“Who remembers the words to the Swanburne song?” she called out gaily as she swung her legs over the edge of the cot and gave her arms a good stretch. The Incorrigibles groaned and shook themselves awake. All three looked creaky and stiff as they climbed out of their cots, which goes to prove that even children who were raised in a forest by wolves will soon become accustomed to soft feather beds in a luxurious mansion, if given the chance. (Perhaps this is why some storytellers insist that a true princess would never be able to sleep in a lumpy bed. But it is not so. Princesses of even the most delicate sensibilities have been known to enjoy a rugged camping trip, with melted marshmallows and spooky tales told ’round the fire. Indeed, princesses are often far pluckier than given credit for, and can manage their sleeping bags and mountaineering equipment as well as the next person, and while wearing sparkly tiaras, too.)
The children dressed and combed their hair, and Penelope quizzed them once more on the words to the song, in case they wanted to join in when all the girls came marching and singing into the dining hall. Unfortunately, the children had learned the words according to the way they sounded, rather than what they actually meant, so that “All hail to our founder” became “A pail full of flounder” and so on. But it only made Penelope smile, for the Swanburne girls did exactly the same thing.
“Perhaps I am making too much of this business with the impostor Quinzy,” she thought as she herded the children out the door. “Surely, one person, no matter how devious, is no match for all of Swanburne! I will deliver my warning about the IQ to Miss Mortimer after breakfast, and then I can turn my attention to happier pursuits—like preparing my CAKE speech, although there is no need to rush. After all, I have until tomorrow to get it done. . . .”
And so, with Penelope’s merry mood veering dangerously close to optoomuchism, the four young people marched to breakfast, singing all the way. The words to the Swanburne school song occasionally got mixed up with those of the Postal Tygers marching song, but as long as the children sang with conviction Penelope did not bother to correct them. “Better to make mistakes with gusto than squeak like mice so no one can hear you at all. Hmm! I wonder if there will be a birthday party this morning?” She said it to entice the children to walk faster, but she too was excited at the prospect.
They reached the empty dining hall just before eight o’clock, and settled themselves at a table at the far end, nearest the kitchen, so that they might get the best view of the girls’ arrival and also be first in line for porridge once it was brought out. As the clock began to strike the hour, Penelope could barely contain herself. “Here they come,” she said excitedly. “Listen! You will hear them coming, loud and clear—any minute now. . . .”
But there was only silence. After a moment, the doors swung open, and the Swanburne girls marched in two quiet rows to their seats. A few gave curious, sidelong glances to the strangers in the hall, and their eyes grew wide at the presence of the boys, but none dared break rank to offer a greeting. When the girls sat down, they did so all at once, and landed on the benches with a unified thud.
Taking that as her cue, Cassiopeia climbed up on the bench, threw back her head, and began to sing: “A pail full of flounder, Agatha!”
But no one joined in, and Penelope gently guided her littlest pupil to sit down again. “Perhaps they have changed things so that the singing comes after the meal,” she whispered. “Let us wait and see, and do as the others do. But be ready. When it comes time to stand in line, you will have to scurry to the front to get porridge while it is still hot!”
The children nodded and braced themselves to take off from their seats like sprinters at the starting blocks. But apparently that, too, had changed. The girls did not rise up and jostle themselves into a happy, wriggling line to get their breakfasts, as Penelope remembered. Instead, two giant vats of porridge were brought out from the kitchen on wheeled carts and pushed ’round the hall by blank-faced kitchen maids, who stopped once at each table. Wordlessly, the seated girls passed their bowls to the end, where the eldest girl ladled in the porridge and passed the bowls back full. In this way it only took minutes to serve the entire school.
Penelope and the children were also served in this way. Alexander did the ladling, as no one had joined them at their table. It was efficient, one had to admit, but lacked the sense of adventure and cardiovascular exercise that dashing to get a good spot on line had always provided.
