by Phoebe Wynne
‘Look at what?’
‘She’s staring at me, that girl Bethany. She’s always staring at me.’
Behind Bethany’s shadow the black and white figures spoke gushing French.
‘No,’ Frances answered, ‘she’s just trying to annoy the others – she’s troublesome, that one. She ought to be in London with the other girls.’
Bethany stood up and blocked a large portion of the view, which produced furious exclamations from the girls. To Rose’s horror, she was moving towards them, like a spectre, the silhouette of her long-haired figure growing closer.
She went to one of the matrons and said something to her, close, so that the matron had to lean in to hear. Rose couldn’t concentrate on the film; she could only feel Bethany’s long and electric stare. Rose set her jaw and turned to Frances. ‘What do you mean – Bethany ought to be in London?’
Frances waited a long moment before she answered; she leaned in so that Rose could feel her breath on her neck. ‘She’s in the Upper Sixth, but there are always a few left behind. Those who aren’t fully performing, as it were.’
‘Is she not?’ Rose stiffened. ‘Shouldn’t everyone be included?’
‘London is only a formality.’
Rose asked before she could stop herself. ‘What is London, though?’
‘Oh,’ said Frances, delicately. ‘It’s an introductory ceremonial thing, very old-fashioned, livery companies and that sort of thing.’
‘Where do they all stay?’
‘Hope owns quite a few houses in London, near Regent’s Park.’
Rose didn’t want to admit that she didn’t get it; more eccentricities that were beyond her, perhaps. But something else pushed at her more urgently. ‘Frances, why did you say yesterday that my old colleague Frank shouldn’t have let me come here?’ She garbled it out, flushing red as she did so, unnoticed in the shadows.
Frances gave a distant, apologetic grin. ‘Oh, that? I was having a bad day, Rose. You’ll have to excuse my little tantrums. I lash out sometimes. I can say the oddest things – pay them no heed. I apologise!’
‘It’s fine,’ Rose answered, unconvinced.
She was too anxious to say anything else, as Bethany wandered back to her place, passing in front of the projector and producing a second round of fury from her peers. Rose felt a broad pang of homesickness, feeling further away from anyone in that room than she’d felt before. Her heart quivered in her chest for the duration of the strange black and white film as she concentrated instead on the hard outline of Bethany’s head staring back at her.
ANTIGONE
Ἀντιγόνη
οὔτοι συνέχθειν, ἀλλὰ συμφιλεῖν ἔφυν.
Κρέων
κάτω νυν ἐλθοῦσ᾽, εἰ φιλητέον, φίλει
κείνους: ἐμοῦ δὲ ζῶντος οὐκ ἄρξει γυνή.
Antigone
I was born to lead with love, not hate – that is my nature.
Creon
Then go down to hell and love them if you must.
But while I’m alive, no woman will ever rule.
(Sophocles’ Antigone, 523–525, written 441BC)
Antigone’s greatest strength was her youthful impertinence – or, seen in another light, her certainty of what was right by the gods. She’d always known her family was cursed, and ignored others’ disdain when she cared for her dying father, the exiled Oedipus, in his last days. At home in Thebes, her uncle Creon was regent king, until her elder brother was old enough to rule. But his inheritance was challenged by her younger brother, and in a fierce battle over the kingship they killed each other.
King Creon now declared that Antigone’s elder brother would be buried with honours, while the younger – the usurper – would be left to rot outside the city walls. Creon announced a new decree: if any man were to try to bury the usurper, he would be condemned to death by stoning. But the gods’ law spoke louder to Antigone, and her self-righteousness drove her forward. Grieving and burial ritual was a woman’s duty, after all.
She couldn’t persuade her sister Ismene to join her, so Antigone set out alone, under the cover of night, to carry out the burial. Her arms grew filthy from the dirt as she whispered the chants to set free her brother’s spirit.
