by Jess Foley
And through it all Blanche was determined not to react. She was only too aware of Mr Savill’s generosity in providing for her schooling, and she would do nothing to disgrace him or put his faith in her in doubt.
And the taunts went on, after a while beginning to come from Helen’s friends as well, as, encouraged by her, and growing stronger in the immunity that she seemed to enjoy, they took up the war she had waged.
‘I shall tell Papa when we see him next.’
Marianne spoke as they walked in the school grounds during Recreation. Over luncheon in the refectory Helen had done her best, unseen by the mistresses, to humiliate Blanche again. ‘He’ll tell Miss Carling,’ Marianne added. ‘It’s bound to stop then.’
‘No,’ Blanche said at once. ‘Uncle John mustn’t know of it.’ She put her hand on Marianne’s arm. ‘I must deal with it myself. And I will – in time. Till then I shall just have to put up with it.’
Helen’s assaults continued. On one occasion Blanche returned to the dormitory and found on her pillow a note in Helen’s hand. ‘There is a strong smell of cow manure in this area,’ the note said. ‘When you go home, please ask your brother to keep his distance.’ Saying nothing, Blanche tore up the note and threw it away. The following afternoon she found on her bed a pile of dirty clothes. She stood staring – and then from behind her came the sound of Helen’s raucous laughter. She turned to see her standing there flanked by her three cronies.
‘We were just wondering if you’d mind taking it back home with you next week,’ Helen said sweetly as she gestured to the clothes. ‘We thought your mother wouldn’t mind putting it in with the rest of the village’s washing.’ For a moment Blanche stood there, then, whirling, she snatched up the collection of soiled drawers, petticoats, nightdresses and stockings and, running to the window, pitched the lot out onto the forecourt. Her action, however, in no way constituted anything of a victory. Miss Carling, not knowing the reason for her actions, punished her for them.
That October, with Blanche and Marianne back at Hallowford for the half-term holiday, it was clear to John Savill that something was wrong and he asked Blanche what it was. ‘Nothing, sir,’ she answered, avoiding his eyes. He knew, though, that something was the matter.
Returning to school Blanche found herself once again the victim of Helen’s taunts. Now, however, there was a slight difference; now Helen had widened the aperture of her focus to include Marianne.
One warm Saturday morning in late October Blanche and Marianne had been set to work on their garden plots, to clear away the dead summer growth and begin to prepare the ground for next spring’s sowing. Miss Bassington, the horticultural mistress, had just gone back into the school building, leaving them to their work. They had been busy for some time when Helen and four other girls came towards them from the direction of the side gate. Helen and her friends, Blanche guessed, were returning from doing various jobs of work at the nearby church, tasks which were a privilege which they guarded with jealousy. They went to the church regularly each Saturday morning after breakfast, where, joining two or three local women, they gave their help in the cleaning of the brasses, arranging the flowers and doing other odd jobs that needed to be done. They went happily, not for the sake of the work they did, but mainly for the chance of escaping for a few hours from the confines of the school and Saturday morning lessons.
Blanche, having seen Helen’s approach, turned to concentrate on her work. But it did no good. While two of the girls went on by, Helen and the other two came to a stop nearby. There Helen, after trying without success to get a response from Blanche, turned her attention to Marianne.
‘You never have a word to say for yourself, have you?’ she said. ‘All you can do is hover around the peasant.’ She reached out a contemptuous hand and stroked Marianne’s cheek. ‘Little Miss Goody Goody.’
Marianne stood silent for a moment but then, finding her courage, said: ‘Why don’t you leave us alone, Helen. Just go away and leave us alone.’
The ‘O-o-o-o-h’ from Helen’s lips was a long sound of surprise. ‘So the little worm has a voice, too, has she?’ She stepped forward, looking down at Marianne from the advantage of her greater height. ‘Where did you learn such manners? From your friend here?’ Marianne said nothing, and suddenly Helen was stooping, picking up from the earth a long, writhing worm. She laughed. ‘A worm for a worm.’ Suddenly reaching out, she thrust the worm into the neck of Marianne’s blouse. As Marianne squealed in horror Helen gave her a push and the next moment Marianne was sprawling on the earth.
