“Speaking from experience, Phil?” Rosemary’s sneering laugh preceded her into the room. She was wearing a polished cotton dress that crackled with every step and a straw hat that looked like a flying saucer forced into an aborted landing. She was also holding a handbag. Clearly she was going out. But what were the chances she would do so within the next five seconds?
“Have a heart.” I rounded on her. “Tosca is suffering. The rest of us should be her support group.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Rosemary shifted the handbag as if preparing to throw it at me. “She’s been here almost two weeks. I’ve heard the first three days can be difficult, but by now she should be well over the craving. What she’s looking for is sympathy, and if you and Phil keep feeding into her narcissism, she’ll continue to wallow. But that’s your lookout. I’m off to get my car from the parking area and have a day’s outing.”
“Have you ever thought of playing Lady Macbeth?” Philippa stood to gather up the dishes. “No, don’t bother answering, it might delay you.” Her voice was serene. “Come into the kitchen, Tosca. Between the two of us we may be able to make a cup of coffee.” They disappeared, leaving Rosemary to fume at me.
“And you should be getting a move on if you aren’t to keep the girl Mrs. Battle sends waiting. You see, there goes the bell!” She marched into the hall with me at her heels and flung open the door as if eager to devour whoever stood there.
“Good morning. I’ve come for Mrs. Haskell,” said Gillian Parker.
10
On our walk across the gently sloping lawn to the school, I was relieved that Gillian seemed in a better frame of mind than the day before. She was reserved and in no way a lively fourteen-year-old, but I detected none of the nervous agitation that had so worried me. Even so, I hoped I could learn more about her from Matron.
It was Gillian who brought up her great-aunt. “Mrs. Haskell, I told Aunt Wilma about seeing you and Miss Critchley when I went for my lesson with Mr. Middleton, and she told me to tell you she hopes you’ll stop in and see her after you have finished the Home Skills class.”
“I’ll do that. Will she be in her office or the staff common room?”
We had drawn level with Mr. Mossop busily clipping grass around the base of a tree. He mumbled something but didn’t look up, and we passed on. I made a mental note to have a word with both husband and wife on the off chance either of them had seen a shifty-eyed someone making off with the Loverly Cup.
“Her office,” said Gillian. “Do you remember where it is?”
“Roughly.”
“It’s around the corner from the main corridor on the left, outside the San.” We were now going up the broad steps to the front entrance door. Gillian added hesitantly, before pushing it open, “I wasn’t myself yesterday, but that’s no excuse. I shouldn’t have spoken unkindly about Aunt Wilma. If she’s been cross with me, it’s because she doesn’t want me to get into Mrs. Battle’s bad books and be seen as a problem that might end with me being sent home.”
“But do you want to stay here?” I said, looking around the reception hall, with its high, partially wainscoted walls, parquet flooring, and broad oak staircase. I turned my eyes back to her. “Not everyone is cut out for boarding school. You shouldn’t feel you’ve failed if it isn’t for you.”
“Did you like it, Mrs. Haskell?”
“I enjoyed the friends I made.” It was a struggle to sound more positive, especially when I had the feeling we were a subject of disapproving interest to the somber-faced men and women represented in the portraits on the staircase wall. All of them, if I remembered correctly, had been members of the Board of Governors. It seemed to me that a fiercely mustached gentleman, his cheeks and waistcoat swelling with importance, looked down at us with a particularly jaundiced eye. One of Mr. Bumbleton’s forebears, if I wasn’t mistaken. Perhaps even the founder of the architectural firm with a fondness for niches.
Gillian wasn’t looking at him or at the companion portraits. “Mrs. Haskell, did you ever think of running away?” The face she raised was calm, but I heard the tightness in her voice and picked my words accordingly.
“I imagine every girl at boarding school does when she is homesick or things go badly. It’s easier, I suppose, for the ones who are tremendously popular and clever. I was neither of those things, besides being hopeless at games and sports. But whenever the urge came to escape to the railway and catch a train home, I realized I’d cause my parents a great deal of unnecessary worry when all I had to do was phone and ask them to come and get me.”
