by Phoebe Wynne
Her father had arrived on the last Saturday of term to have the body driven home, he explained. Rose imagined the long black cars, one longer than the rest. The family had held a private funeral on their estate in the south of England, Mr deVere fully understood the circumstances surrounding his daughter’s death – her fragile emotional state – and how the school had done their utmost to serve her needs. Rose turned her face away at that.
The Headmaster continued by acknowledging the grief of some of the girls, and how the staff must band together and maintain a stiff upper lip. The housemistresses and matrons were taking the girls directly in hand, the restrictions and freedoms had been tightened up for the first half of term, but he wanted to maintain some normality around Hope. Cradling her teacup, Rose checked the faces around her, etched with pity. Emma was leaning her chin in her hand, nodding along with the Headmaster’s words.
By the time Rose reached the bottom of her teacup the speech was drawing to a close. There was a brief gap, and Rose surprised herself by raising her hand. The Headmaster’s brow seemed to stiffen.
‘Rose?’
Rose lowered her hand gingerly. ‘Will there be a short service for Bethany, a memorial perhaps? For the girls and those that knew her to pay their respects?’
The Headmaster’s brown eyes seemed to sear through Rose, though his expression remained solemn. ‘A few members of the Sixth arranged that very thing, and it took place last Wednesday.’
‘Really?’
His expression didn’t change. ‘Yes.’
‘But it wasn’t advertised,’ Rose pushed, ignoring Emma’s mortified face. There was an uncomfortable shift amongst the staff seated around her.
‘As I say, my dear, we are trying to manage this very difficult situation.’
Rose opened her mouth again but the Headmaster had already turned to Vivien, who finished the meeting by warmly encouraging the staff to approach her with any questions. Rose looked away; whatever courage had beaten through her now faltered.
As the other members of staff began to rise out of their seats, Frances sandwiched herself between Emma and Rose and stated, ‘I must apologise for my shortness at the end of last term, Rose.’
Rose didn’t look at her friend, trying to understand the formality of her apology. ‘It’s fine. Thanks for saying that. I was so upset to leave this place at the end of term.’ She glanced up; Frances seemed surprised by her honesty. ‘I felt devastated for the poor girl. And this,’ Rose nodded at the room, ‘doesn’t seem enough.’
‘This is enough,’ Frances insisted, shifting to face Rose properly. ‘We can’t do any more than this.’
Emma intervened sharply. ‘Yes, Rose. Drop it, won’t you? It seems a bit perverse, your questioning it.’
Rose felt the heat rise in her cheeks. ‘I don’t seem to be able to drop it.’
‘But you must.’ Emma’s hair swung forward. ‘The girls have associated you with Bethany and that’s terrible for your reputation.’
‘I know they have.’ She turned to face Emma. ‘But why aren’t we talking about it? Was it an accident, or did we … drive her to it?’
‘We absolutely did not.’
‘But how do you know?’ Emma and Frances shared a look as Rose bowed her head. ‘And shouldn’t someone tell Jane?’
It was the first time Rose had said the name aloud and she felt a strange rush of adrenaline as she did.
Emma’s face hardened; she put out her arm as if to block Rose’s armchair. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Rose shot back. ‘That’s two student deaths in two years on school grounds. Where is the accountability? And where is Jane? This place is all about traditions, honour, rules … which means what? Turning a blind eye when things go wrong?’
Emma leaned forward. ‘Rose, please watch what you’re saying in here.’
‘Apparently you wanted to hire someone else.’ Rose’s chest seemed to thud. ‘I was the second choice. Is that true?’
Frances’s face was open with dismay.
‘No.’ Emma shook her head. ‘No, it’s not like that.’
‘And already I’m one term in, a girl has died, and the rest of the students think badly of me.’ Rose was quieter now, talking half to herself. ‘I think I’ve made a terrible mistake. I think this place might drive me mad.’
‘Look ahead.’ Emma’s voice was strong as she gripped Rose’s chair. ‘Concentrate on what’s to come.’
‘Emma’s right, Rose,’ Frances added forcefully. ‘There are so many great things ahead. You’ve got so much to give.’
