RAIN STOPS PLAY.
UNFORTUNATELY, the next day it started to rain, at first only moderately but gradually more and more heavily. During most of the day it continued with only short intervals between the showers. And on Friday morning the girls woke up to find the mountains wrapped in blankets of thick mist and the lake barely visible through the haze. The rain was still falling, although it had now turned to a steady monotonous drizzle.
In the Yellow dormitory at the Chalet School the girls were consulting Frieda Mensch about the weather prospects. They did not find her forecast very encouraging. Frieda was considered expert in weather conditions at the Tiernsee, having lived all her life in the neighbourhood. In her opinion, once mist and rain settled down like this, it usually took three or four days before there was any real improvement in the weather.
‘This jolly well puts paid to the netball match tomorrow,’ Grizel Cochrane commented morosely. She was surveying the misty prospect from a window of the Green dormitory, which was on the top floor of the house, immediately above the ‘Yellows’. ‘And it’s the very first chance we’ve ever had to play against another school. What an absolutely beastly, foul shame!’
Bette Rincini, to whom the remarks were addressed, drew her brows sharply together at this use of forbidden slang by a prefect. But, since others were listening, the Head Girl did not think it diplomatic to draw attention to Grizel’s lapse. Her disapproval was nevertheless plain, and Grizel, seeing it, bit her lip in vexation. Although still thoughtless, Grizel was beginning at last to recognise her responsibilities as both one of the oldest in the school and one who had been longest there. Secretly grateful for Bette’s tactful forbearance, she resolved to be more careful.
‘I do not think you need to be so upset, Grizel,’ Bette said quietly. ‘Mademoiselle will certainly give permission for the match to be played next week, whenever the rain stops.’ Bette then went off to strip her bed in the thorough way demanded by Matron, after which she departed downstairs for Frühstück.
At the Stephanie, the Grange House girls were also discussing the weather rather despondently, over their breakfast in the hotel’s big dining-room. Normally there was a splendid view from here across the lake and mountains but today the prospect looked, for all the world, like damp cottonwool, floating against a vaguely green background.
Miss Bruce was beginning to feel rather apprehensive at the prospect of her charges being cooped up in the hotel for a second successive day. While many of the girls were content to spend their time reading, or writing, or just talking, some were apt to become restive when they had no active occupation.
Accordingly, after breakfast, Miss Bruce put on her mackintosh, a sensible felt hat and sensible shoes, and set out to walk the short distance to the Chalet School, where she requested an interview with Mademoiselle Lepâttre.
The two ladies put their heads together, and Miss Bruce told Miss Mortlock the resulting plans when she got back to the Stephanie about forty minutes later.
‘Mademoiselle Lepâttre agrees with me absolutely . . . it would be foolish to take the girls out in this weather . . . most unsafe you know, wandering about unknown places in the mist — nasty accidents sometimes. Mademoiselle does think things may improve slightly by tomorrow.’ Here Miss Bruce made an extra long pause and looked out of the window. ‘Better already, in fact . . . don’t you think, Doreen?’
The mist had indeed lifted considerably since breakfast time; even the far side of the lake was gradually becoming visible.
‘Mademoiselle advises us to stay in the house today . . . must think up some ploy for the girls . . . prepare something for the party tomorrow . . . that should keep them occupied.’
Saturday night’s party, to which the Chaletians had invited Grange House, was eagerly awaited by most of the girls. Perhaps some would-be ‘sophisticates’ were a little inclined to be superior about attending a ‘children’s party’, as they termed it; but these were a small minority and even they were, secretly, more interested than they allowed themselves to appear.
Originally, it had been intended that all the entertainment at the party would be provided by the Chalet girls, the afternoon being taken up with the netball match. However, since the match must obviously be postponed, Mademoiselle and Miss Bruce had agreed to alter the plans and the Grange House girls were now invited to contribute something themselves to the evening’s entertainment.
‘Better get the girls together, Doreen . . . discuss the possibilities . . . more your line than mine, I think. Any ideas what they might do?’
