Madam

by Phoebe Wynne

  ‘Oh! Well,’ one of the women croaked back at Rose, ‘we rather do. But word needn’t go any further – I suppose it’s up to you.’

  ‘He was a great man, he was innocent,’ Rose choked out.

  ‘Can’t have been if he took his own life, dear,’ the middle Moira added. ‘Though of course, you’re always going to be biased.’

  ‘Yes, you’d better watch out!’ The first tapped her temple with a chunky finger. ‘You don’t want to follow the same route as old fat Jane.’

  ‘Oh no, she won’t. I hear the Headmaster wants to dress her up for the Ball and have her at the front, for everyone to see his great triumph.’

  Rose couldn’t look at them anymore. She turned and tried to move away, stumbling over the corner of the tea service. ‘You’ll need accompanying if you’re going upstairs!’ all three called after her.

  Out – she had to get out, she thought, as she left the common room and pushed through the corridors.

  A trio of Sixths sidled past her in the main corridor; Rose recognised Lex’s voice.

  ‘I’d better not get the curse during the Ball.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ answered a Slavic-looking girl Rose didn’t know, ‘Matron’s got something for that.’

  Lex’s eyes hooked on Rose and narrowed with glee. ‘Oh Madam, we heard you fainted in Worship earlier?’

  ‘Frigid old spinster,’ Lex’s friend laughed. ‘If she’s going to faint, then what good is she here? And isn’t she the one that got Dulcie into all that trouble?’

  Rose drove on towards the entrance hall and the main doors, carrying the insults with her, ready to give them up to the air.

  ‘Madam, you’re not to go out alone!’ called out one of the porters. ‘Especially not with the haar!’

  Outside, Rose felt her eyes blister with the damp and she blinked. No tears today, she was past that. But they’d been right: the haar was thick and frightening, and she wasn’t at all wearing the right clothes. The crash of the sea and the shriek of the birds called her forward, but from one step to the next her bearings were lost. The white stillness stopped her breathing, the kiss of the mist penetrating her throat. Perhaps the haar was Bethany’s soul, Rose thought, surrounding the peninsula and its occupants in a stranglehold of torment.

  Rose wished she could see the long, jagged line of the coast, to remind herself where Hope began and ended. But it was no use; even if she made it down to the gate, Rose knew she’d be caught there, and punished for it. She imagined herself pulling at the rusted iron bars with her bare hands as they stood fast. But even there at the bottom slope of the drive, the school would rise like a ghost out of the mist. What curious god held this monster in its white hands? Not Zeus, or any she knew. Carry it away, she almost prayed, and return the castle ruin to the Scots. Wipe away this living stain on education, on womankind.

  At lunch the following Monday, a girl slid onto the bench opposite Rose, who jolted with alarm, her fork clattering to her plate.

  ‘Good afternoon, Madam,’ Clarissa declared, pulling her tray in front of her. ‘I thought I’d join you for lunch.’

  It took Rose a moment to recover; she’d barely slept the last few nights, and her thoughts were slow to gather together. ‘These are staff tables, Clarissa.’

  ‘Yes, Madam.’

  Rose glanced over at the Sixth tables across the way. ‘Wouldn’t you prefer your tablecloths and silver, amongst your friends?’

  ‘They let me eat here sometimes, Madam,’ Clarissa smiled, showing her pearly teeth. ‘Madam Ms Johns and the Headmaster, that is … and since you’re alone …’

  ‘I don’t need your company,’ Rose said flatly. ‘I like being alone.’

  ‘Do you, Madam? I see that you get on very well with Miss Manders, and perhaps Mr Rees.’ Clarissa sat forward and started on her salad. Her dress was a particularly loud shade of mauve today, and Rose wasn’t sure it suited her. Clarissa lifted her fork victoriously. ‘But you haven’t eaten with them recently, and aren’t you supposed to be accompanied at all times now?’

  Rose regarded Clarissa carefully. This was the girl who had managed Bethany’s letter of apology, who had insisted Dulcie wear her engagement ring for Rose to notice, who seemed to have recruited Josie to her cause. What did she want with Rose, now?

  Before she could stop herself, Rose came out with it: ‘Have you been writing me letters, Clarissa?’

