by Phoebe Wynne
‘What is this again?’ Frances asked.
‘It’s Queen. Don’t you like them? Shall I change it?’
‘No need.’
Rose tapped the armrest of her chair. ‘I wish I’d been at Live Aid. I was at university. We all watched from a friend’s house. I phoned in, gave what I could. How about you?’
Frances stood up and moved out of the little room in one movement. It was so abrupt, Rose didn’t know how to react. She waited, wondering if she’d said something wrong.
The toilet flushed a minute later and Frances reappeared brightly, her bare legs creamy white under her dress. Rose wondered briefly where Frances had put her discarded tights.
‘Sorry, I drink a lot. Goes straight through me. These two bottles are just part of my own personal supply. I drink it like water.’
‘Really? But you’re so … athletic.’
‘I exercise a lot, it’s a discipline.’
‘Oh,’ said Rose. ‘Well, I can’t really handle my drink either. I’m a lightweight. I only drink socially.’
‘Dear me, how sad for you.’
Rose poured out a second glass, noticing Frances’s almost-empty bottle.
‘Tell me a bit more about yourself, Frances. How did you happen to come here?’
‘No, no,’ replied Frances in a cheery voice. ‘I’m your head of faculty – you are the one that has to talk to me. I demand questions! What’s been on your mind?’
‘Okay,’ stumbled Rose, her eyes roving around the room. ‘Well, there are a few things that I’m battling with. But one thing in particular – can I ask?’
Frances nodded. Rose leaned forward and placed her glass firmly on the floorboards.
‘Is it true that a girl died last year?’
‘How do you know that?’ Frances’s blue eyes flashed with alarm.
‘One of the groundsmen mentioned it.’
Frances sat up. ‘It wasn’t his right to.’
‘Frances,’ Rose propped her elbows up on her knees, her face growing warm, ‘that’s not the point. Did a girl actually die? And why on earth wasn’t it in the papers?’
Frances grimaced into her glass. ‘Yes, a girl did pass away. We aren’t supposed to discuss it.’
‘Frances,’ Rose said wildly, ‘surely you can understand that that’s wrong.’
Frances looked straight at Rose. ‘Not at all wrong. It was a sad affair, but it’s over now.’
‘There must be more to it than that.’
‘There was nothing untoward.’ Frances shook her head. ‘She became ill, and the on-call doctor performed an operation on her in the sanatorium, but she didn’t make it.’ She took a large swig of her drink. ‘Students died like that all the time in the past, of diphtheria and epidemics and things like that – haven’t you ever read Jane Eyre?’
‘Frances, this is not the nineteenth century. The groundsman seemed to think there was something wrong about it.’
‘Did he?’ Frances’s eyes flashed again over her glass of wine.
‘Yes,’ Rose insisted.
‘I don’t know why. The sanatorium has two large lead-lined rooms underground, to store bodies, you know, for that purpose.’
Rose shuddered involuntarily as she processed Frances’s words, but forced herself to press on. ‘So, there was no connection to my predecessor here?’
‘To Jane? No, of course not.’ Frances became a little flustered. ‘Why would there be? Your imagination is wild, Rose.’
Rose tried again. ‘I have another question.’
But Frances’s face had clouded over. She slid to the floor and kneeled her way over to Rose’s bookcases next to the empty fireplace, pulling out a book on Pompeii. ‘Curiosity killed the cat, you know,’ she finally said, thumbing through the large hardback.
Rose wasn’t put off. ‘What actually happened to my predecessor? It sounds like the circumstances of her departure were … unusual.’
‘Good old Jane.’ Frances thumped the book down on the floor and stretched back to reach for her wine glass. Rose noticed the muscly strain of her arm as Frances took a long sip. Then she said, ‘Jane was unhappy, she was overweight, and a faded beauty.’
Rose laughed, appalled. ‘What does being overweight, or beautiful, have to do with anything?’
‘Self-regard is important to the Headmaster.’ Frances shrugged wearily. ‘She tried to stand against some of the decisions here. Just like you’re driving at now, although you’ve no idea what you’re up against. They pushed her out. So let her be a warning to you.’
