Miss Blaine's Prefect and the Vampire Menace

by Olga Wojtas

  He gave me a piercing stare.

  “Hello,” I said. “I believe the pupils are out on a practical biology lesson.”

  “Are you from the inspectorate?” he demanded.

  “No, I’m from Scotland,” I said, hoping that this fact would sink in through repetition. It was odd, the way he always seemed to think I was here to check up on things. “But I’d be very interested to know how you’ve set the benchmark in terms of assessing how well the course is meeting its purpose.”

  “You are from the inspectorate,” he snarled.

  “I’m not,” I said. “I’m simply interested in pedagogy. In fact, while I’m here, how do you feel about me taking a class? I’m TEFL-qualified – that’s Teaching English as a Foreign Language.”

  He gave a mocking grin as though he had found me out. “I thought you said you weren’t English.”

  “I’m not English, but I speak English.”

  “Why don’t you speak Scotlandish?”

  “Because there’s no such language of that name,” I burst out and his grin became even more mocking. I thought I heard him say, “And no such country,” but I wasn’t entirely sure, so I had to let it pass.

  “Can we fix a time for me to come in and take a lesson with the kids?” I asked.

  That Gallic shrug. “I don’t think so. Their timetable’s already full.”

  I surveyed the empty playground and school. “They’re not even here.”

  “They’re working,” he snapped. “And that’s what they’ll continue to do while I’m in charge.”

  No wonder he was worried about the school inspectors. He had completely skewed the curriculum. Work experience is all very well, but this was ridiculous.

  “Of course one appreciates the need for good-quality vocational education for the type of children who would benefit from it, but one really mustn’t lose sight of the beauty of academic success, must one?” I said. “If there are some pupils you genuinely feel are not suited to the classroom environment, then perhaps your strategy is appropriate, but I would welcome the opportunity to help the rest develop the sort of skills that have stood me in good stead.”

  His piercing stare became more piercing. “What sort of skills?”

  I could offer to prepare a lesson plan for him to review, but I had a feeling he was so obsessed with on-the-job training that he would disapprove of my more scholarly approach. I considered explaining that the word “education” came from Latin, “to lead out”, and that I would be drawing out each pupil’s intrinsic abilities. But I doubted he would understand my aim of achieving this through progressive, interactive techniques, since the approach to education in the 1900s was quite draconian.

  He might also be suspicious of a passing stranger seeking access to the school: it was important to reassure him.

  “I should explain that the police know all about me,” I said. “Not here, of course, but back home.”

  His eyes flickered. “They do?”

  “Oh yes. Disclosure Scotland is most insistent on carrying out criminal record checks. So, in light of that, can I take it you’re fine with me coming in for an hour or so?”

  “I told you. The pupils are currently very busy,” he muttered.

  “I’m sure you can find space somewhere in the timetable,” I said encouragingly. “I’ll check back with you later.”

  He gave a non-committal grunt. He was young, and this was probably his first teaching post: it wasn’t surprising that he might feel professionally threatened.

  And then his attention shifted. “No, no, no, you’ve overfilled it again,” he called to a wee girl who was staggering along with a bucket almost as big as herself. “Oh, here, I’ll take it – you get on with the next one.”

  He rushed up to the child and grabbed the bucket. The next thing, there was more spilled milk, but the teacher strode off with what remained in the bucket. I was about to follow him when the policeman hove into view, his gaze sweeping from one side of the road to the other. He spotted the milk.

  “Is this your fault?” he shouted at the wee girl, who was heading back the way she had come.

  She held up both her hands and waggled her fingers. “Can’t be, can it? Look, no bucket.”

  “How dare you use that tone to an officer of the law?” he bellowed.

  “My mum says you’re not a proper officer of the law,” the wee girl retorted. “My mum says Officer Sylvain was a good policeman and now this place is going to hell in a handcart.”

  The officer advanced on her threateningly. “What’s your mother’s name, little girl?” He was obviously one of those blokes to whom one small child looks very much like another.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” she chortled, deftly sidestepping him and running off.

  Further down the street, I could see a wee boy emerge from a chalet, hauling a bucket. The householder came out behind him and said something that I guessed was along the lines of “Oh look, a giraffe!” since the child whirled away from her and stared in the opposite direction. The householder quickly dipped a bowl in the bucket, and then concealed the filled bowl behind her back.

  The small boy, continuing to gaze hopefully in the direction of the giraffe, set off down the stairs. The householder glanced round to see if anyone was watching. She didn’t notice me, since I was still in unobtrusive mode, but she caught sight of the policeman and jumped, spilling all of the milk. She shot back into the chalet, closing the door behind her.

  The policeman had given up trying to pursue the wee girl and was progressing down the street, looking from right to left. Any moment now, he would spot the milk dripping down the steps.

  I have the greatest respect for the constabulary, but this man was a disgrace to his uniform, shouting at wee kids. I wasn’t sure what was going on, but I was sure that in this particular instance, I wasn’t on the side of the law.

  I emerged from my unobtrusiveness. “Good day, officer,” I said. “I wonder if you could tell me the time?”

