To the formidably overbearing Mrs Larkspear the sight of a girl in her late teens on occasion sucking her thumb and increasingly more often breaking down into tears at the drop of a hat was something to gladden the heart. More than that; it fairly sent tingles down her spine. If the girl was finding something like that reassuring, them she would reinforce the behaviour. The way forward now would be to smile sweetly, speak softly, while the girl’s thumb was between those plump bee-stung lips of hers but make the girl jump in some manner, startle her in some way, the moment the girl caught herself indulging in the child-like behaviour.
From this moment on she would keep a close eye on Alice, even more so than ordinarily. If she spotted the girl sucking her thumb and the girl then subsequently removed it from her mouth she planned to abruptly slash her cane down on the girl’s desktop - or even across her own desk - or whistle it through the air, finding some premise to then berate the girl verbally. A stiff reprimand was generally all it took these days to send the girl’s thumb shakily towards that lovely sensuous mouth of hers, albeit somewhat briefly, but she wanted to see it linger there, she wanted to see the girl permanently and unconsciously afflicted with the childish habit.
As it turned out it was well over an hour before both girls were again to be found at their desks, chubby well-caned bottoms burning on hard wooden seats, pens in hand and working away at their copperplate handwriting exercises. As for their ‘teacher’: she now stood resting against the wall at the back of the room, hands tucked in the small of her back for comfort.
From here she could observe without being observed, she could survey the scene without the girls being certain they were being supervised. It was that element of uncertainty that was so important in fostering the sense of being under control she wished to reinforce in her charges; it kept them off balance. Levering herself upright she wandered between the school desks, casually observing the girls’ work as she moved toward the front of the classroom, their twin beribboned heads bent dutifully to their studies in the unnerving silence.
She had changed now. She was now dressed in her white blouse, the crisp white shirt-collared one that she knew exaggerated her tendency to appear domineering; but that was something of an advantage here. Trim waisted and tailored where it mattered, it emphasised the aggressive thrust her long-line corselet gave to her bust. Finished off with a dark grey tie that tucked in to the waistband of her skirt, it also provided just a hint of intimidating masculinity. This she had teamed with a dark grey worsted pencil skirt having a hemline coming to within a couple of inches of her knees. Her athletically trim legs were encased in perfect dark-tan stockings of the old-style fully-fashioned variety she favoured and showed off calves stretched to their most adventurously shapely extreme by a pair of black stilettos.
Her coloured auburn hair - she’d had it dyed especially for the impact she wished to achieve - she had swept up, pining it behind a half-moon tortoise comb to form an austerely tight bun. The latter’s rich hue, she knew, threatened to clash with her thin lips and nails - both attributes painted a glaring matching post-box red - but she knew it was a look she could carry off. Even if, against her naturally pale, almost alabaster, complexion, the effect was a little stark, she knew that element of starkness was something she could use to her psychological advantage.
Having reached the front of the classroom she stepped up on the dais, turning on her heel and stepping smartly in front of her desk, her heels clicking noisily on the hollow platform as she did so. Leaning back lightly against the desktop, supporting her weight with her left hand while simultaneously rattling the school cane against one of its legs with her right, she feigned a cough.
“Sit up straight! Now, girls, pick up your pencils - you are going to be taking notes; we’re going to be discussing your futures, your prospects if you will.” The imperious hazel-eyed school mistress surveyed the scene with what she fondly imagined to be a friendly, almost affable smile on her expertly made-up face. Discipline bolstered by punishment, yet tempered with love, even if affected; that was the way to mould the minds of impressionable young women like these two. By the time she was finished with them the two of them wouldn’t know if they were coming or going - but they would know how to obey her, they would want to obey her. In fact they would seek to earn her approval at every turn.
