After docking, the drive took two and a half hours. I looked out the back of the car window as the island disappeared from view, thinking good riddance floating prison, good riddance. We drove past hills, more hills—nothing jagged, just rolling and peaceful. No trees at first, then some, then flowers on grass, and flowers in tubs on quaint riverside cottage verandas.
Aberfeldy Halls stood on the edge of the pretty market town of Aberfeldy. There were the usual shops in the village strip: butcher, hairdresser, pub/café, newsagent, pub/supermarket, post office, pub/Indian takeaway, chemist, fish and chip shop, pub. After the small line of shops was a line of quaint stone, terraced cottages set back no more than two feet from the road. Out the front of one of the cottages sat an unmanned trestle table with gingham-topped pots of homemade jam. A jar of coins indicated the high level of honesty the villagers expected from their customers. Further on from the cottages were large, detached houses with turrets and meticulously pruned hedges.
The village ended with a thin stone bridge over a fast, deep, salmon-filled river. Ten meters beyond the river, an iron gate on the left displayed the words “Aberfeldy Halls.” My limbs were numb, my heart pounding, as we drove through the gates, up the 500-meter driveway towards the old sandstone mansion. Once, this building might have been considered imposing: the sort of place Jane Austen’s wealthier characters would live in. It was a house, originally, but the rich bloke who owned it sold it in the 1980s, and it became a private boarding school. Since then, new buildings had been added—the mostly glass office and dining building to the right, which was connected by a thin, covered walkway to the four-story pebble-dashed dorms, and the gym, nestled in behind the playing fields to the left. Behind the dorms was a beautiful thick wood. The wood and the new buildings made the whole place comfortable. It wasn’t imposing at all. It was dynamic, beautiful, and inviting.
“You get to drink white wine in the woods,” Mandy had told me. “You get to hide there during study time and have secret rendezvous with boys from Baltyre Academy.”
• • •
Miss Rose met us at reception in the office building. She introduced herself as the third-floor matron, but “matron” seemed the wrong label for her entirely. With trendy short light brown hair and a flowing multi-colored hippie skirt, she oozed all things un-matronly: approachability, tranquility, kindness. She was around the same age as my mother, but she was prettier. Also, every second thing she said did not involve “the good lord.” I liked her immediately. She welcomed me with a hug.
Miss Rose walked us through the classrooms, all of which were located in the original manor. Despite the high decorative ceilings, the rooms were clean and crisp like the year’s first notebook. On the top floor there was a theatre and an impressive art department. The store was in the basement across from the Church of Scotland chapel, where you could light a fake candle for fifty pence.
The track and the fields were as groomed as Mandy’s mum. There was a sparking new gym with basketball courts and a pool nestled in behind them. This was a school for rich kids, I realized. And I wondered, for the first time ever, how on earth my parents could afford to send me here. One day, maybe I’d ask them. But not now. Guilt was not welcome now.
Back in the dining hall at the back of the office building, Miss Rose explained about meal times. Breakfast was from 7:00 to 8:00, lunch from 12:30 to 1:30, tea from 6:00 to 7:00. As she talked, I looked out the large glass windows towards the pebble dash dorms, desperate to walk out along the thin concrete walkway to my cubicle.
Oh sweet cubicle.
Probably not very different in size from a prison cell, made from dark wood, with a large sliding door that didn’t lock and walls that didn’t quite reach the ceiling. Mine was second from the fire escape on the third floor (Right). Each of the four floors had a Right and a Left, with a shower block in the middle, a small communal kitchen with a microwave and kettle, two rows of twenty cubicles either side, and a fire escape at each end. I looked out my new cubicle window to see if it was true about the cigarette butts at the bottom of the fire escapes (it was—must’ve been at least 1,000), then shielded my mother and my father from doing the same, or else they’d have driven me straight home again.