‘Yes. And please,’ Emma finished, ‘drop it about Bethany.’
Rose looked at her two colleagues as the room moved behind them. Teachers pouring out more tea and coffee, pointing at the noticeboard, laughing at a story from the holiday. She gave Frances and Emma a resolute nod.
But Rose knew she’d now hit upon a purpose: to write to Jane and tell her what had happened. She’d try every hospital in Inverness if she had to. A second letter, this time full of truth. The woman had a right to know, even if it would bring only grief – and it would need to be Rose that told her. She’d somehow bound herself up in this bizarre ensemble of fate, the three of them: one dead, one absent and one very much alive.
11.
Rose’s Fourths were unexpectedly thrilled to have a flock of new exercise books on the second lesson back, with everyone’s best pages kept from their previous books. Nessa gawped at her own pages, raising her freckled face to say, ‘Madam, you really care, don’t you?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Rose answered simply.
But their new delight didn’t last long. They soon returned to that heady badgering of Rose, most of it coming from a renewed Nessa, rather than Freddie.
‘Madam, apparently Sappho wrote love poems for women and she was a woman?’
‘She did,’ Rose answered, writing on the blackboard.
‘So, Madam, we were wondering, are you more like Sappho or are you more like …’ Nessa looked around the room for inspiration.
‘Aphrodite?’ Freddie tried, not looking at Rose.
‘Normal,’ Nessa said at the same time.
Rose tried to process what they were saying, her piece of chalk hesitating mid-word. She lowered her arm with a shaking laugh.
‘I think I’m more like Aphrodite. Not that it’s any of your business,’ Rose answered, grateful to the girls for making her smile. ‘And, Nessa, there isn’t really such a thing as “normal”.’
‘Oh, of course, Madam.’ Nessa smirked at Freddie. ‘I forget, you’re a radical.’
‘A townie, rather,’ Josie called out from the back. ‘Definitely not a gownie.’
‘Didn’t one woman in mythology fancy a bull, Madam?’ Daisy suggested unhelpfully from her side of the classroom.
‘Er … yes, Daisy,’ Rose smiled. ‘But that’s a story for another day.’
‘I enjoy Dido and Aeneas, Madam,’ said Freddie, stretching out her arms and almost hitting Nessa in the face. ‘And all the stuff about Carthage and the African tribes.’
‘Me too,’ nodded Daisy, along with a few other girls near her.
‘And me,’ Nessa added as she admired her new exercise book again, ‘even if it is all in Latin.’
Rose halted at her small triumph, glancing at the acquiescent faces around the room.
Daisy continued: ‘The Africa stuff is quite similar to colonies in Geography.’
‘Oh no, Daisy,’ Freddie gritted her teeth and turned back to face her, ‘Geography is such a bore.’
‘Yes, Tweedle Dee teaches us, Madam,’ Josie said in her deep voice. ‘She’s a Sappho. Madam Miss Whitaker, with the double chins.’
Rose thought of Deirdre, whom they meant. ‘Don’t be unkind.’
‘Oh, her lessons are all right,’ N
essa nodded. ‘She’s an old girl, Madam. She’s just set in her ways.’
‘What?’ Rose bristled. ‘Miss Whitaker? She went here, to Caldonbrae?’
‘Yes, Madam,’ answered Nessa, surprised at Rose’s shock. ‘I don’t think she’s ever left.’
‘Tweedle Dee!’ Daisy laughed. ‘Because once she took us for games, and—’
‘That’s not why, Daisy,’ Josie interrupted loudly. ‘It’s because of her and that matron, Tweedle Dum.’
But Rose was still working through this new information. ‘Are there other old girls, here, too?’
‘Yes, of course, Madam,’ Nessa nodded. ‘Quite a few.’
‘But Deirdre must have left,’ Rose frowned, ‘to study Geography at university … and then perhaps get some teaching experience …’ Nessa shrugged with disinterest. Neither Emma nor Frances had ever told Rose about any old girls – it seemed so unusual to leave a place like this only to return.
