by Penny Dolan
‘In Murkstone Hall, We Will Become More Worthy!
‘In Murkstone Hall, We Will Become More Obedient!
‘In Murkstone Hall, We Will Know Our Place!
‘In Murkstone Hall, We Will Recite To Our Utmost Ability!’
And on and on and on, with the words screwing themselves into dried dust on our tongues.
Madam Claudine had one other more practical method. Each day she chose one of the bigger boys.
‘Today’s Monitor!’ she declared.
The chosen one climbed the steps to her desk to receive a large M in chalk upon his back. For that day the Monitor’s job was to walk up and down the aisles, wielding something rather like a long feather duster capable of giving a punishing blow to any boy not doing as Madam Claudine required.
Looking back, I see Madam Claudine was crafty. Choosing a Monitor daily meant that nobody whacked anyone else too severely, for he would surely be hurt in return. Nobody became over-powerful, and so Madam Claudine’s own authority was never challenged.
However, any Monitor who Madame Claudine felt was too kind or gentle soon found himself sent swiftly to Mr Bulloughby’s office, and he was in no way kind or gentle in return.
So, was it Bulloughby? Was he the bad dream, the bad time?
Certainly Bulloughby made the hours stand still in this horror of a place. Bulloughby made the nightmare begin. He sat in his stuffed study like a bloated toad, taking no care of any child within those walls, Returnable or Non-Returnable. But worse was to come.
On my first day, after the chanting had gone on for several hours, Madam Claudine gave a loud squawk.
‘Monitor! Kitchen!’
The Monitor scurried away, returning with a cloth-covered basket. Madam Claudine seized it and sat munching away at whatever was hidden inside.
Still droning, we watched her claw-like hands move the food piece by piece to her mouth while our own hunger groaned in our stomachs.
When the bell rang, I hurried along behind Niddle. We entered a large draughty room, filled with long tables and mean rough benches, where vast vats rose up from the hidden depths of the kitchen.
Here I discovered – maybe I should have guessed? – that Murkstone meals were bowls of cold grey gruel or a grimy broth laced with vegetable peelings, and pieces of coarse bread. Everything tasted the same, but foul though the food was, there was never enough.
Later on, I would learn about that dark, hidden kitchen, but on that first day, as soon as my meal ended, I raced out with the others into the grounds. I did not know that this was where a gang of the biggest boys gathered. Among them sat Bulloughby’s son Grindle, cracking his knuckles, the King Rat of Murkstone Hall.
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CHAPTER 10
FRIENDS AND ENEMIES
We charged outside. Ma and Isaac had taught me always to be hopeful, so, as I breathed in the clean fresh air, my spirits lifted.
Niddle and I and some of the youngest boys raced around, partly to keep ourselves warm. The harsh wind snapped at our ears and hands and whipped away our cries and shouts.
Pyeberry, a boy with a frizz of dark curls, found a rough lump of wood, scarred with knots, and flung it down on the ground.
‘Kick it, Pyeberry, kick it!’ we called.
Pyeberry grinned at me, then kicked it in my direction, and we all charged after the misshapen thing as if it was a ball.
Of course, the lump would not roll straight, but bounced off in odd directions. Eyes fixed, I ran headlong after our wooden ball and found it trapped under the toe of a steel-rimmed boot. I beamed eagerly up at whoever had so helpfully stopped our toy rolling further. Then I backed away.
Two red-rimmed eyes glared at me. A pasty white face moved closer to mine, the mouth set in a twisted line of hate. Bristly hair stood like a rough brush from the scalp. As the other boys stepped back, I was left in a wide space, almost alone. Just me, and the boy called Grindle Bulloughby.
‘Hello.’ It seemed the only thing to say. ‘Can we have our ball back?’
Grindle chuckled and slowly shook his head. ‘No. Only if you can get it, Vermin.’
He picked up the lump of wood, all bashed and cracked from our game, and held it out tantalisingly.
As I reached forward, he smirked, and whirled the wood as hard as he could right across the yard so it bounced on the roof, rolled down the slates and lodged behind an old chimney on the side of Murkstone Hall. Grindle strutted off, satisfied that he had spoilt our game and that the ball was out of reach.
