by Phoebe Wynne
‘Welcome, Rose,’ Frances said seriously, her clear blue eyes peering through a messy, frazzled fringe. ‘I’m head of the Languages faculty. I’m the one you go to for academic things.’
‘Oh, does Classics come under Languages here, then? Not Humanities?’
‘Yes, Rose.’ Emma said, interrupting the handshake and facing them both. ‘Frances will be dealing with most of your departmental duties during your probationary period, until you really settle in.’
Frances nodded. ‘That’s exactly right.’
‘Thank you.’ Rose attempted a smile. ‘I’m looking forward to taking over properly.’
‘All in good time, Rose.’ Emma continued: ‘We’ve just been discussing a few things, Frances – the absence of the Upper Sixth for one.’
‘Yes, that’s always an unwelcome interruption.’ Frances stretched out a sarcastic smile. ‘One of many things sent to torment us here.’
Rose replied darkly, ‘There’s a lot that I don’t really understand.’
‘I don’t doubt it for a second,’ Frances said, her eyes fixed on Rose.
‘Also, regarding my mother—’
‘Look, I understand there is a lot to take in, but don’t panic, Rose,’ Emma insisted, resuming her seat. ‘You are awfully young; you just need time to get your bearings.’
Frances held Rose’s gaze. ‘But I expect they’re wanting to see how you’ll do,’ she said, almost rolling her eyes. ‘Well, Rose, you can always talk to me.’
‘Thank you,’ Rose said uncertainly. ‘That’s good to know.’
‘Let’s arrange a meeting next week,’ Frances suggested. Emma dropped her pen on top of her paperwork before drawing herself up with a haughty pose. ‘Let’s go and have a cup of tea together now. Frances, do you have a free period?’
‘Yes, I’ll join you. My Lower Sixth are only learning vocabulary.’
Rose glanced at her pile of work before following the other two. As they left the Classics office, Rose asked, ‘What languages do you teach, Frances?’
‘Take your blazer with you, Rose,’ Emma called out. ‘We must always wear some sort of smart jacket when we go downstairs, equal to the men in their suits. School rules.’
‘Oh yes, sorry.’ Rose doubled back to unhook her blazer from her chair, wondering if she’d ever be able to hold all the new rules in her head.
‘To answer your question, Rose,’ Frances smiled as she waited, ‘I teach Modern Languages – German and Russian. Not that the girls absorb any of it. Perhaps you’ll inject me with your vigour! Perhaps we’ll all suddenly become more academic.’
‘I thought we already were.’ Rose pulled on her blazer with exasperation. ‘Haven’t you seen the prospectus? It glows with academia. Talks about the school’s “greater function in society”.’
‘Those things are never realistic.’ Emma waved her hand in the air, walking slightly ahead of the other two.
The second-floor corridor was empty, and felt somehow longer to Rose as she travelled along with Frances and Emma. Noise bubbled behind every classroom door they passed; Rose was both relieved and dismayed to know that every other teacher might suffer the same classroom experience as her.
In the lower passageway the three women passed a line of Sixths, silent and walking in single file, their footsteps ticking together across the flagstone floor. None of the girls greeted the teachers. Rose felt boosted by her colleagues’ company in the corridors, unwitting guardians against these graceful yet unpredictable young women.
Emma called after one of the girls and Frances took the opportunity to turn to Rose. Her voice was kind but filled with urgency as she leaned her arm on the corridor wall, blocking the way forward.
‘Rose, how did you find this place?’
Rose was surprised. ‘You mean, apart from it being really famous?’
A fractious look crossed Frances’s face, so Rose answered quickly, ‘One of my old colleagues knows one of yours here. He recommended me.’
Frances’s blue eyes seared into Rose’s for a moment. Then she said, ‘I can’t believe he let you come here.’
‘What?’ Rose replied in bewilderment, but Frances suddenly turned away to descend the stairs to the staff common room. ‘Frances, what do you mean?’
Emma appeared behind. ‘What’s happened, ladies?’
Rose ignored Emma and followed Frances down the stairs, still stuck in the clouded air of her comment. The heavy door of the common room had closed behind Frances, so Rose pushed at it, hard. But the woman’s back was already disappearing into the crowd of teachers.
