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Visitors for the Chalet School

Page 8

by Helen McClelland


  ‘That was terrific!’ Joan Hatherley had been clapping away appreciatively.

  ‘Well, I told you they would be pretty good,’ rejoined Patricia. ‘Oh, sorry, Veronica! Yes of course, do sit here, push along one seat, everyone.’

  They all hastily moved up and Veronica slid into the vacant place, just as Margia Stevens came on to the platform and sat down at the grand piano.

  Veronica had not, of course, heard the announcement at the beginning of the programme, when the audience were told the names of the three choral items, and that these would be followed by Chopin’s ‘Fantasie-Impromptu’. Unfortunately, from her own point of view, she was always rashly confident of her musical knowledge. As Margia played the first swirling bars, those nearest Veronica were startled to hear her murmur, ‘Ah, Mozart!’ with an air of authority and wisdom.

  Joan and Patricia, each unluckily catching the other’s eye, were seized with an almost overpowering desire to giggle. Joan bit her lips fiercely, the thought going through her mind, ‘even I would know this wasn’t Mozart’, while Patricia, holding her breath, with eyes tight shut, was thinking that poor old Veronica invariably managed to give herself away.

  The compulsion to giggle faded away as they listened to the music. Margia played extraordinarily well for a thirteen-year-old. Herr Anserl had the reputation for being a hard task-master and remorselessly critical, but for the right pupil he was an inspiring teacher, and the Chopin piece suited Margia excellently. Although her hands were still small, her well-trained fingers easily tackled the brilliant opening and closing sections; and she played the central episode with not only romantic warmth but also a refreshing simplicity often lacking in performances of this well-known piece.

  The applause afterwards was enthusiastic and prolonged. Margia had to come back twice and execute the sketchy little bow that was all she could ever manage in this line, despite all Mademoiselle’s coaching.

  The Grange House girls would have liked to hear more about Margia, but the Junior Choir was already making its way on to the platform and the questions had to be left until later.

  Looking by turns touchingly solemn and unselfconsciously joyful, the Juniors were a huge success with their two contrasting folk-songs, one English and one German. The audience adored them.

  Joan Hatherley did think with some amusement that no human children, surely, could be quite so good as these small Chaletians appeared to be. But, of course, singing did seem to produce this effect: it could even make choir-boys look angelic . . . and everyone knew what absolute little horrors they often were. No such cynical thought troubled Pamela, who was enchanted with the little group and hoped she might soon get the opportunity to know some of them better.

  The remaining items in the programme were enjoyable but not in any way remarkable, with the exception of a delightful French song about the shepherd Colin and his pretty Colinette, sung by Joey Bettany. Jo’s voice was beautifully clear and true and gave promise of a golden roundness, somehow unexpected in slightly built Joey, who looked even less than her fifteen years.

  The concert came to a rousing finish with one of Moszkowski’s Spanish Dances for piano duet, and the girls left the hall in a deafening burst of conversation.

  ‘I say, that pianist girl’s an absolute genius,’ enthused Evelyn Barclay to Bette and Gertrud as they made their way back to the school for Kaffee und Kuchen. ‘And only thirteen, too!’ Evelyn herself was quite a promising pianist and the star performer at Grange House, but she was generously ready to acknowledge Margia’s unusual gifts.

  Veronica, unwilling to be left out of a musical discussion, chimed in: ‘Why, she must be good enough for Advanced. Has she taken it yet?’

  This remark completely baffled Bette and Gertrud, who had never met the expression before and were quite unaware of the importance attached at Grange House to passing music examinations. ‘Please,’ Gertrud asked politely, ‘what is Advanced?’ And this, in its turn, disconcerted Veronica, for she, like certain others among the girls, tended to regard examination grades as the only standard by which to measure any performer’s ability.

  Luckily Grizel Cochrane had just caught up with the group and was able to solve the mystery. ‘Advanced is the name of a music exam,’ she explained. ‘It’s the highest grade, as far as I remember. I’d have had a shot at it if I’d stayed on at Taverton, but we don’t do music exams here. I shouldn’t think Herr Anserl’s ever heard of them. (And she couldn’t help wondering to herself whether‘Väter Bär’ might not have dismissed the whole idea as ‘Rubbish’ — one of his few English words, which he always pronounced ‘Rob-Beesh’ with a machine-gun roll of preliminary ‘r’s.)

