Madam

by Phoebe Wynne

  ‘Oh, hi, Madam, how’s the Latin?’ a girl asked Rose, tossing her red curls behind her shoulder. Rose looked across at Freddie, one of three girls in white dresses, waiting for her response.

  ‘Hi, girls,’ Rose answered cautiously. Nessa was by Freddie’s side, pale and listless, wearing a blazer too big for her. Dark-haired Josie stood next to her. Rose was mildly surprised to see Josie there; she hadn’t connected the three of them together in that way. In Rose’s Fourths class, Josie had taken to arching her thick eyebrows as she yelled out the wrong answers from the back of the room, while Nessa sat self-absorbed at the front, and Freddie challenged Rose at any opportunity.

  ‘How’s the Latin, Madam?’ Freddie repeated, her honey-coloured eyes lit with purpose.

  Rose’s voice was stronger this time. ‘Sorry – how is my Latin?’

  ‘Don’t say “sorry”, say “pardon”!’ Josie sang out.

  ‘Well, you don’t do anything other than Latin,’ Freddie rolled her eyes, ‘do you, Madam?’

  ‘Are you dreaming about Aeneas, Madam?’ Josie attempted, her black eyes scouring Rose’s face. ‘Do you want to give him a shove, too?’

  ‘Okay, ladies.’ Rose bristled. ‘That’s enough.’

  ‘Come on, guys,’ Nessa said quietly, turning away from the others and pulling the blazer over her shoulders.

  ‘We’re being interviewed about your lessons, Madam.’ Josie gave a smirk. ‘And whether you’re nice to us. So, are you?’

  Rose focused her gaze on a spot somewhere beyond the three girls. ‘That’s for you to say, Josie. I hope you tell the truth.’

  ‘No, but Madam, seriously.’ Freddie stepped forward as a flow of younger girls filtered past. ‘These interviews—’

  ‘Blazers on, girls!’ called a male teacher sauntering down the corridor. He looked with concern to Rose. ‘Come on, Madam. Keep to the rules.’

  ‘Blazer’s at house, Sir, we’re on our way,’ Josie answered, as Rose’s cheeks flushed. ‘Not very good at your job, are you, Madam?’

  ‘Don’t be rude, Josie,’ Freddie commanded.

  As Josie shrugged, Rose saw something wriggle underneath the girl’s hair, loose at her neck. Whatever it was ran along the back of her white dress and shimmied down her sleeve. Rose pulled her hand to her mouth as she shrank back against the wall.

  ‘Oh Madam! It’s only Ronald. Fancy being scared of him.’

  Rose drew both her hands into fists as Josie lifted her wrist to show the small face of a grey rat, its pinkish nose and dotted eyes poking out of her sleeve.

  ‘Say hello, Madam.’

  Rose took a breath. ‘No thank you, Josie.’

  ‘Madam, you are mean!’ Josie retorted. ‘Headmaster says that it’s healthy to have something small to love.’

  Nessa had separated herself from the other two. She sighed heavily, and her thin frame shifted inside the weight of her blazer.

  ‘Suit yourself. Poor Ronald.’ Josie went to kiss her sleeve. ‘Latin Madam hates you. We’ll see about that, won’t we? Matron will give you a treat to make up for it.’

  The rat disappeared up Josie’s sleeve and Rose stiffened again. Freddie shook out her curls and straightened her shoulders. ‘Come on then, let’s go.’

  Rose watched the girls stalk down the corridor. Touching the back of her neck, she shivered at the thought of that rat, and remembered something Frances had said earlier that day.

  ‘Piles of marking, I see.’ Frances had been standing over Rose’s desk, glancing at the mass of work.

  ‘It’s only classwork, not homework. Still fighting over that one.’

  ‘Well done, all the same.’

  ‘This stupid allegation.’ Rose widened her eyes with frustration. ‘I have to prove myself somehow.’

  ‘I’m terribly angry about it.’

  ‘Are you?’ Rose looked up at Frances with something like gladness.

  ‘Of course. I can’t believe they’re even giving that girl’s story any oxygen. You mustn’t worry.’

  ‘How can I not worry? And you can’t be angrier than I am.’

