Madam

by Phoebe Wynne

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll inform the Headmaster for you.’ Emma’s thick curtain of hair fell across her shoulder. ‘This absolutely can’t go on.’

  ‘Did you send her away? She was very upset.’ Rose checked around her desperately. ‘I went to get help.’

  ‘As I say, Rose, and I know you concur,’ Emma’s voice was sharper than Rose had ever heard it as she moved back through the doorway, ‘this is an absolute disgrace.’

  Rose looked at her empty chair, the leather back pushed and slack with use. Emma switched off the lights and walked away.

  The term drew to its final week and Rose witnessed the school change around her. The building looked as though it had been scrubbed clean, the winter sun’s low beams giving the outer walls and buttresses renewed radiance. Even the sea darkly glistened with approval, the lawns freshly mown and the sports pitches roped off against the cold bite of the wind.

  Inside, the panelled walls of the main corridor were lined with swoops of holly, ivy and festive greenery, and the symmetrical Great Stairs encircled themselves around two identical Christmas trees that reached high up to the oculus above, decorated immaculately with silver-grey ornaments. It was as if the peninsula, bereft as it was of trees and foliage, had found a way of inviting in the wealth of nature for the pre-holiday spectacular.

  Lessons had been cancelled on the last Friday. The bustle was reserved for the Founder’s Hall Christmas dinner preparations, where strings of girls obeyed their designated teacher in tying together bursts of flowers, wrapping treasured gifts on white tablecloths, or arranging the Christmas crackers around each table. Others were decorating a third tree on the far end platform, itself skirted with boxed presents – for whom, no one was sure.

  In time for the carol service the main school was cordoned off too, with only a long, carpeted pathway to the chapel cloister and Founder’s Hall remaining open. It ran from one end of the school to another, the boughs of greenery accompanying the route.

  The governors and the Sixth parents arrived in their long black cars; a small helicopter perched on the lawns without Rose ever hearing it approach.

  When it was time, Rose stood in the quad of the chapel cloister and looked up. She felt so small in this gap between the jagged walls, her feet stiff against the humped and broken paving stones. It was almost dark, but the sky was a mottled white. The fresh air caressed her cheeks in this pocket of open space.

  Most of the school had already gathered in the chapel as the last girls streamed along the cloister. Rose hurried behind them.

  The chapel was extraordinary to behold: a massive, forbidding church, forged into the rock and the side of the school building like a beautiful barnacle. It was cream-coloured, tall and narrow, with fan vaulting meeting the line of pillars, as if the heavens had sucked them upwards. Above the altar bloomed an enormous rose window, speckled with blue stained glass. At the other end, a soft fugue played out from the unseen organ.

  The governors and parents had filled the back rows. The Juniors in their grey blazers were filtering up into the long galleries on the west side of the chapel, the Intermediates joining them too; all had thick silver sashes around their waists and neat bows at their necks. The front rows were evidently reserved for the Sixth, wearing identical arrangements of high-necked dresses in virginal white, silver or pale grey. Two choral groups of girls sat near the altar, ready for their contribution.

  There were no Asian girls in the chapel at all, an observation Rose tried to ignore as she found an empty seat near the back, coughing on the incensed air. She set her face forward, not daring to check for that shaven head amongst the spread of white at the front.

  The carol service passed in phases: readings led by the Headmaster, Vivien and then Clarissa; carols sung by rows of panicked faces, with one soloist looking more surprised than any of the others when she took up the tune.

  Rose ignored her programme and only mouthed the words to the hymns, stiff in her formal academic gown. But when the hollow of the chapel’s occupants recited the Lord’s Prayer together, Rose spoke the words, too.

  There was a blanket of merriment over Founder’s Hall that Rose hadn’t anticipated. The girls had done their jobs well; each table seemed to breathe with celebration for the feast.

  A society dinner, Rose’s mother would have called it. The invasion of parents, governors and friends meant that the hall felt almost unrecognisable to Rose; the wealth and influence of these guests was as potent as their perfumes, as startling as the set jaws of the fathers, the dripping furs of the mothers.

