The Wives of Bath

by Susan Swan

  “I second that, Mrs. Peddie. Heartily.”

  “Although I daresay a few of you will go on to make your mark on the world,” Mrs. Peddie said. She didn’t look at us. Instead she smiled girlishly at Canon Quinn and heaved herself onto the edge of her desk. She was wearing one of her infamous sweaters pulled tight over the shelf of her enormous bosom. “Perhaps right before our eyes sits a famous composer?” (Oh, it’s not me, I thought, but Ismay Thom.) “Or a doctor of divinity.” Mrs. Peddie was suddenly looking in my direction. She often caught my eye in class, hoping I’d answer a question. I never did because she said we didn’t know what we thought about something until we could put it into words and I was dead sure she was wrong about that although I couldn’t exactly say why. That morning I smiled back at her even though I wasn’t interested in something so finky. Not for a second.

  “I will read a little about the history of our school, and then our visitor for today has a few words to say to you. You should know that our former principal, Miss Higgs, was engaged once herself.” (There were a lot of gasps from us girls, and Mrs. Peddie giggled too.) “So she was very partial to husbands. Of course, she could never remember the names of her girls’ husbands. But let me quote to you the words of the school historian: ‘Miss Higgs felt it was wrong that girls should look forward to marriage as their only possibility in life.’ ” And here Tory’s father shifted uncomfortably, moving his clasped hands off the desk and onto his chest. “ ‘She desired to see every woman equipped, if the need arose, to maintain herself in dignity …’ ” Mrs. Peddie began to swing her ankle up and down—as if she thought she was our age—right under Canon Quinn’s nose. He regarded Mrs. Peddie thoughtfully. “ ‘Each of you has some particular gift of your own’—Miss Higgs wrote—‘which can be pressed into service for human betterment while at the same time permitting a small allowance for the unfortunate woman in question.’

  “Which, I trust, in good faith, did not happen often,” Canon Quinn added.

  Mrs. Peddie wheeled about, her thick leg still swinging, her lower lip wobbling. “I fear it happened more often than we’d like to think, Bruno.”

  “Oh.” The Canon stared down at his clasped hands. By now his two index fingers were waving like batons, and he looked as if he were seeing Mrs. Peddie at a great distance. His passivity surprised me. I expected him to sneer at her for flirting with him, maybe push her off the desk. I wanted him to fulfill the promise of his nerve-wracking eyebrows. But he did nothing of the sort. He just sat there the way he did in prayers, looking out the window, his index fingers oscillating. So I began to read the English essay Paulie had given me to check over. Mrs. Peddie had asked us to write a speech by a famous person in history. This is what Paulie wrote:

  Guess Who

  I am the star of a movie you all saw. You know it’s me because I don’t wear clothes and I beat my chest every time I see a pretty little blond. I love blonds. There is a real nice blond who goes to a girls school I know. Tory Quinn is her name, my name is (wouldn’t you like to know). I love T.Q.

  I can roar louder than Tarzan. Do you know who I am yet? Yesterday I went to Tory’s school while she was playing field hockey. I caused a sensation. A bad woman had knocked Tory down—a real bad woman. So I beat my chest and ran out to where my favourite blond lay dead as a doornail.

  I kneed the creep who did the dirty work right where it hurts and then ran to my Tory.

  Her cute little pink face was white as a ghost! So I picked her up and carried her up to the top of the school. My hairy feet climbed the outside of the tower with no problems. When I got to the top, I saw they had got the fire engine after me. It was like the battle with the fighter planes at the top of the Empire State building all over again.

  The little red men put their ladders up against the tower and started to yell dirty words at me. So I pushed over the first one and the second and the third but they only brought in more trucks with more ladders. So I kissed my poor little Victoria good-bye and then I beat my chest to show I wasn’t scared. Me, King Kong, scared of measily humans? Now you know who I am. Then I jumped—hairy feet first. Good-bye cruel world. Good-bye you bunch of suckers.

  I could hardly believe my eyes. I read it twice, and then I wrote a reply.

  Dear Paulie,

  I think you have a great imagination! If only I could think up ideas like that! It will make Ismay Thom green with envy. Seriously, though, I did notice a few errors with spelling. “Blonds” should be es because it’s females you’re talking about, and “measily” is spelt “measly.” Also, “measly” is slang, which Mrs. Peddie won’t like.

