by Nick Salaman
‘How do you do?’ said Marie. ‘We are most grateful.’
‘Indebted,’ said Aunt Claire.
‘Come here, child,’ said Mr Brickville, drawing her to him.
He peered deep into her face, holding her hands tightly so she could not get away.
‘Yes,’ he said at length. ‘I see the father.’
‘She is a quiet girl,’ said Bertha. ‘We do not countenance rackety behaviour.’
‘Friends?’
‘We have thought it best to keep away from society,’ said Aunt Claire.
‘There is a governess who is satisfactory,’ said Aunt Bertha. ‘She is taught English, French, history and mathematics. She learns the piano.’
She pronounced it pee-ano.
‘She should meet other children in due course. We do not want her to grow up into an eccentric. We know where that can lead.’
The man exchanged glances with the Aunts. They all shuddered. Marie had the impression that they were a little frightened of him.
‘Would you like to go to school one day?’ he asked Marie.
She could tell it wouldn’t make any difference whether she expressed enthusiasm or not. As it happened, she thought school would be rather fun. She sometimes saw, through the castle gates, the children swinging their satchels as they walked down to the village. She thought they looked jolly and she would have liked to have asked them in, but when she had mentioned it to the Aunts they had pursed their lips and looked grave. Now it seemed they had changed their minds.
‘Thank you, Mr Brickville,’ she said, curtseying as her aunts liked her to do. Perhaps he wasn’t as bad as he seemed. On the other hand, perhaps he was worse.
‘Well, that’s enough of that, then,’ he said. ‘Run along now.’
Marie hated to be told to run along now, so she let him stand as bad after all.
‘Now tell me,’ she heard him ask as she left the room, ‘how is the financial side?’
There was something about his voice when he spoke of money that sounded like a man in love – a chilly sort of love of course – but passionate nonetheless. Tell me, how is the financial side, she mouthed to herself in her looking-glass. It was her first meeting with Mr Brickville but it was not to be her last.
***
The years passed slowly in Castle Cowrie. Her aunts had found teachers for her who gave her instruction in the castle schoolroom, a dour, north-facing chamber with little to distract her outside the window.
Mam’selle was a dry old French prune who spoke and taught the French of yesteryear, and made a strange rustling noise when she moved, as if her bloomers were made of leaves. Nevertheless, she had managed to teach Marie to speak passable French, because learning French was less boring than not learning French.
Another woman, known as her governess because the Aunts liked the sound of it, but really the local Church of Scotland vicar’s wife who had been a teacher, came and taught her English, mathematics, history from Our Island Story, and even the rudiments of Latin. She roped in a friend of hers called Betty, also known as Mother Nature, to come and teach Marie about biology: pond life, flowers, trees, birds and beasties.
Marie was reasonably good at maths and French, wrote essays on Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and The Hobbit, and played solitary games punctuated by visits to the countryside for biological studies, and trips to the seaside to sample the bracing air and cold waters of the North Sea. She was allowed to ride a small pony which she loved very much. It belonged to the gardener’s daughter who was now away in Edinburgh, so Marie could not completely call it hers. She was discouraged from riding it too much, because it gave the gardener extra work.
She also read a great deal, not just to pass the time but because she loved to sink herself into a book. The castle’s library was classically well stocked for some bygone Edwardian child: George Macdonald, Rudyard Kipling, Henty, Charlotte Yonge, Captain Marryat, E. Nesbit, Lewis Carroll and Edward Lear. There were the Red, Yellow, Blue and Green Books of Fairy Stories and The Golden Treasury. There were more modern authors too, intended for grown-ups, that she had begun to read: the eerie Algernon Blackwood, Somerset Maugham and Kipling, M. R. James, Sapper, John Betjeman and a Scottish writer called Bruce Marshall.
She was nearly eleven now, and it was April again, with the almost unbelievable surprise of spring after a hard winter. Windows were left open, hyacinths wafted sudden drifts of sweetness and birds dodged like little dark punctuations in the white pages of the cherry blossom.
For some days, Marie had noticed the Aunts in a huddle talking darkly about something – it happened on several occasions, always stopping meaningfully when she came in. Such secretiveness had always been a feature of their relationship with her, so at first she had taken no notice. But at length she felt something special was up. When pressed, however, they frowned discouragingly and changed the subject. That was their way of saying it was something to do with her.
She noticed another thing. When the family went to church now, she was aware of a new interest in her presence. There would be a little stir when she came in. She had thought it might be the fact she was growing up, that she might even be growing pretty, but she wasn’t altogether convinced by this explanation. Whatever it was, it seemed the Aunts noticed it too for they decided to worship in the castle chapel for a while.
‘Why, Aunt?’ asked Marie when they told her. She had enjoyed the variety provided by the church, even though some of the looks she had been getting seemed puzzling, uncomfortable.
‘There are unfortunate elements there,’ said Bertha. ‘It is becoming increasingly vulgar.’
‘We have such a pretty little chapel here,’ twittered Claire. ‘I always used to think it was the Grail Chapel when I was a little girl. I used to think I’d come in one day and see Sir Lancelot.’