“Tell me, what do you see as the purpose of education?” It was a rhetorical question, as so many were that she posed; smiling, she went on without pausing for an answer. “Well, I’ll tell you - very little in terms of academic subjects as far as girls of your very limited levels of accomplishment are concerned. To be honest, there are very few jobs out there these days suitable for girls, such as your selves, that are... how should I put this? ...somewhat intellectually challenged, as far as I have been able to determine. Those paths that are available are unlikely to be particularly academically challenging.” She smiled condescendingly at the timid pair of young girls seated trembling before her as she spoke, her gaze shifting from one to the other in turn, continuingly gauging the effect her words were having on further quashing their spirits. She went on, leaving a pause for effect.
“...Domestic service, perhaps waitressing? ...Shop girl?” She pressed a finger to her lips pensively, as if genuinely actually pondering. “...No, no, not shop girls - too much initiative required. And you, Alice, with your agoraphobia, your fear of the outdoors... Well, I guess waitressing would be out of the question...”
The sour faced school mistress softly laughed at that observation, her hands now in the attitude of prayer, her index fingers tapping together in an expertly affected show of faux consideration. Absentmindedly flicking an errant strand of hair that had somehow had the temerity to have escaped the austere grip of her tightly wound bun, she went on.
“...It would have to be something ‘live-in’ I think... Not children’s nanny - I don’t think you could be considered a responsible enough adult to be trusted with children; not with your history of drug problems. And besides; you’re ‘known’ to the police - that alone should be enough to put most people off!” She gave a knowing little laugh as the target of her belittling reddened prettily, the teenager’s glowing cheeks set off by the diagonal red stripe incorporated into her school tie and hair ribbons. “...No, for you, young Alice Marchment, it would have to be something ‘domestic’, something ‘in service’ as they would have said in the old days, but nothing too intellectually challenging; it would have to be a pretty menial position, I’m afraid, something right down at the bottom of the pile.”
Alice bristled inside, yet rather than the steaming anger that might once have soared up within her there was instead a sort of grumpy ‘acceptance under protest’. It was so unfair, all this constant questioning of her intelligence. She had been doing quite well at school... She had - hadn’t she? But that school report she had been handed... and now that letter, recently arrived, cancelling the university place that had been offered ‘on advice’... What did all that mean? She had become such a ‘muddle-head’ of late, perhaps... No, she was clever than that, she knew she was... If only she didn’t feel so ‘sheepish’, if only she had more self confidence! But she looked like a child, she felt like a child... No...they’d made her look like a child... they’d made her feel like a child.
Whatever the truth, nevertheless Alice sensed her shoulders sag, felt her eyes drop away, heavy with shame and she began to contemplate the Formica top of the school desk she was made to sit at day upon endless day. She knew every inch of its annoyingly finely ruled beige chequer pattern, just as she knew every nuance, every accent, encoded within the insistent, incessant tick, tick, tick of the school clock up on the wall and the fact that, try as she may, it was never possible to hear anything of the world beyond that nerve-twisting sound... The sheer monotony made her want to scream, to the point at which her teacher’s voice, even at its most humiliatingly belittling and bullying extreme, had become someth
ing that she mentally begged for - anything to fill in that dreadful silent void between one ‘tick’ and the next...
And every so many ‘ticks’ would come a heavier ‘tock’ - and every so many ‘tocks’ there would be a slightly heavier, more resonant, sort of woody, ‘tock’. Then there was that odd, metallic ‘scrunch’ - that only happened a few times per day; but she knew exactly how many ‘ticks’, ‘tocks’ and ‘woody tocks’ had to pass before a ‘scrunch’ came... It was important! She knew exactly how many ‘ticks’ made up a ‘tock’ and how many ‘tocks’ made up a ‘woody tock’ and exactly how many of those had to pass in turn before one of those metallic ‘scrunches’ would arrive.