  In fact, I think Mrs. Peddie may have a few objections. Maybe you should read the essay Ismay wrote for her on why civilization depends on good manners (or mine about the joys of gluttony. You know how we stay behind on Thursdays to eat the leftover jellos! The only dessert that won’t make us fat.). Ismay’s essay is a little long (11 pages), but it has a lot of adjectives and adverbs, which Mrs. Peddie likes. For instance, how about—I am a tall magnificent creature who stands on the edge of the parapet, a fierce glassy stare in my proud eyes … my noble furred arms hanging slackly at my side …? (It would be nice to feel sorry for King Kong, you see.) Also, I think you should leave Tory out. Mrs. Peddie doesn’t like personal references in an essay. Thank you for doing me the honour of showing me your writing. I personally consider John F. Kennedy to be my ideal man, but there are things to be said in favour of King Kong.

  Your roommate and friend,

  Mouse

  I saw a shadow on the page. I looked up, and who was standing there but Mrs. Peddie herself. She didn’t say anything; she just picked up Paulie’s essay and walked away, leaving me to wait for the axe to fall.

  15

  I sat in a hushed classroom at a slanted desk with black cast-iron sides, painting my nails with Tropical Dawn. All around me girls read their books or looked out the window toward the ravine, where the orange-red maples and yellow beeches shimmered in the watery afternoon sunlight. Then, from far down the corridor, I heard a rhythmic pounding so faint I paid no attention. Behind me, one of my studymates started slapping the top of her desk. A moment later, all the girls were slapping their desks with their palms, like oarmasters in the movie Spartacus beating time for the slaves who rowed old Roman galleys. And now, just as quickly as it had started, the noise of the girls’ hands died away. I looked up and found myself staring right into the Virgin’s eyes. The desk slapping, which imitated the sound of the Virgin’s footfalls, had been a warning that everybody except me understood. The Virgin pointed to the nail polish on my desk and beckoned to me. I couldn’t move. My legs had turned to water, the way you find yourself in dreams, when you try to run and can’t.

  Angrily, the Virgin flung open our study door.

  “Mary Beatrice, may I see you in my office, please?” I stood up and went out without looking at anybody.

  The Virgin sat down behind her desk and I stood, trying hard to settle my face into a remorseful expression. She cleared her throat awkwardly, as if she was trying to cover up a moment of nervousness, and brought out a piece of paper. I recognized the handwriting on the paper as that of Mrs. Peddie’s. Suddenly, the Virgin whipped off her half-moon reading glasses and sighed.

  “Now, Mary Beatrice. I see here you have a few gatings from the boarding school. Putting nail polish on during study. Going to the bathroom against Miss Phillips’s wishes. Being late for morning inspection. Do you really think I should be cross over things as silly as this?”

  The Virgin rested her chin in her hand and gazed at me as if we were sharing a confidence. I began to stutter. I didn’t like to think I was unreasonable.

  “I guess those are silly things to do,” I said.

  “Yes, yes!” the Virgin said. “I know you have more common sense.”

  Now the Virgin brought out Paulie’s essay and my reply. “Don’t you think passing notes in Mrs. Peddie’s class is a silly thing to do?” The Virgin
read softly: “Dear Paulie.…” I began to perspire.

  “You don’t have to read it. I know what it says,” I said.

  “It’s very interesting what you said about Paulie having a good imagination, Mary Beatrice. I think you’re quite right.” She chuckled and looked at me as if I should chuckle, too, and I managed a twittery nervous sound. “You know, of course, that Pauline is a very troubled girl? The staff—well, I’m sure you’ve noticed the troubles they have with her.”

  “I guess it’s hard when you don’t have a real mother,” I said, and then wished I hadn’t given myself away like that.

  “Paulie has a real mother,” the Virgin said. “She just isn’t able to cope with Paulie. She’s in a mental institution.” The Virgin sat back and looked out the window. She suddenly seemed very sad. “Let’s talk about something else for a moment, shall we? Mrs. Peddie says you are very well read but you don’t speak in her class. Why is that?”

  “She thinks we don’t know what we think until we can say it.”

