Goodbye, Ms. Chips

by Dorothy Cannell

  She might as well have asked if there was a cobra hidden in the serviceable black handbag. The effect was the same: a shrinking deeper inside the beige cardigan.

  “We haven’t seen each other for a while, and this being such a lovely day we decided to treat ourselves to lunch out.” Ms. Chips’s smile made up for the fact that Ruth’s had been blotted from her face. She said the usual things—hoped we’d enjoyed our meal, to which Ruth replied that we must let them get back to enjoying theirs before it got cold. As they had plates of salad in front of them, this made no sense, and the moment we got outside she eyed me in bewilderment.

  “That was Lady Loverly’s housekeeper. She’s usually quite normal. Always inclined to be glum but not as though she’d like to slide under the table. Being plagued with headaches has to be awful. Easygoing as Lady Loverly seems, it must be hard to be at someone’s beck and call, and who knows what other stress she may have in her life.”

  “Mrs. Rushbridge mentioned sitting next to Mrs. Brown in the dentist’s surgery this morning and having her scurry away between one sentence and the next of their conversation.”

  “I suppose we’ve all been tempted to make a dash for the door at the thought of the drill. I’m probably worrying unnecessarily, but there was something about that look on her face just now that rather put the wind up me.”

  We got into the car and headed back to St. Roberta’s. On approaching a thatched cottage nestled behind a honeysuckle hedge on a side street, we saw a dark green Jeep parked outside.

  “That belongs to Brian Roberts,” Ruth said. “He’s such a dear man, as dedicated as his father was before him. He’ll be making a house call.” As she spoke, the front door opened and the doctor came down the path, wearing slacks and a light sports jacket and carrying his doctor’s bag.

  Stopping the car just short of the gate, Ruth rolled down her window and waved, and he came toward us. His pleasant greeting warmed his rugged features, making him handsome. He asked with interest how I was enjoying my stay at the Chaplain’s House, and I said I was settling in nicely, to which he responded that he had met Tosca at the Boots pharmacy counter that morning.

  “She told me she’s trying to give up smoking.” He shifted the bag from one hand to the other. “A very spirited, amusing woman; I enjoyed chatting with her.”

  “Yes, she seems lots of fun.”

  “And what a delightful name,” said Ruth.

  “But is she fond of opera?” Brian Roberts raised an amused eyebrow.

  “I don’t know.” I smiled back at him. “I barely remember her from our schooldays.”

  “Speaking of people not seen in a while.” Brian Roberts maintained his light manner. “Tosca mentioned that one of the other guests newly arrived at the Chaplain’s House is Philippa Boswell. How is she?”

  “As nice and pretty as ever.” I took my cue from his manner, keeping my voice airy.

  “That’s good to hear.” He shifted the bag again, then glanced at his watch. “Glad to have seen you, but I shouldn’t be keeping you.”

  “If you have a minute”—Ruth leaned a little farther out her window—“we just saw Mrs. Brown having lunch with Marilyn Chips, and I’m a little worried.” She explained concisely, but anxiety threaded through her voice.

  “I’m glad Marilyn was with her. If anyone can get a troubled person to open up, it’s that good woman.”

  Ruth smiled ruefully as we drove off. “He’s right, of course, Marilyn does have the velvet ear. I really have tried with Mrs. Brown, but she always shies away.”

  “Is Lady Loverly kind to her?” I asked.

  “In an absentminded way but with a deep underlying affection, I would say. Her ladyship’s clothing and manner can make her seem a bit batty, but she’s a warmhearted woman. When Marilyn Chips’s marriage ended abruptly so soon after the wedding, her ladyship—who was connected to the groom’s family—aligned herself with Marilyn and had her stay at the Hall while she recovered emotionally. That visit lasted a couple of months, and Marilyn has told me the respite was her salvation. It inspired her to suggest to Mrs. Battle that the vacant Chaplain’s House be used as a retreat for old girls who needed somewhere to go while sorting themselves out. It’s also the reason Lady Loverly can’t stand Matron.”

  “Who told me she spilled the beans to the bridegroom’s mother about Ms. Chips’s mother and grandmother suffering from mental illness.”

  Ruth nodded. “And that was that.”

