Miss Carter's War Read Online Free PDF Page A

silence.
    ‘I’ll give you a clue. In a sonnet, which this is, often the last two lines tell you what it is about.’ They all studied the page with furrowed brows, muttering or mouthing the lines.
    Before anyone could answer, Elsie grabbed Pauline’s book and piped up, ‘Tarts make more money than kings.’
    Unflinching, Marguerite assumed serious interest.
    ‘But, Elsie, do you really think a prostitute would describe the sex she sells as “sweet love”?’
    There was an intake of breath. This was not the sort of discussion that a teacher should engage in, or indeed anyone in polite society. Even Elsie, caught off balance by challenge rather than reprimand, was disconcerted. Taking advantage of this Marguerite swept on. Hoping that Miss Farringdon would not pop in to check on her, she decided to abandon any attempt to parse the poem and stick to interpretation.
    They next discussed whether they had ever ‘bewept their outcast state’. After some coaxing from Marguerite, they came up with examples that laid bare their insecurity about the way they looked, exam results, shyness and unanimous envy of the ravishing Hazel, who, in turn, revealed her jealousy of the effortlessly brilliant Miranda. All told, they concluded the clever poet had got it about right. ‘With what I most enjoy contented least’ puzzled them, until Wendy described how the Crunchie bar, which she had queued for the day before, was her most favourite sweet in the world, but when she had finished it, and even while she was eating it, she felt a bit disappointed and miserable.
    They had more of a problem relating to the second half of the poem. Although, after some argument, they accepted that the word ‘sullen’ was a bit odd, but nevertheless a fair description of, for instance, the playing field on a gloomy day, only two of them had seen and heard a lark ‘arising’ when they were evacuated to the country. They had some difficulty in finding comparative surges of ecstasy in their war-torn young lives. The upward swoop of the all-clear siren after a raid, a rainbow after rain, a father returning after four years’ absence were all discussed, but eventually they settled for the robin that sometimes perched on the tennis net singing its heart out. Brenda preferred her budgerigar.
    Throughout these revealingly honest exchanges Elsie was silent, although she didn’t interrupt and Marguerite could see that her eyes were registering what was being said.
    Marguerite risked engaging with her.
    ‘Now, Elsie, with your classmates’ help, is the poem any clearer to you? Is there anything about it that you can identify with? Does it at least make you think?’
    ‘A bit.’
    Marguerite sensed some progress.
    ‘I thought about the day my brother got out of the shelter without his shoes on and started shaking his fists and jumping up and down shouting “Bugger off, bloody Bosch” at the jerry planes going over. But they didn’t notice his bootless cries.’
    The class sniggered, waiting for Marguerite’s reaction to Elsie’s shocking bad language. Yet again, Marguerite doggedly chose the option of deflecting Elsie’s defiance by taking her seriously.
    ‘Actually, Elsie, you have hit on something interesting there. Well done. Maybe Shakespeare chose the word “bootless” not only to mean useless, but also to have connotations of poverty. Not like your brother, who just forgot his shoes, but people who can’t afford them. Just as he uses that funny word “haply” not only to mean “perhaps” but possibly also because it sounds a bit like “happily”.’ Elsie was glaring at her but said nothing. ‘Words are such useful things. I have an idea, class. How many of you collect stamps?’
    Several hands shot up.
    ‘And cigarette cards?’
    Many more.
    ‘Autographs?’
    Almost the whole class.
    ‘How about instead of just collecting your friends’ and teachers’ signatures, you collect words instead? Have a notebook or even use your