‘Not really, Miss Bruce; but I think it’s a top-hole scheme. I’m sure they’ll think up something.’ Miss Mortlock had been longing herself for something definite to do. She went off happily to gather the girls in the hotel sitting-room.
Doreen Mortlock was a pleasant, sensible but rather limited young woman, who held Miss Bruce in considerable awe. She felt herself much nearer to the girls, as indeed she was, being only twenty-two years old. She had qualified the year before at a famous physical training college and the post at Grange House, where the headmistress was never afraid to give young talent a chance, was her first.
She found the girls delighted to have a new interest to take their minds off the dismal weather. And it was surprising how quickly the rest of the morning passed as they hammered away at their plans.
At first there was no lack of ideas, although there seemed to be a snag to all of them.
‘What about charades?’
‘For goodness sake! Do let’s try and be a little original.’
‘A scene from Shakespeare?’
‘Wouldn’t that just be a crashing bore?’
‘Well, perhaps there’s a short play we could do. There must be something in the Chalet School library.’
‘Don’t be dotty! Even if there is, we’ve simply no time to learn it.’
‘It’s for tomorrow evening, you ninny, not the middle of next week.’
‘Could we have a fair and a gipsy to tell fortunes? That went down well last spring, when the Upper Fifth did it.’
‘But that was quite different; we don’t know this lot; fortune-telling’s no fun unless you know people jolly well.’
The suggestions came more slowly. The pauses between them grew longer.
Evelyn Barclay, generally considered Grange House’s best musician, was unwise enough to propose they should sing a group of madrigals. This roused a storm of opposition.
‘What an unspeakably ghastly thought!’ Patricia said emphatically. ‘In any case, the Chalet people are pretty expert in that line themselves. Juliet Carrick told me that their singing master, Mr Denny, is a real genius at getting results, even if he is a bit peculiar himself.’
‘They do a lot of folk-dancing too,’ said Pamela Trent. ‘I don’t think it would be wise to try and compete in that line either.’
‘Wait a minute, though!’ Joan Hatherley broke in excitedly. ‘An idea’s just beginning to stir in the murky depths of my mind. It mayn’t be any good but just let me think a moment.’ Joan gazed round with a calculating air. She turned to two Scottish girls, who were among Grange House’s small contingent of boarders: ‘You two must know lots of Scottish dances, don’t you? Can you dance the foursome reel?’ They nodded; and everyone waited expectantly. ‘Believe it or not, I can dance a foursome reel myself,’ Joan continued. ‘It was dinned into me painfully last Christmas, when we were staying with friends in Edinburgh. Now it would need only one more person. Does anyone else know the foursome?’
They eyed each other hopefully. No one volunteered. Then, to everyone’s surprise, Miss Mortlock said: ‘If it would be any help to you, Joan, I can dance a foursome reel; we did a good deal of national dancing at college.’
Joan accepted this offer with alacrity; but the girls were still puzzled.
‘I just don’t see what you’re getting at,’ complained Veronica Cunningham. ‘What help is all this foursome reel business going to be? I thought we agreed bef
ore that folk-dancing was no go?’
Joan gave her glasses an upward shove; they always tended to slip down her nose when she was concentrating. She wriggled herself into a more comfortable position.
‘We know that the Chalet School do a lot of folk dancing,’ she said slowly. ‘But they do specialise mostly in English dances; I’m pretty sure they haven’t done any Scottish dancing. And, in any case, if I can work out my little scheme, the dancing will only be one small part of the whole thing. Now, Patricia, you’ve got a kilt with you, haven’t you? Yes, I saw you wearing it the other day. You’re about the right height too . . . Mmm . . . ’ Her voice trailed off. She gave herself up to silent but obviously furious thinking. Eventually the others protested that they couldn’t bear to wait any longer, and Joan, with a laughing apology, began to outline her plan. Her friends listened with growing approval. Joan’s idea was certainly more original than any suggested so far, and had the added merit of being practical: it would include them all, but no one person would have to memorise much in the short time before tomorrow evening.