Rose was affronted. ‘I’m not trying to stand against anything. I’m trying to fit in.’
‘Well, good, I’m glad.’
‘She was close to Bethany, wasn’t she?’
‘Yes.’ Frances’s face was heavy again. ‘Jane got very upset about the girl, too involved. They were over-attached to each other.’
‘I knew it.’ Rose closed her eyes at the confirmation. ‘And now Bethany is looking for some strange connection to me.’
‘It was a terrible time.’ Frances was shaking her head. ‘Not at all appropriate for the girls to witness.’
‘Bethany frightens me,’ Rose said involuntarily. ‘They both do.’
But Frances wasn’t listening as she flipped the book over, focusing on a photograph of a mosaic decorating the back cover. ‘They like role models, here. They chose you.’
Rose moved her glass closer to her chest. ‘I’m no role model, Frances – the girls look at me and talk to me like I’m a piece of dirt. And now this terrifying allegation?’
‘I’m trying to support you there.’
Rose leaned forward, almost pleading. ‘Have you heard anything about it – from Vivien, maybe?’
Frances turned to Rose. ‘Has Bethany come to any lessons since?’
‘No. She’s been banned.’
‘There you are then.’ Frances left the book on the floor and lifted herself up to the cushions of the sofa. Rose watched her, worrying about the splinters of the floorboards, the dust from the rug across Frances’s knees.
‘Look, Rose,’ Frances sat down stiffly, ‘as your head of faculty, I’m your champion. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘As I’ve said, your focus here will be narrow, particularly this term.’ Frances’s eyes were a thorough blue as she searched Rose’s face. ‘But once you’re in, you’re in. The Headmaster has his own agenda and the school is a busy one. Just work on your classes, and keep your head down.’
‘Right.’
‘The girls only really care about their Value. You’ll see when we write reports.’
‘Their value?’ Rose frowned. ‘As in morals, principles?’
‘Yes, their “Value” – their grades, their achievements.’ Frances made quotation marks in the air, swooping up her glass from the floor. Rose watched the white wine slip heavily from side to side as Frances ran her hand through her wiry hair. ‘Look. While you’re settling in, let’s have regular meetings.’
‘Okay,’ said Rose, gratefully.
‘Although,’ Frances pulled a pained face, ‘my timetable is quite tight.’
‘We could have a weekly lunch?’
‘Yes, perfect. Let’s do that.’
Frances was so deliciously drunk when she finally stood up to leave that she staggered over the arm of the sofa. Rose watched her fall out of her flat’s front door and scrape a carpet burn on her bare thigh, her dirty tights crumpled up in one hand. Rose offered to lend an arm and walk Frances back to her own flat, and she agreed, on the condition that Rose didn’t come inside and witness the mess.
Of course, Rose still had many questions; and in the following weeks she worked hard to get on top of the school’s habits, its timetable and traditions. It was as if she hovered over the workings of the system, locked out, and
frightened to fall into the chasm of what didn’t yet make sense to her. Rose wondered if she was just being difficult, over-curious, as Frances had said.
Bethany didn’t come to any other Sixth lessons, nor did Rose see her around the school. The other girls flatly refused to answer any queries about how the girl was – even the dreamy-eyed Tash bowed her soft head at Rose’s questions, Dulcie calling them perverse. It had been four weeks now since the allegation. Rose had been dismayed to receive Vivien’s latest update: the region’s police constable was comparing Rose’s statement against the facts, reading through select student interviews, examining photographs of the pattern of bruises. Rose tried the secretaries, but they only nodded at her curtly: she could make an appointment with the Headmaster if she’d like to, but there was no convenient time before the half-term break.
So, she played along, kept her head down and stayed in her classroom-office space. Not that she was having much luck there: her Seconds refused to learn any Latin vocab from week to week, and her Fourths jeered unkindly when Daisy asked for half-term holiday work, even though many of them – particularly Nessa – needed it.
