Carolyn Fisher-Jones raised her hand and at my nod said, “I think yours has to be an exciting job, Mrs. Haskell, and seeing that one day we’re all likely to have homes of our own, decorating is something we need to know about.” A good-looking girl, with her healthy glow and thick fair hair, and a nice one too, I decided.
“It is rewarding to bring all the elements together, including color and fabrics, to make an inviting space.”
“My parents always talk about getting furniture that lasts,” said a dark serious-eyed girl seated in the row by the windows. “But how can you be sure that what you buy won’t fall apart after a few years?”
“People get what they pay for.” Deirdre patted a yawn.
I corrected her. “Not always. It helps either to do some research or buy from a reputable establishment that will give your needs and tastes serious consideration.”
“That goes without saying.” She had now closed her eyes.
“Why don’t you sleep,” I told her equably, “and let the rest of us make the most of what time is left before the bell rings.” Ariel gave me a thumb’s-up and even Gillian smiled.
“What if you’re someone who gets tired of stuff quickly?” the red-haired girl asked. “Last year I begged my parents to paint my room purple and let me have a shag rug and lots of fluorescent sparkle. Now I’m sick of it.”
“Same here!” someone else piped up. “I was mad on red and now it’s my least favorite color.”
I explained that exploring options was the basis for establishing individual style, and the incorporation of some neutrals during this process helped ground a room so that changes could be worked in without starting from scratch. Paint was cheap, cushions could be given new covers, and curtains be inexpensively replaced with ones made from sheets. It became apparent, from one question following another, that most of the class was becoming interested.
“Even when you begin to see what you might like long-term,” I continued, “you don’t have to buy a van load of furniture all at once. Make do with what you have, reinvent it, and buy one good piece at a time, chosen because you really love it. Take your time, acquire some knowledge, and never be persuaded by a salesperson—or an interior designer—into purchasing something that doesn’t fit with how you want your home to look.”
“Some dissatisfied customers, Mrs. Haskell? Is that why you’re in retreat at the Chaplain’s House?” Deirdre came spitefully back to life. A couple of girls laughed—her sort always has some staunch admirers—but there was a general murmuring of disapproval. Warmed by this encouragement, I continued cheerfully.
“Furniture kept forever should not include a sideboard that cost the earth and now strikes you as better suited to the Chamber of Horrors. Any questions?”
The serious-eyed girl by the window raised her hand. “I’ve an aunt who likes everything more or less matching, but I think that’s rather boring.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” I said, “not if there’s enough individuality to liven things up. It all comes down to personal taste.”
“Do you agree with the saying that there’s no such thing as bad taste?” This came from a girl who hadn’t yet spoken.
“No.” I was compelled to honesty. “I think that’s—”
“Codswallop!” Ariel giggled delightedly. “Dad and Betty have friends who’ve just had their bedroom done up. It looks like something for a teenager on drugs. They used blindingly bright colors—lime green and citrus yellow with lots of black and purple squiggles on the furniture—and the carpet has ice-cream cones painted all over it. That’s the theme, an ice-cream parlor. The wardrobe is done up to look like an ice-cream machine. I’ve never seen anything so stupidly hideous in my life.”
“She’s funny!” a girl in front whispered to the one sitting next to her.
This exchange and the glances sent Ariel’s way pleased me enormously. Not only had she found her feet at St. Roberta’s, I sensed she was popular. The members of the class now started talking about rooms they had seen and hated—everyone except Deirdre, who shrugged.
“There’s a knack to mixing and matching to achieve a successful eclectic look. You want pieces that provide their own interest but work together. No one piece should stand out so dramatically that you look at it and think, That’s wrong.”
“Would you please give us an example?” the redheaded girl asked.
“A pair of life-sized pink plastic flamingoes in a room where the ambience is one of restrained elegance. As in Regency with an artful inclusion of contemporary.”