Not my reach though.
Without a thought, I ran over and shinned up the thick ivy that grew on that wall. Soon I was high above the other boys, though somehow it didn’t feel much higher than that beam in Isaac’s barn. Up I went. I grabbed the lost ball, shoved it inside my jacket and scrambled down.
Only when I reached the ground did the web of silence break and the yard fill with whoops and cheers. I turned, beaming, to find that Grindle’s face was afire.
‘You trying to mock me?’ he spat, shoving me so hard I fell down. ‘You’ll be so very sorry, Vermin, you and your friends.’ He turned away and stamped into the school.
From then on, Grindle was my foe. There was one saving piece of good fortune: the biggest boys spent their days in a so-called study of their own. Grindle was not kept in Madam Claudine’s tender care, and for that I was very glad.
How I remember that first night at Murkstone Hall! All round the walls of a cold dormitory, beds were raised like sets of shelves, five high.
There was no sign of the trunk full of Ma’s clean clothes for me. There were no trunks or chests or cupboards at all in that bare room, just a gaggle of children shivering in whatever they had once arrived in, though now their clothes were torn and worn, and what was left of collars and cuffs was rimed with dirt.
The boys clambered up into their beds in their day clothes, dragging blankets with them and bundling jackets to make pillows.
I too snatched a threadbare blanket from a heap by the door, then found each boy curled up within his narrow bunk. Where should I go?
‘Take Ollie’s place,’ Niddle called, in an odd, strained voice. ‘Top bunk, third row along.’
‘Doesn’t Ollie need it?’ I asked, looking around. The chattering fell away.
‘Not now.’ Niddle pointed awkwardly to Ollie’s empty bunk. It was just below the ceiling. ‘Ollie started sleepwalking.’
I clambered up, for there was no other space to take. ‘Sorry, Ollie,’ I said silently, and hoped his spirit was peaceful.
There I crouched, just below the crumbling grey plaster. The single candle flame sank within its tallow stub, inviting the darkness.
In those flickering shadows I took off both my boots and tugged one bootlace free. The lace, as I gnawed it, tasted of mud and long journeys. I chewed until it snapped to make two short laces for my boot-tops the next morning. I pulled out the long second lace and, under cover, felt inside Ma’s knitted sock for my hidden secret.
Carefully, imperceptibly, I threaded my small silver mouse medal on to it. I did not tie the lace around my neck, because then it might be seen. Under the thin blanket, I wriggled about until I had tied the lace across my chest and shoulder. My metal namesake wedged uncomfortably against my side, but I was glad to feel it there.
The darkness did not hide the many other shufflings and scratchings, nor the chattering of teeth.
Then, after a while, Pyeberry piped up with a gleeful chant. ‘Sleep tight till the morning light –’
‘And we don’t care if the bedbugs bite. Amen!’ the boys chanted in joyful reply.
As I dropped into sleep, my brain echoed with this odd night-time prayer. It was not one that Ma or Isaac had taught me.
In the blink of an eye, or so it seemed, morning arrived.
All round the dormitory, tousled boys dropped down from their bunks like spiderlings.
I stayed curled up for a moment, hiding my eyes, but the stink of the blanket brought back the knowledge that this was my true, real life. Ma and Isaac and the farm were the dream now.
‘Mouse,’ called Niddle. ‘Come on! Be quick!’
I dropped down to the floor too, tucking in my shirt and pulling on my jacket. As I put on my boots and tied the shortened laces, the door opened and in came three big boys. One carried a bucket, one a large cloth, and the third was Grindle.
‘Faces!’ shouted Grindle, eyes glinting with joy, as the smaller boys lined up. Then he stood back, arms folded, to watch.
First the foul cloth was plunged into the dirty water, then rubbed all wet and dripping across our faces, one by one. Anyone who tried to back away got the sodden cloth for twice as long. I waited at the very end of the line.
So far Grindle had let his friends do the work. But as soon as he saw me he laughed maliciously. ‘My turn now,’ he said.
