Touch of Bitter Taste of Honey.
Part 4.

In which Alice's Mother and Miss Jenkins Upset Alice.

On Sunday night Mary decided to talk to her daughter about Pete and about her plans to leave school at the end of the week. She hardly ever saw her daughter anymore. Friday evenings, Saturdays and most of Sundays were spent at parties, dances or coffee bars. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday evenings were spent hurriedly doing her homework and getting ready in case Pete came up, which he often did. Alice was growing into a stranger.
After Pete had gone on Sunday evening Alice was listening to Luxembourg and idly sketching some Mod fashions in her sketch pad.

"Alice," said her mother. "I want to talk to you about leaving at the end of term. I think you would benefit a great deal from at least a year in the Sixth Form, and then, if you still wanted to go to Art College, you could go then."

"Me, in the Sixth Form. Don’t be daft," said Alice shortly. "I’m leaving this term with Rosie and Caroline so we can all be at Art College together – and anyway, if I go straight away I’ll have a grant for the two year course until I’m eighteen. What’s the point of wasting another year at school?"

"You wouldn’t be wasting it," replied her mother angrily. "You’d be more educated. Why do you dislike school so much? You never used to, not until -."

"Why do I hate school?" Alice broke in. "Because it’s a boring, out-of-date dump. The staff are nearly all old and bitchy, the building is decrepit and the lessons are so dull and endless that they just go on and on without anything exciting happening. I don’t want to spend another year rotting away in that hole, thank you very much!"

"It’s a very good school," shouted her mother. "You used to enjoy it until you started this ‘Mod’ craze," the word was pronounced with sour sarcasm "and until you met your precious Pete."

Alice slammed her hand down on the table.
"Don’t you bring Pete into this," she cried. "And what’s wrong with Mods? Better than being a greasy rocker. It’s a bit late now to suddenly decide you don’t like Mods or Pete. I love them both!"

"Love?" repeated Mary with a short laugh. "What do you know about love? You with your wonderful, glorified layabout – that’s all he is – a layabout. You and your short sixteen years of living, you don’t even know what the word means. And he doesn’t love you, he’s just playing games with you, don’t you realise that?"

With a sob of rage Alice turned towards the woman.
"I love Pete more than anyone else in the world, more than you, more than Dad – even more than Mods. I’d do anything for him, anything at all – and he loves me too, yes he does. He is NOT a layabout, he’s mine and I love him. What do you know that is so much more than I do about love? Is love going to bed with cream on your face and curlers in your frizzy hair? Is love slopping around in slippers. Is love arguing with the man you married? No! I love Pete just as much as you used to love Dad. And I am going to let him know it."

"You – how dare you say such things. Go to your room at once. And I forbid you to see Pete again – ever. Do you understand?"
Alice’s body went rigid with shock. Her face was sucked of all blood and she swayed on her feet.

"I understand," she said numbly. "You’re scared because you know I do love him, you’re scared because you’ve forgotten how to love. I hate you." She walked out of the room like a robot. Mechanically she climbed the stairs to her bedroom. There she locked the door and sat stiffly on her bed.

Never see Pete again? That was impossible. It couldn’t be true. No-one would do a thing that cruel to her, no-one and surely not her own mother. She was so shocked that the tears would not come. She sat there still as a statue for many hours. People came and knocked on her door; her sisters, her father and the woman who had taken Pete away, but she refused to come out.

Eventually, in the early hours of the morning she fell into a tortured sleep. Her dreams were vivid and frightening. She woke early wondering why she felt so strange, until the memory of it all came flooding over her. Now she would have to go downstairs and face her family, she would have to go to school for another dreary, boring day. She dressed slowly and went downstairs. Her father was eating his cornflakes, engrossed in the morning paper; her mother was in the kitchen – and she was singing. Alice felt sick at the thought of food. How could she eat when that woman was happily singing? She who had broken her daughter’s heart?

"Good morning," said her father.
"Morning," she replied.
"Oh, hello. You up?" greeted her mother. "What would you like for breakfast?"
Alice did not answer.
"I said what do you want for breakfast?" repeated her mother rather testily. "Surely you’re not still sulking over our little argument. I forgot it long ago. Mind you, I meant what I said about Pete – I don’t ever want you to see him again."

Alice walked out of the room into the hall and put her school blazer on. She didn’t bother with her hat. They were so unfashionable! She picked up her satchel and dinner money and went back into the dining room.

