One Young Fool in Dorset

by Victoria Twead

  Except for one room.

  Matron would unlock the door to reveal a room with nothing in it but a bed, a mattress and a pillow. The unfortunate girl would have to make up the bed and spend the night in the room. It wasn’t the solitary confinement that was the problem, it was the ghost of Emily, the scullery maid.

  The legend of Emily changed a little every year as it was told to the new intake of girls and embroidered upon. In my first year, when one of the older girls, Mops, told it, the story ran like this:

  More than a hundred years ago, Emily was a pretty servant girl who worked in the kitchen. Emily was a hard worker, much valued by Mrs Crittle, the cook.

  But Emily’s mind was not completely on her work. She had noticed Thomas, the young groom who helped take care of the carriages and horses. When Thomas knocked on the kitchen door, she made sure she was the one who answered. When Thomas ate with the servants at the kitchen table, Emily was the one who served him and smiled prettily when he thanked her.

  Before long, Thomas was smitten. He couldn’t stop staring at Emily. Emily felt the same and their eyes would meet across the kitchen table. When their skin touched accidentally, sparks flew.

  Of course the lovers weren’t allowed to spend time together, but somehow, they managed. They knew that if Mrs Crittle, or Giles, the head groom, found out, there would be enormous trouble, and they probably would lose their jobs. But the couple was careful and snatched minutes together here and there and met in secret, often at night.

  Although Emily’s little room was on the top floor, there was a fire escape, which she often skipped down into the arms of her lover waiting below. Together they would melt into the woods while the house slept.

  All went well until one terrible night when somebody spotted the couple in the woods together. They reported the sighting to Giles, who summoned Thomas immediately.

  “I’m giving you just one last chance,” said Giles, wagging his finger in Thomas’s face. “I order you to stop meeting the scullery maid or you will lose your job.”

  “But, sir! I love Emily! We want to get married!”

  “It’s against the rules, you know that. If Mrs Crittle finds out, Emily will lose her job, too.”

  “But Emily is pregnant!” Thomas blurted out, then clapped his hand over his mouth.

  “What?” bellowed Giles. “Then you give me no choice, young man! Collect your things and be gone. There is no job for you here any longer.”

  Thomas begged and pleaded, but his entreaties fell on stony ears. His few personal possessions were thrown together and he was taken away in a carriage into the night.

  By now, Mrs Crittle had heard the news and steam was coming out of her ears. Furiously, she threw open Emily’s door.

  “Pack your belongings, girl! I can’t even bear to look at you! I thought you were grateful for your job, but you’ve been seeing that groom on the sly! He’s gone already, and good riddance!”

  “Thomas? Thomas has gone?” quavered Emily, the colour draining from her face.

  “Yes, you’ll never see him again.”

  Emily’s eyes widened.

  “Thomas!” she cried. “Wait for me! I’m coming!”

  Before anybody could stop her, she ran barefoot past Mrs Crittle and out onto the fire escape, still wearing her long, flannel nightdress.

  “Thomas! Thomas!”

  Only owls answered her.

  Nobody knows if Emily missed her footing on the fire escape, or whether she jumped. As she lay in a crumpled heap below, her nightdress slowly stained red. She was already dead when they reached her.

  They laid Emily the scullery maid out in the room on the top floor which had been her bedroom. They placed a wooden cross in her hands, hands that were whiter than the flour in the kitchen.

  But Emily never found peace. Her ghost can be seen on the upper floor of the building, or climbing down the fire escape in her long white nightgown, sobbing, looking for Thomas, the father of her unborn child.

  “Did you see the ghost of Emily the scullery maid?” I asked Snort when she’d spent a night in the isolation room for being caught talking after lights-out three times.

  “Nah, of course not,” she said scornfully. “I went to sleep straightaway, but I did dream about Nelson’s Eye. I wish they’d hurry up and get it over with.”

  Saturday mornings were taken up with compulsory sport plus another Prep session, although the afternoon was largely free. This was the day Snort and I disappeared into the woods that comprised TH’s grounds. The woodland was well-established and sturdy metal railings marked the boundary. However, we were never permitted to walk right up to the boundary.

