by Anne Digby
The car; of course.
'Your brother's?'
'You must be joking! It's Mrs Wilson's, Jelly's mum. Talk about a good sport. She kept guard the whole time for me!'
He gave Rebecca a quick hug and kissed her on the cheek.
'Good luck with the exam. Write and tell me your results! Love yer!'
'Love yer too, Cliff. I will write, I promise! And good luck you!'
He went clanking off down the outside staircase again, into the darkness. Her friends crowded round her as she came back indoors. She was glowing.
'Oh, Rebeck, brilliant!' exclaimed Tish.
'Thank goodness!' said Sue.
'Like him,' said Elf.
'Nice,' agreed Mara. 'Looks a bit like Curly.'
'Must be all right then, Mara!' laughed Rebecca. Curly Watson was Mara's steady, a Fifth Year boy at Garth College. 'Hang on a minute.'
She pushed past them and ran into Sue's cubicle, hoping to wave goodbye as the white sports car drove away. But Cliff was climbing into the passenger seat, without looking back up at the window, talking to the driver. It was only now that Rebecca got a glimpse of the person behind the steering wheel. She was no mum but a teenager with blonde hair sticking out from the back of a baseball cap. Then they shot away into darkness. Silly of me! realised Rebecca.
Fancy thinking that someone's mother had been the 'good sport' keeping guard for Cliff at Caxton High! He'd meant that's who the car belonged to, Jelly's mother. The driver, presumably, was Jelly herself.
And who was Jelly?
'I wonder who the girl was?' she said to Sue, as she closed the window and stepped down off the bed. 'He said her name was Jelly.'
'Sure you heard properly?' asked Sue, with a smile. Then added: 'Don't be naughty, Rebecca. How many boy friends do you want?'
She wasn't really going to work all night, of course. But she ate some tea at last, glad now that Tish and Sue had brought it back; shared out Robbie's crisps; then settled down with the Time Chart.
It was a wonderful help but less easy to follow than the original, lacking the colour coding. Especially by artificial light. She knew it would be better in the morning.
'Tell your father to buy us a colour photocopier when we go into the Sixth!' she teased Mara, just before Lights Out. 'Black and white's not good enough!'
'If I get into the Sixth my father will buy us the moon!' replied Mara.
Rebecca and Tish set their alarms and rose long before breakfast. At daybreak they went jogging across the sandy bay in their track suits, to clear their heads. It was a beautiful dawn, the sea lashing. When they returned, Rebecca found the photocopied chart much easier to cope with. She spent the rest of the morning memorising sections of it and re-reading some of her essays as she went along. But she knew, as she filed into the exam room at two o'clock sharp, that there were still some large gaps in her knowledge. She still hadn't done enough.
By the Friday of the following week, exams were over and the results given out.
Some of Rebecca's results were even worse than she'd feared. Awful! Three subjects completely failed - geography, biology and mathematics.
She was shattered by the maths result. She'd managed to pull up on her maths the previous term, when she hadn't been playing tennis. She'd even had the secret dream of getting an A or B grade in the summer exams. But that was now ruled out.
'I'd hoped to be able to put you in for the top paper next term but not to be, I'm afraid,' Miss Holt told her.
'If you work hard you will still achieve a C grade. Your marks on your coursework last term will give you a flying start.'
Mara was given similar news and they turned to each other for consolation.
Tish, Sue and Margot had all got As, as well as a few others in V Alpha, including Jenny.
'I don't know what she had to look miserable about!' said Mara crossly.
But it was the history result that mattered most of all to Rebecca.
She'd sorted out her A-level options by the end of last term, even before seeing her grandmother in the Christmas holidays. At the beginning of this, she'd been one of the first to hand in the form. It was thanks to the talk with Miss Maggs, her history teacher, in November.
History had been her favourite subject for some time: the one that absorbed her. But it wasn't one of the subjects she did best in. Those were English, especially essay writing, and languages.