  ‘I say, let’s get a move on,’ Grizel briskly changed the subject. ‘Everyone’s getting miles ahead of us.’

  ‘What’s happened to Patricia?’ Joan Hatherley looked round as they reached the door of the chalet. ‘She seems to have disappeared.’

  ‘That the tall thin one, sitting between you and Veronica?’ Grizel enquired. ‘I think she stayed behind in the hall. Talking to Miss Denny for some reason. Does she know her?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Joan assured her. ‘They met in London, you know. Patricia probably wanted to ask about that friend of hers — the one who came from here. Sorry, I’m so hopeless at remembering names. Something like Catterick?’

  ‘You must mean Juliet Carrick,’ Grizel said. ‘Yes, of course. And I believe Miss Denny had a letter from Juliet quite recently. She’ll be able to give Patricia all the latest news. Right, then — it’s this way. Please follow me.’

  Today Kaffee und Kuchen was being served in the Chalet School’s big Speisesaal to allow room for the extra numbers. At the door the visitors stopped dead for a moment, struck by the display of black-and-white pictures that had been pinned up round the room. The silhouette portraits, each of which now bore a large number in the bottom left-hand corner, had been placed at about eye-level and covered a large area of the wall.

  ‘You see,’ Joey explained to a group of the visitors, as she helped to hand round cups of milky coffee and baskets of delicious creamy cakes, ‘after Kaffee we’ll be allowed a certain time to go round and identify as many of the portraits as we can.’

  ‘Well, that’s all very well for you Chaletians,’ Joan Hatherley said good-humouredly. ‘But what about us? For one thing, we don’t know many of your names, and for another we don’t even know some of you by sight yet.’

  Joey grinned. ‘That would seem just a little unfair, wouldn’t it? But we’ll all be competing in pairs. Each of you will have one of us as a partner, to help you. In any case that’s only the first round of the competition. You’ll get your special chance in the second round; we shan’t be eligible for that. By the way, we’re all dying to know what you people are doing at the party this evening?’ Joey, head on one side, looked round enquiringly; but the visitors only laughed and refused to give away any secrets.

  CHAPTER XI.

  SHADOW PORTRAITS.

  WHEN the coffee was finished and no one could be persuaded to eat even one more crumb of cake, the prefects arranged the competitors into pairs and handed out pencils and paper.

  While the girls walked slowly round the exhibition, gazing earnestly at the shadow pictures and industriously filling up their lists, a comparative quiet reigned. It was broken only by the whispered consultations between partners and occasional smothered giggles, when someone suggested a particularly unlikely identification.

  Jo had asked if she might be Patricia’s partner and when they had completed the rounds they retired to the big class-room next door, to rewrite their list. This was at Patricia’s suggestion. Joey’s knowledge of the school was obviously a tremendous asset but her list, written in a series of contorted squiggles, was almost illegible. Patricia felt that a fair copy would improve their chances.

  ‘What on earth is this name at number 22, Jo?’ she asked, as she sat at Joey’s desk, transcribing the list in her neat script. ‘Oh, I’ve got it, I th
ink it must be “Marie von Eschenau”, is that right? Now, she’s the simply gorgeous-looking girl in your form, who sat next to us at tea-time — Kaffee, I mean — isn’t she?’

  Jo nodded and Patricia wrote in Marie’s name carefully. ‘At least this gives me a chance of getting to know some of your names,’ she said. ‘But, oh, glory be! Now I really am stuck. Surely there can’t possibly be anyone called “Pa Laven Rot”?’

  Joey, with a disbelieving snort, leant over to scan her untidy original. ‘Oh, that’s Paula von Rothenfels,’ she said, unabashed. ‘I only put the “Rot” of Rothenfels; perhaps it does look a bit weird. I say, you’ve got jolly good writing, Patricia. My sister always says that doctors have illegible fists; perhaps you’re going to prove her wrong.’

