II
“There it is, Jack!”
The headlights sweep into the private grounds and illuminate a sign, low enough to stand firm against the onslaught, which reads: St Francis de Sales School. The driveway leads around a wide lawn to a red brick building covered with shivering ivy which has turrets on either side of its high, pointed roof. Some of the windows in the façade glow with light but most are pitch black, locked, reflecting only the chaos outside.
As the car draws up to the building the great main door opens and a figure wearing a gown and mortar board - he holds the hat with one hand as the tails of his cloak whip about behind him in the wind – steps out into the gale and waves at them. The adults and young girl run across and are ushered into the Main Building.
“What foul weather!” the headmaster cries as he slams and bolts the main door. He turns to his three guests, rubbing his cold hands together. Mr Dedalus is a tall man with mischievous eyes and an airman´s moustache. The most remarkable thing about him is the black eyepatch he is wearing over his left eye. He doesn´t mention or explain it.
“It´s been blowing like this since we got out of London!” exclaims Mrs Graves, who is drawn and shaken.
“Might put Jerry off for a night or two,” mutters her husband.
As the adults talk, Enid stands in the centre of the Main Hall of the school and tries to take it all in. She doesn´t think she´s ever been in a place like this before, not even in London. Alongside the carved stone entrance-arch there are panelled walls and stained glass windows. The glass is bottle green and mosaic blue and through it Enid can see the storm thrashing at the bushes as though looking for prey. A healthy fire is spitting and flickering from a grate beside the windows and Enid goes across to it and stares into the high flames.
“Not too close now, dear,” Mrs Graves admonishes.
More high, panelled walls run down to a small corridor Enid cannot see. This one is lined with school photographs: rows of faces, teachers sitting, pupils standing, each framed and dated. She turns back to where the headmaster is talking to Mr and Mrs Graves and sees a wooden staircase disappearing upwards behind them; the walls beside it are embossed with names written in gold, the Head Boys and Head Girls of the school.
I want to meet all these people, Enid can´t help thinking. I like this place.
“Come along, Enid,” Mr Graves says, holding out his hand and scrunching his gloved fingers. “Mr Dedalus says we should all go upstairs and have a chat.”
“Much more comfortable up there,” smiles the headmaster. He leads the way up the creaking staircase. The centres of each step are worn smooth from footfalls. “I´m not sure it would be a very wise idea to try and make it back to London tonight,” he informs the Graves, wheezing slightly.
“My sister told me there´s an inn somewhere around here, where John Keats stayed?” Mrs Graves waits for the headmaster to pause and look at her. “Would that be very far away now?”
“I´m afraid anywhere is going to be far away in this weather, madam,” smiles Mr Dedalus. “But I´m sure we can find somewhere here for you to sleep for the night. I´m alone here this weekend. Well, apart from the cottages. Plenty of room, though. Skeleton staff, you see.” They´ve come to a landing and Mr Dedalus bends at the waist and holds out his hand, indicating his three guests should make their way along the green carpeted landing they see ahead of them. “Keep going until you see my door. It should be open.”
The headmaster´s office is warm and bookish. There is a fire burning in the grate, though not as wild and fierce as the one downstairs, and the guests settle themselves on the leather sofas and armchairs which take up most of the space nearest the door. At the far end of the room is a dark bay window through which you are visible above a limpid line of tattered clouds. In front of Mr Dedalus´s neat desk, on a rug, a black cat is curled up, asleep.
“We understand the school is being used as a hospital during the war?” Mr Graves asks, lighting up his pipe. He shares a match with Mr Dedalus.
“You´re quite right,” nods the headmaster, face clouded with blue smoke. “Although now there are only a few poor souls out in the cottages and whatnot. They´ve moved a great deal up to Guildford. This building is just for pupils now, you see. The grounds too. At the height of it all we had planes here. I´m rather hoping this term we´ll be back to normal.”
Enid leans down and whispers something into Mrs Graves´ ear and the lady smiles at the headmaster. “Enid was wondering if she may go back downstairs and have a look at the photographs while we talk, headmaster?”
“Yes, yes, I don´t see why not. Don´t go too far, though.” Mr Dedalus waves his pipe about, searching for the words. “Don´t open any doors, now. Not in this weather.”
“Shouldn´t she be getting on with the entrance examination?” asks Mr Graves.
“Oh, I don´t see why that can´t wait until the morning, Mr Graves,” the headmaster replies, nodding at Enid to give her permission to leave. “After all, with the storm and all, it might be best to just shut up shop for the night. Batten down the hatches, as it were.”
“I see,” nods Mr Graves. “Well, Enid. Run along. Don´t get yourself into any bother.”
The three adults wait for the little girl to leave the room and then Mrs Graves makes a tutting noise and says, “It really is such a terribly sad story.”
“And one I find hard to fathom,” answers the headmaster, nodding. “Can it really be that you found her wandering about in the rubble after a raid?”
“Our servant George did, yes,” replies Mrs Graves. “Brought her home to us, he did, and she wouldn´t say anything. Of course we went to the police and they said every house on the street had been destroyed. A few days later we were at a funeral service for,” she looks at her husband. “Who was it, Jack?”
“I forget now. The McCourts, perhaps?”
“Well, it was someone from the same street and they said they´d seen the girl with her parents. From Stratford, they were, the family, she said. Although we can´t be sure of that. Not that it makes much difference now, of course.”
“What I can assure you, Mr Dedalus, is that all Enid´s fees will be settled in full and in advance,” Mr Graves says, “as a show of gratitude for your willingness to help us with the poor creature.”
“We´re too old to look after her now,” Mrs Graves says, sadly.
“Well, we´ve had our children, haven´t we, mother?” Mr Graves answers, looking glum. He catches his wife´s eye and quickly looks into the fire.
“And lost them,” Mrs Graves adds. It has to be said, even in company, even if her husband will go on about it being inappropriate later.
“I´m very sorry,” says Mr Dedalus. And he is. But almost everyone he knows has lost someone in the war and there´s not much point in getting overly sentimental about it, especially as the thing was still going on. “You can both rest assured young Enid will receive a fine education here at St Francis´.”
Mr and Mrs Graves smile, but there is something in their smiles which even the headmaster catches. He doesn´t ask any more questions, instead saying that perhaps they should have a cup of tea before he finds them somewhere to sleep that night. Instinctively, though, he knows there is something about the girl the elderly couple aren´t telling him.
Should we tell him what she´s really like? they seem to be saying to each other with their eyes. No. No, let´s not.
He´ll find out soon enough.
Heart of Winter Page 2
