by Nicola Upson
“That’s a bit strong,” whispered Jeannie, who had maneuvered her way round to stand next to Josephine. “I hardly think we’re going to lose the war over a basket of freesias.”
Josephine agreed but was interested in the skill with which George adjusted her rhetoric to suit whichever battle she was fighting. The girls shuffled their feet and looked at the floor, expecting to be dismissed, but the principal had one more blow to deliver. “I don’t know how you let this slip through the net, Miss Simms,” she said, catching Vera’s arm as she prepared to lead her students back to their digging. “You should have checked the glass house last night before you turned in—or at least brought the matter to my attention when you did your inspection this morning. I’m very disappointed in you. Everyone else is still learning, but you’ve been with me long enough to know better. Now, get out of my sight—all of you.”
It would have been kinder if George had shown more discretion in front of the girls, but Josephine sensed that it wasn’t the very public nature of her dressing down that wounded Vera; the emotion in her eyes as she turned away was pain, not humiliation—and a deep pain, at that. The students went back to their work in silence, and Josephine noticed that both the Norwood sisters were subtly shunned by their colleagues, although their shared lack of favor didn’t seem to heal the rift between them. Vera Simms took up a spade and worked her feelings out on the land, digging furiously in a way that might have impressed George had she been in the mood to notice.
The quiet of the potting shed was a welcome contrast to the unpleasant turn that the morning had taken. Josephine resumed her task, wrapping vegetables carefully in tissue paper and layering them in boxes according to weight and size. The work was methodical but hardly taxing, and it gave her plenty of time to consider what had happened in relation to Miss Ingham’s concerns; punishments were yet to be decided, but George’s reaction so far to a costly mistake seemed measured and reasonable, and neither of the Norwood girls would have had grounds for complaint. She felt sorry for Vera, though, caught between the pupils and the teachers but belonging to neither camp—and perhaps the worst thing of all was that George seemed oblivious to how devastating her rebuke had been.
“Poor V,” muttered Lanton, obviously sharing her thoughts. “She always tries so hard, but it’s never quite good enough.”
“I got the impression that she was indispensable,” Josephine admitted. “Miss H told me what a help she’d been when they first took the place on.”
“It’s not so much that. There’s no shortage of responsibility handed out to her—or credit, when it’s earned. It’s hard to explain what I mean.” Joyce paused, squinting hard as she concentrated on threading a long needle with string, then proceeded to sew some fruit tightly into a jute bag to protect it from damage in transit. “The trouble is, Vera absolutely worships the ground Miss H walks on, so she’s always looking for something more than praise—something more personal, I mean.” She had taken her eyes off her sewing and winced as the needle pierced her skin. “Ouch! That was stupid of me. But I suppose what I’m saying is that Vera wants to be someone as far as Miss H is concerned, but really she could be anyone.”
“It’s a shame,” agreed Macdonald, taking the needle from her friend and offering up her own handkerchief to stop the blood. “Vera’s a really nice person when you get to know her, but that sort of attachment is never healthy. It’ll end in catastrophe, mark my words.”
On that positive note, the last box was sealed, and Josephine collected all the paperwork, making sure that every parcel had been correctly addressed and entered into the sales book. “I’ll take these to Miss Barker so that she can get the bills ready,” she said. “Why don’t you two shift this lot round to the van? Miss Sellwood will drop it all off at the station on her way to Lewes.”
“Righto.” Macdonald went in search of a trolley, and the parcels were soon on their way.
Josephine tidied the workbench, then returned the letters to the file in date order and headed to the kitchen. Lunch preparations were well on the way, but there was no sign of Harriet. She checked the pantry and the dairy without success and was just on her way back to leave the paperwork on the kitchen table when she saw Peter Whittaker waving at her from the front porch. “Are you looking for Harriet?” he called, and she nodded. “She’s round by the shepherds’ huts. You know where they are?”
“Yes, but I won’t bother her now. I can just leave these on the table.”
“It won’t be a bother. In fact, she’d probably appreciate a hand. She’s been back and forth, setting up lunch for the girls, and she’s a bit behind.”
If she’d been braver, Josephine might have asked why Peter hadn’t given Harriet a hand himself rather than providing a running commentary on her timekeeping; from what she had seen so far, he didn’t lift a finger to help around the house or garden, and she doubted very much that he was paying for his bed and board. As it was, she simply thanked him and walked through the orchard to the field beyond. It was the first time that she had seen the students’ distinctive accommodation, and—in spite of her aversion to any sort of makeshift living—there was a carefree sense of romance about the scene in front of her that she found very tempting. The huts stood in two rows, one of five and one of six, facing each other, and each was made of wood with a corrugated iron roof and heavy-duty cast-iron wheels, originally made to withstand the constant movement from field to field. Settled now in a more domestic environment, they had all been painted either red or green, with a reverse trim around the windows, and some were more weathered than others. The top of each stable door had been left open to air the hut inside, and she could see from the nearest one that they were sparsely furnished, with a narrow bed down each side, a simple foldout table, two locker-sized cupboards, and a small stove just inside the door. There were flowerpots on some of the steps, and as she walked down the row, she noticed the occasional flourish of a personality she recognized: film posters that smacked of Lanton or Macdonald; a bedspread that almost certainly belonged to Charity Lomax and must have cost more than a shepherd earned in a whole year. Thinking back to the dispute of the morning, she wondered if the Norwood sisters shared with each other.
