The mind plays such tricks. As with Mr. Middleton, I must have thought Ms. Chips older than she really was twenty-odd years before—sixty, at least, which was what she must be now. I found myself getting to my feet, along with Gillian and the two men. She was an adult, a teacher; it wouldn’t be right to remain planted on my bottom. I could feel myself flushing as I extended a hand, amid a whir of voices that sounded like a fan turned up too high, said who I was, felt the firm grip, heard the acknowledgment, and sat dizzily down in a seat across from her. She accepted a teacup and saucer from Ruth but declined the walnut cake, adding in a laughing voice that she knew she wouldn’t be able to stop at one slice; such restraint couldn’t be expected of anyone. I saw she was smiling at Gillian and was surprised to realize what beautiful eyes she had. They were an unusual dark gray-green, but it was their expression that drew me; it was compassionate and pensive as she took in the girl’s face.
Amid the flow of conversation, she asked me if I had just arrived at Swan-Upping and remarked upon the delightful weather we were having, but she neither made inquiries into where I was in my life nor offered a wish that I would enjoy my visit. I sat feeling perplexed by this, while she and Dorcas exchanged pleasantries, until it came to me that of course she would not pose any leading questions or suggest that I was here to enjoy myself. As a temporary occupant of the Chaplain’s House, I supposedly was seeking refuge from a major problem in my life. Feeling all the more awkward for being a fraud, I seized a pause in the general conversation to congratulate her upon the upcoming ceremony honoring the new gymnasium. Her fair skin flushed.
It was Ruth who said, “Dear Marilyn, don’t I keep telling you that the price of doing a good deed is a certain amount of grateful attention? Mrs. Battle and the Board of Governors have not arranged the event to punish you. And you don’t need me to remind you how the pupils adore an end-of-term celebration.”
Ms. Chips smiled at her before turning to me. “My friends know me for what I am, which is the most terrible stick-in-the-mud.”
“Nothing of the kind!” Dorcas protested. “Frightfully good sport. Can never thank you enough for helping me settle in.”
“And here you are,” said Mr. Middleton in his kindly way, “doing dorm duty for Diane Frenton this evening instead of attending the concert in the park as planned.”
“I’m pleased to do it. She’s a dear girl and was dreadfully cut up over her divorce. By all accounts she did everything she could to keep the marriage going. I’m happy to hear she has a date for this evening.”
“You would be, dear,” said Ruth in a gentle voice. “You are such a romantic. Always have been, always will be.”
I sat listening in bemusement. How odd to discover that Ms. Chips bore so little resemblance to the woman I’d tried not to think about through the years. I found myself studying her nose. It didn’t look as though it had been broken in three places. It was in fact a remarkably nice nose: patrician might be the word. Dorcas caught my eye. She was quite right, it was time for us to be leaving, but we would have to wait a moment because the conversation had turned to Lady Loverly’s housekeeper, Mrs. Brown, and her bad headaches. Perhaps remembering Aiden Loverly’s mention of one of those headaches, Gillian got up, after a low-voiced aside to Mr. Middleton, went to the piano, and leafed through some sheet music.
“I know you can’t say anything about what causes her pain,” Ruth said to the doctor, “but I can’t help wondering—knowing her from church and the sewing circle as I do—if the cause isn’t stress. Not the ordinary everyday sort but from a much deeper source. She’s such a bottled-up woman. Try as I will I can’t get close to her, but I have the feeling it could really help if she opened up to someone. Perhaps a psychiatrist, but”—Ruth looked into the doctor’s eyes and continued as if in response—“Mrs. Brown wouldn’t, I can see that. What she needs is a sympathetic listener, and I know just the person for the job.” She was smiling impishly at Marilyn when the room was jolted to the alert by the sound of a phone.
“That’ll be my cell.” The doctor reached apologetically into his jacket pocket.
“Never a moment’s peace for the committed,” said Mr. Middleton, as Harpsichord leaped out of nowhere onto his lap and began purring angelically. It would have been so easy to believe that I had been wrong about the cat and that she had a heart as well as eyes of gold.