But the king’s guards caught Antigone, and dragged her in front of her astonished uncle. He was even more confounded by her lack of remorse. What gave Creon, Antigone cried, such moral authority? With her parents dead, she could never have another brother. All souls deserved to be put to rest – what did it matter how they died? Creon rounded on Antigone imperiously. How could his own niece dare to disobey his law so publicly? Did she care more for the dead than the living? Did she want to join her brothers? Would she forsake his son, her betrothed, Haemon? When Antigone still failed to express regret, the king nodded – he must keep to his newly declared law. Antigone would be walled up in a cave, and starved to death. There, at least, her death would be unseen, and the king’s hands would not be stained by his niece’s blood.
But as soon as Antigone was sent to her fate, the bad omens began: rotten body parts rained over the city, flocks of birds hovered over the palace. The people appealed to Creon, as did his son Haemon, begging for Antigone’s life. Even the city’s aged prophet approached the king, speaking of the gods’ displeasure, warning him of the need for mercy.
The king’s resolve began to waver, and he followed his son to Antigone’s stone prison. In the bosom of the cave, though, the young girl had pulled her own bed wrappings around her neck and hanged herself. Haemon clutched her lifeless body to him, sobbing, before charging at his father. At the last moment, the young man flinched, and turned his dagger on himself. Haemon’s mother soon heard the news, and in agonised grief she followed her son into suicide.
Remembering Antigone’s faith in the gods’ law, Creon was forced to acknowledge the flaw in his own man-made authority. The king was left with his crown intact, but with an empty heart and an empty home.
4.
On the Monday of the second week the Upper Sixth had returned, buoyant and enthralled by their time in London. The Headmaster had shaken each returning girl’s hand during a special assembly; a Science teacher next to Rose had nodded along with each ascent to the platform.
‘Good to see them back, not quite right without them,’ he’d said.
A few hours later, Rose was pleased to let in her class of five. They arrived before the bell rang, and filtered gracefully along the desks in a beautiful front row of styled hair and tight silk dresses. Rose’s own copy of Sophocles was ready on the desk, not Jane’s. The Three Theban Plays, she repeated to herself; Rose was surprised at her tripping nerves. She stared at her students as if she were seeing them for the first time.
‘So you’ve already read Oedipus the King, with my predecessor,’ Rose hesitated, ‘and now we’re talking about Antigone.’
‘Yes, Madam,’ one girl answered.
‘It’s a shame because Oedipus is one of my favourites,’ Rose continued fluidly, turning her book over in her hands. ‘It’s an amazing play. Did you girls like it?’ Not hearing any response, Rose cleared her throat. ‘So, we’ve read the opening of Antigone.’ She focused on the girl in the middle wearing lilac. ‘What did you think, Dulcie?’
‘I don’t know, Madam. Shall we tell you about London?’
‘I’d rather get on with the work, Dulcie, since we missed two lessons last week.’
‘Lauren curtseyed to the wrong person!’ The girl on Dulcie’s right was bursting with glee. ‘Can you believe it!’
‘Curtseyed?’ Rose looked at Lauren, the American girl at the end of the row, whose face was sullen. Rose reacted swiftly. ‘I don’t want to hear about that, I’m sure you all did brilliantly in whatever it was you were doing.’
‘It’s true
, though!’
‘The other Madam used to love hearing about all the final-year preparations,’ Dulcie said coyly.
‘She and I are not the same,’ Rose said firmly.
‘No, indeed!’
‘And I’m afraid, Dulcie, that you can’t have her back, you’re stuck with me.’
Dulcie raised her eyebrows. ‘We don’t want her back, Madam, neither would you if you knew what happened to her.’
‘Okay,’ Rose pushed on, despite the clench in her throat. ‘So I asked you to think about the opening of the play. What was Antigone talking about with her sister?’
The five girls were silent; only Dulcie held her gaze.
‘Something about their brothers’ deaths?’ started Rose, impatiently. ‘There was a problem there, what was it?’
‘Was it about Oedipus being their dad?’ suggested the girl on the end, nearest the window. Her dress was a pale yellow, one sleeve dazzling in the bright light.
‘No, Alexandra.’ Rose stared down at the page, willing it to speak to her instead. ‘Their brothers were at war—’
‘It’s Lex, Madam.’