“I think I get it. Anything that stops you dead in your tracks,” the serious-eyed girl was saying, when the bell rang.
The time had passed surprisingly quickly. I realized I had enjoyed myself more than I had expected. I thanked the class for listening but did not add the hope that they had learned something. It would suit Deirdre Dawson all too well to tell me what a boring waste of time it had been. As I came down from the platform, several girls came up to thank me, including Carolyn Fisher-Jones.
“That was fun, Mrs. Haskell. Mrs. Battle has said that Ariel and I may go out with you to lunch tomorrow, if that’s all right with you.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” I smiled at her as she followed me to the door, with the rest of the girls behind us. They were changing classrooms, she told me. Their next subject was geography, taught by Mrs. Frenton in a room at the end of the main corridor on the ground floor. Ariel tapped me on the shoulder as we mounted the short flight of steps to reconnect with that area.
“Good job, Ellie! I was scared at the beginning that you’d been struck dumb with stage fright, but you did great and didn’t let the awful Deirdre rattle you.”
“After that encounter”—I laughed—“I’m beginning to think Rosemary was a peach in her school uniform days.”
“Rosemary’s the Ogress I was telling you about.” Ariel tugged at Carolyn’s arm. “You absolutely have to meet her. Oh, and look”—turning her head with its governessy coronet—“here comes Gilly. She has to come too, doesn’t she, Ellie?”
“Absolutely.”
“Come where?” Gillian joined us as the others flowed past and gave a falsely bright smile. There could be no more putting off my visit to Matron.
“To the Chaplain’s House. We’ll meet all the inhabitants and find out if they have any wildly entertaining stories about their adventures as schoolgirls.” Ariel beamed at her.
“Yes, do come down, all of you,” I urged.
“I think I will,” said Gillian slowly. “Goodbye for now, Mrs. Haskell.” She moved away from the other two. “We do have to hurry, or we’ll be late for Mrs. Frenton.”
Carolyn looked as though she were about to say something to me, but merely waved before pulling Ariel along with her. Had she remembered that Gillian was not included in the invitation to lunch with me tomorrow and didn’t want her feelings hurt at being left out? Yes, a nice girl, Carolyn—who, I sensed, would only talk to me about her friend’s problems if I could persuade her that I might be able to help.
Taking the entrance stairway up to the first floor, I went past the biology and chemistry labs, absorbing my surroundings. The feeling of space and light that prevailed throughout the building was in evidence: large windows, pale wood doors, highly polished parquet floor. Pictures on the walls representing the local countryside. Wall-mounted cases displaying the work of former or current students. All spick-and-span and polished.
Matron was not in her office, which was just large enough to escape being poky. From the lack of clutter on her desk and the tops of the filing cabinet, I saw she managed to keep herself well organized. No surprise. I remembered her as a woman who defined orderliness and efficiency. I find such people daunting. When around them I’m inclined to feel indolent and sloppy. Smoothing my hair back and giving my sage-green outfit a tug or two, I told myself—before Mrs. Malloy could do so—not to be a ninny, excused myself as I brushed past the wastepaper basket, and knocked on the door
opening from the office into the San.
Surely here I would experience stronger emotions than the Home Skills room had produced. Seeing the white-covered beds and the arched door leading to the outdoors did bring its sharp reminder of Philippa lying still and alone, but even when I looked up at the rectangle of window high on the wall to my right it was the now that predominated. Should I confess to Philippa my part in her unjust punishment?
When Matron closed the medicine cupboard door and came toward me, I searched her face for some sign that she would be the sort of great-aunt capable of putting the world to rights for a fourteen-year-old girl.
“Ellie … Ellie Haskell?”
“Good morning, Matron.”