Rose hesitated. She still wasn’t used to the heaviness of the common room, buried deep in the bowels of the school. If Rose’s classroom was high up, then the common room seemed just as far below; dug out from the rocky cliff foundations, and stone-walled into being. It was always too warm, lit with dim lamps that lined the walls and led the path to the raging fireplace at the far end.
Rose stayed in line with Emma as they wandered over to the coffee and tea service. Frances seemed to have dissolved into the spread of cushioned armchairs and sofas, set out in pockets of conviviality. Old and worn rugs were arranged across the slatted floor, and a long table was laid with cakes and biscuits for an afternoon break. As Rose eyed a slice of lemon drizzle cake, Emma passed her a brimming teacup and saucer.
‘I’ll take a mug actually.’ Rose turned to Emma. ‘The cups are too dainty for me.’
‘Rose! You are funny,’ said Emma, nudging the saucer into Rose’s hand. The touch of the porcelain burned Rose’s fingers, and the cup clattered into its saucer, the brown liquid sloshing from side to side.
Frances reappeared beside Emma. ‘Ladies, I hear that Vivien’s on her way. Rose, I did want to talk properly, but I really shouldn’t have left my Sixth. I’d better go back.’ She gave a broad, apologetic smile which Rose didn’t return.
‘Oh, what a shame.’ Emma sounded oddly relieved as she drew her teacup to her lips.
‘It’s been good to meet you, Rose. Welcome.’ Frances shook Rose’s hand again, and when Rose pulled her hand away this time there were red marks across her fingers.
‘Don’t mind Frances, Rose,’ Emma said with a hint of nastiness as Frances moved off. ‘She sometimes has her little moods. I never know how I’m going to find her from one day to the next.’
Rose’s thoughts prickled with confused dismay as she turned away from Emma. She needed to understand Frances’s strange comment. She needed to speak to the secretaries in the main office to check about her mother. She needed to find the curriculum covered in her classes last year. She needed to write all of this down to keep track of it, understand it, get on top of it. Her teacup wobbled again in its saucer; she wished she had a mug.
Rose looked up at the noticeboard mounted on the wall in front of her, teeming with frayed papers. A resulting mess of the first week, she supposed. A glossy poster announced The Caldonbrae Hall Carol Service, a holiday spectacular and the highlight of the school term, due to take place in December in the chapel. A bit early to be thinking about Christmas, Rose thought. Her eyes roved over an advertised competition with the School Rifle Association, to a formal-looking page decorated with the school’s crest. Demotion, it read. A girl had moved down to House Clemency, and her progress was being monitored. Beneath the girl’s name were four other names of Intermediate girls who were being ‘considered’ for movement between Houses Temperance, Prudence and Clemency. One of the names was Nessa’s, the small blonde girl from Rose’s Fourths that very morning; Rose was surprised to find her heart beat with sympathy. A short list of their misdemeanours were labelled as abbreviations: V-2, D-5, S+1. Rose narrowed her eyes just as Emma touched her shoulder.
‘You’ve left the teabag in – your tea is black, Rose.’
‘That’s how I like it.’
‘Not very ladylike, is it?�
� Emma gave a squinting smile. ‘Surely you must know there is such a thing as etiquette, Rose. Lord Hope would’ve been appalled!’
‘Oh,’ Rose answered, taken aback. She’d never been criticised for the way she took her tea.
The heavy door of the common room shuddered open as another crowd of teachers entered the room, but Emma was already steering Rose to a collection of armchairs. ‘Have you spoken to Vivien since you arrived?’
‘Just a few words on the stairs earlier, actually.’ Rose anxiously tugged at her loose strands of hair, before patting them into some sort of order.
‘There’s a hairdresser that visits twice a term, you know, for a few days,’ Emma said kindly. ‘You ought to make an appointment.’
‘Sorry? A hairdresser?’
‘Yes, he’s very good.’
‘It’s always been unruly, I normally plait it back,’ Rose blustered out. ‘But couldn’t I just go somewhere in the village?’