A long trestle table stood in the middle of the grass, and the girls ate their meals there together—unless it rained, when they decamped to one of the barns. As Peter Whittaker had said, the beginnings of lunch had arrived in the shape of plates, glasses, and four large bottles of homemade lemonade, but Harriet herself was still elusive. Josephine went further along the line of huts to make sure, but stopped when she heard voices coming from the end of the row. She crouched down to look between the wheels and saw two pairs of legs standing behind the final hut; the summer print dress that Harriet had been wearing at breakfast was easily identifiable, but the other person was dressed in the brown boots and leggings of the college uniform and could have been anyone. Josephine listened more carefully, and—although she didn’t know it very well—she thought she recognized the second voice as Vera’s, raised now in anger. “We can’t go on like this any more,” she shouted, “or at least I can’t. I’m going to tell her.”
“Don’t be reckless, Vera,” Harriet said, confirming the other girl’s identity. “It’s not the right time, and we agreed to wait. If you tell her now, God only knows how she’d react, and do you really want to risk everything? Because we’ll both suffer, you must know that.”
“Then when? How much longer do I have to wait?”
Harriet said something that Josephine couldn’t quite catch, and Vera must have calmed down too, because the next part of the conversation was too muffled for her to hear. She turned to go, fearful now of being seen, but Vera’s voice rose again and held her where she was, shocked by the violent sobs that locked the words in place. “I’m not going to be ashamed of this—why should I be? You’re making me feel like we’re keeping some dirty little secret, and that’s just not fair. I’m going to tell her right now, and you can’t sto
p me.”
“Can’t I?” Josephine didn’t wait to hear any more. She ran back over the grass to the orchard, turning at the safety of the hedge to see if anyone was following, but there was no sign of Vera or of Harriet, and she hoped they’d had no inkling of their audience. She waited a moment to catch her breath, then strolled back up the path toward the front of the house, trying to look unconcerned and hoping above all that she didn’t bump into George. Peter Whittaker was lounging on the grass by the pond, and he looked up when he heard her footsteps on the gravel. “Did you find Harriet?” he asked.
“No, she wasn’t there,” Josephine said, wondering if he had known what she would stumble on. “I’ll leave this paperwork on the kitchen table, and if Miss Barker does want some help serving the lunch, tell her I’ll be out in the yard, loading the van.”
CHAPTER 4
The rest of the day passed without incident, but Josephine was glad to retreat to her room after supper. She wrote a chatty letter home, enthusing over the landscape and sharing selective first impressions of the college, then tried to read a novel, but the words refused to make any lasting impact, and she realized that she had read the first ten pages without concentrating on anything but the argument she had overheard at lunchtime. The book was too good to waste, so she put it down and was just about to get undressed and blow out her lamp when she heard footsteps along the landing and a soft knock at the door. Jeannie stuck her head round and smiled. “Oh good, you’re still up. Am I disturbing you?”
“No, not at all—come in. How was supper with your parents?”
“Nice, but hardly an evening off. My brothers enlisted together last month, so my dad’s been left in the lurch, and I ended up helping out in the bar—again. I swear it’s the only reason they ever invite me.” She grinned and held up a bottle of stout and a packet of potato crisps. “I did bring something back with me, though. We could probably both do with a drink after this morning.”
“That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.”
Josephine pulled another chair over to the window, but Jeannie shook her head. “I thought we might go outside. The garden’s always beautiful on a night like this.”
“But won’t the house be locked up by now?”
“Yes, but there are ways round that. Come with me and I’ll show you.” Josephine followed her across the landing to her own room. “Sorry about the mess,” Jeannie said, glancing apologetically at the spare bed, which was covered with magazines, discarded clothes, and more supplies from the Ram Inn. “It’s tidiness or breakfast for me, and I always choose breakfast. God knows how you manage, having to drag yourself out of bed even earlier.”
“I’ll get used to it eventually.”
“Then you’re a better woman than I am. Now, hold this open for me.” She handed Josephine a rucksack and packed two bottles of stout, a bottle opener, and the crisps, then pushed the window up as far as it would go. “Your view is lovely, but the one advantage of staring out over the rooftops each night is that you can plot your escape. Watch where I put my hands and feet, and do exactly the same. You’re not worried about heights, are you?”
“I dare say the Guinness will help. Going down, I’ll just have to take my chances.”
Jeannie swung herself out onto the ledge and dropped to the flat roof that sat obligingly just below her window. Josephine followed, watching where her guide trusted the trellising sufficiently to get her to the next level down, and then from there to the ground. The sky was clear, with no hint of the summer rain that had caused such trouble the night before, and Jeannie was right—the garden was utterly transformed as darkness fell. Flowers were suddenly of secondary importance to the dramatic shape of trees and bushes, and the dominance of color gave way to other senses. They took the long way round the walled garden, avoiding the telltale gravel by the door, and Josephine mapped the path by a succession of strong scents—roses giving way to honeysuckle, and then the sweet smelling rosemary bush that was the jewel of the herb patch—all more intense and more sharply defined than in daylight. “Where are we going?” she asked.