  Rose heard three mothers badger a Sixth housemistress. ‘Couldn’t we have another one of those opera trips? Hope has the best boxes, especially at Glyndebourne – let’s all go during the season.’

  ‘I think it’s Ascot this year,’ the housemistress answered the eager mothers. ‘It’s being arranged.’

  ‘Ladies’ Day?’

  The housemistress nodded.

  ‘Ooh.’ One of the mothers placed an arm on another’s as she exclaimed, ‘Let’s go to Philip Treacy together for our hats.’

  Rose was soon introduced to a lord and lady, a member of the Foreign Office, a member of Parliament and a man who was ‘top at Sotheby’s’ and laughingly asked Rose if she were any relation to their ‘friends’ at Christie’s. Rose tripped over their accents, wide and tight as if they carried marbles in their mouths. She wondered whether the haste of the introductions had been deliberate, but intimidation stopped her responses anyway. Each of the guests looked at her with knowing curiosity, an elbow-jerk and a brief mention of her being ‘new’, before they moved on to the next topic of prosperous conversation. Just as one mother was joking about selling the van Dyck to pay the school fees, nodding in her husband’s direction, Rose turned away, and the woman’s swaying wine glass spilled over. Rose found her table gratefully, realising that she’d rather deal with the girls’ brashness in the classroom than this hall full of terrifying adults.

  She’d been seated between Emma and Deirdre from Geography, with a smattering of guests around them. The dishes were brought out by mute ladies that Rose recognised from the canteen. The meal was a gourmet version of a traditional Christmas dinner, colourful vegetables draped over thick slices of goose meat and lashings of gravy. After the puddings were served, an older man with very tanned hands leaned forward to speak to Rose from the other side of her table.

  ‘Fabulous architecture at Hope, don’t you think? Every corner another treasure! Aren’t you new?’

  ‘Yes, I am. Yes, it’s very striking,’ Rose said between mouthfuls, the only female at the table not to leave her pudding untouched.

  ‘It’s the baronial style.’ The man’s vowels were hard, Rose couldn’t make out his accent. ‘Renovated by Lord Hope. He was very stylish.’

  ‘Apparently so.’ Rose swallowed, looking at the man’s wrinkled face. ‘You seem to know a great deal.’

  ‘No, no.’ He pushed his plate aside. ‘You’d have to ask John, he’s the expert.’

  Rose looked at him again. ‘Forgive me, where are you from? Your accent—’

  ‘South African.’

  ‘Oh. Who belongs to you, then? I might teach your daughter.’ Or granddaughter, Rose thought, but best to be polite.

  ‘No.’ The man let out a brief smile. ‘I’m here as a friend of the school. I’m in banking, and I run several charities—’ He broke off, interrupted by his neighbour. Rose sat back, relieved. She turned her face to the rest of the hall.

  The Headmaster didn’t seem to be eating at all. He was amongst several fathers, grouped in intense conversation. Meanwhile, Vivien had abandoned her seat and was now leaning in to a group of mothers at the table behind Rose. One mother with blonde brushed curls smiled up at Vivien as she said, ‘Look, I know the waiting list is as long as my arm, but darling, my relations in Singapore would just love to have a look at the prospectus
if they could?’

  Rose turned her head to hear Vivien’s measured response. ‘We’ll see. You won’t be able to tell them about the application process – remember they shall have to be approached. But, of course, a family connection will help their case.’

  On the other side of the hall, Rose saw Frances holding court over her table, her face flushed and smiling, her cheekbones so high that her blue eyes disappeared. The front of her dress was rumpled; she was still wearing her tights, but her shoes were kicked to the side. One mother watched Frances talk, her mouth agape, while a French teacher frowned with disapproval.

  ‘Rose, you look quite beautiful tonight.’

  ‘Oh.’ Rose blushed to find Anthony hovering over her, smartly dressed in a dinner jacket. He took Deirdre’s empty seat by her side. ‘It’s because I’m wearing a lot of make-up.’

  ‘No,’ Anthony scoffed, before turning serious. ‘It’s you.’

  Rose looked at Anthony, his hazel eyes as warm and merry as the rest of the hall. ‘Not networking then?’ she teased.

