Charm School

by Anne Fine

  But just at that moment Mrs Opalene spoke up again.

  ‘So, dears. Back to all this time we have to spare, sitting with our elbows in our lemons. What are we going to do with it? Well, one quite brilliant idea is to make sure our feet are busy soaking in a bucket of perfumed water to soften all that nasty hard skin that gathers at the back of our poor heels!’

  Bonny looked round. No-one was sniggering. No-one was rolling their eyes. No-one was even making a face of mock astonishment. They were all diligently taking notes.

  Bonny turned round and set off determinedly for the back room.

  Better Miss Sparky than Miss Twink.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE SMALL BACK room looked like the cockpit of an airplane. There were switches everywhere. Switches to the right of her, switches to the left, and switches on the panel under the glass window through which she could see Mrs Opalene lecturing everyone on how to cope with all that nasty hard skin at the back of their heels.

  And watching her.

  Should she just sit there pretending? When Maura turned up, she could just say that she’d been looking for a phone or some water, and slip away.

  Or should she have a go? After all, Maura might be very late. Or she might even have forgotten she was supposed to be there at all.

  Bonny looked up. There on the panel right above her head was one big red master switch, labelled POWER.

  No point in being chicken, Bonny thought. She flicked it down. At once, a hundred lights began to blink at her, red, white and green.

  ‘Oh, excellent!’ she breathed. ‘Oh, yes! That’s power!’

  Taking the swivel seat, she whirled around. Best to get going. She might as well start with the panel in front of her. Just like any kitchen or toolshed, the things that were closest were probably the most useful.

  Choosing a switch, she slid it gently up its track. Instantly, from the loudspeaker on the wall behind, she heard Mrs Opalene’s voice, clear as a bell.

  ‘So I certainly hope I don’t have to remind anyone here—’

  Bonny slid up the next switch. Mrs Opalene’s voice turned deep and resonant. Almost booming.

  ‘—that they should never, ever miss the chance of putting slices of fresh cucumber—’

  Bonny slid the switch down again and pushed up the one on the other side. The voice went high and tinny.

  ‘—on their eyelids. It isn’t just refreshing—’

  So that was the bass and the treble sorted out. Bonny switched Mrs Opalene’s voice back to normal.

  ‘—it also makes the world of difference.’

  For heaven’s sake! thought Bonny. There it was again, that silly claim, ‘It makes the world of difference’. What was the matter with them all? Did they have maggots for brains? When did you ever bump into someone on the street, and think, Oh, look at those eyes! She must have been lying under cucumber slices? Distracted as she was by all the switches she was pushing up and down, still Bonny couldn’t help muttering sarcastically, ‘Oh, yes! Spit in my eye and then tell me it’s raining!’

  They heard it in there, she could tell. Everyone’s face swivelled to stare at her through the huge glass window.

  ‘Sorry!’ called Bonny, switching off the blinking light labelled SOUND OUT.

  She left SOUND IN still blinking.

  So, for all the embarrassment, at least that was one more of Maura’s little tricks under her belt. She turned to the buttons beside her. The first ones she pressed lit up the stage in dazzling circles.

  ‘Spotlights!’

  She tried more. This time, the whole front apron of the stage was bathed in a silver glow.

  ‘Floodlights,’ muttered Bonny.

  She pressed a few more buttons and watched as huge, spotty red and green explosions bounced off the drapes on each side of the stage. On the backcloth behind, a waterfall appeared from nowhere, rippling down to a pool of foaming water.

  ‘Special effects!’

  She looked down. Inside the boxes at her feet were discs of every colour. And stencils, too. Some were cut into shapes she recognized, like windows or trees, and others were just cut into the strangest patterns. She picked out two and stared at them, trying to imagine what they would look like cast up on the back of the stage, lit up and enormous.

  ‘Oh, yes! This one’s a snowstorm! And this one is clouds.’

  She was just peering through the next one – creepy forest branches? – when she was startled by a whisper from a loudspeaker overhead.

  ‘Oh, no! Oh, no!’ The voice was aghast. ‘I ate it! I just ate it!’

  Bonny spun round to look through the glass. Beside one of the microphones she must have left switched on, there were two latecomers she hadn’t noticed. They’d stopped to stare at one another in the middle of changing their shoes.

