A Little Learning. Anne Bennett
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‘Why don’t you just hit me?’ the girl suggested, with a smile so scornful Claire longed to swipe it from her face. ‘Then you can get on with the lesson.’
Right, Claire thought, I will. She’s asking for it.
She took the strap from the drawer, then changed her mind and instead drew out the thin, whippy cane that whistled as it flew through the air. It was used only sparingly, and then only for serious misdemeanours, and the class murmured in disbelief. ‘Hold out your hand,’ Claire demanded.
She marvelled that Janet’s hand was so steady and her face unafraid. But it was contempt for this woman now about to hit her that kept the shakes from Janet’s hand and the fear from her eyes.
The cane whined through the air, and when it landed across Janet’s palm a sympathetic ‘ooh’ went up from the girls in the class. Janet, however, did not flinch, or make a sound. She felt as if her hand was on fire and she had an insane desire to grab the cane from Miss Wentworth’s hand and beat her about the head with it. The outstretched hand trembled slightly, so that Claire’s next slash missed the mark and hit her fingers.
Oh God, it hurts, Janet cried to herself, but still she made no sound. Claire saw the spasm of pain cross the girl’s face, but she didn’t cry out. Suddenly it was important that she did. Claire had to establish control.
She lashed out again and again, and eventually Janet let out a strangled sob. The children by then were utterly silent, staring at the teacher. Her eyes looked wild, her hair had come undone and was tumbling around her shoulders, and sweat glistened on her face. She was crimson and panting slightly, and feeling ashamed of the way she’d lost control and laid into Janet.
Janet felt as if she was going to pass out. She saw the cuts either side of her palm and the ridges across her hand that she knew would turn to weals. She felt she would die with the pain that ran right to the top of her arm and made her feel sick. The feeling of nausea brought back the time she’d been sick in Miss Wentworth’s garden, and the reason why.
It was agony to move. She wanted to sink to the floor and cry because it hurt so much and Miss Wentworth had caused that hurt. She wanted to tuck her hand under her arm for a measure of comfort. But more than either of these things, she wanted to lash out at Miss Wentworth, to hurt her back. She stared at the teacher and said, in a voice that trembled just slightly, ‘Have you finished?’
Miss Wentworth leaned on the desk, her chest heaving. She knew she’d lost. ‘Get out,’ she said, but she was too weary and worn down to shout properly. ‘Stand outside the door!’
Janet turned and walked out. Her legs were shaking but she knew that as long as she kept moving, no one would know. Her injured hand hung by her side, and everyone in the class realised that Janet Travers had guts.
She didn’t wait outside the door. She walked out of the school gates and into the street, where she looked about her furtively, for the primary school opened on to Westmead Crescent, the road her grandparents lived in. Even if they were safely in the house, she could be spotted by any of the neighbours, and she knew they would feel a pressing need to tell the family they’d seen her wandering the streets when she should have been in school.
No, Janet thought, no way could she risk walking through the estate. She mustn’t be seen by anyone at this time of the morning, yet if she lingered in the playground she was sure to be seen by one of the teachers, and she wasn’t going back into school either. She had to find somewhere to hide out till lunchtime, when she could go home.
Westmead Crescent was the last road on the estate, and ahead of her was Woodacre Road, the start of the private houses. Janet left the playground, her eyes darting up and down the crescent. As no one was in sight, she crossed and began walking cautiously down the road.
She had to skirt carefully past the shops, because Mr Freer the shopkeeper knew everyone, and often stood at the doorway looking out, but there was no sign of him. Then she saw that the gates to Holyfields Sports Ground opposite the shop were open. She’d never seen them open before, and without thinking she slipped inside. She could hear a motor mower on the sports field and guessed the groundsman was up there cutting the grass, but she wasn’t going to go that far up. There were plenty of places to hide by the steel railings, because shrubs had been planted against them on the inside, and if she crawled in amongst them no one would see her.
She had to take her throbbing hand from her armpit, where she’d held it for comfort since she’d left the school, and drop to her hands and knees to crawl between the bushes. The straggling branches caught and snagged on her clothes, thorns pulled at her hair and sharp roots dug into her knees, but she paid no heed. Not until she was well hidden in the bushes did she take time to examine her hand.
It was crusted with damp earth. Janet wiped it as gently as she could with the hem of her dress, but still winced at the smarting pain of it. The slashes were deep and had cut into the flesh, where they’d bled a fair bit. The ridges where the cane had bitten into the palm were purple-red and angry-looking and hurt like hell. ‘Bugger! Bugger! Bugger!’ said Janet, and was surprised to find she felt better for saying it. She wondered then if she could convince her mother she felt ill and then she might give her the afternoon off school. God, she did feel ill. She’d never felt pain like this, and she just might get away with convincing her mam she felt sick.
But what could she do about tomorrow, and all the tomorrows till July? She wondered if she had the courage to defy Miss Wentworth again, but she doubted it. She knew Miss Wentworth had hit her harder than she’d ever seen her hit anyone, and she didn’t think she could put up with such a beating day after day until July without dissolving into a blubbering wreck. She’d like to be able to, because she’d feel she’d scored a victory if she could. She knew Miss Wentworth had been confused and almost hurt by her defiance that morning.
She wished with all her heart that she didn’t have to go back to school tomorrow. She wished that when she woke up in the morning it was September and time to begin Whytecliff High. Suddenly she remembered the priest telling them about the power of prayer. She’d gone to mass on Easter Sunday with Gran at St Peter and St Paul’s. She didn’t mind mass. She liked the flowers, and the fancy altar with the decorated cloth on, and the smell of the stuff he swung around the church that Gran said was incense. She liked the flickering candles and the statues and pictures all along the edges and the service that was in Latin. She couldn’t understand it, but she liked to listen. It was like music.
Most times she didn’t listen to the sermon – that was the boring bit – but there was plenty to look at while the priest was going on. She hadn’t intended to listen on Easter Sunday – she had heard the story before, after all – but the priest had captured her imagination. ‘Jesus performs miracles today, in people’s lives,’ he said. ‘Jesus said that if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can move mountains.’
Janet didn’t know how big a mustard seed was, but it didn’t sound very big. And she didn’t want to move mountains either, they suited her just fine where they were. She wanted something much more important.
She shuffled on to her knees in the damp soil and prayed: ‘Please, Jesus, can You fix it so I don’t go to Paget Road School again. Thank You. Amen.’ She wondered if that was easier to arrange than moving mountains about the place. She had no doubt it would be achieved, for her faith would have filled a whole mustard pot, but later she was to marvel and be awed and a little frightened at the power of prayer.
It was a tedious morning for Janet, and her hand and arm continued to throb. She wished she had a book to read, to take her mind off things, but she hadn’t even brought her bag with her. And she realised with horror that she’d left her coat behind. Oh, she’d catch it now.
Sometime that morning she dozed off, sitting up, with her head leaning against a shrubbery bush. She woke stiff, cold and uncomfortable.
It took a minute for her to remember where she was. Then she crawled carefully out and, glancing to right and left, walked to the gates. She saw the children on their way home to dinner and realised she’d probably been woken by the dinner bell. Fortunately,