“Good to see you again after all these years.” Her handshake was firm without being crushing, as Dorcas’s tend to be. The smile was there, attended by the right display of welcome, but her eyes struck me as hard and the set of her jaw suggested a woman who would not readily accept disagreement. In fact, she was very much the way I remembered her: a sizably built woman in a blue overall. Hair turned from gray to white. A good perm, Mrs. Malloy would have said. An exterior that should have been a cozy complement to her bustling movements but wasn’t. I hadn’t liked her, and Carolyn Fisher-Jones had gone so far as to describe her as evil. A slanted viewpoint from Gillian’s close friend. It could hardly be said that my opinion was unbiased.
“I don’t expect you to remember me, Matron,” I said, as, at her suggestion, I sat down in one of two chairs with a small white enamel-topped table between them. “Regrettably, I was the girl who broke Ms. Chips’s nose with the lacrosse ball.”
“These things happen.” She adjusted a roll of bandages before seating herself. “I remember the incident and am afraid I was far too hard on you. Here is my chance to apologize.” She drew in a breath, and her face and eyes appeared softer, more kindly. “Forgive me at this late stage. I allowed my fondness for Marilyn Chips to get in the way of fairness to you.”
“That’s understandable.”
“Most often she’s Chippy, to the staff as well as the girls talking among themselves. My relationship with her is rather different. We’ve been friends since our own schooldays.”
“I’d heard that.”
“It is more on her behalf than for any other reason that I am sick at heart over the theft of the Loverly Cup. Breaking the news to her was hard, but I knew if I didn’t do it someone else would. It is typical of her that she is troubled over who may have taken it and the repercussions she—and it surely has to be a she—will face.”
Hearing the distress in her voice caused me to wonder if I had been too quick in assessing her character. She couldn’t help the pebble-brown eyes, decided jaw, and thin lips. I did the same thing with houses, I realized—took a look at the outside and formed an opinion, sight unseen, of what the interior was like. Because the houses in Tingwell had presented dismal fronts I’d found it hard to imagine people living joyfully within their walls. Those surrounding the green here had seemed built for days of endless happiness, but Mr. Middleton had known the grief of his wife’s death in his warmly welcoming house, and just next door Ms. Chips was contending with her own worries.
“We’ve been through a lot together over the years,” Matron was saying. “I think it says volumes about the strength of our friendship that it has endured.”
I looked at her inquiringly.
“If the bond hadn’t been so strong, we’d have given up on each other years ago. The strange thing is we’re so different, Marilyn and I—not all that much in common, some would say.” She picked up the roll of bandages and moved it from one hand to the other. “Marilyn was always keen on physical activity, while I was more the bookworm. When we were seventeen and in our final year of school, I agreed to go hiking with her on Dartmoor. We got trapped in bad weather overnight, with the result that I came down with pneumonia and was unable to take my A levels.”
“What a blow! At that age a setback can seem the end of the world.”
“I shouldn’t be taking up your time reminiscing when I know, as do the rest of the staff, why you are here. Not that I think I can be of any help to you in your search. But at least let me get you a cup of coffee.” Matron went to stand up.
“Thank you, I’m fine.” My heart did go out to her. Life can chisel hard lines into a face. “Please, I’d like to hear more.”
“What a nice woman you’ve become!” She set aside the bandage roll. “The devastating part was that my parents couldn’t afford to send me back for another year. Night school would have been an option, but a few months later my father died unexpectedly, and as I was the one at home—my sister Gloria being away at teachers training college—I became my mother’s emotional support, along with helping out with the household expenses. She couldn’t deal with being left alone in the evenings, so there went my chance of going on to university. It didn’t help that Marilyn blamed herself for urging me to go on that hike, knowing I wasn’t the outdoors type.”
“At that age we want so desperately to please our friends.”
Matron sat with clamped jaw staring into space. “Salt in the wound, every time she brought it up. I felt she was easing her conscience at my expense.”
I looked up at the window high on the wall, and knew I must not allow myself to do the same with Philippa.
“I’d wanted to be a doctor for as long as I could remember. When my mother died a couple of years later, I went in for nursing, second best but as close as I could get to the old dream. And through all the changes Marilyn and I remained friends; she stopped dwelling on the past when I met my future husband, a lab technician at the hospital where I trained. And then she fell in love and got married.”
