Madam

by Phoebe Wynne

  ‘Oh Madam, did you say hunting?’ Freddie’s clipped voice came in. She raised her ivory face to Rose; Nessa beside her looked up too. ‘We hunt at home. Some people are against it. Are you?’

  Rose looked at Freddie’s tawny eyes narrowed with a challenge. ‘Put your hand up if you want to contribute, Freddie.’

  ‘But why is the Diana comparison important, Madam?’ Daisy interrupted, her hand waving in the air.

  ‘Well, Daisy.’ Rose looked across at Daisy gratefully. ‘Firstly, Diana is a goddess, a virgin goddess.’

  ‘But Dido has a dead husband,’ Josie chuckled loudly from the back, her thick black eyebrows raised, ‘so she’s hardly a virgin, Madam.’

  Rose hesitated, momentarily stunned at Josie’s unexpected grasp of the topic. ‘Yes … Dido is a widow. Good. Hand up next time.’ So Josie had been paying attention, Rose thought. Were they all paying attention? ‘But this is symbolism. It’s a huge compliment for Dido to be compared to a goddess … even though she’s probably more interesting than the goddess Diana.’

  At the front, Nessa’s freckled face twisted up to Rose. ‘What do you mean, how can a queen be more interesting than a goddess?’

  ‘Well.’ Rose hesitated, noticing the many faces that lifted to hear her answer. ‘The goddess Diana exists in Greek and Roman society as an ideal for young women. She’s twinned with Apollo, who was a model for young men. So us ladies,’ she said, sweeping the entire class in with her arm, ‘get animals and nature, a bit of running around – and the young men get art, music, poetry, the sun for God’s sake!’ Rose dropped her arm. ‘So, yes, Dido’s got plenty more going on if you ask me.’

  ‘Madam,’ Freddie pushed her red curls behind her shoulder; the rest of the girls seemed to wait for her to speak. ‘You talk as if you know these goddesses personally.’

  ‘Well,’ Rose began as she wandered over to her chair to sit down, ‘when you study all of these characters as I have, you sort of try to find the things that speak to you. We haven’t come very far from the ancient world, and some of the ancient women were really fantastic …’ Rose looked askance at Freddie as the rest of the class listened. ‘I mean, there’s—’

  ‘My mother’s name was Diana, Madam,’ Daisy called out.

  ‘That’s lovely, Daisy.’ Rose stood up as the class tittered at the outburst. She was grateful for the interruption – Freddie was still looking at her with those bright, analytical eyes.

  ‘And there’s our royal princess, of course,’ Nessa added. ‘Is she related to this goddess in any way, Madam?’

  ‘No, Nessa, I don’t think so.’ Rose saw the rest of the class shoot each other looks at Nessa’s daft comment, Josie’s mouth was gaping open with glee. Rose added kindly, ‘But it’s a nice thought.’

  ‘Dido, Diana, Venus,’ Nessa smiled weakly, nudging Freddie next to her, ‘I can’t keep up with you, Madam.’

  ‘Yes, quite,’ Freddie said loudly, tilting back in her seat. ‘One powerful queen, another tricky goddess, why’s it always women with you, Madam? In History we’re always learning about men. They’re the ones that make the decisions, that do the important things.’

  ‘Oh, I disagree, Frederica.’ Rose stepped towards the board, annoyed in spite of herself. ‘Women are usually the lifeblood behind the important things. Often they’ll be the characters moving everything forward. In these stories, here, in this classroom. You’ll see.’

  ‘It’s Freddie, Madam.’ A thin line dented the girl’s forehead, her mouth tight. ‘Not Frederica.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course,’ Rose gave a firm nod. ‘So. Dido’s appearance before the hunt – let’s read it again, and make a note of anything striking.’

  But while the rest of the girls leaned over their pages again, Freddie didn’t. ‘Madam, is it true that you knew Bethany before you came here?’

  Rose felt something electric move through her, and answered quickly, ‘Not at all.’ Her eyes stayed on the page. ‘No. And I’d prefer to focus on what we’re studying, please. Can anyone spot an adjective and its counterpart in the Latin?’

  To Rose’s relief, Freddie bowed her head to the page. At least two girls were about to raise their hands. Daisy’s arm was already in the air.