  We continued talking until suddenly we were back at St. Roberta’s and Ruth was parking the car.

  “Thank you so much,” I said as we got out. “I’ve really enjoyed this time with you.”

  “Same here! Let’s do it again before you leave, and if at any time I can be of help do give me a ring. Promise?”

  “Promise!”

  I watched her go into the school and was about to wend my way back to the Chaplain’s House when—with my mind on friendships—I had a sudden vivid memory of myself, Susan Brodstock, and Ann Gamble laughing and talking in the junior common room in our free time between end of class and beginning of prep. My head teemed with remembered snippets of delightfully silly conversation. And for the first time since arriving at St. Roberta’s I was filled with a glow of nostalgia. Before I knew it, I was mounting the staircase, ignoring the frowning portraits on the wall beside me and moving along a second-floor corridor gleaming with polish and a broad expanse of windows. From behind the common-room door at the end came the murmur of voices.

  Turning the handle, I entered a large room painted daffodil yellow. There were pictures on the walls that I remembered: prints of illustrations from Alice in Wonderland, Little Women, and The Children of the New Forest. The scattering of tweedy armchairs also appeared unchanged. But no Susan or Ann was there to share the moment.

  My arrival, however, was noted by three girls seated at one of the large round tables dotted around like giant mushrooms. Heads bent toward each other, they had that look of plotting serious mischief that is common to twelve-year-olds—which is what they appeared to be. They rose to their feet as if poked in their backs by Mrs. Battle’s ruler.

  “Hello. I’m Noreen and these are Jenny and Andrea,” said the redhead, who seemed likely to be the leader of any group she was in. Her two companions stared at me with the irritation that comes from being interrupted at the crucial moment of an all-important conversation. I apologized for intruding and urged them to sit back down.

  “I’m Ellie Haskell. I didn’t think anyone would be here during class time.”

  “We’re taking end-of-term exams this week,” piped up Andrea, the fair-haired one, “and as we finished ahead of everyone else, Mrs. Frenton said we could stay here until the next bell rings.”

  “I suppose we could read,” said the dark one, who had to be Jenny and whose straight black brows and surprising dimples brought Ann’s image wistfully to mind. “But there’s nothing on those bookshelves that isn’t too babyish for words or so boring that the only person in our class who’d be interested is the ever-so-clever China Bumbleton.” Her pals nodded and giggled agreement. Perhaps sensing they weren’t offering me a fully fledged St. Roberta’s welcome, Noreen asked if I were one of the old girls staying at the Chaplain’s House. And when I acknowledged this, her expression brightened. “Are you the actress?”

  “Sorry, I’m afraid there’s a misplaced rumor going round. No one that exciting is among us. I’m an interior designer.”

  “Oh!” The red hair and something in her face reminded me of someone else, one of the girls I had encountered that morning. “You’re the one who took Mrs. Rushbridge’s Home Skills class this morning. My sister Lizzie said you were really great.”

  The resemblance clicked into place. “Elizabeth Anderson?”

  “Yes. Everyone thinks she’s so wonderful they can’t understand why I don’t have a halo round my head too. But at least she isn’t a smug show-off who thinks everyone else needs taking down a peg like—” She stoppe
d abruptly when the door opened, almost hitting me in the back, and another girl walked around me to march over to the bookcase and pull out a thick volume with a dark cover.

  “Thanks for the greeting, China,” caroled the other three as one.

  “It’s class time.” She turned to present a solemn, self-important face. “Mrs. Frenton allowed us to leave on trust, and I for one intend to respect that.” She wasn’t a bad-looking girl, but something about her demeanor suggested that she considered her pudding-basin haircut and thick eyebrows as merit badges, signs she was far too superior to have any interest in her looks.

  “Well, bully for you,” responded Noreen. “Where are your manners when it comes to this lady here? Her name’s Haskell and she’s staying at the Chaplain’s House.”

  “How do you do?” China began leafing through the book she was holding. I was saved from responding by Jenny’s rounding on her.

