by Phoebe Wynne
‘Fine. Too short. Yours?’
‘Boring. I didn’t leave this place, actually. Too much to do.’
‘My God, really? For what?’
‘Well, the entire Languages faculty.’ Frances’s high cheekbones were tight as she pulled a defensive face. ‘Open Day next Friday, the Christmas dinner …’
‘The Christmas dinner?’
‘And the carol service and all the celebrations … you know how it is.’
‘I really don’t. It’s barely November. And how can there be any carol service if there’s no chaplain?’ Rose added sarcastically, ‘I thought the Headmaster did away with all of that.’
‘He thinks it’s nonsense. But Christmas is a milestone of the year. And anyway, we all still know the hymns from before his time.’ Frances shook her head like a prize horse. ‘Right, I’ll get a glass of white to match yours then.’
‘I hadn’t realised we had regular access to booze. Why didn’t you tell me before? I need it badly with this investigation still going on.’
‘You know that I have my own worthy stock in my flat,’ Frances laughed dryly. ‘And anyway, they can’t hang on for much longer – it’s clear where the blame lies now.’
‘Yes, but even then, it’s on my record – the police statement,’ Rose said uneasily. ‘The parents’ newsletter, the governors, all of that.’
‘Please put it out of your mind. It’s being sorted.’
Frances went off to get a glass of wine, and when she returned Rose had another question ready for her friend. ‘Why did you become a teacher, Frances?’
‘Oh.’ Frances hesitated before sitting down. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Sometimes I wonder at my own choice.’ Rose raised a small sigh. ‘It can feel like torture.’
‘I suppose I sort of … fell into it. Academically excellent, or something. And you’re supposed to do what you’re good at. Languages are like Maths, and my brain is fused in the same way.’
‘Have you only ever taught in private schools?’
Frances straightened her blonde fringe with her fingers. ‘Yes. But what about you – how did you become a teacher?’
Rose shifted her gaze beyond Frances’s head as she spoke. ‘My father was a teacher. He was really good at it.’
‘Oh yes, wasn’t he a prominent academic? A professor, with published works and things?’
‘Yes.’ Rose nodded again. ‘I really admired him. So after he died, academia seemed an obvious path for me to take – and, hopefully, like you, I appear to be half decent.’
‘Cheers to that.’
‘Thanks. We got all these letters when he died.’ Rose’s eyes seemed to slide out of focus as she remembered. ‘All these people he’d affected. Lives he’d changed, his old students. It was incredible, I can’t tell you.’ Her breath caught in her throat. ‘And then sometimes, when I get stern in the classroom, I can hear his voice in mine.’
Frances didn’t say anything.
‘Sorry,’ Rose said. She blinked and scratched the armrest with her fingernail. ‘I’ve never said that out loud before.’
‘No, not at all.’ Frances’s eyes were soft. ‘Do you mind my asking, how did he die? He must’ve been young.’
Rose lowered her voice. ‘My parents weren’t young parents.’
‘Oh.’ Frances waited, then she said, ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’
Rose remembered her wine glass and spoke into it before taking a sip. ‘Not as sorry as I am for yours.’
‘My dad was great too, a wonderful patriarch. I adored him, but my mother preferred that I –’ Frances broke off.
‘That you?’ Rose prompted.
But after a hard swallow, Frances said, ‘I’d rather not talk about it. What a serious conversation! Never mind, I’m glad to know that we both suffer from father issues. And in a place like this, you’re not in any danger of meeting any potential boyfriends. So cheers to that, too!’ As Frances laughingly leaned over to clink Rose’s wine glass, Rose caught sight of the worn and ripped lining of Frances’s jacket.
A withered voice interrupted them: ‘Ladies.’ They both looked up to see John’s features twisted into a smile. He had the newspaper’s crossword folded under his arm, a pen in his wrinkled hand. ‘Shall we? I hear you’re very clever, Rose. And I know Frances is.’
Rose opened her mouth to decline, but Frances had already forced a pained smile onto her face. John nodded confidently at them both as he stepped towards the armchair beside Frances.