“Miss H’s bench, over by the greenhouses. It’s a lovely spot, but more importantly it’s one of the few places that can’t be seen from her attic rooms. Omniscient doesn’t even begin to describe her.”
“You’ve obviously got this down to a fine art,” Josephine said. “Do you come out here often at night?”
“Now and again, when I can’t sleep. It’s such a beautiful place, but there’s never any time to appreciate it during the day. That’s the only thing I hate about this way of life—there’s no peace and quiet to be had, and you never get a moment on your own. Not unless you sneak around under cover of darkness.”
Jeannie’s deep connection to the landscape she’d grown up with was very similar to her own, and Josephine liked her all the more for it. Most of the people she knew at Anstey threw themselves wholeheartedly into the bustle of a communal life, far from home, but Jeannie’s craving for solitude and stillness was all too familiar, and Josephine was pleased to have found someone with whom she had so much in common. They rounded the corner, where the glasshouses glinted like crystal in the strengthening moonlight, and Jeannie stopped by a bench that faced out to the downs. “Just look at that,” she said. “What more could you ever want?”
Very little, Josephine thought, captivated by the scene in front of her. The long, low outline of the downs was more subtle by moonlight, but somehow more striking. Without the colors or moving shadows of the day to take the eye, every small rise and fall of ground was distinctive, moving rhythmically toward the high, bold line of Firle Beacon. Jeannie followed her gaze, apparently satisfied by her reaction. “The view from up there is extraordinary,” she said. “Firle and Charleston and Glynde all laid out for you on this side, then Newhaven and the sea on the other. We’ll have to do the walk while you’re here.”
“I’d like that. You can show me your pub.”
“I will, but tonight it’s come to you. All except the glasses, I’m afraid—I forgot those.” She deftly opened the bottles and passed one to Josephine, then took a long swig from her own. “So tell me what I’ve missed. Have Dorothy and Betty been sentenced for their crimes?”
“They have. A double fine for each of them, and George has written to Miss Ingham, as she said she would. Both of them have had their afternoon off cancelled this week, and neither of us needs to worry about muck cart duties for the next few days—that plum has gone to Betty. Miss H drew a rather compelling comparison with the filth that came out of her mouth.”
Jeannie winced. “Betty will hate that.”
“The look on her face was very expressive, but mercifully she had the sense not to argue.”
“So all this was done publicly?”
“Just before supper, yes.”
“And Dorothy? Anything else for her?”
“Greenhouse duties until further notice. Not surprisingly, the ventilators have been well and truly closed tonight. I have to admit, I thought she got off lightly with that. Is it really such a harsh punishment?”
“It’s very time consuming, and doing it last thing at night is a drag—most of the girls are exhausted by then, and all they want to do is fall into bed. It’s not just a matter of closing the windows either. There’s all the watering, which takes ages if you do it properly, and you have to inspect everything for pests or diseases and treat it accordingly. Those poisons are vile, especially when it’s so hot and stuffy in there. I swear that Lomax honestly thought she was dying the first time she had to spray a tomato for whitefly.” Josephine laughed, easily picturing the scene. “No, on balance I’d take the muck spreading. You know where you are with that.”
“Well, I suppose the most significant thing is that they’ve both received a formal warning. One more mistake and they’re back to Moira House in disgrace.”
“I wouldn’t put it past them to goad each other into it,” Jeannie said, looking concerned. “We’d better keep an
eye out for that. It would be a shame if they didn’t see the thing through—Dorothy because she’s genuinely good at it, and Betty because she isn’t, if you know what I mean. And apart from anything else, it would be nice to have a few days in the sun without any drama.” Josephine agreed, with the row between Vera and Harriet still playing on her mind. “We virtually sold out at the market today,” Jeannie continued. “The shops are getting more expensive now, so people like to buy direct from the grower—especially if you drape a few patriotic flags around the veg boxes. I had to borrow two bicycles from the White Hart and send Rogers and Nicholson back for more supplies. You should have seen them, balancing the trugs on their handlebars.” She looked at Josephine, suddenly aware of her silence. “Are you all right? You seem bothered about something.”
“What do you think of Vera Simms?” Josephine asked.
Jeannie looked surprised by the sudden change of subject but considered the question. “She’s hard to get to know, so I’m not sure I think much about her at all. It’s strange, because in lots of ways we’re in a similar position—senior to the girls, but not in charge of the place—and you’d think that would make us natural allies, but it hasn’t. I already know you far better than I know Vera—and that’s not a complaint, by the way.”
Josephine smiled. “Macdonald thinks Vera has an “unhealthy attachment” to Miss H.”
She let the comment stand without any context, interested in Jeannie’s immediate response. “Macdonald has a cinematic view of the world,” she said, almost admiringly. “Everything in black and white, and explained afterward in simple sentences. Sometimes I envy her that.”
