Madam

by Phoebe Wynne

  It was everything Rose could do not to rush back to her flat, her bedroom, squash her face against the sheets and cry away her anxieties. But it was only Monday morning; the day was moving forward, and she was expected downstairs.

  Rose found herself staring at the bronze plaque emblazoned with the Headmaster’s name. She could see her own distorted face glaring back at her through the yellow metal on his study door.

  Behind her, the iron clock above the Great Stairs showed the correct time for her appointment. She’d seen the Headmaster at the staff meeting over an hour earlier, but this appointment would be private.

  ‘Madam?’

  ‘Me?’ Rose pulled at her fingers anxiously. ‘Yes.’

  The girl was close to her. Rose looked at her white dress and grey blazer, her blonde hair a halo of frizz around her forehead. ‘The Headmaster isn’t able to see you. Something unfortunate has prevented him.’ The girl spoke in perfect recitation, frowning at Rose. ‘And he hopes you will accept his apologies.’

  ‘Oh. Thanks. Of course,’ Rose said awkwardly.

  The girl returned to her group of friends, who seemed to glower at Rose before they carried on up the stairs.

  Rose faced the plaque again, as if the Headmaster might appear at that moment, swing his door open and invite her in. To offer her some justification for her own existence there, in this job, in his school.

  But then Rose heard it, a muffled laugh on the other side.

  Should she bang on the door? Go opposite to the secretaries’ office to check? What was she planning to say to him, anyway – thank you for employing me? Thank you for taking over my mother’s care? Did she really want to suck up to this new boss of hers, who seemed to hold the strange power of this eccentric place in his small, quick hands? No, Rose thought, she would keep this painful rejection to herself.

  At the lunchtime staff meeting he had introduced her to them all in the formality of a lower conference room. The chairs had been laid out in sombre rows, just like at a funeral. The Headmaster had stood at the front in an exquisite suit of thick linen, cut precisely around his slim shoulders, Vivien poker-straight by his side. Rose had been presented as the new head of Classics; the Headmaster spoke about her teaching experience in north Kent, her first-class degree, her studies in Rome and her teacher training. A broken smile on her face, Rose had fixed her gaze on the empty fireplace bedecked with an enormous stag’s head and two crossed rifles. The Headmaster reminded the group of Rose’s probationary period; pointing out that all being well, she would be welcomed into the tight community at Hope, and would become a fantastic model for growth and expansion. There had been a dash of applause and Rose had felt a beat of gratitude towards the jovial faces looking up at her.

  The staff had been exactly as she had seen in the common room – the stiff and aging men were numerous but dominated by women, who were mostly over fifty, and as boarding staff, dressed less formally than the teachers. Sirs and Madams that Rose didn’t yet know; she wondered if she ever would with those impersonal labels. Regardless of the Headmaster’s words, Rose had felt inexperienced and young. In fact, Frances was probably the nearest to Rose’s age, or Anthony perhaps, and both were more than ten years older than her.

  Hesitating near the Great Stairs, however, Rose’s thoughts were interrupted.

  ‘I say, you’re a fine specimen.’ A man with grey hair and a wide belly was smiling at Rose. His thick tie was clipped back by a gold clasp. He reminded her of an overgrown schoolboy that had suddenly evolved into an old man.

  ‘Now, now, Ashley,’ said Anthony, appearing behind the older man, ‘we’re not allowed to talk to the female staff like that, you’ve been told.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense, Anthony, they love it. Besides, there haven’t been any as young as this. She’s absolutely fresh as a daisy. Head of Classics, what?’

  ‘Yes, Ashley,’ insisted Anthony, his hand on the older man’s arm. ‘You know perfectly well.’

  Alarm thrummed through Rose’s chest. ‘There’s no need to talk about me in the third person,’ she said haughtily. ‘I am right in front of you.’

  ‘Goodness, she’s got gumption,’ Ashley muttered to Anthony as if discussing an exhibit in one of their History cabinets. ‘I like that. Do you know what you’ve let yourself in for, young lady?’

