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by Michelle Magorian

  A crescent moon hung high above the woods beyond the wall. The air was crisp. Rusty took a deep breath. Boy, it was going to be such a relief to die. No more people hating her. No more rotten meals. No more sleepwalking. No more cold.

  She poked her head out from behind the bar in front of her and pulled herself up. ‘Here goes,’ she muttered. She bent her knees, ready to take a good hard leap. ‘I hope I get to see Beatie.’

  Then she remembered her promise. Only two weeks earlier, Beatie had said yet again, ‘Promise me that whatever happen, you’ll stay at my house during your half-term.’

  And Rusty had said, ‘I told you a million times, that’s a promise that’s a cinch for me to keep.’

  ‘Even if I can’t be there?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Rusty whipped her head back under the bar and sat down sharply.

  She knew,’ she whispered. ‘She knew!’

  She gripped the bar hard and began to shake.

  ‘Why didn’t she say?’

  She leaned against the cold scaffolding and started to sob, her head buried between her arms. All her grief at Beatie’s death, all her loneliness and misery at being torn away from Aunt Hannah and Uncle Bruno, overwhelmed her.

  As she wept, she remembered how, one night, she had crept downstairs to the back porch in her pyjamas and discovered Aunt Hannah sitting on Uncle Bruno’s lap on the rocker. Aunt Hannah had pulled her gently on to her knee, and the three of them had rocked there together. Rusty longed desperately to be hugged that warmly again. She missed them both so much. And Beatie!

  After some time she stopped sobbing and opened her eyes.

  She fumbled around inside her pocket for a handkerchief. Beside it was her small torch. She had put it there in case it had been too dark to see the scaffolding. As she wiped her nose and face, she realized how funny she must look, sitting out there, high above the ground, in her dressing gown and pyjamas.

  ‘You win, Beatie,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll be there.’

  She was about to move back towards the dormitory when suddenly she looked at the scaffolding. What a goop! she thought. This has been here all the time, and I never even thought of it. She blew some warmth into her hands, rubbed them briskly together, and manoeuvred herself down to the bar below.

  She grabbed the next pole, wrapped her legs around it, and slid like a fireman until she reached a wooden platform. It gave a light clunk as her foot hit it. She froze for an instant and stared up at the windows, but no light appeared. Stealthily she carried on, sliding and groping, swinging and pulling herself across to other bars, until finally she was standing on the stony ground that surrounded the building. She turned and moved swiftly towards the high wall, like a crazed prisoner just liberated from Alcatraz. She leapt over the lacrosse pitches, the smell of damp earth underneath her feet. It was all she could do not to sing, or scream, or yell out.

  Impatiently, she felt along the old wall for any crevices where she might put her hands and feet, and began scrabbling frantically up the brickwork. She hauled herself up to the top, swung herself over, and dropped down on the other side. She pulled out her torch and turned it on, protecting it with her hand, and made an arrow with three twigs on the ground. She had never thought the trail signs she had learnt in the Girl Scouts would be so useful. For the first time, she was beginning to feel just a little like a real pioneer. Torch at the ready, she stepped into the woods and found herself ankle-deep in leaves. She picked up a great handful and threw it high in the air so that it cascaded in an autumnal heap on top of her. Slowly, she walked into the woods, stopping now and then to gaze up at the trees. After a while she came to a small clearing. In the centre stood a broad-trunked tree. Its huge branches grew up and outward so that, from below, it seemed like a great, sheltered hut. Rusty laid down another sign at the edge of the clearing, walked over to the tree, and squeezed herself into a sitting position between two enormous exposed roots.

  Leaning back, she drank in all the smells and strange scuffling sounds from the surrounding woods. As she sat there, a wave of fatigue swept over her. If it had been warm, she could easily have fallen asleep. There and then she decided that she would run away, back to America. She didn’t know how or when, but somehow she had to get hold of enough money to get her to a port.

