The Property of Lies

by Marjorie Eccles

  Ellen says she would be delighted, but before they can set out there is a quick double knock on the door. At Miss Hillyard’s invitation to enter, an athletically built woman bounces into the room, a whistle on a ribbon round her neck. She has thick, curly hair and is wearing a square-necked white blouse under a tunic similar to the ones the girls wear, navy blue serge with three box pleats back and front from a yoke, with a belt of the same material. It’s short enough to reveal her knees and an inch of muscular thigh clad in beige lisle stockings. She stops short at the sight of Ellen. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize …’

  The head introduces Ellen and explains, somewhat unnecessarily in view of the gymslip, evidently the woman’s working garb, that Miss Cash teaches games and physical training.

  ‘Daphne,’ adds Miss Cash, responding to Ellen’s outstretched hand with a strong grasp and a brief nod. They exchange pleasantries for a few minutes and then Miss Cash says, ‘I came to tell you there’s been another incident, Miss Hillyard. Gym knickers missing from Antonia Freeman’s locker.’

  ‘Well, that should narrow the list of suspects. There aren’t many needing them that size,’ says Miss Hillyard, evidently not bereft of humour, although she does not allow herself to smile. ‘It’s probably a joke – and Antonia shouldn’t have left them in her locker. I’ll look into it later.’

  ‘Very well, Miss Hillyard.’ The other woman doesn’t look satisfied, but as Miss Hillyard has spoken dismissively, she has no option but to bounce off again, giving Ellen another casual, but not unfriendly nod. Miss Hillyard doesn’t explain the reference to ‘another incident’.

  They have just emerged into the small anteroom where Ellen had waited when the telephone in Miss Hillyard’s study rings. She hesitates. ‘Oh dear, I rather think that may be a call I’m expecting, so if you’ll excuse me, I must answer it. Do sit down and make yourself comfortable. I shouldn’t be long.’

  The anteroom is pleasant, with a couple of easy chairs and a small sofa where visitors can wait – and presumably girls too, before being admitted to see the head – which must be rather more reassuring for them than the traditional wait standing in the corridor, stomach churning at what is to come. Ellen strolls to the open window and looks out over the green lawns and paths where girls have appeared. Unlike Miss Cash, they are wearing their summer uniform of green print dresses with white collars and cuffs, an enlightened innovation, though it hasn’t yet gone as far as dispensing with the universally hated black woollen stockings.

  The window, which looks out over the stretch of grounds to the side of the house, is wide open, and Ellen perches on the cushioned window seat. The extensive lawn has just been cut and the sweet scent of mown grass drifts into the room. In the distance she can see the figure of a man pushing a mower back and forth over the playing field. Girls are moving around in pairs, arm-in-arm, or gathering in groups. One is lying on the grass just under the window, chin propped on her elbows, reading intently. Older girls perch on the low stone walls that run around several raised flower beds, giggling and gossiping, while younger ones toss a ball or simply chase about running off surplus energy. High-pitched chatter and shrill laughter fills the air. Why is it that any group of women, whatever their age, sound like a gaggle of geese, Ellen wonders, at the same time feeling a surge of contentment at being back in her own environment. She lets her imagination picture a day when her little goddaughter, Ellie, Sergeant Joe Gilmour’s daughter, might well be a pupil here. Then she recalls the fees, laughs at the idea and puts the picture from her mind.

  A short, stocky woman clad, despite the warmth of the day, in a tweed costume, plus tie, and a green Tyrolean hat, approaches the girl who is reading, and although she walks with the aid of a stick, it doesn’t hinder her from moving briskly. The girl is so absorbed in her book that she hears nothing, and starts when the teacher prods her with the stick, none too lightly. A clipped, donnish voice comes clearly through the window. ‘Get up at once, Catherine. Don’t you realize how damp the grass is?’

  The girl raises a vivid face, still eager and animated from what she has been reading. The animation fades as she sees the severe teacher and she scrambles up, finger in the book to keep its place. ‘Oh, sorry, Miss Elliott, I didn’t notice.’

  ‘You’ll notice soon enough if you get rheumatism,’ Miss Elliott replies sourly. ‘Everything’s soaking after last night’s storm, you silly girl. What’s wrong with the library, if you want to read?’ She frowns. ‘What’s that you have there?’

