Thursday’s Child. Noel StreatfeildЧитать онлайн книгу.
Miss Jones thundered. Then she gave another clang on the bell. ‘Up, girls, up. Form a line for the washroom.’ She looked again at Margaret, who had not moved. ‘Now what is it?’
‘You said I was to go back to bed. Then you said “Up, girls, up”, and now you say form a line for the washroom. What do you want me to do?’
Miss Jones was more sure than ever that she did not like Margaret Thursday.
‘You will get your toothbrush and mug and join that line there for the washroom.’
It was a slow shuffling walk to get washed, made the more dismal by the shrieks of the small children who were being washed by Miss Jones and an assistant.
‘They put soap in their eyes,’ a small girl who was in front of Margaret told her. ‘It happens every day. It used to happen to me.’
‘Beasts!’ said Margaret.
Lavinia, who had taken her place behind Margaret, whispered:
‘I do hope Peter has managed to wash Horry. He’d kick anyone who put soap in his eyes.’
Margaret found her clothes had disappeared and in their place were her orphanage clothes: a vest, a bodice, coarse long straight-legged drawers, a grey winceyette petticoat, the uniform dress, an apron and a cap. The only thing left of her own clothes were her boots.
‘It would be them,’ she thought resentfully, ‘knowing I always hated them.’ Then there were tears in her eyes. Even the despised boots were something of home.
None of the clothes were new and none fitted, but Margaret was given some good advice by an older girl whom Miss Jones sent to show her how the uniform cap should be worn.
‘Don’t say anything doesn’t fit,’ she whispered, ‘for you’ll be made to alter it yourself in what they call “free time” – we don’t get much of that.’
There was no such thing as a looking-glass in the dormitory, so Margaret could only guess at her appearance. She could see, however, how the others looked and that was enough.
‘My goodness!’ she thought. ‘Suppose Hannah could see me now!’
As a matter of fact, Margaret was wrong. Of course the clothes were a hundred years out of date and they felt ridiculous to her, used to skirts to her knees, but grown-up people thought the orphanage children looked picturesque. The cap really did suit Margaret. It was made of white cotton with a drawstring at the back which held it tightly in position. The children were supposed to strain their hair out of sight under the caps, but Margaret’s curls refused to be controlled and spiralled out round her face.
Breakfast was another depressing meal. Each child had a bowl of lumpy porridge served with a mere splash of milk and no sugar. This was followed by one slice of bread and margarine and a cup of weak tea.
The orphans were not taught in the orphanage but, wrapped in their brown cloaks, they were marched two-and-two down to the village school.
‘At school don’t they laugh at us in these clothes?’ Margaret asked the girl who was paired with her, whose name was Susan.
Susan shook her head.
‘No. They’re used to us, and anyway I think they are sorry for us. Sometimes they give us things. Once I had a whole apple.’
Margaret, used to the large overgrown garden at Saltmarsh House where she could have all the fruit there was for the picking, felt even more depressed. Imagine speaking of an apple like that – something to be remembered!
‘Don’t we ever get fruit at the orphanage?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Susan. ‘Always at Christmas we are given an orange.’
An orange! It was not just that an orange a year was all she was to expect, but Susan’s calm acceptance that outraged Margaret. But she had other questions to ask. One had been worrying her since she had been given her uniform for nobody could run far dressed in it.
‘What do they do with our own clothes?’
Susan looked scared, peering round to see that Miss Jones was not within hearing distance.
‘We don’t know.’
‘But they must be kept somewhere.’
Susan whispered so low that Margaret had to strain to hear.
‘Some of them say Matron sells them.’
‘For herself?’
Susan nodded.
‘But that’s only what they say. We don’t know.’
‘They won’t sell mine,’ said Margaret. ‘I’ll ask Matron for them.’
Susan clutched at Margaret’s arm.
‘Don’t. Just for asking you get a terrible punishment, you could …’
They were outside the school playground. Miss Jones, red-faced, was standing by Susan.
‘What were you saying? You know talking is forbidden.’
Susan might look meek, but she evidently knew how to fool Miss Jones.
‘I was only telling Margaret what work we shall do in school this morning.’
‘Oh!’ Miss Jones turned away. ‘Quick march. Straight to the classrooms, children. No playing in the yard.’
A Miss Snelston was head of the village school and from the first the children liked her. It was not easy with only one pupil-teacher to assist her to teach children of all ages in two rooms, but somehow she managed.
Most of the pupils other than the orphans were the children of farm labourers, red-cheeked and solidly built on a diet largely composed of vegetables, eggs, milk and bread, for at that time farm labourers’ wages were very low so meat was a rarity. All the children, urged on by their parents, had one aim which was to pass the labour exam as early as possible so that the girls could go into service and the boys get work on the farms. Miss Snelston, of course, knew this was their ambition and she accepted it. ‘After all,’ she would say to her pupil-teacher, Polly Jenkin, ‘they may as well leave when they are twelve for you and I know, however long we keep them here, very few would learn any more, and of course it’s hard for the parents to find the school money.’ School money was twopence a week, which in those days was paid as school fees.
It was Miss Snelston’s hope each time there was a new batch of orphans that a really intelligent child would turn up. That was how she had found Polly Jenkin. She had taught her since she came to the orphanage at the age of four and had discovered in her a real fondness for learning, so the moment she had passed her labour exam she had applied to the governors for her. She arranged that Polly was to receive two-and-sixpence a month and would live in her cottage, in return for which she would help with the housework.
The school morning started with prayers and a hymn, then, leaving Polly to get the school work started, Miss Snelston called Margaret, Peter and Horatio into her little office and gave them their slates.
‘These are your very own,’ she explained. ‘You must look after them carefully for on them you do your sums and sometimes dictation. My aim is to see four sums right on every slate.’ She smiled at the three children, hiding from them her deep pity for well she knew how hard their lives would be. ‘You,’ she said to Peter, ‘must be Peter Beresford and this must be Horatio.’
Horatio, looking very tiny in his brown uniform, which was at least two sizes too large for him, smiled back at Miss Snelston.
‘That man that washed me put soap in my eyes,’ he