by Sam Angus
‘Sit there, please, next to Imelda.’
Imelda rolled her eyes and turned aside. Imelda did whatever Faye did – that was why she’d rolled her eyes. Lyla sat down. Faye just wanted to be like Mary Masters; she wanted to be head of the school one day and carry Pinnacle’s books around. Still, it was annoying the way that everyone copied whatever Faye said and did.
Threadgold went from desk to desk. She was very ancient, and when she moved about she made a rustling sound like dry leaves. She always wore the same suit and the same lace-up shoes with socks, and always left the scent of talcum powder behind her wherever she went.
‘Turn over. You have thirty minutes.’
Lyla lifted her chin and walked quickly between the desks to the back next to Imelda, as instructed. She hadn’t known there’d be exams. She gazed at her sheet, bewildered. The only kind of mathematics Winnie knew about didn’t have any letters and brackets. Anyway, she’d never done any kind of exam. She scowled at the formulae on the sheet of paper and then around the class and saw lots of pencils moving earnestly and swiftly across sheets.
After a while she put her hand up because she could make no sense of anything and thirty minutes was feeling like a very long time.
‘Put your hand down, Lyla Spence. No doubt you haven’t covered this topic?’
Lyla gazed at the bookshelves and at the oil paintings and wondered if any of the people in the portraits had done sums with letters and numbers mixed up. Then she looked at the clock and then around the room again and at the back of Cat’s head, because Cat was just in front of her, and then at Imelda, who had almost finished her sheet. Imelda glared at Lyla and turned her sheet face down in a huffy sort of way, but Lyla noticed that Cat had moved her sheet and all the answers on it were clear and legible, so she grabbed her pencil and began to write.
31
COVENTRY
Hearing a feverish whispering emanating from the hall, Lyla paused to watch, and saw that the girls were huddled in close-knit clusters, then separating and re-forming in new clusters, like a kaleidoscopic pattern, only from time to time one girl would detach herself and go to the noticeboard and quickly return, pointing and beckoning.
Lyla’s pulse began to race and her heart to pound – the results of the mathematics exam was on that board for all to see. She headed down the stairs, chin tilted, arms swinging defiantly to show she didn’t care. Nevertheless, as the hall grew silent and heads turned, heat and colour rose to her cheeks.
Pinnacle saw Lyla and paused. Then she took up the school bell and began brusquely cutting a swathe through the girls, scattering them with sweeping arabesques of her arm and a violent ringing of the bell.
Lyla, eyes fixed on the noticeboard, made her way towards it, trying very much to look as though she didn’t care that girls pulled aside when she passed. She stared at the board. The name of every single girl was listed in year groups, and beside every name was a percentage mark in black. Only by Lyla’s name there was a red mark and the word ‘DISQUALIFIED’.
Disqualified.
The whole school could see that Lyla Spence of Year Two was DISQUALIFIED.
‘Cheating, Lyla Spence. Garden Hill girls do not cheat.’ The Pinnacle gripped Lyla’s arm and propelled her along the great length of the North Corridor.
Ahead of them Great Aunt Ada, singing loudly to herself, emerged abruptly from the Billiard Room and blew towards them like a spring squall. Pinnacle tightened her grip and quickened her pace, determined to ignore the mistress of the house, but Ada barred her way and said breezily, ‘Ah, good morning, Pinion.’
Under her arm was an item Lyla had never seen attached to the person of her great aunt before: a large rolled paper. Lyla eyed it, fearful of what Ada might do, for there was a sprightly, wicked air about her today.
‘And tell me, Pinfish, have your girls taught you anything yet this morning? They’re the best teachers, the young, are they not? Remarkable for their ardour and curiosity, for the clarity with which they see things, is that not so? We must try every day to be more like a child, to remember what it was to be a child. They should be in charge, yes, of course, I quite agree, the staff must be assessed by the pupils, not the other way round at all.’ Aunt Ada swept onwards, murmuring to herself, ‘Yes, it’s all quite topsy-turvy as it is.’
