Moira Joseph wore a plain, form-fitting black dress with long, tight, wrist-length sleeves, unrelieved by ornament of any kind. With her close-cropped hair, thick eyebrows and very bright lipstick, she looked like a sophisticated young woman, slim, elegant and poised. Barbara Pegg’s tight lacy blouse and dirndl skirt were freshly, appealingly youthful and set off her freckles delightfully.
But the belle of the ball was Pamela, a new, beautiful, grown-up Pamela. Her hair was caught high on the back of her head but slightly to one side with a glistening ribbon of dark green silk, from which it fell away in a cascade of soft tendrilly curls to her right shoulder. Her full lips were vividly red against the clear face and the long, lovely neck. She wore a simple dress of dark green jersey wool, softly clinging at shoulder, bosom and waist, and flaring to a wide skirt which did wonderful things for her as she walked. Her shoes were of green satin. She presented a picture of sheer beauty and I gazed at her in wonder, seeing quite clearly her mother’s skilful hand in its preparation.
"Lord," Gillian exclaimed as Pamela walked into the auditorium, "that girl's beautiful!" There was something very like awe in her voice. Pamela walked across to us.
"Hello, Sir. Hello, Miss," she greeted us.
"Hello, Pamela," we echoed.
"You haven't forgotten, have you, Sir?" Pamela enquired, her eyes on me.
"No, I haven't forgotten, Pamela," I replied.
"See you, Sir," and she moved over to join some of her colleagues.
"She never even saw me," Gillian whispered.
"Of course she did, she said 'hello' to both of us," I reminded her.
"Oh I know, but she didn't really see me, she just didn't see me." Her voice was quietly intense, and I turned to look at her, wondering at her tone. She looked up at me and grinned, then reached for my hand.
"Thank heaven I got to you first, Rick," she whispered, seeming not to care who noticed us now.
Soon the room was nearly full of laughing, joyous young people. I was introduced to several of the old students who had been invited. Jackie Fischer, Junie Thorpe, Ada Phillips, Petey Blore and Maureen Blore the twins, whose sister Ann introduced us. Maureen invited me to attend the reception of her wedding on Boxing Day.
It was a very happy occasion. WE danced and played silly enjoyable games, the staff all as joyously boisterous as the youngsters. Even Weston so far forgot himself as to laugh and chatter quite naturally with them. He could not dance but elected to be responsible for the music, and he seemed to enjoy being master of ceremonies, announcing each record before it began. Later in the evening he offered me a cigarette and we exchanged a few pleasantries. The spirit of goodwill was in operation with a vengeance. I hoped it would survive well into the new term.
Whenever I could I danced with Gillian. Just being near her was peace and pleasure beyond words; I felt sure that our love for each other must be quite apparent to anyone with eyes to see. Later, while I was dancing a Strauss waltz with Clinty, she said: "You're really gone on her, aren't you Rick?"
"Who?"
"Ah, come off it. I'm talking about Miss Blanchard."
Neither Clinty nor any of the others ever called her anything but Miss Blanchard; something about her seemed to prohibit too-easy intimacy.
"Well, what about her?"
"Okay, Rick. I can take a hint, but if it is what I think it is between you two, you're a damned lucky tyke."
I laughed, just for the hell of it.
Soon after, Pamela went up to Weston with her record; they whispered together, then he announced: "The next dance is a 'ladies' excuse-me foxtrot'."
She waited until the first few opening bars of the beautiful evergreen "In The Still Of The Night" floated over the room then turned and walked towards me, invitation large in her clear eyes and secretly smiling lips. I moved to meet her and she walked into my arms, easily, confidently, as if she belonged there. There was no hesitation, no pause to synchronise our steps; the music and the magic of the moment took us and wove us together in smooth movement. I was aware of her, of her soft breathing, her firm roundness, and the rhythmic moving of her thighs. She was a woman, there was no doubt about it, and she invaded my mind and my body. The music ended, all too soon. We were locked together for a moment, then released.
"Thank you, Pamela."
"After I leave school may I come and see you sometimes?"
"Of course, I'd be very pleased to see you any time."
"Thank you. Bye, Sir."
"Bye, Pamela."
She collected her record from Weston and left soon afterwards.
Next morning, Friday, they were very quiet. As I called the register, going through the list of now familiar names I thought of how very quickly the time had passed since the first day I had sat there, uncertain and a little afraid. In about eight months I had come to know them all so well: now I could nearly anticipate the things they would say and do in any given circumstance. Yet after today most of them would be going their different ways and as remote from me as if we had never met.
Some of them had grown strong from within - Fernman, Babs Pegg, Wells, Seales, these would make the grade because they were intelligent, resourceful, and ever willing to learn. Some would always have difficulties, because they wanted the easy way out, quick money with the least possible effort, Sapiano and Janie Purcell, for instance.
The rest of them would just be decent folk, living decently without too much ambition or aggressiveness or anything. Denham and Potter. In a few years they'd both be dependable, hard-working men with families, or maybe serving somewhere overseas in H.M. forces. Who could know?
Registration over, they began talking excitedly about the evening before, the clothes, the food, the records, the dancing, the staff - everything. They had enjoyed it, particularly the company of adults whom they had met on equal terms; it had been important, "posh", different from the usual "hops" at the local youth clubs. I came in for a bit of ribbing because they had noticed how often I danced with Gillian.
"Is she your girl, Sir?" Tich Jackson enquired.
"I noticed you dancing with Miss Blanchard too, Jackson," I parried, "I was beginning to wonder if she was your girl."
"Gosh, wouldn't mind if she was," Jackson replied, to a burst of laughter from the others. And so the morning passed, in a sluggish friendliness, a disinclination to let the moments go.
In the afternoon after registration I sat looking at them, uncertain what to say to them. Just then Moira Joseph stood up.
"Sir," she began, "I, that is, we want to tell you how very grateful we are for all you have done for us, all of us." She looked slowly round the room. "We know it could not have been too easy for you, what with one thing or another," here she smiled at Denham, who blushed and hung his head, "but you kept going. We think we are much better children for having had you as a teacher. We liked best the way you always talked to us, you know, not like silly kids, but like grown-ups and that. You've been good to us, Sir, and we'd like you to accept a little gift to remember us by." Here she signalled to Pamela and sat down amid a burst of cheering.
Pamela stood up, with a large beautifully wrapped parcel in her hand, and walked towards me. I rose at her approach. She was a striking figure as she came proudly up with the parcel, but no sooner had I received it from her hand than she suddenly turned and ran back to her seat to hide her face behind the lid of her desk. At a moment when she so wanted to be at her grown-up best, childhood had claimed her again.
I thanked them and sat down quickly, as the door opened and Mr. Florian walked quietly in; he had been attracted by the noise of cheering. Together we looked at the large label pasted on the parcel and inscribed: To Sir, With Love
And underneath, the signatures of all of them.
He looked at me and smiled. And I looked over his shoulder at them - my children.
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