by Kit Pearson
Polly had never used charcoal. She started with one of the apples, observing it so intently that it filled her mind. Then she drew its whole circumference in one long stroke. As she continued, her hands and face and blouse became smudged with black.
“I can’t start,” said Jane. “I’m too afraid of making a mistake.”
“Just plunge in, dear,” said Miss Falconer. “There are no mistakes! You don’t have to make an exact representation.”
What would Miss Netherwood think of that? thought Polly as she gleefully experimented with lines and shading. Beside her, Katherine was pressing so hard she kept breaking her charcoal.
Once again, Polly forgot about everything but what she was drawing. Once again, her work was heartily praised. At the end of the class, something deep and quiet inside her said she had made the right decision.
Miss Falconer laughed. “Look at my dirty girls! Go and wash up, and I’ll bring you tea.”
After they’d dusted their clothes and scrubbed off the charcoal, they sat in front of a fireplace at the far end of the studio. Miss Falconer poured them tea and passed around a plate of buns filled with chocolate. She showed them pictures of charcoal drawings from a book. Polly longed to leaf through the rest of the pages, and the many other volumes of art that filled a bookcase and spilled over the floor.
“Whom do we have here?” said a booming voice. A man came into the studio. He was bald, with a long, deeply lined face.
“This is Mr. de Jonge,” said Miss Falconer. “Frans, these are my students from St. Winifred’s—Dottie, Margaret, Jane, Katherine, and Polly.”
Mr. de Jonge solemnly shook each of their hands.
“Would you like some tea?” Miss Falconer asked him.
He poured himself a cup and took two buns, but remained standing. “I’ll take these upstairs. I need to finish this chapter before we go out tonight. I am charmed to meet you, young ladies!” He spoke with an accent, and his hooded eyes showed amusement.
“Mr. de Jonge is a novelist,” Miss Falconer explained proudly, after he’d left. “His writing room is on the top floor, away from all my messes.”
No one knew what to say. Finally, Dottie asked, “Does he rent it from you?”
“Rent?” Miss Falconer laughed merrily. “Oh, no, Mr. de Jonge lives here. We’re a couple.”
Dottie bravely broke the silence. “I hope you don’t think this is rude, Miss Falconer, but why do you have different last names?”
“Because we’re not married,” said Miss Falconer calmly. “I know that’s bohemian of us, but we’ve never seen the point of marriage.” She paused. “It’s best if you don’t tell Miss Guppy, however. She won’t want her young ladies exposed to such immorality.”
Dottie grinned and Jane looked nervous. Polly was both shocked and thrilled. This was like one of Aunt Jean’s romantic novels!
“Don’t worry, Miss Falconer. We won’t say a word,” said Dottie.
Now they all shared a secret; they gazed at one another with importance.
“Isn’t she remarkable?” said Dottie on the way home. “I wonder what the day girls will say to their parents. Mine wouldn’t like it, but I just won’t tell them. Will you?”
“Umm, I don’t know …” said Polly. Noni would definitely disapprove, but perhaps Daddy wouldn’t care.
“I think Miss Falconer is really brave going against convention like that,” continued Dottie, “and she’s an awfully good teacher. We’re lucky to have her, aren’t we?”
Polly nodded, feeling as if she had just visited a new and beautiful country.
Walking through the stone gates of the school felt like passing from summer into winter. Polly trudged up to the dorm to change out of her grimy clothes.
The other three were sitting on Rhoda’s bed, poring over a photograph album.
“Hi, Poll!” said Daisy. “Rhoda’s showing us some snaps of her holiday in France. How was art?”
“What did you do there?” asked Rhoda, making a face. “You’re filthy!”
“Charcoal drawing,” said Polly shortly.
“Was it fun?” said Daisy.
Polly just nodded. “Fun” seemed such a tame word to describe the afternoon.
“What exactly is ‘charcoal’?” said Eleanor. “How do you use it?”
Polly explained that she didn’t know what it was made of. Then her voice warmed as she told them about sketching the fruit.
“That doesn’t sound very hard,” said Rhoda. “In my art class we did still lifes with oil paints.”
