‘Sorry, Miss Belvedere. I was … I was watching the dog. Your dog, I mean. I don’t think it’s very well.’
‘My dog?’ Miss Belvedere turned briefly. The terrier had finally decided to go to its basket and was now ambling in that direction. It seemed content enough, all of a sudden.
‘Howard, if this is some ploy to distract my attention then I can assure you that I’m not so easily fooled. The dog is perfectly well, thank you very much – fit as a flea, in fact – and is in any case no concern of yours. School motto, if you please.’
‘Um … Venite filii, obedite mihi …’ The loud clatter of the Assembly bell suddenly filled the corridor outside, an urgent disorientating sound. Celandine could hardly hear herself speak. ‘Timorem domini … um …’
‘Come along girl! Timorem domini …’ Miss Belvedere had no difficulty in raising her own voice above the clamour of the bell.
‘Timorem domini … ego … ego vos docebo.’
‘Right. Well. We seem to have run out of time, and so that will have to do – for the moment. Off you go to Assembly. But remember, Howard, I may well decide to continue this little interview at a later date. I know something of your history, and I shall be keeping a very close eye on you. Go. Now then, Fletcher, let us see what you have learned about remaining in bed after lights out …’
Celandine hurried away – thankful that at least she had not been required to translate from the Latin. Stupid language. But anyway, she had survived. She joined the jostling stream of girls who were now making their way to Assembly, and wondered at her own sad certainty about the little white terrier, Carol. The dog was dying. Why on earth did she think that?
‘It should be the duty of all Mount Pleasant girls to follow the progress of Great Britain and her allies in the war against Germany and Austro-Hungary. Where there are men fighting on our behalf, our prayers shall accompany them. In mind and spirit we are at their side, and there we shall remain until the enemy is overthrown.’
Miss Craven stepped aside from the Big School lectern and grasped the lapels of her long black gown. The rest of the staff stood in a row behind her, silhouetted against the tall stained-glass window.
‘Naturally I shall keep you informed as to events. Today’s news is that the British army has crossed the Marne and the Germans are in retreat as a consequence. Yes – we may allow ourselves a brief murmur of approval and relief, but this does not mean that the war is over. There could be many more weeks of fighting to come before we are able to lay aside our arms. In the meantime you will be asking yourselves “What can we do, to help?” – and I shall tell you. Number one; minimize wastage …’
Miss Craven went on to list the ways in which materials could be saved, how she intended to set up extra sewing and knitting classes to provide the troops with socks and balaclavas, how it had been decided to exclude certain luxuries from the dinner menu. The use of hot water was now to be monitored and limited, and a correspondence was to be started, strictly regulated of course, in the form of a weekly newsletter to the local regiment – the Somersets – via the adjutant at Taunton barracks. This newsletter would bring uplifting thoughts of home to those who were battling abroad.
‘And finally, we must do all that we can to boycott German goods. We shall not be seen to be assisting the Hun economy. All items of German origin shall be confiscated – pens, jigsaws, pocket-watches, games equipment – and no more shall be purchased or used until further notice. Now let us pray.’
Celandine closed her eyes and put her hands together. A startling image appeared before her of the stained-glass window and the figures standing in front of it. It was like a photographic negative, the window-glass darkly clouded, the lead patterns and solid mullions picked out sharply in white. The motionless figures of the teachers were also shown up in white, a ghostly tableau.
The strange picture continued to float around the corners of her vision as Assembly came to an end and she shuffled off to first lesson, lost in the murmuring crowd.
*
Celandine spent most of that first week expecting some sort of blow to fall upon her. Mary Swann did not seem the type to simply let bygones be bygones, and revenge for the business with the lockers was surely on its way. In the classroom Celandine felt safe enough, but on the games field, or in the changing hut, and particularly in the dim echoing corridors between the washrooms and the dormitories, she was continually prepared for the worst.
Yet nothing happened. Mary and her group of followers acted as though she were invisible. They never spoke, never acknowledged her presence. Other girls, not of Mary’s set, ignored her less pointedly but kept their distance nevertheless, and treated her with extreme wariness whenever contact was unavoidable.