4
Dorcas and I received a gratifyingly warm send-off from the Middletons. Walking with us to the gate, brother and sister each voiced the hope that we would return during my stay. They also said they’d drive Gillian back to St. Roberta’s in a couple of hours. I was glad of this, as it put paid to the possibility of her encountering Aiden Loverly on the way. This might have been on their minds too, or perhaps they would have insisted on taking her anyway.
Dorcas and I talked briefly about Ms. Chips and whether she yet knew about the missing Loverly Cup. Then my thoughts strayed elsewhere as we drove around the green and along the leafy road to St. Roberta’s.
“He struck me as the sensitive sort of man who’d never get over losing the girl he loved.” The words slipped out—the result, as my young friend Ariel Hopkins, now an inmate of St. Roberta’s, would have known, of reading too many romantic novels. The sort where true love is torn asunder and nothing can bring about a happy resolution, unless the author shows mercy and, close to the end, does some jiggling around as to what really transpired to cause the rift.
“Talking about Mr. Middleton?” Dorcas braked for a rabbit hopping across the road.
“No,” I said. Dorcas could have reasonably pointed out that Anya Middleton, tragically young as she had been to die, couldn’t be called a girl, having recently celebrated her silver wedding. But Dorcas, unlike Mrs. Malloy, was not inclined to nitpick. “I meant Dr. Roberts.”
“Pleasant chap. Never thought about his love life.”
Neither would I, if it hadn’t been for Philippa Boswell. I had to flounder for an explanation. “It struck me there has to be a reason why a good-looking man of his age hasn’t been snapped up a long time ago.”
“Not the marrying kind?”
Eager to get off the subject before digging myself deeper into Dr. Roberts’s personal life, I agreed. It was Dorcas who changed the subject.
“Really liked Ruth Middleton, Ellie.”
“Same here. That was a bang-up tea she provided.”
“Genuine article. Like to get to know her better. Have one thing in common for starters—both of us go by Miss rather than Ms. Always thought women’s lib got that one wrong. Much more sensible to come up with a form of address to differentiate between single and married men. Time the male sex made some adjustments. Must say I was surprised to discover Chippy goes by Ms. Chips. Old-fashioned sort; would have expected her to stick to her generational guns.”
“It doesn’t mean she’s ashamed of being single.”
“True enough! Each to his own. Good thing is, women today can be proud of going it solo. Chest out, chin up!” Dorcas stopped for another rabbit, which had ignored the level crossing we’d just passed. Did they have their own boarding school, perhaps the Beatrix Potter Academy, in the area?
“About Gillian,” I said. The car stalled, and in starting it up again—clearly against its will, given the irritable grunts—we took off past a small post office and general store.
“Heard what she said, Ellie, to Aiden Loverly. Hate to say it but have been worrying.”
“That it was she who took the cup?”
“Been clear all along she’s not settled as well as might be hoped, and there’s a worrisome change in her this week: not good at words, but she’s haunted … bleak. Carolyn Fisher-Jones said Gillian seemed fine last weekend. The two of them stayed at the Hall. Carolyn, being Lady Loverly’s goddaughter, goes regularly and occasionally takes a friend along. Aiden Loverly arrived for a visit teatime on Sunday. Didn’t seem to take to Gillian.”
“Well, that could explain her being more down in the
dumps than usual. Girls at that age take rejection by handsome young men as evidence that they are horribly unattractive and will never have a boyfriend. But it doesn’t explain how Aiden zeroed in on Gillian as the cup thief.”
Oh, go on with you! Mrs. Malloy’s voice hooted inside my head. He could have heard her tell Carolyn what she was plotting. At the time he’d maybe think it was a case of talking big; then, when word got back that the cup had been nicked, he’d be rip-roaring furious with the kid.
“Do you think Carolyn might be involved if Gillian did take it?” I asked Dorcas.
“Wouldn’t think so. Devoted to her godmother. But never can tell. Friendships are fiercely important at that age.”
I well remembered. At fourteen I had crept out to the ruined convent at dead of night with Susan and Ann because loyalty to the Triangle was all important.
“I wonder why Aiden waited until today to confront Gillian,” I said.
“Imagine he went back to Tingwell for the week.”
