of an orange and a three-penny piece with a sullen thank you and no curtsey, had asked Ifan Jenkins the schoolmaster whether she was ‘all right’, wanting to know, presumably – she acted as an unofficial employment agency – whether she was fit to go into service. He, having other plans for her, had shaken his head.
He knew how to get round her. While the other children were chanting the names of the rivers and mountains of Canada and Central America, he would take her aside and they two would work on Euclid and Geometry and Matriculation English, and then she became an ordinary, contented child, would even smile from time to time. If she had been a boy he would have moved heaven and earth and the county education authority to get her a scholarship to Oxford or Cambridge. As it was, he had gone to see her mother and begged her to let her have another year at school as an assistant uncertificated teacher.
‘She’s got a remarkable head on her,’ he’d told Mary Lewis, and she had been amazed; she had always considered her poor Miriam not quite twelve to the dozen; it was only idiot children in her experience who devoted so much time to rearing fledglings and singing and crying over dead hedgehogs and mice. Still, to be a teacher was a fine and grand thing, and if Jenkins the school said her daughter would make a teacher, then she would take in more washing, scrub more floors to keep her at school a bit longer; of course she would. And with Lisi Jenkins so kindly offering to get her the material for a suit and a winter cape, it was only the boots she’d have to worry about; a teacher, even a fourteen-year-old assistant, uncertified one, couldn’t go to school bare-footed.
So Miriam hadn’t had to go into service.
Not that she had had it easy. After her breakfast of bread and tea, she would walk, summer and winter, the three miles to school, getting there by seven-thirty, so as to have an hour’s tuition from Mr Jenkins, analysing and parsing, precis and composition, model drawing, music, mathematics, literature; English, Welsh and Burns; they did a day’s work in that hour, then a cup of tea from Mrs Jenkins and she was ready to meet her pupils at ten to nine.
Her double life, studying and teaching, had gone on for four years, until at eighteen she had gone to Swansea to be examined for her teacher’s certificate.
There again, she had nearly lost everything to her pride.
The last exam – she had been at it for three days – was music. The theory paper had been easy enough. Afterwards, she had had to submit to an oral examination. Some simple piano pieces, she sat with her back to the examiners, trying not to laugh; there was a piano at school and she could play music, not just tunes.
‘Good,’ one of the examiners said when she had finished. He was a large, fleshy man, well-greased; he looked like a prosperous butcher. ‘And now we would like you to sing for us.’ He handed her another sheet of music.
‘I don’t feel like singing,’ Miriam Lewis had said, and in the silence that followed, ‘I will not sing a note.’ Who did they think they were, sitting there like three monkeys.
‘Can’t you sing?’ a second man asked in a high, nervous voice. He looked like a draper, the sort who sold women’s ready-made underclothes and simpered over them. ‘You played the piano so nicely.’
‘I don’t feel like singing.’ Of course she could sing. Who did they think she was, she’d taught singing for three years. Simply, she wouldn’t lower herself to humour them.
‘We’ll have the next young lady, please,’ the third man told the usher who was standing at the door, jumpy as a rabbit. ‘That will be all, Miss Lewis.’ The third examiner was a decent-looking man; she’d felt a little sorry not to have been able to oblige him.
And that was it.
She’d suffered a great deal in the following months, wondering how she was going to explain her failure to her mother and Mr Jenkins. It had
He knew how to get round her. While the other children were chanting the names of the rivers and mountains of Canada and Central America, he would take her aside and they two would work on Euclid and Geometry and Matriculation English, and then she became an ordinary, contented child, would even smile from time to time. If she had been a boy he would have moved heaven and earth and the county education authority to get her a scholarship to Oxford or Cambridge. As it was, he had gone to see her mother and begged her to let her have another year at school as an assistant uncertificated teacher.
‘She’s got a remarkable head on her,’ he’d told Mary Lewis, and she had been amazed; she had always considered her poor Miriam not quite twelve to the dozen; it was only idiot children in her experience who devoted so much time to rearing fledglings and singing and crying over dead hedgehogs and mice. Still, to be a teacher was a fine and grand thing, and if Jenkins the school said her daughter would make a teacher, then she would take in more washing, scrub more floors to keep her at school a bit longer; of course she would. And with Lisi Jenkins so kindly offering to get her the material for a suit and a winter cape, it was only the boots she’d have to worry about; a teacher, even a fourteen-year-old assistant, uncertified one, couldn’t go to school bare-footed.
So Miriam hadn’t had to go into service.
Not that she had had it easy. After her breakfast of bread and tea, she would walk, summer and winter, the three miles to school, getting there by seven-thirty, so as to have an hour’s tuition from Mr Jenkins, analysing and parsing, precis and composition, model drawing, music, mathematics, literature; English, Welsh and Burns; they did a day’s work in that hour, then a cup of tea from Mrs Jenkins and she was ready to meet her pupils at ten to nine.
Her double life, studying and teaching, had gone on for four years, until at eighteen she had gone to Swansea to be examined for her teacher’s certificate.
There again, she had nearly lost everything to her pride.
The last exam – she had been at it for three days – was music. The theory paper had been easy enough. Afterwards, she had had to submit to an oral examination. Some simple piano pieces, she sat with her back to the examiners, trying not to laugh; there was a piano at school and she could play music, not just tunes.
‘Good,’ one of the examiners said when she had finished. He was a large, fleshy man, well-greased; he looked like a prosperous butcher. ‘And now we would like you to sing for us.’ He handed her another sheet of music.
‘I don’t feel like singing,’ Miriam Lewis had said, and in the silence that followed, ‘I will not sing a note.’ Who did they think they were, sitting there like three monkeys.
‘Can’t you sing?’ a second man asked in a high, nervous voice. He looked like a draper, the sort who sold women’s ready-made underclothes and simpered over them. ‘You played the piano so nicely.’
‘I don’t feel like singing.’ Of course she could sing. Who did they think she was, she’d taught singing for three years. Simply, she wouldn’t lower herself to humour them.
‘We’ll have the next young lady, please,’ the third man told the usher who was standing at the door, jumpy as a rabbit. ‘That will be all, Miss Lewis.’ The third examiner was a decent-looking man; she’d felt a little sorry not to have been able to oblige him.
And that was it.
She’d suffered a great deal in the following months, wondering how she was going to explain her failure to her mother and Mr Jenkins. It had
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