  ‘I am, and I’ve already spoken to Vivien about it.’

  ‘Oh.’ Rose hesitated. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Frances huffed, lifting off the first page on Rose’s pile, ‘is this the Fourths? Daisy, Caroline, Nessa – I have that same class. Some good girls in there.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Rose was doubtful. ‘But Frances … they fight me. At every turn.’

  ‘Of course they do.’ Something steely crossed Frances’s face. ‘They’re busy.’

  ‘Busy?’

  Rose often wondered where the girls went in the afternoon, lunchtimes or any space that wasn’t in between lessons. The school was so tidy, with and without them. They weren’t wandering the grounds, admiring the bash of the sea, or even basking in the rare September sun on the green lawns. Rose’s old students had once teased her that she wasn’t a real person and only appeared out of a cupboard to teach their lessons. Maybe it was that way for her now – the girls weren’t real, existing only to trick her, trip her up, upset her.

  ‘Yes, busy. In training for life,’ Frances answered with a smile.

  Frances was full of curious answers or non-answers; Rose had let that one go. She was still too uneasy to really push for clarity, afraid of what she might find.

  The following afternoon Anthony appeared at the door, supporting a cup and saucer in his hand. The wind was bursting at the windows and Rose couldn’t help but welcome his warm, sympathetic figure as she looked up from her work.

  ‘I’ve brought you a cup of tea. Black, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh.’ Rose’s eyes checked Emma’s empty chair. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Earl Grey, yes?’ Anthony smiled. ‘No milk or sugar?’

  ‘Yes. Th-thanks so much. Come in, of course.’ Rose realised she didn’t seem very grateful. She stood up, leaning on her desk.

  ‘No need to stand, I’ll come to you.’

  In one movement Anthony nudged the cup and saucer into Rose’s hand and swung Emma’s chair towards her desk. ‘I’m sorry not to’ve been able to speak properly until now.’ He sat down opposite her.

  Rose glanced at him as his face met the daylight from the window. She looked away; Anthony didn’t.

  ‘Terrible weather,’ Rose tried, touching the edge of her teacup.

  ‘Yes, that’s Scotland, I’m afraid.’

  Rose faced him. ‘It’s very wild, outside, isn’t it? The sea really crashes against the rocks. Seems quite dangerous.’ She bit her lip; she couldn’t believe she was talking about the weather.

  ‘Yes, let’s hope we don’t drown, the porters will have to save us.’ Anthony waited as Rose laughed lightly. ‘No, it’s supposed to be sunnier at the weekend.’

  ‘Oh great,’ Rose said genuinely. ‘I’d love to get out and go for a walk …’

  ‘Rose.’ Anthony leaned an elbow on her desk. ‘I wondered whether you wanted to go through your class lists. I could talk you through each of your students? It really helps to know a little bit about the girls.’

  ‘Oh,’ Rose answered, touched. ‘That’s kind of you. Really?’

  ‘It might help you settle in a bit more.’

  Rose nodded, avoiding the hazel of Anthony’s eyes. ‘Yes, it’s not been …’

  ‘I mean to say, this place would be a challenge for any new member of staff. But one as young as yourself …’ Anthony drew a hand through his sandy-coloured hair. ‘The girls love to torture one another, and I’m sure they’re torturing you, too. They haven’t had anything new to look at for years.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Rose laughed, with slight bitterness this time. ‘That sounds—’

  ‘And you mustn’t worry about this allegation, Rose,’ Anthony
said firmly. ‘Everybody knows we’re very lucky to have you.’

  Rose stared into her teacup. ‘Do they?’

  ‘Perhaps I should have brought a glass of wine rather than a cup of tea.’ Anthony sat back. ‘Wrong time of day, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Yes.’ Rose lifted her face. ‘What a shame.’

  Anthony laughed. Then he said, ‘Tell me why you chose Classics, Rose.’

  ‘Really?’ Rose tried to sit back, too. ‘As opposed to History, you mean?’

  ‘Oh no. Classics is far richer than History, and you know it.’

  ‘I’ll tell the girls you said that.’

  ‘Please don’t,’ he smiled.

