Stuart approved. “A little less flare, if you please … well done. Now, switch it off. Good.”
Alicia was asked to try again, but when she failed, she had just looked resigned. Had she really tried?
Paul and Charles each had another go. Then rain began to fall, and Stuart called it a day. They filed out. Alicia was still sniveling.
Constance wanted to get back to her own class. But she paused to console the girl. “We all find it difficult at first. I did.”
“I want to go home.”
“Well, you can’t. Not until you can show that you can produce a were light on command. Otherwise, it’ll happen when you least expect it.”
She turned to Paul. “We have an after-class Talkers’ session tonight.” She had been asked to act as moderator.
“Yeah. I’m not looking forward to it.”
For the guys who heard voices in their heads, this regular practice was vital. For the therapy to work, they had to deliberately establish rapport with somebody, several times a week. But Constance had wanted to know everything about magic, so she had asked to learn too. Then, at the start of the year, she had volunteered to help the others.
She had been told that ‘neurotic’ was now politically incorrect and the preferred term was ‘obsessive—compulsive personality disorder’. But most guys in the school just called them Talkers.
“I hate this place,” Alicia said. “Do you hate it, Constance?”
“I did when I first came here. Mainly because the other girls wanted to make me talk like them.”
She realised that Alicia did not understand. “They wanted me to forget my past. But I’m proud of being a Londoner, and I refused to give it up. But a friend told me that if I could learn Latin, without forgetting Estuary English, I could learn Received Pronunciation, too.” She sighed. “But coming here meant that I could escape from my grandmother.”
“Coming here was an escape?”
“She was trying to find a husband for me … even then. She grew up in the Middle East. The family was rich, and didn’t have to work and went to receptions and garden parties and things. But there was a revolution, and they came to London. Grandmother wants me to marry and live the way she did. She says I have no grace or charm. I’m a disgrace to the family and will never account to anything.
“But my mother wants me to get a degree. She heard that some of the girls from here go to university.” She hated the idea of university. but it would be preferable to a husband chosen by grandmother. “And I’m caught in between.”
“Was your grandmother a princess?” Alicia said.
“Well, she thinks she is. But the kingdom doesn’t exist anymore.”
The Resolution (Day 1)
Constance decided she wanted to get away from the school for a couple of hours. She asked her teacher for permission to visit the Three Boaters pub for a meal.
She justified the trip to her teacher by saying that one of the first-year girls, Felicity, needed a change. But the teacher reminded her that the rules required a fifth-year student in the group.
She decided to ask a fifth-year boy. Niall was a Talker. He was also a senior member of the school’s Officer Cadet Corps and seen as a ‘dependable’ character.
He smiled. “Does that first-year snob still call you princess?”
“Well - I told her to stop. But I can tell she still thinks it.”
“Does she still follow you around?”
She grinned. “No. I persuaded her to stop doing that. The third-year toffs were prepared to let her join their little coven.”
“Do they practice magic? The Glamour?”
She sniffed. “They mainly practice deportment. They dream of curtseying when they’re introduced to the queen. As if.”
He smiled. “I’ll do it for you. But you’ll owe me a favour.”
“No, I won’t. You’re going stir-crazy too.”
He frowned. “That first year Talker, Paul, wants some long-distance practice.”
“And you want me to help out? All right.” They recruited one other companion, a Third-year girl named Mary, one of Constance’s friends.
The weather had turned bad. But they were not going to let that stop them. They all had stout waterproofs. Constance pulled on her woolen hat.
Felicity had last minute doubts. “Are there any predators out there?”
Niall took this seriously. “In this weather? No”.
It was getting dark. The road had a footpath, but the cars drove much too fast. Constance grumbled that Niall’s flashlight was inadequate, but he ignored her.
She grew impatient. Casually, she held out her hand, palm uppermost. “Give me light: partum a luce,” and produced a were light.
Would the ball of light turn into a fireball? Would it start growing in size? A magic spell that went out of control could kill the user.
But the light remained bright and constant. Constance relaxed.
But Niall was not happy. “Tone it down a little.”
They reached the side road, marked with a ‘no entry’ sign, and turned down it, then crossed the river by the old stone bridge. The pub was on their right.
Paul spotted four motor bikes among the parked cars in the car park. “Look at the petrol tanks. That artwork is great.”
Niall shook his head. “Bikers can be trouble.”
Niall told Constance to kill the light. “We don’t want anyone to notice.”
“Right.” Constance closed her palm, and the light vanished.
Niall led the way inside. The pub had a low ceiling, and the lighting was subdued. The manager looked suspicious, but Niall put on his self-confident act and asked whether they had a table for five.
“Of course. Over in the corner.”
Constance spotted a ‘beetroot wellington’ on the menu and ordered it. Niall asked Constance if she ate halal.
She shook her head. “You don’t understand. Halal applies to meat only. Not fish or vegetarian dishes.”
“You never wear a headscarf,” Felicity said. “I never noticed it before.”
“We don’t, in my family.” She sighed. “My grandmother once said that a headscarf was a bourgeois affectation.”