  ‘Don’t worry yourself about anything Ashley says, Rose,’ Anthony said quickly, just as the older man shook his arm free. ‘He’s been here so long he’s become part of the furniture.’

  ‘Bit young for a Classicist, aren’t you?’ added Ashley, regarding her with a teasing eye.

  ‘Not really,’ Rose replied firmly, ‘but I hear that a lot.’

  ‘Indeed. We’re History.’ Ashley swung his belly towards her again; his buttons pressed against the white of his shirt. ‘Listen. This school in North Kent that Headmaster mentioned earlier – not a state school, was it?’

  ‘Yes, it was. And yes, I was state-educated. Grammar.’

  ‘Dearie me, what about university – Cambridge? I’m a Cambridge man myself, so’s the Headmaster.’

  Rose couldn’t suppress her small smile. ‘No, a London university, I’m afraid. More libraries, even better museums.’

  ‘Museums that Hope’s benefactors probably donate to regularly. What goes around comes around, my dear! And,’ Ashley’s wiry eyebrows bent together, ‘what does your father do?’

  ‘He was an educator, just like you and I.’ Rose paused. ‘Please excuse me, Sir, it was nice to speak to you, but I must go back upstairs.’

  ‘Good, good. Onward,’ gestured Ashley with his thick hand.

  But she didn’t have the chance. ‘Madam?’ A different voice was calling to Rose across the entrance hall. It was Vivien. ‘I gather you were to meet the Headmaster, but there’s something more pressing you and I need to discuss. Shall we?’

  Vivien’s study wasn’t nearly as grand as Rose was expecting. It stood next to the secretaries’ office on the northern side of the main corridor, opposite the Headmaster’s. It had no proper view of its own, just a dim courtyard. The room was busy with trinkets and ornaments littering the desk and the long shelves – Rose noticed a model of the Trevi Fountain next to an exquisite antique perfume blower. There were two bouquets on the long windowsill and another at the conference table, purple-blue blooms that gave out a sickly sweet smell, echoing the woman herself in her plum velvet jacket.

  ‘I’m glad I’ve caught you, Rose, we’ve only got a few minutes. What I have to tell you is this.’ Vivien leaned forward in her chair. ‘There’s been a very serious allegation made against you.’

  Rose blinked, horrified. ‘An allegation?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But … it’s only the second week?’

  ‘Now, here at Hope we deal with allegations properly,’ Vivien continued in her crisp voice. ‘Apparently there was an incident where you grabbed a student in the corridor and she claims that you have been harassing her since the first day.’

  ‘No, no. This can’t be.’ Rose’s voice was frantic as she sat forward. ‘I’m innocent. There’s this girl who has been following me around. Bethany. I think she even took my blazer. You saw her too—’

  ‘It is, of course, important to hear your version of events, and they will be recorded, but please understand that we do give the girls the benefit of the doubt.’ Vivien’s eyes bored into Rose. ‘She does have bruises, and gives quite a compelling account.’

  ‘Bruises?’ Rose shook her head vigorously. ‘No, no, this is a simple mistake!’

  Vivien raised her eyebrows. ‘I assure you there’s nothing simple about it.’

  ‘It’s Bethany, isn’t it?’ Rose’s voice lifted with panic. ‘You saw her on the stairs.’

  ‘Bethany deVere?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rose hesitated. ‘Is that her last name?’

  Vivien didn’t answe
r; instead she made a note on a sheet of paper on her desk. Rose hardly noticed. She could only see in her mind’s eye that stained handkerchief with its ‘BdV’.

  ‘Bethany has had past difficulties – her mother passed away some years ago.’ Vivien’s eyes wavered over Rose as she thought about it. ‘And last year, she formed an attachment to a previous member of staff, which was not at all appropriate.’

  ‘I see,’ said Rose, trying to piece these scraps of information together.

  ‘We cannot have the same consequences here.’

  ‘I absolutely agree. There’s no attachment, I don’t even teach her.’ Rose shook her head again, shuffling in her seat. ‘I have no need to associate with her. I just wish she would stop following me around,’ Rose added loudly. ‘I can’t have this on me, either.’