Cassiopeia stuck her spoon in the bowl to see how long she could make it stand up on its own. The steaming porridge was thick as glue, and the boys were able to count to five before the spoon tipped over. She licked it and made a face. “Where’s the jam?”
“They must have run out,” Penelope answered casually, as if it did not matter. But, honestly, jam! How hard could it be to keep enough on hand for breakfast? A mere spoonful would be enough to lift anyone’s spirits.
Beowulf scanned the hall for signs of levity. There were none. “Where are the birthday parties?” he asked.
“Perhaps it is not anyone’s birthday today,” Penelope replied, but she found it surprising as well. With so many girls on hand, it seemed that every day was likely to be at least one person’s birthday.
“Shhhh!” The shush came from another table. There had never been any shushing at Swanburne before.
“Jam. Jam jam jam!” Cassiopeia complained, her voice rising.
“Don’t worry. Will be plenty of cake at Cake Day,” Alexander reassured her.
“Maybe even jam cake,” Beowulf added wistfully, and began to drool.
“Actually, the CAKE has nothing to do with cake,” Penelope tried to explain once more, for she did not wish there to be any further misunderstandings. The children had already been led to expect singing, jam, and birthday parties at breakfast, and had been disappointed each time. To then expect cake and get none could be a recipe for disaster.
“Shhh!” The shush came again, louder, this time from several different sources. Chagrined, Penelope gestured for the children to eat in silence.
No singing, no jam, no birthday parties—but at least there was still porridge, and it was warm, too, with a dusting of cinnamon on top. The four of them filled their tummies, and while they did, Penelope puzzled over how much had changed. The dining hall even looked different. But how?
She put down her spoon. There were the same long wooden tables, the same hard benches, the same tall windows through which light streamed onto the wide-planked wooden floor. And there were the same bright and earnest girls, their glossy, well-combed heads bent over to the serious task of eating.
“Eureka!” she cried, and then clapped her hand over her mouth, for the word rang through the hall like a gong. Each girl’s head swiveled momentarily to stare, then turned back to her bowl.
The swiveling heads made Penelope’s realization all the more obvious. It was the hair! When Penelope had been a student, all the girls had dark, drab hair. This was the result of the Swanburne hair poultice that was applied on a regular basis, to repel lice and fleas and encourage healthy scalps, according to school policy.
Penelope had never thought one way or the other about this practice, which the girls dutifully lined up for every six weeks or so. None of the girls questioned it. After all, having the same color hair simply made their uniforms look more, well, uniform. And there had not been an outbreak of fleas in quite some time.
But now the shining sea of girl heads in the dining hall boasted hair of all different colors, from pale wheat-gold to inky black, and everything in between, including many different shades of brown: from acorn and mud to russet and bark. Some were flecked with gold; others were dark as rich chocolate. Even so, the Incorrigibles’ lustrous auburn locks stood out vividly from the rest, like bright red poppies in a grassy field.
Penelope’s hand flew to her own hair then, dark and drab as it still was, for Miss Mortimer had insisted she continue to use the poultice even after graduating, and had even extracted a solemn promise from her
to that effect. Yet the Swanburne girls themselves appeared to have given it up. And, she realized with a start, in all the letters she had received from Cecily since they both left school, her friend had not once mentioned receiving the same instruction from Miss Mortimer. Nor had she reported receiving the packets of poultice that Miss Mortimer sent Penelope every few months, like clockwork.
Penelope stood and clapped her hands briskly, clap clap clap. The sound echoed nakedly through the hall. “Come, children. Put away your bowls,” she instructed. Her voice was level and strong. It was just as a Swanburne graduate ought to sound, and this time she did not care who shushed her. “It is time to go see Miss Mortimer.”
But now the shining sea of girl heads in the dining hall boasted hair of all different colors. . . .
The Seventh Chapter
Miss Mortimer’s office is filled with ghosts.