‘Excuse me, dear,’ the old man said as Rose shifted her legs to the floor to let him pass. ‘You wouldn’t fetch me a glass of whatever you’re having, would you?’
No, Rose thought, I’d rather not. But she knew that for her own sake, and Frances’s, she had little choice. As she poured the blood-red liquid into a glass at the bar, she wondered how an establishment that promised to educate ‘girls of the world’ could somehow make its women feel so small.
LUCRETIA
quaerentique viro ‘satin salve?’ ‘minime,’ inquit; ‘quid enim salvi est mulieri amissa pudicitia? vestigia viri alieni, Collatine, in lecto sunt tuo; ceterum corpus est tantum violatum, animus insons; mors testis erit.
To her husband’s question, ‘Is all well?’ she replied, ‘Not at all; for what can be well with a woman when she has lost her honour? The mark of a strange man, Collatinus, is in your bed. But only my body has been violated; my heart is innocent, as death shall be my witness.
(Livy’s History of Rome I.58.7, written c.29–7BC)
History has remembered Lucretia as a model of propriety, but that obscures the tragedy and significance of her story. One night, her husband’s comrades got drunk at their military camp and declared a ‘virtue’ contest between their wives. While the other women were soon discovered to be mid-drink or mid-feast, Lucretia was spinning alone by candlelight, having dismissed her servant girls to finish the work herself.
The sudden burst of men into her chamber gave her a shock. At the front was her husband, Collatinus, his dewy eyes bright with love for her. The trouble was, many other pairs of eyes were admiring Lucretia, too. She was proclaimed the most virtuous of the wives, and Collatinus the winner amongst men. He grasped his wife in an embrace, not seeing the look of furious lust on the face of Sextus Tarquinius, son of the tyrant king of Rome.
Several evenings later, Sextus came upon Lucretia while she was sleeping, and held a dagger to her throat. He ravaged her repeatedly, claiming that if she screamed, he would kill a slave, strip him naked, then lie him next to her dead body. This threat of dishonour in death was too much for Lucretia to bear, so she suffered her abuse in silence.
The next morning the sleepless Lucretia summoned her father and her husband. Through tears and furious sobs she told them the truth of her rape. The two men were electric with anger, and declared revenge against Sextus to redeem her honour. But Lucretia had the final say. It was too late – she did not wish to be forgiven, nor become a living example of infidelity. Lucretia took out a dagger, and with a sudden movement, stabbed herself in the chest.
Devastated, her husband and father returned to the military camp to tell their comrades the terrible story, far from the ears of the tyrant king’s son. In the months that followed, an army was raised against the city walls of Rome, with Collatinus at the head. They drove out the seventh and last king of Rome, bringing an end to his tyranny, and a beginning to the glorious Roman republic.
Lucretia, then, was responsible for prompting a change in ancient Roman history – because she spoke up, and took control of her destiny. Her self-chastisement and self-sacrifice might seem alarming to us today, but her death inspired those that loved her to make meaning out of her shame.
8.
On Caldonbrae Hall’s Open Day, Rose kept to the edge of the stairs and away from the visitors milling around the corridors. Emma
was handling the parents in such a way that Rose marvelled at her deftness – drawing them into her classroom, softening her voice to ask them where they’d travelled from, how old their daughter was. Anthony, in his easy kindness, had asked Rose if he could be of any use; she reminded him that her classroom wasn’t on the designated route, and she wasn’t expected to speak to any of the visitors. Still, she’d tidied her classroom and repasted her posters and postcards to the wall, just in case.
It was breaktime and Rose was making her way down to the common room. The corridor walls’ white paint had been touched up the day before, the wood panels richly polished; abundant bouquets of flowers had appeared in corners, beside elegantly inscribed signage. In the entrance hall, too, a display cabinet had been erected, stocked with labelled shields and trophies.
