Another Life Altogether: A Novel - By Elaine Beale Page 0,71
we’re supposed to use our father’s surname, because we’re seen as our father’s property, and when we marry we have to change our names and call ourselves Mrs., because then we’re supposed to belong to our husband. So, by calling myself Ms. I am demonstrating that I have my own independent identity and I’m not the property of some man. Is that clear?” She gave him a cool, expectant look.
“Yes, Ms.” He nodded sheepishly.
“Good, because I’d hate to have to punish you by making you write ‘I must not be a male chauvinist’ a thousand times after school. I’ve never liked giving out lines.”
“No, Ms.,” Peter Kitchen said.
I watched with utter fascination as Ms. Hastings chastised Peter Kitchen, whose face, as she continued to stare at him, became an ever-deepening shade of red. I had never even heard the term “Ms.” before, but as soon as she explained what it meant I thought it made complete sense. Why should women change their names when they got married? She was right. Of course, women shouldn’t be regarded as men’s property. It was wrong and unjust, and it made me even more determined that I would never, ever marry. What’s more, I resolved that I was going to start calling myself Ms. immediately. As I considered this, I peered around the classroom to see if anyone else was as thrilled as I was with Ms. Hastings’s remarks. I was disappointed to see that most of the other students, including Tracey and the Debbies, had perplexed expressions on their faces, but in the very back there were a couple of smiling and nodding faces—Dizzy and Malcolm. I hadn’t realized that Malcolm was in my English class, so I was a little surprised to see him there. For a moment I wanted to try to catch his eye, to show him that among all these other ignoramuses he and Dizzy and I were the only ones who understood the important point Ms. Hastings was making, but then I remembered our encounter in the corridor, the decision I’d made, the line I had crossed, and I turned away.
“All right, so let’s get some work done,” Ms. Hastings boomed as she lifted herself onto her desk and sat there, legs apart and swinging. “Today we’re going to start by reading one of the most important allegories of our time. This,” she said, holding up one of the books that sat in a stack on her desk, “is essential reading for anyone who wants to understand the twentieth century.” I thought I recognized the cover and leaned forward to see it better. When I did, I realized it was the book I’d seen Malcolm reading that first day I’d met him. It was a copy of Animal Farm.
AN HOUR LATER, as we filed into the corridor, I turned to Tracey and the Debbies. “So, what did you think?” I asked, excited to hear their assessment of the fascinating Ms. Hastings.
“Jesus, what a bloody dippy hippie,” Tracey declared without hesitation. “I mean, look at the state of her. You’d think she got all her clothes from the rag-and-bone man. And, my God, her hair. Looks like she had a fight with a pair of garden shears.”
“I sort of liked it—it’s different,” I ventured, having imagined cutting my own hair short like that during the lesson, running my hands over its fine and silky sheen.
“Different? Yeah, it’s definitely different all right!” Tracey rolled her eyes. “Ugly and different. God, I can’t stand women like her!”
“Really?” I asked, genuinely perplexed at Tracey’s vitriol.
“Yeah, really.”
“Well,” I said hesitantly, “I did think she had a good point when she talked about not being a man’s property.”
“Now, that was a load of old crap,” Tracey countered. “She must be one of those bloody women’s libbers. But, like my dad says, they only say that stuff because they’re too ugly to get a man.”
“You’re dead right about that,” Debbie Mason said, while the other two Debbies chorused their agreement.
When I didn’t join in, Tracey narrowed her eyes and studied me. “God, Jesse, don’t tell me that you like her.”
“No,” I said cautiously. “I don’t like her. I just thought she was, well, I thought that she was interesting.”
“She’s a bloody freak, if you ask me,” Tracey said. “And really, Jesse, only freaks like freaks.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
WITH THE SCHOOL DAY OVER, TRACEY AND I WALKED TO THE SCHOOL gates to say goodbye to the Debbies, who, because they all lived in Liston, could walk home. I’d