Please go! Please get out! My mother and my father were asking about nurses (there was one) and nebulizers (there was one) and Sunday observance (they would make sure I attended the local free church on Sundays) and holidays (not compulsory to go home) and phone calls (no mobiles allowed, please use the pay phone in the hall on the ground floor; if someone phones you, we will call you over the loudspeaker) and please go. Leave me alone. Let me sit in my room, with my suitcase and my red duvet and my desk. Leave me to greet Mandy Grogan and Louisa MacDonald who may arrive any moment. To write my name on the new notebooks I bought from one-eyed Mrs. Crookston at the village shop (Thank you, I’d said to her, looking straight into it).
“Right then,” Miss Rose said. “I’ll leave you to say your good-byes.”
“Good-bye,” my mother said. She seemed a tad tearful. I’d not seen her tearful in a long time.
“Good-bye,” my father said. He was always a tad tearful. “Good-bye,” I said, taking the bible my mother handed me and watching as they walked down three flights and across the walkway towards the dining hall.
I admit: I was a bit upset seeing them go. They seemed so bereft, so ill at ease in each other’s company.
But the melancholy only lasted for as long as I could still see them. Soon as I couldn’t, I did a silent-scream-while-jumping-up-and-down-a-bit. I was in heaven. Not by myself in the middle of damp nowhere, praying on a hardwood floor. Not listening to teachers who knew less than I did. In heaven. Putting my favorite bright red duvet cover on my bed then bouncing on it. Peeking out my window. Pushing at the fire escape door. Checking out the toilets. The cupboards on the landing. Reading the rules for the television room directly underneath my cubicle. Exploring the hobby rooms on the second floor—a bright sewing room, a messy arts and crafts room, a darkroom that was no longer in use since the onset of digital cameras.
“Submissions for ideas on the use of this room are welcome,” Miss Rose had told me when we’d passed it earlier on, pointing out a sheet pinned to the door. Already three suggestions had appeared: group study, music room, and internet café. I turned the key in the door and snooped inside—the room was empty, nothing special.
Back in my cubicle, I lay out my laptop, a notebook, a pen, a pencil, and a calculator on my desk
My own world. My own space.
This was the beginning. I would make things happen here. I would make myself proud, my parents proud. I would work hard, be good, the best, the top. Small fish in a big pond? Not me. A big one in a big one.
The beginning.
A noise.
Miss Rose again. Another mother. Another father. A girl, sliding the door to the cubicle beside me. A new friend perhaps? Someone to giggle with in the shower rooms? Someone to chat with before going to bed? Someone to learn from, study with?
I listened to the good-byes (I love you! Write to us! Take care, eat sensibly…you know…yes? Enjoy it, won’t you! I don’t want to leave you! Love you, love you, bye!).
Knock knock.
I slid my door open.
“This is your neighbor,” Miss Rose said. “Amelia O’Donohue, this is Rachel Ross.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Amelia O’Donohue said.
“You too,” I said.
We shook hands. She had thick, long, wavy hair, unlike everyone else who flattened theirs to look like brown paper. She wore a shirt with the collar up, and a sleeveless jumper on top that was so small the bottom of her shirt hung out from underneath it. Her eyes were the largest, brownest eyes I’d ever seen. Her skin was the clearest, brownest skin I’d ever seen. She had big boobs. She was slim, not skinny like me. I was so skinny my father sometimes put his fingers round my wrist and lifted my arm up and laughed. She had the latest high-waisted shorts and coo
l shoes and very white, straight teeth.
“You’re the first to arrive! Early birds! Best of friends, I can tell,” Miss Rose said. “I’m going to leave you to chatter and unpack your paraphernalia.”
Miss Rose said words like paraphernalia. What a hoot.
We listened to her walk down the hall and down the first flight of stairs and then Amelia’s expression changed from fake-smiley to snarly and in a very posh English accent she said, “No coming into my room. No asking me for stuff. No touching my stuff. No geeky music. Any questions?”
“No. I think I’ve got…”
Didn’t get a chance to say “it.” Amelia O’Donohue had exited my cubicle with a spectacularly loud bang of my sliding door and entered her own, where she proceeded to plug in her iPod and play very loud music that I had never heard before but was definitely not geeky.
