style="font-size:15px;"> ‘I don’t mind reading the narrative,’ Paul, a tall, red-headed boy volunteered.
‘Excellent. Perhaps you’d like to start us off, then.’
On the whole they were fairly capable readers, though most of them put little expression in their voices. Except one child who read his part as though he was acting on the stage. She couldn’t help but hide a smile. She remembered his name was Robin. His reading was excellent. When she came to write a school play for the children to act, he’d be a good choice for one of the main parts.
She was absorbed in the children’s contributions but kept her eye open for anyone not taking a speaking part who wasn’t following the story. There was always one. To her disappointment it was Priscilla. She was looking towards the window, then must have caught Lana looking at her, as she turned back with that same expression of despair Lana had noticed when she’d first set eyes on the girl during the interview with Mr Shepherd. She was suddenly anxious for the child. There was no time to lose. She had to talk to her after the lesson.
By the end of the hour the children had become far more enthusiastic about Charles Dickens’s novel and if it hadn’t been for Priscilla looking so sad, Lana felt her first teaching hour in the new school was a success.
‘Priscilla, can you please wait behind?’
The girl looked startled, but nodded. She came up to Lana’s desk as the children filed out of the room, one or two looking back to see what ‘Miss’ wanted with the strange older child in their class.
‘What is your next class?’ Lana asked.
‘Needlework.’
‘With Miss Booth?’
‘Yes,’ Priscilla replied, her lower lip trembling. ‘I hate needlework.’
‘So do I,’ Lana said with feeling. ‘We’ll go to an empty classroom, but stay here and wait for me while I tell Miss Booth where you are.’
‘Do you really hate needlework?’ Priscilla asked when they were back in the empty classroom. She looked at Lana, doubt in her eyes.
‘Yes. I once had to make an apron. I was no good at it and the teacher told me my stitches were too big and that I’d never make a seamstress.’ She looked at Priscilla and grinned. ‘I never told her it was the last thing I wanted to do. But I wish I could tell her now that I’ve improved a lot since the war started.’
Priscilla rewarded her with a slight smile.
‘Sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to,’ Lana continued, hearing her grandmother’s voice, ‘because when we grow up there’ll be all kinds of things we don’t like. But in order to get on in the world we have to grit our teeth and do them anyway.’ Should she go on? Priscilla seemed to be listening. ‘I noticed you weren’t really enjoying the English class today.’
‘I can’t think of anything except when Mummy and Daddy are coming for me.’ Priscilla eyes were wet as she pulled her pigtail. ‘I try to learn everything in class but I can’t. When they take me home, I promise to get better marks.’
Lana had to make a start.
‘Priscilla, dear,’ she said gently, ‘they were killed by a motorcar in the blackout. The driver couldn’t put his lights on because of the regulations. It was an accident. Nobody’s fault, but they’re not coming back. Not ever. I’m so very sorry.’
Dear God, she’d said it.
Priscilla gave her a pained look, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
‘Of course they are, Miss Ashwin. I don’t know the exact date – that’s all.’
‘Priscilla, listen to me.’ Lana took the trembling child in her arms. ‘It’s terribly difficult to take in, but you must believe me.’
Priscilla sniffed hard, but firmly extricated herself.
‘May I please be excused?’ she asked, jumping up. She was out of the door before Lana could open her mouth.
Lana followed, walking slowly, the gap widening between her and the hurrying child, as she returned to her office, wondering what step she should take next.
Back in her office the telephone interrupted her train of thought. She picked up the receiver and Mrs Dayton’s voice said, ‘Will you take a call from Mrs Taylor, the matron at Bingham Hall?’
‘Oh, yes, of course. Please put her through.’ There was a pause. ‘Lana Ashwin speaking,’ she said.
‘Ah, good. I’ve got you,’ a pleasant female voice came on. ‘It’s Maxine Taylor, the matron just up the road from you. You’ve probably been told about Bingham Hall, the Dr Barnardo’s orphanage. The woman in the office said as it was your first day she didn’t want to disturb you. But I rarely take no for an answer.’
That damnable woman. Lana bit her lip in annoyance.
‘It is my first day,’ she said, ‘but I expect it to be a normal day, and I certainly don’t consider anyone an interruption if they need to speak to me. What can I do for you, Mrs Taylor?’
‘We’re planning to have a maypole dance on May Day for the children, and I wondered if you and the teachers and any of your pupils would like to come along. I thought it would be easier to speak to you first.’
Lana glanced at the desk calendar and flipped the page over to May. ‘Ah, it’s a Saturday,’ she said, ‘so no school.’ She paused. ‘It’s very kind of you.’
‘Not at all,’ came the brisk but friendly tones. ‘I don’t think the children here have mixed much with the village school children but I think they should. Otherwise, they’re going to view themselves as “different” for the rest of their lives – which isn’t healthy, in my opinion.’
‘I think it’s a marvellous idea,’ Lana said with sincerity. ‘I’d like to talk it over with the teachers first, so may I come back to you in a few days?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Lana hesitated. ‘Before you go, Mrs Taylor, there’s something I’d like to ask you. It’s about Priscilla Morgan.’
There was a pause at the other end. ‘Ah, Priscilla. She hasn’t been with us long. A very sad case.’
‘Yes. The worrying thing is that she can’t come to terms with the accident. Both parents gone at once and she’s lost her home as well. She told me she’s waiting for them to come and fetch her. I tried to tell her as gently as I could that they were never coming back, but she was terribly upset and rushed off. It must be dreadful for her and I’m not sure how I can help. I wondered how she was coping at the orphanage.’
‘She’s very quiet and very good,’ Mrs Taylor said. ‘Too good. It’s not natural. I’ve tried to talk to her – we all have – but she won’t listen. We’re hoping