Next day, Mr Brickville arrived on a flying visit, and there were three people talking earnestly and stopping meaningfully when she came in.
‘My poor child,’ Aunt Claire exclaimed once.
‘Leave us, Marie,’ said Aunt Bertha. ‘Come in when you are called.’
‘What on earth is going on, Nanny?’ asked Marie.
‘It is better not to ask, darling.’
‘Give me some idea.’
‘My poor Marie.’
‘Something is going on.’
‘I’ll tell you this. But you must promise not to say.’
‘I promise.’
‘It’s about your father.’
‘Father? But … I thought he was dead.’
‘He is dead now. He was … very ill…’
‘Why did they tell me he was dead?’
‘They were trying to spare you.’
‘Did he suffer much?’
‘I think he suffered dreadfully. He would not have wanted you to see him like that.’
‘Poor Father.’
It was strange to hear about a father she did not know. Once she had thought she needed him, but it was too late now. She didn’t really feel sad about his death. It was like someone else’s father dying, not hers at all. A thought struck her.
‘What was wrong with him, Nanny? Did he have bad blood? Was that what they were talking about? Did he die of bad blood?’
‘I expect so, darling. Now you must forget about it. And forget I told you. All right? Mum’s the word.’
‘Yes, Nanny.’
Later the Aunts sent for Marie, looking grave as they greeted her round the table.
‘We have news for you, Marie. You must prepare yourself,’ said Aunt Bertha.
Marie knew what was coming and tried to look prepared.
‘Your father is dead,’ said Aunt Claire, tears running down her cheeks. ‘Our nephew Giles is dead. The last of the Lavells.’
‘I know he’s dead, Aunt,’ said Marie. ‘I always understood so.’
‘He has been dying for some years,’ said Bertha. ‘Now he is dead indeed.’
‘Was he … very ill?’
&nbs
p; ‘Very, very ill. He could not see you.’
‘Oh,’ said Marie, ‘was he blind?’
‘Blind … deaf … sick…’ burst out Aunt Bertha. ‘He could not live.’
‘Ah,’ said Marie. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry? Sorry?’
Aunt Bertha was going to say more, but Mr Brickville interrupted smoothly.
‘Now you are going to be an heiress, my dear.’
‘Not that there is anything left,’ said Aunt Bertha.
‘All gone … those lovely chateaux…’ sniffed Claire.
‘All that lovely fortune…’ corrected Bertha
‘That is not quite true,’ said Mr Brickville. ‘There is considerable doubt in many people’s minds – including the courts’ – as to the legality of some of the appropriations. There is a residual estate, too, of your mother’s. You are the one now. There will be papers to sign in due course. We have to keep you going.’
She thought it was a strange thing to say.
‘Mr Brickville is going to see what he can do for us,’ said Aunt Bertha.
‘Thank God we have such a staunch friend. That will do now, Marie. You may go. Curtsey politely to Mr Brickville.’
Marie did as she was told, resenting the man all the more now she was going to be an heiress. She hadn’t asked for him. He was a lawyer.
‘Goodbye, Mr Brickville. And thank you.’
‘We shall see what can be done, Marie,’ said Mr Brickville, rubbing his chin thoughtfully as he looked at her. ‘It may take time, mind. Patience is the thing. Wind and tide, wind and tide. Run along now.’
He had a strangely metallic smell she had not noticed before. She thought it was the smell of money.
***
A week or so later, the Aunts summoned her again.
‘School,’ said Aunt Bertha. ‘We have come to a decision.’
‘O goody, when can I start? Does it mean Mam’selle will stop teaching me? Will I wear a uniform? Can I have a satchel? And walk with the village children?’
‘You will start school at the beginning of autumn term in September which is the usual time to enter. Mademoiselle and the governess will terminate their duties forthwith. You will indeed wear a uniform. But surely you did not think we would allow you to attend the village school? That is a disgraceful idea.’
‘Sorry, Aunt. But where will I go? There’s no other school nearby.’
‘You won’t be going nearby. You will be going to a convent recommended by the Abbess. It is on the coast, I believe, some two hundred miles away. The air is bracing.’
‘Two hundred miles? But how will I get there every day?’
‘Come, come, child. You won’t be going every day. You will be boarding. It is a boarding school.’
The full enormity of the news sank in, slowly.
‘A boarding school? Where I’ll sleep?’
‘Boarding means a school where you live day and night. That is the usual definition of the term.’
‘But I don’t want to go away, Great-Aunts,’ said Marie. ‘I am very happy here, thank you. Though I am grateful to you for thinking of it.’
‘It is not a suggestion, Marie. It is an order,’ said Bertha. ‘It is time you mixed with girls of your own age. Your Aunt Claire and I are no companions for a growing girl.’
‘But what about Nanny? She’s a companion. Can she come with me to school?’
‘Certainly not. What would Nanny do at school? Nanny has been to school.’
‘She could help with my clothes and things.’
‘The whole purpose of going to school is to learn to fend for oneself, Marie; fend, I say. Not whistle up Nanny when things go wrong.’
