‘Can I do it with my glasses off?’ asked Constance. They discussed this and agreed that it was allowed. Constance folded them carefully and placed them on her bedside table. She knew she wasn’t pretty enough for a film-star pose. Instead she crossed her legs, arranged the folds of her nightdress gracefully over her knees, and sat with bowed head and splayed palms as though she were holding a book. Fiona shone the light on to her face.
‘Take your Kirbigrip out, Gogsy, let your hair loose!’ she said.
Constance removed the grip and her hair fell in a shining fringe across her forehead.
‘Now we can’t see your face!’
‘Who cares?’ said Constance. ‘This is how I want to be.’
They studied her intently, then crossed the room to whisper their marks. I know I won’t win, thought Constance. I know I’ll never be pretty. But I’m cleverer than any of them. And I’m going to run away.
‘Jolly good, Conce,’ said Rachel. ‘Honestly, you look terrifically nice without your specs.’
They had almost gone right round the room when they caught the squeak of Miss Peachey’s shoes approaching.
‘Quick! Hide!’ said Mick, and the four Swallows squashed themselves under the empty beds, the long sides of the counterpanes making them invisible.
‘I heard a lot of rustling and talking,’ said Miss Peachey. ‘Come along now: what’s going on?’
‘Nothing, Peach, honestly,’ said Mick, looking wide-eyed and startled. The others lay unnaturally still in their beds.
‘You’ve been having a talcum powder fight, haven’t you? The dormitory reeks of it!’
‘Honestly and truly we haven’t,’ they said.
I‘ve got enough trouble on my hands without you lot playing me up. Now go to sleep. If I have to come in again, it’ll be order marks all round.’
After she had gone they abandoned the game. The two sets of marks proved to be entirely different and no winner was declared. Swallows withdrew to their own dormitory. The wood-pigeons cooed and a distant dog barked monotonously, over and over again, and then started to howl: a hopeless, despairing howl that expected no answer, for it knew, finally, that the good, kind master would never come.
Eleven
‘We shall leave here at the end of the first week in August,’ James’s letter concluded, ‘so we will arrive after the school has broken up, which will make things easier for you. And me!’ he added. ‘Juniper is very excited about coming to England. It’s her first visit -she’s always lived in HK, though her brother is at Harrow. I plan to take her up to Scotland and also show her something of London, but all that can be arranged once I’ve seen you and Father.’
Lionel lay back in bed, asleep or dozing, his breakfast tray untouched on the table beside him. In the light that poured through the bedroom window Henrietta saw him for a moment as if with James’s eyes, and realized how shockingly he had changed. He looked worse than old; lying there with his veined hands crossed on the linen sheet, he looked dead.
‘Lionel!’ she cried in alarm. ‘Are you all right?’.
As he opened his eyes and looked at her she said, ‘You haven’t touched your breakfast.’
He struggled to sit, and she had to prop him up on pillows like a sick child. Only he didn’t feel like a child, for all his frailty. His body was slack, his limbs so wasted she felt the bones might snap in her grasp.
‘Oh, Lionel, I’m so worried about James. He’s bringing this girl with him, Juniper, whoever she is. He says she’s never been to England before. He’s going to take her up to Scotland and show her Raeburn; that sounds very significant. Whoever can she be? He never mentions her surname anywhere. Look. You read his letter. But first drink your tea, dear.’
As she drove the Humber Hawk down the drive, Henrietta realized that her husband might not even live long enough to see his son again. He scarcely ate anything and seldom moved from his bed. He was immobilized by the magnet of death. She could smell it in the air of his bedroom, however often she threw open the windows: the bluish, metallic odour of decay. I shall have to wear black, she thought, and then I shall be like my mother, forever in mourning, for Alistair and Hugo, for Jamie, and then for Papa. She must have been younger than I am now when Alistair died. Let me think: in 1916 she would have been in her early forties. Yet I never saw her wear anything but black for the next thirty years. She mourned like a true Victorian, with crêpe and jet and black gloves, even though she was still a comparatively young woman. Was it real grief, I wonder, or merely observance? How unjust I am! Of course it was grief.