Blanche, seeing Marianne fall, felt rising within her all the pent-up rage that had been growing ever since she and Helen had first come face to face. With a little cry she rushed forward, hurling herself at the taller girl. Taking her completely by surprise, her hands reached out, grasping, snatching at Helen’s long hair. In another moment, using all her strength, she had thrown her onto the soft, newly-dug earth. Then while Helen screamed out and the other girls stood gaping and silent, Blanche threw herself on top of her and, sitting astride her, began to rain blows down on her face. ‘Never, never, never,’ Blanche shrieked, punctuating her words with blows, ‘never touch me or Marianne again! Never, never speak to me again as you have done! Never, never, never …!’ Then, eyes frantically casting around her, she reached down to the earth near Helen’s head. And there was a worm. Before the shrieking Helen had realised what was happening. Blanche snatched up the worm and pushed it into the girl’s gaping mouth.
It took both Miss Bassington and the younger Miss Carling to drag Blanche off when they came rushing onto the scene a few minutes later.
Afterwards Blanche and Marianne, and Helen and her two friends were taken before the senior Miss Carling. Helen and her friends testified that Blanche had instigated the trouble and had attacked Helen for no reason at all. Marianne told the true story. Blanche remained silent.
The following week Savill arrived at the school, his presence requested by the elder Miss Carling. After his interview with her he was shown into a small private room and Blanche was sent for. ‘Mr Savill, your guardian, is here to see you,’ Miss Lessing, the art mistress, told Blanche as she emerged from the schoolroom. Blanche was puzzled. Why had she been sent for and not Marianne?
Mr Savill kissed her when she entered the room. Then when she was seated facing him he told her that he had been summoned there by the headmistress. ‘She’s concerned about your behaviour,’ he said gravely. It was what Blanche had feared. He went on to speak of the attack on Helen and also of the incident when Blanche had thrown the clothes from the window. ‘Why did you do it?’ he asked. Blanche, however, would say nothing in her defence.
When Blanche had gone from the room Savill went back to the headmistress and asked to see Marianne. When Marianne came to him she told him the true story. It was Miss Baker all over again, he said to himself.
Blanche’s attack on Helen had subdued the latter for a few days, but not for long. Blanche, although she had humiliated Helen had, nevertheless, lost the battle. She it was who had remained in the greater disgrace, who had suffered the ignominy of having a guardian summoned to the school. Helen, escaping from the episode with a sharp reprimand – and a threat that her church duties would be suspended – was still bitter. She could still taste the worm that Blanche had thrust into her mouth, and she did not forgive easily. In a matter of only a couple of weeks she took up her cudgels again.
But things were to change.
One Saturday morning Blanche watched as Helen got up from the breakfast table and prepared to leave for her work at the church. Blanche saw the way she held herself as she walked to the door, tall, proud and beautiful. She looked invincible.
When Blanche and Marianne had finished breakfast they put on their smocks and, along with other girls from the class, went to the art studio where they were to have a drawing lesson. When Miss Lessing came into the room a few minutes afterwards she announced that as it was such a bright day they would take t
heir drawing pads outside into the garden. So, clad warmly against the autumn coolness, the twelve girls collected together their materials and trooped out into the sun where Miss Lessing instructed them to choose some particular scene and render it in their sketch books.
Blanche and Marianne left the others and started off down the garden path, walking beside the croquet lawn, the kitchen gardens and the orchard, moving towards a distant part of the grounds. After a while, with the more formal area of the grounds behind them, they came to a glade that was situated close to another in which stood a small summerhouse. The little building was out of bounds to the pupils and kept locked, and neither Blanche nor Marianne had ever set foot inside. Once, for a brief time, the land in its immediate vicinity had been cultivated – but that had been long ago. Now the surrounding shrubs and other plants grew wild, and the summerhouse itself, so long uncared for and forgotten, was dilapidated, rotting and falling apart.
