A Little Learning Read online

  ‘Come on, Bet, it’s four nights a week, half five to half nine,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know …’

  ‘Course you know. You can cope with your brood all day, give them their tea, and I’m sure our mam will do the honours till you come home.’

  All of a sudden it seemed an attractive prospect to go out in the evening and talk to adults about adult things. She was restless at home and missed the camaraderie of the war years. ‘If Mammy agrees to see to them, I will,’ she said.

  She enjoyed her job, repetitive though it was. She loved the bald, raw humour of the married women, most like herself with children and waiting for their husbands’ demob. She wondered, though, how Bert would view the idea of her working when he came home. The other women also worried about their husbands’ reactions, though none wanted to give up their jobs.

  Betty banked her money and had a little nest egg to show Bert when he expressed doubts about her ability to cope.

  ‘After all,’ he said, ‘the factory has kept my job open.’

  ‘I know,’ Betty said, ‘but the children are always needing things, and with Conner and Noel it’s two of everything and that’s extra expense. And then of course there’s the house.’

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ After years of army barracks, his home looked very comfortable to him.

  ‘It’s shabby,’ Betty declared. ‘There was nothing to buy during the war, but soon there will be things in the shops and new colours in paint and wallpaper, and we can do the place up a bit.’

  Bert surveyed his living room. Its familiarity had given him comfort when he arrived home: the sofa with the broken springs, and the faded lino on the floor. Now he saw it through Betty’s eyes and realised how dingy and patchy the wallpaper was and how dull the brown paintwork.

  It could certainly do with brightening up, he thought, and perhaps they could even get a new wireless and a carpet square eventually. ‘All right, love,’ he said. ‘You keep your job. As long as you can manage, I’ll say nothing about it.’

  Things rubbed along nicely for over a year. Brendan got married to Patsy Brennan, a local girl from an Irish family, and Breda had a baby girl, Linda, but continued working afterwards. Duncan started at Paget Road Secondary Modern, and Janet began her last year at Paget Road Primary.

  The autumn term was into its fourth week. Betty had been delighted when school started again. She’d been tired out coping with the demands of four children all day and working in the evening, but she’d never complained to Bert.

  Bert was recounting some tale from the factory around the tea table, and Duncan was listening avidly. He was fascinated by anything to do with the world he would soon be joining. Betty was keeping a watchful eye on the twins, who were making a mess of feeding themselves but screamed if she tried to help them. She was just thankful it was Friday and she didn’t have to go to work. Janet had kept her head down all through tea, and catching sight of her now, Betty realised that she’d been quiet all evening. She hoped Janet wasn’t sickening for something.

  There was a small silence after Bert had finished, broken only by the twins banging their spoons on their high-chair tables. Suddenly Janet said: ‘Mom, Miss Wentworth would like a word with you.’

  There was a hoot of laughter from Duncan. ‘Why, what you done?’ he said, and added in disbelief, ‘Goody-goody Janet’s in trouble.’

  ‘I’m not, I’m not,’ Janet declared hotly.

  ‘That will do, Duncan,’ Betty said. She turned her gaze to her daughter and said: ‘D’you know what it’s about?’

  All eyes were on Janet now, and she stammered: ‘I … I think it’s … it’s about the exam.’

  ‘The exam?’ Bert said. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘The eleven-plus, she means,’ Duncan said.

  ‘Oh,’ said Bert airily. ‘No need to worry your head about that, pet, you don’t need to do no eleven-plus.’

  Janet’s face flushed crimson. Betty took pity on her and said, ‘Do you want to do it, love?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  There was a shocked silence. Even the twins were staring at her. Bert put down his knife and fork and asked in genuine puzzlement, ‘Why do you want to take the eleven-plus?’

  ‘Miss Wentworth says I have a good chance of passing,’ Janet burst out. ‘She says I have a good brain and …’

  ‘This Miss Wentworth has been talking a lot of nonsense,’ Bert said, ‘and filling your head with rubbish. You’ve no need for a grammar school education and you can tell her that from me.’

