by Phoebe Wynne
Rose threw herself into her Valentine’s task: distributing flowers. Each girl was to have one white rose from the Headmaster. A wealth of additional requests had flooded in for the luckier girls, too: deep red, blush pink, sunny yellow. Rose had been astonished at the sheer number that poured in via the secretaries, particularly for the Sixth. Overgenerous parents and siblings, she supposed – it wasn’t as if they were meeting any young admirers. Rose couldn’t help pitying the few Sixth girls who would cradle only a single stem, knowing it to be from their Headmaster.
On the Thursday morning, the Fourths filled the desks with their relentless energy, and Rose was glad to see them. Nessa was struggling over translating English into Latin, more so than the others, who seemed to trick the jigsaws of declensions or conjugations into meaningful sentences. Rose had provided the main verb, so the rest of the sentence just needed to agree. But it wasn’t agreeing with Nessa – her brain was frayed, along with her nerves at every mistake she made. Rose leaned over her, remembering the positively shining report she’d given the girl’s housemistress.
‘Tell me what’s not making sense, Nessa, and I’ll explain again.’
‘No need, Madam. She’s a moron,’ Josie called out from the back.
‘And you’re a bitch,’ Freddie answered from the front, her head bent over her work as the rest of the class lifted their heads.
‘Whoa.’ Rose straightened up with her hands raised. ‘Girls.’
‘Sticks and stones, Freddo,’ Josie shouted, her beetle-black eyes sparked with emotion as she tipped her chair back. ‘Careful what you say to me. And you, Madam.’
Freddie seemed to jerk into action. Dropping her pen on the page, she turned around in a swirl of red curls. ‘Nobody is interested in anything you have to say, Josie. So shut up.’
The room shifted awkwardly; even Daisy straightened up with attention. Nessa concentrated on her own page, not seeing the spread of ink across Freddie’s neat work from the dash of her pen.
‘For heaven’s sake, girls, I won’t have this in my classroom,’ Rose said firmly, ‘Don’t speak to your peers like that, Freddie. And Josie, don’t be so rude to Nessa. I’d like you to apologise. We’re all learning here.’
‘Be kind to each other?’ Josie mocked in a loud voice.
‘Josie, I’m warning you.’
‘Madam, you’re so tragic.’ Josie pulled a face. ‘Just as well you’re stuck in ancient times. When you finally work out what’s really going on, you’ll never be able to catch up.’
‘Out!’ Something in Rose snapped. ‘Get out of my classroom!’
‘No need.’ Josie raised her thick eyebrows with the bell’s confirmation. ‘It’s the end of the lesson, anyway, Madam.’
Rose attempted the Latin phrase for dismissal but the girls were gathering their books, reminding her that she’d lost all control over the lesson. Heaving her chest with frustration as the room began to empty, she turned to clean the blackboard.
But three of the girls were waiting for her again, the white skirts of their dresses pushing at the desks as the door closed.
Rose dropped her arm. ‘Yes?’
Three, not four, Rose observed. The friendship was definitely fractured, then.
‘Sorry about the bad language, Madam,’ Freddie frowned. ‘Josie’s awful. You might want to watch it with her, though – she’ll only run off to the deputy head.’
‘Why would she do that?’
‘Madam Ms Johns is her aunt, Madam.’
Rose opened her mouth – of course, she thought those beetle-black eyes reminded her of someone. ‘Well, I’ve got no intention of watching it with her, or anyone.’
Freddie looked impressed. She raised her eyebrows at Nessa, who smiled back.
‘Your owl has moved positions, Madam, did you know?’ Daisy spoke into the pause.
Rose looked over to the window. She saw that Daisy was right: the round eyes of the little ceramic creature were now facing the rows of desks, away from Rose’s bureau. ‘Oh. How strange.’
‘Tell us about a new one, Madam?’
Rose turned back to Freddie. ‘A new what?’
‘Another one of your stories. A new ancient woman,’ pushed Freddie. ‘Some of the Sixth were telling us about a play they’d studied with you. Antigone?’
‘The Sixth talk about our lessons?’