  “When you gels go into the woods, you are not allowed past the trees that have a white ring painted on them,” Matron told us on our first day.

  “Why not?” asked Snort.

  “Never you mind,” said Matron. “That’s the rule, beyond the white-ringed trees is out of bounds. And if I catch any gels breaking that rule, they will be severely punished.”

  It didn’t take long for us to find out why we weren’t allowed past the white rings. Snort asked one of the older girls.

  “Flashers,” she replied without hesitation.

  “Oh, I see,” said Snort, although she didn’t.

  So I asked my older sister, who knew exactly what they were.

  “Flashers? You know, bad men who get their thingies out and wave them about.”

  “Oh!”

  Snort and I looked at each other and dissolved into giggles.

  Unfortunately, it was true. As TH was a girls’ school, it was a mecca for flashers. Many were reported, but by the time the police arrived, they had vanished.

  One Saturday afternoon, Snort and I had changed into our shorts and were carrying a blanket and a box of comics, heading for the woods. It was a warm day and we didn’t feel like joining in with the game of Tin Can Bosh that others in our dorm had been planning around the area in the woods we called Pug’s Hole. Instead, we headed in the opposite direction. Suddenly, a group of older girls jumped out at us from behind some rhododendron bushes.

  “It’s time!” they said, grabbing our arms.

  “Stop it! Let go!” we squeaked. “Time for what?”

  But Snort and I both knew and our hearts were filled with dread. It was time for Nelson’s Eye.

  10 Nelson’s Eye

  The rug and box we were carrying dropped to the ground and the comics spilled out.

  “Nelson’s Eye! Nelson’s Eye!” chanted the older girls as they blindfolded us with woollen TH scarves wound around our heads.

  I lost track of where Snort was when my shoulders were held, and I was spun round and round. Then I was half-pushed, half-led, deeper into the woods. I deduced that from the fact that the leaf litter seemed thicker underfoot, and low branches scraped me.

  “Where are you taking us?” I asked, stumbling.

  “Silence! You are not allowed to talk during Nelson’s Eye!”

  From the whispers, I guessed there were about three girls steering me. It seemed like a long walk. The woods were not flat; there were huge dips and sudden drops, like Pug’s Hole, a favourite place for us girls to play. Underground air-raid shelters had been built during World War II but these were now overgrown, leaving humps in the ground that we either climbed over or navigated round. The journey seemed to take forever. Twigs snapped underfoot and startled birds squawked and flapped away. Brambles scratched my bare legs. At last we stopped and I wondered whether Snort was nearby.

  “Who are you?” shouted a girl.

  I stood still. Was she talking to me?

  “Who are you?” shouted the girl again. “Answer me!”

  “Answer her!” somebody hissed in my ear.

  “I’m Dusty, well, my real name’s Vic…” I started, but was cut short.

  “No, you’re not! You are the lowest cabin girl on the ship! You are lower than the ship’s cat! Even lower than a rat! Until you pass the initiation ceremon
y, you will have no name!”

  I stood still, listening.

  “Are you ready, Nameless?”

  “Er, yes.”

  “Do you agree to take the test, Nameless?”

  “Yes.” What choice did I have?

  “Do you promise never to talk of the ceremony of Nelson’s Eye to anyone, ever?”

  “I promise.”

  “If you do, you will be cursed, and the ghost of Emily the scullery maid will haunt you until the day you leave the school. Say you promise.”

  “I promise.”

  “And who are you?” shouted the girl in another direction.

  “I’m nameless too,” said Snort’s voice from some distance away.

  She had clearly heard my interchange, and she was a quick learner.

  “Correct! You are nameless and you are the lowest cabin girl on the ship! You are lower than the ship’s cat! Even lower than a rat! Do you promise never to speak of Nelson’s Eye to anyone, ever? And do you understand that if you do, you will be cursed, and the ghost of Emily the scullery maid will haunt you until the day you leave TH?”

  I held my breath. Snort was not one to be bossed around, and I knew she didn’t believe in the ghost of Emily the scullery maid. A slight pause.