'Lots of people say we should just do the ones we're best at and then we'll get good A-level grades,' she told Maggy, shyly. 'Well, I like English, I love writing essays. And French and German. And Latin. I do like that. And I find history really hard sometimes. But I wish I could do it at A-level because – well – it's just so interesting! It's about everything isn't it, the whole story of the human race!'
'Of course!' said Maggy, looking delighted. 'I've always noticed, Rebecca, that you have a proper sense of the past. I daresay that's why you enjoy your classics. You realise it's important. To the present. To the future. You're a humanities person - a natural historian. I'd be disappointed if you weren't able to take history to A -level!'
Rebecca had then felt both excited and nervous.
'But supposing I'm not up to it?'
'It's good that you enjoy writing essays,' replied Maggy, going off on a tack of her own. 'Many a promising historian founders on A-level history essays. Quite challenging, I promise you. Languages, too, are vital. Later.'
'Why?' asked Rebecca, with interest.
'Because real historians like to dig into the past. They like to go back to what's called original source material and read it for themselves. Latin or Greek writings, if they're concerned with early western civilisation. More recent records might be in French or German. Historians like to decide for themselves whether or not they agree with a particular interpretation of events. It can be very exciting. So you see, Rebecca, your strong points wouldn't be wasted. Far from it. They'd be essential!'
'It sounds good!' said Rebecca eagerly.
But at that point Miss Maggs, who'd been getting slightly carried away, had pulled up short and glanced at Rebecca thoughtfully:
'Of course, that's looking a long way ahead. I always warn people that A-level history is a difficult option. It's far ahead of GCSE. Miss Welbeck's firm rule is that nobody's admitted to the A-level history group without an A or B grade at GCSE.'
'I know,' said Rebecca, dully. 'I've heard that.'
'From the way you've been working this term, those grades would present no problem,' the teacher had said, encouragingly. But then sighed. 'You'll be resuming your full tennis schedule again next term?'
Rebecca hadn't replied.
'Yes, of course you will,' said the teacher briskly. And she'd closed the conversation:
'Even so, I strongly advise you to put yourself down for A-level history when the time comes. Together with your classical language, Latin, and a modem language. French or German, as you prefer. An excellent combination of subjects.'
From that moment on, Rebecca's mind was made up. She wanted to study history in the Sixth! Together with French and Latin. So that's what she had put on her form.
She hated to think how badly she might have done if Cliff hadn't come charging over that night. Even so, she only got a D in the mock.
'Should I give up the whole idea?' she asked Miss Maggs in despair.
After all, she'd got As in her English. Except that wasn't something she wanted to study in the Sixth Form. .
'Let's wait and see, shall we, Rebecca?' came the reply. 'You did nowhere near enough revision. Weren't you playing in tennis tournaments, right up till half-term? Over half-term even? You can't catch up a whole course just like that, you know.' But of course she knew that Rebecca's tennis career was now on 'hold' and she smiled encouragingly. 'I'm sure you can pull up two or three grades when you take the actual exam next term, if you really work and work!'
Rebecca hurried out of the room feeling weak with relief. Maggie was saying she was capa
ble of getting a B in the summer, or even an A! So she hadn't burnt her boats, after all. She'd slipped down to C on German but managed a B for Latin, so that was all right. And she'd scored As in the French written papers, though not in the listening or oral.
'You must listen, listen! Speak, speak! Not only read and write, Rebecca,' M. Lafarge told her. 'Get tuned in! You couldn't order a cup of coffee at the moment. Thank goodness you are going to Paris!'
Rebecca felt inspired. She skipped a good film at the sports centre that evening and went to the French room instead, to watch satellite TV. Then she went back to Court House and caught up on some background reading for history, a book on Queen Victoria. When the others returned from the film, they found her carefully colouring in the columns on the Time Chart.
'You know somebody's law, don't you?' joked Tish:
'The minute you've finished that and put your felt tips down - presto! The one you've lost turns up!'
'That's why I'm doing it!' laughed Rebecca.