“Does Miss Falconer have a nice house?” said Daisy.
“Yes … she has a big studio that overlooks the sea. And guess what … she lives with a man and they aren’t married!”
“Wow!” The others listened avidly while Polly described Frans.
“Isn’t that against the law?” said Daisy.
Eleanor laughed. “It’s not against the law—it’s called ‘common law.’ A couple on our street live like that. My mother is friendly to them, but no one else is.”
“It’s not right,” said Rhoda. “I can’t believe Miss Guppy would let you take art from someone like that, Polly.”
“Miss Guppy doesn’t know,” said Polly, “and don’t you dare tell her, Rhoda! What does it matter? What Miss Falconer does is her own business, not anyone else’s.”
Rhoda shrugged. “Why would I tell her? I still think it’s wrong, though.”
“I think it’s really interesting,” said Eleanor. “I wonder why some people don’t get married.”
“Miss Falconer told us they’d never seen the point of it,” said Polly.
Everyone was silent, digesting this new information.
The Crab crabbily cooked scrambled eggs for supper. The girls helped wash and dry the dishes. Then Miss Guppy appeared at the door. She had a strange, intense look in her eyes.
Polly realized where she’d been all day. Maud had told her that, every Saturday, Miss Guppy attended a different church from the one the school went to on Sundays, a church where people were “born again.” Sometimes she took a few of the girls with her. When Maud was here, she herself had been born again. She had driven Polly mad by trying to convert her, as well.
Polly smiled. What would the Guppy think if she knew that Maud was loosening her beliefs?
“Those of you who are attending the concert, change into your best clothes,” ordered Miss Guppy. “In half an hour, two taxis will arrive to take us downtown.”
Polly changed once again. She put on clean white socks, and held back her hair with her new barrettes.
“You look so pretty in that dress,” Daisy told her.
Polly flushed. She felt pretty in the green print dress she wore to church at home. She wished she could wear her fitted blue Sunday coat, as well, instead of this shapeless grey one.
“How do you like my dress, Dais?” Rhoda asked. “It’s from a department store in Seattle.”
Rhoda had changed her mind about coming. “I don’t want to be here all by myself,” she told them. “But I wish we were going to a movie instead of a recital. I read in Mrs. Blake’s paper that Hopalong Cassidy is playing.”
Nine boarders had chosen to go. Miss Guppy inspected them in the hall. “Very nice, girls. Now, I’m sure you all know how to behave at a concert, but let me remind you—no talking, not even whispering, until it’s over. Sit perfectly still, and only clap when everyone else does. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Miss Guppy,” they chorused.
Polly didn’t say that she’d never even been to a concert.
Alice was squished beside her in the taxi. “I’m so excited!” she told Polly. “My singing teacher said that this group is really good.”
The girls spilled out of the taxis and followed Miss Guppy into the theatre. Someone handed them programs, then they walked up to the second level and took their seats in the balcony.
Below them, a piano player and two violinists played opera selections. A majestic woman with a po
werful voice joined the three musicians. Polly liked the music, but she found the singing too dramatic. She couldn’t take her eyes off the singer, however; she wore a blue sparkling dress that was cut so low you could see her bosom!
To their astonishment, Miss Guppy produced a box of chocolates at intermission. The group stood in the upper lobby and sampled them. Polly let one melt in her mouth, savouring its creamy sweetness.
“Do you like the concert, Polly?” Alice asked her. “I think it’s terrific!”
“Sort of,” said Polly. “But why does the singer have to go so high? It hurts my ears!”
Alice laughed. “That’s just opera. That’s what I’m going to do one day, you know!”
“You are?” Polly gazed at her with awe. Then she chose another chocolate, wandered over to the railing, and watched all the people milling below her.
“Hi, Polly!”
A boy in a school uniform stood beside her. Chester! Polly swallowed her chocolate so fast she almost choked.
“What are you doing here?” she gasped.
Chester grinned. “Same as you! I’m on a school outing. We’re not allowed to stay, though. Some of the fellows were making fun of the singer’s—well, umm … anyway, we were fooling around, so we have to leave after intermission.”
