Raising Arcadia

by Simon Chesterman

  Many liars get caught when they over-elaborate. She simply waits.

  “Oh very well then,” Miss Alderman says at last. “Go and get your rosin.”

  “Thank you, Miss.”

  She leaves through the rear door of the music room and crosses the quadrangle towards the dormitories. Only when she is out of sight from the windows of the music room does she double back towards the administration building. She opens the door to the staff wing with the master key and enters.

  It is deserted. On this occasion she has neither the time nor the need for artifice. She ascends two flights of stairs, past the corridor with Miss Alderman’s office, to the top floor. There is another locked door, which opens onto a darkened corridor. This in turn takes her to the top of the main steps leading from the general office to where Headmaster’s secretary, Miss Bennett, sits and a small waiting area. Beyond that is Headmaster’s office.

  She closes her eyes to picture the image from the surveillance camera that showed Miss Bennett’s desk. Located in the ceiling, it covers the desk with its computer and typewriter, the waiting area, and the stairs that lead up from the general office. But it does not show the corridor she has just come down or the door itself. Pressing herself against the wall behind the desk, she edges towards the door. Keeping her body flush against it, she gently inserts the key. It is unlikely that there is any sort of alarm, but she holds her breath to listen as the key turns in the lock. With a satisfying click the aligned pins rotate and the door swings open wide enough for her to step inside.

  The sun has not quite set and there is still enough light to identify Nineteen Eighty-Four on the bookshelf. She pulls the book back and opens the hidden door to the secret office. Once inside, the light from the computer monitors is sufficient to confirm that the room has no windows. She closes the door to the main office, checking that there is a release on the inside, and switches on the fluorescent light.

  The monitors continue to show a live feed from a hundred points around the school. She is confident that her circuitous path has avoided them, though a thorough investigation might reveal that she did not appear on the cameras that she should have if she had in fact gone to the dormitory building. A risk she must take.

  In any case, she is not here for the cameras.

  The filing cabinets are unlocked. She opens the first drawers and quickly establishes that they contain files on all the boys and girls at the Priory School. Each of the 507 current students has a dossier that covers his or her medical, intellectual, and social development, with a section on disciplinary matters. She skims a few and mentally notes the various metrics being used to measure progress — IQ tests and other cognitive scales, but also tracking scores for emotional intelligence, the ability to deal with adversity, and creativity. As Headmaster intimated, the school’s resistance to standardised testing did not mean that it fails to monitor the students closely. Interesting that none of these scores are revealed to the students or their parents. But now is not the time to browse.

  The dossiers are organised alphabetically by surname and under “Greentree, Arcadia” she locates her own. It is the same file that Mr. Ormiston referred to last Friday night. In addition to her medical history and grades it includes various notes and comments from teachers. These range from a tirade by Mr. Pratt about her insolence to a testimonial from Mrs. Norman-Neruda on her potential as a musician.

  Form teachers, it seems, write short essays on their students every month or so. A recent note from Mr. Ormiston includes the circled phrases she saw during last Friday’s interview with her parents: “Arcadia is something of a loner, self-absorbed much of the time with occasional anti-social tendencies. But she has potential. If she can only learn to focus her abilities on something larger than herself, I see great things for this young woman,” reads one passage. “She has yet to be tested by life. But I think, when that test comes, she will not be found wanting.”

  She is about to turn the page when an annotation in green pen catches her eye. It says simply “Add to 2ndary file.” Flicking through the rest of the folder she sees several similar notations. The same note has been made at the end of Mr. Pratt’s account of her alleged insolence. Another is in the margins of a one paragraph description by Mr. Ormiston of her altercation with Sebastian just the previous day. In all, the file is a reasonably complete history of her time at the Priory School. Except for the reference to another file, it is similar to the files on other students.

  So where is this secondary file? A digital clock on the wall shows that the time is now 7:32pm. She has fifteen minutes more in the room at the very most.

  The other drawers of the filing cabinets contain nothing more than the dossiers. She checks for hidden compartments without success. The files of past students must be stored elsewhere, or digitised.

  Unwilling to give up, she turns to the laptop on the table in the centre of the room. Sitting down at the table, her foot makes a dull clang as it hits an aluminium rubbish bin. She holds both feet against it and the room is silent once more, apart from the hum of the servers and the fan. She presses a key on the laptop and its screen flickers to life. The page displayed is stylised logo of a tree with a password prompt. Why a tree? Something to ponder at a later date.

  After pausing for a moment she types “Orwell” but it is incorrect. Her chances of guessing the password are remote. The school protocol requires a mix of letters and numbers, and for passwords to be changed every six months. Many people respond to such challenges by writing down the password somewhere near the computer, but that would be careless and a look around the room is not promising. The keyboard is reasonably well-used — unlike the safe in her parents’ room it will not give up its secrets so easily.

  Then her foot nudges the rubbish bin once more. There is a rustling of paper. She pushes back the chair and takes out the bin. Inside is only a single printed page, but it is from a draft of a letter that appears to have been written that day. A small “2” in the bottom right corner suggests that it is the second page, but there is no first or third. It has been printed and then amendments made with the same green pen used in the files. It reads:

  not understand why you have sent that woman “Miss Alderman” here.