  ‘I wish I thought I’d get the chance to prove anything at all in that direction,’ Patricia said grimly; and Jo, remembering the promise she had given her sister, hastened to turn the conversation.

  ‘By the way, Patricia, is it all right for the weekend of the 25th? I’m supposed to let my sister know by tomorrow who’ll be coming.’

  Patricia’s face lit up. ‘Oh, yes, Joey; Miss Bruce has given me permission and I’d simply love to come. Sorry I forgot to say anything before; and please will you thank your sister for the invitation, it’s most awfully kind of her.’

  Patricia finished writing the list; and when she and Jo rejoined the others in the Speisesaal they found the prefects had now prepared the second round of the competition. This was a test in quick observation. It had been designed specially for the Grange House girls and did not require knowledge of any names. The visitors were given chairs while they waited, wondering what was coming. The Chaletians gathered round, eager to see the fun.

  ‘Gee, am I glad I don’t have to do this part!’ Evadne whispered to Margia. ‘I guess it’s going to be just about impossible, don’t you?’ But Margia, busy watching the proceedings, was not listening.

  Eighteen of the shadow pictures had been taken down from the walls, and the eighteen girls represented thereon given certain instructions. First, three prefects, standing at one end of the room, each held up one of the selected portraits; these were, of course, carefully numbered. The Grange House girls were given one minute to look at the pictures; during this time the appropriate three Chaletians were silently taking up positions at the far end of the room. At a signal the competitors turned round and could gaze for the next minute at these three girls, standing in profile, each identified by a letter A, B or C pinned to her shoulder. Then the three slipped quickly out of the room, and one more precious minute was allowed for a last look at the pictures. Finally, the competitors had to write down the letters and numbers they thought should go together.

  ‘Dearie me — if only we could be seeing the people and the pictures at the same time, even for a second, it wouldn’t be so hard,’ Pamela Trent groaned.

  ‘Oh, hush, for goodness sake, I’m trying to concentrate.’ This was Joan Hatherley, her eyebrows performing gymnastics and her face twisted in mock agony.

  Beside her, Evelyn Barclay was heard muttering: ‘Help! whatever was that number on the left?’

  ‘You can just be thankful we didn’t keep to our original plan,’ Rosalie Dene assured them blandly. ‘We were going to show you six pictures at a time but Miss Durrant — she teaches us art — said that would make things too difficult.’

  At this there were hoots of derision from the suffering competitors. And the competition continued to the accompaniment of their moans and the ripples of mirth from the onlookers.

  Eventually, all six rounds were completed and the papers collected for scrutiny. Mademoiselle Lepâttre, with the staff and the visiting mistresses, had been watching the proceedings with not a little amusement. She stood up now to tell them that the winners’ names would be announced after Abendessen. ‘After that we shall go to the hall, where our visitors are most kindly going to give us a short entertainment; and that will be followed by dancing for everyone.’

  The shadow portraits were still decorating the walls of the Speisesaal when the two schools, now in party array and laughing and talking with holiday freedom, filed in and sat down to the splendid banquet the Chalet School kitchen staff had prepared. Bowls of delicious spicy soup were followed by cold veal and mixed salads, so beautifully arranged that it seemed almost a pity to disturb them . . . not that anyone allowed this to deter her. Then there was Blaubeeren Torte with whipped cream, and finally plates of Viennese honey-and-nut biscuits. To drink there were jugs of home-made orange and lemonade.

  ‘Do you remember gathering blueberries — you and me and the Robin — last summer?’ Elisaveta asked Joey across the table.

  ‘Rather!’ Joey answered, as she tucked into her plateful with relish. ‘And I shouldn’t wonder if we’re eating some of them now; I know Marie bottled lots and lots.’

  ‘Well, it may not be considered good manners to talk about food,’ Pamela Trent murmured to Grizel, ‘but, oh golly! What a scrumptious spread!’

  ‘There’s only one thing worrying me.’ Joan Hatherley sat back for a moment and beamed at them all. ‘And that’s the thought of plunging straight into our little dramatic effort, whatever you might like to call it. At the beginning of it we are “discovered”, as they say, at dinner. And I don’t know if I can bear to look at even a pretence meal after all this!’