Polly giggled. “Her dress is kind of low!”
She was so happy to see him her legs were wobbly. Chester looked so spiffy in his navy blazer, white shirt, and red tie.
“How do you like St. Winifred’s?” he asked.
“Polly Brown!” Miss Guppy’s bark was so loud that people turned their heads. She advanced towards them.
“Oh-oh!” said Chester. “See you at Thanksgiving, I hope!”
He fled before Miss Guppy arrived.
Her face was thunderous. “Who was that boy you were talking to?” she quizzed.
“Just Chester,” whispered Polly.
“And who is ‘Chester’?”
“He’s a boy from home. He goes to St. Cuthbert’s.”
Miss Guppy grabbed Polly’s arm and yanked her back to the other girls. “You are not to talk to boys, even if you know them! Do you understand, Polly?”
“Yes, Miss Guppy,” muttered Polly.
All through the second half, the other girls nudged her and grinned. Polly couldn’t smile back. The concert was ruined. Why shouldn’t she talk to Chester? They were friends! But she had been snatched away from him as if he were an alien species.
“Who was that boy?” whispered Daisy after lights out. It was the Crab’s night on, so they had to keep their voices low.
“Chester Simmons,” said Polly. “I know him from the island—we went to school together.”
“Is he your boyfriend?” asked Rhoda in a mincing voice.
“No!”
“I have a boyfriend. His name is Frank, and I think he really likes me. The day before I left, he rode his bike over to my house to say goodbye.”
“Don’t be silly, Rho—none of us are old enough to have boyfriends,” said Eleanor calmly. She yawned. “Let’s go to sleep.”
But Polly tossed for hours. Her mind raced with everything that had happened that day. Of course Chester wasn’t her boyfriend! But she had to admit she’d had special feelings for him since she was ten. How wonderful it had been to see him, and how cruel to have their conversation cut short! But Chester had said he hoped to see her at Thanksgiving. Maybe she would have the courage to ask him to do something, like go for a walk or a boat ride.
Polly went over every detail of being at Miss Falconer’s. She pondered the novelty of living with someone and not being married. What was the point of marriage? Uncle Rand might say it was something to do with God. Sadie, who had married Gregor in August, might say it was to wear a beautiful dress and have a joyful party afterwards. Noni would say it was about commitment.
Do I want to get married? Polly wondered. She decided that she did. Then she thought of the loving way Miss Falconer had talked about Mr. de Jonge. Perhaps you could be committed to someone even if you weren’t married.
Her mind went back to the class again and she fell asleep sketching an apple.
The next morning, Polly was called into Miss Guppy’s study. Once more, Miss Guppy told Polly she was never to talk to boys on a school outing.
“But I didn’t know he was going to be there!” said Polly.
“Don’t talk back, young lady. That’s no excuse. While you are at school, I am your guardian. I want you to promise me you will never do this again.”
“Yes, Miss Guppy,” muttered Polly. What a stupid fuss over nothing! she thought as she got ready for church.
The twenty-eight boarders walked in a crocodile down the hill to St. Matthew’s Anglican Church. Polly thought they looked like nuns, in their identical outfits: navy-blue dresses, maroon blazers, mustard-coloured felt hats, and white gloves. As her roommates had warned, everyone in the congregation stared when the girls trooped up the aisle and slid into the front pews.
The service was much as it was on the island. Instead of mild Uncle Rand leading it, however, a lugubrious rector named Canon Puddifoot preached as if his own words made him tired.
If only this were home! Polly thought. Aunt Jean would be sitting beside her, commenting on someone’s hat, while Noni shushed her. At coffee time, Polly and Biddy and Vivien would giggle in a corner.
As the congregation came out of church, a scruffy man approached them and held out his hand. “Please, can you spare a penny or two?” he asked. “I’m so hungry!”
“Poor thing,” said Eleanor. “I wish we could help him but I gave all my change to the collection.”
Polly looked around: Miss Guppy was talking to Canon Puddifoot. She dug in her pockets and found a nickel. They went up to the man and Polly held out the money.
“Thank you, Miss!” he said.
