Madam

by Phoebe Wynne

  Rose hadn’t answered.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Yes, hello. I just need to –’ She’d frowned with pain. ‘I don’t—’

  ‘Do you have a story or not?’ the voice sharply demanded through the telephone.

  ‘How does it work exactly?’

  ‘Give us your details, then leave it with us. We’ll conduct our own report and so on. Unless you want interviewing? If you require payment, that’s a separate matter.’

  Rose remembered the governors’ lunch, the careful glance of the Right Honourable Graham. ‘No, I don’t want that. I’m sorry.’

  ‘What’s your name? Can I take your number?’ But Rose had placed the receiver back on its handle.

  Rose stirred her hot chocolate again; perhaps she should have tried a smaller paper, perhaps it was already too late. Or perhaps there was still a chance that she could persuade Frances to hatch a plan. Frances who’d hissed at her, Leave me be.

  Perhaps Rose should’ve phoned her mother. The woman who’d stood at picket lines and rallies. Surely she would recommend a course of action, a resistance of some kind? Rose realised she hadn’t called the clinic since the shock of the half-term break. One lukewarm update had come through: the oxygen tank was staying, but the woman’s spirits were high. The focus on her mother’s ‘spirits’ troubled Rose – what about her vitals, her physical state? Rose didn’t want to press the secretary further, and disrupt this fragile, knife-edge status she seemed to have created for herself.

  The tearoom booted Rose out ten minutes after closing time. She stood back from the door just as the cold wind picked up and tugged at her hair. She felt desperate – she couldn’t return just yet, even though those dark clouds were drawing forward fast.

  Rose swung through the door of the pub – The Ship, the walls and floor wood-lined and beer-soaked. The barman threw his rag over his shoulder, leaning his forearms across the beer pulls. He chewed on something before he asked her, ‘You’re from the castle?’

  Rose stared at him. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re not welcome here.’

  Rose tried not to see the blistering looks from the other patrons, nursing their pints while scrutinising her mess of hair and the borrowed raincoat that was far too big for her.

  ‘Just one.’ She stepped forward to the bar. ‘Please.’

  ‘There’s a storm coming, you’d better be off back before she hits.’

  ‘I’ve got money.’

  ‘We don’t need your money here.’ But the barman’s eye hit upon Rose’s desperate face, and his expression conceded. ‘All right, one to get you home.’

  ‘That place,’ Rose said under her breath, ‘is not my home.’

  After a dirty glass of red wine, Rose could hear the whistle of the wind over the soothing lull of the other patrons’ patter. She wondered about asking for another, but the barman was muttering in dark tones about boarding up the windows with the tide coming in.

  Rose didn’t want The Ship’s patrons to see any porter in a Caldonbrae car collecting her, so half an hour later she decided to walk the coastal path. But she’d underestimated the gloom of the early evening, the air that thrust her back, the pushing slats of rain that streamed down her face. Blinking her wet eyes, she could see the terrible outline of the peninsula a mile or so ahead, jagged and black against the hurrying clouds. The sea too, no longer a mirror, just another tossing shade of despair. She’d never seen the grey abscess of the school from this angle before. That beating heart of life and horror in this brilliant, murky landscape.

  Rose pulled the raincoat tighter around her, asking for its protection, but the storm was mightier than her. Her sodden Doc Martens trudged her further on as she angled herself against the storm.

  This is what it meant, she thought, when they exposed the children to the elements in Ancient Greece; this is what the baby Oedipus was saved from by the shepherd; this is how so many Spartan boys died – and, she remembered dimly, what King Lear had meant when he cried out on the moor, Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks!

  Rose hurried back down the raggedy hill path towards the village. The rage of the sea was tearing over the stone harbour wall in falling sheets of water, drowning the cars that were parked there. Boats clanked against each other in the chaos on the other side. The seawater was black and uncomfortably near. Rose could taste it – or was it the rain? The two were one; the gods of the weather were furious and fighting together against man.

