by Anna Reader
“Lord, I hadn’t thought of that,” Flora confessed, making short work of her cocktail. “I received a telegram from Hungary, too, come to think of it, so perhaps that’s got something to do with it.”
“More than likely,” chipped in Lettuce, as she popped a final olive into her mouth and stashed the cocktail shaker under her pillow. “Come on girls, we’re going to be late for supper. One of the sprogs said there’s treacle sponge tonight, and it would be a catastrophe to find that the Fifth form had snaffled the lot before we got there.”
Flora remained curled up in her chair, and smiled up at her friends as they began to file out of the room. “I’ll be down in a mo,” she promised them, as she slipped her hand into the pocket of her blazer and curled her fingers around the piece of paper. “I’m just going to sit here a little longer.”
“Like any company, Mack?” Alice asked gently, cocking her head to one side so that her long auburn ponytail fell across her shoulder and curled around her freckled face. “Pongo could always cover for me.”
Flora smiled back at her, but shook her head. “No, you go on,” said, “I’m fine, really – I shan’t be long.”
“Well, alright,” Alice conceded. “I’ll save you a seat, at any rate.”
As soon as the door closed behind them, Flora drew the envelope out of her pocket and eyed it with interest. She slipped her finger under the lip and parted the gum, to reveal a small rectangular piece of yellow paper. “FLORA”, it began, “IF YOU ARE READING THIS THEN IT IS CURTAINS FOR ME STOP IMPERATIVE THAT YOU COME TO SZENTENDRE AT ONCE STOP TRUST NO ONE STOP PLEASE THANK BEATRICE FOR SPLENDID PORTRAIT OF LASZLO STOP NEEDS REFRAMING STOP GOOD LUCK STOP YOUR UNCLE ANTAL.”
Flora drained the dregs from her beaker and stared down at the gnomic message resting on her lap. Untimely death; a Hungarian village; a painting of her late father; and aesthetic concerns regarding framing? Flora began to feel rather regretful about never having met this uncle of hers, for anyone who could compose such an extraordinary message would no doubt have been excellent company. What, she wondered, could possibly have inspired such a peculiar summons? She hadn’t visited Hungary since her father’s death, and as far as she knew whatever relations she may still have there had never tried to contact her; the idea that she must now race across the channel in order to visit the family seat whilst ensuring that she “trusted no one”, was therefore wonderfully intriguing.
Flora contemplated pouring herself a second martini as she made some rapid calculations. She had a small stash of money hidden in her room in the family’s London apartment, and although she had no idea how she might convey herself to Hungary in practice, she was a resourceful girl and was sure that she could contrive something. In any event Flora had had quite enough of another dreary winter spent in a boarding school in the depths of Cambridgeshire, and whilst she had no doubt that a European jaunt would mean almost certain expulsion, she began to think that this fascinating telegram would almost be worth the risk.
“Oh, after all, why not?” she said aloud as she leapt from her chair in an unusual display of activity, “Carpe diem, and all that.” Tucking the telegram back into her pocket and having made up her mind, Flora made her way down to the dining room to re-join her friends.
TWO
“Flora, you beast!” Alice breathed in an excited whisper, abandoning her treacle pudding and leaning over the dining table, “you must let me come with you, it sounds too thrilling for words!”
“There’s no point in us both getting expelled if the whole thing turns out to be bogus,” Flora replied very reasonably, eyeing the watery mound of boiled cabbage on her plate with suspicion. “It’s more than likely that I’ll turn up to find an empty house - but I promise I shall let you know if it turns out that there’s some fun to be had.”
“Trust no one,” Alice said, her eyes glittering, “it really is too, too intriguing. What could he have meant by it all?”
“I can’t begin to imagine,” Flora said. “It may be that he was just something of an eccentric, but it must be worth a look. First, though, I need to get out of here. Mrs Wormesley has had the duty mistresses patrolling the grounds since Janet” – the erstwhile Ophelia – “absconded with that chap from the Boy’s School, so that may be easier said than done, of course.”