  “Yes. I promise.”

  Whew! Well done, Snort. Best to play along.

  “Then let the ceremony commence!”

  “Nelson’s Eye! Nelson’s Eye! Nelson’s Eye! Nelson’s Eye!”

  From all around me, I could hear the chanting, so I guessed we were in a clearing filled with older girls.

  “Shake hands with the skeleton of Nelson!”

  I stood still, not understanding.

  “Go on then, shake hands!” someone urged.

  I stuck my right hand out, grasped the skeletal hand, and shook it. It was so obviously a tree branch I almost laughed. I hoped Snort would behave.

  “Now shake the hand of a corpse that has been floating in the ocean.”

  Obediently, I shook hands with what felt like a rubber glove filled with water. Easy.

  “These are Nelson’s kidneys, squeeze them in your hands.”

  Bleugh! Now that didn’t sound very nice.

  Gingerly, I held out my hands, palms up. Two peeled boiled eggs were plopped into them. I knew exactly what they were as soon as I felt them and squeezed them with no trouble at all.

  “Now it’s time to walk the plank! When you get to the end, you must jump. Be careful, it’s a long way down.”

  Now I really was scared. Where were we? Were we near Pug’s Hole? If so, that was a really steep drop in the woods. I knew there was no water as I didn’t think we were anywhere near the Bug Pond, but how far would I have to jump?

  “Walk, Nameless!”

  What if I broke a leg and had to stay in the Sanatorium, like Broomhead in Upper Four, who broke her leg in gym and couldn’t climb the stairs to her dorm?

  “Walk-the-plank, walk-the-plank, walk-the-plank,” chanted the spectators.

  I felt for the beginning of the plank with the toe of my sandal. Thankfully, the plank was wide. I shuffled slowly along it, arms outstretched to keep balance, desperately wishing I could rip the blindfold away from my eyes and see where I was going.

  “Walk! Walk! Walk!” chanted the spectators, more excited now.

  I shuffled further.

  “You are at the end now, stop!”

  I stopped.

  “Now jump!”

  I knew I had to, but I really didn’t want to jump. My legs were trembling.

  “Jump! Jump! Jump!” shouted the spectators.

  I took a deep breath, bent my knees and sprang high into the air off the end of the board.

  There was no drop at all. The plank was flat on the ground, not suspended above any drop. Apart from the shock, and stumbling a little as I landed, I was totally unhurt and would not need carting off to the Sanatorium. The relief was immeasurable.

  I must have looked very silly, and I could hear laughter, quickly muffled because they were about to play the same trick on Snort.

  “And finally, you must plunge your finger into Nelson’s eye!”

  After walking the plank, this shouldn’t be a problem. Easy-peasy, lemon squeezy.

  My hand was grasped, and my extended forefinger was pushed into something wet and squelchy. It was extremely unpleasant, but not painful.

  Then the scarf over my eyes was pulled off. It was over!

  As I blinked in the sudden light, I discovered what I had pushed my finger into: a mouldy orange. I wiped off the mess on my finger on the back of my shorts. There were plenty of girls in the clearing, including some girls from my dorm. I opened my mouth to speak, but they all put their fingers to their lips, and pointed. It was Snort’s turn to walk the plank.

  Poor Snort. I knew how she was feeling, but she was braver than me and didn’t hesitate. She jumped off the end of the plank as soon as she was told and was just as surprised as me to discover that the ground was level. Nelson’s mouldy eye gave her no trouble either.

  “You have both passed the ceremony,” said the girl whose voice was by now familiar to us. “I hereby name you Dusty and Snort!”

  The spectators applauded. The relief was enormous. Nelson’s Eye was no longer a black cloud that hung over us. We had done it, passed it, and survived.

  “I’m so glad that’s over,” I said to Snort when we were alone again.

  “Me too! Most of it was just silly, but I hated walking the plank.”

  I nodded, recalling my fear.

  I suppose we were lucky really. Initiation ceremonies are common in English public schools, particularly boys’ schools, and Nelson’s Eye was very mild compared with some.