“You’re welcome,” said Polly. The man’s desperate expression reminded her of Daddy when he had been so poor.
“I’m sorry that’s all we have,” said Eleanor.
“Eleanor and Polly! Get into line at once!” bellowed Miss Guppy.
They scurried over and joined the crocodile. “I will see both of you in my study immediately after lunch,” snapped the Guppy.
“What did you do?” whispered Daisy on the way back.
“Nothing worth fussing about, but she’ll think so,” said Eleanor.
Sunday lunch, at least, was a welcome change from the rest of the week’s food: roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. For dessert there was treacle tart and cream. Polly gobbled up two helpings to cushion the coming lecture.
“What did you two think you were up to, talking to a tramp?” thundered Miss Guppy as soon as they had closed the door. “Did you give him money?”
Polly gulped and nodded.
“He was hungry,” said Eleanor.
“He was a dirty, disreputable beggar!” spat the headmistress. “You are not to speak to anyone when you are out, do you understand? Polly, I thought I had already made that clear.”
She told them they were not allowed to have any dessert or treats from their tuck boxes for the whole week. “If I ever catch you speaking to strangers again, there will be far more serious consequences,” she finished.
The Guppy’s stinging words had been much more severe than the punishment. “She makes me feel so guilty, when we did nothing wrong!” said Eleanor, once they were back in the dorm.
After lunch, they had to lie on their beds for a full hour to nap or read. Then they were sent downstairs to sit in the dining room and write letters home. Polly scribbled short notes to Noni, Maud, and Daddy. She yearned to tell them about Miss Guppy’s unfairness, but all she wrote was how interesting special art had been. “I can hardly wait to see you again,” she ended each letter, blinking away tears.
Mrs. Blake was on duty today; she and Miss Poirier alternated on Saturdays and Sundays. “How is your little boy?” Polly asked her.
“Thank you for your interest,
love. Johnny is thriving—he’s talking in sentences now.”
Mrs. Blake sent them upstairs to sort out their laundry and polish their oxfords for tomorrow. Each boarder had a laundry bag marked with her name. Polly’s gloom lessened as she shoved her charcoal-coated clothes into it. At least next week she could go back to Miss Falconer’s again.
It was another crisp, clear day. Polly wished she and Eleanor could escape to their hideaway, but for an hour before dinner all the boarders had to gather in the sitting room with Miss Guppy. She read them a passage from the Bible, then quizzed them about it.
“Why did the same people always answer?” said Daisy, while they were waiting for dinner.
“That’s the Guppy’s special group,” Polly explained. “Some of the girls call them ‘the Elect.’ Maud belonged to it. Be careful not to join it if the Guppy asks you.”
“I never would,” said Rhoda. “It’s bad enough having to go to church every week! At home we only went at Christmas and Easter.”
“You did?” The others looked at Rhoda curiously, but lots of things about her were different; that was probably because she was American.
After dinner, they had free time in the sitting room. Polly played chess with Eleanor.
“You’re good!” said Eleanor.
“My father taught me,” said Polly sadly. She thought of the tramp again. Did he get enough money for a meal?
Gwen Pritchard strummed a ukulele and crooned “Cheek to Cheek.” Two girls got up and danced while others sang along.
Polly was relieved when Mrs. Blake announced that it was time for the junior dorm to get ready for bed. The weekend had seemed more like a month than two short days.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A VERY LONG TERM
THE REST OF THE CHRISTMAS TERM PLODDED BY IN ITS tedious sameness. By Thanksgiving, Polly had received two more order marks: one for being late for French and another from Miss Netherwood. Polly had been trying to think of drawing as math, something unpleasant she simply had to get through. It had nothing to do with real art, nothing to do with the absorbing, wondrous world she entered every Saturday.
But one afternoon, while they were supposed to be cross-hatching an apple, she felt defiant. At first her apple was exactly like the one Miss Netherwood had demonstrated on the board, its form shaded in tiny crossed lines. But then Polly added a flowing stem and leaves. She drew a table for the apple to sit on, a window framing the sea behind it, and a leaping whale.