  “Yes, that’s a challenge, isn’t it?” The Virgin paused. “Of course, Mrs. Peddie and I differ about the nature of knowledge. Speech is an intellectual tool, and we know some things intuitively without being able to put them into words. Spiritual knowledge, for instance. But you write well, Mary Beatrice, so you will soon learn to speak well too. I understand you have written a very good essay on Pride and Prejudice. Personally, I prefer Charlotte Brontë to Jane Austen. Do you know what Charlotte said when a critic told her she should write like Jane?”

  I shook my head no. “ ‘Miss Austen is shrewd and observant, but she cannot be great because she is without poetry.’ ” Miss Vaughan smiled cozily, as if she and I were just girls together. “ ‘One sees there only a highly cultivated garden but no open country.’ No open country. Isn’t that wonderful, Mary?” I couldn’t answer.

  The Virgin stood up. She put her hand on my shoulder and smiled graciously. “Any friendship you can show Paulie will help. However, all this aside, I am afraid, Mary Beatrice, I am still forced to give you an orderly mark.”

  I felt lightheaded. Mouse Bradford has a black mark! Mouse Bradford is in disgrace! And I thought I was a coward, a scaredy-cat who lived in dread of rule breaking and punishments? Well, now Paulie would respect me. I lowered my head and waited to receive the wrath of the Virgin. Instead, she nodded cheerfully.

  “There’s no point saying any more to a bright girl like you, Mary Beatrice. I’ll expect sensible behaviour in the future.” She paused and dropped her sulky voice to an even more whispery whisper. “The staff want me to send Paulie back to Ridgeley House, but she’s better off here with us. Will you be my scout and keep an eye on her for me?”

  Without knowing how I got there, I found myself in the hall, where Paulie stood at the front of a line of girls that wound all the way down the stairs outside the Virgin’s office into the junior school. These girls looked me over, as if checking for physical signs that the Virgin had manhandled me, and then went back to their anxious whispering. Paulie wouldn’t look my way. I guessed she suspected me of spinning incriminating tales about her. Behind me, I heard the Virgin step out of her office and whisper in the bullying tone she reserved for the janitors or any girl who resisted her logic, “In here, Paulie. At once.”

  When the door to her office closed, I began to clump off down the long winding corridor as fast as my heavy old oxymorons would take me.

  16

  The Virgin gave an orderly mark to Paulie and then issued a strange order: Paulie was to walk off her frustrations with the school every evening after study. And I was to go with her. The Virgin said the exercise would help my legs get stronger.

  I felt shy about walking with Paulie. I was sure she wished some other girl had been chosen. The first night, we set off in silence toward the ravine. We walked past the grove of camperdown elms, whose twisted branchlets hung down like witches’ fists. I knew from English class that Sir Jonathon had also planted Chinese junipers in the grove, golden yews, English oaks, and eight types of willow, including the cricket-bat willows, whose wood is the best for making cricket bats. Mrs. Peddie made us memorize the names of trees and plants so we would be able to refer to flora and fauna as expertly as the British novelists we studied. She sounded so earnest, I thought it was impossible to be a writer unless you could reel off the names of all the flowering deciduous trees, know which tree was the only deciduous pine in the world (the larch), and know how to treat the sting of a blackthorn bush (rub it with the leaf of a burdock). At the edge of the grounds, Paulie finally stopped.

  “I don’t know what you told the Virgin, and I don’t care. But you’re not going to get anything out of me,” Paulie said.

  “All right,” I said.

  Paulie pressed her face into the wire mesh of the ravine fence, like a convict gazing at the outside world. “Did she make you promise anything?”

  “She said my detentions were for silly things and that I should be more careful next time. She said—” I stopped, flustered. “She said I should let her know if you did anything strange.” My big ears felt hot. “But I won’t, Paulie. Honest.”

  “I bet,” Paulie said. “Well, I’m not going to fucking tell you if I do do something strange.”

  “All right,” I said.

  “All right? All right! Is that all you know how to say, Bradford?”

  I hung my head in shame. I was in awe of her fierceness, and frightened of it, too. She seemed so much older and bigger than me. She must have realized by then that I was no threat, because I heard her sigh, and we walked on along the top of the ravine without talking. The ground was beginning to feel slippery from fallen leaves. Above our heads a light burned in the tower where Miss Phillips stood behind her curtain watching us.