They considered this for a moment. “If you’re not bourgeois …” Niall said. “Then-aristocrats?”
“My grandmother thought so. But my dad says that after five generations, there’s no point in pretending anymore.” She decided to pre-empt Felicity’s next question. “On formal occasions, ladies in my family wear turbans.”
Niall raised his eyebrows. “So, they’re ladies.”
“You better believe it. And they want me to behave like one too.”
Felicity smiled. “I’ve heard - some girls from here go on to Oxford, don’t they?”
“Yes,” Constance said. “My mother wants me to do that.”
Niall tried to change the subject. “There was a new terrorist attack in London this morning. Something to do with the American embassy. They may have to call in the SAS.”
Constance waved a hand to indicate the pub. “I came here to escape from the serious stuff.”
Paul, the first-year Talker, said his attempts to establish rapport with other talkers were improving. But he wanted a more difficult test. “It’s terribly frustrating, but Charles has agreed to help. He’s waiting, back at the school.”
“Perhaps we could try now,” Constance said.
Paul nodded, then opened his card-case and selected the token that Charles had given him. This was a calling card with a pen-and-ink sketch of the old brick bridge on the reverse, drawn with obsessive detail. They had been taught that it was impossible to establish rapport with someone unless they had given you a token of some kind.
She started her stopwatch and nodded to Paul. He concentrated. “I Talk - haec loquor.” He spoke in an undertone. “Charles, this is Paul.” He frowned in concentration.
Constance began to worry. Could he hear? Would it work?
Then he smiled.
“Got it! Charles, is this easier for you than creating fire -?” But then he lost contact. He looked embarrassed.
Constance pressed the button on her stopwatch. “Thirty seconds.” The safety rules forced them to wait.
“Try again,” she said.
He picked up Charles’s card again. “I Talk - haec loquor.” But the attempt was a failure. “I can’t hear anything. Perhaps it’s because the walls are so thick.”
Niall suggested that Paul could try again with Constance. Paul agreed and got out one of his calling cards. He had personalised this with a pen and ink drawing of the school entrance. Constance admired it and shyly handed over her own card, a watercolour.
Mary was bored. “I don’t know why we use these silly things.”
Constance was annoyed. “Well, you can’t dial a number inside your head, can you? So, you pick up your partner’s card and think of the person who made it. They tried to imprint something of their personality onto it.”
“Well, I put some perfume on mine.”
Constance knew that was useless. Perfume was a mass-produced product. Although one fifth-form girl was rumoured to distill her own. She told Paul to go first.
But their attempt was a failure. She tried to console him. “This takes weeks of practice.”
Paul lost his temper, shoved Constance’s card in his pocket, and stormed out.
Constance was dismayed. Their outing was ruined.
Niall was unperturbed. He told Constance to try again.
“But he’s outside.”
He shrugged. “It’s still worth the attempt. Tell him to come back here.”
So, she picked up the calling card that Paul had given her. She looked round. “Mary - make yourself useful. Time me.” The girl pouted but did as she was told.
She concentrated. ‘Haec loquor… Paul, this is Constance.’ But there was no response.
Then she heard that voice in her head, loud and clear. ‘Constance - is that you?’
‘Yes. Paul - you mustn’t go back along that road alone.’
‘No, of course not. I’m in the car park. But how can you get through?’
‘Perhaps a real message helps.’
Mary raised a hand. “One minute. ”
Constance nodded. ‘Paul, this is Constance. I want you to break contact, wait a minute, then try to contact me. Have you got a stopwatch?’
‘Of course. Okay. signing out.’
The young men at a table on the other side of the room stood up to leave. Constance realised they were a team of bikers.
Niall smiled as they walked past. “Dangerous riding in this weather.” He used his posh Castle School accent.
The question was innocent, but the biker took it the wrong way. He stopped. “You saying we’re not good enough?” His accent was clearly Easy London. Mary’s eyes widened in fear.
Constance wondered whether it would turn ugly. She and Niall could use magic to defend themselves - but that might get them banned from here. And she didn’t want that. She prepared the spell in her mind. I push: I ventilabis.
Or perhaps there was an alternative. She fingered Paul’s card. ‘Paul, I need your help.’
She switched to her East London accent. “I saw those bikes outside. I liked the artwork on the tanks. Is it yours?”
They were flattered. “That took me weeks. Layer upon layer, you know.”
Then Paul walked back in. “Constance …” He was smart enough to guess the situation and took the opportunity to ask the rider for details. “Where did you get the design from?”
Niall was smart enough to keep his mouth shut.
London (Day 2)
Constance and eight others had been summoned to see the headmaster. They stood in the corridor outside his office, waiting.
“What’s it all about?” Niall said.
“I hear that an army officer has turned up,” Samantha said. She lowered her voice. “I wonder whether he’s dishy.” Constance sighed. Samantha asked that about every man who visited the school.
Then the school secretary opened the door. “You’d better come in.”