Anthony was continuing his small campaign to make Rose feel welcome, with passing moments in the corridor, and a few lunches. His smile caught her off-guard, and lent a lightness to her day. She enjoyed Anthony’s cheering company, his unshakeable dedication to his subject, his infectious good moods – so different from the unpredictable Frances, who could be alternately sympathetic and brittle. Things seemed easier around him; their colleagues were kinder to Rose by the association, even with the stain of Bethany’s allegation. Still, Rose found she couldn’t entirely be herself around Anthony either. She held herself back, worrying about her feelings running away with her. So much at Caldonbrae Hall seemed uncertain and confusing that Rose was desperate for the half-term break to come. It would be a chance for her to examine things properly, from afar.
On the final Friday before the holiday, Rose had been working late, trawling through the piles of exercise books as the beaming light across her classroom faded softly. She worked better in there than in the office.
With her work finished, Rose wandered back to her flat, holding her breath through the darkness of the Great Stairs. She padded carefully down the steps, feeling her way along the bannister, the scattered rain noisily hitting the glass dome above her. Along the main corridor she passed her hands nervously across the walls, vowing never to leave her classroom so late again.
Finally at the top of the staircase by her flat, Rose saw that somebody was waiting in the narrow passageway. The shape in the darkness turned to greet her.
‘Madam?’
Rose blinked.
‘Madam, it’s me,’ a voice said coaxingly, ‘it’s your Bethany.’
Rose shrank away from her. ‘No, no!’
‘Is it you, Madam? I came up the back way, like before.’ Bethany stepped forward, reaching out a thin arm in supplication. Rose squinted at her, seeing how young she looked, thinner than ever in her pyjamas, her long tendrils of hair falling past her elbows.
‘No, Bethany!’ Rose remembered herself. ‘It’s Miss Christie.’
‘Madam?’ Bethany’s voice was muddled, and Rose saw that she was grasping a crumpled letter. ‘No! Not you! You’re a fraud. You’re always getting in the way!’ The girl’s face convulsed as she stood in the doorway of Rose’s flat. ‘Where is Jane? I need her to save me from them. They won’t tell me where she is!’
‘Stop shrieking, Bethany! You’ll wake everybody up.’ Rose moved forward instinctively.
‘Get away from me! Where is she?’ The girl pressed the letter to her heart. ‘She won’t answer my letters! They returned this one!’
Rose gripped at the bannister of the stairs, her voice shaking. ‘I’m so sorry that she hasn’t answered your—’
‘What’s happened to her?’ Bethany drew a thin arm across her chest. ‘She can’t save me if she’s not here. What have they done to her?’
‘I don’t know, Bethany,’ Rose replied desperately. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘What have they done?’
A shaft of light fell across the passageway; the door opposite Rose was opening.
‘For heaven’s sake, Bethany.’ An old woman appeared, her white hair ruffled and her face misshapen with disapproval. ‘You’re screaming like a banshee.’
‘Matron?’ Bethany asked softly, frowning through the dim light. ‘Is that you? I was looking for my Jane.’
‘Thank God you’re here, Matron,’ Rose shuddered with relief.
‘Absolutely appalling.’ The woman turned to Rose accusingly. ‘This girl needs care.’
‘Matron!’ Bethany’s voice lifted again. ‘What have they done with Jane?’
‘Calm down, child.’ The matron pulled at her grey towelling dressing grown, marked with the school’s emblem. ‘You even look like a banshee, too, Bethany. You’re letting yourself down, you know. Now come here.’
‘This is Jane’s flat! Not hers!’ Bethany twisted her face to Rose. ‘Make her go away!’
‘Oh dear, Madam.’ The matron turned to Rose with knitted eyebrows. ‘What have you been doing to her?’
‘I haven’t done anything,’ Rose raised her hands. ‘She just turned up outside my flat!’
The old woman circled the girl’s bony arms with her own, drawing her away from the door. ‘I’ll take her downstairs. This is her old house, you know.’
‘I need Jane. She’s the only one who can help me.’ Bethany’s voice was strained as the crumpled letter slid between her hand and the matron’s.