  ‘Plymouth!’ she exclaimed. That was where the first pilgrims had set sail from England to America. One day she’d go to Plymouth and stow away on a ship. That settled, she rose and headed for the edge of her protected circle and began following her trail signs back.

  At the foot of the scaffolding she realized that it was going to be more difficult climbing up than it had been slithering down. She glanced at her sneakers. They were filthy.

  ‘Too bad,’ she muttered. ‘Pioneers do not worry about Matrons.’ And with that she began climbing.

  With all her strength, she shinned up the scaffolding like a monkey, gripping the long vertical poles with her knees and feet. At last she reached the right level. All she had to do now was find the right window. When she had found it, she noted that there was a large crack in the brickwork underneath it. Looking down, she also noted that one of the cloakroom windows was almost perfectly in line with it. If she could make a small mark beside each, that would save time the next night.

  She clambered through the window into the dormitory, pushed her sneakers off, and began wiping off the dirt on them with her handkerchief. By the time she had undressed and climbed back into bed, it was already growing light. She had no sooner closed her eyes than the bell rang.

  The sound made her heart sink. For a moment she wondered if she had dreamt her escapade. While the other girls groaned and roused themselves out of bed, Rusty leaned over and pulled open her bottom drawer. There was still a slight trace of dirt on the toe of one of her sneakers, and on the floor by the window was one tiny russet leaf.

  The following night, as she clambered out, she marked the window with a stub of chalk she had taken from the class wastepaper basket.

  In the woods her track signs remained untouched, and within a short time she had reached the sheltered copse. She rested for a moment at the foot of the tree, and then began exploring the woods on the other side, laying down a fresh set of signs.

  Because of her explorations, it took a little longer for her to reach the school wall again. She hoped that her chalk marks would make up for the time lost. When she climbed back through her dormitory window, the other girls were still fast asleep. No one, it seemed, suspected a thing.

  The next day, school seemed just as dreary as before, but the knowledge that the scaffolding surrounded the building made the tedious hours more bearable. That night, however, it rained. Rusty lay awake for hours, hoping and praying that it would subside, before finally giving up and closing her eyes.

  When she awoke, she was shocked to find that she was standing yet again in a dark corridor. Once she had stopped shaking, she began to feel her way along the damp walls. Even as she worked her way along the passageways, she could hear the rain falling outside.

  The next day was clear and windy. Rusty nearly dropped off to sleep in history.

  At break time, Rusty eyed the scaffolding, willing the wind to dry it. During the last two lessons in the afternoon, a clump of dark clouds had come lowering across the sky, so that the lights had to be turned on.

  Rusty couldn’t even eat her supper, so anxious was she for the clouds to pass. The mistress in charge of her table, seeing how pale she looked, gave her permission to leave it.

  She had been in the Fourth Form sitting room for only five minutes when a prefect summoned her to see Miss Paxton. As Rusty walked past the other Fourth-formers, Judith Poole scowled at her.

  ‘If you’ve another order mark, Virginia Creeper, you’ll pay for it,’ she sneered.

  Rusty ignored her.

  To her surprise she was taken, not to an empty classroom, but to Miss Paxton’s own sitting room. The mistress was seated in an armchair by a log fire. She b
eckoned Rusty in and indicated the armchair opposite.

  ‘Shut the door and sit down,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, Miss Paxton. Thank you, Miss Paxton.’

  Miss Paxton gazed at Rusty’s ashen face. It was her pallid complexion, coupled with the report from Miss Bullivant, that concerned her. Although she disliked the girl, she was, after all, her responsibility.

  ‘Is there anything troubling you, Virginia?’

  Rusty felt safer keeping her mouth shut, so she glanced away and stared quickly at the fire. Boy, she hadn’t seen a fire since summer camp, except for the big bonfire, the night of the Japanese surrender.

  ‘Are you sleeping all right?’

  Rusty looked up sharply. ‘I get a little cold. That keeps me awake some.’