More importantly she knew, or thought she knew, how many of those crunchy metallic ‘scrunches’ constituted a ‘school’ day. She had decided they would be hourly, it being a mechanical clock and all. But the trouble was that the roughened metallic quality was not particularly prominent, in reality little more than a subtle change in the character of the clock’s chanting, perhaps some defect in a cog somewhere; it had to be listened out for. She could - and did - count the ‘woody tocks’; but they constituted an even subtler variation in the timepiece’s otherwise clinically precise, dry timbre. The basic ‘ticks’ and ‘tocks’ were easier to differentiate, but there were so many to count... so, so many. A cough, a chair scrape - the teacher’s, hers and Angel’s were an integral part of their desks -and the count was gone. Similarly the click of the teacher’s high heels - and she often wore stilettos more suited to a ball than to a classroom - would wreck her counting. She had burst into tears on one occasion simply because her teacher had risen from her desk and strolled across the room, yet still she had counted on.
She’d tried keeping time, surreptitiously tapping a toe when some sound detracted from the school clock’s rhythm, counting the taps rather than the ticking - she was doing it now while the teacher was speaking. Sometimes, if she’d been caned, the throbbing in her bottom would interfere and she’d find herself counting that instead. She’d also tried to stop herself, but that had failed also. Nor could she ignore it; it wouldn’t let her.
If only the hands would turn, as a clock’s hands were supposed to - but she knew they wouldn’t, they never had; it just ticked and ticked and ticked... What was the point of a clock it didn’t tell the time? Ah! But it did, it did! If you could only count the ticks and the tocks and the clicks and the clunks...
She’d lost count again, she was sure of it... It was so easy to lose count... And if she was made to do arithmetic, then how could she concentrate, how could she not lose count then? It was no wonder her school work was so poor...
What was the woman saying now? If she was going to make a good impression... what was that... sewing and cleaning and serving at table... no she’d be too clumsy at that...cleaning and polishing then...and keeping her uniform crisp and her apron starched, yes she could do that, that was important too! Sewing lessons, domestic training - no maths, no sums... it was going to be so much easier to keep count... she wouldn’t lose count... and it was important to keep count. If only that damn clock would stop that incessant ticking! But then she’d lose count, there would be nothing to count... Damn! She’d lost count... She’d have to start again... She was always losing count... Why was she doing it? Losing count or losing her mind? Or was it both?
Why was she thinking about losing her mind? She wasn’t losing her mind - just because her stepmother had her seeing a psychiatrist or psychologist or whatever... just because that woman wanted her in that clinic of hers, in that psychiatric hospital... just because they made her dress in school uniform, bend for the cane and didn’t let her leave the house any more. Why, perhaps that hospital would be a way out, if she went along with it, with what the psychologist woman wanted - she would be out of her stepmother’s grasp there, she could get help there... if only she could keep count...but the teacher’s voice...can’t hear the clock properly...I’ll go out of my mind if I can’t hear the clock...
“...Alice! Alice!... Alice Marchment - are you going out of your mind? Stop tapping your foot this instant... Get yourself out here and get yourself bent over my desk immediately - knickers down, skirt up and arms folded across the small of your back. Six strokes for you my girl - for inattention; and you had better make sure you keep count!”
CHAPTER 12
GYM’LL FIX IT
A new day, a new torment: They were headed for another of those attic rooms within the convoluted roof space warren that ran above the disused rear wing of the house. The staircase at the point they had now reached had already assumed the same over-hot airless dry-rot-scented atmosphere that more often than not characterized the school room. Grimacing with unaccustomed effort Alice doubted the ‘fitness studio’ her stepmother had had installed would be any more conducive to comfort.
The staircase they were ascending was a wood-framed affair with bare, grey, cracked wooden treads springing underfoot and thick layers of greenish-cream and undoubtedly lead-laden paint curling from the uprights of the balustrade. Fully enclosed on all sides by plastered walls covered in yellowing, crazed and flaking paint, the staircase rose through landing after half-landing, doubling back on itself again and again, the turns tight and cramped despite the stairs being broad enough to accommodate two, side by side. The thick, carved banister rail was a dull reddish-brown, the colour more the product of the patina of age than the remnants of roughened and abraded varnish that reluctantly adhered to it. The latter clung on in raised streaky profusion over a time-dwindling undercurrent of wood stain that had long greyed with age.