Stopping the car on the circle of gravel outside the school’s front entrance she closed her eyes and prayed. May the souls of my parents rest in peace; also keep in Thy remembrance my three brothers, James, Alistair and Hugo, who are no more, with none but me left on earth to remember them. And of Thy infinite mercy, O Lord, let my son see his father once more before he dies. For the sake of Thy beloved Son. Amen.
I must talk to the doctor, she thought. Lionel’s right: I’ve been so preoccupied with the sick children that I have neglected him. I ought to see the gardener as well, find out if he can manage on his own until the end of term. Well, I dare say Peggy can talk to him. And then there’s Sylvia Parry. Ought I to give her notice? I must talk to Peggy. And I have to telephone Mrs Malling-Smith and let her know how Hermione’s getting on. I must try and persuade Mrs Reynolds to go and see Charmian in hospital. For that matter, I must go and visit the children myself. I have so much to do, and all the while my husband lies sick unto death and I cannot attend to him.
In morning Prayers, after they had sung ‘Praise my soul the King of Heaven’ and their soft young voices had followed her through the staccato phrases of the Lord’s Prayer, the Head told the girls to sit. They subsided on to crossed legs like a wave, billowing and flickering as they arranged their skirts modestly over their knees and pushed the hair off their foreheads. When everyone was silent and still and she had their full attention, she began to speak.
‘First of all, I know you are anxious for news of the girls in St Patrick’s. Miss Roberts visited them yesterday, and she will tell you about them herself.’
The Deputy Head, who rarely spoke in Prayers, rose awkwardly to her feet and said a few stilted words. Doing so well … being so brave … unfortunately no visits from friends possible yet … all sent cheerful messages: chins up, and so on. Then the Head resumed.
‘They are looked after devotedly by dedicated doctors and nurses, and everything possible is being done for them. Next, I want to quash the rumours about a new case once and for all. Hermione Mailing-Smith has not developed polio. Is that quite clear? Good. Sadly, however, I have to tell you that I learned only just now that our gardener, Mr Waterman, has been taken ill. As we wait for the diagnosis to be confirmed one way or the other we will hold him in our prayers, as we do all those who are sick. His helper, the under-gardener, will not be returning to work in the school grounds.
‘And now finally for some better news … at any rate for some of you. Here are the first examination results. Upper Fourth, History
I don’t care, Constance said to herself; it doesn’t make any difference what I get. Miss Parry was the last straw. I dreamed about her last night. She’ll haunt me unless I get away. It’s no good my telling Mummy and Daddy what she said because they’d never believe me. They always think grown-ups are in the right. How am I going to get the money for my train fares? What if I were to sell my watch? When Daddy gave it to me at Christmas Mummy whispered that he had paid five guineas for it, which is an awful lot.
Suppose I go to a jeweller’s and get three pounds, might even be more, then that’d be more than enough and … Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of her name.
‘First, Constance King with 86 per cent. Second …’
‘What was that?’ she whispered to her neighbour.
‘English, you clot. You came top.’
After lunch, while the girls lay resting on their be
ds, Sylvia and Diana sat opposite one another marking examination papers. Their red pens slashed through the pages, tick, tick, cross, an exclamation mark in the margin, and at the end, a scribbled figure.
‘Your coffee’ll get cold,’ said Diana after a while.
‘Blast the coffee. I’m hot enough as it is. And blast this weather. I wish it would rain.’
‘It’s bound to soon. Does your head ache?’
‘Head, feet, back - everything bloody aches. This place gets me down.’
‘Have you heard any … news?’
‘How could I? You can hardly expect me to go to the sick-room and inquire after her?’
‘I thought perhaps … Would you like me to?’
‘Use your loaf, Diana. No. She hasn’t got polio. The fact is, she’s a hysterical, frustrated little virgin. Shut up about it, will you?’
They worked on in silence after that.
In the study, Henrietta Birmingham picked up the telephone and dialled. She sat tensely as it rang ten times, eleven … and was answered.