Pinnacle pushed Lyla through the door into the French class. ‘Catherine Lively, Lyla Spence,’ she announced, ‘you two will see me at 5 p.m. today for detention. The rest of you are to understand that these girls are in Coventry for the week – do you understand, Form IV?’
Lyla, who didn’t know what Coventry was, glanced sidelong at Cat as she passed, but Cat hunched her shoulders and turned, and when Lyla sat at her desk and opened her French exercise book she found a note.
DON’T EVER COPY MY WORK AGAIN OR TRY TO TALK TO ME.
I AM NOT YOUR FRIEND ANY MORE.
Lyla looked up and smiled. She’d never had a friend before. Cat might not be her friend now, but now at least Lyla knew that she had once had a friend, and that friend was Cat: the person she most liked.
32
THE UNDERCROFT
Lyla and Cat sat at opposite ends of the arctic, crypt-like place known as the Undercroft. Pinnacle sat between them, invigilating detention, which in this case was to memorize the books of the New Testament and write them out a hundred times. From time to time Pinnacle would summon them to recite the names of the books and, if they faltered, would dismiss them to resume the copying out once more.
Pinnacle went to the door to answer a query from Primrose, and Lyla took her opportunity to speak.
‘I thought you put your paper there especially so I could see it,’ she whispered.
Cat scribbled furious capital letters across a sheet of paper and held it up.
I DIDN’T KNOW YOU’D BE SO STUPID AS TO COPY THE WRONG ANSWERS.
Lyla hissed, ‘How was I supposed to know they were wrong?’
Cat rolled her eyes, then after a pause smiled broadly and wrote again in more capitals:
I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN YOU DIDN’T!
XXXX
And they both grinned at each other.
33
DON’T RUN, LYLA SPENCE!
‘Clementine Walters . . . Jemima Somerset . . . Lilac Townsend . . .’
From the stairs Lyla eyed the pile of in-tray letters and narrowed her eyes as the girls whose names were called stepped forward.
‘Faye Peak . . . Imelda Taylor . . .’
Lyla watched as Faye opened hers. A group gathered around Faye and she began to read her letter aloud. Lyla ached to be in the centre of a cluster of friends with a letter to read. Break-times were the worst parts of the day because everyone had someone to talk to and letters to read, and sometimes Lyla would hang about Miss Trumpet, and sometimes she’d wander off as if she had far more urgent and interesting things to do and had had so many letters that it didn’t matter if none came for her that day.
‘Lyla Spence,’ read Miss Trumpet. Lyla, astonished, hurled herself down the stairs.
‘Don’t run, Lyla Spence!’ called Mary Masters.
Lyla wanted to say something clever to show that she could do as she liked in her own Great Aunt’s own house, but more than that she wanted the letter.
‘Lyla Spence!’ called Miss Trumpet again.
Lyla set off a little slower, eyeing the letter Miss Trumpet held. She stretched out her hand, then saw the postmark and froze.
She looked Miss Trumpet in the eye, fighting to keep the tremor from her voice. ‘I don’t want it,’ she said.
‘And what am I to do with it this time, Lyla Spence?’
‘Oh, anything you like,’ answered Lyla in a light and trailing voice.
‘I’ll take it,’ said Cat instantly, stepping forward. ‘I know what to do with it.’
Lyla turned away and bowed her head, hands balled into tight fists, eyes brimming. It wasn’t Mop who’d written. Lyla hunched her shoulders and headed back up the sta
irs, feeling hundreds of pairs of eyes burning into her back.
Cat caught up beside her, tugging at her sleeve and saying in an urgent, anguished voice, ‘Look, Lyla – it’s from France.’
Lyla paused, then shook her head and answered, deliberately casual, ‘It’s only from Father.’ She stomped up the first few stairs, a tiny bit pleased that Cat was still behind her and had clearly decided to talk to her again.
‘Something might have happened . . . Lyla, you must open it.’