Constance found that old Ms. Dengie was there too, sitting in her wheelchair next to Beguid. Standing behind her was a harassed young man in an army uniform.
Eight hard wooden chairs had been set out in front of Beguid’s desk. He invited them to sit down.
Ms. Dengie explained that the officer was in the SAS. Several of the pupils gasped.
Constance’s first dismayed thought was, what have I done? That thing in Chelsea had been resolved. Then she recovered her wits, and common sense prevailed.
She would never have described this grim officer as dishy. But he was certainly fascinating. She realised she had better pay attention.
“I assume you’ve heard of this hostage crisis in London. It’s been on the news all day. If there are any deaths, the police may have to hand the case to us.”
Niall was impatient. “What’s that got to do with us?”
That earned him a glare from Beguid.
The officer ignored them. “We’ve worked out an assault plan. But that depends upon simultaneous attacks. That requires communication …” Some of his listeners stirred, as if they had an intuition of what was coming.
“Now, the aggressors released a pregnant woman this morning. The police questioned her, and she mentioned that the aggressors had a police Airwave radio and army surplus headsets. They’re monitoring our response. If we want to take them by surprise, we must have secure communications. I’ve heard you have a communications device that can’t be overheard …”
Beguid was uncomfortable. “Yes … That’s right.”
The officer turned to his audience. “I contacted your committee in London. I asked for a team of you people. They said they’d need twenty-four hours to get a team together. I asked whether they had any trained communicators gathered in one place. They sent me here. I want your best communicators.”
He looked them over. “We have five teams. And I’ll need one other man to receive the messages at my HQ. So, I want six volunteers.”
“It doesn’t work like that.” Beguid was impatient. “Didn’t they explain? Talking is strictly one-on-one. There’s no such thing as an open line. That makes it secure, but it also makes it useless in a battlefield situation.”
The captain was dismayed. “So ... I’ll need ten volunteers.”
“Three of our younger teachers might volunteer,” Ms. Dengie said.
“Not enough. We’ll have to make up the difference with these students.”
“But they’re children!” Beguid said.
“They can marry at sixteen … or join the army. Even if they can’t buy booze.”
“I can get you a dozen adult volunteers in twenty-four hours,” Beguid said. This sounded like an ongoing argument. “And a hundred in forty-eight hours.”
“We need them now. Tonight,” the captain said.
Comprehension dawned. So, the SAS wanted her to help them.
“Mr. Stuart and Ms. Johnson have volunteered,” Ms. Dengie said.
Constance nodded. They were the two youngest and fittest teachers.
Beguid turned to the children. “Most of you are in the Officer Cadets. You’re all fit.”
“But I’m in the fourth year,” Constance said.
He subjected her to a scornful look. “Yes, but you’re quick-thinking. You joined the OCC in your second year. But then you dropped out.”
She shrugged. “I was interested in learning how to be a soldier, not how to be an officer.”
“You say they’re fit,” the officer said. “Contact sports? Not rugby … hockey?”
“No,” Beguid said. “Constance, for example, is on the school’s rowing team. And Niall is a long-distance runner.”
Constance guessed that Niall, an able Talker, was high up the list. He was in the fifth year, an officer cadet, fit - and not too neurotic.
She was tired. But the SAS needed her help. And they had
asked politely. It was only until dawn. She said yes.
The captain promised Beguid that he would return them in twenty-four hours.
“But what if this lasts more than twenty-four hours?”
“Your people in London have promised to round up a dozen students and send them to London tomorrow. They can take over.”
Constance insisted upon changing into her hiking gear. She had no intention of swanning around a barracks in her school uniform. She pulled on her track suit, boots, and a wool knit hat and went down the stairs two at a time.
They all climbed into the minibus. Some of the guys managed to sleep sitting upright.
“Is the crisis at the embassy?” she asked.
The captain gave her a look. “If the terrorists had grabbed the embassy, the crisis would be different. No, they’ve invaded the ambassador’s private residence in the West End.” He stared at her, measuring her up. “The American media are saying that their government ought to intervene unless we take action right now.”
“Oh. I see.”
At Regents’ Park barracks, they were introduced to their teams. The real soldiers wore black coveralls. The ‘communication specialists’ were all given combats with a green camouflage pattern. Constance had insisted upon keeping her wool hat.
The intelligence officer summed up what he knew. “We think there are ten aggressors. They call themselves Fenians. They claim they speak for the American Irish minority. They despise the president - she’s done nothing to support the nationalist cause in Northern Ireland. She’s a socialist. They disapprove of a female president ...
“The London ambassador is married to a lifelong friend of the president and is regarded as her closest ally. He’s offended these Fenians because he’s done nothing to condemn the British authorities in Northern Ireland. We assume that they want to humiliate the president, and they chose an attack in London as their way to do it. We’re worried that the ambassador’s wife is missing.
“The police negotiator has established contact. They’re demanding that the president changes her policy about Ireland and gives them a pardon. Then they want a flight to a destination of their choice. I assume they mean Dublin.”
Fantastic Schools: Volume 2 Page 20