‘If I can just get a couple of hours’ peace this afternoon I’ll get something strung together,’ Joan promised. ‘It won’t be anything marvellous, in fact it’ll probably be dire; but it’ll give us something to start on. You can easily alter the details.’
Joan always tended to underestimate her own capabilities. She would have been astonished to know that Miss Bruce regarded her as the most promising pupil in the Sixth Form’s advanced English group.
They were still deep in discussion when Frau Dobler appeared at the door to tell them lunch would be ready in five minutes; and, at Miss Mortlock’s suggestion, they all hurried off to make themselves tidy.
CHAPTER IX.
GERTRUD HAS AN IDEA.
MEANWHILE the Chalet School was also humming with plans for the party. On the Friday morning Mademoiselle had announced that there would be no afternoon lessons that day. Instead, during the afternoon they would have the two hours’ preparation that usually followed Kaffee und Kuchen. This would allow everyone to have the whole evening free to help with the party arrangements.
After the coffee cups and the baskets in which the sweet bread-twists and cakes were served had been cleared away, Middles and Seniors settled themselves down to listen to Bette Rincini.
‘As I expect you all realise,’ the Head Girl began, in the almost perfect English that Joan Hatherley had admired so much, ‘the netball match planned for tomorrow must be postponed. So Mademoiselle has decided that in the afternoon we shall give a short concert for our visitors. The girls who are to perform at this concert have already been told.’ Various people exchanged speaking glances. ‘Our choir will also take part in the programme, and Mr Denny will be coming here tomorrow morning, immediately after Guides, to rehearse the songs with us.’
‘I say, Bette, isn’t there going to be any sort of real party entertainment?’ This was, of course, the irrepressible Evadne.
Margia dug her elbow disapprovingly into Evadne’s ribs and Joey hissed: ‘For goodness sake, pipe down, Evvy; she’s just going to tell us about it.’
Evadne subsided and the Head Girl went on: ‘We prefects are going to organise a competition, and we hope, please, that you will all help us. It is Gertrud’s idea. She is going to explain it in a moment, but first there are several things we need. How many of you have pocket torches?’
A great many hands shot up, but when Bette added, with a smile, ‘They must be in good working order,’ several people looked at each other ruefully and dropped their hands.
‘Now, let me see . . . Frieda, Marie and Elisaveta, if we may borrow your torches, please will you go now and fetch them. We already have two and that should be enough.’ She turned to Rosalie Dene, one of the prefects. ‘Rosalie, will you take Joey and Simone with you and fetch those boxes we prepared before Kaffee?’
Rosalie nodded and went off upstairs to the Prefects’ room, followed by the two Fifth Formers. Both went very willingly, Joey because she enjoyed helping to get things going, and Simone because she always wanted to do everything Joey did.
The three who had gone to the dormitories to find their torches were soon back, breathless after running both ways. Running in the passages or on the stairs was sternly discouraged at the Chalet School, but luckily they had not been noticed.
A few moments later, Rosalie, Jo and Simone reappeared, each carrying a cardboard box. These they put down on one of the large tables in the room. The girls immediately came crowding round, eager to see if the contents would afford a clue to what was coming.
However, the mystery only deepened when Simone took a large roll of white paper out of her box, and Joey an equally large roll of black paper from hers. Rosalie’s box proved to contain a strange assortment of objects, including a great many pencils, several pairs of scissors, a pot of glue and the two torches Bette had mentioned.
A tremendous noise arose as they tried vainly to guess at Gertrud’s idea. The Middles were, as always, particularly vociferous. Bette quickly called them to order; but not before Grizel Cochrane had been heard saying sarcastically that, of course, if they really wanted one of the mistresses to come and stop the meeting altogether, they had only to go on shouting and preferably just a little louder.
When a decent silence was restored, Gertrud, a distinct twinkle in her eye, said solemnly, ‘We are going to have an exhibition of silhouette portraits.’ She laughed at the many completely mystified expressions. ‘You will understand when we show you. First, we must have the shutters closed and the lights on. Then if you will clear this corner of the room and all go and stand over there, Bette is going to be our first model.’