‘No, because he doesn’t care about me,’ snapped Lyla loud enough that all around might hear. ‘Give it to Solomon.’
Cat paused. ‘Did you know,’ she demanded furiously, ‘that Solomon says lots of people would like to have fathers who write to them?’
‘Well, I don’t care what Solomon says.’
‘All right. I’ll make the plane then,’ said Cat. She proceeded to open the envelope and to unfold and refold the letter.
‘I’m not surprised her mother doesn’t bother much with her,’ said Faye very loudly.
Lyla was about to retort viciously, when Cat, smoothly, smilingly, interjected.
‘Of course her mother bothers with her, and actually next month it’s her birthday and she’ll certainly get something from her then.’
Cat took Lyla’s arm and they strode together past Faye, but Lyla looked downcast and a little troubled, because Mop might not remember her birthday and Faye might be even more horrid then.
‘Look, Lyla,’ said Cat smiling and holding something up that was only distantly recognizable as a fighter plane. ‘A Hawker Hurricane, most definitely.’
34
A HAWKER HURRICANE IN THE DAMSON
My darling Lyla,
This is a low point for Britain – I hope the very lowest, and that things will take a turn soon for the better. We have only to be thankful that the majority of men came safely home from Dunkirk. For the rest, the Italians have placed their bet with Germany so as to be on what they think will be the winning side. And Germany herself is preparing to invade the tiny island on which I have left my only daughter, while I am under orders to make my way far away from you, to Egypt. We are surrounded there by German-and-Italian-controlled territories, but we must, at all costs, protect Suez.
I hope you are well and happy. It is rather fun, is it not, to have a school arrive at Furlongs? Dear Ada keeps me posted, but I would so dearly love one day to read some words from you.
It is perhaps for the best that your understanding of the things that happened to us is only partial, but one day you will be ready to know the way things really stand. Until that time and whenever I am able, I will write. I will keep on writing and perhaps one day you will read the things I’ve written.
Yours always,
Father
35
ICE SKATES
‘I’m not surprised her mother doesn’t bother much with her.’
Faye’s words revolved in Lyla’s head.
She was going to show Faye Peak. It was her birthday soon, and Mop would write, but Lyla would remind Mop just in case because Mop did need to be reminded about things like birthdays.
Furlongs
Ladywood
North Devon
Dearest Mop,
I get everything wrong. I even copy the wrong answers.
But if you were here, I wouldn’t get everything wrong.
The reason I had to copy is that Winnie doesn’t know about algebra and lots of other things and because I had to do an exam and because I never ever knew I’d have to do one of those. A week is such a long time if you are in Coventry and no one speaks a single word to you. Now no one likes me except Cat, and she is still a bit cross because of me getting her into Coventry, so now it is mostly just me and Bucket again.
G. A. Ada is very cross about Coventry. She says Coventry is cruel and that she might put the teachers in detention because she says they must have forgotten what it is to be a child. She says no one should ever be a teacher unless they can remember what it is like to be young.
Please don’t forget my birthday – it is two weeks away now. It is so lonely if you don’t get any letters, and because I don’t get letters, people think you don’t care about me. Also, if my hair was sort of wavier and blonder it would look like Faye Peak’s and then people would like me because everyone likes her. I don’t know how you do that though and I don’t know how to grow up quicker and there are so many things I need you to tell me.
It is really, really cold now. All the ink in the ink pots freezes, and the water in the jugs, and we are allowed to wear hats as well as mittens in classes and even in the dining room. One good thing about the cold is that I have heard that sometimes in winter the lake freezes, and we might be allowed to skate.
Everyone has written home for their skates, so please, please will you send mine. I’m all right at ice-skating and it’s easier to make friends if you can be good at something. You could send them for my birthday because everyone else gets presents on their birthday.
I do miss you . . .
The bell sounded. School was all bells and gongs and having to be in certain places at certain times, and since Lyla had more tardies than anyone else in her class, she put down her pen and ran downstairs.
36
SAD AND LONELY AND STRANGE
Lyla meandered along the corridor.