  ‘I’ll see if Matron can give you an extra blanket.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Rusty longed to tell her about the sleepwalking. How it sometimes frightened her so much that she was afraid to close her eyes, and how lost and cold she felt when she woke up somewhere strange. But she couldn’t now. If she mentioned it, Miss Paxton would keep an eye out for her at night, and that would mean goodbye to her midnight expeditions.

  Miss Paxton looked awkward for a moment. She picked up a poker and pushed over one of the logs so that the flames rose up around it.

  ‘This friend of your mother’s,’ she began. ‘Did you know her?’

  Rusty nodded. She tried to swallow back the tears, but her general tiredness, coupled with a wisp of smoke that made her eyes smart, prevented her. She brushed the tears swiftly aside with her fingers.

  ‘I see,’ said Miss Paxton.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Rusty, pulling out an already damp handkerchief. ‘I guess I’m not used to the smoke.’

  Miss Paxton nodded. It was admirable of the girl to blame her lack of control on the smoke. Still, she was worried.

  ‘Well, in view of your circumstances, I will have a word with Miss Bembridge and see if she will grant permission for you to go into town this weekend. And now you’d better return to the sitting room with the others.’

  Rusty stood up. ‘Yes, Miss Paxton. Thank you, Miss Paxton.’

  As soon as Rusty reached the empty corridor, she leaned back against the wall.

  The town! She was going to get to see the town again, and maybe the boy from Vermont. Somehow she had to find a way of getting in touch with him without anyone else knowing.

  When she returned to the sitting room, everyone stared at her.

  ‘It’s O.K.,’ she said. ‘I haven’t gotten a bad mark.’

  The girls groaned.

  ‘Order mark,’ snapped Judith Poole.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘You said O.K.’

  Rusty sighed and went over to the window. Outside, the sky was dark and very, very still. She crossed her fingers.

  He was standing by the Town Hall with the same three boys. Rusty kept her head bowed and glanced sideways at him. She knew that everyone in the crocodile would be keeping their eyes on her. He turned, a frown on his face, and then he spotted her. Immediately, he grinned. It was all Rusty could do not to break free from the line of girls and yell out, ‘Hi!’

  Without looking in his direction, she raised her fingers in a surreptitious wave, at the side of her leg, hoping that he would see it and not think she was snubbing him. She made a pointing gesture and waved it in the direction of the girls, hoping that he would follow them. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her Beanie, but swiftly took them out again, remembering that it was against the rules, and she didn’t want to attract attention to herself.

  Miss Bullivant stopped at the crossing, marched them across it, and led them towards the newsagent’s and sweet shop. Once inside, Rusty moved to the comics section by the window, while the Bull paced up and down outside. Across the street Rusty could see the four boys. Three of them were studying a small booklet. The one from Vermont was standing by himself, looking towards the shop. As soon as the Bull’s back was turned, Rusty lifted up a copy of the Dandy and slipped a note inside. Even as she held it, she wasn’t sure if the boy had seen what she had done, since the Bull was on her return stalk back.

  She felt a tap on her shoulder. It was Mary, the Scholarship girl.

  ‘That’s not approved of,’ she whispered.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Rusty hastily.

  ‘The Dandy.’

  Rusty stared at the comic. There was a thin-looking cat character on the front called Korky.

  ‘It’s considered frightfully infra dig.’

  ‘Infra what?’

  ‘Just put it down before the Bull sees you.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, sure,’ said Rusty, and she replaced it hurriedly.

  Within seconds, the Bull was at the doorway. ‘Back into line,’ she commanded.

  The girls who were crowding around the counter hastily pulled out their money and coupon books, while the harassed saleswoman attempted frantically to serve them all at once. Rusty slipped outside.

  As soon as Miss Bullivant had turned to see that the Juniors were getting into line, Rusty looked across the road and pointed to the window. The Bull whirled around. ‘Virginia Dickinson, get into ranks.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Bullivant.’

  In that short split-second, Rusty had no idea whether the boy had seen her signal or not. The Bull turned and headed in the direction of the bus-stop.