  Several people glanced up instantly, questions hovering on their lips; but at this moment a signal was given for silence and Mademoiselle Lepâttre invited Bette Rincini to tell them the results of the competition.

  Looking extremely pretty in the brown velveteen dress that was the Chalet School’s official evening wear, Bette began her announcement by saying that three prizes would be awarded in each of the two sections.

  The first prize for identifying the silhouette portraits went to Patricia Davidson and Jo Bettany. Patricia, with a smug expression, whispered to Joey that this must be ‘entirely due to the excellent handwriting’. The second prize was awarded to Evelyn Barclay and Frieda Mensch; and the third prize, which had been specially reserved for the Juniors, to Amy Stevens and Berta Hamel.

  In the second part of the competition the successful Grange House girls were Pamela Trent, Dilys Gainsborough and Priscilla Doughty-Smythe, the two latter being clever but quiet girls, who had not as yet made much impression on the Chaletians.

  Gertrud Steinbrücke was surprised and delighted to receive a special prize for her hard work in planning and running the competition. Another surprise came when Evadne Lannis was called out with mock solemnity to receive a prize as ‘the person whose picture had been most often wrongly identified’. It may have been that Evadne, never renowned for sitting still, had moved while her likeness was being taken. Certainly it held the record in that no one had guessed it correctly as hers; the varying persons to whom it had been imputed ranged from Inga Eriksen, a small Junior, to Matron Lloyd. Evadne was at first inclined to be indignant about the whole thing and said they were all ‘real mean’; but she was mollified when she received the charming little leather purse that was her ‘consolation prize’.

  Once the announcements were finished, no time was lost in transferring everyone to the hall for the rest of the evening’s enjoyment. The Grange House girls, in an atmosphere of mounting nervous tension, went off to the little green-room beside the stage, there to change into a variety of borrowed costumes. The Chaletians sat waiting expectantly in the hall.

  CHAPTER XII.

  GRANGE HOUSE ENTERTAINS.

  INSIDE the green-room confusion reigned. ‘Whatever has become of my shawl? It was here a moment ago.’ Pamela Trent looked round accusingly. ‘Fiona MacAndrew, you outrageous girl, I believe that’s mine you’ve got on. Oh, well, never mind, I’ll bag this one.’

  ‘Do get a move on, everyone,’ Joan admonished them. ‘They’re waiting.’

  ‘Oh, dear, I feel like death,’ moaned Veronica in somewhat affected tones. ‘I know I’m going to forget my lin
es.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Veronica!’ exploded Joan. ‘You really are an ass! If you can’t remember the words it doesn’t matter. Just make them up; it’s not Shakespeare, after all. Now listen to me, all of you. Nobody expects anything miraculous from us; they know it’s only a very simple affair, got up on the spur of the moment, so let’s just try and enjoy ourselves; then perhaps they’ll enjoy it too. Dancers, do you remember your cue for moving forward to begin the foursome? Because that really is important.’ Here Joan looked witheringly at Veronica.

  Her brisk words had the right effect. The tension relaxed almost visibly. Pamela Trent, following Joan’s lead, said conversationally to Patricia, ‘I say, you do look rather gorgeous in that get-up. Shall I help you with the cloak? And what about your hair?’

  The minute they were all ready, Joan whisked them on to the stage and checked that each was in her proper place. Meanwhile, Evelyn Barclay had gone to the piano; she now began to play a Jacobite tune, ‘Wha wad’na fecht for Charlie?’, and the curtains parted to show a group of people wearing what was clearly intended for Highland dress. The Grange House girls had begged, borrowed and made use of everything tartan they could lay their hands on, including two tartan rugs from Miss Bruce and Miss Maynard, and a table-cloth, in what a leading Paris store called ‘Ecossaise’, belonging to Mademoiselle Lepâttre.

  Joan’s little play was extremely simple and had been arranged to fulfil two purposes: first, it was to provide a setting where a performance of the foursome reel would arise naturally from the story; then, at the end, it was to lead into an evening of dancing for all those present in the hall.

  She had found her slender plot in a tale about the romantic figure of the Young Pretender, Bonnie Prince Charlie.

 

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