Obviously from a big English city, maybe even London. She probably went to clubs on weekends and bought ready-mixed Bacardi and Cokes from the liquor store without even flinching.
I did a silent-scream-while-jumping-up-and-down-a-bit.
This place was amazing! So amazing I found myself kneeling beside my very own bed on my very own hardwood floor and praying voluntarily, “Dear god, even though I don’t believe in you, thank you for sending me here. I will make you proud. I will thank you every day. And sorry for my sins. And god bless my mother and god bless my father. To the power of infinity. Amen.”
CHAPTER
FOUR
The dorms swarmed with sixteen- and seventeen-year-old girls from exotic places like the west end of Glasgow and Inverness. They all seemed to know each other or have stuff in common to talk about like music and reality television. They all had treats like cupcakes with coconut-covered chocolate icing on top and large allowances to go to McDonald’s on Fridays and to the local shop after school. They all had mobile phones (even though you weren’t supposed to—indeed I seemed to be the only girl at school who’d followed the rules). I wandered round checking everyone out and introducing myself (“Hello, I’m Rachel Ross, pleased to meet you. What do you want to do at university?”).
“One thing at a time, eh Raylene!” said the first. (She was a bit tough and scary up close—had thick eyeliner on and at least two coats of foundation—so I didn’t correct her. Raylene would do for now.)
“Engineering,” said the second, “at Cambridge, but if it’s St. Andrews, it’s St. Andrews, but I’m confident it’ll be Cambridge,” then she buzzed off to check out the darkroom on the second floor.
“What? I dunno. Got a smoke?” said the third. She’d tried to hide it with cover up, but I could see she’d been crying.
“I’m not going to university until the government down south abolishes fees,” said the fourth in her northern English accent, before placing an antiracism poster on the notice board on the landing.
“Get a life dick wad,” said the fifth, sliding her cubicle door shut.
Oh delicious, eclectic new world!
I finally found Mandy Grogan’s room on the fourth floor (Left) to discover she was next door to her big sister’s best mate’s little sister and that they’d headed down to the woods together.
I walked out of the dorm building and round the back, where huge, thick conifers padded the hills and traipsed along one of the forest tracks. Down at the very bottom was a derelict wooden shack. I could hear noises coming from inside, but felt too scared and too shy to open the door and see if it was Mandy and her new friend. I returned to the dorms to seek out Louisa, who was in the television room on the second floor. Five other girls, including Amelia O’Donohue, were in there with her.
“Hi, this is Rachel,” she said, introducing me to her new friends. “She’s a brain box, and totally the one to tell secrets to…never tell, do you Rach?”
“Hi,” I said, wishing there was somewhere for me to sit. The ads were on, and the girls were talking about cute teachers, Baltyre boys, and what to do in town on Friday evenings. The three sofas were full, so I sat on the arm of the couch Louisa was on. It was very uncomfortable. For a start, Louisa didn’t even move her arm to give me a bit more space. My bottom started feeling numb and I didn’t know where to put my hands.
“What do you want to do at university?” I asked the girl next to Louisa.
“Rachel, not everybody cares so much about university,” Louisa answered. The girl I’d asked hadn’t even bothered responding. The adverts had finished and some show about murders had started. I think she may have even rolled her eyes.
I could feel my arms getting bigger. I decided to fold them. This made balancing on the arm of the sofa quite difficult.
“What’s this?” I asked anyone who might answer.
“Crime Scene Investigation,” said Mandy, who was sitting next to Amelia O’Donohue. Amelia was watching the show with immense concentration. “Shh!” Amelia said. “I bet they’re gonna find his DNA on the cheese grater.”
The next few minutes were spent deciding how to leave the room with dignity. Should I pretend I had something exciting to do and tell everyone before flouncing out? Should I say “See ya!” cheerfully, then go? Or should I fidget and sweat, red-faced, before unfolding my arms and skulking numb-bummed out the door? I went for the latter.
