Madam

by Phoebe Wynne

  Should she tell Frances? Emma? Should she just go straight to Vivien? Was it harassment? The letter was designed to frighten her. But the comment about her mother. That they ‘have’ her? Rose held herself tighter and wondered which downstairs phone she could use to call her.

  You don’t want to be like the other Latin Madam – was this what Bethany had referred to, that something had happened to Jane? Let your other Madam take care of you – whom were they talking about?

  Rose glared across at her stereo, fumbling through her albums in her mind, choosing one that could take her back to herself, away from this. But just as the cracking silence of the flat and the blow of the wind against the glass couldn’t be unheard, her thoughts could not be drowned out.

  Rose took the letter and folded it very tight, until it was perfectly small and flat. She went to her bookshelf and pulled out The Bell Jar. Sliding the letter into the book, she pushed it back hard onto the shelf. Rose hoped the lyricism of Sylvia Plath’s pages would absorb the letter’s words into their own. One no more deranged and hopeless than the other.

  12.

  But the letter followed Rose into the new week, and in turn, Rose followed the girls, gazing at the buttons down the backs of their dresses, the dashes of long hair dancing behind them. The girls seemed to merge into each other, under that immense glass eye, ever watching. Which of them had written it? Which of them could be so cruel?

  Another surprise waited for her on Wednesday morning breaktime, when two books were returned to her desk, Euripides and Sophocles, from among Bethany’s things. But Rose knew they weren’t hers at all – they were Jane’s copies, come back to haunt her. She stared at the silent pair, as closed and quiet as tombs, and fled her office to Anthony’s along the corridor, hoping her beating heart might be soothed by his presence. But he wasn’t there – no doubt at the same meeting as Emma, one that Rose’s probationary period didn’t allow her to attend. She’d protested this, since some important upcoming events were to be discussed: Valentine’s Day in a matter of weeks, Affiliates Day at the end of term, and beyond that the great Thirtieth of June. That date seemed so far off to Rose – the end of the school year; a miracle if she reached it.

  Rose returned to her office to glare at Jane’s books, before nudging them under a pile of unmarked papers. The bell rang and jolted Rose all the way to the end of her nerves. She was due in the library.

  Her Thirds were already there, sitting at the wide desks, astride the armchairs. Their round faces were alarmed as they suffered a rebuke from a Sixth.

  ‘And what,’ the girl reeled back with crossness, ‘are you girls doing here, anyway?’

  ‘Research, Clarissa,’ Rose interrupted fluidly.

  ‘Oh, Madam.’ Clarissa raised her delicate eyebrows at Rose. ‘Your class needs to be silent, they’re distracting me.’

  ‘This is the designated ensemble area, Clarissa. I checked with the librarian when I booked it,’ Rose said firmly. ‘If we’re bothering you, could you perhaps try sitting further away?’

  ‘No,’ Clarissa’s voice lifted, ‘you don’t understand, Madam. My French isn’t where it should be – I’m an Elite, after all, and we’re in January now!’

  ‘An Elite?’ Rose repeated. She noticed that the head girl seemed less made-up than usual, and perhaps hadn’t washed her hair for a few days.

  ‘Oh Clarissa,’ one of the Thirds piped up, ‘you’re so brilliant, I’m sure you’ve got nothing to worry about.’

  Clarissa let out an impatient noise and rounded on the girl. ‘Of course I have! You don’t know anything about it!’

  Another Third tried: ‘I can’t wait to see you all dressed up at the Summer Ball, Clarissa. Have you chosen your dress?’

  ‘What is this, anyway, Madam?’ Clarissa was glancing down at one of the posters a group was working on. ‘I can’t even pronounce this – Arachne?’

  ‘Arack-ne,’ one girl corrected automatically, her face crumbling soon after. She looked up at Rose desperately.

  Rose nodded at her. ‘Well, since you ask, Clarissa, we’re looking at mortals who’ve been punished by the gods.’

  A Third leaned forward. ‘It’s really interesting, Clarissa. Look at ours, Actaeon. He was out hunting and by mistake he saw the goddess Artemis – or Diana – bathing naked, so she turned him into a stag, and his dogs—’

  ‘This is nonsense,’ spluttered Clarissa.