PERHAPS THE STRANGELY SILENT BREAKFAST had lit a fuse of rebellion in Penelope’s heart, or perhaps the thrill of her discovery made her feel like making noise. Whatever the reason, she decided there was no time like the present to lead the children in a spirited and exceedingly loud performance of the Swanburne school song. The four of them sang it over and over again as they marched through the eerily quiet halls, all the way to Miss Mortimer’s office. Penelope’s own clear soprano carried above the rest.
“All hail to our founder, Agatha!
Pithy and wise is she.
Her sayings make us clever,
And don’t take long to tell.
When do we quit? Never!
How do we do things? Well!
“We strive to be like dear Agatha.
Cheerful and brave are we.
Our hard work makes us lucky.
We’re optimistic, too.
How do we feel? Plucky!
We’re Swanburne, through and through!”
They sang and they marched, and all the while, Penelope thought of her hair. The one time she had stopped using the poultice, her hair had soon begun to reveal its true color: a striking reddish brown, quite like the color of the children’s hair, and wonderfully shiny, too. But Penelope took her promises seriously, even when they doomed her to a head of dark, drab locks that did nothing to flatter her complexion. Why had Miss Mortimer insisted that she keep using the poultice when even the Swanburne girls themselves had stopped? Penelope was determined to find out.
The final go-round of the song reached its climactic end. A bemused Miss Mortimer opened her office door to find the Incorrigibles taking mock bows and curtsies before an imaginary audience, as if they had just concluded a successful opening night on the West End.
“Bravo, one and all!” the headmistress exclaimed as she beckoned her visitors inside. “And such lovely harmony on the last note, too. I never tire of hearing ‘A Pail Full of Flounder,’ as the girls like to call it, especially when sung with so much feeling. Did you know that the song was written by one of our earliest graduates? She grew up to be quite a talented poet, as I recall.” (Only a very observant sort of person would notice how Miss Mortimer smiled a small, secret smile as she said this. Under normal circumstances Penelope was precisely this sort of person, but her mind was already so crammed with urgent and mysterious matters that it is possible even she may have missed it.)
The children wriggled themselves into the straight-backed chairs that faced Miss Mortimer’s desk and swung their legs excitedly, for to be ushered into a headmistress’s office was wonderfully school-like, and that was a great novelty to them.
Penelope settled in a chair as well, but she glanced with longing at the window seat. It was scarcely a year since the last time she had curled up there among the pillows, a Giddy-Yap, Rainbow! book in her lap and Shantaloo draped across her legs, purring like a miniature steam engine. Tempus fugit, indeed! Those simple, mostly happy days would never come again. “That is, unless there was some sort of machine that could let one travel back and forth through time,” she thought. “A time machine, you might call it. I wonder if such a thing could exist?”
(She had no way of knowing this, of course, but some years later, a book titled The Time Machine would be published in England. It was written by a Mr. H. G. Wells, who also wrote books about invisibility potions, alien invasions, and other subjects that continue to fascinate readers to this very day. As for time machines, perhaps you too have longed to live among the ancient Romans, practicing elocution like Demosthenes with your mouth comically full of pebbles. Or you might prefer to peek over the shoulder of Shakespeare as he composed his sonnets, and make helpful suggestions regarding the poetic meter. And who could fail to enjoy a quiet afternoon in the days when Victoria was queen, sipping a nice, restorative cup of tea? Alas, despite its many practical uses, the time machine has yet to be invented, although a library card and a leap of the imagination have been known to do the job nearly as well.)
“Ghosties! Boo, woof!” Cassiopeia yapped in excitement, and then poked Beowulf, for her exclamation had sounded rather like his name.
“You must forgive the mess.” Miss Mortimer gestured around. Except for the desk and chairs, all the furniture in the office was covered with white sheets, and the rugs were rolled up and propped against a wall. “My office is soon to be painted, and everything is in a jumble.”
“‘Jumble’ means ‘chaos.’ Boo!” Beowulf agreed, for all the white sheets did make the office seem full of ghosts.
“Pandeminimum . . . pandemaniac . . . oh, havoc!” Cassiopeia covered her face in shame at forgetting how to say “pandemonium,” which, to be fair, is not an easy word to pull off without practice.
