Madam

by Phoebe Wynne

  ‘Did the deputy head want to see him?’

  ‘No, Madam,’ answered Freddie, ‘but he’s one of the ones you have to watch out for.’ Daisy’s face was still burning from the unwanted attention. ‘Come on, Dais. Next time just think what Dido would do. Or Agrippina. Don’t you think so, Madam?’

  Daisy threw Rose a grateful look and joined Freddie as they walked down the corridor.

  MEDEA

  οἴχομαι δὲ καὶ βίου

  χάριν μεθεῖσα κατθανεῖν χρῄζω, φίλαι.

  ἐν ᾧ γὰρ ἦν μοι πάντα, γιγνώσκω καλῶς,

  κάκιστος ἀνδρῶν ἐκβέβηχ᾽ οὑμὸς πόσις.

  πάντων δ᾽ ὅσ᾽ ἔστ᾽ ἔμψυχα καὶ γνώμην ἔχει

  γυναῖκές ἐσμεν ἀθλιώτατον φυτόν:

  I am undone, I have resigned all joy in life, and I want to die. For the man in whom everything I had was bound up, as I well know – my husband – has proved to be the basest of men. Of all creatures that can feel and think, we women are the worst treated things alive.

  (Euripides’ Medea, 226–231, written 431BC)

  Medea’s story might have you believing her the villain, but remember that her tale has been written by men. She was born with a strange divinity – powers from her grandfather the sun god, and others learned at home in Colchis, a wild place outside the civilised Greek city-states.

  A young Medea was struck with desire for the Greek warrior Jason. He landed on Colchis, challenged with obtaining the Golden Fleece. Medea made herself vital to his quest, her ointments rendering him invincible, her instructions rescuing him from the onslaught of mythical soldiers, and her spell falling over the dragon that finally released the Golden Fleece. Her reward was the warrior himself, a man she adored and revered. But Medea’s father was furious, and she fled with Jason to become his wife.

  Medea had expected her father to pursue them, and so had taken her younger brother. She killed him and left the desecrated body strewn in her wake. Her plan was successful, as her desolate father was forced to slow his journey to collect the pieces of his well-loved son.

  Years later, as a mother, and a wife, Medea’s magic saved her again. The wandering family were summoned to Corinth, where Jason had been promised a position, but through a new marriage. Medea was a barbarian, he explained to her mystified face, and would never be accepted in Greece. Their two children, therefore, were illegitimate. This union with the young Corinthian princess, Glauce, was the right thing to do, Jason insisted, for all of them. Medea had no choice but to accept.

  But any advantage promised to her soon shattered when she was visited by the King of Corinth, who demanded that Medea and her children leave the city-state, and sever all ties with Jason. Again, Medea accepted, asking for one day’s grace. One day was all she needed. She was visited next by Aegeus, the King of Athens, who offered Medea refuge, in return for her curing an ailment. Refuge for her, he clarified – but not for her children.

  Medea managed her situation the only way she knew how. She congratulated Jason, and crafted a golden dress and coronet for his young bride. But once the young Glauce donned her wedding gifts, the poison Medea had concocted took hold. The Corinthian princess suffocated to death – as did the King, who infected himself as he grasped her body, in an attempt to save his daughter’s life. Jason was furious, and Medea triumphant.

  There was still one last act to perform. Dreading the probable fate of her children amongst the Corinthians, Medea decided the only way she could protect the two sons her husband had been willing to give up was to sacrifice them.

  Devastated, Jason watched as Medea mounted a sun-fuelled chariot with the two small bodies of her children, and flew away to Athens.

  Medea’s instinct was survival, and her violence was a defence. Of all of her powers, the most potent was rage, which guided her actions. After all, if she was going to be called a barbarian, she might as well live up to the name.

  16.

  Rose’s understanding was deepening as the days passed, no thanks to the complacent staff in the common room, or the restrained Emma, Anthony and Frances; but thanks to the rows of cautious girls filling the battle line of desks, uncertain how to treat their Madam now that she knew the purpose of their life.

  On the Wednesday of the second week back, Rose turned to her four Upper Sixth, their dresses in full colour as a precursor to spring. The girls’ faces, however, were pale and bored over their Euripides books.

