by Anne Digby
'You've always enjoyed that,' pointed out Miss Willis. 'Keep the bad arm in its sling and treat it as though it doesn't exist. You are not to use your left hand. Retrieve the ball, when you have to, with your right hand. Next week I'll set up a doubles game for you.'
'Doubles?' asked Rebecca, excited but surprised. 'How? I can't serve – I'm not allowed to throw the ball up.'
'You can bounce the ball off the racket one-handed and do an underarm serve, you'll soon master it. I'll find some volunteers to ball-boy for you so that you're never tempted to pick up the odd ball with that left hand!'
'Why just doubles, why not some singles?' Rebecca said eagerly. 'I mean on the same basis – ball-boys – underarm services.'
'Later, when the plaster's off,' smiled Mrs Ericson. 'You'll be surprised how less mobile you'll feel while that arm's hooked up. Not mobile enough for singles. We use our arms, you know, for balance. We don't want you falling over! You did wonderfully well at Eastbourne, Rebecca,' her coach concluded. 'So cheer up. You'll get over this setback, you know.'
Rebecca lay in bed that night feeling grateful to them both for being so supportive. The prospect of being out of competitive tennis for a whole term was depressing – no matches, no tournaments! Awful, too, to have to watch herself slip down the computer rankings with a long, hard climb back ahead of her after Christmas.
But things weren't quite as black as they'd seemed at first. She was going to be able to keep fit, to keep her eye in – and even play some tennis. Of a sort.
And for this term at least she'd have more time to devote to her GCSE work. Was that what Dad had meant? She might still be able to take the top maths paper. She might still be able to get an A or B grade on her certificate. If she could do that, then some good would have come out of this stupid accident!
She told Robbie so when he cycled over to Court House the next morning.
They went for a walk on the beach together. It had been such a short summer. There was already a wintry look to the grey-green sea, the pale sun lighting up silvery patches towards the skyline, the waves breaking irritably on the shore like ribbons of dirty soap suds.
'Maybe it's all for the best, Robbie. You and Tish never have any problems with maths, do you? Is that what you've applied to do at Oxford?'
'No fear. I don't want to be a mathematician.'
'What then?' asked Rebecca in surprise. 'What have you applied for?'
'PPE,' said Robbie casually. 'It's a really mind broadening course. Good training for all kinds of careers. Politics, Philosophy and Economies.'
'Are you interested in them then?' asked Rebecca, even more surprised. She could imagine Robbie being interested in economics, but she'd never heard him discuss politics. Or philosophy, come to that!
'Don't know,' Robbie shrugged. 'It's a good course to do.'
'Hey, isn't that what Justy wants to do?' Rebecca vaguely remembered Sue talking about PPE and Justin Thomas wanting to do it and she'd asked Sue what the letters stood for.
'Right,' said Robbie. 'That's how I got the idea.'
'We've got a Careers Quiz at school this afternoon,' said Rebecca. 'I hope it gives me some ideas.'
Their walk ended and when they reached the foot of the fire escape at the back of Court House, Robbie turned Rebecca round to face him. He looked troubled.
'It's no use your saying it was your fault because of the seat belt. It was my fault. I should have been going slower. I should have remembered about those deer.'
'Oh, Robbie, please don't be silly.'
He shook his head. Then he took out a biro and carefully pulled back the edge of her sling. He wrote on the plaster cast:
SORRY. LOVE, ROBBIE.
It was so touching that Rebecca, to her embarrassment, felt tears of self-pity welling up into her eyes. Robbie turned away abruptly and walked over to his bike. 'Don't cry, Rebeck,' he said edgily. 'Don't you think I feel bad enough already?'
Rebecca tried to speak but he was already scooting his bike along the path, past the dustbins and round the corner of the building out of sight. Not looking back; not wanting her to say any more. He was determined to take the blame. Nothing she said would make any difference.
Now he had gone, Rebecca turned sadly towards the fire escape. With her good hand, she gripped the cold handrail and slowly climbed up the clanking metal treads to the balcony high above.
It was as though there were a barrier between them now.