  Rose stopped smiling. ‘This is not nonsense.’

  ‘It is.’ Clarissa faced Rose. ‘Classics never helped any girl I know. They should concentrate on the real subjects they might need. Like French.’

  The next table of Thirds turned their faces to listen.

  ‘These girls,’ Rose said firmly, ‘should concentrate on learning subjects they enjoy.’

  ‘I hardly think they enjoy Latin.’

  ‘I can promise they would disagree with you.’

  ‘And I can promise you, Madam,’ Clarissa shot back, her pretty face slipping into a snarl, ‘that they would disagree with you, if I have anything to do with it.’

  ‘They can speak for themselves, Clarissa,’ Rose answered coolly. ‘They have full intellectual freedom.’

  But the girls at the table were mute, their eyes fixed on an indefinable space in front of them.

  ‘Is everything all right, dear?’

  The librarian had crossed the table in front of them, shaking some crumbs off her cardigan, late after breaktime. She was addressing Clarissa, not Rose. ‘You seem quite frantic.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Clarissa seemed to remember herself, and with a measured face she turned to Rose. ‘I apologise for my lack of composure, Madam.’ She glowered at the Thirds. ‘I apologise, girls, I’m not myself. I’ll be fine as soon as I sort out this French.’

  Once Clarissa had settled at a desk further away, one girl raised her hand timidly. ‘Is there really any point to this, Madam?’

  ‘Well, let’s see.’ Rose’s voice was thick. ‘Are you enjoying yourself?’

  The girl nodded.

  ‘Are you learning something?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you find it interesting?’

  ‘Yes, Madam.’ A trio of voices answered her this time.

  ‘Well, then. There’s your answer.’

  That afternoon, Rose took advantage of an available cab. She hoped a mid-week trip to the harbour village might go unnoticed, even though there was the added caution of the girls’ going-out ban.

  Rose appreciated the muddied stone walls of Kennenhaven, feeling as grey as the grime of the place itself, and as murky as the winter weather. Slamming the cab door behind her heavily, she pushed into the post office.

  The secretaries had notified Rose that her mother’s chest had weakened suddenly, that they were trying her on a temporary oxygen tank. Rose despaired at the thought of her once-activist mother trawling a heavy tank behind her wheelchair, the slim tubes hooked up around her ears and into her nose. She had to speak to her, away from the school.

  Rose blinked in the electric brightness of the post office, so bland and modern after the rafters and arches that she was growing accustomed to. She went straight for the payphone. The clinic’s line rang and rang, just as it had done earlier in the secretaries’ office. But now there was a sudden nurse’s voice. Her mother was sleeping, did she want her to be woken up?

  Rose hesitated, tapping the plastic of the handset. ‘Better not. Is she okay, though? Can I leave a message?’

  Rose picked out a card from the wire rack in the post office. She ignored the sunny images of the peninsula and its grandiose building, too much like those prospectus images she’d been seduced by last summer. Instead she chose a pretty view of the Cairngorm Hills, the sky clear above them. Her eyes went blurry and Rose found that she was crying.

  She pulled her scarf tighter around her, even thou
gh it was warm inside the post office, dabbing her face with the edge of the wool. Eventually she turned to the desk. ‘Can I pay for this and postage at the same time?’

  The woman was frowning at Rose suspiciously. ‘Of course you can.’

  ‘I’ll just write it now.’

  The whiteness of the card was dazzling to Rose. She didn’t know what to write. She looked back at the frowning woman with a sniff. ‘Do you deal with the post from Hope?’

  ‘From Caldonbrae?’

  ‘Yes, sorry.’

  The woman shook her head. ‘No, dearie. The postman collects theirs, and then ours.’

  A short man laughed from behind Rose. ‘There’ll be a huge difference in the envelopes.’

  ‘Okay,’ Rose said. ‘I think that’s good news.’

  The woman fixed Rose with a beady eye. ‘You’re not one of them, are you?’

  ‘Aye, she is, Morag,’ said the man with a grin. ‘Hear her accent.’ Rose glanced at him, only seeing the blur of his green waxed jacket.