‘Heavens, no! Not amongst the riff-raff in Kennenhaven.’
Rose wanted to laugh at Emma’s joke, but realised from her expression that it wasn’t meant as one. Emma’s eyes skated past Rose’s shoulder.
‘Vivien’s at the tea service with the others. I’ll give her a minute before I interrupt her.’
The fire crackled suddenly in the grate. The long black funnel of the chimney sucked up the slim flames. There were no windows in the common room, and Rose wondered vaguely if the meticulous linenfold wood of the walls glamorised a sort of hideous dungeon.
‘Okay, let’s try now,’ said Emma suddenly, sweeping Rose up from her seat. And there Vivien was, as if Emma had conjured her up out of thin air. She was standing tall over another colleague, a withered man folded back into his seat, leaning one arm on the high peak of his armchair.
Vivien hooked her head over her shoulder to smile at Emma and Rose. ‘Oh look, John, it’s the Classics department here to talk to us.’
Emma spoke on cue: ‘Vivien, you remember Rose from our visit in the early summer?’
‘Of course I do, Emma.’ Vivien’s smile crept further across her face. ‘Indeed, we spoke earlier this morning. Wonderful to have you here, my dear.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘We’ve certainly rescued you from that desperate little place.’
‘I’m very happy to be here,’ Rose heard herself saying.
‘And you’re on …’ Vivien turned from Rose to Emma, ‘she is on a restricted timetable?’
‘Yes,’ Emma answered. ‘Until the end of the probationary period.’
‘Of course. And Rose – that wretched girl, she hasn’t been saying anything to you, has she?’
‘Who do you mean?’ asked Rose earnestly, knowing exactly whom Vivien meant.
‘Well, never mind her.’ Rose heard Vivien’s cut-glass accent, so similar to many of the girls’. ‘John’s been telling me about his trips to the golf club in the village – so funny.’
John’s face was straight as he surveyed Rose.
‘Well, Rose, as I said this morning, do come to me with anything you need.’ Vivien extended her arm like a gorgeous cat. ‘I’m mostly pastoral, but still. Complaints about staff – just between us! Need more chalk? The stationery cupboard is in the ink room. We ought to draw you a map, or at least copy that enormous blueprint in the library.’ She turned to John. ‘I’ve been saying that for years, haven’t I, John? Copy it out for the Firsts when they arrive.’
‘Yes, you have.’
‘And John’s been here longer than any of us.’
‘I haven’t used chalk in years,’ he said in a splintered voice. ‘Can’t bear the dust.’
‘Oh, really?’ Rose asked him. ‘What have you been using instead?’
The man didn’t respond.
‘Rose.’ Vivien pressed her lips together and placed a hand on Rose’s arm. ‘I can’t tell you how pleased we are to have acquired you – I couldn’t believe your references. It’s so good to have some fresh blood in the place. You are our new ingénue.’ Vivien’s voice hardened. ‘Between you and I, it’s always right to get rid of bad eggs, and that’s exactly what your predecessor was.’
Emma stood straighter next to Rose.
‘Incidentally,’ Rose tried to muster some kind of nerve, ‘I had a few questions about the academic side of things. I’m not entirely familiar—’
‘This is something you can discuss with Frances,’ Vivien continued. ‘I saw her in the passage just now.’
‘And of course, you’ve got me,’ Emma added in a clear voice. ‘Rose and I have discussed a few things between ourselves, Vivien.’
‘Of course, Emma, that’s brilliant.’ Rose’s arm stiffened under Vivien’s grip as the deputy head continued mirthfully. ‘I keep hearing about your very serious lessons, Rose, long excruciating Latin sentences you’re forcing the girls to translate – already! Well, you were recommended for your academic credentials, after all. Why not have Anthony as a mentor? A fellow head of department – History. He’s so brilliant at what he does, the girls absolutely adore him.’
‘I don’t think I’ve met him yet,’ said Rose. ‘Although, isn’t he the one connected to my old colleague, Frank Thorpe?’
‘Yes, it’s thanks to him that we got you.’ Vivien dropped her arm and Rose staggered back a little, still holding her teacup. ‘And now, thanks to us, you’ll be taken care of.’