Standing on the edge of the smaller clearing, Blanche and Marianne looked around them. This would do, they agreed. Two minutes later they were sitting side by side on a small hillock drawing the twisted roots and branches of an old beech tree.
They concentrated steadily for the first fifteen minutes or so, silent, intent on their work. Looking appraisingly at her drawing, Blanche sighed with disappointment; she hadn’t inherited her father’s talent for draughtsmanship. At her side Marianne put down her pencil, stretched, and idly looked around her. And then suddenly she froze. Next moment, reaching out, she put an arresting hand on Blanche’s arm. Blanche opened her mouth to protest but Marianne said quickly, softly, ‘Sshhh … don’t make a sound.’
Marianne had turned on the hillock and, screened by the foliage of the evergreens, was peering through at the main clearing. Silently she raised a beckoning finger to Blanche. Blanche moved to her side.
Before them in the clearing was the summerhouse. A little further away, and drawing nearer through the trees, was a figure.
‘What’s Helen doing here?’ Marianne whispered. ‘She’s supposed to be at the church with the other girls.’
They watched as Helen came closer. She carried her smock over one arm. There was caution in her movements. Looking anxiously about her she crossed the clearing towards the summerhouse and stopped at its door. There she stooped, fumbled at the ground for a moment, then reached up to the lock. She had a key. In another moment she had opened the door and gone inside. The door closed behind her.
Marianne and Blanche turned to one another, wide eyes showing their surprise.
‘What’s all that about?’ Marianne whispered. ‘And why is she being so secretive?’
Blanche shrugged. ‘She’s not supposed to be there.’
Their drawing forgotten, the two girls continued to gaze at the entrance to the summerhouse. ‘If Miss Carling knew about this there’d be trouble,’ Marianne murmured with a faint smile and a sidelong glance at Blanche. Blanche shook her head. ‘But not enough trouble, I’m afraid. No. When I cook Helen Webster’s goose I’m going to make sure that the oven’s really hot.’
As Blanche finished speaking their gaze was attracted by a moving shape over to the right; the wall to the side lane lay in that direction. As they watched a young man came in view. Tall, dark-haired, he looked to be about seventeen or eighteen. He wore the uniform of the nearby grammar school, St Michael’s. The pupils of St Michael’s were the bane of the elder Miss Carling’s existence; they were for ever making nuisances of themselves, pestering the older girls when they went out into the town, or hanging over the wall and whistling at them. Miss Carling was always complaining about the nuisance they caused and instructing the girls to have nothing to do with them.
Now, standing at the edge of the trees, this St Michael’s pupil looked about him for a moment or two and then, very quickly, ran across the open ground to the summerhouse door. Next moment he had opened the door and gone inside.
When the door had closed behind him Blanche murmured, ‘So now we know the reason.’ Another moment and she had started to move away, creeping through the shrubbery. ‘Where are you going?’ Marianne whispered after her.
‘To see what’s going on.’ Blanche flapped a hand at her. ‘You stay here and keep watch.’ Then, to the sound of Marianne’s whispered protests she crept away.
Emerging from the cover of the trees and shrubbery, Blanche covered the little distance of open ground in a swift, rushing scurry. Reaching the summerhouse she glanced down at the spot from which Helen had taken the key. There was a large stone there; obviously she had kept it hidden under that. Then, swiftly and silently she began to creep around the shabby little building, searching for some aperture that would allow her to look inside; the windows, uncurtained, would not allow her any shield. Then, beneath one of the windows she saw that one of the rotting feather boards had begun to fall away. Carefully, without making a sound, she bent and peered through the gap.