“Never fear, I believe I’ve got that covered,” Alice said with a knowing nod. “I’d been planning to sneak down to Oxford in a couple of weekend’s time to see Teddy,” she explained, “so I’ve been working on an exit strategy - I’d happily lend it to you.”
“That’s jolly good of you,” Flora replied, much struck by her chum’s benevolence. “Let’s discuss it further after prep. Oh lord, Miss Pevensey is watching us – look sharp.”
Exercising the presence of mind which made her such a notably fine friend, Alice’s hand shot across the table and seized Flora’s in a demonstration of solidarity and sympathy. Flora squeezed it, before picking up a forkful of cabbage and surveying it woefully. Much struck by this display of tenderness Miss Pevensey directed her attentions to her supper, attacking a bowlful of treacle sponge and custard with furious energy.
After a particularly gruelling evening throughout which Miss Baxter patrolled the house with matchless zeal, the girls didn’t have a chance to resume the topic of Flora’s imminent escape until they found one another, toothbrushes in hand, at adjacent basins shortly before lights out.
“I say, Flora,” Alice said through a mouthful of foam and bristles, “have you packed? You must take something from the bar for the journey – Lord knows what they drink in Hungary.”
“Some kind of fruit brandy, I believe,” Flora replied, rubbing at her flawless face with a light-blue flannel. “Mother has it shipped from Budapest in her more extravagant moods. That’s very kind of you, though – I must say, it would be nice to have an emergency stash.”
“That’s the spirit,” Alice said encouragingly. “I’ll lend you my hip-flask.”
When they once again returned to their dormitory, Olivia positioned herself as look-out whilst Alice decanted some Oban whisky into a very pretty silver hip-flask. Flora, meanwhile, exchanged her flannel pajamas for a red cable-knit sweater and a pair of tan slacks.
“I can’t believe you’re running away, Flora,” Pongo said, positively fizzing with excitement. “I say, I’d be terribly honoured if you would take my lucky scarf to see you on your way.” Pongo rooted around in the trunk at the foot of her bed for a minute before emerging triumphant with a streak of blue cashmere, which she gave to her friend in the reverent manner of one making a votive offering.
“Lord, Pongo,” Flora said, the soft fabric between her fingers, “are you quite sure? This is terribly generous of you.”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Pongo said with a dismissive flick of the head, her cheeks flushed with pleasure, “it’s the very least I can do in the face of such pluck. You can give it back to me at Bella’s Christmas Party.”
“Right, we ought to make a move,” Alice announced, tucking the hip-flask into Flora’s small shoulder bag and guiding her friend towards the door. “Say your farewells, girls.”
Flora embraced each of her cohorts before flashing a bright smile and following Alice out of the door. “See you soon, ladies – wish me luck.”
“Good luck!” they cheered in unison as loudly as they dared; “Break a leg, Flors!” Flora heard Lettuce - a budding thespian – cry, as the door closed behind her.
“Follow me,” Alice whispered, plastering herself against the wall and edging cautiously down the corridor in the manner of a master-criminal. Flora followed suit, sticking to the shadows and holding her breath whenever she heard a sound. In this way they crept down three flights of stairs, past the dorm rooms and into the belly of the school.
“I feel rather like Arthur J Raffles,” Alice whispered as they passed down a final flight of stairs and into the school’s utility rooms, “sneaking about like this. Absolutely thrilling.”
At las
t they stopped in a dark, damp corridor leading from the kitchens to the gardeners’ store-room, and Alice pulled a small torch from the pocket of her dressing-gown. Pausing a moment to ensure that they really were alone, Alice flicked the switch and bathed the stone floor in a ray of weak, yellow light.
“This is the plan,” she said in a soft voice, spinning the torch around to illuminate her freckled face. “One of the junior gardeners keeps a spare pair of overalls in that cupboard. You’ll put them on, pull this cheese-cutter over your eyes,” Alice drew a tweed hat from the depths of her other pocket, “and push the wheel-barrow in the corner there over to the door by the kitchen-garden. It’s never locked between nine and midnight on a Thursday evening, because Miss Chatterley sneaks out to play darts at The Dog and Whistle. If anyone should see you, they’ll assume you’ve just been working late on the cabbages. Any questions?”
