The Fleethaven Trilogy

by Margaret Dickinson

  ‘What can you expect from a country bumpkin? No manners and can’t even understand a word of French!’

  ‘Ya’d better go down, likely ya’re in fer ca-ane.’ It was a cruel impersonation of the Lincolnshire dialect so strong in Kate’s speech.

  Rage flooded through her again. She dashed away her tears with the back of her hand and swung her legs off the bed. ‘I aren’t afraid of her!’

  ‘Just listen to her! “I aren’t!” Wherever did she go to school?’

  ‘A better school than this ‘un,’ Kate uttered as a parting shot as she marched out of the room, the sound of their heartless laughter following her down the stairs.

  Outside the door of Miss Denham’s study, her boldness deserted her. Again the knot of nerves was fluttering just beneath her ribs and rising into her throat. She swallowed and her empty stomach gurgled.

  She knocked on the door and on hearing ‘Enter’ – thankfully spoken in English now – she went in.

  Miss Denham sat behind her desk with Miss Ogden standing on one side of her and the Matron on the other. Miss Ogden looked at her sadly, whilst outrage was apparent on the other two faces.

  ‘Katharine Hilton, your behaviour at the dinner table this evening was disgraceful,’ Miss Denham began. Kate returned the woman’s stare steadfastly, though her insides were churning and her knees were trembling. ‘Have you anything to say for yourself?’

  ‘I felt sick, Miss.’

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Miss Ogden’s hand flutter briefly towards her, almost as if she wanted to reach out and touch her. ‘Oh, you poor child . . .’ she heard the teacher mutter, but the gesture of understanding was quelled by a look from the Principal.

  Miss Denham turned her cold gaze back upon Kate. ‘Normally I would cane you for such behaviour, but because it is your first day here, this time,’ there was heavy emphasis on the two words ‘this time’, ‘we will say no more about it. However, you will go straight to your dormitory and to bed instead of participating in games hour before bedtime. You may go.’

  Kate went – thankfully. She was relieved to find the dormitory empty, and having paid a visit to the bathroom she undressed and lay down in the narrow, hard bed.

  The sounds of the large building were all around her: voices, footsteps, doors banging, and the chimes of the cathedral clock only a short distance away. When the other girls came to bed, Kate lay with her head buried beneath the covers and pretended to be asleep. No one spoke to her or about her. It was as if she were not even there. When the room was in darkness she lay listening to the breathing of the nine other girls in the room and knew sleep would be impossible. She felt closed in and longed for the cool marsh breezes and the sound of the sea – and Danny.

  At the thought of Danny she stuffed the sheet into her mouth to stifle a sob.

  Then she remembered the whelk shell; a little piece of home. Quietly, she turned back the covers and swung her feet to the floor. She was half-way between her bed and the wardrobe when light flooded into the room and Kate turned, blinking in the sudden brightness, to see the Matron standing in the doorway.

  ‘What are you doing out of bed, girl?’

  The polished floorboards were icy beneath her bare feet. Kate shivered, not so much from cold as from knowing that every girl in the room was wide awake and listening.

  ‘Well?’ snapped the Matron.

  ‘I was just getting summat from me coat in the wardrobe.’

  Blanket-muffled laughter sounded.

  ‘What is it you want?’

  Kate hesitated, searching desperately. ‘Me – me hanky.’

  ‘Have you not got a clean one in your bedside drawer?’

  ‘I – dun’t know.’

  ‘Oh, very well, but hurry up.’

  Trembling now, Kate opened the door of the wardrobe which squeaked loudly in the silence. Praying fervently, she reached into her coat pocket and felt the hard roundness of the whelk shell and beneath it – ‘Oh thank you, thank you’ – the softness of her white handkerchief.

  Fumbling a little, she wrapped the shell in the handkerchief and held it tightly in the palm of her hand before she withdrew it from her pocket. When she turned back to face the Matron, only one corner of the hanky showed in her hand.

  The woman nodded briefly and closed the door, plunging the room into darkness once more.

  Kate climbed into bed and buried her head beneath the covers to unwrap the shell.

  Only then, with the sound of the sea in her ear, did she fall asleep.