“Is that where he lives? It looked such a grotty town.”
“Has a shop there. Antiques, paintings, curios … that sort of thing.”
“I don’t want it to be Gillian,” I stated flatly. “Any other suspects spring to mind?”
“Not mine.” Dorcas shook her head vigorously.
“Meaning?” I was glad to note the car kept on track.
“Mrs. Rushbridge says culprit has to be a first former. Tend to feel big for their boots after ascending to senior school. All that impish bravado bubbling up.”
“Who’s Mrs. Rushbridge?”
“Home Skills teacher. Been suffering with her teeth lately, poor woman.”
“Then perhaps we shouldn’t rely on her opinion. If I were sucking on cloves to ease the agony I’d probably loathe and distrust all eleven- and twelve-year-olds.”
We had entered a shady avenue. A squirrel scampered up a tree, but of rabbits there was no sign. Not much of a thrill for them here in attempting to make it from one side to the other without ending up as prepackaged stew. Ours was the only vehicle moving in either direction, and we were traveling at thirty miles below the speed limit, which meant a rolling stone could have gone faster and gathered moss at the same time. A peep at Dorcas’s profile showed her deep in thought.
“Thing is, Ellie, can’t see Gillian as a girl who’d upset her family by stealing.”
“She sounded fond of them, from the way she talked,” I agreed. “And then there’s Mr. Middleton. However much she may detest being a pupil at St. Roberta’s, it’s clear that she values him not only as a music teacher but as a shoulder to lean on. But that still leaves Aiden Loverly’s hostility and her response.”
Mrs. Malloy’s voice, having taken up permanent residence inside my head, told me not to go all soft on the girl because I was missing my own children. For all you know, Mrs. H, she’s a real little cheat.
“About Ms. Chips,” I said. “Do you think she will be dreadfully upset about the cup’s disappearance when she gets wind of it? If she hasn’t done so already.”
“Bound to feel it deeply. Terrible breach of school honor.”
“Is she much at the school these days?”
“Fair bit. As special old friend of Matie, she likes to keep in touch. Not the first time she’s done dorm duty this week.”
“She looked very well. Although when I was standing in the hall, I did overhear Ruth Middleton and her brother mention that she has high blood pressure.”
“Not uncommon as we get older. Easy to treat these days, I gather.”
“Retirement must have been a huge adjustment for her.”
“Hard on anyone to leave a lifelong job, Ellie, but, for someone like Chippy, St. Roberta’s is more than a workplace, it’s home and family.”
I placed a hand on her arm. “Dear Dorcas, you have Merlin’s Court, Ben, me, and the children and don’t you ever forget it. Ms. Chips strikes me as the sort to take life as it comes.”
“Matey fusses she’ll become depressed, if she isn’t already.”
“Surely Dr. Roberts would know about it and be providing help if that were the case, and Ruth Middleton wouldn’t be suggesting she help Mrs. Brown with her problems.” Unless—I leaned back in my seat—Ms. Chips is the sort who would be ashamed to admit to weakness and would battle on alone … until something cracked inside. Fast on the heels of this thought came the memory of a particularly thrilling book from my childhood, The Case of the Missing Hockey Stick. The only way for Felicity of the fourth form to clear her good name had been to discover the identity of the true villainess, who turned out to be—shocker of all shockers—the much-admired games mistress, Miss Something-or-Other. So unsettling was this jolt to my system that I missed Dorcas’s reply. What if it was Ms. Chips who had taken the Loverly Cup—her cup—because she could not tolerate seeing it handed over to a rival school? Distorted thinking, paranoia—we’ve all heard or read stories of real-life people whose emotional problems escalate to the tragic. I knew I was fabricating fantasy, but at that moment I stopped thinking of the theft as something silly that I wouldn’t have given two hoots about except for Dorcas’s sake. I was seized by a determination to get to the bottom of the matter.
We had reached the brick pillars marking the entrance to St. Roberta’s. My reasons for not wanting to return came flooding back. Part of that disinclination was my breaking Ms. Chips’s nose and my loathing of lacrosse, but I could no longer continue to hold that against her.