Marie’s lip was trembling.
‘What sort of … things go wrong…?’
‘You will start in the autumn.’
***
It was not uncommon to send girls to boarding school at the tender age of eleven or twelve, or even earlier, at that time, though it argued either a premature independence of spirit on the part of the child, or a certain austerity in the parent.
In nearly every establishment, particularly the convents, the food was bleak, the dormitories cheerless, the nuns stern to the point of mania.
A proximity to the sea was particularly sought out by these places since it ensured a healthy air – though so much of it was encouraged to blow through the open windows that it was a miracle so few of the children developed serious respiratory infections. St Saviour’s was fairly typical of such establishments, though its emphasis on fresh air and hardiness was perhaps more rigorously applied than in some of its southern counterparts. In winter, the windows were left open as they had been in summer. Ice formed in the ewers that stood on the long white washstand which stretched down the centre of the room. Each bed had sheets, of course, and three red blankets that looked warmer than they were.
The convent that had been selected for Marie was in other respects no different from the general rule. It was a large, beastly sort of building, erected in the mid-nineteenth century and situated on a cliff overlooking the North Sea near Scarborough. Aunt Claire delivered her to the place, spent a few minutes talking in a low voice to the Mother Superior, kissed Marie perfunctorily – admonishing her to be an outstanding example to those around her – and disappeared down the steps into the waiting limousine.
A nun with a face like a lozenge, introduced as Sister Veronica, took Marie by the wrist and led her through a dining hall that smelt of floor polish and cooking grease – when she came to taste the food it was apparent that the one might well have doubled for the other. From here, she led her up a great flight of stairs, not offering any help with her night-case (the trunk with all her school things had been left for the porter), to a dormitory where twenty bleak little beds with red blankets lay stiffly with their heads to the wall.
The sister pointed at one and indicated it was for Marie.
‘Leave your cases now, child. You may unpack later. I will take you down now to meet your school fellows.’
She led Marie back down the stairs to the assembly hall where some ninety desks sat to attention in front of a raised dais with a piano on it. Some of the desks were already occupied (though the majority of the girls, she was told, would be arriving later). Sister Veronica clapped her hands.
‘Girls. This is Marie Sinclair, a new girl like the rest of you.’
The new girls stared miserably up at her and Marie stared miserably back. She had been trying to suppress her tears all day and she knew she wouldn’t be able to hold them back very much longer, but it’d be awful to cry when everyone was looking at you. Sister Veronica pushed her in the direction of a desk at which sat a small, dark-haired child with a pretty little pouting face. Marie noticed that while the desks were separate, each pair was joined together by a single form.
‘This is Harriet, your form-mate. Harriet, this is Marie. You will be sitting together this term. Don’t let yourselves down, don’t let each other down and don’t let the school down. And now I must get back to Mother Superior. There’ll be someone along in a minute to tell you all about St Saviour’s.’
The nun scuttled off. Marie opened her desk, stuck her head inside and started to cry. She felt utterly helpless and desolate. She thought of her nanny and cried some more, remembering how Nanny herself had sobbed when she had said goodbye.
‘It won’t be long, my love,’ Nanny had said, snuffling like Aunt Bertha’s Pekinese. ‘You’ll see. You’ll be back at home in time for Christmas before you can say bangsmashums.’
Bangsmashums came from a game you played with a sixpence that Nanny had taught her, called Up Jenkins. The thought of Up Jenkins momentarily cheered her. She felt something plucking at her sleeve. It was the small, dark-haired girl, Harriet.
‘I say, don’t blub,’ said Harriet. ‘I did at first, you know. But when you arrived and started blubbing, I felt better. I expect you will too when somebody else arrives and starts blubbing. Don’t you think this is
the most awful place in the world? I’m going to escape at my earliest possible convenience.’
Marie liked Harriet. There was something brave and good about her, the way Nanny had described the Red Cross Knight.
‘Do you know how to play Up Jenkins?’ Marie asked her, blowing her nose and mopping her eyes in the wrong order.
‘Can’t say I do,’ said Harriet, ‘but anything’s better than sitting here waiting for the next new bug to come in blubbing. Mind you, it’d be awful if they came in skipping and smiling because then you’d feel worse.’
As it happened a large, slightly podgy girl with fair hair and close-together eyes came in just then doing exactly that, escorted by another nun whom Harriet said was called Sister Julian.
‘Girls, this is Teresa, another new girl like you. But Teresa has two sisters already in the school. Her mother and her grandmother came here too. So she’s hardly a stranger, are you Teresa?’
‘No, Sister Julian,’ smirked Teresa, and proceeded to make the little girl she was directed to share with change seats so she could be nearer the radiator.
‘What a pill!’ said Harriet. ‘I feel worse.’
‘So do I,’ said Marie, suddenly remembering her twizzler, the piece of satin cloth she used to rub between finger and thumb as a baby and which had always been a source of support at home in moments of stress. Aunt Claire, who had supervised her wardrobe, had made her leave twizzler behind, on the grounds that she would be teased.