The next day was Friday and the promised end to Rose’s first week. She dashed down the Great Stairs in the special muffled silence of mid-lesson time, away from that staring oculus set into the high ceiling. The pallor of the morning had now fallen into a stormy midday, the rain lashing against the thick glass, drowning out the tick of the Roman clock set into the wall above the library doors.
Rose was glad to be out of the Classics office. Her two morning lessons had been no better than her first attempts earlier that week, and then an old copy of Sophocles she’d picked up revealed again that spidery handwriting scrawled in the margins. At the front, in thick black ink that had bled through the page, she had read:
Miss Jane Farrier, Classics 1.
House Prudence
Alarmed, Rose had dropped the book, and left the office.
She berated herself as she strode along the main corridor – imagine being upset over her predecessor’s book? Her old marking, too, in that drawer, with that handkerchief? It was nothing, really. But Rose had to admit that some of the girls’ comments were crowding into her anxieties: The other Madam didn’t seem to mind, Oh, how different you are, Madam, and the worst, Oh dear, Madam, that’s not how it’s done at all. Of course, it was normal for the students to compare Rose to their old teacher, but this place seemed so stuck in the past, so wayward and foreign in its manners that Rose felt as though she was treading behind steep, unflinching footprints.
She hadn’t yet dared to challenge the secretaries regarding her mother, either; Rose just wanted her first week to end. Only one Junior afternoon lesson remained on her scant timetable, and it was an activity. But there were so many more weeks ahead; weeks lining up like Roman soldiers ready to be picked off and overcome. But the Romans were the conquerors, Rose frowned, so which was it? Was she the savage, then, and the girls the civilised ones?
Civilised by their strict uniforms, perhaps. Even though she’d seen glimpses of it in the school’s prospectus, it was odd to see the uniform every day – like some elaborate joke, or a Victorian fancy dress party. Perhaps the uniforms hadn’t changed since the founding of the school. Rose knew that institutions had their extravagances and eccentricities – one of the inexplicable entitlements of the British ruling classes. It was something her mother used to rant about, and her father dismiss as ‘just the way things are’.
And the Sixth seemed more civilised still. They moved differently and were much better put together than Rose could ever hope to be – even if she was several years o
lder, she was closer to them in age than to the youngest of the staff. The general spread of white faces made Rose uncomfortable, despite the small handful of Asian girls that seemed to group together. This lack of diversity leaked across the staff, too – not at all appropriate or modern for the nineties, she thought.
Along the main corridor Rose took in the wide noticeboards from each department: posters of Shakespeare quotes; prints of Elizabeth I’s powdered white face; a map of Jerusalem; a satirical poster describing ‘Deportment’ next to an historical cartoon mockery of the Suffragettes.
A set of double doors was falling closed as Rose approached. She nudged one door and pushed the other open. In her swift movement she collided with another figure: tall, thin, her lank dark hair crossing Rose’s shoulder. Rose looked up to see the sallow-faced girl staring, frightened, into her eyes.
Bethany.
‘I’m so sorry, are you all right?’ Rose asked. ‘Did I hurt you?’
The girl’s sunken eyes seemed to contract as she pulled her hand across her chest defensively.
‘Bethany, isn’t it?’ Rose looked straight at the girl, whose mouth twisted furiously.
‘Not to worry, Madam. You can let go of the door,’ a male voice said behind Rose. He held the door with his arm above her head. ‘I’ve got you.’
Rose kept her eyes on Bethany, who stalked away, half limping.
‘Madam?’
Rose turned and pushed herself away from the panel of the door. ‘Sorry, thanks. You didn’t need to hold the door. That girl, I’m not sure—’
‘A relic of old chivalry, if you like. Gentlemen should open the door for ladies.’ The man touched the small of Rose’s back with his hand and ushered her forward. She darted out of the way, and looked at him properly. ‘I should introduce myself.’ He halted, a deep crease set in his forehead. ‘I’m Anthony, head of History. My office is just along from yours.’
‘Oh. Were you the one to recommend me?’ Rose asked, her eyes lingering on his handsome face. ‘For the job here, I mean?’