  Eight

  ‘Katharine Hilton!’ Matron’s voice rose above the hubbub as the girls scurried to and from the bathroom the next morning. ‘Your bath nights are Tuesdays and Fridays, and you will wash your hair each Friday.’

  Kate felt the woman’s eyes take in the long flowing auburn hair that tumbled untidily down her back, so long that she could almost sit on it.

  Her mouth pursed, Matron said, ‘You will plait your hair before you come down to breakfast.’

  It was an almost impossible task for Kate to plait the long hair herself. She made a valiant effort, although strands escaped and the skeins of hair were woven in and out unevenly. If only her mother’s nimble fingers were there; she could plait the length of Kate’s hair in seconds.

  The day seemed interminable. Kate struggled with the sums and every time she opened her mouth to speak, there came a wave of suppressed giggles around the room. Miss Ogden, helpless to reprimand the covert cruelty, tried to bring comfort to the lonely new girl by praising her sewing, but that only seemed to alienate her further from the other girls.

  ‘“Look at the back of Katharine’s work”’, mimicked Isobel, when Miss Ogden left the room for a moment. ‘“See how neat it is?” Pity her hair isn’t as neat.’

  Isobel’s two followers giggled dutifully. It was soon obvious to Kate that Isobel Cartwright was a natural ring-leader. The two girls who were her closest friends – Brenda and Hazel – followed her around and she ordered them about like a mistress giving orders to servants. Isobel had short hair, cut to the regulation length, and yet there seemed a subtle difference in the style. Kate couldn’t understand what it was that made it different from all the rest. Then, when school had finished on the Friday afternoon, Isobel was missing. Kate overheard Brenda saying that she had gone out in a car.

  ‘Her mother’s taken her out to tea in town – and to have her hair done. They’ve got a chauffeur. You should have seen him, Hazel. He looked so smart in his grey uniform and peaked cap.’

  ‘However does Isobel get permission to go out in the week?’

  Brenda leaned closer, but Kate still heard her whispered words. ‘It’s probably because her father’s a governor of the school. Even Miss Denham doesn’t want to upset the Cartwright family!’

  ‘Yes, but to be allowed to go out of school to have her hair done in a salon . .!’ Hazel sighed enviously.

  The subject of hair made them turn and look at Kate. ‘It’s your bath night tonight,’ Hazel reminded her gleefully. ‘And you’ve to wash your hair.’

  ‘How do you get it dry?’

  ‘In front of the range,’ Kate told them.

  The two girls exchanged a glance and then clutched each other as they shook with laughter. ‘There’s no range here. You’ll have to go into the kitchen and put your head in the oven!’

  Isobel returned from town with her hair beautifully styled and shining golden. She really was quite a pretty girl, Kate thought charitably, except for a sulky pout to her mouth and a way of holding her head as if she were looking down her nose at everything and everyone. And her cold blue eyes missed nothing.

  That evening Kate tiptoed into the bathroom carrying her towel, a huge bar of carbolic soap and a flannel. There was a line of six wash-basins along one wall and two baths in separate cubicles. Sighing with relief, she realized she had the bathroom to herself. She moved into one of the cubicles and looked at the huge cast-iron bath standing on clawed feet and fitted wi
th brass-coloured taps. She’d never seen anything like this before; it was very different from bath-night on a Friday night at home when her mother banished her stepfather from the kitchen and tugged the zinc bath in front of the range, drawing water from the side boiler. Kate and her mother would wash each other’s hair before the girl stepped into the bath. Esther, her own hair wrapped in a towel, would pour more hot water into the tub so that it swirled around Kate, warming her. Then she would kneel and soap her daughter’s back, talking to her about school or the farm.

  Sitting in front of the kitchen range, in the rosy glow of the firelight, had been warm and intimate. It was a time Kate had cherished; a time when she had her mother to herself – even after Lilian had been born.

  But this bathroom was so cold that Kate shivered. The floor was bare stone, the walls painted a dull green with only a line of patterned tiles running round the wall just above the bath. Somewhere above her, pipes gurgled noisily as the hot water was pumped up from the boiler in the cellar. She washed her hair in one of the basins first and wound it up in her towel, turban-fashion, on top of her head. Then she moved into one of the cubicles. The bath was so huge that Kate thought if she filled it too full and slipped when climbing in over the high side, she might well drown in it and no one would know.