  ‘Let me in! Please!’ She was banging on the door of The Ship, squeezing herself against its entryway as the sea took a breath between each mighty pull. The windows were boarded up now, the danger of the waves too much for the glass front to bear. Rose banged harder. ‘Please!’

  A sullen face appeared at the door, and Rose rushed through the gap.

  The next morning, Rose stood at the wrong side of the main gates, waiting for the groundsmen. The lodge stared back at her, its roof rimmed with seagulls relieved after the storm, wondering what had drawn her back. Rose couldn’t answer them; she was battle-worn, and unresolved.

  It was a pale dawn, but a residual mist had lifted itself off the sodden ground for the new day. Rose had passed waking hours on a dingy sofa pointed out by the barman while the staff of The Ship took to their bedrooms upstairs. The storm shook the boards at the windows, the waves battering at them in angry resistance. Her terror had kept her awake.

  Rose’s reappearance this morning evidently rattled the gatekeeper, who rushed back into the lodge to open the gate with an, ‘Aye, thank goodness.’ He forced her to wait in the warmth of the lodge until he made a call to the main building. The tinny electricity of the light made Rose blink madly as she sat, too cold to yawn away her lack of sleep. Her thoughts stuttered with exhaustion as she heard the drift of the gatekeeper’s words on the phone.

  A car arrived to take her the short distance up the drive to the main doors. Rose looked at the face of the building on her approach – it seemed renewed, stronger than ever, as if freshly washed by the storm. A few black cars were parked around the entrance, alongside a police car. Rose stepped into the hall as Frances yelped, rushing towards her.

  ‘Oh, Rose, you look a fright!’

  The Headmaster was standing on the steps with two policemen. At the sight of Rose, they turned to give the Headmaster a resolute nod, and moved towards the door, passing Rose without so much as a word.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Rose said into the blonde frizz of Frances’s embrace.

  ‘I was so worried, we were about to send out a search party.’

  ‘Oh God, I’m sorry.’

  ‘We thought you might be lost in the storm; the porter said you weren’t there to be picked up yesterday. You were declared missing.’

  Rose looked over at the Headmaster’s grim expression. She was nodded wordlessly into his study moments later.

  ‘Rose, I am glad you have returned.’ He closed the door as Rose looked around her warily. No Clarissa this time – just she and him, one early morning in March. This, then, would be their first official meeting. ‘I wanted to check that we are marching to the same beat here.’

  He sat down at his desk, straightening a cufflink, brassy and shining at the end of his white sleeve. Rose remained standing, feeling nothing, and not worrying about her bedraggled appearance in this raincoat that wasn’t hers.

  ‘When you left yesterday, Rose, were you fully intending to return?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rose said dully, ‘of course, but … the storm.’

  ‘I sincerely hope you are telling the truth. You sent no word. As you can see, we involved the authorities.’

  ‘I really do apologise.’

  The Headmaster was studying her face. Rose stood opposite him, her eyes rent with resignation.

  ‘I imagine you’ll want a warm bath and a rest,’ he continued. ‘The rabble in the village can
’t have treated you well. Emma will see to your lessons.’

  Rose found her voice. ‘No, no. It’s still early. I don’t want to let the girls down. I just need an hour to sort myself out.’

  The Headmaster leaned forward in his chair. ‘I should let you know, Rose, that we sent people to check on your mother.’

  ‘My mother?’ Rose faltered. ‘What does she have to do with this?’

  ‘Well, my dear, she has everything to do with you. And if you go missing, we need to keep her situation regulated.’

  Rose took a moment to absorb his meaning. ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘Yes, Rose,’ the Headmaster smiled grimly. ‘Thankfully. And I am very glad that you are, too. We need to keep it that way.’

  Rose stepped backwards, motioning towards the door. ‘I should go.’

  ‘One last thing, Rose. I wanted to be sure that you recognise the reality of your situation.’ The Headmaster arranged his features carefully. ‘If you had indeed decided to deliberately go astray, and taken action with the information you are now privy to, you would immediately lose your place here. You’d have no reference to take forward with you, and there would be no other school to welcome you. Your career in education, certainly, would be over. And any other besides, if our governors were to have anything to do with it.’