But it didn't turn up, of course. Its whereabouts was still a total mystery. What had she done with it? No doubt she'd discover it in some strange place, the very last she'd thought to look in. But what did it matter now? As Rebecca lay luxuriously in a hot bubble bath that night, she decided that after the horrors of the past two weeks, it just felt good to be alive. She wasn't doomed, after all. She was back from the abyss! A few more weeks to the real exams yet. A few more precious weeks in which to slog and slog.
The mocks were over.
There was only one jarring thought; something she had to do after the mocks. A little job. Sort out her locker, find Emmanuelle's letter and compose a reply. It was such a nice daydream but it wasn't fair to let her go on thinking something so ridiculous.
Was it?
She'd face up to all that in the morning.
FIVE
THE STARTLING DISCOVERY
On the Saturday morning she woke up instead thinking about Cliff.
Wasn't it noble of him, the way he got the chart back and came charging over that night? Especially as he should've been stuck into some revision himself, with an exam of his own the next morning! How'd he done? It was all of ten days ago now but it wasn't something you forgot in a hurry.
Well, she'd write to Cliff today, as promised, with news of her results and how her hopes for the future were still intact. And she'd insist he write back. Had her Time Chart really helped him, had he passed? What about the rest of his subjects at Caxton High? Yes, she'd definitely press him to write back.
It would be nice to have a letter from Cliff.
Who was Jelly?
Then she wondered whether to write a note to Robbie, as well, with her results. But he knew them, anyway. Sue had told Justy. And actually he owed her a letter. She'd thought he might write to her about the Careers Fair. She'd only heard at secondhand, through Tish, that he'd got some brilliant plan for his future. It was top secret, he said. It might not come off. And it certainly wasn't what Dad had in mind! Dr Anderson wanted his son to follow in his footsteps. Well, Tish wanted to be a doctor, but not Robbie. He claimed to be working hard for his A-levels again. But according to Sue's brother Edward, with whom Tish was friendly, he was spending half his time playing computer games. 'Perhaps he wants to be a drop-out!' laughed Tish.
Rebecca was baffled. And she was more hurt than she'd admit that he hadn't confided in her.
No, she wouldn't drop him a note, she decided. She wasn't going to risk any more comments from Robbie about the tennis contract. In view of her unthrilling exam results, he might easily start on about that again. She wouldn't be able to bear it! Not now that she'd taken her decision. Not now her mind was made up. It was stupid of him.
She moved up on to her pillows and yawned and stretched. Weak sunshine was slanting down from the skylight, casting squares of light on her duvet cover. Time to get up! Soon. She leant back on her pillows, then turned her head and glanced guiltily at her bedside locker.
Emmanuelle's last letter was in there.
Oh, what a joke. She closed her eyes and remembered it . . . The big chunk about the French group's return visit to England, which would take place at the end of the summer term:
. . . You will soon be in Paris, Rebecca. We shall meet at last. And also I think many times about the house in London!
I am glad your parents will be home and we will live in London. The rich Aunty Papademas who lives with you and likes to buy you clothes must be most wonderful. And exactly like me you live right in the centre of the city! I cannot wait to see the River Thames and the Houses of Parliament from the windows and to be near to all the Chelsea shops.
A girl at the lycée had a very bad time last summer. Her correspondent's house was many kilometres from the centre of London, There was only a long, long street of all dull houses the same. There was no things to do and every day it rained.
Rebecca had gone hot with embarrassment and quickly returned the letter to its envelope, then stuffed it in her locker.
She'd quite recently discovered that Emmanuelle's own house was in the nicest part of Paris, close to the Louvre and the River Seine. She'd learnt this not from Emmanuelle herself but from Jenny, whose own French pen friend, Anne-Marie, was Emmanuelle's best friend at the lycée. According to Jenny, Emmanuelle lived in an absolute gem of a house. Anne-Marie had just been to Emmanuelle's birthday party and written a glowing description of the house with its balconies and shutters and wonderful view of the river.
Rebecca had received this news with great interest but now it made her embarrassment ten times worse.
Her own house was very ordinary. It was in Clapham. In fact, the description given by the girl at the lycée, the one who'd had such a disappointing time, fitted quite well!