Two of the prefects had been cutting a large rectangular piece from the roll of white paper. They now attached this to the wall with drawing pins. Bette seated herself on a chair, placed sideways on to the wall and close to the white paper. Grizel picked up one of the torches and, when Gertrud had signalled that she was ready, another prefect put out the lights. The result was dramatic and was greeted with an appreciative gasp.
Grizel was directing the beam of the torch in such a way that Bette’s shadow was thrown, black and sharp, on to the white paper on the wall. There was a faint murmur from the watching girls as one or two began to understand something of the plan.
Gertrud took a pencil and traced rapidly round the outline of Bette’s profile. The lights were switched on again. Black paper was pasted on to the back of the pencil sketch and then Gertrud cut very carefully with scissors around the pencil outline. The cut-out, when reversed, was seen to be a black silhouette of Bette’s head and shoulders; it looked very effective when finally mounted on a fresh piece of white paper.
Admiring comments poured from all sides. Everyone agreed the portrait was most successful and a good likeness of the sitter.
Bette, however, did not allow them to waste time in talking. There was a lot to do, as it was intended that everyone’s likeness should be taken. They would now be formed into groups, so as to get this done as quickly as possible.
‘What would you like me to do, Gertrud?’ asked Joey. ‘I’m not too marvellous at drawing, you know.’ This caused considerable mirth, for Jo’s drawing was bad enough to be notorious.
‘It does not really need much drawing skill, Joey,’ Gertrud answered, quite seriously, ‘but perhaps it will be better if you help with the pasting, as we need many people for that. Now, we will divide into four teams and one must go next door in the small class-room. Bette, will you take your team there, or shall I?’
‘Oh, I will go, Gertrud; it is better that you stay and help all those in here.’ Bette quickly chose her helpers and departed.
For the next hour and three-quarters the girls worked away with a will and, ten minutes before Abendessen, all the portraits were finished. Each bore the sitter’s name on the back, to avoid any future confusion. Gertrud had meanwhile been busy compiling a mysterious list of names and numbers, which did not appear
to be in any particular order.
They had all forgotten, for the moment, that Bette had originally announced a competition. It was not until they had almost finished tidying the class-room that Joey remembered this. The prefects were immediately besieged with questions: what would the competition entail? how would it be run? But they declined firmly to give any more information.
‘It’s a shame not to include the mistresses,’ Joey said suddenly. ‘Couldn’t you persuade them to join in, Bette?’
‘We have thought of that, and Miss Durrant has very kindly offered to do portraits of all the staff; also of the Juniors,’ Bette informed her.
‘How absolutely splendid!’ pronounced Joey. ‘Now we’ll have the whole Chalet School in our portrait gallery. I say, I am looking forward to tomorrow; what do you think the Grange House lot are going to produce for us?’
CHAPTER X.
THE CHALET SCHOOL CONCERT.
‘CAN you move along the row, please?’ Veronica Cunningham was, to her intense embarrassment, late in arriving for Saturday afternoon’s concert. Veronica always made a point of being ready in good time, but she had been unlucky enough to trip just as the Grange House party was setting out from the Stephanie. The result had been a large hole with a rapidly spreading ladder in her best silk stockings. She had been obliged to rush back upstairs to her bedroom in order to find and change into another pair.
When, eventually, she arrived at the hall, the concert had already begun. The audience was enjoying a lovely three-part setting of ‘O swallow, flying south!’, sung by the Chalet School Seniors and Middles, with a beauty of tone and phrasing that did great credit to their singing master, the eccentric Mr Denny. This was followed by ‘Oh, how should I your true love know?’ and, as a complete contrast, the lively ‘Newcastle Dance’. Then the choir left the platform in an orderly line and went to swell the audience, while Mr Denny went to join the rest of the staff who, with Miss Bruce and Miss Mortlock, were sitting in the front two rows.
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