If Mandy and Louisa were ignoring me a bit, I didn’t mind. Like me, they were excited to be here. Anyway, I had longer-term goals than popularity and fun in mind. I was at Aberfeldy Halls to pave the way for a lifelong escape from the island.
• • •
It was dinner time. Miss Rose announced it over the intercom: Girls, the bell is about to ring for supper. I headed over the walkway and grabbed a seat at one of the huge round tables. Mandy and Louisa joined me a few minutes later.
“Guess what!” Mandy always started conversations this way, and I always made at least seven silly guesses before she coughed up. It was a game we’d played since we were little. This time, she didn’t wait for my guesses (which would have been something like: You found £10,000! Or: Your father is gay!). “This girl Aimee from my floor,” Mandy said, “is like so cool and sweet and she has an iPod with the Jonas Brothers on and a bright pink portable battery-operated dock and we played it down in the woods in that shack and she brought a whole suitcase of cigarettes and she took one of them down there too. Louisa had three.”
“Did you inhale?” I asked Louisa.
“Aye, course.”
“The telly on second has satellite and Amelia O’Donohue…” Mandy said.
“She is too cool,” Louisa interjected.
“I know…anyhow she recorded the whole second series of CSI and we’re all gonna meet up after lights out and watch them and see who can guess whodunit first.”
“Who’s all ? ” I asked.
“Amelia, and Ally from Wick—she is so funny. And a group from Glasgow who all know each other already from this nightclub they go to.”
“What’s the shack like?” I asked Mandy.
“Unreal. There’s writing all over: Jennifer pulled Mick here 20-03-2005, drawings of boys’ bits, stuff like that. Someone’s left condoms in there. Under an old mattress. Apparently people shag there all the time. Oh guess what?” I opened my mouth to guess, but there was no time…“Aimee’s gonna have a midnight feast in my room! Knock three times, very quietly…”
To my surprise, Amelia O’Donohue sat down opposite me. She was so stunning that everyone at the table stopped talking. We were in the presence of tremendous beauty, humbled by her eyes and by her expensive designer puff skirt, thick belt, and very unbuttoned silk shirt. We all deferred to her, waiting for her to initiate conversation, hanging on every word she said. In the end, all she said was: “This food is disgusting,” and “This place is like a prison.”
The two choices for dinner were a large, round, tomato-soaked meatball (I heard Amelia O’Donohue calling it an abortion as she asked for two extra), and a large pasty. The chef, a good-looking forty-something, served the main course onto our p
lates. Miss Rose chatted and giggled with him as she garnished the plates with a selection of vegetables. They looked good together, I thought, but any ideas of matchmaking were ruined by the gleaming wedding ring visible on the chef’s finger. I chose the meatball, but I couldn’t eat it after the nickname Amelia had given it.
• • •
That night, I was hanging my clothes in the built-in wardrobe with my flannelette pajamas on, when my door smashed open to reveal Amelia O’Donohue (in a pink silk teddy- style nightie).
“I need your help,” she said, sliding the door shut.
“Okay.”
“My boyfriend’s on the fire escape,” she said.
“Oh my god!”
“Shh! God’s sake…I’ve rigged the door so the alarm doesn’t go off. But you cover for me, yeah?”
“How?”
“Don’t let anyone go out to smoke and don’t let anyone in my cubicle. If anyone asks, say I’m asleep.”
I didn’t get a chance to say anything. She’d already checked her hair in the mirror and left.
I could see the fire escape from my window. There were no external lights on, but the hall lights lit it up. I opened my window a tad and looked out. A boy of about seventeen was leaning against the metal banister. He’d obviously spent a long time on his asymmetrical light brown hair. Each strand was placed with perfect, edgy randomness. Amelia came out from the fire escape door and joined him (still in her teddy!). Can I say/think/write what happened next? Is it too rude? Too rude to hint that Amelia must have had very sore knees afterwards?
Amelia O’Donohue Is So Not a Virgin Page 3