‘Some of them,’ Freddie nodded.
Nessa laughed for the first time that morning. ‘We all talk about you, Madam.’
Rose pulled an anxious face. ‘I wish you wouldn’t.’
‘Tell us about Antigone,’ Freddie pushed.
‘After that outburst today, I’m not sure I’m in the mood. And I have other lessons to prepare for.’
‘It’s breaktime, Madam, and you hardly ever go to the common room anymore.’
Rose frowned, caught out.
‘Antigone,’ Daisy repeated. ‘Is she a real woman or a mythological one?’
‘She’s … mythological, I suppose,’ Rose replied.
‘Oh. I prefer the real ones.’
Rose looked back at Daisy as she sat down a few desks away from Freddie; Nessa was still standing and hugging her books to her slim frame.
‘Do you have any pictures of her, Madam?’ Freddie gestured forward with her arm. ‘Like you had of Agrippina?’
Rose took in Freddie’s honey-coloured stare, the interested tilt of Daisy’s head and Nessa’s decisive settling on a desk. She smiled at the three of them in their white dresses, adolescence fighting its way onto their faces, their figures, their personalities. ‘All right then. I don’t know of many pictures of Antigone – she’s a character in literature, after all. I’m sure I’ll manage to find one for you girls.’
Rose spent much of Valentine’s Day in her classroom; she was glad to be away from the hubbub downstairs, and was relieved that the half-term break would come the next day. She felt as though she’d been holding her breath, holding in any flicker of temper with every step she took. Rose wished there’d been a response from one of the Inverness hospitals; she knew it would make all the difference if she could just hear from Jane.
She’d handed the distribution lists to the Fifth prefects as the roses arrived in a string of vans, too many to count. Rose thought that the local florists must have raided the whole of Scotland for the heap of perfumed flowers. For her there’d be no cards, no roses – nothing but a bottle of wine for herself and any available friend over half-term. She ignored the squeak of optimism that she might receive something from Anthony.
Rose looked across at her Upper Sixth that morning. Lauren’s cheeks were brushed with blush, while Lex had unfastened her silk dress at the nape of her neck, revealing a delicate pearl necklace. All five had recently manicured nails. With half-term looming, Rose had decided to ignore the fourth and final play on the syllabus, Medea, and throw a simple bit of mythology at them instead.
But it wasn’t going well. However splendid the girls looked, they seemed to have disappeared behind their eyes – caught in this numb, unspeaking phase after Bethany’s death.
‘Is everything all right, Dulcie?’ Rose asked with a mix of concern and frustration; the girl’s mouth had been torn with dismay since the beginning of the lesson.
‘Yes, Madam,’ Dulcie answered automatically, her eyes sliding away from the images in front of her.
‘Fine. Let’s carry on. This is supposed to be fun.’ Rose widened her eyes with frustration. She’d spread open a book of celebrated ancient artworks, along with printed pages of an Ovid translation: the story of Daphne and Apollo. The book’s chosen page shone out photographs of the famous Bernini sculpture as Rose continued: ‘Daphne here is caught mid-transformation. Look at all the different angles – here, she’s a girl; there, she’s almost a tree trunk. Look at her fingers, twisting into small branches. Look at the movement in
the marble. Look at Apollo, one arm gripping on to her.’
‘I still don’t understand why Daphne is running away crying to her dad,’ Lex huffed. ‘Why wouldn’t you want to marry a god? Why would you want to stay a virgin forever?’
‘But does Daphne get away? Does she go free?’ Dulcie demanded suddenly.
‘Read the English translation, Dulcie. I suppose the answer is up to you.’ Rose tilted her head. ‘The transformation is soon complete – but is she free? See how Ovid describes Apollo, touching the smooth bark of the tree, still warm, and Daphne’s heart beating beneath it.’ Rose stopped short, seeing the girl’s reaction. ‘Dulcie, have I said something wrong? Do you need to take a moment?’
‘I’m not upset, Madam. I’m not upset.’ Dulcie expertly glided a finger underneath her eye as her mouth slid open with emotion.