  ‘No, Madam.’ Clarissa shook her head. ‘Bethany wrote you a letter, which I delivered to you.’

  ‘Not that.’ Rose narrowed her eyes. ‘I’m referring to typed letters, delivered to my flat?’ She searched the girl’s face for any sign of recognition.

  ‘No, Madam, why on earth would I bother doing that?’ Clarissa took a swift bite of her food. ‘I’m far too busy for that sort of thing. It’s already been a difficult term.’

  With a start, Rose remembered what Clarissa was referring to, and she softened. ‘Yes, I’m very sorry, Clarissa, about what happened to you.’ Rose couldn’t quite form the words for the rest.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, Madam.’ Clarissa continued to chew, then she stopped, her skin reddening with horror. ‘Pardon me, Madam, but they – they haven’t told you, have they? Surely not?’

  ‘Well …’ But Rose couldn’t think fast enough to lie. She was suddenly embarrassed. ‘Yes, they have.’

  ‘How dare you mention that? How dare you – you of all people!’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You know nothing.’ Clarissa shook her head furiously, trying her best to recover. ‘And even if you did, I’m sure you know it’s terribly bad manners to discuss anything so intimate in a public dining hall!’

  Rose winced at Clarissa’s words. ‘I—’

  ‘And you know, Madam,’ Clarissa shrilled, gripping at her fork, ‘it’s all jolly well you settling in. And I’m glad you’ve got Miss Manders. But you should know, your advances aren’t welcome elsewhere – it’s best to stick to your kind!’

  ‘What – what on earth do you mean, Clarissa?’

  ‘Mr Rees, Madam. We’ve all seen how you moon over him,’ Clarissa hissed.

  ‘Mr Rees?’

  ‘Yes, Madam, he’s not for you.’

  Rose’s face dawned with comprehension. ‘I see. Well, you ought to be careful there, Clarissa.’ In spite of herself, she added, ‘Having already got yourself in trouble once.’

  ‘Well, I can’t imagine why you think Mr Rees would want you at all. I don’t see how you could be attractive to anyone.’ Clarissa tossed her shoulders. ‘What is your value? Nothing – all you can do is speak a dead language!’

  Rose hesitated before she responded. She didn’t know what she was doing, arguing with a girl, meeting her on her own petty level – is this what she had been reduced to in just over two terms?

  Without another word Rose stood up, gripping her tray of half-eaten food. There were things she had to listen to, and things she didn’t. And today, she’d had quite enough of Clarissa’s company.

  But when Rose returned to her classroom she saw that beneath the arched window her ceramic owl had been smashed, its head cracked in two. The eyes were staring out in opposite directions, as deranged as the rest of the broken body scattered across the floor.

  She knew it hadn’t been the force from the window, unopened for a week. No, the cause was clear. Next to the owl’s broken shards was Rose’s piece of volcanic rock from Vesuvius. She looked at them both strangely, one of her treasured possessions having destroyed another so easily, and done by a third deliberate hand.

  Bending down, Rose rearranged a cracked piece of one eye so that it fit next to the other. She imagined that the round pair blinked at her once more. Athene’s wise symbol, and Rose’s daily companion. She left the mess on the floor as her loss cleaved at her chest.

  On the way to her classroom, she’d
received news from the secretaries that her mother was now bedbound, with the beginning symptoms of pneumonia – they were certain this time – although her vitals were apparently ticking along nicely. The doctor was optimistic about staving off the viral infection, but her mother was so weak that she wouldn’t be able to speak too long, or at all, on the phone. The cold steel that seemed to have replaced Rose’s heart sparked afresh with the information, but she only nodded at the secretaries, telling herself that at least she was due to see her mother for half-term in a few weeks.

  In the following days, Rose’s Lower Sixth didn’t notice the broken owl, nor did the burly Fourths, who suffered one of the more forbidding Maths teachers as an observer. Nessa had worn a frustrated grimace throughout Rose’s perfunctory lesson, turning back to the man every few minutes to check if he was still there. Freddie had given up her usual buoyancy and fidgeted instead; Rose even saw her check her watch once. At the end of the lesson the Maths teacher stood stiffly at the door as the girls filed out. Freddie gave a deadened, ‘Sorry, Sir,’ after deliberately hitting him with her bag, but Nessa hesitated.