  Betty looked at her daughter’s stricken face and said, ‘It will do no harm to listen to what the woman has to say.’

  ‘Do no bloody good either.’

  ‘Bert,’ Betty admonished, with a nod towards the twins, who were reaching the age when they liked to latch on to unusual words and repeat them.

  ‘They’ll hear worse before they’re much older,’ Bert said, ruffling the heads of his small sons fondly. ‘Proper little buggers they’re growing up to be.’

  Betty gave up. He’d never be any different. He stood up, scraping his chair back. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m away for a wash.’

  ‘You going to the club?’

  ‘I always go to the club on Friday.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Betty began collecting the plates, then said, almost casually, though she knew her daughter would be holding her breath for Bert’s reply, ‘I think I’ll pop along to the school and have a chat with our Janet’s teacher anyway, all right?’

  ‘Yes, if you want,’ Bert said. ‘Do as you like but it won’t make any bloody difference.’ He chucked Janet under the chin as he went out. ‘Cheer up, ducky,’ he said. ‘Why the long face? You’re much too pretty to worry yourself over any silly exams.’

  Janet didn’t answer. She watched him lift the kettle from the gas and take it to the bathroom that opened off the kitchen, and a little later she heard him whistling as he had a shave.

  TWO

  Betty went to see Miss Wentworth the following Monday lunchtime. ‘You really think our Janet has a chance of passing the eleven-plus?’ she asked, gazing at the teacher in amazement.

  ‘Indeed I do,’ Claire Wentworth said with an emphatic nod of her head. ‘Janet has an exceptional brain. She seems to soak up knowledge.’

  Does she? Betty thought. Miss Wentworth went on to describe a child Betty did not recognise as her daughter. ‘She’s one of the brightest I have ever taught,’ she said at last.

  ‘But she’s always so quiet at home, our Janet,’ Betty said.

  ‘Assimilating all the knowledge gained, I suppose.’

  ‘Pardon?’ said Betty, not quite understanding the words the teacher was using.

  ‘Taking it all in, you know,’ said Claire. ‘She’s probably got too much going on in her head for chattering a lot.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Betty said. ‘She often looks as though she’s in a dream. She must be thinking.’ She smiled and added, ‘It’s not something the rest of us do a lot of.’

  Claire studied the woman before her. Betty Travers wasn’t at all how she’d expected her to be. She was younger, for a start, and prettier, very like Janet, with the same reflective eyes and wide mouth. Her hair was the same colour as Janet’s but slightly longer, and judging by the straggly curls, it had once been permed.

  She looked open and approachable and did not appear hostile to her daughter taking the exam. A lot of parents were against their children bettering themselves, especially the girls.

  Yet there was some obstacle, because when Claire had asked Janet that morning if she’d broached the subject at home, her eyes had had a hopeless look in them, and there’d been a dejected droop to her mouth. She’d said she’d told her mother, and that she was coming in to discuss it, and now here was the mother and proving very amenable too.

  ‘You are agreeable to allowing Janet to enter then, Mrs Travers?’

  Betty didn’t answer immediately. She twisted her handbag strap round and round in h
er fingers. Eventually she said:

  ‘Well … the thing is, my husband … he … well, he … he doesn’t see the point.’

  It was nearly always the fathers, Claire thought angrily. ‘You mean her father is refusing to let her take the examination?’ she snapped.

  It came out sharper than she had intended and it put Betty’s back up. Janet’s teacher had no right to talk that way about Bert.

  ‘He’s a good man,’ she said stiffly. ‘It isn’t that he doesn’t want the best for Janet, but he sees this eleven-plus as a waste of time.’

  ‘It’s not!’ Claire cried. ‘It’s a wonderful opportunity for her. You must see that.’

  Betty stared at Claire Wentworth, but she wasn’t seeing her. The word ‘opportunity’ had stirred her memories. The war had given Betty the opportunity to be something other than a wife and mother. It had given her an independent life that she seldom spoke of, even to Bert, sensing his disapproval. Now an opportunity of a different kind was being offered to her daughter, and she was rejecting it on Janet’s behalf.