  ‘Well, Classics …’ Rose searched the room. ‘I think it chose me. I kept trying to give up Latin at school, but I was better at it than anything else.’

  Anthony scratched his stubbled chin. ‘Was it all those scandals, Roman emperors’ daughters sleeping with gladiators and all of that?’ He pressed his tie against his chest. ‘The love poetry, the drunken symposiums?’

  Rose hesitated. ‘You’re teasing me again. Of course not.’

  ‘Ashley, my colleague, would be disappointed to hear that.’

  Rose laughed, glancing at Anthony uncertainly. ‘Not at all. Classics is more than language – more than history, literature and society. It’s an entire culture and philosophy … a civilisation that we still continue to imitate today, without even realising it.’ She faced him properly. ‘It’s the study of people. And sometimes, I understand the Greek and Roman civilisations more than I do our own. So as a teacher it’s fun to look at that with my students and ask – have we advanced or not? Who are we, actually, and how far have we come, you know?’ Rose added sheepishly. ‘Of course, it would help if I understood the culture of Caldonbrae a little better.’

  ‘Ah.’ Anthony smiled again. ‘Your passion and respect for the past will serve you well here. Hope is a traditional place, and it will make sense to you soon. Give it time, Rose.’

  He stretched out an arm to tug at Rose’s planner. She watched him sift through the exposed pages; the comments in her handwriting, her plans and notes on every hour of the past fortnight, written and recorded. In the final pages Anthony found the class lists.

  ‘Here we are,’ he nodded kindly. ‘Let’s start with the Sixth and make our way down.’

  That weekend Rose did treat herself to a walk. She wrapped up well, a heavy knit scarf knotted around her neck, a sturdy coat over her woollen jumper. Her head was bare and the wind whipped her dark hair off her face like a punishment. The air stung her nose and ears, she sucked at her teeth as her eyes began to stream. It felt good, though, to feel something that could match the turbulence thrumming in her chest.

  A flock of birds was swooping above her head now, drawing Rose on her way. They followed her across the green rectangles of playing fields and tennis courts. Girls were darting with their hockey sticks along various pitches, a ball dancing between them, yells muffled by the wind. Rose walked far beyond the long white pavilion, around which several broad-shouldered men moved. She dashed down the school drive that ran parallel to the rocky line of the peninsula, rutted by skeletal trees and bushes blown scraggy by the brutal sea wind.

  Rose bit her lip with regret, remembering two afternoons before, when she hadn’t been able to avoid the common room and that notice carrying her name. Emma had tried to draw Rose into a conversation with Deirdre, a polite and attractive Geography teacher in her fifties, who distracted Rose from a discussion about GCSE results by offering her cake, and laughed at Rose’s mention of her previous school’s subscription to National Geographic, insisting that a state school could never have afforded it.

  But then, a shrill cry had come from a cluster of armchairs.

  ‘Paula, calm down.’

  One of the housemistresses was standing up and arguing in the direction of a tall armchair. ‘She’s not meeting the expectation?’

  ‘She isn’t, I’m afraid.’ The clipped voice replied evenly.

  ‘Then we can help her, there’s no need to send her down a house.’

  ‘Paula, it’s already been decided.’

  Rose sat further back in her chair, having recognised the second voice as Vivien’s.

  ‘I contest it,’ cried the housemistress. ‘She deserves better than House Clemency. I’ll tell the Headmaster.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that, Paula,’ said Vivien carefully.

  ‘We’ve always been able to fix girls like her!’

  Rose turned her head fast and caught Emma and Deirdre’s shocked faces.

  ‘Not always,’ Vivien had finished sternly. ‘But I’m sure it won’t go that far with this one.’

  Rose had replayed the scene in her mind many times, and again now on her walk, but she was no wiser now than she had been then.

  She concentrated on the view in front of her. The sea was an incredible blue today, and there was the mainland now in plain view. It sat far beyond the school, at the bottom of a slight slope. To the villagers, the people of the harbour, Caldonbrae Hall must look like that very monster she had imagined: high up, separate and self-sufficient – its very own jagged kingdom.