  My brother told me that every new boy in some schools had to crawl under all the beds in the dorm, getting thwacked with slippers as they emerged from under each bed. Some schools pushed new boys in laundry baskets down flights of steps. Ritual cold baths were administered at others, or ‘crucifixions’ where a broom pole was pushed through the sleeves of a blazer like a scarecrow, while the unlucky new boy was wearing it.

  “I thought we might end up in the San with broken legs,” I said.

  The Sanatorium (or San) was housed in a separate building and was Sister MacDonald’s empire. It looked rather like a dorm, except it was sterile and devoid of any personality, much like any hospital ward.

  Sister MacDonald was a large, fierce lady who rustled as she moved. Her white uniform was starched so stiffly that it surprised me that it allowed her to walk at all, and I was sure she couldn’t sit down.

  Sister MacDonald’s main purpose in life seemed to be to track down malingerers and send them back to school immediately. Unless a girl had a broken limb, or a ridiculously high temperature, or was covered in spots that the doctor pronounced contagious, she was perfectly fit to go back to school, in Sister MacDonald’s opinion.

  Sister MacDonald had a fool-proof test she would apply to all suspected malingerers. It went like this:

  Sister MacDonald: Would you like a nice bowl of ice cream?

  Patient: No, thank you.

  Sister MacDonald: Poor dear, lie down and get some rest.

  or

  Sister MacDonald: Would you like a nice bowl of ice cream?

  Patient: Yes, please!

  Sister MacDonald: Right, up you get and get dressed. I’m discharging you now. If you hurry, you’ll catch afternoon lessons.

  * * *

  School Report

  English: Victoria is keen but her work is spoilt by carelessness.

  Mathematics: If Victoria made more effort to concentrate instead of staring out of the window, we would all see better results.

  Victoria has made a disappointing start. She must learn to set a good example, always behave in public and not be a leader in rule breaking. Her untidiness is proverbial.

  Mrs Driver (Housemistress)

  * * *

  Boarding school wasn’t a bit like Enid Blyt
on had described it, but I still quite enjoyed it. We didn’t have many midnight feasts as the threat, if caught, of sleeping in the isolation room with Emily the scullery maid, was not attractive.

  There was also another strange tradition that was never mentioned in Enid Blyton’s books: namely, GOs. The abbreviation GO stood for Gone On, and each new junior was supposed to choose a senior girl to be ‘gone on’. That meant you had a crush on her and you were supposed to write her little notes and swoon every time you saw her.

  I chose Shirley, a friend of my sister’s. I don’t remember who Snort chose, but you were only allowed to choose somebody that nobody else had already chosen. It was a strange, rather pointless tradition, perhaps a little akin to ‘fagging’ without the harshness. Fagging, in many boarding schools, meant younger pupils were required to act as personal servants to senior pupils and were often disciplined severely. Thankfully, as far as I knew, nothing like that happened at TH.

  Some girls in my dorm suffered terribly from homesickness, but I wasn’t one of those. Of course, I couldn’t have Prince Snowy Twinkletoes with me, which was sad. I wished our school was like some others that allowed pets. But I did have Snort as a friend, and my older sister, should I ever need her.

  We looked forward to exeats, when we could go home for the day, but these were over so fast there was barely time to do anything. During these visits, I remember how small my house and bedroom seemed as I’d grown accustomed to the long corridors of St Mary’s and our large dorm. I was so used to sharing a dorm that, in the holidays, it felt strange to be the only person sleeping in a room.

  But Enid Blyton described the camaraderie well. We girls grew very close and Snort and I were inseparable. Our days were crammed full and we were never bored. Almost every minute was accounted for in some way, right down to Thursday evenings when we were allowed to watch part of Top of the Pops in the portacabin, the only room with a TV, apart from Matron’s and Mrs Driver’s rooms. We could only watch part of the show as it coincided with bedtime, which was set in stone.

  I’ve always been a good sleeper and in those days, I was usually asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. The ghost of Emily the scullery maid could have danced a highland fling on the end of my bed and I probably wouldn’t have woken up. One time, Snort had a bad cold and began to snore, but I wasn’t the one who threw slippers at her because I slept right through it.