Flora pulled the flat-cap onto her head and tucked a cigarette behind her ear. “Top-drawer strategising, Alice,” she said appreciatively, as her friend handed her the muddy overalls. “Very comprehensive. How did you discover Miss Chatterley’s mania for darts, out of interest?”
“Teddy’s younger brother creeps out of school to play for the same team using an assumed name, so I’ve been on to her for a while now.”
“I see,” Flora replied, accepting the reasonableness of this explanation at once. She pulled herself gingerly into the overalls whilst Alice hopped about from one foot to the other in a bid to stay warm. “Well, Ali, this is it,” Flora said as she threw her shoulder-bag into the wheel-barrow. “Thanks ever-so for letting me use your disguise, you really are a rock.”
“Don’t mention it, darling,” Alice replied, ignoring the dirt which now covered her friend’s torso and pulling her into a firm hug. “Be safe – and for heaven’s sake let me know how you get on, I shall be absolutely desperate with curiosity.”
And with that Flora disappeared into the night, pushing her creaky wheelbarrow towards liberation and adventure. She was indeed spotted by Mrs Wormesley’s Cerberus for the evening (a timid mathematics mistress called Miss Twee), and if Miss Twee had been less myopic, she may have noticed there was something rather unusual about the way the gardener was hurrying down the path. As it was Flora made it to the door unimpeded, and soon found herself standing in the middle of a pitch-dark country lane on a moonless night not three miles from Saffron Waldon. It occurred to her, as she peeled herself out of the overalls and flung them back over the wall, that she hadn’t really considered what her next move might be once she’d escaped from St.Penrith’s. She knew she’d need to stop off at the Mackintosh residence in London, but how to get from Sewards End to Knightsbridge posed something of a challenge. Unperturbed, she took a small sip from the hip-flask (Alice would no doubt have been gratified to know that her gift had come into its own less than two metres from the school boundary) and set off in the direction of Cambridge; the twenty miles would require a full night’s walking of course, but there it was – Flora could be athletic when the mood took her so she set off at a fair pace, thankful for the sturdiness of her highly polished brogues.
As she walked through the rosy twilight Flora admired the unabashed flatness of the county’s topography, as she had often done before. There was something about the land’s refusal to carve itself into showy peaks and lyrical valleys that appealed to her sense of practicality; it may not inspire any Wordsworthian nods to the mountain’s echo but this very English scene was quietly beautiful in its own way.
Just as Flora was giving herself up to these contented meditations, she became aware of a pair of bright lights bowling along behind her and she scrambled up onto the bank, ready to flag the driver down. She’d barely managed to vacate the road when the vehicle hurtled towards her; using the burning embers of her cigarette as a makeshift distress flare she waved her arms in the air and called for assistance. Flora heard the screech of tyres and, much relieved, smelt the tell-tale stench of burnt rubber as the car juddered to a halt a few yards ahead of her.
“Hell’s teeth!” a furious male voice shouted, “what the dickens are you doing in the middle of a country lane at this time of night? I could very easily have killed you - which really would have capped off what has already been an atrocious day, let me tell you.”
“I’m awfully sorry,” Flora said at her most charming, “you appeared so unexpectedly, you see.”
Flora had by this time stepped into the pool of light being cast by the headlights of the bright red MG, and the driver, who had clearly been winding himself up to launch into a diatribe against idiotic hikers, was brought up short.
“Well,” he said gruffly as he observed this unexpected oasis of beauty adrift in the sticks, “no harm done, I suppose.”
“None whatsoever,” she reassured him with a winning smile, “I’m quite alright.”
The man, who appeared to Flora to be in his mid-thirties and possessed of a pleasantly ruddy face, was sporting a thick tweed suit, a woollen scarf in the colours of one of the Cambridge colleges, and a mop of dark hair which the car’s backdraught had left in disarray. She noted also that other than appearing to be slightly harassed, he seemed perfectly agreeable – the sort of fellow a girl could trust in a crisis.
“I wonder, Mr....?”
“Moore,” the man replied after only the slightest hesitation, leaping out of the car to offer the young lady his hand, “Professor William Moore.”