  The bathroom door opened and Isobel looked in. ‘Oh, sorry . . .’ she began, then, recognizing Kate, added, ‘Oh, it’s you. What’s the matter? Never seen a bath before? You fill it with water, get in and wash your dirty self all over!’

  Kate turned her back on the girl and learned over the side of the bath. With nervous fingers she twisted the top of the huge tap and jumped when water gushed out suddenly. She heard Isobel laughing as she went into the next cubicle and ran her own bath.

  When the water had reached a depth of about twelve inches, Kate turned off the taps. From the next-door cubicle, the water still gushed into the bath and continued for such a long time that Kate thought it would never stop. As she sat in the water and began to soap herself, she heard the taps being turned off and Isobel splashing. Only a minute or so later, she heard a swish of water as the girl next door stood up and climbed out of the bath. The plug on its chain was pulled out and the water began to empty from the bath. What a waste, Kate thought, me mam would have a ducky fit! Fancy filling a bath up that much and spending about a minute in it and then getting out and emptying it. Isobel wouldn’t do that if she had to fill the bath by the bucketful as they did at home. Kate splashed water on to her body to wash off the soap, then put her hands on the top edges of the bath and levered herself up. At that moment, Isobel popped her head round the corner again, dressed in her pyjamas and dressing-gown, ready to leave. Her cool gaze lingered on Kate’s slim body, the small breasts scarcely formed and her long legs, thin and coltish. Embarrassed, Kate stood in the bath wishing she had a towel to put around her to cover her nakedness, but the only one she had brought was wrapped around her head.

  ‘You’d better hurry up. We’re only allowed ten minutes each. There’s others to bath after you, you know,’ the girl said brusquely.

  She turned away and Kate heard the bathroom door open. From her position in the cubicle, Kate could not see what Isobel was doing, but the next moment the whole room was plunged into blackness.

  Upon leaving Isobel had turned off the gas-light near the door, deliberately leaving Kate standing in the bath, shivering in the darkness.

  ‘Isobel, don’t,’ she shouted, but the door slammed.

  Kate bent and put out her hands trying to find the edge of the bath. Her feet slipped and she felt herself falling. She let out a yell as she hit her head with a thud against the bath and slipped back down into the water, which sloshed up and down the bath and splashed over the edge on to the floor. She felt the towel unwind and fall from her head.

  ‘Isobel,’ she roared, more angry now than frightened or hurt. She grabbed the sides of the bath and heaved herself upright and as she did so, someone pushed open the door and light from the corridor filtered into the bathroom.

  ‘What on earth are you doing, girl? Did you put this light off?’ Matron snapped as she relit the light to inspect the bathroom. ‘Just look at the mess you are making! Mind you clear all this up. And where’s your towel?’

  Kate, her hair plastered to her back and running rivulets down her body, bent and picked the dripping towel out of the water.

  ‘Well, you’re not going to get very dry on that, are you, you foolish child?’ The matron shook her head impatiently. ‘Wait there . . .’ She disappeared, and Kate stepped carefully out of the bath and wrung her wet towel out, twisting it viciously between her hands, wishing it was Isobel Cartwright’s neck.

  Matron returned with a towel. ‘Here, dry yourself quickly and let’s have no more of this nonsense. And don’t go turning lights off until you know how to relight them. Fancy trying to take a bath in the dark!’ She shook her head in exasperation and disbelief that anyone could be so stupid.

  Kate opened her mouth to retort that the light had been turned out while she was in the bath, but then she closed it again without speaking. She was no tell-tale. She never had been and she wasn’t going to start now, however much she hated Isobel Cartwright.

  The Matron turned away and left the room, leaving Kate to dry herself and wipe the floor. There was nothing else to use but her own towel which was now not only soaking wet but grubby too.

  When she returned to the dormitory, she found all the girls knew of her embarrassment. She glared at Isobel, who smirked as she said, ‘Tell Matron, did you?’

  ‘No,’ Kate answered shortly. ‘I aren’t a tell-tale . . .’ There were further giggles. ‘But I’ll get you back, Isobel Cartwright,’ she added, wagging her forefinger at the other girl. ‘I dun’t care how long I have to wait – but one day I’ll get you back. You see if I don’t!’