  Catherine holds out her book and Miss Elliott gives it a quick glance, but evidently can’t find anything unsuitable about it to criticize and returns it without comment. ‘Get yourself tidied up before your next lesson, you look a disgrace.’ She stumps away, but Catherine doesn’t immediately follow. She doesn’t look chastened, but her expression is hard to read. She is a tall, graceful girl of about fourteen, who looks as though she might normally present a neat appearance. At the moment, however, Miss Elliott is right: the damp has creased the front of her dress from lying on it, and her straight, fair hair is a mess where she has evidently run her fingers through it.

  ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting so long,’ says Miss Hillyard behind Ellen. ‘That’s Miss Elliott, by the way,’ she adds with a rather wry expression, indicating the tweed-clad teacher, who has now halted a noisy group of juniors, presumably in the hope of dampening their high spirits. ‘Maths. A bit of a martinet, you’ll find, but I was fortunate she was available to come here when we started. She was principal of another school but her increasing lameness has forced her to take up a rather less taxing position. I think you’ll find her an interesting person when you get to know her.’ Her gaze transfers approvingly to the girl, now walking away unhurriedly, the book under her arm. ‘And that’s Catherine Leyland, one of our two scholarship girls.’ Her face shines with pride. ‘Our most able pupil – though not, perhaps, a star at maths, which doesn’t make her a favourite with Miss Elliott, I’m afraid. Oh dear, there goes the bell.’ She looks vexed. ‘What a nuisance! That call took much longer than I expected, and I shortly have the sixth form for Latin. I’m so sorry. I can get someone else to show you round, though. Miss Draper has a free period and I’m sure she would be delighted. Unless, of course, you want to be on your way home?’

  ‘No, no. Not in the least. I’m dying to see the school.’

  She has given the correct response and Miss Hillyard looks pleased. ‘Come along then.’

  The staff room is comfortable and relaxing, furnished with chintz-covered armchairs, small tables, well-filled bookshelves and some nice watercolours on the walls. It’s tidier than most staff rooms, but perhaps the newness hasn’t worn off yet.

  Sitting at a table is Miss Eve Draper, the deputy headmistress, who teaches English, a bespectacled, plump and untidy woman with a quantity of soft, light brown hair which seems intent on escaping from its pins, but who is evidently as proud of the school as the headmistress is; her face lights up when the request is conveyed to her. ‘Oh gosh, yes, delighted. Give me a minute or two while I sort myself out. Take a pew.’

  Miss Hillyard, with another apology for abandoning Ellen, leaves while the other woman endeavours, without much success, to stack into a neat pile the slippery-backed exercise books she has been correcting. Abandoning the attempt, she scoops them up and shoves them anyhow into a cupboard, slams the door on them and beams. ‘4B can wait there for a while.’

  She proves to be good-natured and talkative. In the intervals as they make their tour, they exchange information and learn that she and Ellen’s friend Kate Ramsey (the one who recommended her for this position) had trained, a few years apart, at the Agatha Dean Teacher Training College, as had Miss Hillyard. ‘Imagine that, her being at Agatha’s as well!’ Miss Draper says, beaming, as if this is evidence of a bond, though it’s not all that surprising. There are only so many teacher-training colleges, after all. Ellen has frequently met up with fellow alumni in the course of her work. But s
he doesn’t point this out.

  Miss Draper seems a likeable woman, quick to make friends, and Ellen detects a definite case of heroine-worship as she rattles on about how much Miss Hillyard has achieved since the school opened. ‘Lady Maude, who used to live here, couldn’t believe the transformation when she was invited to look round and see what’s been done. It was a dreadful wrench for the old lady to leave the house, but it couldn’t be kept up, you know; the Scroopes had to sell. She now lives in The Bothy – oh, sorry, the Dower House,’ she corrects herself, waving vaguely towards chimneys which can just be seen beyond what is now the playing field. ‘I believe she was apprehensive that her home would have been institutionalized, but she was very happy to see it isn’t at all like that. The head’s frightfully clever at that sort of thing.’