She let herself in through the heavy glass door at the top, went round into her cubicle and rested on her bed. The plaster round her wrist and forearm made her feel suddenly irritable. It got in the way of things, including her friendship with Robbie. She closed her eyes.
'Miaow!'
The sudden sound made Rebecca jump and for a moment the silly business of the ghost crossed her mind.
'Oh, it's you.'
Moggy sat on the end of her bed, cleaning his ginger and white fur. Then came the sound of whispering and scuffling feet and a red-faced Lizzy Douglas appeared with Kathy Baxter.
'Oops, sorry, Rebecca! Didn't know anyone was up here!' gasped Lizzy, bundling Moggy up in her arms. 'He escaped. We've been looking for him!'
'You're not allowed up here!' said Rebecca crossly. 'I thought it was the ghost cat or something! It made me jump! Clear off.'
As the Third Years retreated, she added:
'And you know pets aren't allowed, Lizzy. He belongs over at Norris with your parents. It's not fair on the others if you have him at Court.'
'Miss Morgan let me have him at Juniper sometimes!'
'Well, you're a big girl now, Lizzy,' Rebecca ribbed.
Lizzy's eyes flashed with annoyance for she'd been missing Moggy.
But Rebecca wasn't in a mood to notice.
FOUR
SHADOW IN THE MOONLlGHT
Rebecca hit the tennis ball against the blank side wall of Norris House in a steady rhythm. Backhand, volley, forehand (top spin), drop shot, half-volley and . . . whack! That was a good forehand!
She was feeling cheerful again. There was no sign of the mist that had made the sun so pale on the sea this morning. There'd been clear blue skies this afternoon and a cold little wind had dropped. Now it was a glorious evening. Perhaps they were going to have an Indian summer!
The Careers Quiz for the Fifth Years this afternoon had been fun. The gym had been packed. Some of Trebizon's senior staff had formed a panel to answer questions.
'Is it true you have to be brainy to be a doctor?' Debbie Rickard had asked immodestly. She'd broadcast her ambition to be a doctor some time ago, in the middle of the Fourth Year. At the time Rebecca had wondered if she were merely copying Tish, who'd wanted to be a doctor like her father for as long as Rebecca could remember. But it seemed genuine enough.
'Yes,' said Mr Douglas briefly. He was in charge of chemistry. 'You also have to be prepared for a long course of study – five years. I dare say you've got what it takes, Deborah.'
She subsided, smirking.
'Remind me not to get ill,' whispered Sue behind her hand.
'I'm ill already,' joked Margot.
'Is it easier to be a vet?' asked Jane McTavish, who loved animals.
'Afraid not, Jane,' said Mr Douglas. 'In fact, at the moment it's harder.'
'Why's that?' chorused several people in surprise.
'It's harder getting on to the course,' explained Mr Douglas. 'The competition's tougher. There are more applicants for every place at veterinary school than there are even at medical school. You'd have to think in terms of an A grade in GCSE biology, then another at A level.'
Roberta Jones suddenly looked interested. So did Rebecca. Not because she wanted to be a vet, but because she loved useless facts. Harder to get on a vet course than into medical school!
'Must be because we're such an animal-loving nation,' she whispered to the others.
'And all those vet books,' laughed Tish.
'There's also the question of maths, Jane,' Miss Gate
s was pointing out gently. 'You'd need a maths A level. And before you could study for that, you'd need to be taking the top paper in GCSE.'
Jane McTavish sank down with a shrug. That clinched it then. She wasn't going to be a vet.
Sue asked Mr Barrington some questions about musical careers; she was a very promising violinist. The questions Rebecca would have liked to ask were questions that had no answer.
How good a tennis player am I going to be? Will I be good enough to turn professional one day? So she said nothing.
Instead, after tea, she collected her racket and ball and ran down the garden to Norris. She'd give the ball a good pounding, just to remind herself she could do it!
Whack! That last ball was a winner; it ricocheted off the wall at a fierce angle. Her speed hampered by the slung-up left arm, Rebecca got only the tip of her racket to it and the thing shot high in the air and landed in the dense shrubbery at the front corner of the building.