Unbidden came the image of Ms. Chips walking down the aisle carrying her lacrosse stick in lieu of a bouquet.
“His parents hadn’t been keen on the match from the word go, and at the reception I committed the terrible indiscretion of telling the mother about Marilyn’s family history.” Matron again picked up the roll of bandages and squeezed it hard.
“How did that happen?” I hoped nothing in my manner revealed how appalled I was at hearing her say this, despite already knowing what Carolyn Fisher-Jones had told Ariel.
“The woman collared me and began making some very condescending remarks about Marilyn and I lost my temper, saying she should be delighted to have a daughter-in-law of character, a devoted supporter of her mentally ill mother and grandmother. When I saw the look on her face, I could have bitten off my tongue.”
“Did Ms. Chips blame you for her marriage ending before it began?” It seemed to me inevitable, but here were these two women all these years later.
“I didn’t see how she could ever forgive me. For all her virtues, Marilyn was one to harbor resentments, and in this case she had every reason. But she was always staunchly fair. When I explained how the conversation had come about, she said she understood and I should not continue to berate myself.”
“As she had done about the hiking incident?”
Matron looked at me with those polished stone eyes. “The two situations were very different. In time I recovered from my unhappiness; poor Marilyn never did. That brief love never faded. The ache in her heart was always there. Also, she had wanted children, which was never a priority of mine, although when the chance came to do something for Gillian, my sister Gloria’s granddaughter, I was pleased to do so. Marilyn’s students helped fill her void; she told me many times that perhaps it was a mistake to make them her substitute offspring, but under the circumstances …”
I sat silent.
“You can see, I’m sure, from what I’ve told you that only the deepest affection has enabled our friendship to survive. When my husband died and I found myself with very little money, it was Marilyn who recommended me for this post … . But back to you, Ellie. I was never more relieved than when Mrs. Battle informed the staff that she was bringing someone in to investigate. That cup needs to be ret
urned. But I agree with Marilyn in wondering at what price.”
“Is there nothing that suggests who may have taken it?”
“I take care of the girls when they’re not feeling well or are injured; I can’t be expected to know them as well as their teachers do.” Matron was back to looking steely-faced—on the defensive—angry possibly with herself for believing she had to protect someone at the expense of loyalty to St. Roberta’s. I still wasn’t sure I liked her—indeed, there was something repellent about the pebble eyes, making it all the more important to give her an unbiased hearing when it came to her great-niece.
“I hate to bring it up, but I’ve met Gillian and I’m really concerned about her nervous state. Do you think she might be responsible?” Something inside me quivered on meeting those eyes, but Matron’s response reminded me I was ever quick to judge. So much for my resolution not to focus on externals!
“I’m the problem, not the Loverly Cup. It’s become increasingly clear that I should never have interfered in Gillian’s life. As for my reasoning, it seemed sound at the time. She’s incredibly gifted musically. Neither her parents nor her grandmother—my sister Gloria—could afford a top-notch education for her, while here was I at St. Roberta’s, perfectly placed to lend a hand. But now I’m not sure I haven’t made another miscalculation in my well-meaning interference. I’ve done all the wrong things. I can only hope that the results won’t be as disastrous—”
She was not allowed time to finish, but I suspected she would have clammed up anyway. The door to the San was pushed open, and a girl with a makeshift bandage on her right arm was propelled forward by the red-haired girl from the Home Skills class.
“Excuse us, but Wendy felt faint in class and Mrs. Frenton asked me to bring her to you.”
“Leave her to me, Elizabeth.” Matron was on her feet at once, with an apologetic smile in my direction. “May we continue this conversation at another time, Mrs. Haskell?” It was a dismissal and I departed, like a first former instructed to go and get started on her nature study project.
Goodbye, Ms. Chips Page 16