  At the end of the drive were the heavy-looking school gates. They were attached to a small, crumbling gatehouse lodge – it was so battered that Rose wondered whether the salty sea air had taken out clawing handfuls. Rose stopped abruptly at the bolted gates, her heart still beating with the rhythm of her walking. She looked up at the wrought-iron railings extending above her head; there was no way to climb over. Rose kicked at the curled metal with her booted foot, but her Doc Martens made little impact.

  The door of the lodge swung open. A man with a thunderous weather-beaten face appeared, wearing a green uniform and a green stitched beanie hat over his tangle of greyish hair. Guided by the wind, he moved quickly.

  ‘Here, no! Lassie!’ he called over. ‘You can’t get through. You have to go back.’

  The man had a thick Scottish accent; Rose frowned to understand him. ‘Hello. Why not?’

  ‘I’m not permitted to let anyone out on foot.’

  ‘What?’ Rose wanted to laugh. ‘On foot, why not?’

  ‘Are you a student?’

  ‘No,’ she answered crossly, ‘I’m a teacher.’

  ‘I’m not permitted to let anyone out on foot.’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’ Rose did laugh this time. ‘It’s barely a mile to the village.’

  ‘Ach!’ He frowned at Rose through his thick eyebrows. ‘Typical.’

  Rose looked at the groundsman. Both his thick green puffer coat and his hat were stitched with the school’s emblem.

  ‘Can’t I just go through and you look the other way?’

  ‘’Course not!’ he almost shouted. ‘They’re recording everything.’

  ‘But –’ She looked around her. ‘Really?’

  The groundsman snorted. Rose looked longingly at the mainland, the ribboned greens of the shallow hills and the long spattering of houses on the harbour. There was probably a pub there, too.

  ‘You must be new.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Thought I hadn’t seen your face before. Are you English?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rose glanced back at the school ruefully.

  ‘Aye,’ the groundsman nodded. ‘Well, the regulations. Only by car. So they know where you are, like. There’s something coming.’ He stepped back into his battered lodge.

  Rose looked beyond the drive and saw a small cab climbing the long stretch of roadway. Coming back from somewhere, anywhere that wasn’t here, she thought. The heavy gates buzzed noisily and swung open; Rose moved wearily to the side. As the cab rolled past, she saw a row of three girls sitting in the back – shining hair, shopping bags and white smiles.

  Run, she thought, run through the gap. He won’
t be able to catch you. Run to the mainland. Escape.

  No. Rose shook her head, she was more of a fighter than a fugitive. The groundsman reappeared as three seabirds noisily settled on the roof of the gatehouse lodge. In her irritation, Rose’s eye caught on something – a moving link across the wildly rural headland on the other side of the peninsula. She squinted and saw exactly what it was – a long string of girls on horseback, looping the gorse bushes as they moved forward in a chain. Snug grey capes around their shoulders, riding crops by their side, grey velvet helmets catching the sunlight.

  ‘The girls are allowed to leave?’ Rose heard herself shriek with the wind.

  He turned to follow her gaze. ‘That’s an activity, you know. Otherwise it’s only the Upper Sixth, some days. Get that cab number, but I warn you, it’s over two hours to Edinburgh.’

  Rose felt deflated and she couldn’t hide it from the groundsman. ‘I just wanted to go for a walk, to the village.’

  ‘Here, what’s your name?’

  ‘It’s Rose. I teach Classics.’

  ‘Why don’t you try the beach? It’ll be a bit rough today, though, with the wind.’

  ‘Yes. That’s fine,’ Rose said quickly. ‘How do I get down there?’

  ‘The walkway’s a bit tricky where the handrail’s missing, mind – but there’s your tunnel.’

  ‘Tunnel?’

  ‘Your tunnel that runs from the school to the beach. A postern; they say William Wallace once used it.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Rose nodded eagerly. ‘How do I get there?’

  ‘Don’t know. That’s not our area.’

  ‘Whose area is it?’

  ‘The porter fellas, I reckon. Couldn’t tell you.’ He shook his head darkly. ‘Look, I don’t go up to the school. None of us do. It’s a terrible place, but of course you know that.’

  Rose drew back. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ He pushed his beanie hat further up his head as he looked warily back at the lodge. ‘Especially since that girl died.’

  Rose’s breath caught in her throat. ‘A girl died?’