  “That was a pretty rotten thing you did, telling your grandfather about Shirley and Miriam on the Dribbly Drop. I expect next you’ll be running to tell him that Noreen said it could have been Mrs. Frenton who took the Loverly Cup because she’s dating her ladyship’s grandson, and he might want to sell it in his antiques shop but knew her ladyship wouldn’t let him ask for it back.”

  “It was a wicked thing to say.” China curled her lip. “But of course I’ll keep to the code of secrecy on that score. There’s a difference between that and Miriam and Shirley’s stupidity. A bad fall down the Dribbly Drop and they could have been killed. Grandfather says it’s a wonder there hasn’t been a fatal accident already. It should be blocked off, but the staff don’t want that because it’s a shortcut to the bus stop.”

  “Come on, it’s not all that dangerous. Shirley just twisted her ankle, and she could have done that playing lacrosse or hockey. And I hope your grandfather doesn’t go blaming Mrs. Battle,” Noreen snapped back. “She believes maturity comes from learning to follow the rules.”

  “I’ve enjoyed taking a look at the common room again,” I said brightly, and added my goodbyes without much hope that anyone was paying attention. A bell began to clang as I started back down the corridor, and on the stairs I got caught up in a march of girls making for the ground floor in an orderly stampede. I was thinking about Aiden Loverly and the luscious Mrs. Frenton as I exited through the front door and saw Ms. Chips crossing the path toward me.

  She greeted me pleasantly, and I expected her to continue into the school without further comment, but she stood looking at me with a faintly amused expression in those remarkably beautiful eyes. How ever had I thought her harsh-faced and plain? Suddenly I heard myself babbling that I was the girl who had hit her in the face with a lacrosse ball and broken her nose.

  “Well, as you can see it’s still here, smack in the middle of my face. But there is something I would like to ask you.”

  “Yes?”

  “Where did you go on those Friday afternoons when you weren’t at lacrosse or hockey?”

  I thought for a minute that my voice had gone into hiding in my feet. “The little sewing room above the San.”

  “Ah!” A smile flitted across her face. “A perfect retreat for the harassed soul. I’ve suggested to Mrs. Battle that it be set aside for those times when any girl feels the need to snuggle down on her own for a while. I suppose you read or did some drawing. A better use of your time, I think, than pretending to enjoy something you loathed.”

  Before I could respond, she remarked that she was doing dorm duty again that night, so Mrs. Rushbridge could get some real sleep despite the troublesome tooth, and moved on.

  I watched her enter the school building and decided against returning directly to the Chaplain’s House. Instead, I wandered around the grounds, avoiding the playing fields for the rose gardens, where I came upon a bench shaded by a flowering cherry tree. The invitation was irresistible. I sat with the idea of staying put for five or ten minutes, but the air was so fragrantly warm and the twittering of the birds so soothing that I lay back, tucked my hands behind my head and thought about the missing Loverly Cup for all of thirty seconds before sinking into a dead sleep.

  I woke to the sound of a heavy buzzing, coupled with the feeling that a swarm of bees was about to descend upon me. When I opened my eyes and struggled first into a sitting position and then to my feet, I found that bottle green and mustard yellow had become the overwhelmingly prominent colors. Girls in uniform skirts and blouses were walking, running, jumping and doing cartwheels with a vigor that struck my groggy state as excessive. Classes were most definitely over for the day. My watch told me I’d slept for over an hour. Hurrying guiltily toward the Chaplain’s House, I told myself what I needed was time alone in which to come up with a plan to unmask the Cup Culprit.

  Unfortunately, when I opened the front door and stepped into the hall, conversation was flowing from the sitting room. I could have sneaked upstairs, but that would have been rude, and I especially did not want to get on Rosemary’s wrong side. Combing a hand through my hair, I opened the door to the sitting room to find her seated in the same chair as on the previous evening. It was now barely four o’clock, but she had a sizable glass of what was undoubtedly gin and tonic in one hand, and a book in the other. Tosca was on the sofa, her arms and legs laced into a cat’s cradle. It looked horridly painful, but she was speaking cheerfully.

  “It is interesting, what you are reading?”

  “It’s fast-paced.” Rosemary did not lift her eyes.

  “And that is good?”

  “No! I’d rather it dragged line by dreary line, one excruciatingly boring page after another.”