Taking the bucket, he poured a puddle of water across the stone floor, then handed me the cloth.
‘Wipe it up, Vermin,’ he ordered, chuckling. ‘Please.’
I felt something bad coming, but all I could do was wipe and wring the cloth back into the bucket again and again, until the floor was almost clean.
‘Thank you,’ said Grindle. Grimly he swirled the cloth around in the bucket. ‘Now it’s your turn for the wash, Vermin!’
He lifted the dripping cloth, one of his friends seized me, and Grindle forced the filthy rag into my face, into my eyes and ears. As I cried out, he pushed the cloth into my mouth, squeezing it so that the foul water ran down my throat, and I could not help swallowing.
‘That’s better,’ Grindle said, releasing me at last. ‘And don’t you dare puke!’ Somewhere, a bell started ringing. ‘Breakfast,’ he remarked, as they swept out of the door. ‘Hope you find it tasty, Vermin.’
The boys, in their own damp clothes, went quietly down the stairs towards the sound of the bell. Niddle and Pyeberry kept close to me, whispering sympathetically, but my head was so full of shame and rage that I did not take in a word they said.
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CHAPTER 11
MORE AND LESS
We trudged into the echoing chill of the dining hall. This time I studied my surroundings more warily. Where was Grindle?
Always cold, the fireplace held grey ash and pigeon droppings. The unwashed floorboards were marked by the trails of small rodents who cleared away our crumbs by night. Sparrows darted through the gaps in the windows and perched on the ancient pulley hanging from the ceiling, waiting to spy any crumb or scrap. I saw, around the huge mechanism, rusted chains that trailed down into the deep shaft below. We waited, and waited, and our hunger grew.
Then, with a shout, Bulloughby leaned over and shouted down into the depths. ‘Kitchen? You there? Now!’
A weary groan came in answer. Four bigger boys started hauling on the creaking chains, and up rose a kind of ridged tray bearing a gigantic pan. Bubbles spat and popped across its surface and congealed around the huge ladle. The four boys dragged the slopping vat across to the floor.
Down went the tray again. When it rose, I could not believe what I saw: a generous bowl heaped high with sugared bread-and-milk, and a jug of golden cream. Bulloughby glared at Grindle, who sprang up and hurried, almost meekly, over to his father.
Carefully, our headmaster withdrew a china dish from one of his pockets. It was gold-edged and patterned with rosebuds. He spooned the soft white bread into the pretty dish, then poured the jug of thick cream over it. Every mouth ached with the longing to taste that cream.
A blob fell on Grindle’s thumb, but when he went to lick it off, Bulloughby smacked his son’s ear. ‘Don’t you dare, wretch. Take it to Madam Claudine, and don’t spill a drop. Tell her there is more if she wants it.’
As Grindle passed me, I saw that the hard pride had gone from his face, and his eyes were small and sad. He scurried anxiously from the hall, delivering the strangely dainty dish to the ancient Madam Claudine in her own chamber.
Another haul, and this time the shelf brought a platter heaped high with hot chops, potatoes and onions. While gruel was being ladled on to our plates, Bulloughby dug his fork and knife into his dish and gnawed away at the chops.
By the time my dish of gruel came, it was slobbery-cold, but I ate up all the same, trying not to recall the golden honey of Roseberry Farm.
The days went on, and time went on. Each morning we chanted facts and figures for Madam Claudine. Each noon we shivered in the yard, though the days got slowly warmer. If anyone could have placed that school in a windier, colder place, it would have been at the top of a mountain.
Each night we slept until Grindle woke us with his cloth and bucket, and I soon saw that he had other victims besides me.
At times I caught Bulloughby watching me, as if he bore me a special grudge or I reminded him of something he did not want to think about. Then he’d snarl some curse at me. I tried hard to keep out of his way.
Each Friday Madam Claudine chose two Monitors to give out pottery inkwells, twisted dip-pens and thin, porous paper. As the last sheet of paper was given out, Madam Claudine unclasped a big book and started to read aloud. Whether the pot of ink was as thick as glue or as thin as drain-water, we had to take down her rapidly dictated words as best we could.