“Ah, here we are,” announced Dorcas, taking the car at a crawl down the sweeping drive, bordered by stately trees. A smile brightened her pale face. Being a woman of deep attachments she had, despite her short tenure, already given her heart and unfaltering loyalty to this place.
All hard feelings on my part aside, the building was beautiful, cousin of sorts to the manor house that promises admittance by a deferential butler, bowing footmen, and housemaids keeping fit by bobbing curtsies at every opportunity. King Charles spaniels on velvet cushions having their portraits painted by a descendent of Landseer. Fourteen-course meals being prepared in the nether regions. Drawing rooms inhabited by Britain’s best if not brightest, discoursing about what was being said in The Tatler regarding hems going up or down that season or how long it would take for French to be considered a dead language.
Yes, a lovely building! But, unpleasantly to my mind, an imposter. It had been built in the 1950s after its Victorian predecessor was demolished. The air of antiquity had been sneakily acquired by the use of old brick graced with Virginia creeper, latticed windows, and an abundance of chimney pots that nostalgically recalled the days when small boys got to be chimney sweeps, so much more fun than all the hair-raising rides Disney now has to offer.
Dorcas stopped the car on the curved expanse of brick paving before the imposing entrance. I was about to get out—prematurely, it turned out.
“Thought you’d want to see the old place up close before we park. Has to be an emotional moment; no shame in having a blubber. Bawled my head off the first time I returned to my old school. Memories of jolly old times came flooding back: Miss Pinky telling me my essay on why I wanted to be the sixth-form netball captain had brought tears to her eyes. Would offer you my hanky but it’s been used a lot today.”
“Did you get to be captain?”
“Wasn’t to be. Broke my ankle at the start of term. Thought at the time my life was ruined but, shoulders back, have to go on. Can’t dwell on life’s disappointments. Not alone in them. Similar thing happened to Matron as a girl. Out hiking on Dartmoor, got trapped in a dense fog, was out in the open overnight, came down with pneumonia, and missed taking her A levels.”
“Who told you, Matron herself?”
“Can’t remember. Things get bandied about in a closed community. Not saying, of course, aren’t secrets that get to be kept.”
“Let’s hope the identity of the person who took the Loverly Cup won’t be one of them.” My voice came out sounding mechanical
rather than heartfelt. I was staring up at those gleaming window eyes, all of them looking deep into my soul, searching out my schoolgirl sins, and savoring my desire to flee back to my grown-up world where people such as my husband and children liked me. The car windows were open and a breeze whispered in my ear: That’s because the poor dupes don’t know the wicked, cowardly you—the schoolgirl who embarked on a course of deception. Where was Mrs. Malloy when it would have been comforting to hear her pipe up in my defense? Probably taking a nap, I thought wretchedly.
“Want to talk some more?” inquired Dorcas kindly.
What could I say? Would it brighten her day when she was already concerned about the mystery of the missing cup to be informed that I was a person hearing voices and, even more disturbing, fretting when they were silent? Better for me to remark on the lovely vista to be perceived by twisting my head around so that I was looking away from the school building, its lawn sparingly ornamented with trees spread out like a vast green counterpane fringed around the edges with honeysuckle and privet sloping gently down to a shadowy glimpse of the convent ruins. From this vantage point, I could see neither the Dribbly Drop nor Lilypad Lane, where Philippa was said to have kept her assignation with Brian Roberts.
The Chaplain’s House stood well down to the right, reduced in size and importance by distance. There seemed something apologetic about the way it hovered behind its low brick wall. I found myself recalling Uriah Heep and his “Ever so ’umble, Mr. Copperfield.” Would I be the only one staying there, or were others of my fellows already in temporary residence? If so, who? And what would be their reasons for seeking a retreat from their everyday lives? It was something I had failed to ask Dorcas and she hadn’t thought to tell me. Now the moment was lost because a girl came around the side of the school building, head down, fair hair brushing her shoulders.
“That’s Carolyn Fisher-Jones. Hope she’s not down in the dumps worrying about Gillian.” Dorcas started up the car, sending it bucking into reverse before we were catapulted around the left side of the building into the parking area.
Goodbye, Ms. Chips Page 6