  ‘Oh, Cooki! You didn’t!’

  ‘I did, Lulu! One minute it was in my hand, and the next it was gone. I must have eaten it. I must.’

  Poor thing! thought Bonny, remembering all too clearly how she’d felt when Herbie Stott slid a dead ant into the icing on her fairy cake and didn’t tell her till she’d finished it. And when she’d gone to take the second bite of that apple Granny gave her, and saw the maggot hole – one swallow too late.

  Lulu was looking horrified. ‘You never ate the whole thing. Not the whole thing.’

  ‘I must have, without noticing.’

  ‘Cooki, how could you? They’re enormous. How could you not even notice you were gobbling a whole biscuit?’

  ‘I don’t know! I don’t know!’ Cooki was almost in tears.

  Bonny peered through the glass at this strange pair. A biscuit? How could you possibly get so upset about eating a biscuit? And if you went round acting as if scoffing one miserable biscuit was just about as terrible as eating your own granny, then how could you stand to have a name like Cooki? It would drive you mad.

  She could flick on the SOUND OUT switch, and ask. But Mrs Opalene was on to yet another handy hint.

  ‘So we never waste time at a bus stop! Wherever we are, it’s exercise, exercise! We could be pulling in our tummy muscles. We could be swirling our ankles round to keep them trim. We could even be doing little knee bends to work on those flabby thighs—’

  Bonny was baffled. None of the girls in the circle had thighs that looked any thicker than toast, and even Mrs Opalene was wearing such a gorgeous floaty skirt that no-one with a brain worth waking in the morning would waste time wondering about the legs it hid. Cupping her chin in her hands, Bonny gazed out through the glass. ‘Batty!’ she muttered to herself, shaking her head. ‘Totally batty, the whole lot of them.’

  She heard a voice behind her. ‘Well, that’s what happens to people who won’t eat properly. First they waste away. Then they go mad.’

  Bonny spun round. It was the tea boy again. He’d slid in silently and was putting two biscuits on a plate down on a ledge.

  ‘Maura’s mid-morning snack,’ he said, pointing. ‘Shall I leave you a couple as well, or are you—?’

  ‘Oh, goody!’ Bonny was already stretching out for the packet he was offering.

  ‘Well, look at you!’ the tea boy said admiringly. ‘Straight in the trough! I can see you won’t last all that long up here on Planet Snack-on-Air.’

  Bonny couldn’t help grinning. It wasn’t the most polite thing to say – straight in the trough! – but it did prove to her that there was at least one other person in the world who thought this place was Crazy Club.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Toby. Being the tea boy is my Saturday job.’ He sighed. ‘Though I hate it so much I could practically die.’

  ‘Why do you do it, then?’ Bonny asked curiously.

  ‘For the money, of course. I’m saving for a new violin.’ He sighed again, even more heavily. ‘Though sometimes I’m not sure it’s worth it, trailing up and down these corridors all day just to make the music I play sound a little bit better.’

  ‘It can’t be too bad,�
� Bonny pointed out. ‘Just dishing out the tea and biscuits.’

  ‘And wisdom,’ Toby pointed out. ‘Don’t forget wisdom. I can dish that out, too.’

  Bonny laughed, pointing through the glass. ‘If you’re so wise,’ she said, ‘then tell me this. What’s wrong with all of them? Why are they all the way they are?’

  ‘I blame Mrs Opalene,’ said Toby. ‘Her words fly in one ear, and all their brains fly out the other.’

  They both broke off to listen.

  ‘As good as poison!’ Mrs Opalene was warning everyone. ‘Just fat and chemicals in fancy wrappers!’

  ‘What is she on about now?’

  ‘Possibly the cheaper range of my biscuits,’ Toby admitted. ‘Or sweets and crisps. She’s got a bit of a thing about them.’

  ‘That’s not so odd. My mum and dad go on about them all the time.’

  ‘Oh, everyone gets that,’ said Toby. ‘But Mrs Opalene acts as if one sweetie will blacken and rot your insides, and one little chocolate bar will make you swell till you explode.’

  ‘And Lulu and Cooki act as if they believe her.’

  ‘They all do.’

  ‘I don’t know why,’ said Bonny. ‘After all, Mrs Opalene’s not exactly a beanpole herself. And she looks healthy enough.’