“Well, then, Professor Moore,” Flora said, correcting herself with a smile, “I wonder whether you might be heading in the direction of Cambridge?”
The gentleman looked a shade taken aback by this, and shuffled from one foot to the other whilst fishing in his pockets for a cigarette. “Er.....” he replied vaguely, his search apparently proving to be unsuccessful.
“Allow me,” Flora said, offering Professor Moore one of the Gauloises from her bag.
“I say, thanks very much,” he replied appreciatively, lighting the cigarette and leaning back against the door of his car. “As a matter of fact, I’m making for London,” he replied, the soothing effects of the French nicotine rendering him far less fidgety. “Matters of business, you know,” he added vaguely.
“Well, that’s famous!” Flora cried in delight, as she moved towards the passenger door with decided intent. “How would you feel about having a passenger?” Flora turned the beam of her melting blue eyes upon him, and offered up a smile which managed to convey just the right amount of helplessness blended with a quiet sort of courage.
Professor Moore attempted to smooth the unruly hair at his crown and puffed meditatively on the cigarette. “Why not,” he announced at last, leaping back into the car and opening the passenger door for Flora. “Climb aboard.”
Needing no further encouragement, Flora clambered into the small MG and, somewhat prematurely, thanked her lucky stars as Professor Moore put the vehicle into gear and set off at speed.
“So,” he asked, as they rounded yet another hair-pin corner in fourth, “what the devil are you doing out here at this time of night? I say,” he added, the spark of inspiration in his eyes, “are you a teacher at that girls’ school? On the lam from the staff room, as it were?”
Flora, who was finding it jolly difficult not to yelp in horror every time Professor Moore approached another bend in this impossibly winding road, clung on to her seat and replied with as much calm as she could muster, “Sixth former, not teacher. And not running away, as such – just slipping off for a few days to take care of some family business.” She was struggling to hear anything above the roar of the straining engine, however Flora was fairly certain that Professor Moore had groaned at the mention of families. Pulling the hip-flask from her bag, she took another sip of Oban whisky in a bid to fend off both the cold and the terror evoked by his extraordinarily erratic driving, and wrapped Pongo’s scarf around her head to preserve her curls.
“What was it about your day that was so atrocious?” she asked, recalling the comment h
e had made shortly after screeching to a stop. “I don’t suppose it had anything to do with your driving?”
“In a manner of speaking, it did, actually,” he conceded, shaking his head in an attempt to rid himself of the memory. “Absolutely shame-making - I really don’t know how I’ll show my face in college next week.”
“What in heaven’s name did you do?” Flora asked in gentle amusement, the whisky beginning to give her a pleasant inner glow, “You didn’t kill anyone, I hope?”
“Only my career,” he replied glumly, tossing the stub of his cigarette into the night and wishing he had another to hand. “I was taking my Aunt Muriel for a punt, you see,” he began, bellowing above the noise of the engine, “and I rather lost my bearings.”
“What happened?” Flora shouted, reading her chauffeur’s mind and offering him another timely Gauloises.
Professor Moore sighed and, after a struggle, managed to light his cigarette. “The BBC had picked today of all days to film the Blues in training, ahead of the Boat Race in April,” he replied unhappily. “And I….well, I managed to push our blasted punt into a direct collision course with their boat. The cox tumbled in headfirst, and half dragged Aunt Muriel with him. The whole thing was caught on celluloid, of course, and the Master of Magdalene was looking on too - which will do my already-precarious position in College no good whatsoever.” He puffed forlornly on his cigarette. “I’ve just taken a sodden Aunt Muriel home – having spent the remainder of my afternoon listening to a lengthy tirade about how she’s now determined to write me out of her will, and instead leave everything to my loathsome cousin Eustace. So yes, it’s been something of a stinker.”
Flora threw her head back and gave herself up to whoops of laughter. “How marvellous,” she said, gasping, “I wonder whether they’ll air it? I do hope so.”
Professor Moore, his dark hair blowing all over the place, glanced resentfully at her before assuming a piously pained expression. “I consider it distinctly heartless of you to laugh at my misfortune. I have had a most uncomfortable day.”