  ‘I am not one of them,’ Rose announced.

  She scrawled out her mother’s card, and added the five envelopes with their respective Inverness hospital addresses. Yes, Rose thought, five letters to Jane, as retaliation for that cruel one she’d received. Surely one would get to her. Picking through the coins in her purse she made enough for the stamps. Thanking Morag with an awkward little bow, she rushed out, wondering if she should walk back to the school, to regain some of her stamina and fight, and prove to the gatekeeping groundsmen that it could be done.

  But outside the post office a Caldonbrae car rolled past. Rose hoped that it wasn’t John’s withered face she’d seen set back into the seat, on his way to the golf course. Better call the cab back, then, to cover herself, Rose thought. At least there were letters now that would freely go ahead, even if she couldn’t.

  On Rose’s next visit to the common room, she didn’t check for any heads swivelling towards her when she swung through the door. Had John seen her in the village? Would he try to intercept her letters? She busied herself with the teabags at the tea service, too distracted to choose between Earl Grey and raspberry.

  She looked up at the noticeboard instead; there was a new, official document pinned up on the board, in Rose’s old spot.

  Any comments regarding the standards of

  Vanessa Saville-Vye would be gratefully received.

  She is on her last warning before demotion to House Clemency.

  Rose was struck. What had Nessa done wrong? And could Rose contribute some comments? Nessa had been handing in work on time, and was very willing and charming in the classroom, even if she didn’t have the intellectual goods to back it up.

  ‘I’ll never understand why you are incapable of using a cup and saucer like the rest of us.’ Vivien was beside Rose, smiling, a thick curl decorating her forehead. ‘Do fill up your mug, dear, don’t let me stop you.’

  Rose thought of that letter, upstairs in her flat, pressed between the pages of Sylvia Plath; and of the five envelopes – all gone off from the post office in Kennenhaven. She saw none of it on Vivien’s face.

  ‘Rose, I’m so pleased with the way things are going with you so far this term. I know things have been up and down. But we’ll be approaching the end of your probationary period soon enough.’ Vivien was still smiling. ‘There’s a lot to go over once that’s concluded.’

  Rose held her empty mug close to her chest. ‘Will I meet the Headmaster, then?’

  Vivien tilted her head. ‘You’ve already met the Headmaster, Rose.’

  ‘No, I mean, have a proper meeting. We’ve never discussed my role as head of department. There’s things I’d like to—’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. But the Headmaster’s a busy man.’ Vivien gave a dismissive shake of her head. ‘I can help with that. You’ll take over the head of department duties from Frances, and much more, after your contract is sealed.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’ve got you in boarding, and you did one or two Swimmings, didn’t you? The Conversation lesson last term was a disaster, so we won’t have you on that.’ Vivien eyed Rose carefully. ‘So, I wondered whether you might like to contribute to another kind of activity this term. Just to give you more of a go … Any thoughts?’

  ‘Oh …’ Rose panicked. ‘Perhaps I could help with Valentine’s Day? I hear from Emma that it’s an important event. What about the logistics?’

  Vivien stood back, measuring Rose with a bemused smile. ‘Well, really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It could be a good distraction for you, and help you move things forward. It’s soon – on the Friday just before half-term so the girls don’t miss out over the break. A good way to round off this half of term, perhaps.’

  Rose tried to mirror Vivien’s tone. ‘Excellent.’

  ‘You don’t look particularly certain, Rose.’

  ‘No, no,’ Rose insisted, hating the fact that her face betrayed her so clearly. ‘I am.’

  ‘Right, that’s agreed then,’ Vivien nodded, remaining where she was. ‘I shall let the secretaries know.’

  In embarrassed avoidance Rose glanced back at the notice that betrayed Nessa’s name. Vivien followed her eyes and grimaced. ‘Ah, yes, I see. Poor little Vanessa, struggling again. She’s in your house, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, she is.’

  ‘She needs to pull her socks up.’ Vivien raised her dark eyebrows. ‘Anyhow, good to see you, Rose.’

  ‘But …’ Rose said desperately, moving to block Vivien, ‘can I help Nessa in some way? I am eager to settle in and contribute, really I am.’