  ‘No, no.’

  He didn’t offer anything else. Rose suddenly felt self-conscious, and shrugged off her academic gown. ‘I don’t need to wear this anymore, do I?’

  ‘No, no need.’ He helped her pull off the garment, draping it carefully over her seat, leaving his arm there too.

  ‘Where’s yours?’

  ‘Back in my office.’

  Rose took up her napkin with a smile. ‘You rebel.’

  ‘Hardly.’ Anthony passed a hand through his sandy hair. Rose watched a father at the next table empty a bottle of wine across several glasses before opening another.

  ‘Anthony, my boy.’ An older man had separated from a nearby laughing group and was leaning over. ‘Are you coming to the Gun Room?’ His dark features were raised in enquiry; he didn’t look at Rose.

  ‘Oh, soon, soon. Duty first.’

  Rose waited for the man to move away. ‘What’s the Gun Room?’

  ‘It’s …’ A note of rough anxiety crossed Anthony’s face, ‘William Hope’s old quarters. Silly really … a billiard room, smoking room.’

  ‘I see.’ Rose nodded jovially. ‘And who was that just now, the Marquis of Spain?’

  ‘Funny.’ Anthony looked at Rose with a weary smile. ‘But don’t.’

  Rose was surprised. ‘All right.’

  Anthony seemed to relax, his arm still behind her chair. Rose held her hands together, wondering what to say to him.

  An abrupt voice came in behind them.

  ‘Madam, Sir, please go back to your boarding houses.’ Rose turned to see one of the assistant housemistresses, dishevelled-looking in a loose jacket, oddly incongruous with the rest of the scene. ‘There’s an issue with one of the girls and we need all hands on deck.’

  ‘What?’ Anthony turned his head with concern. ‘Why was there no alarm?’

  ‘The porters have called it a night.’ The assistant was already moving to the next table, appealing to staff, away from the ears of the guests. ‘Please report back to your house. All houses, from Honour through to Clemency.’

  Anthony bent towards Rose. ‘We should go. Which house are you?’

  ‘Prudence. What do you think has happened?’

  ‘I’m Chastity.’ He stood up. ‘Come on.’

  Rose obeyed, taking her gown in her arms as she paced down the corridor. Anthony moved through a short door with a quick but reluctant goodbye, his Sixth boarding house in the same wing as Founder’s Hall. Rose’s walk was longer, the cool air of the corridor welcome as she followed the short throng of staff towards the Junior and Intermediate houses. Their wine-sodden conversations guessed at the issue that summoned them, but none of their suggestions seemed likely to Rose.

  Rose heard the truth when she got to the Junior day room of her boarding house.

  ‘A girl has run away.’

  ‘Where from?’

  ‘Not this house,’ the housemistress huffed as she left Rose with the girls.

  ‘Then we have to wait?’

  ‘Of course, Madam.’ A First smiled at Rose, showing all her teeth.

  An excited hum crept through the house, the girls awake late and talking loudly, the lights over-bright for that time of the night. Rose felt her nerves prickling with frustration. How far could a girl go, anyhow? The peninsula was gated, surrounded by groundsmen, isolated and cut off from the world.

  The three dozen Juniors were huddled across the sofas or piled long across the floor, knees up with layers of pyjamas and soft slippers. A few of them were playing cards, smashing their hands over piles at sudden intervals. One or two others were clutching stuffed bears, their hair long and rippling with the crimps of undone plaits.

  ‘Has this happened before?’ Rose asked one of the Thirds.

  ‘Only once, Madam, years ago, when my auntie was here apparently.’

  Rose thought longingly of her own bedroom, her gown now stiff in her arms, her limbs heavy. She stood up with a sigh.

  ‘Wait here, ladies, I’ll be right back.’

  Rose left the room to check the Intermediate day room. She opened the door a crack to see a short line of Fifths tugging at each other’s bodices, their dresses undone as fingers pulled at strings to further loosen them. The rest of that group were bunched together across the sofas, just like Rose’s Juniors.

  ‘Please can we go upstairs and get undressed, Madam?’ said a Fourth to another woman in the room.