  Tosca looked round to where I stood inside the doorway. “You are back, Ellie, to see her at my throat again. It is too bad, don’t you agree? I try so hard to get along. In I came after sitting in the garden this afternoon, feeling the best I have been since I gave up smoking. Everything smelled so good. I could taste the earth and the sky. The birds!” Tosca closed her eyes. “How sweetly they sang!”

  “Don’t they have birds where you come from?” Rosemary lowered the book to eye her nastily.

  “Since it is London, yes!”

  “Oh, for God’s sake! And Ellie, do you have to stand there like Samson holding up the Temple? Either get yourself a drink or sit down!”

  “What brought on this sunny mood?” I asked, without budging.

  Tosca smiled smugly. “Her husband hasn’t phoned. Not once since she got here! She jumps every time there’s a ring-ting-a-ling, but it’s never for her. Twice for you since I’ve been back from my drive. A woman, but she wouldn’t say who.”

  “Oh!”

  “Probably your personal shopper to say she got the tins of Spam you wanted.” Rosemary turned a page. “As for Gerald, I told him not to get in touch except in an emergency. He wasn’t happy about it—”

  “Doting on the very thought of you as he does!” Tosca undid her legs one foot at a time and stretched her arms above her head.

  Rosemary shot up in her chair and flung the book across the room, missing me by inches. “If either of you cares to know why I’m angry as hell”—her voice shook with rage—“it’s because somebody has stolen two pairs of my knickers from the drawer I put them in. And don’t tell me I’ve misplaced them!”

  I waited for her to say she treasured those knickers.

  “Who’d want them?” Tosca asked reasonably.

  “You’ve done it before and were lucky not to get arrested. I expect it’s a fetish!”

  “But not your knickers! I expect they’re the sort my great-granny used to wear: stockinet and down to the knees.”

  “They’re silk. Pale blue and purchased in France.”

  “Don’t tell us. They are like gossamer, and you can see right through them. Perhaps for your husband to take his mind off your nose. But me”—Tosca held up her hands imploringly—“I wish not to imagine.”

  “You’re disgusting. I don’t believe you’re descended from foreign royalty. No
one as uncouth as you could be. I’ll bet you live in a slum and eat baked beans out of a tin while watching East Enders!”

  “I read that the Queen watches that program.”

  “So you can read? Give me an hour to get over the shock!”

  “Where’s Phil?” I asked before a body—or two—hurtled my way.

  “In the kitchen with some kid.”

  Ariel? How good it would be to interact with an adult in a child’s body, instead of the other way round. I skirted the warring factions. Had I been the sneaking sort I might have considered reporting their behavior to Mrs. Battle. Tosca had been severely provoked. But it would serve Rosemary right to be expelled from the Chaplain’s House and sent home in disgrace, to face not only Gerald and the two children but the ghastly consequence, should word leak out, of Laurence the Portuguese Water Dog being banned from swimming competitively in the country club pool.

  It wasn’t Ariel in the tiny kitchen with Phil. Gillian was sitting on a stool by the sink, holding an apple.

  “Hello!” they said together.

  “Please, no shouting.” I closed the door and leaned against it.

  “Let’s hope they don’t kill each other.” Phil’s impish smile included Gillian; I was relieved to see the girl had a little more color in her face.

  “At the moment I don’t think I have it in me to rearrange the furniture to hide the bodies.”

  “I enjoyed your Home Skills class this morning, Mrs. Haskell. And I thought I’d come and see you like you suggested. I hope it’s really all right?”

  “You’re a sight for sore eyes. Especially with Rosemary and Tosca going at it in the sitting room. Didn’t I say you’d enjoy meeting Phil?”

  “We’ve been talking about cats and … different things.”

  “The life of the working girl and its possible hassles,” added Phil.

  “Perhaps fame and fortune are overrated,” I said, and they both eyed me rather sharply, or so it seemed.

  “One of my biggest life mistakes,” continued Phil, smiling, “was not growing more domesticated, but now I have a sudden urge to learn how to cook. I expect you helped your mother out at home, Gillian. You have the look of a girl who knows her way around a kitchen. People like me who don’t know how to hold a tin opener can spot people with that innate ability a mile off.”