  He looked tetchy at being waylaid, but he stopped. Although he was wearing a gold fob-watch, he ignored it, peering instead at the mountain range ahead of us.

  “Fourteen minutes past three,” he announced.

  He was about to proceed in a southerly direction, but I stepped in front of him. “That’s amazing. How did you do that?”

  “What, telling the time by the sun?” he asked. “It’s obvious.”

  The sky above the jagged peaks might be blue, but the village was still in shadow.

  “You can’t even see the sun,” I said.

  He gave an impatient sigh. “But I know where it is.”

  “Goodness, that’s amazing!” I marvelled, placing myself between him and the milk-covered steps. “So, could you show me how you would know it was, say, seventeen minutes to ten?”

  He waved his hand at a particularly impressive crag. “Because the sun would be behind there.”

  I shook my head admiringly, moving slowly down the street in order to draw him away from the possible crime scene. “And twenty-two minutes past eight?”

  He gestured elsewhere. I wasn’t really paying attention to him, but simply getting him away from the chalet.

  “Marvellous,” I said. “I always knew being a police officer required special abilities, but this is remarkable. I suppose the exams you took are quite strenuous?”

  He stopped dead and scowled at me. “That fool of a mayor may think you’re something special, but I advise you to watch your step, Englishwoman.”

  I was so taken aback by this extraordinary response that I didn’t even bother to correct him. He was the one who needed to watch his step or someone was going to complain about police harassment. But at least I had steered him beyond the danger point.

  “Thanks for telling me the time,” I said frostily. “I must be getting back to Madeleine.”

  “Ah, Madeleine,” he sighed, a faraway look in his eyes, and I took the opportunity to head off.

  I kept passing
small children carrying buckets of milk. Some of them nodded politely, some gave a little curtsey, some scuttled past. The wee girl who had refused to be intimidated by the policeman was back with another bucket.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Good day, madame,” she said, with a skilful curtsey that didn’t risk spilling the milk.

  “I see you’re all working hard at your practical biology lesson,” I said. “But where are you taking the milk?”

  “To the cheesemonger, madame. For the celebrations.” She gave a gap-toothed grin. “These are going to be the best celebrations ever. I’m going to be singing in the choir.”

  But the children were going in completely the opposite direction from the cheese shop. Instead, they were converging on a wooden shed in the next street. I glanced up at the street name. Rue Morgue.

  Three

  As I returned to my lodgings, I could hear an excellent recording of Debussy’s Valse romantique emerge from Madeleine’s chalet.

  I was really excited about seeing one of Edison’s phonographs up close, with its wax cylinders and horn loudspeaker. It was such new technology – invented in 1877 – that I was surprised that it had reached somewhere as isolated as Sans-Soleil. The sound quality was amazing. I would have expected an early recording to be really crackly, but this was as good as a live performance.

  The sound was coming from a room that I hadn’t been in yet. I gently pushed the door open. I found Madeleine sitting at an upright piano, giving a live performance. She caught sight of me and instantly stopped playing, turning to greet me with a glare.

  “Please go on,” I said. “You play extremely well.”

  The piano was a fairly battered second-hand Gaveau, albeit made of carefully polished mahogany. I gave it a respectful pat. “What a lovely instrument.”

  “My Sylvain bought it for me. You know about music?”

  “A bit,” I said modestly, not wanting to intimidate her by telling her I had reached Grade 8 in the Associated Board piano exams. Even if she wasn’t sure exactly what that was, she would realise I was serious competition. “And I’m very fond of Debussy.”

  She sniffed. “They say all the ladies are very fond of Debussy. Not me. I have my Sylvain. But I have a fondness for Monsieur Debussy’s music.”

  “Do you fancy a wee duet?” I asked. “Perhaps his Petite Suite?”

  “I prefer Monsieur Fauré’s Dolly Suite.”

  She was obviously determined to be difficult. But I was as familiar with one as with the other, having played them both at school. I looked round the room, a neat little parlour with a treadle sewing machine in one corner, an upright wooden chair in front of it. I picked the chair up, and Madeleine indicated for me to put it on the right of the piano stool.

  “You can be primo and I’ll be secondo,” she said.

  It sounded polite, as though she were deferring to me as her guest. But she was actually nicking the more interesting part for herself. Most of the time I’d just be playing the tune while she got all the harmony.

  She riffled through a large pile of sheet music to retrieve the Fauré, ostentatiously placing it on the music stand so that most of it was on my side.

  I shoved it back. “I don’t need the music, thanks. I know it quite well.”

  She snatched the music off the piano and threw it back on the pile. I massaged my fingers and positioned them over the keys.

  The first movement, Berceuse, has been my favourite since I was wee because it’s the Listen with Mother theme. I shifted until I was sitting comfortably and then I began. Madeleine began as well. She really was very good, and I found I was having to up my game. Until we reached the bit towards the end before the tune comes back.

  “If we had the music in front of us, you would see it says ritardando,” I said. “That means you have to slow down.”

  “I know perfectly well what it says, and what it means, and I have slowed down.”

  “Not enough.”

  “Quite enough.”