Drat. Rebecca ran across and dived into the bushes, poking round with her tennis racket to find the ball. Half doubled up there, she noticed a car pulling up at the front of Norris House, right by Debbie Rickard and Roberta Jones. Idly Rebecca wondered if those two had tentatively started to patch up their quarrel. Although Debbie was now a day girl, she was still formally attached to Norris House. Presumably she'd come back here with Roberta after tea.
'Ready, Deb?' asked her father, from the car. He'd delivered his daughter at school for the Careers Quiz earlier and had now come to pick her up. 'Hello, Berta.'
'Daddy, Berta wondered if she could come back for the evening?' said Debbie cautiously. 'Mrs Douglas says it's OK.'
'Aren't you forgetting something?' frowned Mr Rickard. 'It's English coursework to do this evening.'
He looked as though he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.
'You're right, Dad.'
'Sorry, Berta,' said Debbie's father as he briskly flipped open the car door for his daughter. 'But needs must. I expect you've got a lot of work to do yourself, if you think about it.'
'Oh, yes tons,' said Roberta, red with embarrassment. 'Especially now I've decided on my career.' She took a deep breath. Some compulsion made her say it. 'I've got to work even harder than Debbie. I've decided to be a vet,' she explained airily.
She found it very satisfying, the look on Debbie's face.
When Rebecca told the others later there was mild amusement. Roberta – a vet. It seemed so unlikely.
'She's scared of spiders,' pointed out Elf.
'She was the only one who didn't dare pick up the tortoise when we were First Years – remember?' reminisced Margot.
Rebecca didn't know anything about the tortoise, having been at comprehensive school in London then. But:
'She was just keeping her end up. She'll have forgotten about it by Monday,' she said. At the same time thinking guiltily: Must stop gabbing. Debbie's not the only one with English coursework to do (or her father, come to that). I finished The Merchant of Venice last term but I've got the whole of Jane Eyre to do this weekend.
Rebecca got down to re-reading Jane Eyre the same evening and finally finished her GCSE coursework on it late on Sunday, consulting all the notes she'd taken in lessons the previous term. What a wonderful feeling! To have worked so hard and got it done. To have been so engrossed.
This year they'd be studying some new set books, the ones they'd be tested on in the written exam next summer. The new books looked good, too.
'We won't be doing anything more on The Merchant of Venice and Jane Eyre now, will we?' Rebecca asked Tish, just before bedtime. She held up last year's exercise book. 'I've finished with all these notes. Are we supposed to keep them? Or shall I just chuck them away?'
'Might as well keep them,' yawned Tish. 'You never know.'
'OK, might as well,' said Rebecca.
Rebecca's first appointment at the hospital was booked for the following Friday. She'd be having a second X-ray to make sure the bones were setting properly. If not, the plaster would have to come off and the whole thing re-set. She dreaded that. And because of the plaster she wasn't sleeping as soundly as usual either.
The night after she'd handed in her English coursework she had a bad dream, heavy with wedding veils and other Victorian resonances of Jane Eyre. These were somehow mixed up with the attic quarters at Court House. During the day she loved their new quarters, the sloping ceilings, the rafters, her lovely private cubicle. But at nights, in her present slightly jaded and edgy state, they could seem, well . . . rather spooky.
Rebecca awoke from her dream conscious of a bright square of moonlight on the partition wall; thrown from the glass skylight above. As she stared at it, she felt a prickly sensation in the back of her neck.
Across the square of moonlight on the wall there suddenly glided the black, elongated shadow of a cat. It was only there for a moment. Rebecca ducked under her duvet, then peered out fearfully to see if it would reappear. Had she imagined it? Had it been part of her dream?
'It must have been Moggy,' said Tish, as they went for a short jog on the beach together before breakfast. Tish was already in training for her next race.
'It couldn't have been. It was the wrong shape.'
'But you said it was just its shadow, on the wall,' said Tish sensibly. 'You know how distorted shadows can be.'
'I'd have thought Moggy would be much too fat and lazy to make it to the roof,' mused Rebecca.
'Cats get up to all sorts of things at night,' replied Tish. She laughed. 'Better not tell Mara. She'll be scared stiff! You know what she's like!'