“But you never did?” She was now looking straight ahead as we crossed the parquet floor to the archway, which opened onto a broad corridor interspersed on both sides with doors, one of which had a sign above it indicating Mrs. Battle’s office.
“No. On reflection, the situation never seemed sufficiently desperate. But if it had been, I’m sure I would have got ahold of them, and if it was something I couldn’t pour out over the phone, they would have come at once. They were such dears and not particularly flappable.”
“But”—Gillian stopped to again look at me—“what if Mrs. Battle had got to them first and told them stories about you that they didn’t want to believe but had to—because they could be true?”
“They would have listened to me. Parents—loving ones—do, and everything would have got sorted out.” I placed a hand on her arm, but she moved away as Ariel would have done if feeling crowded. Inadequacy swamped me. Gillian desperately needed someone to talk to, but I wasn’t the right person. Nor, it would seem, was her great-aunt. I wasn’t looking forward to my talk with Matron. Anything I said about the girl might fairly be taken as interference.
We were nearing the end of the corridor when Gillian spoke again. “If you didn’t love St. Roberta’s, why did you come back, Mrs. Haskell?”
“I’ve needed a rest after months of taking care of my Aunt Petal, who hasn’t been well.” This deception made me intensely uncomfortable, but I’d promised Mrs. Battle to keep as much of a lid as possible on my true mission. Still, this couldn’t have been worse. Gillian was someone I wanted to trust me, and I was lying through my teeth to her. I felt awful. And so you should, intoned Mrs. Malloy in her most righteous voice. Aunt Petal indeed! How did you come up with that one? If I’d got to choose it would have been something sensible! I turned down the volume inside my head to listen to Gillian.
“Are the others staying at the Chaplain’s House nice? The Ogress who answered the door scared me.”
“Have you been speaking to Ariel Hopkins?” I asked, as we turned the corner and headed down a short flight of steps.
“Yes. She’s become friends with Carolyn Fisher-Jones, and she told both of us about …”
“Rosemary.”
“Is that her name? Ariel described her perfectly.” It was the first time Gillian had laughed with real spontaneity in my presence.
“Between you and me,” I confided, “I couldn’t stand her when we were at school together. She was the worst bully. Horribly eager to get people into trouble.”
“There’s a girl like that in my dorm. Her name’s Deirdre Dawson.” The brief merriment was gone. “She’s unkind, but she doesn’t scare me the way … some people do.”
“Gillian, are you talking about Aiden Loverly?”
“No, he’s all right, really.”
“What did he accuse you of?” I asked gently. “I heard you tell him you weren’t a thief.”
“He was teasing me.” Her voice trembled on the edge of panic. “Pretending to think I’d taken the Loverly Cup.” She was backing away from me, biting down on her lip. “I overreacted, that’s all.”
“He almost ran you down.”
“No, he had his motorcycle under control. Do you like the others staying at the Chaplain’s House?” Gillian was now clearly speaking at random. Looking at her, I was convinced that if I said one more word about Aiden Loverly or the cup she would make a dash down the hall.
&nbs
p; “There are two others in addition to myself and Rosemary: Tosca Flitmouse and Philippa Boswell. Neither was my age. Tosca was a couple of classes below me and Philippa one above. I think they’ll both prove good company.”
“Tosca … that’s a wonderful name.” She stood opening and closing her fists.
“Isn’t it? I imagine it specially appeals to you, Gillian, with your gift for music.” We had paused again at the bottom of the stairs. “She has a fun personality, sort of quirky. Occasionally she gets cranky, but only I think because she’s given up smoking, and even when the urge takes over she’s amusing.”
“What about the other one?”
“Phil Boswell. You’d really like her. She told us she recently worked for a vet and loves animals, especially cats.”
“Then she has to be nice!”
“She is. You should come down and meet her. Somehow I think the two of you would really hit it off.” I drew a breath and smoothed back my hair. Before Gillian could say anything, we saw a woman hurrying down the narrow hall in which we were standing. I’d forgotten about the time, but it had to be almost ten o’clock, making it more than likely that here came Mrs. Rushbridge.