  ‘Medea is a barbarian?’ Lauren asked. ‘Did you say, Madam?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rose nodded. ‘She’s from Colchis, not Greece. Uncivilised, therefore, by Greek standards, and very much an outsider. She’s married to Jason, the Greek warrior.’

  Lex was pulling a face. ‘Sounds like she was a bad choice for him. Is that what the play’s about, then?’

  ‘Wait till we get to the end,’ Rose said carefully. ‘You might not like it, but it’s really something.’

  She was met with an indifferent silence. Rose was prepared for that, and glanced at her owl before taking to her chair.

  ‘Girls, can I ask? Did any of you choose to study Classical Civilisation?’

  ‘Oh,’ Tash went first, ‘my father thought it would be beneficial towards Conversation.’

  ‘Mine was a Promise,’ Lex said witheringly. ‘Or I wouldn’t be here, trust me.’

  ‘Madam,’ Jenny sat up, speaking into the gap that was Dulcie’s empty desk, ‘we’re not to talk about Promises. Especially the Coupling ones. It’s bad form.’

  ‘Coupling?’ Rose asked quickly.

  ‘No, Madam.’ Jenny shook her head in warning.

  Rose sat back, infuriated. ‘I don’t care, I need to understand all of it.’

  ‘Madam,’ Lex smirked, ‘do calm down.’

  ‘I assure you, I am perfectly calm.’ Rose remembered the governor’s words. ‘Well, let’s return to Euripides before any other Promises prevent the use of our brains.’

  The following morning Rose watched her Fourths arrive, feeling a dim pain in her chest. Daisy was talking in a stream to Nessa, who trailed behind her as they came through the classroom door. ‘If you just learn that formula, then you’ll be fine.’

  ‘Will you show me again?’ Nessa asked Daisy in her soft voice.

  ‘Yes, of course. Perhaps we should put it all over the walls in your new dorm?’

  ‘We can’t do that. You’re not allowed in Clemency.’

  Daisy shrugged. ‘I’ll sneak in.’

  Rose blinked in surprise at the girl’s words.

  ‘Daisy!’ Nessa exclaimed hotly. ‘That’s so unlike you. Anyway, Molly would flip if there were things on the walls. She’s always tidying up and looking at herself in the mirror.’

  ‘Okay, well, let me know if there’s anything else. Clemency isn’t that bad.’

  ‘Nessa,’ Rose burst out, ‘have you moved house, then?’ Nessa looked up, mortified, as many swivelled heads stared at her. Rose instantly regretted the question.

  ‘Yes, Madam,’ Daisy answered for Nessa, ‘but it’s all fine.’

  Daisy’s kind answer didn’t stop the other girls from sharing dark glances towards Nessa, as if she had some incurable disease. Nessa made her way to the front row with her face set.

  Rose turned back to her bureau. Why hadn’t she done more for Nessa – sought her out on her evenings in Prudence, given her a tutorial or two? What could she do now, to help?

  Rose cleared her throat, forcing herself into a bright cheer for the lesson.

  ‘Right, ladies, good to see you. Anyone know where Freddie is?’ A few heads swivelled towards each other aimlessly. ‘Okay then,’ Rose continued buoyantly. ‘We’re going to spend more time with Virgil today, Dido and Aeneas.’

  Several
girls groaned.

  ‘Exercise books, please, the pages at the back. Salvete puellae. Now look at the board, I’ve written out a phrase from Aeneid Book Five. “infelicis Elissae conlucent flammis” – have a go at translating it, you’ve got the vocabulary. Remind me, who is Elissa?’

  ‘Another name for Dido, Madam, queen of Carthage,’ Daisy answered easily. ‘And I think that infelicis and flammis are agreeing.’

  Nessa was squinting at the phrase on the blackboard. ‘I’ll never understand, Madam, why two words agreeing in Latin are always miles away from each other.’

  Rose laughed, for the first time in what felt like an age. ‘Oh, Nessa. It’s one of the banes of my life.’

  ‘Elissae must be genitive.’ A girl in the middle had raised her hand. ‘So the sentence means—’

  ‘Wait, I’d just like to check,’ Rose interrupted. ‘Who else thinks they have it?’ She moved quickly along the desks, reading a few pages.