“Now, now. A little mayhem never hurt anyone,” Alexander said, and patted his sister on the shoulder.
“The children have a knack for synonyms,” Penelope explained modestly, although she took great pride in her students’ accomplishments, as all good teachers do. “Miss Mortimer, before you say anything more, there was an urgent matter that I wrote to you about, regarding the board of trustees. But I fear you may not have received my letter of warning, as you did not mention it in your correspondence. Of course, you included a great deal of other useful information, for which I am grateful. Nine times eight is seventy-two!” she added, suddenly uneasy. She missed being able to see the portrait of Agatha Swanburne that hung on the wall behind Miss Mortimer’s desk. The founder’s calm gaze had always been a comfort to her, but the portrait, too, was draped in a sheet. And was it not the case that Agatha Swanburne’s hair was also a distinctive shade of auburn? That was how she remembered it from the painting, at least, but now it was hidden from view.
“A warning about the trustees?” Miss Mortimer frowned. “I received no such letter, though we ought not to blame the postal service. The Defense of Definitude Office reads all the incoming and outgoing mail to check for spelling errors, neatness, the proper use of the apostrophe, and so forth. Their corrections are most helpful, of course, but not every letter meets with the DODO’s approval. Those that do not tend to disappear.”
Penelope was about to protest, for her penmanship was nothing if not neat, and she was positively meticulous in her use of the apostrophe—but at the word “dodo,” the children leaped up from their chairs and waddled clumsily around the office. Occasionally, they attempted to fly. Naturally, these efforts did not succeed.
Penelope turned to Miss Mortimer. “What on earth is the Defense of Definitude Office?”
“It is another innovation by the new trustees.” Miss Mortimer addressed the Incorrigibles, who now lay wheezing on the floor. “Can it be nap time already? I hope you slept comfortably on your cots, despite the lumps. Or were you kept up all night, like that poor princess with the pea?”
The children politely explained that they had slept perfectly well, but that their species was in the midst of going extinct and would soon be no more.
“Maybe peas will go extinct,” Alexander said to his siblings, who squawked faintly but approvingly.
Miss Mortimer had no
answer for that, and turned to Penelope. “Save your urgent news until later, when we can speak privately; I would not want to alarm the dodos at such a sensitive moment. And how did you enjoy breakfast in the dining hall? I trust things were as you remembered, more or less.”
“Rather less than more, I should say,” Penelope replied, frowning. “It was much too quiet for my taste. And I could not help noticing the difference in the girls’ hair. Unless I am mistaken, it seems they no longer use the hair poultice. I was hoping you might tell me why.”
“The new way of serving the porridge keeps it nice and hot, did you notice?” Miss Mortimer replied, after a pause. “It is a vast improvement, I think. Change can be for the better, Penny, dear. One must remember that.”
Penelope squirmed in her chair, which suddenly seemed uncomfortably small. “Of course. But about the hair poultice—”
“Jam!” Miss Mortimer abruptly cried. “Was there a little jam, at least?”
Still on the floor, all three Incorrigibles sadly shook their heads.
The headmistress sighed. “Pity. I am afraid that jam is simply too expensive, given the new and rather strict budgets prepared by the trustees. But I will tell you a secret: Dr. Westminster occasionally smuggles jars of honey into the dining hall, straight from his own beehives. Those are happy mornings indeed. Children, have you made plans to see Dr. Westminster yet? I know he will be delighted to make your acquaintance. And what veterinarian would miss the chance to examine three not-quite-dead dodos? It is a rare opportunity, to say the least.”
The children squawked, even more faintly this time, as they drew ever nearer to the brink of doom. Truly, it was a pathetic sound. Skwah-ahhhhhk! Skwah-ahhhhhk!
“Miss Mortimer!” Penelope had to fight the urge to raise her hand in hopes of being called upon. “Why have the girls stopped using the hair poultice?”
The Interrupted Tale Page 9