“Ah, there you are, Gillian. And this must be Mrs. Haskell.” The words came out in a series of gasps as she drew up in front of us.
“Am I late?” I asked, catching some of her obvious panic.
“Not at all, just in time.” She looked down, as if searching for something, before vaguely extending a hand in my direction. “So good of you to fill in for me at such short notice. Going to the dentist is never any fun, is it?”
“I hope it’s nothing major.”
“I’ve been having some trouble with one at the back. Been taking aspirin and applying a warm compress. My own fault for delaying my six-month checkup, but I hate all the poking around and those suction drains in the mouth and the hygienist talking the whole time and seeming to expect answers.” She turned to fluster at Gillian. “Hurry along now, dear, the rest of the girls are already in place. Mustn’t dilly-dally. Of course, I do need to explain a few things to Mrs. Haskell before I bring her in and introduce her.”
“Yes, Mrs. Rushbridge.” Gillian took off at speed down the hall.
It hadn’t occurred to me that she would be in the—my—Home Skills class, although it should have. It explained why she would be a candidate to fetch me, or had there been more to Mrs. Battle’s selection of her? A desire for me to get better acquainted with the girl? I didn’t allow myself to consider the reason, should that be the case. Ariel was right. We would have to take Carolyn Fisher-Jones, the girl most closely associated with Gillian, into our confidence.
I concentrated on what Mrs. Rushbridge was saying, which was quite a lot about nothing very much, the gist being that this particular class, made up of those members of the upper fourth who weren’t studying art history, were all quite keen on sewing. Most of them were, that is; others preferred to stick things on with glue: sequins on silk cushions—well, not real silk, that would be too expensive, but that sort of look. If I were to talk on fabric design, that might be of interest … or what sort of furniture to put in corners … really, whatever I chose would do just fine, and of course I mustn’t feel I had to fill up every single minute. Her voice went on, scattering words in incomplete sentences punctuated at random with harried exclamations and wild glances at her watch.
The name Rushbridge couldn’t have fitted her better. It would have been apparent to a blindfolded person that she was the sort who would appear rushed even when sitting looking out the window, forever crossing bridges before she came to them, always so far ahead of herself that she got behind. I found myself warming to her. She was an average-sized woman who perhaps appeared a little bigger than she was because of the bulky sweater and thickly pleated plaid skirt she was wearing. Both of them were winter items, giving the impression that she had grabbed the first things her hands had touched when reaching into the wardrobe. Here was a woman who saw to the basics and left the rest to nature. Even her graying hair looked in need of a comb. Her rounded face, which should have been jolly, had the appearance of permanent worry and near-constant panic, but the kindness came through in little bursts, like sunshine though an overcast sky.
“Are you sure you’re not nervous, dear?” When we finally took off in Gillian’s wake, she edged me into the wall with her hurrying walk. “No collywobbles? You only have to say, and I’ll put off the dentist till whenever. Perhaps it’s not the best time for me to go anyway. As you know, we’ve all been so upset about the missing Loverly Cup. The other day I read an article in a magazine that said it is ill advisable to have any medical procedure done during times of stress. I’d be tempted to back out of this appointment if I weren’t afraid I’d regret it.”
“Better not.”
“You’re right.” She cupped a hand a few inches from her cheek. “Ariel Hopkins is in this group. I understand she’s some sort of relative of yours. Ah, here we are! And there goes the bell! No need to have fretted that we wouldn’t be on time.” As the piercing sound subsided, she pushed open the farthest door on our left and sailed in ahead of me.
I had been prepared for a rush of memories on entering a St. Roberta’s classroom. There was familiarity in the expanse of white walls and wide windows and the pale wood of the desks and bookcases. But I didn’t see myself in any of the girls in the yellow blouses and bottle-green skirts who got to their feet to stand like statues until Mrs. Rushbridge gave them permission to be seated. It came to me that I had felt nothing much on passing Mrs. Battle’s office. What emotion I experienced now was the equivalent of returning to a department store that I had once frequented, nothing more.