  ‘Okay, go ahead,’ Rose said to the girl in the middle.

  ‘It’s they burned with the unhappy flames of Dido.’

  Daisy said loudly, ‘That’s what I have, Madam, as you saw.’

  Several girls looked up with a mixture of confusion and relief to have it done for them.

  ‘Who burned with unhappy flames?’ said Freddie, who’d just strolled into the room. ‘Sorry I’m late, Madam. I had to see the deputy head.’

  ‘Yes, who was it that burned, Madam?’ asked Daisy.

  ‘The city walls burned, or glowed, after Dido built the pyre, remember?’ Rose said, turning to the board, suddenly anxious. ‘Perhaps it’s a confusing phrase, I just thought—’

  ‘Don’t rub it out, Madam,’ Nessa called out, ‘I haven’t finished copying it!’

  ‘Sounds thrilling, Madam. I think we all understand everything now.’

  Rose turned back to Freddie, and their eyes touched. She’d been avoiding it, but there was the truth of the place painted on Freddie’s face. On Daisy’s and Nessa’s, on Josie’s and every girl there – this strange, ugly destiny.

  ‘What’s this, Madam?’

  Nessa had raised a photocopied print laid out on her desk. Rose nodded at it gratefully. ‘All right, girls, yes. Have a look at this image – it’s a mosaic of Dido and Aeneas. It was found in a villa in Somerset, would you believe.’

  Freddie shuffled along to her seat as the class bent to look at their photocopies, all except one. Josie’s beetle-black eyes were darting between Freddie and the teacher. The back of Josie’s hair moved, and Rose stiffened as she saw the little rat’s face poke out from the girl’s collar.

  ‘Why’s Dido naked?’ Nessa asked.

  Rose couldn’t take her eyes off the rat at Josie’s neck but she kept her voice measured. ‘That’s a good point, Nessa. What might her nakedness symbolise?’

  ‘She’s not described as naked in the Latin, is she, Madam? I thought she had a cloak and things,’ the girl in the middle said. ‘Purple, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. This nakedness here could be a symbol of her purity.’

  ‘It is a bit unfair that she’s naked and he’s fully clothed!’ Nessa exclaimed.

  ‘Aeneas is wearing full armour, yes. Interesting that you find that unfair.’ Rose shifted her eyes to the mosaic image. ‘It doesn’t look quite right, does it?’

  ‘She has a nice bum, though, Madam,’ Josie cackled. ‘She’s been doing her exercises.’

  There was a hollow guffaw that swept across the rows of desks.

  ‘You know, Madam, I think it’s great that you’re so passionate about teaching us,’ said Freddie. ‘And that you show us things like this.’

  Rose looked at her, that permanent half-laugh playing on Freddie’s face.

  ‘But it doesn’t really matter, does it, Madam?’ interrupted Josie at the back, ‘now that you know everything. Maybe you can give us a break? You’re supposed to be helping us build our Value. I need to be spending my time on Musical Performance or Outdoor Pursuits.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Daisy called out jovially, ‘let’s face it. The Value that we all need to work on,’ her almond-shaped eyes widened, ‘is Beauty and Aesthetic.’

  The whole class laughed, but Rose didn’t.

  ‘Or do you want to sabotage us, Madam?’ Josie’s voice was sonorous. ‘I mean, you’re stuck here, while we go on. Aren’t you jealous of us?’

  Rose stared at Josie; she wanted to laugh hysterically, climb over the desks, shake the girl until she understood. Shake Josie until her aunt Vivien’s hard face fell away from that teenage one.

  ‘No, Josie,’ Rose managed, ‘I can assure you that that is not how I see things at all.’

  ‘It’s better now that you know, Madam,’ Nessa smiled weakly.

  ‘Did it ever –’ Rose hesitated, trying to keep the weight of emotion out of her words. ‘Did it ever occur to you ladies that this,’ she gestured forward with her arm, ‘might not be something you’d want?’

  Several girls glanced at each other as Rose bit back her words.

  ‘What,’ Josie scoffed, ‘that we would reject a life of luxury, travel, affluence, the right people? What else could we possibly want?’

  ‘Madam.’ There was a pause as Freddie regarded Rose intently. ‘What are you trying to say?’