‘What’s happened?’ Rose felt a flare of alarm at the girl’s sudden vulnerability. She studied her for a moment, but then stiffened.
‘Dulcie … what’s that on your hand?’
Dulcie sat up straight and spread out her left hand in front of her. She sniffed resolutely. ‘It’s my engagement ring, Madam. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? He wanted to give it to me early.’ The other girls turned to look; Lex blinked with envy at the ring, her mousy ringlets falling forward.
‘Who wanted to give it early?’ Rose asked, her mind buzzing with confusion.
‘My fiancé, Madam.’ Dulcie said it with a French accent, properly.
‘Your fiancé? No.’ Rose gurgled out a laugh at the absurdity of Dulcie’s answer. ‘You’re seventeen.’
‘I’m eighteen, Madam.’
Lex had propped her face up with her elbow. ‘It’s an astonishing ring, Dulce, there’s nothing to be upset about.’
‘I know,’ Dulcie nodded. ‘He just … wasn’t what I was expecting.’
‘It’s always a shock to meet them for the first time.’
Dulcie reeled back. ‘How do you know, Lex?’
‘I don’t.’
‘What’s this?’ Rose had dropped her book into her chair. ‘You’d never met him? Your fiancé?’
‘It’s fine,’ Dulcie said quickly. ‘I’m lucky. We all are. We’re all Elites, after all. Our Values are very high. I held myself properly, I said all the things we’re supposed to say, but it was harder than I thought.’
Rose searched the girls’ faces, her thoughts fractured as she tried desperately to piece their words together. ‘Hang on. You were trying to impress this man you’d never met … your fiancé – and you didn’t like him?’
‘Not really, but—’
‘Then why is he your fiancé?’ Rose demanded.
Lex gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Because that’s the way things are, Madam!’ An astonished Rose saw Lex’s face fall before she turned to Dulcie. ‘Oh my goodness, Dulcie! Madam is still in her probationary period – we’re not supposed to tell! Why on earth did you wear your ring?’
Tash held her mouth in disbelief, echoing the fright on Lex’s face.
‘It’s my ring,’ Dulcie was breathing quickly. ‘Clarissa said I could wear it. She said it would be a good idea today, to make me feel better.’
Rose turned her face to the side, unable to believe what she was hearing.
‘Madam might as well know, anyway,’ Dulcie added savagely, her emotion turning into resentment. She lifted her face to Rose. ‘I’ve been finished for him, Madam. We all have.’
Tash cried out, ‘You’ll be punished for saying!’
‘For whom?’ Rose urged.
‘Our husbands. In our Pathway, Elite, we’ve got the best.’
‘The best what?’
‘Come on, Madam.’ Dulcie rolled her eyes, heavily and with effect. ‘The best pool of husbands. Suitors. Men from the highest sphere. Aristocrats, mostly. Men of influence.’
‘Mine’s a QC, top of the legal profession,’ the fifth girl, Jenny, said. ‘He’s lovely – I’m lucky.’
Rose was flat against the blackboard, her mind racing.
‘We’re all marrying up or across, you see, Madam,’ Dulcie nodded, adding bitterly, ‘well, maybe not Lauren – she’s American so she can only marry up!’
‘Yes, but she’s a double deb so she’s lucky,’ Lex added. ‘She met the Queen and she’ll meet the President.’
Lauren gave a shy smile, in spite of Dulcie’s comment.
‘Your requirements have been very peculiar, though, Jenny,’ Dulcie leaned forward sharply, ‘you have to admit.’
Jenny raised her chin haughtily. ‘You’re just jealous that mine’s not an old codger like yours.’
‘Tash has a lord, although she’d rather a lady, I think.’
‘I think we should stop talking now!’ Tash cried out again.
Rose’s eyes hitched from one girl to the next, the rest of her body tight with panic as the girls waited for her reaction. Finally, she asked, ‘Did you pick them, or did they pick you?’
‘They choose us, Madam,’ Lex said. ‘Of course.’
‘So,’ Rose’s throat was achingly dry, ‘here, at Caldonbrae Hall, this school … arranges marriages?’