  The next morning the Headmaster sent his response via the secretaries: the incident had been noted, Bethany wouldn’t be attending any more of Rose’s classes – but the investigation was still active.

  At the beginning of break Rose was trying to leave the common room just as a crowd of male teachers filtered through the door. She seemed to be forever getting in people’s way: never alone in body, always alone in mind. She moved to the side.

  A housemistress was considering Rose from across the wide room. She was wearing a patterned dress with slightly outdated leg-o-mutton sleeves that drew Rose’s eye. It took her a moment to realise that the woman was striding towards her purposefully.

  ‘You’re the new Latin Madam?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rose stiffened. ‘My name is Rose.’

  ‘And you teach Alexandra Coryn?’

  ‘Alexandra …’ Rose thought about it. ‘That’s Lex, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, please don’t call her by that ridiculous name.’ The housemistress’s mouth twitched. ‘It’s just a notion of hers.’

  ‘It’s what she wants to be called.’

  The housemistress narrowed her eyes at Rose. ‘Alexandra is what her parents would prefer. Anyhow, I checked the latest grade for her essay, and I wanted to let you know that you can’t mark her that low. It isn’t acceptable.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Her first essay for this term. You marked it very low, she showed me.’

  Rose was baffled. ‘Yes, it was badly done. Ever since the return from London, she’s achieved very little.’

  ‘If you amend her grade, and see that her half-term report is positive, then I will ensure that she reacts accordingly. This final year is crucial for the girls.’

  ‘Shouldn’t it be the other way around?’ Rose’s cheeks flushed in spite of herself. ‘I’ll grade her higher when her work improves?’

  The housemistress drew herself up straight. ‘You have my word that she will improve.’

  ‘Surely this is an academic matter?’

  ‘Alexandra’s parents are particularly concerned about the situation – her brother has been such a disappointment to them, you see. She rather represents the family.’

  Rose felt her voice rise. ‘Her brother? What on earth does that have to do with this?’

  ‘Oh, Mary,’ Frances suddenly appeared; touching the woman’s elbow, she cut in, ‘it’s all me, I’m doing the head of department stuff for now, and I told Rose she should judge the girls harshly when she first arrived. Get them to pull their socks up a bit. My fault.’

  Rose turned to Frances, amazed at the lie.

  ‘I see.’ The housemistress glanced down at Frances’s creased dress, then up at her face. ‘Thank you, Frances. Well, see that it’s sorted in time for half-term.’ She nodded at Rose. ‘And if there’s still an issue, put it in the Punishment Book.’

  ‘Punishment Book?’ asked Rose.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What,’ Rose wanted to laugh madly, ‘so they can write lines?’

  The housemistress tutted. ‘You should know better than to make fun, Madam, what with your being in trouble. And in your first term too.’

  A tinge of shame crept into Rose’s face. The woman saw it as she moved away, satisfied.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Frances was already rolling her eyes. ‘Mary’s the housemistress of Honour, one of the Sixth houses, and they can be rather … forbidding.’

  ‘I wasn’t making fun.’ Rose’s voice was bitter.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Frances continued. ‘You don’t need to have anything to do with her, for now. She doesn’t te
ach anything academic, just pastoral.’

  Rose followed Mary with her eyes as she considered again that strange use of ‘pastoral’. She hoped that her first duty in the boarding house might explain it. Glancing back at Frances wearily, Rose sighed. ‘I suppose it’s good for the girls to have so many women about. I was taught mostly by men when I was at school.’

  ‘We do need more women in an academic capacity. That’s why it’s wonderful to have you here.’ Frances turned to face Rose. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rose answered; but even to her own ears, her answer was hollow.

  ‘Look, why don’t we have drinks this evening?’ Frances was studying Rose under her white-blonde eyebrows. ‘I’ll bring some wine round to your flat, what do you think? You must be bursting with questions.’

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ Rose felt herself wilt with relief, ‘that would be lovely.’

  6.

  Frances thrust two bottles of wine into Rose’s chest.

  ‘Congratulations on finishing week four! It’s a strange kind of anniversary, but you know …’ Rose laughed gratefully, feeling the hard glass of the bottles.