  Rose had turned her face towards the Headmaster’s unlit fireplace. As he spoke, her eyes hovered above the mantel to the school’s emblem, so familiar to her now – the winged dove, the collar around its neck. But now Rose stared at that collar, and for the first time she noticed the chain that held it, linking back to the shield, holding the beautiful dove down mid-flight.

  Rose glanced back again at the Headmaster, her legs aching with the effort of standing up.

  ‘And as such, these sorts of escapades won’t be taken lightly.’

  ‘I just,’ Rose said bitterly, ‘went out for a walk.’

  ‘There will be no need for that for the remainder of the term.’

  ‘But,’ Rose’s words seeped out, in spite of herself, ‘I need my freedom. I am not one of your girls.’

  ‘I think you need to realise, dear girl,’ he replied sharply, his stiff, nipped face tilted towards her, ‘that you are fully locked in, professionally and otherwise. I am sorry to have to speak to you in this way, but this goes much further than your mother. You aren’t going anywhere with a dossier like yours.’

  Rose’s eyes lifted to his. ‘A dossier like mine?’

  ‘We know all about your father. Though his suicide was kept well hidden.’

  Rose stared at the Headmaster for a long moment, no longer feeling the ache in her legs.

  ‘We understand the shame that information, and its cause, would bring on you.’

  ‘You’ve got it wrong,’ Rose burst out. ‘The accusation against him was false.’

  ‘It was dropped after his suicide, indeed.’

  ‘Because it was false.’ Rose’s voice was rent with passion. ‘The girl admitted she was lying, she just wanted to get his attention, she said. She was obsessed with him. But he couldn’t bear the shame of it.’

  ‘Yes,’ the Headmaster nodded. ‘I did come across that in my reading. But one could see his suicide as an admission of guilt.’

  ‘He didn’t do anything wrong. It’s the truth!’ Rose cried.

  ‘He certainly still has an excellent reputation within the academic community. We would hate for the truth of this information, and his suicide, to ruin everything he stood for, permanently.’

  Rose was staring blindly at the man across from her. The thudding in her head threatened to knock her to the floor, but still she remained standing. This secret she and her mother had hidden for so long, now spoken out loud, by this small man on this obscure morning. The threads of her strength were slipping apart. She was a teenager again, in front of a Headmaster, crying at the loss of her adored father who’d taken his own life.

  ‘How … how could you?’ Rose finally gasped. ‘What on earth have I done to deserve this?’

  ‘You, Rose, have been chosen by us. This is a great privilege. I can assure you that your life will be much easier when you fully conform.’

  ‘But,’ Rose lowered her face, ‘I am an educator. And you are a businessman, running this factory for wealthy aristocratic daughters.’

  A muscle worked carefully in the Headmaster’s cheek. ‘Well, Rose, that is certainly a simple way of looking at it. The truth is, Hope girls will always become the wives, mothers and companions of the gentlemen who steer our country’s – our empire’s – future.’

  Rose’s final comment was a whisper. ‘If you tell the girls that enough times, they will believe it. But a woman does not exist for the pleasure of a man.’

  The Headmaster sat back in his seat and laid his hands out flat on his desk. ‘I have no wish to argue with you, Rose. You’ve had your little adventure, now go and get on with your school day. The girls will be looking forward to your lessons.’

  18.

  Later that evening, an exhausted Rose was still scrubbing away the dirt of the previous night, as the storm seemed to have embedded itself into her skin. Questions had followed her all day: girls curious about Rose’s whereabouts during the storm; frowns from other teachers at her unpunished return.

  ‘Madam, were you actually missing?’

  ‘Do you have a lover in the town?’

  ‘No, no, girls, don’t talk like that.’ Rose’s voice had been brittle. ‘I just got stuck in the village, that’s all.’

  ‘In Prudence, we all had to huddle in the day room. They bolted up the doors but you could still hear the birds shrieking outside.’