  ‘Sir, I just need to ask Madam something. It’s a house matter.’

  The Maths teacher looked down the length of his nose.

  ‘Women’s problems,’ Nessa added.

  ‘All right, all right.’

  Rose stiffened as he ducked through the door, the last ebb of her energy following him out. She sat down in her chair.

  Daisy hung back, too. Rose looked at her strong profile, her black hair brushed back.

  ‘Madam,’ Nessa said urgently, ‘I wanted to ask you about my extra sessions and how we can continue them.’

  ‘I can’t continue them, Nessa.’ Rose was weary. ‘I’m in a disciplinary phase.’

  ‘Why, Madam?’ Freddie punched in. Rose hadn’t realised she was still in the classroom. She met Freddie’s gaze, but didn’t answer.

  ‘Please, Madam,’ Nessa continued. ‘The situation is really rather desperate for me, I really—’

  ‘Madam! Your owl!’ Daisy’s mouth was agape.

  The damage looked so much worse from here; the cruelty of the rock and its helpless victim lay exposed with all their jagged edges. Seeing it a second time made Rose prickle with distress as Nessa’s small face turned back to her teacher.

  ‘I can’t help you, Nessa. They won’t let me.’

  ‘But Madam—’

  ‘I can’t, all right?’ Rose’s voice was brittle.

  ‘Please, Madam,’ Freddie attempted. ‘I think we can find a way.’

  ‘What do you want from me? What is it?’ Rose gave each of them an excruciating look as she stood up. ‘Why are you always staying behind?’

  The three girls drew back; Daisy glanced at the other two worriedly.

  ‘What is it,’ Rose forced, ‘that you expect me to do?’

  ‘Madam, we—’ Freddie started.

  ‘No.’ Rose swung her gaze to the window and the blank white mist. ‘You’re all brainwashed. Don’t you realise that? You’re all … too far gone. I’m sorry.’ Rose choked out a horrible laugh as she once again surveyed her broken owl. ‘This place is a disgrace. It should be obliterated. It needs to be burned to the fucking ground. Just leave me alone. I can’t help any of you. I’m sorry.’

  The three girls stared back at Rose. If they’d said anything at all, she couldn’t remember it. She would only remember the hurt on their faces, the searching bewilderment. Rose pushed past them, storming out of the room before they could see her own drawn, devastated face.

  The next day, Rose avoided her classroom and her office any moment she wasn’t required in either, preferring to take refuge in a tall and concealing armchair near the common room fire.

  Just before lunch, Emma challenged Rose as she entered the Classics office and streamed straight towards her desk. ‘Did you come up here alone?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rose answered.

  ‘You’d better not get caught out. Any major flouting of the rules in your disciplinary phase and we’ll both be sorry …’

  Rose didn’t reply; she didn’t dare allow herself to consider what ‘being sorry’ might entail.

  ‘Anyhow,’ Emma frowned, ‘you’ve got a note. One of your Fourths delivered it – she said it’s from Anthony, apparently urgent.’

  Rose felt a sting of shame remembering her harsh words the day before; she hoped she hadn’t missed a visit from Nessa, Daisy or Freddie. She scrabbled to check the note.

  ‘He’s always had a bit of a thing for you, hasn’t he? And I can tell it’s reciprocated.’ Emma raised her eyebrows slyly. ‘I’m sure the Headmaster would approve.’

  Rose blinked with awkwardness and read the note.

  Hi Rose, please come to Rec 3 this period, there’s a few things I’d like to discuss if you’re free. Anthony.

  Rose dropped the note. ‘It’s for a meeting in the Rec classrooms. I can’t go back there.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Rose.’ Emma sat at her desk. ‘It’s midday, anyway. And it’s Anthony Rees. You’re in no danger there. You won’t even need accompanying.’

  Rose lifted the note again; it seemed such an odd request. Checking the clock, she left the office. She moved down the stairs on tiptoe, anxious with every step, hearing the distant laughter of the girls.

  The door to the Rec corridor wasn’t locked this time, and the passageway was better lit than she remembered, thankfully without that powdery stench of incense.