  For the first week, we hardly talked. I took Paulie at her word and walked with her silently, watching her kick out at the shiny chestnuts that littered the school lawns. I wore my school sweater—the green one with the crest on the breast pocket—and the scarf that Sal had knit for me. Paulie wore nothing but the kilt and blouse we were allowed to wear after the school day was over. Often we stood at the edge of the grounds and stared through the fence at the ravine. Sergeant kept the holes patched, so there was no easy way off the grounds except by climbing the fence. I wondered if I could escape from the school by digging a hole under it, the way World War Two prisoners had escaped from Stalag 17. Once I was over on the other side and into the woods, the Virgin and her army of matrons could search and search, but they’d never find me.

  One night, as we stood near the ravine, a fog rolled in from the lake. It swallowed up the ravine and the clock tower of Kings College to the south. I stared back in the direction of the school, searching for the bright pane of Miss Phillips’s window. I saw only foggy bits of lawn and a shape rising in the gloom like a dark ship. When I turned around again, Paulie was gone. I began to walk quickly in the direction we’d just come from, calling her name.

  The mist kept filling up the school grounds, like the moist breath of a giant. Here where I stood, the ivy ran over the floor of the grove like a ground cover and then up the south trunks of the ravine’s elm trees, where the plant was sheltered from the coldest winds. A few minutes passed. I called Paulie’s name again. No sign of her. I turned to go, and there was Lewis sauntering toward me, clenching and unclenching his fists. He wore his old hunting hat, the chin strap dangling loose from one of the far side-flaps. And in the fog, his teeth sparkled and glistened like a werewolf’s. Get a grip, Mouse, I thought. This is the grounds boy. What do you think he’s going to do? Rape you? Down in the ravine, where nobody can see you—not even the Virgin. Who seemed as far away now as Morley in Madoc’s Landing.

  Lewis smiled and beckoned for me to go with him. I shook my head no.

  “Got the willies, have yuh?” He pointed to the darkest part of the ravine, toward the heating plant. “Paulie’s waiting for you over there. She asked me to get you.”

&nb
sp; “Paulie? You know where she is?” I asked.

  “Here—she asked me to give you this.” He handed me the large safety pin she used to do up her kilt.

  I took the pin and stared at it wonderingly. Perhaps Lewis had killed Paulie and now was going to do the same to me. He must have read my thoughts, because he patted my shoulder.

  “Come on,” he said. “Paulie told me you don’t have much time left on your walk.”

  It was true—only another eight minutes. Wordlessly I followed him down the path. He stopped at the old coal shed that stood behind the heating plant near the school fence. On the other side lay the ravine, which stirred with funny rustling noises I couldn’t identify. I listened for a moment. It was the wind in the ravine trees mixed with the soft whooshing sound of traffic on the highway bridge to the north. The whooshing sound rolled toward us like the roar of surf. Lewis called “Paulie—Paulie.” Nobody answered. Then he kicked open the door of the shed and went in to find her while I stood at the entrance shivering.

  I thought of going after Lewis and decided against it. I peered into a darkened room. A huge boiler sat in one corner, its door open so I could see a stack of firebricks inside. A creepy feeling came over me that Lewis was hiding in there. That he was not who he said he was. That he’d lied. I wanted to run back to the tower. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. When I turned around, Lewis was smiling at me, a cigarette drooping from his bottom lip. In the background, I heard the sound of whatever dilapidated machinery the Virgin used to heat her school. For a second, I felt irritated. Nobody used coal furnaces anymore: even the school in Madoc’s Landing had switched to oil. Now sharpen up, Mouse, I told myself. It doesn’t make sense to be thinking about a rundown furnace just now, when you’re about to get yourself killed. And then Lewis leaned so close I could smell the Brylcreem on his hair. He put his hand on the back of my head. I didn’t move; I was too frightened. He tilted my head back and stuck his tongue in my ear. His mouth stank of nicotine. I tottered back, waving my arms, and he grabbed me and held me close. He put his bony face right next to mine and hissed: “Bradford, don’t you know who I am?”