French had not been very successful. Bucket had escaped from Lyla’s lap, and Mlle Fremont, known to all as Frou-Frou, had grown hysterical and scandalized and had hopped about and then made Lyla leave the class, and it had taken most of the morning to locate Bucket. On finding him, Lyla had tapped Bucket on the nose and told him he’d been wicked to hide in the housemaid’s cupboard because finding a small ferret in a house as large as Furlongs could take a very long time indeed.
Lyla passed Faye – who was, of course, loitering around Mary Masters and the clique of prefects that sat huddled in blankets and scarves in the corridor – and she heard her giggle and whisper.
‘See, Mary . . . Lyla’s just weird, talking to that thing . . . That’s another reason she doesn’t have any friends . . .’
Lyla didn’t hear the rest because she was marching on. She wouldn’t mind what Faye said, because there was no point in minding about people you didn’t like.
She reached the Yellow Silk Room and hesitated. The door was a fraction open, which was odd because she always left it shut. Warily she eyed the room, saw her latest, unfinished letter on the desk and walked very slowly towards it, her heart thumping. Across the bottom of the letter in someone else’s handwriting were scrawled the words:
SAD AND LONELY AND STRANGE
Lyla’s throat constricted. Her hot, trembling fingers clutched at the paper – what had they read? She imagined them right now whispering and nudging one another, the painful things she’d written passing from ear to ear.
Please don’t forget my birthday – it is two weeks away now. It is so lonely if you don’t get any letters, and because I don’t get letters, people think you don’t care about me. Also, if my hair was sort of wavier and blonder it would look like Faye Peak’s and then people would like me because everyone likes her.
Lyla writhed with a shame so intense, so physical, that it compelled her to hurl herself on to the bed and kick out and kick out again. She snatched the covers over her head, hugging herself in a welter of rage, then flung them off, rolled over and flung out her arms and legs and beat them on the cover, then writhed and kicked again, the words she’d written reverberating in her head and mingling inside her with some deeper thing that she couldn’t bring into the light.
37
ROBIN
‘Lyla . . . Lyla . . .’
Lyla was still in bed, her back firmly to the door. ‘Go away!’
‘It’s me – Cat!’
Lyla didn’t care who it was. ‘Go away!’
There was no sound of footsteps retreating, so Lyla grew suspicious and twisted her head a little and saw t
hat Cat stood in the doorway.
‘Go away, Cat.’
‘Actually, I won’t,’ Cat answered in an even, smiling way. ‘I just want to say I know what they did, and it isn’t right.’
‘Who was it?’ spat Lyla, sitting up. She flung off the bed cover and glared at Cat. Then she slumped, shaking and sobbing in a broken heap. ‘They know everything – everything . . . and how would they feel if I knew everything about them – I don’t go into their rooms and read their letters . . .’
‘No –’ Cat’s voice was amused again – ‘but you do try on their clothes.’
That made Lyla feel guilty on top of everything else, so she said nothing.
Cat came to the bed and sat by Lyla. ‘My mother says she might come down one day, you know, to visit.’
Lyla tensed. She tried to imagine Mop coming and standing at the gate of Furlongs and was suddenly not at all certain that she’d want her to. After a while she asked, ‘What sort of shoes does your mother wear?’
‘That’s a funny sort of question,’ said Cat, startled.
‘I mean – are they brown and sort of –’ Lyla made a shape with her hands – ‘sort of clumpy?’
Cat giggled. ‘Well, actually, yes – they’re very sensible sorts of shoes. Shoes for doing things in. She says you have to be able to do things in shoes – that that’s the whole point of them.’
‘What does she do in her shoes?’ asked Lyla, giggling too, because even she knew this was an odd question.
‘You’re really very funny. No else asks what shoes Mother wears.’
‘Does she do lots of knitting?’ asked Lyla.
Cat laughed again. ‘Well, yes, but it doesn’t matter what shoes she does her knitting in. She sends the knitting to the Red Cross – jerseys and socks and things.’