Time had turned back for me with the arrival of Dorcas at Merlin’s Court. On the drive to Lower Swan-Upping, seeing Mr. Middleton again, finding Rosemary—and, most importantly of all, Philippa at the Chaplain’s House—the past had crowded in: entire vivid scenes, often disturbing. But here I found myself ejected into an alien present. There was no Susan Brodstock or Ann Gamble eager for a whispered conversation behind our exercise books. My connection to this group of girls, with the exception of Ariel, was as remote as that of a person from one of their history books. And, if their indifferent stares were an indication, someone they expected to be considerably less interesting.
Ariel, seated in the back, eyed me sternly through her spectacles, daring me to embarrass her by tripping as I followed Mrs. Rushbridge onto the elevated platform that held her desk. As it happened, I was the one to save that lady from a spill as she collided with her chair. She made a commendable recovery, letting go of my arm without wrenching it off and turning her one small shriek into a fairly convincing laugh.
“A good thing Miss Critchley didn’t have me on her lacrosse team this year!” she joked gamely, facing the class while I hovered offside, afraid to move in case the least vibration sent the pens and pencils skittering off her desk.
“Wouldn’t have mattered, the way the rest played,” shot back a girl in the front row. Her pretty face was marred by a mean-spirited look. “It was a disgrace and wouldn’t have happened if Ms. Chips had still been running the show.”
I bridled at this blatant attack on Dorcas, and Mrs. Rushbridge flushed all the way up to her forehead. “That’s enough, Deirdre!”
So here was Gillian’s bully.
“We shouldn’t be bothering about what can’t be helped,” said a snub-nosed girl with curly red hair. “What matters is getting the Loverly Cup back so it can be handed over to the school that won it this time around.”
“That shouldn’t be hard if the culprit had the guts to do the right thing, and I think we’ve all got a pretty good idea who that person is.” Deirdre did not turn her head, nor did anyone else, but I saw Gillian grip the sides of her desk, and Carolyn Fisher-Jones—whom I suddenly recognized from my glimpse of her coming out of the building yesterday—bit her lip before looking down.
Mrs. Rushbridge shifted unco
mfortably. “If you have any accusations to make, Deirdre, you should talk to Mrs. Battle,”
“Deirdre doesn’t know anything,” retorted the red-haired girl. “She’s just being spiteful, hoping she’ll get someone to crack.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” a voice from the middle piped up. “It’s awful the way things are—everyone under suspicion.”
“Girls, please!” Mrs. Rushbridge held up both hands. “None of this concerns our guest, whom I have the pleasure of introducing.” A nod and a smile in my direction. “This is Mrs. Haskell, and she is one of our old girls. She’s staying at the Chaplain’s House. Mrs. Battle thought you might benefit from hearing her talk about her experiences as an interior designer. I’m sure she has lots of tips to share about making our homes look pretty. So many of our girls go on to interesting careers, and I think hers has to be both fulfilling and fascinating.”
Mrs. Rushbridge waved me forward before making a flying exit, leaving a trail of words in her wake.
Ariel was making eyes at me behind her spectacles; it was time to get on with the task at hand before the girls started throwing spitballs. I heard myself talking, explaining that an interest in art, without sufficient talent to set myself apart from the crowd, had led to my career choice.
“Why couldn’t Mrs. Rushbridge have given us the firefighter or the actress?” Deirdre Dawson lolled back in her chair. “Either of those would have been worth hearing.”
“Because no one from either of those professions is currently staying at the Chaplain’s House.” I kept a light rein on my voice.
“Mrs. Battle’s secretary said—”
“She may have been thinking of another occasion. There must be a lot of coming and going at the Chaplain’s House.”
“In spurts,” said the redheaded girl, “and then for weeks on end it’s empty.”
“Except for the Gray Nun nipping in to make herself a cup of tea because there isn’t an electric kettle in the convent ruins,” someone added.
Goodbye, Ms. Chips Page 15