So Rebecca laughed, too. She just knew it wasn't Moggy, so it must have been in the dream! Her imagination had been running away with her! She'd be getting as bad as Mara at this rate.
She was wrong to think Roberta Jones would forget about being a vet.
On the same day as the hospital visit, Roberta came and joined Rebecca's maths division. Miss Hort's brow knitted slightly but she welcomed her and said: 'You can sit in the front, next to Rebecca.' The principal of Trebizon, Miss Welbeck in person, had agreed that she could move up from Division 3 for the time being.
She'd not had much choice. Following a frantic phone call from his daughter, Mr Jones (who knew a lot about golf and vintage port and good cigars but very little about the GCSE) had dictated a long letter to Miss Welbeck insisting that Roberta at least be taught the work required for the top maths paper. It would be wrong of the school to deprive her of any hope of fulfilling her long-cherished ambition to be a vet.
Miss Gates, senior mistress and head of mathematics at Trebizon, had tried to reach him by telephone to point out certain things. But to no avail. He was now away on a business trip and his secretary didn't feel that his ex-wife, who lived elsewhere, would want any say in the matter as she didn't pay the fees. Miss Welbeck felt the school had no choice but to fall in with his wishes for the time being.
'After all, Evelyn, there's no rule that says a person can't take the top paper.'
'None at all, Madeleine,' Miss Gates had responded drily. 'A person can certainly take it.'
Rebecca groaned inwardly as Roberta thudded down heavily next to her. I don't need this, she thought. Mara shot her a sympathetic glance.
'Now this year of course is GCSE year,' Miss Hort was saying. 'On Monday I'll give out the first of the set tasks that count towards the final grade you get on your certificates next summer. This week we've been revising the work done last year and today we'll go over cylinders again. We shall also deal with pyramids and cones. All of you who want to attempt the top level in the set task will need to know about those.'
Rebecca groaned inwardly again as Roberta said eagerly: 'Please, what's a cylinder?'
And then she groaned out loud when Sujata Seal, who was this year's senior prefect, came to fetch her. Apparently the car was waiting for her at the front of main school. She'd have to brush up on cylinders and pyramids and cones with Mara, later. Or better still, Tish.
> It was time to go to the hospital.
FIVE
CLIFF – AND ROBBIE
'Rebecca!' somebody shouted, in total astonishment. 'Rebecca Mason!'
Rebecca was sitting in out-patients at St Michael's hospital. It was nearly an hour since the X-ray had been taken and she'd been told to wait for the result. Rather than think about it too deeply, she'd looked at several women's magazines and was now reading in paperback Pride and Prejudice, one of the new English set books.
She looked up, startled.
A boy of fifteen was swinging in through the main doors on crutches from a car outside, his foot and lower leg encased in plaster, the left leg of his jeans slit open to accommodate it.
Straight brown hair stood up spikily above the cheeky and likeable face. He was laughing at Rebecca in amazement.
'Cliff!' squeaked Rebecca. 'Clifford Haynes. I don't believe it. Amanda and Claire said you'd moved down here somewhere. But what –' He was sitting down beside her, laying aside his crutches. 'What have you done?'
'Hush!' said the sister-in-charge, looking across at them from her desk. 'A little less noise, please.'
Rebecca and Cliff hugged each other. They'd been at primary school in London together, shared a desk when they were little, even gone on to the same comprehensive school. 'Came off the back of a motor bike. Having the plaster off today at long last! And what have you done, Rebecca? Look at us two! Talk about the walking wounded.'
They chatted non-stop, trying to remember to keep their voices down. Cliff's Dad had been made redundant in May and he'd got a job selling insurance in the west country, sending Cliff to Caxton High, the good local state school. 'Know it well,' said Rebecca. 'We play your girls in matches. We insult them regularly!'
'And they you,' laughed Cliff. 'It's not bad there except my GCSEs are in a mess.' He pulled a face. 'They're doing a different board here. Take English. We did all these books in London and then before I'd done any coursework, we moved. I get here and all the books are different and then I'm supposed to do all this coursework in the summer holidays. Well, I've been in and out of this place and missed half the lessons last term. I had to have an operation! Now I'm supposed to hand in my coursework soon on last year's books and I've only done about a third!'