  ‘It’s a Merlot and a Pinot Grigio.’ Frances kicked her shoes off at the door and ran her hands through her hair, her blue eyes bright. ‘One each. Wasn’t sure which you’d prefer.’

  Within minutes they were both settled across the odd pairing of Rose’s modern armchair and the school’s stuffed sofa, glasses of wine cupped in their hands. Rose chose the red, saying that she regretted her flat being less welcoming than she’d have liked, seeing afresh the rickety floorboards and her small, faded picture frames. Before Frances’s arrival she’d rewashed some dusty wine glasses and rubbed them dry with one of her mother’s second-hand dishcloths.

  ‘Goodness, no,’ Frances lifted her glass to her lips, ‘your flat is a lot nicer than mine. Will you work in House Prudence underneath? I do two nights a week in Temperance.’

  ‘I think so,’ Rose answered. ‘They’ve said I will eventually help out the odd night.’

  ‘But you’d rather not,’ Frances smiled. She poured herself a second glass.

  ‘No, it’s just,’ Rose continued, warmed by the wine, ‘boarding seems so foreign to me. It belongs to children’s stories, to Charles Dickens, you know.’ Rose tapped at her glass nervously. ‘A lot around this place feels wrong to me. I’m probably better sticking to the classroom.’

  ‘Nonsense, working in a boarding house can be fun – as a tutor you just dip in and out, get to know the girls in another way.’ Frances put her bottle of wine on the floor and tucked her feet underneath her. ‘You’ll be great. We all have to try new things.’

  ‘I suppose so. Here’s my first question – why do the boarding houses have those obscure names?’

  ‘Named after the Founder’s six daughters,’ Frances replied. ‘Four combined Junior and Intermediate houses, then they split and move into two bigger houses in Sixth.’

  ‘And remind me, the Juniors are …’

  ‘There are three years of Juniors: Firsts, Seconds, Thirds. Then it gets serious in Intermediates: the Fourths and Fifths. Those two years are important, from the age of fourteen to sixteen – they’re no longer children, they’re young women. Then Lower and Upper Sixth are all about refinement.’ Frances gave a small bow of her head.

  ‘Right.’ Rose frowned. ‘And Lord Hope named his daughters things like Honour, Chastity and Temperance?’

  ‘He was an eccentric,’ Frances allowed.

  ‘I’ll say. Is “eccentric” just an excuse for toffs to do bizarre things?’

  ‘If that’s a real question, then you’ve come to the wrong place.’ Frances’s eyes crinkled into a smile.

  ‘Oh dear, maybe I have! This term is certainly not going how I thought it would.’ Rose hoisted her legs over the armrest of her chair. She was pleased to be able to let her guard down, even if Frances was her superior.

  ‘Well, it’ll all be sorted, just you wait. Then there’s lots to look forward to, especially after half-term – Open Day, then Christmas. Things ought to be better by then.’

  There was a pause as Rose contemplated the uncertainty of this. Frances swirled her white wine around in the glass before pulling it to her lips.

  ‘So, Rose,’ Frances started up again. ‘Inevitable question – how’s your love life?’

  ‘Oh.’ Rose hesitated. ‘Non-existent?’

  ‘Really? At twenty-six?’

  Rose scoffed. ‘Well. There was a guy where I used to work, but it was mostly in my head.’

  ‘In your head?’

  ‘Yes. Haven’t you ever had that?’ Rose laughed; she was happy to acknowledge the truth of it from this distance.

  ‘No,’ Frances said firmly, pouring herself another glass.

  ‘Well, I’m past all that now. What about you? Love life?’

  ‘I’ve never had a serious relationship,’ said Frances, sitting up properly in her seat, ‘and I’m almost in my forties.’

  ‘You don’t look it.’

  ‘Wedded to the job, you could say. And you’re lying. You’re still in your prime.’

  God, Rose thought.

  Frances seemed to notice. ‘What?’

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s nothing.’ Rose widened her eyes in exasperation. ‘Just the comments I’ve heard here. In my prime. A fine specimen. Sometimes I feel like a—’

  ‘Do you mean the old rascals in the common room?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rose nodded. ‘But not just them. The way everyone speaks here. I know this place is posh, but it’s … more than that. Outdated, I suppose. Why is it okay for people to speak like that to women – or to anyone?’