  Ellen duly admires the alterations that have taken place, and with genuine approval. The grey stone building itself is somewhat grim, despite the softening effect of cheerful flower beds and smooth green lawns, grim enough to strike despair into the heart of any little girl snatched away from her parents for the first time. Yet the transformation from what could only have been a rather barn-like atmosphere in such an old house has certainly been well done. Such places are invariably chilly, and though the thick walls provide a coolness welcome on a hot day like this, she’s pleased to note the generous provision of radiators for the winter months.

  ‘I’m sure the girls love being here.’

  ‘Oh, absolutely!’

  Since the classrooms are now in use for lessons, it precludes their inspection, but Ellen’s respect for Miss Hillyard’s venture grows as they visit the other parts of the school – the dining room in which staff and pupils take their meals together, and the girls’ dormitories, although the older girls share study-bedrooms, three to a room. A rather different aspect is revealed when a peep into the gloomy and unwelcoming library reveals that it has been left in its original wood-panelled state, with its no doubt unreadable tomes stacked on the shelves and stiff chairs around a long, central oak table. Not a place to encourage girls to curl up and read, or even to browse. Miss Draper wastes no time there and quickly moves on.

  ‘And that’s about it,’ she says as they emerge, ‘apart from the art room, along there.’ She looks a little uncertain about viewing it, but as she remembers there is no class on at the moment, her face clears. ‘It used to be known as the garden room, and it’s only being used for art as a temporary measure. But it serves very well for the time being because there are big windows for the light. We hope to have something better shortly.’ She pushes open the door.

  ‘Oh! Oh, not empty after all! Miss Keith is here.’

  She looks about to withdraw, but then stands her ground. A woman is standing with her back to them, occupied in front of an easel. She lifts a languid hand to acknowledge their presence, but continues with what she is doing, still with her back to them. Miss Draper rolls her eyes, but they wait and eventually Jocasta Keith does turn around.

  Ellen immediately feels acutely aware of her own shiny nose, the short bob which her hairdresser describes as serviceable, and regrets her entirely unglamorous blouse and skirt. She feels almost on a par with Miss Draper, who seems to have lost more of her hairpins and looks as though she has grabbed the first available garments when she woke up that morning – or even perhaps slept in them. Miss Keith, on the other hand, is immaculately made up, and although she is wearing a three-quarter-length loose smock to protect the clothes underneath, it’s short enough to show the lower half of a navy blue skirt with fashionable godets, flesh-coloured silk stockings and rather enviable shoes. The make-up is entirely unnecessary. Perhaps not precisely beautiful, she is still a striking woman by any standards. She has a pale and flawless skin, brown, almond-shaped eyes and classical features. Her vivid lipstick outlines a full, rather sensuous mouth and her dark hair is beautifully arranged. She does not look like anyone’s idea of a schoolmistress.

  And certainly not one in a small, as yet undistinguished school on the outskirts of a village, whose only amenity is Folbury, a market town several miles away. What is such an exotic specimen doing, teaching here?

  ‘Sorry, I can’t shake hands,’ she says, spreading out paint-stained fingers, not looking, or even sounding remotely regretful, but actually rather scornful. She is clearly impatient of the interruption and throws sideways glances back to the canvas on the easel – which is as colourful as her appearance, and seems to be an abstract with a good deal of angry reds and purples in it. Ellen has no knowledge on which to base judgement, but it isn’t the sort of thing she would want to encounter on her living-room wall before breakfast.

  ‘I hope you’re going to be more accommodating than the last French teacher,’ Miss Keith says ungraciously when she learns that Ellen will be replacing Mademoiselle Blanchard.

  ‘Well,’ says Miss Draper, ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean by that, Miss Keith. Mam’selle was easy to get on with.’

  ‘Depends who you are, I suppose. At any rate, Mrs Reardon, you’ll have relieved Miss Draper of a burden.’

  Miss Draper reddens and says rather abruptly, ‘It was no burden. I wasn’t trained to teach French but I’ve been happy to stand in.’ She attempts, unsuccessfully, to secure some errant hair with a hairpin. A short silence ensues. ‘Well then, we’ll leave you to it, Miss Keith.’

  When the door has closed behind them and they have walked silently back along the corridor, she eventually says, ‘I’m afraid I’m frightfully ignorant about modern art, but I do believe Miss Keith is regarded as rather good by those who know more than I do.’