  ‘Oooh, I’m sha-aking in me shoes,’ Isobel mocked.

  Kate turned her back on them all and began to dry her hair, rubbing it vigorously with a towel.

  On the first Sunday after her arrival, Kate discovered that all the pupils walked in crocodile fashion up the steep hill to the cathedral for Morning Service, accompanied by the Principal and the two assistant teachers.

  The moment she stepped through the huge doors, Kate felt her heart begin to thud. The interior of the holy place was immense! Her hobnailed boots echoed hollowly on the flagstones and she could feel Miss Denham’s disapproval boring into her back.

  Awe-struck, Kate gazed around her as she took her place in a pew. Stone pillars supported the high arched roof and in front of her the rich wooden carving of the angel choir gave warmth to the austere stonework. Light shone through the stained glass windows, mottling the flagstones.

  Unbidden, and for no reason that she could understand, a feeling of peace crept through her. Although she was still sitting among them, for an hour or so she was safe from the taunts of her fellow-pupils and Miss Denham’s scolding.

  For the first time since she had arrived in Lincoln, Kate felt a sense of security as she gazed around her in wonderment. She forgot her own misfortune as she marvelled at the beauty of the building and listened to the pure voices of the choir, the music reverberating sweetly through the vastness.

  Miss Denham walked up and down the aisle twice during the service, her sharp eyes lingering on whisperers, who, reddening, subsided at once.

  Kate knelt for the final prayer. ‘Please let me go home,’ she prayed silently and fervently, squeezing her eyes tightly shut and pressing her hands together so hard her wrists hurt. ‘Please make something happen so I can go home . . .’

  There was shuffling all around her and she opened her eyes to see that everyone was rising to leave. She sighed and scrambled to her feet. As they filed out of the cathedral, Kate felt bereft as if she were being dragged from a place of sanctuary.

  ‘There’s a uniform inspection!’ Hazel came running into the dormitory, slamming the door behind her. ‘Miss Denham and Matron
! They’re in “B” Dormitory now. They’ll be here next. Quick!’

  ‘Oh help!’ wailed one girl down the far end of the dormitory. ‘I’ve lost my house shoes. I’ll be for it.’

  ‘I saw a pair in the bathroom last night. Did you leave them there?’

  The girl’s face brightened. ‘Ooh thanks, Hazel. I think I did.’ And she scuttled out of the room to retrieve her lost property.

  Kate watched all the girls in the room opening drawer after drawer of their bedside cabinets, refolding and tidying the contents. Wardrobe doors were flung open and the clothes hanging there straightened, shoes set neatly beneath.

  Brenda was untying the braid girdle around her waist. ‘I think my gym-slip’s too short. If I loosen my sash will it make it a bit longer?’ she asked Isobel.

  ‘It might do,’ Isobel said doubtfully.

  ‘Do you think she’ll do a gym-slip inspection?’

  ‘Bound to. She always does at the beginning of term.’

  ‘Oooh!’ Brenda wailed. ‘Does that look better, Isobel?’

  Isobel inspected her friend’s tunic. ‘A bit,’ she said, sounding none too hopeful.

  The door opened and the girl who had gone to find her shoes came in. ‘They’re coming,’ she hissed.

  As the Principal and Matron entered, every girl was standing by her bed, almost to attention. Miss Denham carried a ruler and a pair of scissors.

  ‘Kneel,’ Miss Denham commanded.

  Mystified, Kate glanced round to see every girl kneeling down, not against the bed as if to pray, but in a line down the centre of the room.

  ‘Katharine . . .’ came the warning voice, and swiftly Kate knelt down at the end of the line.

  Miss Denham passed down the line, placing the end of the ruler on the floor and measuring the height of each gym-slip hem from the floor. It was about two inches. Kate glanced down, knowing, with a sinking heart, what she would see. Her own tunic was longer than everyone else’s, its hem wrinkling against the bare boards.

  She watched as Miss Denham paused in front of Brenda, measuring carefully. Kate could see that the girl was bending her body forward slightly so that the hemline came a little nearer the floor. Miss Denham passed on without comment and Kate could almost hear Brenda’s relief.