  ‘Yes,’ Toby agreed. ‘Plump and cosy-looking. And it suits her. So why she’s so determined to starve these poor followers of hers into staircase spindles, I really don’t know. But she never lets up. She’s like some mad general, always going on about the Great Food War. You listen.’

  He switched Mrs Opalene’s voice up till it filled the room.

  ‘So,’ boomed the exultant tones. ‘We’re going to make two precious lists. On one, we’re going to put all our Food Friends.’ Mrs Opalene beamed. ‘All those Handy Little Helpers to Happy Health. Like—?’

  She waited.

  ‘Raw vegetables!’

  ‘Grilled fish!’

  ‘Skimmed milk!’

  They were all clapping in delight.

  Mrs Opalene’s face darkened now, and her voice went sombre. ‘But on the other list, we’re going to put all our Food Enemies. All those horrible, fatty, worthless—’

  ‘Food Fiends!’

  Some of them were even hissing.

  ‘Chips!’

  ‘Chocolate!’

  ‘Fry-ups!’

  ‘Sweet drinks!’

  ‘Ice cream!’

  And, in a wail of misery from Cooki, ‘And horrible sneaky biscuits that creep up on you when you’re not even looking, and practically throw themselves into your mouth.’

  Bonny turned to the tea boy. ‘I hope it’s not catching.’

  He picked up the empty biscuit plate. ‘It looks as if you’ve been safe enough so far.’

  ‘Did I eat Maura’s as well? I am sorry,’ Bonny said. ‘I didn’t notice.’

  ‘That’s because you’re not yet under the spell. So just be careful. Block your ears till I come round again.’

  He left to go back to his trolley just as Mrs Opalene changed tack.

  ‘And now, dears,’ Bonny heard her saying. ‘We’re going to spend a bit of time practising our sitting.’

  Practising sitting! Bonny rolled her eyes. She hadn’t practised sitting since the last time she fell off her potty, and she wasn’t going to start again now. Switching Mrs Opalene’s voice down to a soft burble, she turned to the nearest big floor lamp and tried to work out which of the knobs made the beam of light blur and sharpen, and which faded it out slowly or snapped it off fast. She’d just learned how to slide the colour sheets in front of the light beam when the door flew open. It was the girl whose hair was a mass of midnight blue ribbons. From her hand trailed a white shawl spangled with crystals like sunlight glittering on a heap of snow.

  Coolly, she leaned against the doorway.

  ‘Is that seat you’re on comfy enough?’ she asked, pointing at Bonny’s swivel chair.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Bonny said, pleased someone cared. ‘Very comfy.’

  ‘It’s not too grubby?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There aren’t grease spots all over it?’ said the girl, concerned.

  ‘No, really. It’s fine.’

  ‘What about the draught? Is it messing up your hair?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Right,’ said the girl. ‘Hotch off, then. I’ll sit there.’

  Resisting the urge to shove this pushy visitor over backwards, Bonny said frostily, ‘Are these the sort of manners you’ve learned in Charm School? Because, if they are, maybe your mother should ask for her money back.’

  ‘And maybe yours should send you back where you came from.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ challenged Bonny. ‘And where’s that?’

  ‘Well, from the look of you,’ the girl said, ‘I’d say, The Land of No Style.’

  ‘Better,’ said Bonny icily, ‘than crawling here from The Land of No Manners.’

  The girl was pointing now. ‘You realize the pattern on that blouse looks like a skin disease?’

  ‘You obviously missed the class called Secrets of Flattery.’

  ‘That mop on the top of your head doesn’t even look like hair.’

  ‘And no-one could possibly mistake you for a nice person.’

  The girl let rip now. ‘Oh, go fry your face!’

  ‘Nosebleed!’ snapped Bonny.

  ‘Squirrelbrain!’

  ‘Superbrat!’

  ‘Oh, wonderful!’ Suddenly, to Bonny’s astonishment, the girl flung her arms wide, shut her eyes tight, and spun round merrily on her toes. ‘Oh, brilliant! That feels a whole lot better!’ Opening her eyes again, she stuck out her hand and gave Bonny a huge friendly smile. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Sorry about all that. But, really, it’s not easy to go round being charming all day. Sometimes you find you have to run away for a few minutes to let off steam.’