  Ellen feels this comment is more than generous, considering Miss Keith’s attitude, but Eve Draper evidently has a nicer nature than she herself has. ‘Well, you’ve seen the best part,’ she goes on more cheerfully, Miss Keith commendably forgotten (or ignored), ‘now for the worst.’

  What she means by this is evident as they stop to look out of a large ground-floor window which gives a view of the rear of the school. The house, solidly regular from the front, unexpectedly proves to throw out two wings of unequal length to the back, neither of which as yet forms a habitable part of the school. Miss Draper explains that the west, longer wing, its interior almost finished, is intended for a science lab, a new art room and not least a gymnasium, freeing the assembly hall from gym equipment and enabling it to be used for its proper purposes. Miss Hillyard is apparently keen on her girls eventually being taught chemistry, physics and biology.

  The truncated look of the much older, east wing, on the other hand, is explained by its half-demolished state and its enclosure in scaffolding, part of which Ellen had noticed from the drive. Miss Draper explains. This is the original house, dating from the fifteenth century, of more recent times used as domestic quarters: a laundry, stables and coach houses with servants’ rooms above. It has in fact been unused and uninhabited for more years than anyone cares to remember, and although it’s basically sound, the inside is presently in such disrepair that the question hovers as to whether it’s really worth saving at all. ‘There’s talk of it also providing a library and common room for the girls – and perhaps even a domestic science department.’ She looks rather embarrassed at this last, and Ellen senses controversy. Not everyone is willing to admit that aspects of life, post-war, are rapidly changing, but look at what has happened to Maxstead Court and its owners. At the moment, girls whose parents can afford the fees here are unlikely ever to have to cook a family dinner or make their own clothes, yet there could come a time when even they might be glad they had learnt to cook and sew.

  In fact, part of the ancient wing has already disappeared, razed to the ground. The stables and coach houses have gone. What is left is an oddly sheared-off arm looking forlornly like those pictures of houses in the Flanders battlefields, ruined by bombs and shells, leaving their insides, doors and staircases nakedly exposed.

  ‘I’m afraid the builders have left things in rather a mess, haven’t they?’
comments Miss Draper.

  This is only too obvious, looking at the forlorn evidence of abandoned activity all around. The two wings and the main building together form a roughly three-sided courtyard, destined when finished, she says, to make a quadrangle (it’s already known as the Quad) of the present rubbish-strewn space, with perhaps a fountain and flower beds at the centre, but at present this needs some effort of the imagination. Ellen, who has recently had all too many experiences of the unaccountable appearances and disappearances of tradesmen in the overhaul of the house she and her husband have recently bought, sympathizes. ‘They’ll be back when it suits them, I expect.’

  ‘It’s not quite as simple as that – and for a very good reason, I’m afraid.’ Miss Draper’s kindly face clouds.

  ‘Projects like this are expensive,’ Ellen hazards.

  ‘Oh, it’s not that. Or not so much. I’m afraid something frightfully shocking and sad happened, and the builder who was doing the work is no longer available.’

  It is an all too familiar story that Ellen now hears. Sometimes it seems as though the unrest and desire for change which has come over the world since the war is to blame for everything, particularly for the current depression. Britain’s first-ever Labour government and the Prime Minister, Ramsay MacDonald, aren’t doing very much for the unemployment figures. Jobs are hard to find, businesses have regularly gone to the wall. In this case, as Miss Draper explains, the small firm who had been doing the work here had been declared bankrupt, and the owner, shattered by the disgrace of it, had driven his car into a tree while drunk, killing himself in the process.

  ‘So shocking, and such a dreadful pity, although he luckily left no family. He did such a good job on the rest of the school, nothing but the best was good enough for him. But I believe Miss Hillyard is hoping his assistant will take over the work and that he’s keen to do so. It might give him the opportunity to start up his own business, even as things are now, seeing that the firm had an excellent reputation and a backlist of very satisfied customers. Michael Deegan is another of the same stamp, though better at business, let’s hope, than poor dear Mr Broderick. It takes time to sort these things out, of course. But meanwhile,’ she frowns, ‘no one seems to know what to do about clearing this mess up.’