  Have I any right to do that? she thought. Will she resent me and her dad for not letting her try? She knew Bert would be furious, but she felt she couldn’t deny her daughter this chance.

  ‘When is the examination, Miss Wentworth?’ she asked.

  Claire smiled. ‘The examination is in three parts,’ she said. ‘There is a maths paper, an English paper and a paper to test intelligence. She must pass all three, and the first set is held in November.’

  ‘That’s not far away, it’s October already.’

  ‘Yes, I must enter Janet’s name by the end of the week. And she will need extra tuition.’

  Betty was startled. ‘What d’you mean? You said she had a good chance of passing, you never said a thing about her needing tuition. I can’t afford that.’

  ‘Mrs Travers, you don’t have to afford it. I will coach Janet. She has a chance of passing now, without extra work, but the classes are large and I have no extra time to give her. I’ve explained all this to Janet. She is prepared to work hard.’

  ‘You will do that for our Janet?’ Betty asked, amazed.

  ‘I would do it for any pupil who would benefit from it,’ Claire said. ‘Unfortunately, most children at Paget Road junior school look no further than the secondary modern. It’s what they want and what their parents want, and they see no need to take an examination.’

  ‘But Janet’s different?’

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ Claire said. ‘Now, the first set of exams will be marked by Christmas; you will probably have the results with your Christmas mail. If Janet passes, she will automatically go forward to the second set of examinations, which will be more extensive and will be held at the beginning of February. It will probably be April before you hear if she has passed or failed those.’

  ‘And say she gets through all this and passes,’ said Betty. ‘Where will she go then?’

  ‘Whytecliff School in Sutton Coldfield would be my first choice,’ Claire said. ‘It’s private but it offers scholarships to a quarter of the intake. I hear it’s a marvellous school, with wonderful facilities. I’m sure Janet would love it, and provided she passes the exam, you’d pay for nothing but the uniform.’

  ‘That would probably cost a pretty penny, I bet.’

  Claire could not deny it, and Betty knew the money would have to be found somehow.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Put our Janet’s name down for this here exam and we’ll see what she’s made of.’

  Claire was delighted, but she didn’t want to raise the child’s hopes only to have them dashed again. ‘I’d be only too happy to, Mrs Travers,’ she said, ‘but your husband …?’

  ‘Leave him to me,’ Betty said decisively.

  She said a similar thing to her daughter that evening. Janet had had a chat with Miss Wentworth, who told her of the outcome of her mother’s visit. That afternoon, after school, she settled down in the kitchen, gazing at her mother almost shyly. Betty smiled at her.

  ‘Went to see your Miss Wentworth today,’ she said. ‘I expect she told you.’

  ‘Yes, she did.’

  ‘Pretty young thing, isn’t she? I thought she’d be a crabbed old maid.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Janet said in the hushed tones of adoration. ‘She’s beautiful.’

  She’d spent hours looking at Miss Wentworth. The teacher’s hair was so light brown as to be almost blonde, and she tied it back from her face with a black ribbon. Her eyes were the darkest brown, and she had the cutest nose and the loveliest mouth. Her whole face had a kindness about it, and her eyes often twinkled with amusement. She had the most gentle speaking voice, that she hardly ever raised in anger, but she could get the children to listen to her just the same. Janet’s dream was to look like Claire Wentworth, but her more realistic aim was to get into the grammar school, because that would please her teacher.

  ‘She thinks a lot of you,’ Betty said.

  Janet said nothing, but her eyes shone.

  ‘Thinks you have a chance of the eleven-plus if you work.’

  ‘I know. I will if you’ll let me try.’

  ‘Well, I think you should have the chance,’ Betty said.

  ‘What about Dad?’

  ‘Leave your dad to me.’

  Janet knew it wouldn’t be easy to change her father’s mind, and Betty didn’t try to kid her otherwise. She hadn’t time to do much then anyway, for she was rushing to make tea for everyone and get to work.

  ‘Now,’ she said, getting into her coat, ‘you get these dishes washed and put away before your dad comes home. Put the vegetables on at half past five for his tea, and don’t let them boil dry.’