  Rose paused. She could hear something: a dark sound, hollow and deep. She turned her head. There was a short, rough grunt and she followed it. Yes, it was coming from the door nearest her, a few footsteps away. Drawn like a magnet, Rose moved closer. There was a regulated panting and a soft cry of pleasure. Two sounds now, with parallel tones.

  The door opened in front of her. This was no cover lesson, no professional meeting. The two lovers were at the far corner, leaning strangely on the narrow windowsill, the red walls sweating on either side. The connected pair didn’t see Rose, whose heart hammered with the same rhythm as their movements. She gasped.

  They stopped, poised at the end of a thrust. The girl caught Rose’s gaze with a move of her head.

  ‘Oh Madam, you got my note?’ Clarissa said deliciously, a sheen of sweat across her forehead, a lock of auburn curls slick against her neck. She had one hand gripping the man’s sandy hair, and the other clamped across his shoulder. Her white knees were wrapped around his waist. Rose was too shocked to move.

  Clarissa shifted her eyes to address her lover. ‘There, Sir, now she’s seen us, you can stop pretending to like her.’

  The man’s head turned and Rose saw what she already knew. Anthony’s face, twisted back, was distorted with a peculiar mix of horror and relief. Clarissa gave him a damp kiss on the cheek as he stared at Rose.

  Rose lowered her face, hot with shame; she blinked, but still she could see the ugly tableau of the two figures locked in their jerky embrace, like rutting animals caught in mutual desire.

  ‘I can’t –’ Anthony turned back to bow his head into Clarissa’s shoulder.

  ‘Can’t what?’ Clarissa kissed Anthony hard on the mouth to reawaken him. ‘You can, Sir, and you will.’ She rocked him back and forward with the grip of her knees.

  Rose somehow moved her feet away. She hurried down the corridor, choking on the hot sweetness of their deed, trying not to hear Anthony’s agonised clamour. She ran as fast as she could, slamming the door to the passageway behind her.

  MEDUSA

  excipit unus

  ex numero procerum quaerens, cur sola sororum

  gesserit alternis inmixtos crinibus angues.

  [ …] ’clarissima forma

  multorumque fuit spes invidiosa procorum

  illa: neque in tota conspectior ulla capillis

  pars fuit. inven
i, qui se vidisse referret.

  Next one of the many princes was asking why Medusa, the only one of her sisters, had snakes entwining her hair … ‘She was once the most beautiful, and the enviable aspiration of many suitors. Of all her beauties none was more admired than her hair: I once met a man who recalled having seen her.’

  (Ovid’s Metamorphoses IV. 791–793/795–798, written AD8)

  Not many people think about the origins of Medusa when they hear her name – we tend to imagine her only as the Gorgon monster: those bulging eyes, that swirling snake hair, her head neatly severed. But her story is one of cruelty, for she was a victim before she became a monster.

  Medusa was a famous beauty. As a young woman, her face caught the eye of Poseidon, who ravaged her while she visited Athene’s temple. Athene was outraged, and turned her face away. As a punishment for Medusa’s dishonour, and for soiling her sanctuary, the goddess did her worst. She trapped young Medusa in a cave on the island of Sarpedon, twisting her beauty and transforming her into a gorgon monster, with living venomous snakes on her head to replace her cascading locks, and a gaze that turned any who looked at her to stone.

  Many years later the hero Perseus was challenged to kill Medusa – the now famous and greatly feared Gorgon. Many gods sought to help him in his quest, even the goddess Athene gifted Perseus a mirrored shield to avoid Medusa’s powerful eyes. Using the reflection, he cowered from Medusa, steadying his blade as she moved past. At the right moment, he sliced off her head with his sword. That was her end.

  After his triumph, Perseus used Medusa’s head as a weapon, thanks to her stone-casting stare. He later gifted his prize to Athene, and she placed it on her shield thereafter. As what – a defence against evil, or proof of victory over a monster she herself created?

  There was little Medusa could have done to avoid being tossed about for the sport of others. There are some who call her the ultimate example of a wronged woman. Was there a frightened woman trapped inside the monster, or did her soul roll away with the turn of her eyes?