‘Oh, stop this.’ Dulcie pulled a face at the girl, her small pointed nose wrinkling. ‘You’re ridiculous, Alexandra – as if we’ll call you “Lex”. What on earth happened to you over the summer?’
Alexandra touched the mousy curls at the back of her neck and kept her eyes on the page.
‘If that’s what you prefer, Lex,’ Rose said carefully, ‘it’s fine with me.’
Dulcie’s incredulous face rounded on Rose, whose voice breezed over the class, ‘So, girls, the two sisters were discussing burying their younger brother. Do you remember?’
‘The brothers fought over the throne. The older one was buried normally,’ Lauren said methodically in her American accent. ‘The younger one who challenged the kingship was called a traitor. Their uncle said he couldn’t be buried.’
‘Yes, Lauren,’ Rose nodded gratefully. ‘Do they bury their “traitor” brother? That’s what the play is about. Honouring the dead, whether they’ve done right or wrong in life. Doing right by the gods, going against your uncle. Man’s law or gods’ law? Write that down.’
The girls buried their manicured fingernails in their pencil cases while Lex glanced up at Rose. ‘Madam, where do you want us to write this?’
‘In your books.’
‘Which book?’
‘The book you’re holding, Lex. The play. Write all over it. Underline, highlight, pull it apart.’
The girls reacted with surprise. Lauren added, ‘Madam, are you sure?’
‘Of course, how will you really get into it otherwise?’
‘Madam,’ Lex rested a hand on the sleeve of her yellow dress, tilting her face, ‘I don’t want to waste my new highlighter.’
‘I think Sophocles deserves your fancy pens, Lex. So what did Antigone want to do? Bury or not bury?’
The girl sandwiched between Dulcie and Lex was a head shorter than the other girls; her soft, serene face was staring out of the arched window. Rose’s eyes narrowed.
‘Tash?’
The short girl’s head snapped back to Rose as her cheeks spotted with embarrassment. ‘Beg your pardon, Madam?’
‘Antigone wanted to …’
Tash’s eyes hovered over Lex’s notes next to her. ‘Um. Antigone wanted to bury her brother and defy her uncle.’
‘Yes.’ Rose sat down in her chair and tried a different tack. ‘You know, girls, Antigone is basically the same age as you.’
‘Oh,’ Lex answered. ‘Really?’
‘Anyone got a sister here?’
The girls looked at one another, shaking their heads. Rose frowned. ‘Really? None of you?’
‘I have a brother back home?’ Lauren tried.
Rose seized upon it. ‘Yes, Lauren. And would you do anything for him?’
The girl shrugged and a thread of hair fell from her blonde chignon.
‘Even if your uncle, or your parents, or the traditional “head of your family” told you to reject him? Would you disobey and do what you thought was right?’
‘Disobedience was pretty risky in those times,’ Lauren said quietly, ‘wasn’t it, Madam?’
‘Yes, indeed. Particularly for women and slaves.’
‘Well,’ Dulcie’s voice came in firm, ‘obedience is one of the key values we’re taught, Madam, so you’re saying that Antigone is going against the rules.’
‘Yes!’ Rose stepped forward abruptly, startling the five girls in front of her. ‘She is! And we need to discuss it.’
‘But surely there’s no question, Madam,’ Dulcie continued, her sharp eyes darting around. ‘The obedience and submission of the inferior is the cornerstone of any healthy relationship. We all know that.’
‘Er … I’m not sure I would agree with you, Dulcie,’ said Rose, suddenly bewildered. ‘But this play is more complicated than that – and according to the Greeks, we’re all inferior to the gods.’
‘You’ve lost me, Madam,’ Tash said with a frown, looking across at the window again.
‘There’s no God here, Madam,’ Lex called out across Tash. ‘Headmaster got rid of the chaplain.’
‘The gods, Lex. Not God,’ Rose said firmly. ‘You know, girls, I was taught this play by a man, when I was your age, and he taught us that Antigone was a rebel, a scourge on the city. I believed him because he was my teacher. But then at university I studied the play again, and I saw that the message is very different – just the final chorus is enough to tell you that. So, ladies,’ Rose added warily, ‘it’s important to pay attention, but also to think for yourselves.’