  ‘Even so,’ Vivien’s features grew tense and her eyes didn’t leave Rose’s face, ‘this allegation is serious and will be investigated. Formal notices will go up in the common room. We will have to let the governors know, as well as the parents in the monthly newsletter. We will review the case fully after half-term.’

  ‘But why tell everyone?’ Rose’s cheeks burned. ‘I am totally innocent of this!’

  ‘We may have to collect a statement from you. The local constable—’

  ‘The police? Surely not?’

  Vivien paused. ‘Surely you understand, Rose. This is a very grave matter within an educational establishment. This allegation comes under “grievous bodily harm”, not to mention “abuse of power”.’

  Rose’s voice was now hoarse with fear. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘In the meantime, please do not speak to the girl or approach her. It will stand against you.’

  ‘Will this go on my record?’

  ‘Yes, it will, along with the eventual results of the investigation.’ Vivien nodded, to herself more than to Rose.

  ‘But surely,’ Rose said desperately, ‘my reputation, my name …’ She stared at the model of the Trevi Fountain, an incongruous friend watching her from the other side of the room. ‘I’ve only just got here. And the way it’s going—’

  ‘Nonsense, I won’t hear that.’ Vivien was standing up, her velvet jacket tight around her shoulders. ‘The girls are enjoying having some fresh blood in the place.’

  ‘But,’ Rose spluttered, ‘how can you say that when you’ve just told me I’m being investigated?’

  Vivien stood over her. ‘Time will tell. Teenage girls have their peculiarities, as we all do.’ Rose couldn’t help but breathe in Vivien’s perfume, floral but overblown. ‘We shall get to the bottom of this.’

  Rose nodded mutely as Vivien continued. ‘Incidentally, there’s another item I have to speak to you about. You were privy to a Discipline lesson last Friday. This was an error, and the relevant people have been reprimanded for it. I apologise for the oversight. It will not happen again.’

  ‘Oh,’ Rose muttered, ‘there’s no need to—’

  ‘Indeed, there is.’ Vivien nodded sincerely and took Rose’s hand, drawing her out of the chair and opening the door.

  ‘Will I need to speak to the Headmaster about this?’ Rose asked before her dismissal was complete.

  ‘Not at this point. We will keep you informed. I am sure you understand.’

  But Rose understood nothing as the study door closed on her.

  DIDO

  ille dies primus leti primusque malorum

  causa fuit; neque enim specie famave movetur,

  nec iam furtivum Dido meditatur amorem:

  coniugium vocat; hoc praetexit nomine culpam.

  That was the day of death, the source of woe.

  For Dido didn’t care about her honour nor her appearance;

  She thought no longer of a secret love

  But called it marriage. Under that name, she hid her misdeed.

  (Virgil’s Aeneid 4.169–172, written 19BC)

  Dido was a tender heroine, resilient and impressive until her final moments, when she was used as a plaything for the gods.

  At home in Tyre, her well-loved and rich husband Sychaeus was killed by her brother, the king, who had coveted his wealth. That very night, the ghost of Sychaeus appeared to Dido in a dream, telling her of her brother’s crime, and commanding her to leave the city with their shared riches and as many loyal attendants as she could find. Dido managed it well; she and her band of Tyrians endured a long meandering journey over land. Eventually they arrived in North Africa, where Dido hoped to start anew.

  But tribal kings inhabited those lands, and were reluctant to welcome foreigners. They tried to trick Dido, by offering her as much land as an ox hide could cover. Dido was cleverer than they expected: she cut the hide into long fine strips, and spread them around a nearby hill, to earn herself enough land to found a city. That city became Carthage, which grew and prospered so brilliantly that she was declared queen. One of the tribal kings, Iarbas, demanded that she marry him to prevent the threat of regional war, but Dido insisted that she was faithful to her first husband, Sychaeus, and wished to honour him by remaining a widow.