‘Dr Duncan? I hope I haven’t disturbed you? It’s Mrs Birmingham speaking … No, it isn’t about the girls, although of course they are always on my mind. I am worried about my husband. I think his condition has worsened in the two weeks since you last visited him … The pain-killers seem fairly effective. Even so, I feel he should now be under constant medical supervision. I am afraid … Dr Duncan, I think my husband is dying … That would be most kind. At about four o’clock? I will be at the Lodge myself. I am most anxious that he should not be alarmed unnecessarily. I believe he has no idea how ill he is. Perhaps you could find some excuse for visiting? Thank you, doctor. Goodbye.’
The pool sparkled with crisp, cold sheets of water. Lithe young bodies sliced into its turquoise depths, angled like scissors through cellophane. Mrs Whitby was taking the Lower Fourth for a diving lesson. One after another they balanced on the frayed rush-matting of the diving-board, toes curled over the end, then breathed in, swung their arms wide like dragonflies, bounced once or twice to gain momentum and flew spreadeagled through the sunny air before plunging into the water.
‘Good!’ called Mrs Whitby. ‘Next.’
Constance walked along the board. Without her glasses everything was blurred. Sunlight flickered on the surface of the water.
‘Ready? Now, arms wide, don’t look down, two nice high jumps and … go!’
For a split second her back arched, her arms formed a wide crescent, her toes pointed and she sped towards the sun. Then she closed her arms in a long straight line and entered the water with scarcely a splash. She felt her tummy graze the bottom of the pool and held her line until she broke the surface smiling in triumph.
‘Good, Constance! Very well done! That was a beauty.’
She gripped the rail beside the steps and climbed out, thinking, I did it! I did a swallow! Already the next body was cleaving the air as she sat down on the warm stones of the wall. The sensation of flight still vibrated through her body. I did it!
The changing-rooms were full of shivering girls, their teeth chattering after cold showers as they towelled themselves dry. Lank swim-suits dripped from the clothes line, deflated swimming-caps hung suspended by rubber straps. The slim, long-legged girls paraded themselves, flinging their towels on to the hooks and then reaching upwards to retrieve their clothes, talking over their shoulders as though unconscious of their nakedness. Others, ungainly and thick-bodied with rolls of flesh around their hips and heavy arms mottled with cold, clung for as long as possible to the protection of their damp towels, sheltering inside them as they tried awkwardly to fasten their bras and climb into their underpants.
‘You were brilliant, Gogs! You were best out of everyone,’ said Rachel. ‘I did a frightful belly-flop. Look!’ and she drew her towel aside to show the dark-red mark where she had hit the water hard and flat.
‘Poor you, jolly bad luck,’ said Constance; but her mind was on the time. She had to feed the animals, for with neither of the gardeners around, who would do it?
‘Hey, Rachel, hurry up and get dressed and come up to Pets with me. Nobody’s giving them any food or water and they must be dying of thirst.’
Her feet were clammy and she had to drag her socks on, noticing the pale grey ovals left on the white cotton by the fan-shaped pattern cut out of the front of her sandals. She fumbled with the buckles, scrubbed at her damp hair, dragged a comb through it, and together they ran up the drive, swerving to make way for Old Ma B’s car.
The last period of the day was revision. Constance held a ruler against the line of irregular French verbs in her exercise book, muttering them under her breath and then revealing whether she’d got them right. But it was hard to concentrate, when her mind was preoccupied with the practical problems of getting to King’s Lynn.
Did she really want to run away? The swimming had been so much fun, and people were starting to be nicer to her. We do the thinking for you, Daddy always said; and perhaps he was right. She was top of the form in two out of her first three exams - not maths, of course, but then she hadn’t finished the paper.
No. It was too late to have second thoughts. She was committed now. Stick to your guns, Daddy always said; make your mind up to do something and then see it through. But he also said, if a thing’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well. She had done well - in exams, at any rate - but she still wasn’t happy, surely? The idea of selling the watch frightened her most. Everything would be easy once she’d managed that, but her parents would be furious when they found out she’d sold her precious watch, on top of losing her pen. Best not to think about it. Back to the verbs: aller … allant… allé; asseoir … asseyant… assis; avoir … ayant… eu; boire … boyant … bu - no! buvant. The revision period was ending, everyone’s concentration dissolving into raucous shouts.