  Frances hesitated.

  ‘I mean,’ Rose was measuring Frances’s reaction, ‘my mother is a raging feminist, an activist really. Or used to be. So it’s been thrust down my throat my whole life.’

  ‘Really!’ Frances tilted her head sharply. ‘And did any of it rub off?’

  ‘I’ve always been slightly wary, I think … Mum was very forceful when I was growing up. She always claimed that as a baby I suckled on her boob while she marched with the Dagenham women. There were meetings at the house, Spare Rib was delivered every week. It’s a feminist magazine,’ Rose added, seeing Frances’s questioning look. ‘Don’t you know it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, it is,’ Rose frowned, buried in thought. ‘My mother spent her whole life rallying against the patriarchy. Me and Dad just stayed out of it. She’s calmed down now, with her illness … And it’s the nineties, the second wave of feminism is over. But I don’t actually think it’s right, to speak about women the way I’ve heard here. I don’t like it at all.’

  Frances was looking away. ‘Did you put that on your application, that your mother is a feminist?’

  ‘No, why would I do that?’

  ‘I suppose you wouldn’t.’ Frances’s face became heavy. ‘And she has multiple sclerosis?’

  ‘Oh.’ Rose was taken aback. ‘Yes, she does. Does … everybody know, then?’

  ‘Emma mentioned it, I hope you don’t mind. And how is she?’

  ‘She’s fine.’ Rose gazed at a spot on the floor. ‘She’s deteriorating, but she’s battled it this long. People live with it for years … I can’t think about it. She’s all I’ve got.’

  Frances nodded at her wine glass. ‘Both my parents are dead.’

  ‘Oh.’ Rose looked up. ‘I’m so sorry, Frances.’

  ‘No, no, best place for them,’ Frances answered blankly.

  Rose searched for something to say. ‘Well, it can be difficult. I’m glad I’ve still got Mum, even if I infuriate her regularly. I’m more like my father. Dad was great but distant – we did share some academic things, but then he was busy with his students …’ Rose went on, her thoughts slightly confused. ‘It wasn’t
easy for us after he died. I do feel very … indebted to her. Even in my twenties, I can’t bear to let her down.’ Rose shifted in her seat. ‘But then again, I still wear lipstick every day to spite her. It’s always been …’

  ‘Yes, I understand,’ Frances said in a muddled voice, nursing her wine glass. ‘Parents are hard. You must miss your mum. Well, you’ve got me now, at least.’ Frances turned to Rose with a renewed smile.

  ‘That’s kind.’

  Frances refilled her glass and Rose glanced at her own; she was still on her first. Frances was talking again. ‘We should do this regularly. Let’s invite Anthony next time.’

  Rose hesitated. ‘Anthony?’

  ‘Yes, we could learn from him. You know, I had a meeting with him today. It’s funny. Even though I’m his superior, he’s treated much better than me. Not his fault. He never gets himself into any scrapes,’ Frances added derisively. ‘The girls adore him too. He and I – there’s hardly anyone else of our generation here. Let’s include him.’

  ‘At your place,’ Rose said quickly, unable to hide the flush across her cheeks. ‘Not mine. Or in the village, away from here?’

  ‘Ha!’ shouted Frances. ‘That never happens. Put that out of your mind now.’ She kicked her feet onto the coffee table as she swung her glass to her mouth. Rose looked at the damp blackness on the feet of Frances’s tights. Turning away, she asked, ‘Shall I put on some music?’

  ‘Pardon?’ Frances was genuinely shocked. ‘How?’

  ‘I have a stereo.’ Rose gestured to her small oblong machine tucked underneath her shelves. ‘And the most ridiculous amount of tapes. What do you want to listen to?’

  ‘Oh.’ Frances shook her head vaguely. ‘You choose.’

  ‘Do you like Queen? In honour of dear Freddie.’ Rose bent to rifle through her cassettes as the wind rattled at the windows. Both women turned to look. The night seemed black and unforgiving, so different from the warmth inside. Rose put a Queen album in the player. As the music played Rose hummed along with the tune, just to stop herself from singing out loud.