In all, the stairwell was both dank and dusty and had seemingly been seldom used in recent years - it all begged the question of how anything could have been ‘installed’ by this route.
“I am a great advocate of the health advantages that come from the provision of frequent drilling and dancing lessons. As for the subject of dress for physical education: I insist upon every requirement of the instructor being met. After all; she is the expert, she knows best which type kit is going to be most suited to the activities and the curriculum she has planned. Whatever she has laid out for you, you will change into quickly, quietly and without complaint or comment.” Daphne Larkspear had very much adopted the mantel of the strict rigid governess today. A starched white blouse with high stiff collar and puffed sleeves had been teamed with a pencil thin, knee-length black skirt, flesh-coloured, high-glossed seamed stockings and high-heeled black shoes; it made for a truly imperious air. As if influenced by her own image, her natural lilting Scots accent had seemed to have partly given way to a somewhat more haughty tone than was customary.
Alice was walking slightly behind the imposing, matronly figure of the woman teacher, having found herself, to her embarrassment, being led by the hand like a naughty child. The mouse-meek Angel, presenting a slender figure of a prim damsel by comparison in her grey school uniform and white silk-like nylon apron, was being herded along in front, the girl’s head slightly bowed as was her custom and her hands crossed in front of her, the woman delivering an encouraging pat or two on her behind through her short school skirt as they advanced.
Even with her own predicament weighing heavily down on her Alice couldn’t help but feel sorry for her fellow reluctant penitent. How underweight she looked, how fragile Angel’s already delicate fine-boned features had become. With her bodyweight having been so drastically dieted off her, the poor thing looked at first glance to be no more than a particularly growth-spurted twelve-year-old. Only at a second or third glance could her true age of around seventeen - by Alice’s estimate - be divined, albeit even then perceived as a particularly juvenile-looking specimen. It was an image that wasn’t exactly contradicted by the girl’s hair. The latter - having been crimped and styled as short as a young boy’s - had now been dyed black but unfortunately had turned out somewhat mousy as a result.
Turning sharply o
ff the top landing they pulled up at a point where the otherwise dimly lit passage had been locally set ablaze with light, the wedge-shaped shaft squeezing past a thick panelled wood door that had been left ajar. The doorway led into a small, stark white-walled room with an equally starkly-white linoleum-covered floor that gave slightly underfoot as if sprung. Glaring fluorescent strip lights arranged around the tops of the four walls provided the sole illumination, there being no window, whereupon the pyramidal plaster ceiling rose sharply like the inside of a rather low, squat church steeple. The inference of the latter was obvious to Alice; they were now under the roof of one of the two square turret or folly-like structures that stood like sentries over the corners of the disused rear section of the house.
The far wall was covered in its entirety by a single huge mirror, wherein a stern-faced authoritarian woman was ushering a pair of gawky-looking overgrown schoolchildren dressed in outgrown uniforms through a half-open door - or so it seemed. Alice quickly averted her eyes in shame; Angel had never raised hers in the first place and continued staring fixedly down at her shoes, as was her habit. This behaviour was some part of her compatriot’s coping mechanism, Alice had at some point realised. More and more often Angel seemed to be dealing with the situation they were both in by withdrawing into herself. Far from showing any concern, their private teacher-cum-tutor-cum-governess chose to not only ignore it, but at times there were certain things the woman did and said that seemed tantamount to actively encouraging the girl to become withdrawn.
To one side stood a tall leather-topped vaulting horse, to the other, standing against the nearest end wall, was a table on which waited a pair of thick, greyish yet transparent, plastic bags. The grey serge fabric, embroidered school-type badge and crest and the rubbery-looking buttons visible through the packaging told the whole story - or very nearly did. There had been one or two styling revisions following the ‘manufacturer’s-sample’ edition that Alice had come across in the basement storage cupboard all that time ago. She tried not to let the revulsion, not to mention the embarrassment, she was feeling show on her face as the memory of the rubbery aroma that had permeated the garment came flooding back.
Alice Under Discipline, Part 1 Page 23