‘Well, anyway,’ Rose sighed, seeing her waiting class, ‘Sapphos or Aphrodites … I’d much rather you ask my preference for Latin, Greek or Ancient History.’
‘No,’ intoned Josie, ‘we don’t care about that. We just wondered, Madam, which one it was – Madam in German or Sir in History?’
Not more gossip, Rose thought as she turned to the board. It was true that along the main corridor Rose was noticing some arched eyebrows in her direction – from the Juniors and Intermediates, mostly, their white sleeves reaching to guard their whispering mouths.
‘It’s neither, Josie,’ Rose finally answered.
‘But everybody needs somebody to care about, Madam,’ Nessa said innocently, ‘Every woman needs a counterpart.’
‘Do they?’ Rose turned back with a half-laugh on her face.
‘Yes, or they end up like the women in your stories.’ Freddie swept out her long arm, taking in Rose’s mosaic of cards and the tatty posters on the walls. ‘Dido, Io, Agrippina. That woman that killed herself, Lucretia.’
‘Yes,’ Nessa piped up again, ‘there’s a lot of death and loneliness in these stories, isn’t there, Madam? People betrayed or left behind.’ Her little face was thoughtful. ‘I wonder if Bethany was trying to be like Lucretia. Maybe she wanted to make some difference for the rest of us by her death. Walking into the sea with her dress full of stones. What do you think, Madam?’
The entire class stiffened at the mention of Bethany’s name.
‘Don’t talk to Madam about it,’ Josie’s sharp voice came from the back. ‘We’re not to discuss anything. She doesn’t know anything.’
Rose stared across the girls’ faces as a flat silence spread across the room.
‘Does it upset you to talk about her, Madam?’ Freddie was looking at Rose carefully.
‘No,’ said Rose firmly, painfully aware of the many rows of eyes waiting for her answer. She knew what she wanted to say, to shout out. But she remembered the Headmaster’s solemn face in the common room, and managed, ‘I had nothing to do with Bethany.’
‘She was a bad apple, Madam, not like the rest of us,’ Josie continued, tipping her chair back. ‘I want to be a success story. And she was not.’
‘I think it’s really sad,’ added Nessa quietly. ‘She’s just like one of these poor women.’
‘Yes, maybe she is,’ Rose nodded, without looking at any of them. She turned back to the board. ‘Now, let’s get on. Clean page in your new books, please.’
That weekend Rose found herself pulled down the drive again. The walk was barer than ever as any little patches of yellow and pink flowers had blown away with the winter, but the gorse bushes still shook with the wind. The school building was dark grey against the pearly January light; its windows like a thousand eyes staring out at her accusingly.
Rose refused to be trapped inside like the girls were. Out here was Poseidon’s dominion, Zeus’s air – even if she was alone.
She’d stopped by Anthony’s office on Friday to see if he wanted to go for a walk together over the weekend. It was a brave move in the face of the girls’ gossip, hidden under a simple gesture. Anthony’s colleague in History, Ashley, thankfully wasn’t there, but a girl was in his place, sitting on Anthony’s desk and looking down at him in his chair. The two looked surprisingly intimate, and when the girl turned around Rose saw it was Clarissa.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry for interrupting,’ Rose said, flustered, before adding, ‘Sir.’
‘Not at all.’ Anthony’s brow was deep with concern; he dropped Clarissa’s hand as he stood up. Clarissa glowered at Rose as she muttered, ‘Thank you, Sir.’ Collecting her textbook, she fitted some papers in between the pages, and meandered out of the room.
Anthony gave an awkward shrug. ‘Clarissa. I’m her tutor, you see. She … it’s difficult. She tends to have crushes, and this term it’s on me.’
‘I’m sure it’s very common here.’ Rose was annoyed to find that she minded. ‘I’m always anxious about that sort of thing. They really drummed it into us during training – do not touch the children.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘But it must be difficult for a man in a girls’ school …’ Rose wished she would stop talking; her cheeks were starting to burn. She knew that the girls adored Anthony – how her Fifths gushed about him, finding any excuse to bring him up in conversation; how many girls’ eyes dragged towards his loping walk down the corridors. How her own eyes followed theirs, too.