  Several Trojan war refugees landed in Carthage, desolate after the destruction of their celebrated city. Aeneas, the Trojan prince and a son of Venus, led the group of comrades. His escape from Troy had been predestined by Jupiter: for his future lay in Italy, in the founding of the Roman race, and later, his descendants’ founding of Rome. Carthage could grant him rest in the meantime. Aeneas’s mother, Venus, wanted to ensure that he would be welcome there, so she ordered her immortal son, Cupid, to breathe love and desire into Queen Dido’s heart. For the gods always have other plans, and merely use mortals to implement them. Dido and Aeneas consummated their union, and the Trojan refugees enjoyed their respite in this new city. Dido allowed Aeneas to sleep in her palace and stand by her side, for all the neighbouring kings to see.

  But Aeneas’s departure was soon overdue, and Mercury was sent down by Jupiter to hurry him along. Aeneas moved quickly, giving his men the orders, readying the ships. He did not speak to Dido, who instead heard the news through rumour. In distress she tore at her hair, her chest, her eyes. But her desperate pleas fell against his deaf ears – Aeneas would go, continue his journey, and leave her behind. He refused her wishes to leave her pregnant with a child to inherit her city, he refused to linger one more day. He had been summoned by the gods.

  Without Aeneas, Dido saw the mounting threat of the tribal kings around Carthage. Alone and desperate, the queen had no choice. As Aeneas’s boats sailed away, she commanded a pyre to be built from his abandoned things: his weapons, his clothes, their bridal bed now stained with betrayal. Then, before it was set alight, she ignored the cries of her sister and climbed to the top. There, she took out a dagger and stabbed herself.

  Dido is a lesson in perseverance and courage. Her greatest days were spent standing alone, as queen of her well-loved city, without the need of another.

  5.

  By the beginning of Rose’s third week she’d learned to focus her eyes just above the swarm of heads in the main corridor, hoping that her feet would guide her forward, past the many snide looks turned her way. She fixed an Athene-like stoicism to her features, and carried on.

  In the common room there was that promised notice, emblazoned with Rose’s good name and the details of the allegation for all to see. Emma thought it highly unfair and had said so in a loud voice when she and Rose were alone, but soon after joined the throng of raised eyebrows amongst the staff. There had been many dripping comments in the common room, particularly from the row of three women that sat near the fire, aged and gnarled in their circle of unkind gossip. Each resembled the gargoyles notched onto the outer walls of the school building. Rose had nicknamed them the Moirai, the three blind mythological Fate-sisters who fought over one all-seeing eyeball; spirits of the same miseries that Macbeth consulted, to
his detriment. Rose didn’t know which subjects the women taught, but one of them had a chemical stain on her woollen jacket.

  There’d been no glimpse of Bethany since Rose’s conversation with Vivien the week before. Rose wondered whether the bite of this allegation had relieved the girl temporarily. She didn’t miss those translucent eyes stamped with horror – but she did wonder what Bethany was busying herself with now.

  Rose wanted desperately to sneak up to the safety of her flat between lessons. The Saturday before, her things had finally arrived and stood, sopping wet, in the darkness of her little hallway. The porters’ damp feet had tramped dirt along the floorboards, but Rose had been too anxious to care, or clean up after the men had left. She was only glad that it was past the girls’ bedtimes and none of them would see her shabby belongings.

  In the light of Sunday morning, Rose’s armchair and table had seemed disconnected from these particularly old-fashioned rooms, tight and contemporary against the smart bits of scarred furniture that the flat had already provided. She resisted an urge to hurry back to the porters, order her things back downstairs, back onto the crate that was no longer there, rush them away – to what? To where?

  Instead Rose had unpacked everything carefully. She’d held each treasured book, each photo frame and set them around the flat in an effort to fill the space and somehow make it hers. But should she have bothered? What if this allegation got her fired, even before half-term?

  Rose walked faster down the main corridor. Tonight, she’d call her mother and tell her how well it was going, and hear all about her new clinic. A dedicated nurse, Rose hoped, an upgrade of fellow patients. She would only contribute self-constructed unrealities during the call, knowing that her mother’s rush of gratitude to the Headmaster would trump Rose’s shock at their interference. Even Rose had to admit that the school’s taking on the financial burden was an enormous relief to her. Surely that boded well for the long term?