The teacher stood in front of the neat rows of desks.
‘Find a desk, girls, and put your books inside.’
Sara managed to get a desk on the second row. She was determined that she wasn’t going to sit at the back. Back row kids at her old school fidgeted and giggled and the boys pulled hair. At least there weren’t any boys here, thank goodness. They just spoiled everything. Amidst the whispering and banging of desk lids she put her books away: English, French, Latin, Maths, History, Geography – and Science. She tucked them in as carefully as if they were newborn babies.
‘Settle down, girls.’ The class slipped into silence. ‘My name is Miss Hunter.’ She wrote it on the blackboard. ‘I am your form mistress and your English teacher. If you have any problems you come to me.’ She gave out timetables, a list of the school rules: no talking in class, no running in the corridors, the names of the teachers, the head girl, the prefects. Miss Butler, Sara noted, taught science.
There was no waste of time. The morning’s work began with English grammar: the construction of the sentence, nouns, verbs, objects. The atmosphere was quiet and concentrated, no giggling and whispering at the back. She was given her first bit of homework – thrilling.
At break time the girls ate the snacks they had brought from home and drank the little bottles of school milk, warm from standing in crates in the sun.
The girl sitting next to Sara had a freckled face and pigtails. ‘I’m Kathy,’ she said.
Sara smiled. ‘I’m Sara.’
Kathy sucked her milk up through the straw, gurgling up the last drops. ‘Homework already,’ she said.
‘I don’t mind,’ Sara said.
‘My sister can help me if I get stuck,’ Kathy said. ‘She’s here as well. She’s called Lily. She’s in the Upper Fifth this year. She’s nearly sixteen.’
‘I haven’t got any brothers or sisters,’ Sara said. ‘There’s just me.’
Kathy frowned. ‘My mum’s frightened in case there’s a war and Lily has to go somewhere to work, in a factory or something. My dad says that’s silly, she’s still a child, but my mum says they had boys fighting in the trenches in the last war who weren’t any older than that. At least we haven’t any boys.’
Sara didn’t know what to say; she hadn’t really thought about it. Her parents hadn’t said much about a war, though there was sometimes something about it in the Daily Mirror . Dad used to start sometimes but Mum always changed the subject. Her mum hadn’t liked it when she was given a gas mask at school. She’d given a shudder and put it away in the cupboard under the stairs. She wouldn’t even let Sara look at it. She’d put it away in the cupboard under the stairs. She hadn’t even got it out of the box.
‘Where do you live?’ Kathy asked.
‘Near the Harrow Road.’
‘We live in Bayswater. I’ll ask my mum if you can come round to tea one day.’
After break they had their first Latin lesson. ‘Latin is dead; bury it,’ one of the girls at the back whispered, while they were waiting for the teacher to arrive.
But I need Latin, Sara thought. Doctors had to learn Latin; they wrote their prescriptions in it. It seemed like her first real, exciting step. Doctor language.
The teacher arrived and they opened the book; Latin, Part One. There was a map of ancient Europe on the first page. ‘ Discipuli pictoram spectate ,’ the text began. The teacher wrote it on the blackboard with the translation underneath: – ‘Pupils, look at the picture.’ The text went on: ubi est Britannia, ubi est Italia, ubi est Germania ? – where is Britain, where is Italy, where is Germany? So that’s where Germany is, Sara thought, or where it used to be. Her last school hadn’t done much geography, apart from Great Britain and a bit of the British Empire.
Nora was waiting for her in the school yard at four o’clock. She had taken off her suit and hat, Sara noticed, and was dressed in just a
‘Find a desk, girls, and put your books inside.’
Sara managed to get a desk on the second row. She was determined that she wasn’t going to sit at the back. Back row kids at her old school fidgeted and giggled and the boys pulled hair. At least there weren’t any boys here, thank goodness. They just spoiled everything. Amidst the whispering and banging of desk lids she put her books away: English, French, Latin, Maths, History, Geography – and Science. She tucked them in as carefully as if they were newborn babies.
‘Settle down, girls.’ The class slipped into silence. ‘My name is Miss Hunter.’ She wrote it on the blackboard. ‘I am your form mistress and your English teacher. If you have any problems you come to me.’ She gave out timetables, a list of the school rules: no talking in class, no running in the corridors, the names of the teachers, the head girl, the prefects. Miss Butler, Sara noted, taught science.
There was no waste of time. The morning’s work began with English grammar: the construction of the sentence, nouns, verbs, objects. The atmosphere was quiet and concentrated, no giggling and whispering at the back. She was given her first bit of homework – thrilling.
At break time the girls ate the snacks they had brought from home and drank the little bottles of school milk, warm from standing in crates in the sun.
The girl sitting next to Sara had a freckled face and pigtails. ‘I’m Kathy,’ she said.
Sara smiled. ‘I’m Sara.’
Kathy sucked her milk up through the straw, gurgling up the last drops. ‘Homework already,’ she said.
‘I don’t mind,’ Sara said.
‘My sister can help me if I get stuck,’ Kathy said. ‘She’s here as well. She’s called Lily. She’s in the Upper Fifth this year. She’s nearly sixteen.’
‘I haven’t got any brothers or sisters,’ Sara said. ‘There’s just me.’
Kathy frowned. ‘My mum’s frightened in case there’s a war and Lily has to go somewhere to work, in a factory or something. My dad says that’s silly, she’s still a child, but my mum says they had boys fighting in the trenches in the last war who weren’t any older than that. At least we haven’t any boys.’
Sara didn’t know what to say; she hadn’t really thought about it. Her parents hadn’t said much about a war, though there was sometimes something about it in the Daily Mirror . Dad used to start sometimes but Mum always changed the subject. Her mum hadn’t liked it when she was given a gas mask at school. She’d given a shudder and put it away in the cupboard under the stairs. She wouldn’t even let Sara look at it. She’d put it away in the cupboard under the stairs. She hadn’t even got it out of the box.
‘Where do you live?’ Kathy asked.
‘Near the Harrow Road.’
‘We live in Bayswater. I’ll ask my mum if you can come round to tea one day.’
After break they had their first Latin lesson. ‘Latin is dead; bury it,’ one of the girls at the back whispered, while they were waiting for the teacher to arrive.
But I need Latin, Sara thought. Doctors had to learn Latin; they wrote their prescriptions in it. It seemed like her first real, exciting step. Doctor language.
The teacher arrived and they opened the book; Latin, Part One. There was a map of ancient Europe on the first page. ‘ Discipuli pictoram spectate ,’ the text began. The teacher wrote it on the blackboard with the translation underneath: – ‘Pupils, look at the picture.’ The text went on: ubi est Britannia, ubi est Italia, ubi est Germania ? – where is Britain, where is Italy, where is Germany? So that’s where Germany is, Sara thought, or where it used to be. Her last school hadn’t done much geography, apart from Great Britain and a bit of the British Empire.
Nora was waiting for her in the school yard at four o’clock. She had taken off her suit and hat, Sara noticed, and was dressed in just a
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