  I have explained to you on the telephone that the Stamford boy had always been wary of participating reluctant to participate. He feels that he is “ratting on a friend”. But he is now under control. His running away was unfortunate, but the situation is now manageable and he understands the consequences of further disobedience.

  As you will recall, we continue to have more success with the Harker boy. If anything, he sometimes relishes his role a little too much for my liking. He is very supportive. Following one of the provocation protocols, the subject responded with violence — a first. I will be writing up the incident in the usual way, but the teacher overreacted and sent her to me. I am a little concerned that she is becoming suspicious of her surroundings. I disciplined her mildly and took the opportunity to assess her lateral and critical thinking skills, which remain prodigious but perhaps have not yet peaked. (The Harker boy was mildly injured but has been compensated. He will recover.)

  A fuller assessment will be possible only in the context of the end of year tests, when she will once again be given the expanded versions of all the papers. In addition, we will run the usual medical

  The page ends in mid-sentence.

  The time is 7:41pm. She needs to leave soon. A quick search does not reveal any more paper. Steal the laptop itself? It would allow more time to break the password but would certainly be noticed. She could go back through the files for “Stamford, Henry” and “Harker, Sebastian” but something else nags at her. Obviously she herself is the “subject”, but what does it mean that Sebastian’s behaviour is part of a “provocation protocol”? The boy must be a better actor than she has given him credit for.

  But there is more. Something to do with the proposed medical tests.

  It is 7:44pm. She s
hould leave, but returns to the filing cabinets and takes out her own file once more. Inside the front cover is a medical summary with allergies (none), blood type (AB+), and so on. She pauses. It also lists the contact details and basic medical histories of her parents, correctly showing Mother’s allergy to penicillin. And her blood type: O+.

  Time stops.

  How is it possible that she does not know this? Father’s blood type is listed. Also O+.

  Could it be a mistake?

  The clock shows 7:46pm. She must go. There will be time enough to think.

  She closes the file and returns it to the filing cabinet. The excerpt from the letter goes back into the rubbish bin and the light goes off. She exits through the bookshelf door and out of Headmaster’s office, sticking to the wall to avoid the camera. Down the darkened corridor to the stairs, she descends and comes out onto the quadrangle. The sun has now set and she sucks cool air into her lungs.

  There will be time enough to think.

  She walks to the door of the music room. She allows herself one second to get composed and enters.

  “Arcadia!” Miss Alderman strides across. “What on earth took you so long — I was about to send out a search party. Arcadia, are you all right?” She is now looking at her with concern.

  “I’m fine,” she whispers. Then repeats in a normal tone: “I’m fine. I guess I’m a little nervous about performing. I had to go to the bathroom. A couple of times.”

  Vulnerability works. Miss Alderman’s face melts slightly. “Oh you poor thing. Did you find your rosin?”

  She produces the rosin that has been in her pocket for the past hour and gives Miss Alderman a weak smile.

  “OK,” she says. “Well, you’d better get ready. There are two more pieces and then you’re on.”

  The violin under her chin is a part of her body, the bow an extension of her arm. She closes her eyes not against the spotlight but against the world. To lose herself, just for a moment, in the music. Mendelssohn’s notes reveal themselves, not as a mathematical series of vibrations but as a kind of poetry. Her body sways gently as the violin sings its song without words.

  There will be time enough to think.

  It is elementary human biology. There are four basic blood groups: A, B, AB, and O. She knew that her blood type is AB and that this is reasonably uncommon. But the parents of a child whose blood is AB must both be either A, B, or AB. No one with blood type O can have a child whose blood type is AB.

  Accompanying on the piano, she does not need to look at Mrs. Norman-Neruda to know that the teacher has moved from keeping time and tune to joining a performance. The piano is the body and the violin is the soul. Yet it also prevents her losing herself completely, as she lost herself once in her room, in a single note. The day Mother lied to her.

  And then it is over. There is applause. Mrs. Norman-Neruda is pleased. The lights come up on the audience and she sees Headmaster clapping with apparent enthusiasm. Further back she sees Mother — her mother dabbing a handkerchief to her eyes while her husband applauds and beams. She offers a slight bow and disappears offstage.

  Miss Alderman has been standing by the door to the music room, watching her. As she approaches the teacher turns away, but not before she sees the glistening of stage lights reflected by a tear in her eye also.

  The final item for the evening requires all students to be on stage. Her violin is back in its case and she takes her place with the others to sing the patriotic hymn “I Vow to Thee, My Country.”

  I vow to thee, my country, all earthly things above, Entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love…

  The words wash over her. It is one of Mother’s — does she call her Louisa now? — favourite songs. How could they not tell her. How could she not have deduced it herself long ago.

  And there’s another country, I’ve heard of long ago, Most dear to them that love her, most great to them that know…

  It is now so obvious. So clear. Physical characteristics like Mother’s hazel eyes compared to her own grey eyes. Differences in the capacity for observation. The fact that Mother clearly does not prepare — or entirely understand — the codes that are set for her on weekends.