Nina Jessop was the only girl who would willingly talk to her, although Nina’s stammered half-sentences could hardly be called talking. Really, the girl was impossible – reddening like a strawberry at every question or remark. It was rare that Nina had any observation of her own to make, or any opinion to voice that was not extracted from her as though with a corkscrew. Her words were as carefully rationed as the Thursday night bath-water. And yet she could be stubborn, in her own shy way. She continued to deny all knowledge of how Celandine’s locker had come to be neatly and correctly packed, and no amount of public threatening from Mary Swann, or private cajoling from Celandine could shift her. ‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about’ was her unvarying, if blushing, response.
Mary Swann held herself back from outright physical assault, and eventually seemed to give up. Outwardly at least, she ignored both Nina and Celandine, and the others followed her example, but among her own set she began to take a slightly different tack. ‘What if Ninky’s telling the truth? I’ve heard some funny rumours, at home, about that Howard girl. They say she’s not normal. It’s very strange, isn’t it, how those things just moved from locker to locker, all by themselves. Like magic. Almost like black magic …’
Nobody was quite prepared to swallow this, but it gave them something to talk about.
On the second Saturday of term, exactly a week after she had arrived, Celandine was summoned to Miss Craven’s office. Miss Belvedere was also present, and together they made a formidable sight – the one seated, gaunt and pale, the other standing, buckled and belted in acres of Norfolk tweed.
‘Come and stand over here, Howard.’ Miss Craven looked sourly displeased. ‘I have some sad news to report – sad and disturbing. Miss Belvedere has suffered a loss.’
Celandine knew instantly what was coming, and her knowledge frightened her. It was the dog, Carol. She could feel her face begin to redden.
‘A most sudden loss, and I was very sorry to hear of it. Miss Belvedere’s terrier has unexpectedly passed away.’ The headmistress stared at Celandine for a few moments, the pale grey eyes unblinking, cold as a bird’s.
‘The news seems to agitate you, child. I am wondering – though it barely seems credible – whether you are implicated in some way.’
Implicated? What did that mean – involved? At fault?
‘N-no, Miss Craven – Miss Belvedere. How could it be my … anything do with me? How could it be my fault?’
‘Don’t question me, girl!’ Miss Craven brought her hand down flat on the leather-bound desk. ‘I’m asking you. Do you or do you not have any knowledge of this sad event?’
‘No, Miss Craven.’
‘And yet I am told that you remarked upon the dog’s ill health at a time when it was apparently quite well. How do you explain this expert diagnosis?’
‘I don’t know, Miss Craven. It … looked ill. I just knew.’
‘Nothing wrong with the animal at all, I can assure you, Miss Craven.’ Miss Belvedere’s booming voice filled the room. ‘It was perfectly fit – at that time.’
‘Thank you, Miss Belvedere. I shall take your word for it.’ Miss Craven leaned forward in her chair. ‘Well, Howard? Was this seemingly prior knowledge of yours a prediction? Or was it … a
threat?’
Celandine knew that her face must be burning red. She could feel the tingle of it right through her scalp.
‘No, Miss Craven, I honestly just thought that Miss Belvedere’s dog didn’t seem very well. And I never saw her again after that. I haven’t been near her. But I just knew. I … I don’t know how. I’m … I live on a farm, you see. That’s my home. I suppose I’m just used to seeing sick anim—’ The thought of Tobyjug came into her head, and her eyes welled up with tears. A great wave of homesickness suddenly swept over her, choking her, drowning her, and she longed to be in her own room, in her own bed, listening to the chink of the horses’ harnesses through the open window as the teams returned to the stableyard. She could say no more.