It was not the Masons' own house that Rebecca had described in a letter to Emmanuelle but that of Mrs Papademas, Mara's aunt, where she'd once spent a blissful school holiday. She'd promised her French pen friend that they'd go there, as one of the numerous things they'd do in London together this summer. They could go there when they'd been to see Buckingham Palace and the Houses of Parliament . . . and Harrods.
It was all a dreadful misunderstanding. And it had come like a bolt from the blue.
Emmanuelle was referring back to a very old letter.
It was ages ago that Rebecca had given that description of Aunt Papademas's house!
She'd written that particular letter on the very first day of term, while travelling down to the west country from her grandmother's. She'd written the bit about the lovely house, in passing, in what was a very long, excited and quite complex letter. Unfortunately there'd been a few distractions on the coach.
She must have got some French grammatical structure horribly wrong!
And all the time, the French girl had been daydreaming about Rebecca's beautiful house in central London . . .
Well, it was quite a nice daydream. As a matter of fact, since the arrival of the letter, she sometimes indulged in it herself. It would be so much easier not to have to think about it.
Except she must think about it. And not just think about it but do something about it. She'd go over to hall with the others and eat a good breakfast. Then she'd come straight back up here to her cubicle: draw the curtains; settle down at her work table. And tell Emmanuelle the truth.
'Now what, Rebecca?' said Sue.
'Yes, come on, Rebeck, for heaven's sake, or there won't be a scrap of breakfast left,' grinned Tish, zipping up her track suit top.
While Rebecca had been getting washed and dressed and agonising over blue denims or black ones (this being the weekend), the top floor had emptied. Margot, Mara and Elf had got tired of waiting - Elf said she was starving; the six at the other end had long gone, the three As and Elizabeth, Jenny and Fiona. Only Tish and Sue remained, patiently waiting for Rebecca.
And now she was kneeling down on the floor, apparently tidying out her bedside locker!
'What on earth are you doing now?' a
sked Sue.
'I'm looking for something, won't be a sec,' said Rebecca.
'What?' asked Tish.
'Oh, just Emmanuelle's last letter, that's all,' replied Rebecca, casually. 'I'm going to write to her after breakfast. I mustn't forget.'
She was hunting for the pink envelope from France with the little elephant transfer on it. She intended to place it on her work table, with her paperweight on top: a beautiful pebble she'd found in the bay once, now painted with clear nail varnish. It made a good paperweight. She wanted the letter to be sitting there waiting for her when she returned from breakfast. Then there'd be no getting out of it!
'Can't you look for it when we get back?' asked Tish.
'Here it is!' exclaimed Rebecca, pulling out the pink envelope. She stood up and peered inside, just to make sure the letter was safely there –
'Hey, that's funny!' she said. She could tell at once that it wasn't Emmanuelle's handwriting. She pulled the letter out of the envelope and stared at it.
'What's funny?' sighed Sue.
'This is the wrong letter! This is an old one from Amanda -you know, my friend in London.'
'So what!' laughed Tish. 'You must have mixed them up, some time. Come on, Rebeck, or we'll go without you!'
'I didn't mix them up! How could I?' replied Rebecca. She went back on her hands and knees and started pulling other letters from her locker and going through them.
'Here's the one I wanted,' she said, looking bewildered. It was inside an envelope that should have contained a letter from Robbie. 'And look, two of my parents' letters have been stuffed in one of Emmanuelle's envelopes. And here's an old letter from Robbie in one of Amanda's envelopes. They're all muddled up!'
'Are you sure, Becky?' asked Sue, anxiously.
'Of course I'm sure.'
'And you always put letters back in their proper envelopes?' asked Tish, looking alarmed.
'Of course I do, Tish!'
'Anything been pinched?'
'No, don't think so.' She checked through her little bits of jewellery carefully. 'Not that I can see.'
Rebecca bundled all the letters back, closed the door of her bedside locker and then rose to her feet. She turned to face the others, pale and shaken. They were shocked, too.