  ‘I’ve done it before, Mom,’ Janet protested. ‘Anyway, isn’t Gran coming round?’

  ‘Yes, but she’ll have her hands full getting the twins to bed,’ Betty said. ‘I want your dad’s tea on the table when he comes in, and a tidy house. I want him in a good mood.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Duncan, puzzled.

  ‘Never you mind,’ Betty snapped. Duncan saw the glance his mother gave to Janet. He wondered why his mom was trying to sweeten his dad up, and what it had to do with his sister. He didn’t ask, for he knew his mom wouldn’t tell him, and she was agitated about being late for work anyway. Then Breda was at the door and he watched the pair of them scurry down the road.

  When Bert Travers came in at six o’clock the house was spotless. Janet had dusted and polished and a hint of furniture polish still hung in the air. His dinner was ready, and he stood in the kitchen doorway watching his daughter dish up his meal and pour gravy over it. He felt a surge of pride for his family.

  His son was a lad to be proud of and was preparing to follow in his dad’s footsteps when he was fourteen. A daughter was bound to be different. Janet was much quieter than Duncan, and said to be clever, but she could produce a good meal for him just the same. She’d be another like her mom. Then there were his twin boys, washed and pyjamaed for bed. They had been drinking their milk until they saw their father, and then they threw their bottles down and began clambering all over him.

  Bert was inordinately proud of the twin sons and was far more easy-going with them than he had been with Duncan and Janet when they were small. Sarah McClusky, who believed that to spare the rod was to spoil the child, watched in disapproval as Conner and Noel leaped at and climbed up their father’s body.

  ‘Leave your dad be, he’s been at work all day, he’ll be tired,’ she admonished.

  ‘They’re all right, Ma,’ Bert said good-humouredly. ‘I see little enough of them.’

  ‘They were getting ready to go to bed,’ Sarah said reprovingly.

  ‘That’s what I mean,’ Bert said. ‘They’re always nearly ready to go to bed when I get in …’ But his dinner was waiting and he had no desire to fight over it, and certainly not with his mother-in-law. He was only too aware what they owed her, him and Betty, for if she hadn’t agreed to come and see to the kids at night, Betty cou
ldn’t have worked, and he had to admit the money was useful.

  His wages never seemed to stretch far these days, with the four children. He was constantly amazed by the way the children went through their clothes and shoes, and what they cost to replace. Then there was the amount of food consumed in one week. He was grateful for the government introducing the new family allowance, but he recognised that without the bit Betty earned, they’d often be strapped for cash. Sarah McClusky’s presence meant that his life changed very little. Betty would prepare dinner before she left for work, to be cooked by her mother or Janet ready for his arrival. After he’d eaten he could go down the club for a pint, leaving his mother-in-law to keep an eye on the children.

  Anyway, Bert told himself as he ate his tea, bringing up kids is a woman’s job. He was looking forward to the time when him and his lad would be mates in the factory, going down the pub together and to Villa Park on Saturday afternoons. But up until that time, any decisions about Duncan’s upbringing, or that of the others, he would leave to Betty, or her mother if Betty wasn’t there.

  Later, when he was washed and changed ready to go out, everything was much quieter. He knew his younger sons were fast asleep in their separate cots, because he’d tiptoed in to see on his way down from the bedroom. His mother-in-law was knitting placidly, while she listened to the wireless.

  ‘You away now?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, I’ll go for a quick one.’

  Sarah McClusky’s eyes betrayed nothing. She personally thought Betty wouldn’t have to go to work if Bert didn’t tip so much money down his throat, but that was their business. Betty had made that abundantly clear, the one time Sarah had mentioned it.

  ‘Bert’s a good man, Ma, and a good provider. He always sees to us first, and what he does with the money in his pocket is his business. Anyway,’ she’d added, ‘I enjoy my job.’

  So Mrs McClusky kept her own counsel now, and what she said to her son-in-law was:

  ‘You might tell young Duncan to come in on your way out.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Kicking a ball in the street somewhere, but the nights are drawing in now.’