The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [52]
“Well done, Hardy,” she said, raising her cup to my lemonade. “I can see the headlines already: WORKING GIRL GOES TO UNIVERSITY.”
We discussed the next set of exams, called Highers, which I would sit next year, and possible universities. I liked the idea of Edinburgh, but Miss Seftain urged me to consider Scotland’s newest university: Strathclyde. “You want to be in the vanguard, Hardy,” she said, “like Marcus Aurelius.”
For all her talk of the vanguard, however, Miss Seftain too was slow to realise that Claypoole was changing. The regular girls now had a record player on which, after homework, they played catchy songs; on weekends, they wore pleated skirts and turtlenecks, or pinafore dresses. The Labour Party had been elected. Fewer parents worked abroad and more wanted their children to live at home. In the working girls’ bathroom there were enough basins to go round. As the days grew shorter and colder the school seemed larger and emptier. One January morning, only a week after the start of the new term, Miss Bryant looked out at us from the dais and asked us to sit down in our rows. With some scuffling, we knelt, or sat cross-legged, on the parquet floor.
“As you must have noticed,” she said, “we are not as many as we used to be. Like a number of sister and brother schools, Claypoole has been losing pupils. There are several reasons for this, too complicated to go into, but the sad truth is that you cannot run a good school without a certain number of pupils because you cannot employ sufficient excellent teachers. A letter went out to your parents yesterday informing them that, due to circumstances beyond my control, Claypoole will close its doors at the end of this term. I have already spoken to several headmistresses who are eager to offer places to Claypoole girls.”
A few girls had begun to cry; even a couple of teachers took out handkerchiefs. I gazed at the floor, trying to contain my jubilation. My life as a working girl was coming to an end. Not until lunchtime, when Cook asked what I would do in April, did I understand that within three months I would be homeless. When I said I’d no idea, her face puckered, as if the pastry she was rolling had stuck.
“Can you not go back to your old home?” she said.
“My aunt would sooner take in one of the pigs.”
“Maybe”—she pressed down on the rolling pin—“you should ask Miss Bryant to find another school for you. You’re a bright little thing.”
There was no point in saying that any other boarding school would involve fees. Instead I asked about her plans.
“I’ll see if there’s an opening in Hawick. Sue”—she nodded towards the sister who still worked at Claypoole—“is getting married. Daft, I tell her, cooking for one ungrateful sod for free, as opposed to a hundred for good money.”
I laughed, but for the rest of the day, while I studied and served supper and did the washing-up and got the dining-room ready for breakfast, I pondered Cook’s question. None of the other working girls faced my dilemma; two had homes, of a sort, to go to; the other five had already begun to talk with excitement about the jobs in hotels Miss Bryant would find for them. But I was still only five foot three (an inch taller than Yuri Gagarin, Miss Seftain reminded me); I had no money, save for what I had earned picking raspberries, and, as far as I knew, no marketable skills other than cooking and cleaning, both of which I disliked. I wanted to go to university, but how would I study for my Highers, now only a few months away, and where would I live?
The day after Miss Bryant’s announcement two girls were late for class—judging by their eyes they’d been crying—and our form teacher said nothing. Later Smith didn’t show up to serve lunch; again no reprimand was forthcoming. Without a word, everyone understood that the rules were changing. Even the teachers started to be late for classes, and one or two skipped assembly.
That Saturday, a cold, frosty day, I left my broom in a downstairs classroom and walked over the playing fields to knock again at Miss Seftain’s door. She answered,