  And then we were both thumping out our parts in a way that would have woken every infant in a half-mile radius. We thudded to a halt, breathing heavily. Before we could get on to the second movement, Madeleine slammed down the piano lid, and I only just got my fingers out in time.

  “You should have played slower,” I said.

  “You should have played faster.”

  It struck me that she had been trying to sabotage our duet. I looked down at her wooden sabots: they were perfectly named. A good translation would be “putting the boot in”.

  I reminded myself that she was recently widowed, so I didn’t make the response she deserved. Instead, I walked round to the pile of music and began to look through it. She had pages and pages of all the latest stuff, Fauré and Satie and Debussy.

  “You must have a very good music shop here,” I said.

  “The village wouldn’t know what to do with such a thing. Sylvain bought these for me when he bought the piano, last year in Paris during our honeymoon.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “That’s awful, being widowed so shortly after getting married.”

  “My Sylvain is not dead!” she shouted. “You think if you say it often enough that I’ll start believing it? Is that why you’re here? You think you can convince me? In that case, you may as well leave now.” She flung open the parlour door.

  I wasn’t sure how easy it would be to find alternative accommodation.

  “He lives on in your heart, of course,” I said in as sympathetic a voice as I could muster.

  Madeleine took three steps in her heavy wooden sabots to bring herself nose to nose with me. She gripped my shoulders so that I couldn’t back away. “My. Sylvain. Is. Not. Dead.”

  “That must be a great comfort to you,” I said cautiously. “So, where is he?”

  She gave a harsh laugh. “You don’t know?”

  “I don’t know,” I agreed.

  “Nor do I. But I shall find him, and you will not stop me.”

  “Here’s the thing,” I said. “I really don’t want to stop you doing anything, except perhaps digging your nails into my shoulders.”

  She took the hint and let me go.

  “I suppose you want something to eat?” she snapped.

  “That would be nice, since I’ve only had a coffee since I arrived.” I was aware I didn’t sound particularly gracious, but she was so definite that her husband was still alive that I no longer felt she merited the sympathy due to a grieving widow.

  “In fact,” I said, “why don’t I make it, and you can go and put your feet up, or go and look for your Sylvain, or whatever you like.”

  She whirled round with an incredulous expression, and as her curls swept away from her face, I caught sight of something.

  “You’re wearing my head – fascinator,” I said.

  Her blush reached the roots of the curls. She ripped off the head torch and handed it to me.

  “I was just trying it on,” she muttered. “I’ve already made a vegetable tian. If you want something else, feel free.”

  “A tian’s always better the day after it’s made,” I said, heading for the kitchen. It didn’t look promising. First, it was dairy-free and secondly, fin de siècle France didn’t have the range of ingredients you get in the Morningside Waitrose. But I had to make an impression. Madeleine was already sceptical about my culinary skills.

  I decided to make one of my signature dishes, sweetcorn and chickpea burgers. Admittedly, there was no sweetcorn and no chickpeas. But there was potato, beetroot, garlic and French beans.

  I needed herbs to add to the mix. Madeleine was busy accompanying herself in Debussy songs and was likely to get irritable if I disturbed her. The vegetable tian suggested she had a vegetable garden, in which case she might well have a herb garden. I went down the stairs at the back of the chalet, which took me into a ground-floor barn, obviously the cow’s bedroom. I pushed open the door to Madeleine’s back garden, and there was the cow itself, ruminating.


  “Hello,” I said. “I’m looking for herbs.”

  The cow tossed its head in a morose way, suggesting “Join the queue.”

  No herbs were to be found, and no vegetables. Now that I saw one of the village gardens close up, I realised the meadow grass might be a vivid green, but it was tufted and spiky and didn’t look very palatable. Sans-Soleil was so lacking in sun that only the toughest plant life could flourish.

  But I did find something useful. At the edge of the chalet, the stonework offered an easy way to climb over the garden fence, without being overlooked by any other building. A good alternative to leaving by the front door and walking down the street.

  “Bye,” I said to the cow. “Shame about the grass.”

  The cow gave a doleful moo.

  I went back upstairs, and started cooking. Madeleine had been to Paris. Madeleine had got up-to-the-minute music from Paris. And here I was, stuck in a tiny village in the middle of nowhere. I was missing the Paris Exposition with its art nouveau, and Campbell’s Soup winning a gold medal. I was missing the Paris Olympics with competitors vying in football, fencing and croquet. I was missing the inauguration in ten days’ time of the first metro line. Although I would miss that anyway, since I would have to complete my mission well before 19 July.

  But to be sent to Sans-Soleil when there must be thousands of worthy missions available in Paris at this very moment, Sans-Soleil where they wouldn’t recognise a Belle Époque if it bit them on the ankle. I could have been a flâneuse, a boulevardière, strolling along the banks of the Seine before settling myself in the Café de la Paix to watch the world go by. The only possible conclusion was that Miss Blaine was punishing me.

  I bridled at the injustice. I had made one mistake, one.

  But it was a bad mistake. An impressionable reader could easily have picked the book up, intrigued to find it featuring a well-known local school, and think the shocking and squalid ongoings were an accurate depiction. I had pledged to keep Morningside Library a Brodie-free zone, and I had failed.