First we wrote down the middle of the paper, and then we turned it upside down and wrote in the spaces between the lines. After that we turned the sheet on its sides and wrote around and around the edge of the paper, turning it as we went. Madam Claudine did not think well of any boy who ran out of paper.
‘Smaller,’ she cried, rapping her knuckles on her desk, ‘smaller. Only gentlemen can write their words with flourishes.’ Sometimes she pointed to a trembling penman and uttered a fearsome cry: ‘You, boy, are an absolute blot, an utter waste of ink.’
Any such blot of a boy was forced to scribe to and fro across a cracked slate, his sleeves frosting with chalk-dust under the torrent of words.
Sometimes Madam Claudine would surprise us by screaming out a sudden calculation. Add! She called long lists of numbers, which we had to follow in our heads, trying to be first with the total. At other times we took one long number from another, with lots of carryings, or worked out something through long long divisions.
‘I hate this so much,’ grumbled Niddle, ‘My head is full up, right to the top.’
‘Just concentrate,’ said Pyeberry, his dark eyes bright and happy because he had reached the total already. ‘Madam, Madam Claudine!’
Madam Claudine never looked pleased when he answered. She always chose another boy to answer, but Pyeberry did not care.
‘Numbers are like a beautiful pattern,’ he explained. ‘They always work out. They are never sad or bad or mad, unless someone makes them so. Numbers are never cruel or mean. Numbers are like a magical language.’
Niddle and I glanced at each other, puzzled. That was not how we felt, not with Madam Claudine’s glare frizzling our brains.
One afternoon, as our bored voices croaked in our throats, Headmaster Bulloughby himself came into the classroom, holding a glass jar. He handed it up to Madam Claudine, bowing his head very slightly, almost like a child.
Madam Claudine paused a moment too long, as if she was enjoying his wait, then snatched the jar from his grasp. A beautiful peacock butterfly fluttered feebly inside. She sniffed, and put the jar on her desk without any comment.
As Bulloughby turned to leave, she snapped out a question to the class. ‘Signing of Magna Carta?’
I saw Bulloughby flinch, as if he was in fear, as if he did not know the answer either.
‘Twelve hundred and fifteen, Anno Domini,’ sang out Pyeberry, u
nable to stop himself. I never knew where he had acquired his knowledge, and he never said anything about his past life.
This time Madam Claudine responded with a cunning smile. ‘Very good, Pyeberry. What an excellent thinker you are, child.’
Bulloughby gave Pyeberry a glance more threatening than a thundercloud, promising to get him for being the cleverest boy, for knowing the right answer.
As Bulloughby slammed the door behind him, Madam Claudine looked most satisfied, like an owl that has swallowed a chick. It was only then that I thought about Bulloughby and Madam Claudine, and wondered about them, stuck in that wretched place.
Maybe I started to wonder because week by weary week, month by dismal month, I was getting a little older and wiser. But not quite wise enough, as I soon found out.
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CHAPTER 12
A CHANGE OF FACE
Some people imagine bad times are all excitement. They are not. We dared not hope for any change, as it might bring something worse. Change came all the same.
One morning we filed into class. Madam Claudine sat, as ever, within her high panelled desk, but her eyes stayed closed. We stood and waited. And sat and waited. And waited, while Madam Claudine coughed in her sleep, but did not move. Questions fluttered round the room, growing louder and louder, and still she did not wake.
One of the big boys climbed up on the bench, and triumphantly on to the desk, then froze. Madam Claudine inhaled violently, then slumped forward and lay lolling across the pulpit. One arm swayed slightly, but nothing more.
At once every boy followed his example. We rose up and stamped and danced about, and sang out rude words to the lists Madam Claudine had imposed on us for so long.
As we reached full riot, Bulloughby entered, twitching his switch. Instantly we dropped into our seats, silent.
‘If any of you so much as blink, you’ll feel more regret than you can imagine,’ he snarled, slowly approaching Madam Claudine’s perch.
‘M . . . M . . . Madam?’ he called up. She sighed and spluttered, but did not wake. He tried again. ‘Er, Madam Claudine?’