fourteen again, easy and irresponsible. I was just glancing round to see who was in what position when the wretched ball, slammed straight back at me by some hetty young idiot, cracked me hard on the side of the foot. I howled, and hopped, and said a word that I knew I knew but had never before been sufficiently provoked to use.

  Sue bounded over. ‘All right, Janet?’

  ‘Yes, fine.’ My foot felt as though it were broken in six places.

  ‘Still playing?’

  Some junior ghouls were gathering and my one thought was to get off the pitch and nurse my foot in peace. I shook my head. ‘Better not – I’m supposed to be on duty anyway.’

  I hobbled to the bench where I’d left my raincoat, and Sue hustled her troupe away. I’d just eased off my shoe and was having a tender exploratory feel of my foot when a cool, amused voice said from behind me, ‘I didn’t know you went in for these rough games.’

  Mrs Bloomfield, of course. It would be.

  ‘That was positively my final appearance,’ I said, hoping that my cheeks weren’t as red as they felt.

  ‘Is your foot all right?’

  ‘Perfectly.’ I rammed on my shoe and regretted it, but I didn’t want to make myself look any more of a fool than I had done already. She strolled round to the front of the bench, casual but elegant in a sheepskin jacket and the kind of knee-high boots I’d have given my back teeth for.

  ‘Well, you know the rules,’ she said. ‘All injuries must be reported to the member of staff on duty. I ought to put it in the incidents book.’

  ‘Please don’t.’ I thought she probably didn’t mean it, but I couldn’t be sure. ‘I’m not hurt, truly.’

  Mrs Bloomfield laughed. ‘I’ll take your word for it. Let’s walk, then; it’s too cold to stand about.’ She strolled away with her collar turned up and her hands deep in her pockets, and I hobbled after her, eager to resume our personal conversation.

  ‘Did you come to this school from Ashthorpe?’

  ‘No, we moved to west Suffolk and I went to Saintsbury High School. But I like this area. I was very happy in Ashthorpe, and if I can find a house in the village I’d like to live there.’

  ‘Would you really?’ I couldn’t imagine myself ever wanting to go back to Byland to live, once I managed to get away. I was just going to say so when a junior came running towards us, full of anxious importance.

  ‘Please Mrs Bloomfield, Julie Binns has been sick behind the pavilion.’

  We exchanged resigned, adult glances. ‘Is anyone with her?’ Mrs Bloomfield asked the girl. ‘Good. You run off and fetch her a glass of water, and I’ll be along in a minute.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ I offered. ‘I expect it was the fish pie, I had my doubts about it.’

  ‘I’d better go myself, thanks. I have to remember the incidents book.’ She began to walk purposefully towards the pavilion and I stayed where I was, disappointed that our conversation had been cut short. But Mrs Bloomfield beckoned me to join her.

  ‘What I wanted to ask you’, she said as we walked, ‘is whether there are any buses out of Byland on Sundays? Can you get to Yarchester?’

  I didn’t really know. Going all the way to Yarchester on a Sunday was unheard of. ‘There’s a Sunday afternoon bus to Breckham Market,’ I said, puzzled. ‘I’m not sure whether it goes on to Yarchester, though.’

  ‘Good enough. Are you doing anything this coming Sunday? Because if you’re not, I’m going with some friends to an evening performance of Britten’s War Requiem in Yarchester Cathedral. There’s a spare ticket, and I wondered if you might like to come? If you can’t get a late bus back, I’ll drive you home.’

  I was flabbergasted. I’d never been to a concert in my life, never been out on a Sunday except to visit relations, never had an adult invitation to anything. I stammered my assurances that I wasn’t doing anything else, that I’d love to go. Her next words deprived me of speech completely.

  ‘Why not come to tea first? About five, if that fits in with your bus? 12 Riverside, the new block of flats just past the town bridge. Know where to find it?’

  I nodded. I’d no idea where it was, but that hardly mattered. All I could think of was that I was going to get a foretaste of civilized living at last.

  ‘See you on Sunday, then.’ Mrs Bloomfield disappeared round the back of the pavilion and I turned away, elated.

  I wanted to run, punching the air like a goal-scoring footballer, the length of the hockey pitch. But it wouldn’t have been a cool thing to do, so it was just as well that my foot hurt too much for anything more than a dignified limp back to school.

  Chapter Six

  Saturday mornings I worked at the shop. I’d have liked to work there most of the holidays too, but Gran Thacker would only pay me for one morning a week.

  I started biking down to the shop with Dad on Saturdays just as soon as I was big enough to be useful. I thought of it as helping him, and I didn’t mind what I did, fetching and carrying at a run all morning. It didn’t seem like work and I looked forward to the Saturday shilling he gave me and the bar of chocolate Gran Thacker handed me grudgingly as I left, though I usually had cause to feel guilty because I’d already nibbled some currants or a sliver of cheese when no one was looking.

  As soon as I was fifteen, though, Dad said, ‘That’s it, our Janet. You’re of working age and you’re not coming to work at the shop unless Mother pays you properly.’ He did his best to make his chin look determined. ‘I shall speak to her about it.‘

  The next Saturday Gran Thacker beckoned me into her little office behind the shop. I always hated going in there. She had a paraffin heater on full blast, and the windows were kept tightly closed whatever the weather. There was a permanent smell of stewed tea and old ladies’woollens.

  ‘You’re wanting to get paid, I hear.’ There was no doubt that she wasn’t in favour of it.

 
‘Yes, please,’ I said. It was rather like visiting the headmistress at school, so I was very quiet and respectful. Gran pawed through the papers on her crowded roll-top desk, muttering and clicking her false teeth. Eventually she produced an official Wages Council leaflet and ran her finger along the columns of figures.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Fifteen. Gran,’ I added for extra politeness, but she looked at me as sharply as if I’d been cheeky.

  ‘Full-timers at your age get three pounds fourteen and six for a forty-two-hour week,’ she announced with disapproval. ‘No wonder there’s no profit in shopkeeping! Well, Miss, what’s that per hour?’

  Questions like that always floor me. Instead of trying to work them out in my head I just stand there saying to myself, ‘How on earth do I know?’

  ‘I’ll get a pencil and paper,’ I offered.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ snapped Gran, ‘I’ll do it myself. Staying on at school, are you? Need to, by the sound of it. No proper schooling these days … One and ninepence an hour, as near as I can make it. Saturday mornings only, half-past eight to twelve, take it or leave it.’

  ‘I’ll take it, please.’ I couldn’t work that one out in my head either and I was anxious to get it down on paper.

  ‘And I expect real work for it, mind. No idling about. A good morning’s work for a good morning’s pay, and if I catch you eating any of the stock there’ll be trouble. That’s theft, and it’s a crime.’

  I hoped she wouldn’t notice my blushes.

  ‘What’s she paying you?’ Dad asked when I went back into the shop.

  I scribbled the figures on the back of a cardboard price-ticket. ‘It’ll only come to just over six bob,’ I concluded, disappointed. I’d expected at least ten for a morning’s work.

  ‘That’s about what I thought.’

  ‘It isn’t very much.’

  ‘Well, now you see why you’ve got to stay on at school and qualify for a really good job. Still, six shillings is better than nothing, eh?’