  After lunch there’d been a commotion on the second-floor corridor: harsh voices over younger ones, with a rushing push of over-emotion. There was a blocked door, and a row of Seconds lined up against the wall. Freddie and Nessa were berating the younger girls, whose sulking faces were pulled with injustice.

  The girlish energy in the air seemed to awaken Rose. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Hi, Madam.’ Nessa stood back. ‘These wretched beasts have blocked in their friend, simply because she borrowed this one’s ribbons.’

  Freddie boomed at the girl that Nessa had pointed out. ‘Let her out now, Kitty.’

  ‘I’ve told you.’ Kitty rolled her eyes, as her friends beside her stared at the floor. ‘She knows not to touch my things. She’s a thief! And you Fourths are supposed to turn a blind eye to this sort of thing.’

  ‘Open that door now, or I’ll do it myself,’ Rose heard herself say, moving to stand next to Freddie.

  ‘Oh,’ Kitty laughed, ‘will you, Madam?’

  ‘How dare—’

  ‘You don’t need to defend me, Freddie.’ Rose cleared her throat. ‘Kitty, of course I’ll break open that door if I have to; but I hope that you’ll have the decency to do the right thing. Let that girl go, now.’

  Kitty chewed at her mouth as Freddie squared her shoulders over her. ‘Open that door.’

  ‘Fine.’ Kitty glowered as she motioned her friends to help her unwedge the door. The girls pushed then fell back with their effort.

  ‘Serves her right, Madam.’ Kitty threw Rose a look. ‘But I’ll do as you say.’

  The door was released and the girl appeared. Her very red face was blotchy with tears, her twin plaits loose without their elastic, as if the tight hairstyle had been torn at.

  ‘Now, now, Clara,’ Nessa said carefully to the emerging girl, as Kitty and her friends scarpered down the corridor, ‘you’ve had a bit of a rough time of it, but pull yourself together and get ready for your next lesson.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ Rose frowned.

  The small girl’s brimming eyes spilled over as she touched her messy undone plaits. ‘Yes, Madam. I couldn’t find my own ribbons, so I—’

  �
��Better run to your matron,’ Freddie patted the girl’s back, ‘and get some spare before next lesson. If you need any next time, come and find either of us. Doesn’t matter what house you’re in.’

  Rose gave the girl an encouraging nod before she hobbled off.

  ‘Are you all right, Madam?’ Freddie was facing Rose now, and for the first time Rose saw that they were the same height. There was something in the girl’s expression that made Rose straighten up, to stand taller.

  ‘Yes,’ Rose answered. ‘Yes, I am.’

  That evening, as she tried to clear her head of the storm’s noise, Rose remembered the strength in Freddie’s face. Washing her exhausted body again, she’d been surprised to find a bloom of fresh bruises on the back of her leg, and on her forearm. She walked through the sitting room in her towel, glancing at her cassette player that sat unplayed in the corner.

  Rose replaced the oversized raincoat in the alcove cupboard, sure now that it was Jane’s, and grateful that it had accompanied her during the storm. Behind it on the rail was Rose’s denim jacket, more foreign than ever. In the front pocket there would be a Polaroid of her and two friends on a trip to Brighton, and a treasured piece of shell from the beach. Rose didn’t want to think about that trip; she’d never want to look at another coastline again once she left this one.

  The phone rang and rang. Finally, a dull voice answered, and Rose requested her mother’s room. The lead burden that had lodged itself in her heart was now spreading, blocking out her stomach and choking her throat.

  ‘Yes, darling, all well here.’ Her mother’s voice was misty. ‘I haven’t yet received your birthday card, perhaps it’s on its way.’

  ‘What?’ Rose squeezed her eyes closed in sudden realisation. ‘Oh, Mum, I’m so sorry, I forgot.’

  Her mother sniffed and Rose could hear the wheeze of the oxygen. ‘It’s all right. I’ve never been one for birthdays.’

  ‘Oh God, I am so angry with myself.’ Rose butted her head against the wall. ‘I’m truly sorry, Mum, I’ve … been so distracted, I—’