In a very little time she learned more than she could ever have done from a dozen occasions watching the waking man across the street from the school.
The boy had taken off his jacket and he and Helen were standing wrapped in each other’s arms. They were kissing, their faces moving on one another’s. Blanche could hear their sighs, their faint, breathy moans. The young man began to stroke Helen’s breast, then after a moment he took her hand and pressed it to the front of his grey flannel trousers. Eagerly Helen held him there, feeling, kneading, and he lifted his head, closing his eyes in ecstasy. And then both Helen’s hands were there, fumbling at the buttons, quick and impatient. The boy hitched off his braces and pushed down his trousers and drawers. His member, tumescent, rigid, sprang up. As Helen eagerly grasped him his own hands worked at the buttons of her uniform dress. For a few seconds as the pair undressed they were a picture of feverishly moving limbs, and then they were standing naked, pressed against one another.
There was a covering on the floor, made of what appeared to be an old blanket and Helen’s smock. They lay down on it together, Helen supine, her knees bent and slightly apart. The boy, at her side and leaning over her, ran his hands over her naked body, his fingers lingering on her full breasts. He bent, taking first one red nipple and then the other into his mouth. As he did so Helen sighed, reaching down to his groin, taking him in her eager hand again. As he bent with his mouth closed over her breast his left hand moved down over her smooth, flat stomach, lingered for a moment in the little bush of hair at its base and then closed over the mound of her sex. His fingers moved, probing, stroking, manipulating, and Helen gripped the back of his head and opened her legs wider.
In the next moments the boy moved his slim, muscular body onto the girl’s, her knees rising wide and high to accommodate him. Then, to the accompaniment of the couple’s gasps and groans the boy’s smooth, tight buttocks moved up and down as he repeatedly thrust himself into the girl’s body.
At last, with a loud, shuddering sigh from the boy, it was all over. The pair lay still for a moment and then the boy was rolling from Helen’s body and lying down at her side.
That night Blanche and Marianne lay in their beds and looked at one another across the little space between. ‘Next Saturday,’ Marianne silently mouthed, and Blanche mouthed in return, ‘Next Saturday,’ grinned at her and slowly nodded her head on the pillow.
The following Saturday morning dawned cloudy and Blanche was afraid that there would be rain and they would be confined to the indoors. Over breakfast, though, the clouds disappeared and the sun came out bright and warm. Covertly as they ate she watched Helen at the next table. Helen’s hair had been brushed till it shone, and there was a faint blush on her cheeks. Like last Saturday she had once again taken particular care with her appearance. Blanche smiled to herself.
‘May we go outside to sketch again today, Ma’am?’ Blanche asked Miss Lessing when breakfast was over. ‘Marianne and I would like to finish our drawings of the beech tree.’ Miss Lessing looked at her keenly. She was a short woman and her eyes
were not far above the level of Blanche’s own. ‘All right,’ she said after a moment, ‘and I hope that you’ll accomplish a little more than you did last week. You didn’t have much to show for your time.’
‘Oh, I’ll do well this time, Ma’am,’ Blanche assured her. ‘Really I will.’
Blanche’s final words to Miss Lessing echoed in her mind as she gathered her drawing materials together. She would do well. She turned to Marianne, grinned at her, and together they went out into the sun.
At the edge of the smaller clearing they waited for Helen to appear, and as the time went by Blanche began to fear that she would not come. After all, she said to herself, perhaps the incident with the boy had been an isolated one. And then she would remind herself of the key – the key to the summerhouse which Helen had somehow got hold of and which she had kept hidden under the stone. However Helen had come by it, whether it had been stolen or copied, it made clear that her visits to the summerhouse were regular events.
Helen arrived some twenty minutes after Blanche and Marianne, and they watched through the leaves as she stepped quickly across the clearing to the summer-house door. A moment later she had vanished inside and the door had closed behind her. At once Blanche got to her feet and started off at a run towards the schoolhouse.