  ‘No,’ answered a bored voice – the assistant housemistress. ‘We stay together for now. And you’re lucky Matron’s not in here. She’s got a bee in her bonnet about the way you all looked during the service tonight. Something about scruffy shins and socks not being pulled up, petticoats showing. Apparently the deputy head was furious.’

  ‘Madam, if a girl’s run off then Madam Ms Johns has got more important things to worry about!’

  Rose closed the door. The peninsula, this late, in the dark – images dashed across her anxious thoughts. The beach, the rumpled rocks there. The churn of the dark water on every side.

  She returned to her designated room; the large windows reflected black as soon as she opened the door. Tugging the curtains closed, Rose saw the matron’s reflection bustle in and greet the younger girls; they responded in a singsong voice before resuming their conversations.

  Rose turned to her; the woman looked worried.

  ‘Matron, who is it that’s missing, do you know?’

  A girl spoke up between them: ‘It’s not someone from this house, is it, Matron? One of the Sixth?’

  Rose saw her own face mirrored in the matron’s eyes and realised that she already knew the answer.

  At breakfast the next morning, Rose heard the news. The truth had been confirmed earlier than that, thanks to the helicopter pulling away during the early hours of the morning, after hovering so long over the beach and its forbidding rocks.

  They had found Bethany’s body around the next bay, slapping against the cliffs with the ebb of the tide. Her limbs were pale and swollen, her shorn head cracked and bruised by the rocks. One of the local paramedics had to climb down to arrange pulling her up. The beam of the helicopter had helped, as well as its ladder, even though it hadn’t been created for that purpose.

  And now the gossip of it rippled through the dining hall; the breakfast pastries seemed impossibly shining, the jam too sweet, the knives sharper than usual. The Juniors, particularly, tossed the truth around like a delicious morsel of food. Rose couldn’t help but feel horrified by their heartlessness as she watched them from the staff tables.

  Her colleagues weren’t much better with their pointed questions: ‘Where is she now, has anybody … identified her?’

  ‘Not formally, but it could only—’

  Rose felt her own voice rise. ‘Are they sure it’s her?’


  ‘They’ve brought her back to the school. She was handed over this morning.’

  Seeing Frances in the doorway of the canteen, Rose rushed to her friend, the weight of her conscience propelling her forward. Frances’s face was pale, her hair unruly, her upper lip somehow swollen; Rose caught a whiff of stale wine on her breath.

  ‘Frances,’ she said in a whisper, ‘this is terrible news.’

  Frances’s voice was hoarse and somehow distant. ‘Rose.’

  ‘I can’t help feeling that I could have done something. Bethany was—’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did she get to the beach?’

  ‘They don’t know.’ Frances shook her head. ‘The groundsman, the porters, even the games staff, they should have seen her.’

  Rose’s face crumpled. ‘Is her father here?’

  ‘Her father has been contacted. He will be the one to formally identify her.’ Frances was looking across the girls with a terrible resentment in her eyes. ‘He was … disappointed.’

  Rose was momentarily stunned. ‘Disappointed?’

  ‘They don’t know,’ Frances said quietly, ‘how she got out of the san.’

  ‘But she was in my office last week, Friday afternoon. She got out then. I went to get help …’ Rose paused desperately. ‘But then, Emma had dismissed her. I don’t think I did the right thing there.’

  Frances’s blue eyes honed in on Rose. ‘Why didn’t you say anything before?’

  ‘Emma said she was going to report it to the Headmaster.’ Rose hesitated. ‘I’m sure he knew.’

  ‘That wasn’t for Emma to – why didn’t you raise the alarm?’ Frances’s face seemed to contort with emotion. ‘Why didn’t you do anything, Rose?’

  ‘I thought—’

  Frances pushed past her, using the edge of her tray roughly.

  Rose followed Frances with her eyes, trying to piece fragments of their conversation back together, to understand what had just happened and why Frances was so angry. Her gaze fell on Anthony near the door, his coat rumpled and damp-looking, his hair scruffy, his face rent with pity. Rose realised he must have been one of the ones helping outside.