‘Well, Rose, how can I help you?’ He reached forward and gave her fingers a squeeze, his hazel eyes warm. She focused on her hand instead, seemingly disembodied by his, which had clasped Clarissa’s just a moment before.
‘Nothing, it’s not important.’ Rose said, shaking her head. ‘Have a good afternoon.’
At the far end of the drive Rose stopped at the gates. Bolted closed, as usual. The heavy wrought iron froze to the touch as she pulled her fingers out from her sleeve.
‘Madam?’ The groundsman called out, in a voice less frantic than last time.
‘Hello.’
‘You all right?’ He stayed near his doorway, his questioning eyes peering at her between his beanie and his beard. It was a different man, Rose realised.
‘No, I just … fancied a walk. All the cabs were busy, and the porters wouldn’t take me.’
The groundsman didn’t answer. Rose turned back to look at the monster of the school building as he approached her.
‘Admiring the view?’
‘No,’ Rose answered bluntly, one hand still grasping hold of the gate.
‘I can’t abide it. Your lot’ve desecrated this place.’ The groundsman cleared his throat. ‘The foundations are significant, but that’s all built over now.’
‘Significant?’
‘To Scottish history. The medieval fortress, far before your William Hope. It was a bonny hiding place during the Jacobite risings. Then it were taken and granted to some earl. Now it’s claimed for your English colony.’ He rubbed his eye wearily. ‘Full of those little heiresses and their godawful beast of a Headmaster.’
Rose wanted to laugh in comradeship. ‘What makes you dislike him so much?’
‘Bloody English, all your upper class sneering at us. Those awful girls.’
‘I don’t sneer at you.’ Rose’s voice became serious. ‘And the girls aren’t so bad, especially the younger ones.’
The groundsman took a step back. ‘What’re you doing here, anyway? Aye, you must be the one that got Rick into trouble.’
Rose replied urgently, ‘I haven’t got anyone into trouble.’
‘Aye, he said it were a young teacher. He shouldn’ta told you about that girl last year …’
‘What? No.’
‘Walking all the way out here …’ The groundsman’s voice lifted. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
Rose said it before she could prevent hers
elf: ‘I wanted to see where Bethany … died.’
‘What? Are you some kind of sicko?’
‘No.’ Rose’s heart seemed to beat in her mouth. ‘But why didn’t anyone see her that night? Or spot her on the beach?’
‘We can’t watch every girl that hopscotches around the place!’
‘Yes, but this was late at night.’
‘During an event,’ he nodded fiercely, ‘when we were all called in to be near the building.’
The cold air stung at Rose’s face. ‘Oh, I didn’t—’
‘Who do you think you are, missy, asking questions like that?’ The groundsman turned back to his lodge. ‘Go back where you belong.’
Rose shuddered as he slammed the door of the crumbling lodge, seeing again the school’s coat of arms emblazoned above the arch of the door.
The wind drove her on her way back up to the school. She imagined the girls’ faces pressed up against the windows, held inside and watching. Then Bethany’s thin pale face, her blunt head water-sodden and dirty against those scarred rocks. But this time, Rose imagined Bethany’s eyes closed, at peace, and free.
Rose returned to a small white envelope with her name scrawled across it, propped up at her door. Tearing open the letter, she moved into her sitting room. The page was typed, some of the letters slammed over and corrected; its paper was yellowed and misshapen, as if it was once wet but then dried.
Dear Madam,
You’d better be careful. Everyone knows about you, even Hope’s governors. So you’d better stop making such a fuss and do your job properly. You don’t want to be like the other Latin Madam. You don’t want to end up any worse than that either. Remember, we have your mother. Let us take care of her, and let your other Madam take care of you. Buckle down and get on with it, or there will be consequences.
Yours,
One of Us
Rose extended the letter the length of her arm, squinting at it. Then she let it flutter slowly to the floor. She moved to the sofa, holding her knees against her, trying to calm her racing heart.