  ‘What?’ Bonny said, baffled. ‘Didn’t you mean any of it?’

  ‘Well, no. Not really,’ said the girl. ‘I mean, I quite like your blouse. And your hair looks perfectly normal.’ She looked a little wistful. ‘I suppose I wasn’t making it up about wanting to sit in the chair, though. I wouldn’t mind a little go on that. What’s your swivelling record?’

  ‘Four times round,’ Bonny admitted, getting off it. ‘Then it grinds to a halt.’

  ‘Have you tried winding it right down to base before you start?’

  ‘No,’ Bonny said. ‘I never thought.’

  The girl tossed her glittering shawl onto the ledge, out of the way, and together they peered under the chair. ‘No,’ she said sadly after a moment. ‘See? It’s got a sort of lock on it, to stop the seat base flying off the chassis.’

  ‘You seem to know an awful lot about swivel chairs.’

  ‘I know a lot about every sort of chair. Here in Charm School we spend an awful lot of time just sitting waiting.’

  ‘And then you go home to stick your elbows in lemon halves and sit and wait some more,’ Bonny couldn’t help pointing out.

  ‘Only because it really works!’ In her enthusiasm to twist her elbows round to show Bonny just how nicely they were bleached, the newcomer accidentally knocked a switch that set Mrs Opalene’s voice reverberating over and over through the tiny room.

  ‘Oh, brilliant!’ said Bonny. ‘You’ve found the echo for me!’

  Both of them listened. Through all the copycat repeats bouncing from the walls as they faded, they could still make out what Mrs Opalene was saying.

  ‘You are all beautiful! You owe it to the world to smile, smile, smile!’

  Smile! Smile! the walls reminded them. Smile! Smile! Smile! Smile!

  ‘I’d better get back.’ On hearing Mrs Opalene’s voice, Bonny’s beribboned visitor had lifted her head and straightened her back, and begun to point out her toes as if she were on the brink of dancing. Was this what Toby meant about falling under the spell, Bonny suddenly wondered. And she was sorry, because, until that moment,
she’d really been getting to like her cheerful new visitor. Quickly, before losing her to Mrs Opalene completely, she switched the voice burbling out of the loudspeaker down to softer than soft, and said, ‘Oh, please don’t go. Not till you’ve told me your name.’

  ‘I’m Araminta,’ the girl said in a voice so lilting it sounded as if she were about to burst into song. ‘But all my friends call me Minty.’

  ‘Minty?’

  The girl’s eyes widened. ‘Is there something wrong?’

  ‘No.’ Bonny was embarrassed. ‘I was just wondering why so many of you seem to be named after your enemies.’

  ‘Enemies?’ The girl shook her head. ‘I don’t believe I have any enem—’

  ‘Those Food Fiends,’ Bonny interrupted to explain. ‘Minty. Cooki. Candy. You’re all named after things you’re not supposed to eat.’

  ‘I’m hardly going to be called Carrot, am I?’ Araminta chortled. ‘Or Celery. Or Cucumber.’

  For the first time since she’d arrived in this strange new town, Bonny felt as if she were having the sort of conversation she used to have with her old friends. ‘You could be called Lettuce,’ she suggested. ‘That’s a name. Or—’

  But Mrs Opalene’s voice had raised itself above its own soft burbling. ‘Araminta! I hope you’re not wasting Miss Sparky’s time in there. How long can it take to explain what you want for one little song and dance routine? Don’t forget there are other girls waiting.’

  Araminta leaned over the microphone on Bonny’s panel. Bonny switched to Sound Out just long enough for her to coo, ‘Coming, Mrs Opalene.’ And when Araminta turned back, to Bonny’s disappointment it was obvious that she didn’t have any more time for friendly chatter. Her tone was now firm and businesslike.

  ‘Now, listen. I’m going to be a dancing snowflake so I’ll need a haze of glistening white with maybe a hint of blue to make it look even colder. And I’ll need snowflaky light spangles swirling around me, to match the crystals twinkling on my shawl. But don’t forget to keep my face in a warm spotlight or I’ll look so awful everyone will die of fright.’ She pointed through the glass. ‘I’ll go and stand where I’ll be, and you do a lighting test.’