  ‘I see.’ Vivien’s eyebrows contracted further. ‘Any remedial sessions for Intermediates and Juniors are usually done in house, Rose.’

  ‘But if it’s academic … perhaps I could help Nessa with History, too, and English?’ Rose couldn’t ignore Vivien’s sour expression. ‘Perhaps not, then. But I’d like to contribute some comments to benefit Nessa, if I can.’

  ‘Yes, I see that. Well.’ Vivien rearranged her face into a smile. ‘For now, anyway, the secretaries will be in touch regarding Valentine’s Day.’

  Rose watched the deputy head move out of the common room, before turning back to the noticeboard, aching with sympathy for Nessa.

  Surely having Freddie always by her side meant that Nessa would be fine? Surely being in a school like this one meant that she’d be taken care of? What did demotion mean – was it so very terrible?

  Remember what happened to Bethany, a small dark voice answered Rose.

  She wanted to find the housemistress of Prudence and tell her as many positive things as she could about Nessa. She wanted to chase Vivien down the corridor and insist, shout even, that this one – Nessa – would be worth saving.

  DAPHNE

  inque patris blandis haerens cervice lacertis

  ‘da mihi perpetua, genitor carissime,’ dixit

  ‘virginitate frui! dedit hoc pater ante Dianae.’

  ille quidem obsequitur, sed te decor iste quod optas

  esse vetat, votoque tuo tua forma repugnant.

  Clinging to her father’s neck with cajoling arms, she said ‘My dearest father, let me be a virgin forever!’ Diana’s father granted it to her at birth. Indeed he yielded, but your beauty itself, Daphne, prevented your wish, and your loveliness opposed your prayer.

  (Ovid’s Metamorphoses 1. 485–489, written AD8)

  Daphne was a nymph and the daughter of a river god. Her favourite pastime was dancing around the wooded grove with her friends in the dappled sunlight. Unlike the other nymphs, she didn’t like to tempt the satyrs or flirt with any suitors that came upon them, and she certainly didn’t want to leave her father’s side for any husband. Virginity suited her perfectly well, even if her father longed for grandchildren to play about with in the river.r />
  One afternoon while Daphne was collecting flowers, Apollo and Cupid were arguing. Apollo had been teasing Cupid for his small stature and youth, as well as his inefficiency with the bow and arrow – something Apollo claimed to be better at. A furious Cupid assembled his arrows, picking out his most powerful two: a golden arrow of burning desire, and a leaden arrow of terrible hatred. First, he struck Apollo with the arrow of desire, and then, knowing of Daphne’s virginal resolve, he shot his second arrow into her chest.

  A chase began, with Apollo begging Daphne to take him as her lover, and Daphne in turn shrieking her refusal as she fled. Apollo grew closer, snapping at her heels. Daphne begged her father to help. He could only answer with his own magic, and as Apollo finally reached out to grab the terrified Daphne, she was transformed into a tree. A laurel tree, with branches for arms and foliage for hair, her heart beating softly beneath the bark.

  Daphne got her wish, even if it wasn’t her choice. She would stay a beautiful virgin forever, close to her father, her body never ravaged. Later, her honour and renown came through Apollo – the young god grew to worship the tree, and used his power to render it evergreen. He even bound his famous wreath from its leaves, his lyre from its wood, as she stood serene and unresisting.

  Perhaps Daphne was ravaged, then, after all.

  13.

  February seemed to arrive without anyone noticing – no change in the outside cold or in the tight freeze of the pipes thudding through the walls. Caldonbrae Hall was held in an everlasting season of grey. Rose wished she could seek comfort from the common room’s hearty fire, but working quietly in her classroom, alone, suited her better.

  Rose felt strangely fragile and separate from Emma’s cheerful notes of encouragement and even Frances’s invitations for more evening drinks. Anthony, too, had resorted to a kind of smiling bafflement towards Rose, from the doorway of her office, or opposite her at the dining table. But whatever might be happening outside it, Rose had started to feel secure in the bright air of her classroom, and the small trust that the girls were placing in her there – even if one of them had written that horrible letter, or might falsely accuse her again.