‘Oh Madam.’ Dulcie darkened, shaking her head. ‘Trust you to say something so basic like that.’
‘Yes, don’t simplify things in such a droll manner!’ Lex said, copying Dulcie’s tone. ‘We make alliances.’
‘Not so droll when Dulcie’s clearly upset,’ Rose shot back, her face burning with the revelation.
‘Well, there you are, Madam,’ Dulcie continued, her pointed face full of satisfaction. ‘Now you know the main function of Hope. The Founder had six daughters, after all. That must have been a lot to worry about, for a man like him.’
14.
It was as though she’d been watching a film reel, some kind of tasteless farce, or satire.
Rose moved robotically; she dismissed her Sixth early and set her things down in her office. She strode down the length of the third-floor corridor, the clack of her heels on the stone slamming into her ears. Turning the corner, she practically fell into Frances’s office.
The weak light flickered to reveal the room’s chaos – papers pinned across the wall, piles of files spilling off the desk onto the floor; a battered armchair on the side, and two pairs of worn leather heels at the door. The long wide window, identical to Rose’s, showed the wild blur of the seascape.
Frustrated by her friend’s absence, Rose switched off the light as she left. She moved as fast as she could, whipping down the Great Stairs two steps at a time. In the entrance hall the depleted display of Valentine roses sat in buckets across the flagstone floor, small pools of water dampening the discarded distribution lists. Above the mess, the great glass eye watched.
In Rose’s mind she could see Dulcie’s diamond ring flash with spakling light.
Hot tears swelled in her eyes as she carried on down to the common room. Rose wanted to hammer on the door, to scream as she entered. But the hammering was only in her chest as she let the door slam shut behind her, scanning the chairs, trying to keep her breathing straight. The low room was so dimly warm, the hub of chatter so contented that it ought to have been another world.
The Headmaster was standing near the tea service. He turned, smiling mildly at the small group of staff around him, nodding as he traced a fingertip around the handle of his teacup. Rose moved her hand back to the doorknob instinctively, her cheeks still burning with horror and confusion.
Frances was nestled in a group of laughing women near the fire. Rose let go of the door and moved around the edge of the room, away from the power of the Headmaster’s voice towards the strength of another.
Frances’s laughter faded as she caught Rose’s expression. ‘Rose,’ she said, sitting up.
‘Frances,’ said Rose, desperately.
‘What’s wrong?�
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Rose’s voice cracked as she spoke. ‘It’s the girls—’
‘Rose,’ called out one of the women in Frances’s group, ‘such a wonderful job you’ve done with flowers this year. Although … perhaps the prefects needed a little help this morning?’
Rose turned her head to glare at the woman.
‘Yes,’ said Frances, standing up, ‘Rose has done a great job.’ She stepped aside to block Rose from the group and lowered her voice. ‘Listen, I know what you’re going to say.’
Rose protested, ‘Frances, I—’
‘Not here, though. We can talk this through later.’
Rose shook her head vigorously.
‘Go back to your flat, Rose. Gather yourself together. Best foot forward.’
‘No, I –’ Rose whispered at her friend. ‘You don’t understand.’
‘It’s all true,’ Frances said carefully. ‘Everything they’ve told you is true.’
‘But how?’
‘You weren’t supposed to know until—’
‘My probationary period was over.’ Rose’s voice cracked again. ‘But how?’
Frances blinked her clear blue eyes. ‘Who was it that told you?’
‘The Upper Sixth,’ Rose spluttered. ‘Dulcie has a—’
‘Of course,’ said Frances with an irritated twist of her mouth. ‘They’re on heat this time of year.’
‘Is this what it’s all been about – the disciplinary systems, their Value?’
‘Rose,’ Frances was firm, ‘we can’t—’
‘And the girls said something about requirements.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Frances shook her head grimly. ‘It’ll all come out now.’
‘Why are you so calm about this?’ Rose finally cried out.
Frances hissed. ‘Keep your voice down!’
‘Frances?’ called out the woman behind Rose, with concern.