‘Not in front of Madam, Bethany. In you go. I’ll call from the interphone.’
Bethany shuffled through the matron’s door with hunched shoulders. The woman swung back to Rose.
‘Now, Madam, I’ll give the deputy a ring and she’ll come along shortly. She never sleeps, that one. Why are you up so late?’
Rose’s voice shook still. ‘I’ve been working in my classroom, I came back a few minutes ago.’
‘Thank goodness you’d locked your door, or heaven knows where we’d be. You ought to watch yourself, Madam. Now, off you go to bed.’
There was a final click of the matron’s door. But in the darkness Rose still saw Bethany’s thin figure spread across her threshold, blocking the way to that haven on the other side, Rose’s own pocket of identity within the walls of Hope. But this flat, of course, was Jane’s old flat. Jane who had disappeared; whom nobody wanted to talk about – except Bethany. Bethany who now apparently needed to be saved. Rose gave another shudder. The girl was right: she’d taken the woman’s job, her role, her flat. Her curse.
7.
The week of half-term flashed by in moments, as if in mockery. Rose soon found herself on the train trundling up to Edinburgh again, her head full of black thoughts in place of those boastful prospectus pictures several weeks before.
In London, Rose had met with a trio of teacher friends who’d moved forward without her, sharing opinions about new films they’d seen, articles they’d read, and new classes they were enjoying. Rose’s father had always told her that schools were transient – children adapt, teachers come and go. She hadn’t thought that her old friends would move on so quickly and she felt keenly the sting of it.
But Rose had to admit that her mother’s new clinic was a marvel. She hadn’t prepared herself for the enormous relief at seeing it for herself: the modern open plan of the communal seating areas, the clean pastels of the fabric furniture, the long conservatory and curated gardens. Even the little bedroom Rose’s mother had been allocated was neat and welcoming. She was happily very mobile, thanks to a new wheelchair for her weakened legs. Her condition was apparently stable: the nurses had written positive reports full of technical vocabulary Rose didn’t fully understand. Regarding her mother at least, Rose was grateful. She told her mother
nothing of the investigation or the concerns that pursued her, not wanting them to intrude upon their time together. On the penultimate evening Rose and her mother had even managed to fit in an ecstatic game of Cheat – her mother’s favourite – along with an older patient named Gerald.
Rose caught her reflection in the glass of the train window and moved out of the light. During the break she hadn’t been able to shake off the edge of Dulcie’s voice, or Freddie’s mocking stare, or the Seconds’ sneers over homework. Or, worst of all, Bethany’s haunted face. The girls had followed her through every moment: the spray of a new perfume her friend was using, the face of one of the waitresses in a local pub, the turn of a dress in a clothes shop as she wandered past.
And into a London library where Rose had looked up news cuttings about Caldonbrae Hall. After an hour of reading insignificant announcements, she’d given up. The school’s name only whispered across the newspaper pages: an alumna’s husband’s business success; the Headmaster chosen for a keynote address. Each hollow euphemistic phrase indicated some secret privilege. It was then, looking around her in the wide public library, that Rose realised what she was part of. That Caldonbrae was less of a school, and more of an elite institution containing its own churning practices, a forever fortress turning within itself.
She’d also searched for any mention of Jane Farrier across the library articles. Having no success, Rose decided that she’d write to her teacher training supervisor – who naturally kept a keen eye on the academic jobs market – to see if she’d heard of a Jane from Caldonbrae Hall taking up a Classics post in another school.
Rose stared out of the train window at the landscape speeding past her, England’s pale green sliding into Scotland’s rough wilderness. A desperate thought occurred to her: she could stand up, tug down the latch of the window, stretch out her arm to pull open the door, and leap out.
Instead Rose sat back with a sigh, resting her head on the mottled fabric of her seat as the rest of the carriage carried on. She would return, and she would focus. Focus on what she’d chosen for herself, and the steps she could take during the weeks in front of her. After all, it was her that wasn’t fitting in.