‘I see. Well you can spare us your tears, Howard, whether of guilt or of remorse. I can hardly think that they are tears of mourning, for an animal you saw but the once – according to your account. However, in the light of the veterinary surgeon’s report, and in the absence of any evidence to the contrary, we must accept that the animal suffered from some sort of heart ailment. Yet I still find it extremely suspicious that you somehow “just knew” about this illness, whereas the dog’s owner, Miss Belvedere, knew of no such thing. If this incident doesn’t smack of foul play, then it smacks of psychic mumbo-jumbo, neither of which will I tolerate in this school. I believe you capable of anything, Howard, and you’ve a long way to go before I am likely to revise that opinion. Is that understood? I hope so. Now you had better return to your lesson. And if you suffer from any further premonitions, you’d do well to keep them to yourself. It would be safer. Dismissed.’
*
‘She looks a bit like a witch, I must say.’ The lounging inhabitants of Tratt, the sixth-form study, regarded Celandine with mild interest as she stood on the mat just inside the door. Very comfortable they looked in their low cushioned chairs ranged around the cosy little fireplace. One of them was busy with a toasting fork and there was a sizeable pile of bread, sliced and ready, on a plate by the glowing hearth. A large heavy-framed mirror hung above the fireplace, and Celandine could see her own pale face reflected there as she stood in the doorway. The hair took her by surprise, as always.
‘Yes, it’s the hair, isn’t it?’ The cool eyes of the group continued to look her up and down, the neatly groomed heads tilted this way and that as they considered her.
‘Tell me, child,’ the girl with the toasting fork waved the thing lazily in her direction, an invitation to come closer, ‘do you read tea leaves, that sort of thing?’
‘Um … no.’
Celandine was aware of a slight rustle behind her, and in the mirror she saw the reflection of another girl entering the room, bringing with her an atmosphere of newly-ironed starch, and faintly perfumed soap. It was Aberdeen, the Head Girl.
‘Hullo. What are you doing here?’ Aberdeen carried an armful of large books before her, and the title of the top one stared out like a red banner – Beethoven.
‘I … I don’t really know,’ said Celandine. ‘I was told to report here.’
‘Oh, we thought we’d better have a look at her, Gillian, that’s all.’ One of the girls in the armchairs stifled a yawn. ‘This is the Witch – the kiddie that laid a curse on poor old Carol, you know, the Bulldog’s terrier. Ha ha! That’s rather good, isn’t it? The Bulldog’s terrier.’
‘Not something we should be joking about, though.’ Gillian Aberdeen walked over to a table and lowered her pile of books onto the brown velveteen cloth. ‘And in any case, I don’t believe it for a moment. Witches and curses, indeed. Right, that’s the last of the German books from the library. Now then.’ She turned to look at Celandine. ‘Howard, isn’t it? You’ve already been interviewed by Miss Craven, so I gather?’
The blue eyes of the Head Girl seemed tired, and there was a little worry-frown across her brow that looked as though it might be there permanently. Her appearance was immaculate – the pleated skirt crisply pressed, the long dark hair clipped firmly into place – but there was a distracted air about her, as though she had too many things to think about.
‘Yes. I had to go and see Miss Craven this morning, during lessons.’
‘Well, in that case I see no reason for you to be here. Help me with these books some of you, for goodness’ sake – there’s simply a ton of them to find a home for. And we’ve all these pens and things to sort through.’
‘Purged of all evil German influences, are we? What a lot of nonsense this whole business is. As if we didn’t have enough to do.’ One or two of the fireside-loungers began to stir themselves, grumbling.
‘It isn’t nonsense at all.’ Aberdeen sounded cross. ‘We must help in whatever way we can.’
‘Oh, you’re such a priss, Abbers. What possible difference can it make to the war whether Tiny Lewis in form 2b uses a German nib or a British one? I’ll bet the Kaiser’s not scouring Bavaria for pen nibs made in Sheffield …’
‘Is Bavaria part of Germany?’
‘Here you – Witch,’ the girl who knelt by the hearth spoke to Celandine, her toasting fork brandished like a demon’s trident in the fireside glow. ‘That’s all right. You can cut along now. But if you come up with any good curses to lay upon brutal house-mistresses, then let us know – do.’