‘Goodness, Madam,’ Dulcie laughed from the middle of the row, ‘you’re not one of those feminist hippies, are you?’
Lex tittered, checking Dulcie’s face. ‘Oh Madam, have you burned all your bras and smashed shop windows and grown out your underarm hair?’
‘Have you read all of what’s her name,’ Dulcie continued with a sneer, ‘Germaine Geer?’
‘Greer,’ Rose corrected quickly. ‘And no. I am not.’
‘You are funny, Madam.’ Lex gave a small smile.
‘Anyway,’ Dulcie tossed her book on the desk. ‘My father says that it’s the nineties now, and it’s high time we buried that hippy nonsense. He’s always right.’
Rose turned her back on the little group and gazed blindly at the blackboard for a moment.
‘Does the Headmaster know that you’re teaching us this, Madam?’
Rose stiffened, turning around. ‘Of course, Dulcie, it’s one of the texts for your A level exam, why do you—’
‘Madam, if you think women are so brilliant,’ interrupted Tash with a certain longing in her voice, ‘don’t you just love Princess Diana?’
‘We’re talking about Antigone.’ Rose rounded on Tash, whose gaze was as dreamy as her tone. Rose softened. ‘But, yes, Diana’s all right. She seems different from the others—’
‘Tash has a crush on Diana,’ Dulcie interrupted. ‘She carries a little picture of her wherever she goes. In her pencil case, in her—’
‘Shut up, Dulce,’ Tash cried, her mouth slack. ‘It’s a newspaper cut-out, it’s not—’
‘We’re not allowed crushes.’ Dulcie shrugged her lilac shoulders. ‘My father says—’
‘And what,’ it was Rose’s turn to interrupt, ‘does your mother say, Dulcie?’
Four girls glanced quickly at Dulcie and Rose immediately regretted her question.
‘My mother,’ Dulcie drew herself up, ‘only ever worries about her chrysanthemums, Madam.’
‘I apologise, I shouldn’t have mentioned it,’ Rose said delicately. ‘Let’s get on.’
‘Anyway, Tash,’ Lex leaned towards her neighbour, ‘you should drop that crush nonsense. You’re in E Pathw
ay, after all. You need to get a grip or you’ll mess it up. You don’t want to become a C.’
Rose glanced between the two of them and made a mental note to read, scour, ingest the Staff Handbook, even if only to understand the terminology the girls continually used in her lessons.
‘There were six of us, Madam, before,’ Dulcie began with a mean glint in her eye, ‘did you know? A girl left. She’s a C now.’
‘Well, she only left the class, not the school. On account of the previous Madam.’ Lex was nodding her head.
Dulcie added, ‘She said you gave her a shove last week.’
Rose looked up. ‘Gave whom a shove?’
‘Bethany, Madam. In the corridor.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Rose said quickly, hoping she wasn’t hearing what she most dreaded. ‘Bethany?’
‘I wouldn’t worry, Madam, she’s always making a fuss over nothing.’ Tash rolled her eyes. ‘We’re on your side.’
‘Do you –’ Rose seemed to lose her breath. ‘Does anyone need to be on a side?’
Dulcie looked at Rose with the ghost of a smile. ‘Of course, Madam.’
Rose froze as she re-entered the Classics office. Her favourite blazer, missing since Friday, was there. It had been tugged over the back of the chair untidily, dark against the leather seat, its brass buttons shining.
As she lifted it off the chair for closer examination, something caught her eye in the light from the window. It was a thick strand of hair. Long and black, not frizzled like Rose’s hair, but slick and straight.
In a rapid movement Rose held the blazer away from her. It had been touched, worn, God knew what else. Bethany. Rose wanted to throw it out of the window. There has been some mistake, she could hear in her mind. You don’t belong here. Here in this place, she thought; famous, world-renowned and extreme. Here, and so privileged to teach this long line of ladies from the wealthiest families in Britain. No, she didn’t belong – she was as wrong as this soiled and misplaced blazer. Rose dropped it to the floor.