  ‘I think we should be grateful,’ answered Nessa earnestly. ‘I’m always grateful.’

  Rose looked at Nessa for a long moment, and then back to Josie. She didn’t dare return Freddie’s stare. The room seemed to be waiting for her.

  ‘I’m not sure what I’m trying to say.’ Rose gave in. ‘For now, like Nessa, I’m just grateful that we’re getting through this literature.’

  And with that, the room seemed to lift with relief.

  That evening Rose found herself quite subdued as the Juniors readied for bed, chattering about how many Easter eggs they might get, but how they needed to wait until after Affiliates Day and the end of term to really indulge.

  The housemistress was hovering around Rose like some anxious spectre, in continuous conversation with the house prefects. Rose couldn’t quite forgive the woman who had allowed Nessa the demotion to House Clemency; she spent the bulk of her evening duty upstairs with the girls. Now, more than ever, she wanted to draw the little ones into some kind of embrace as they climbed into their iron bedsteads.

  Rose was forced to engage the housemistress during the gap between Junior and Intermediate bedtimes. As the housemistress busied herself at the desk in the tutor’s study, Rose tried to give an account of her half-term experience in House See, but the woman didn’t seem to think that the two houses could be compared. Rose resorted to staring into the school photographs in the lobby to pass the time. She checked the older black and white photographs, wanting to pull at them for evidence. How far back did the system go? As far back as it could, Rose knew – to William Hope and his six unmarried daughters of 1842.

  In a distant room a tune was being stomped out on a piano, accompanied with bursts of laughter. Rose checked the last few decades’ photographs; she saw the current housemistress, and matron, and nodded at the date. But then she paused and peered into the very middle of one photograph, leaning in to see better.

  ‘This student looks exactly like Frances,’ Rose laughed. ‘My God, it could be her daughter.’

  The housemistress was in the study doorway. ‘Oh, yes, you’ve probably spotted her, there.’

  ‘What.’ Rose frowned with surprise. ‘Frances Manders?’

  ‘From the early seventies, is it?’

  Rose saw 1970 marked at the bottom of the photograph’s cardboard edge, under the swirl of the school emblem. Her voice, when she finally found it, was like an echo from far away.

  ‘Frances was here, at Caldonbrae?’

  ‘Yes, dear.’

  ‘She’s an old girl?’ Rose was shaki
ng her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, yes. In this very house, under me, in fact. She had great potential, good at sport, but ended up as one of the lower Pathway girls. There wasn’t anything for her elsewhere, so she stayed on. She’s not as revered as the other Compassions here, unfortunately.’

  Rose was almost pressing her face into the black and white photograph – seeing the square of the girl’s shoulders, the curve of her cheekbones. Yes, it was Frances. Somehow, she wore the same hairstyle, the bushy blonde falling on either side of her face, that wiry fringe.

  ‘She’s in House Temperance now,’ the housemistress continued. ‘Somewhat improved since her school days, I think.’

  Rose couldn’t pull her eyes away from those long rows of knees and slim plaits, from Frances’s immovable, smiling young face.

  The next morning, Rose hadn’t found Frances in her office, or among the armchairs in the common room. The final possibility was Frances’s flat, even though it wasn’t permitted. Rose made her way there, burrowing through the passageways like bronchioles in the lungs of this great monster of a school.

  Rose knocked on Frances’s door again. There was movement on the other side, but the door remained closed.

  ‘Frances, I know you’re there.’

  The door cracked open an inch and Rose saw a shard of blue eye. ‘Let me in.’

  ‘I’m just coming out. I’ll see you in my office.’

  ‘No, I need to talk to you.’ Rose pushed at the door and realised that the resistance wasn’t from Frances herself, but from the piles of stuff she’d dumped at the door: pairs of mismatched boots, a clump of dirty tights. Frances was already walking into the kitchen. Rose watched her friend with new eyes, her nerves jangling as she tried to frame the words in her mouth.

  ‘I don’t know why I come back here between lessons, I really shouldn’t,’ Frances announced loudly. ‘Sets a bad example.’

  Rose saw that Frances was wearing a pair of leggings under her ruched-up dress. She glanced at the sideboard where a bunch of bananas had turned black and six bottles of red wine lined the wall. ‘Frances, there’s something I want to talk to you about.’