  And soul by soul and silently her shining bounds increase,

  And her ways are ways of gentleness, and all her paths are peace.

  The concert concludes. Headmaster invites parents, boys, and girls outside for dinner. “That is all!”

  Louisa — Mother enfolds her in an embrace. Her husband pats her on the back.

  “What’s wrong, Arky?” Mother asks.

  “Nothing.”

  Most of the parents and students are leaving Hall for the buffet. Mother reaches across to nudge a lock of dark hair away from Arcadia’s eyes. “You always think you’re so good at hiding your feelings. But I can tell that something is upsetting you.”

  If she focuses on the task at hand then things will make sense. If she can concentrate on the problem, the solution will present itself. She just needs to gather a little more data.

  “Really,” she says, “I’m fine. But could you please wait for me by the piano on the stage? I need to get my violin.”

  “Of course, dear.”

  She returns to the music room, now almost empty. Miss Alderman is about to leave through the rear door but Arcadia stops her. “Miss!” she calls out. “Headmaster asked me to find you. He said he needs to speak with you about something. It sounded important.”

  “Very well,” Miss Alderman says without enthusiasm. “Where is he?”

  “Waiting by the piano.”

  “Thanks. By the way, I thought you played very well today, Arcadia.”

  “Thank you, Miss Alderman.”

  She picks up her violin case as the teacher leaves the music room, then follows her out into Hall. It is almost empty now and Miss Alderman is halfway across the stage to the piano when she sees them and checks her step. But they have also seen her.

  “Good God!” Mother exclaims. “What are you doing here?”

  Arcadia is not far behind Miss Alderman, who turns her head slightly to look back over her shoulder. There is a hint of fear in her eyes, but also the beginning of a wry smile on her lips.

  Miss Alderman addresses her parents. “Why Mr. and Mrs. Greentree, it’s a pleasure to see you again. I thought Arcadia did wonderfully tonight, don’t you?”

  Mother is too puzzled and angry to speak. Father responds for her: “Yes, we were very proud. Tell me, uh, how is it that you come to be at the Priory School?”

  “I’m a teacher now,” says Miss Alderman evenly. “In fact, today is only my second day. I teach science. A substitute for Mr. Pratt while he is in hospital.”

  “Oh yes,” Father replies. “I heard about that. Nasty accident. They suspect the other driver was drunk but still haven’t caught him.”

  “So you three know each other?” she interjects innocently.

  “We do,” Miss Alderman says, a touch quickly. “We met some years ago when I was at university. Your parents were very kind to me.”

  Mother is uncomfortable but Arcadia needs to pry a little deeper. “I see,” she says. “Miss Alderman taught a very interesting class yesterday.” Father frowns at the mention of her name — perhaps he had forgotten it? “It was about the difference between nature and nurture: how we inherit some things from our parents, while others are developed in response to our environment. The line between the two can be quite blurred, of course. Though not in some areas. Blood type, for example. Blood type can only be inherited according to certain rules.”

  The colour is draining from Mother’s face and she has taken hold of Father’s hand in her own. “Arky…” she begins. Then she starts to fall.

  Father catches her, easing her onto the piano stool. His face creases with concern. “Louisa, you’ve got to stay calm.” He turns to Arcadia but says nothing for several moments. “Listen,” he begins. “My dear, I know that we have a lot to talk about. But your mother has been h
aving episodes of heart palpitations again. She’ll be fine, but she cannot cope with any more stress this evening. You’ll be home on Friday night and I promise you that we’ll talk about anything you want to. Can you wait two days?”

  She sees the anxiety in Mother’s eyes. “Of course I can.”

  Father helps her to her feet. “I think I should take her home.”

  Arcadia takes her other arm. “Come, I’ll walk you to the car.”

  They almost forget Miss Alderman. “Good night, Louisa and Ignatius,” she says. “I do hope you feel better soon. And good night, Arcadia. Well done this evening.”

  Miss Alderman returns to the music room as she and Father walk Mother outside. Her head rests briefly on Arcadia’s shoulder as they walk along the path through the quadrangle, leaving the buffet tables behind.

  Above them, the sky has darkened and the first stars are visible. Or perhaps one is a planet.

  Mother’s steps are a little more confident now and she looks up at the night sky. “You know, Arky, you and Magnus were such blessings to us. Oh difficult and worrying, to be sure. But blessings nonetheless.”

  They continue walking out to the car park.

  “And you have such gifts. Eyes that could spot a needle in its haystack. A mind that could calculate the number of straws of hay themselves. Ignatius and I did what we could. But it’s years since we could challenge your mind. All we hoped was that we could help develop your heart. That you would have a sense of justice. That your beautiful, cold brain would be able to love and be loved.”

  Mother sighs. “I don’t know if we did any good. But I like to think that we tried. And I know that you tried also.”

  “It’s time to go home, Louisa,” Father says. “Arcadia, there will be time enough to speak on the weekend. All right?”

  Time enough. Even her thoughts she owes to them.

  “Of course. I hope you feel better.” She kisses Mother on the cheek. “Good night — Mother. Good night, Father.”