Along the first-floor corridor she passed a Nigerian family, guided by a slender Fifth. The elegant mother had a thread of gold knotted through her braids, and her daughter’s hair was bound with a matching gold ribbon that shone along with her nervous smile, while the father stood tall and severe in his pristine suit. Rose couldn’t take her eyes off the little girl, simultaneously glad and surprised to see her there.
Rose turned away, gripping the bannister of the Great Stairs as she made her way down, nudged by shoulders and elbows, forever uneasy and out of place.
But on the library landing the door swept open. Her eyes were drawn through, surprised to see the long study tables and soft armchairs pushed back. Tall boards were spread about the central space instead, blocking out the bookcases; their titles caught her attention: Value. Study. Discipline. A few broad-shouldered bodies blocked a clear view before the door swung closed in front of her.
Rose hesitated as a balding man pushed through the door and held it open for her, his eyebrows raised and smiling. Nodding back at him weakly, she moved into the library as a wave of gruff voices washed over her.
The room was full of men. Three dozen polished gentlemen in a semicircle of expensive cologne, each carrying a sort of thick white brochure. Some with immaculate cuffs and groomed eyebrows, others with the nub of signet rings on the edge of their hands, their cheeks ruddy and worn. They were an array of ages, and all were speaking loudly in their cut-glass accents, patting each other’s arms, with a slap and a guffaw thrown in at various intervals.
Rose spied John nodding sincerely at two of the gentlemen as they stared into a page of the brochure; and then nearer, Frances in a tight black dress, her face pliant and agreeable as she motioned an older man towards one of the tall boards. Encouraged by her friend’s presence, Rose crept foward once the man had moved away.
‘Frances.’
‘Rose.’ Frances turned to her with quick shock. ‘What are you doing in here?’
‘The door was open,’ Rose answered simply, glancing down at the brochure in Frances’s hands. The open page showed a bright image of a girl’s smiling face, with listed words underneath. Rose peered closer – she thought she recognised the girl’s thick fringe and pointed chin; yes, it was one of her Lower Sixth. Rose heard herself ask, ‘What’s happening here? What are these?’
‘Oh.’ Frances snapped the brochure shut and stood up straight, blocking Rose from the crowd of people in the room. ‘It’s a particular prospectus, for the sixth-form.’ Frances spoke quickly: ‘You know how the Sixth is very separate from the Juniors and Intermediates. These gentlemen are prospective fathers. Don’t worry, it’s not something you’re involved in.’
‘But,’ Rose looked inquiringly over Frances’s shoulder as she ushered her towards the door, ‘why is this meeting so secretive?’
‘It isn’t – it’s just very formal. And you’re very new, Rose.’ Frances was slightly breathless. ‘Please don’t speak to anyone.’
Rose narrowed her eyes. ‘Can I have a look at that brochure?’
‘No. Listen.’ Frances’s voice was plaintive. ‘You’re not supposed to be here.’
‘Is it me? Because I’m not good enough or something?’
‘No.’ Frances’s face softened as they reached the door. ‘It’s not like that – you’re just not trained for—’
‘Can’t you just explain?’ Rose urged, her back flat against the door; she gestured at the brochure in Frances’s hand.
‘No. I can’t – please.’ Frances closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Let’s go and have a cup of tea.’
‘I don’t mean to offend you, I just want to understand,’ Rose pleaded. ‘I’m really grateful to you, Frances, for always helping me.’
Frances gave Rose a brief, glad look that reminded her of a Junior who’d finally got a question right. At that moment she understood her friend even less than this private Open Day meeting she had stumbled upon.
John was looking over at them, his withered face creased in unhappy surprise.
‘Come.’ Frances nodded steadily. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea before you get into any more trouble.’ She thrust her brochure on the nearest bookshelf; Rose gave it a long look before they left the library.
In the uncomfortable silence of the lower passageway Rose wondered whether she could broach the subject again, now that they were away from the main stream of visitors. They stepped aside for three passing food trolleys, but one still jabbed Rose’s hip as it pushed by.
‘Ow!’ Rose cried out, holding her side as a catering woman called back, ‘Sorry, running late! The girls need their elevenses.’