"Where do you think you’re going?" asked her father.
"School," she replied.
"Come back at once, you’ve had no breakfast," he ordered, getting up from his chair. She hurried through the kitchen, opened the door and ran as fast as she could. She heard her parents shouting behind her, but they did not follow. They probably thought she would come back for her breakfast but they were wrong.

She walked down to school in the rapidly rising sun, which was quickly warming the earth. She didn’t think about anything, her mind was a kind of blank. She reached school after about twenty-five minutes. It was early as yet and no girls had arrived except herself. The cleaners were there however so she let herself into her form room where she sat at her desk with her head in her hands. She just could not believe this had happened to her. She had to get to see Pete before he turned up at her house and her parents sent him away. The school clock ticked loudly in her ears and the room smelled of polish and chalk. Soon the school began to fill up. Someone walked into the form room. Alice looked up. It was Penelope.

"Hello Alice. You’re here early," then she stopped. "You do look ill. Are you alright?"
"Yes, I’m okay. It’s just – oh, nothing." How would Penelope understand, simple innocent Penelope who had never kissed a boy in her life?

"I saw your Pete on Friday," chattered the girl gaily. "Marilyn showed me who he was. He does look rather nice. She said…."

Alice could hold back the tears no longer. Like a great wave they swept over her, choking her and racking her with huge sobs.

"Alice," cried Penelope worriedly. "Oh I say, do stop crying. What is it?"

Alice was incapable of speaking; she could hardly breathe. She tried unsuccessfully to stop the flow of tears and then gave herself up to her misery and put her head down on the old wooden desk trying to cry some of the pain away. Distantly she heard Penelope talking to someone.

"Oh Pam, thank goodness you’re here. She won’t stop crying. I don’t know what’s wrong. She won’t tell me."

Then she felt a firm, reassuring hand on her shoulders.

"Go on Alice. Cry it all out of you and you’ll feel better. Don’t try and talk."
Eventually her sobs became a little less frenzied and she was able to speak. Briefly she told her friend the story, breaking out into fresh sobs as she did so. By now the room was filling up and everyone tried, in their own way, to comfort her but it was useless. She felt like a cold stone with no feelings or ability to help herself.

The day dragged endlessly on, each lesson merging into the one just gone like an endless stream. The last lesson of the morning was history. Alice did not hear a word of it; Miss Jenkins droned on, this lesson exactly the same as a million other chalky history lessons. As she talked about Charles V and the Schmalkadic League the teacher looked over her class. They all sat there staring into space, their minds miles away. A few were apparently taking notes but she knew from past experience that they would be writing letters to their various boyfriends or sketching clothes in their rough books. Not one of them would be listening to her, except perhaps Penelope.

She looked hopefully at the girl and was not disappointed; her eyes were bright behind her glasses and she was watching her teacher attentively. As Miss Jenkins watched her she turned round in her seat and looked across the room to the back. Miss Jenkins followed her gaze, she was looking at Alice Greenway. Several times during the lesson the same thing happened, but the teacher could not see that Alice was doing anything to catch Penelope’s attention. In fact the girl was unusually quiet today, she had not spoken a word to her neighbour but just sat there woodenly in her seat, staring straight ahead. The girl almost looked as though she were going to faint. Miss Jenkins was reminded of her resolution to speak sternly to her about what happened on Friday afternoon. The sharp ring of the bell interrupted her thoughts. It was at last the end of the lesson and the end of the morning. The girls came to life and started moving around, talking loudly. Alice still sat, immobile in her seat.

"Alice," called Miss Jenkins loudly. "I would like to talk to you for a moment." The girl slowly looked up. She dragged herself from her desk and walked up to the squat little woman, where she stood looking rebelliously at her.
"I saw you leave school on Friday," the teacher told her. "I don’t think that is a very suitable way to travel home. What is more you did not have your hat on."

"The wind would have blown it off," stated Alice mechanically.

"What you do in your own time is none of my business," said Miss Jenkins pompously, "but I will not have you flying around like that in the uniform of this school. I also did not approve of the young man you were with. He was nothing but a common hooligan. I think you should make your friends amongst a higher class of people."

The girl trembled all over, fiercely she spoke to the schoolmistress.

"I love him and he loves me. Why doesn’t everyone just leave us alone?" She turned and ran from the room leaving Miss Jenkins staring after her. The girls left in the classroom were drinking in the little scene. Miss Jenkins gathered up her books with dignity.
"Insolent young girl!" she muttered under her breath. "Love indeed!" Then she remembered a time when she had been young and a boy had told her with eager eyes that he loved her. For some reason she had refused him and gone on her own prim way. She sighed suddenly. Who was she to speak of love, she knew nothing at all about the subject?