  As they passed a corner teashop, while the Third-formers looked enviously in at the older girls having their buns, Rusty glanced across the street. There he was! The three other boys were close at his side. It seemed as though they were keeping an eye on him, too. Suddenly he knelt down to tie up his shoe-lace. His right hand was hidden from the other boys by his left knee. Just before he rose,

  he gave a thumbs-up signal. Then he stood up and joined the others.

  Rusty clasped her hands tightly together. It was the only way she could control her joy. Now all she needed was another clear night, for in the note she had scribbled: MIDNIGHT. BACK WALL OF MY SCHOOL. WHISTLE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER.

  ‘Please, please, please,’ she whispered, ‘don’t let it rain.’

  21

  Rusty pressed herself into the dark shadows of the corner and waited. On the other side of the wall a twig broke. She bit into her knuckles. There was a swishing sound of leaves being disturbed. Quietly she began whistling ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’. Immediately, she heard it being whistled back. She scrambled up the wall, hauled herself over, and dropped in a heap on the other side. As she gazed up at the boy’s surprised face, she grinned.

  ‘Hi,’ she said.

  He burst out laughing and helped her up. ‘Hi.’

  They stared at each other’s dressing-gowns. They were almost identical. He was fully dressed underneath his, while she had two pairs of long woolly socks pulled up over her pyjama trousers. Without his school cap, Rusty could see that his cropped hair fell neatly from a side parting.

  They smiled foolishly at each other in the dark.

  ‘Come on,’ said Rusty, ‘follow me. We might be heard out here.’

  She brushed past him and ran into the woods, her torch pointing downward.

  ‘Hey, where are you going?’ he whispered. ‘We’ll get lost if we go too far in.’

  ‘It’s O.K. I’ve laid a trail. See.’ She pointed to a small stone on a large stone. Beside it on the right lay another stone. ‘That means “turn right”.’

  She led him through the woods and into the sheltered copse.

  ‘Gosh!’ he exclaimed. ‘This is dandy.’

  She smiled. ‘Isn’t Dandy supposed to be infra something?’ she remarked.

  He looked at her blankly.

  ‘The comic,’ she said.

  ‘Oh. You mean infra dig. Oh, sure. That means it’s not good enough for the likes of us.’ He pushed his nose up with his fingers. ‘It’s far too common.’

  They walked through damp leaves and rotting twigs towards the large tree.

/>   ‘Are all the English snobs?’ said Rusty.

  ‘You’re English, aren’t you?’

  ‘I guess so, but I don’t feel like it.’

  As he sat beside her, his bare knees stuck out from underneath his shorts.

  ‘Aren’t you cold?’

  ‘I’m always cold,’ he said.

  ‘Uh-huh. Me too! Doesn’t it ever get warm here?’

  ‘I don’t think so. It wouldn’t be so bad if it was a dry cold, but it’s so damp that –’

  ‘Say, listen to us. We’re doing what the English do. We’re talking about the weather.’ She paused. ‘You’ve hardly got an accent at all,’ she said. ‘You sound almost English to me.’

  ‘I came back early this year. My parents sent me to a crammer so I could be ready for the entrance exam to public school. I suppose I must have lost it a bit then.’

  ‘What’s a crammer?’

  ‘It’s a place where you get stuffed with as much knowledge as possible. I was way behind when I got back. I had to do heaps of Latin and Greek and French and mathematics and history. I’m still trying to catch up.’

  ‘Me too!’ said Rusty mournfully. ‘I was a year ahead, back in the States, and I got good grades.’

  ‘It was the same for me.’

  She glanced hesitantly at him. ‘Do you think the American schools are really so awful?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he said slowly. ‘It’s just that in England they get to learn a lot of subjects earlier. In America they catch up later. I think that’s what happens. Also, did you have a lot of immigrants in your class?’

  ‘Sure. Nearly half the class were immigrants. We had to spend forever on English like it was a foreign language, and we had American history till it was coming out of our ears.’

  ‘It was the same at my school. In fact, English grammar is one of the few subjects I’m halfway decent at. Last term, at the crammer, I was held up as a good example.’