‘Really?’ Rose frowned at the exotic-looking food laid out on the second trolley, grimacing at the twinge in her hip. ‘Which girls? Why can’t they go to the dining hall like everyone else?’
Frances’s face was stony. She answered quickly. ‘Some of the girls are kept aside today. In Verity and Temperance.’
‘What? Why? Surely the Headmaster is proud of all of his beloved girls.’ Rose couldn’t hide the sarcasm in her voice. ‘Surely he wants them all on display?’
‘These girls aren’t strictly students.’ Frances’s voice was dull as she continued down the passageway. ‘Not today, anyway.’
‘What? Are you telling me we’ve got some mad girls locked in the attics here at Caldonbrae?’ Rose stuttered, hobbling after her friend. ‘And they’ve got their very own elevenses?’
‘No, Rose.’ Frances pushed open the door of the common room. ‘For heaven’s sake, no.’
‘Please explain, Frances.’
‘There’s no need.’ Frances turned around at the door, speaking under her breath. ‘Be careful what you say in here.’
‘Okay, but,’ Rose insisted, ‘tell me why some girls aren’t included in Open Day?’
‘Because the management do not wish them to be seen,’ Frances said with finality, striding towards the tea service.
Rose almost cried out, ‘Why not? And who is it?’
Frances wheeled around with her face set. ‘Honestly, Rose, I’ve just rescued you, and deserted my post which I’ll probably have to pay for later. Let’s just have a quiet cup of tea, all right?’
Rose was stung. ‘I didn’t ask you to rescue me.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ hissed Frances, pushing away from the tea service. Rose followed her with her eyes as the space between them grew. Frances crossed the swirl of armchairs and threw herself into another beside the three Moirai, the toad-like women of judgement settled near the fireplace. The three women sipped their tea, observing Rose through calculating eyes, seemingly enjoying her discomfort.
Rose turned to the tea service, glaring at the boxed array of teabags, her mind thundering with confusion and hurt.
Rose’s bad mood followed her through the weekend and into the following week, all the way to her unexpected lesson observation that Thursday.
She couldn’t hide her mortification when one of the three Moirai women stepped into the classroom as the designated observer. It was a terrible lesson: the silent Lower Sixt
h Latinists were docile but ungenerous, their perfect lashes fluttering with frowns of mistranslation. Rose unwisely went further than the curriculum by pushing the three girls into a tricky bit of Livy – real Latin, not from the textbooks, and one of her favourite stories in Roman history: Lucretia. The girls didn’t respond as she hoped, certainly not in a way that would impress.
‘Okay, ladies. Before the lesson ends – any thoughts on Lucretia?’
‘It was a bit weird, Madam. I understood the shorter sentences.’
‘I had to look up every other word, Madam.’
‘But did you get a sense of the story?’ Rose asked breathlessly.
‘Well,’ tried the girl nearest the front, her thick fringe hanging over her eyes, ‘did she stab herself at the end, Madam? With a dagger?’ She stared into her page. ‘In front of her husband and her father?’
‘Yes, Lily.’ Rose looked at the girl for a long moment, remembering last week’s sixth-form brochure and her strange, smiling face. ‘And Lucretia’s suicide prompted her father and husband to then drive out the tyranny of the Roman kings.’ Rose glanced at the clock as her observer frowned. ‘Never mind. Well attempted.’ She started collecting the papers from the girls. ‘Thank you, ladies.’
As the Sixths wordlessly left the classroom, Rose scanned the poor translations. She hoped that she’d done enough for the observer to report back positively to Vivien; but as she looked up to thank her, she’d already left. Rose didn’t dare to imagine what she would recount to the two other Moirai.
A few moments later a girl strolled in and, with a wide smile, clipped the door shut behind her.
‘Hi, Madam!’
Rose was slumped in her chair with something like defeat, but still couldn’t mask her surprise at the intrusion.
‘Don’t get up, I’ll only stay for a few moments,’ the Sixth said as she tossed her auburn curls behind her shoulder. ‘I hope you don’t mind?’