‘Quiz!’ someone shouted, holding aloft a French text book, but there were no shouts of ‘Ego!’
As Constance entered the Covered Way, head down and deep in thought, she nearly bumped into Miss Valentine.
‘Hold on!’ she said. ‘Hold on, look where you’re going. Don’t frown like that - the wind might change and then you’ll get stuck. Mrs Whitby told me after games today that you showed real promise as a diver. Good girl. And your examination results have been very good so far.’ Then she looked more closely into Constance’s face. ‘My dear, are you all right? You do look anxious. Are you quite sure you feel well?’
‘I’m fine,’ muttered Constance, and knew she had been given a chance and that she had thrown it away.
The following afternoon was cloudless and scorching, like all the days before it. Mrs Birmingham was alone in the study. A plate with two sugar-dusted Nice biscuits stood on the desk and beside it a cup of tea. They were untouched. The school was very quiet. Most of the girls were sitting exams. For once, there was no sound from the swimming-pool.
Dr Duncan had been breezy and casual. ‘Just come to give you the once-over,’ he’d said to Lionel. ‘Standard procedure. Can’t have you catching polio as well!’
Had Lionel believed him? His eyes, dull and heavy, had looked at her without fear or questions.
‘I’ll be with you in half a tick, Mrs Birmingham. This won’t take long,’ and she had left the room. Ten minutes later he had joined her downstairs.
‘Heart’s weak; his lungs are very congested; and the kidneys are dicky, too. He’s got no strength to fight. His circulation’s sluggish because of all the time he spends in bed. He ought to move about, even for ten minutes twice a day. There’s a risk of thrombosis otherwise. If you can’t get him on to his feet, then I should take him into St Patrick’s, have him under observation.’
‘He’d hate it,’ she had said. ‘If he must, I suppose, but… will it make any difference?’
Dr Duncan had looked at her in silence.
‘No,’ he said eventually.
‘Then he will stay here. Term ends soon. Meanwhile, I’ll employ a nurse. Our son will be h
ere in two or three weeks’ time. Can he, do you think … will he last that long?’
‘Impossible to say. Given something like that to look forward to, yes, perhaps. Here’ - he tore a prescription off the pad - ‘get him these. They’ll deal with the pain in his kidneys. No chance of persuading him not to smoke, I suppose?’
Henrietta smiled. ‘I’m afraid not. I’ve been trying for years,’ she said.
An hour later, from the junior common-room below the study window the sound of ‘Stranger in Paradise’ drifted up to her. ‘All lost in a wonderland/Of all that I’ve hungered for,’ the deep voice crooned. Strings swooped in tremulous unison. Henrietta gazed blankly ahead at the door of the study. Finally she reached into the drawer of her desk for a pad of airmail paper, unscrewed her pen and wrote:
My darling boy,
Thank you for your letter and the good news of your impending arrival. I have missed you very much. The sooner you can be here the better. Is there any chance of moving your flight forward by a week? Because, James, I have to tell you the truth: your father is much worse. He is very ill indeed. The doctor came to see him again this afternoon, at my request, and warned me he might not last the month. You must see him soon. Mercifully, Father does not know how ill he is. We have had a heat-wave for several weeks now, and he attributes his lassitude and lack of appetite to the effects of that. His breathing is dreadfully hard, and he coughs painfully. I am sorry, my darling, to bring such fearful news, but I thought it best to prepare you.
We shall look forward to meeting this young woman, Juniper (what is her surname, by the way? I don’t think you’ve mentioned it, or perhaps I have forgotten), but in the circumstances it might be better if you could make your first visit to us alone. Please tell her she is welcome after that. I am sure she will understand.
James, dear Jamie, I feel it is all in the hands of God now. This has been a very trying term, but I won’t burden you with any more of my worries. I look forward to seeing you more than I can say.
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