Celandine wondered why they called her Witch. She wondered also whether she would ever be eighteen, and a prefect, and allowed the privilege of making toast whenever she felt like it. It seemed doubtful, somehow.
She backed towards the doorway but then stopped, to avoid colliding with yet another girl about to enter the room – a face at her shoulder, glimpsed in the mirror opposite. It was a face she had seen before, slightly freckled, not pretty exactly …
Celandine quickly turned, but there was nobody there. She stood staring at the empty doorway.
‘Yes, Howard? Was there something?’ Aberdeen was speaking to her.
‘Um … no, Aberdeen. Nothing.’
‘Off you go, then.’
Celandine closed the sixth-form study door behind her and walked slowly back down the echoing stairwell.
She later assumed that the rumours of her supernatural powers had been started by Molly Fletcher. Molly had been present in the staffroom when the incident with the dog had occurred. But though she began to hear the word ‘Witch’ being whispered behind her back, nothing was said to her face, and most of her peers continued to ignore her.
Celandine was therefore glad of Nina’s company. Whenever some activity required that girls be split into pairs – walking to church, dancing lessons, nature trips – it was a comfort not to be left standing alone. Celandine realized, with a jolt of sudden sympathy, that standing alone must so often have been Nina’s lot before her own arrival at the school.
They lived a curious half-life, the two of them, thrown together by circumstance rather than choice, part of the teeming crowd of bodies that moved through the relentless routines of bed, lessons, meals and bed again – yet as separate from that crowd as the poor Siamese twins that floated in formaldehyde on the chemistry lab shelf.
Gradually they learned to understand one another and become friends. Beneath Nina’s stammering shyness lay a quiet resilience that Celandine couldn’t help but admire, a quality much better suited to this imprisonment than her own unpredictable temper, she felt. And Nina, so mistrustful of any offer of friendship lest it should suddenly be withdrawn, slowly allowed herself to accept that Celandine would not drop her the minute it became convenient to do so. Together they managed to survive the lonely weeks, outcasts though they were, without feeling too miserable.
As half term approached, Celandine was shocked to discover that Nina would be remaining in school for the holiday.
‘My parents are in India,’ said Nina. ‘I’ve nowhere else to go. Other girls stay as well, so I’m not the only one, you see – and I’ve done it lots of times.’
But Celandine said that she was sure nobody would mind if Nina came back to Mill Farm with her, and
so asked permission of her mother in her fortnightly letter home. It wasn’t until permission had been given that Celandine realized, with a pang of disappointment, what Nina’s presence at Mill Farm would mean; there would be no possibility of any visits to Howard’s Hill, and all her plans to do so would have to be postponed. She would not be able to go and see Fin, or any of the little people.
The little people. How far away and impossible and dreamlike that world seemed to her now.
Chapter Nine
AS IT HAPPENED, the weather over half term was so appalling that Celandine doubted whether she would have ventured as far as Howard’s Hill in any case. The October rain swept across the wetlands and hurled itself against the rattling panes of the farmhouse, seeping in below the window frames and forming little puddles on the sills. The girls traced their names in wet fingermarks upon the painted wood and looked despondently out at the stableyard, now awash with mud and sodden straw.
They played endless games of Old Maid, and Nine Men’s Morris, read to each other from Aesop’s Fables – taking it in turns to invent the silliest of morals they could think of – and picked out the tunes from Freddie’s book of Campfire Songs on the piano in the parlour. Freddie would not be coming home for half term, which was another blow. He was apparently going off somewhere with a school friend instead.
Once, during a fleeting break in the weather, Nina looked up at the dark hump of Howard’s Hill and said, ‘What’s that place? It looks very mysterious, don’t you think?’ And Celandine, more to relieve the tedium than anything else, came very close to telling all. How Nina’s watery eyes would widen in astonishment if only she knew just how mysterious ‘that place’ really was. Yet it wasn’t so much the breaking of her vow that made Celandine hold her tongue, rather that she had almost ceased to believe the whole fantastic story herself. How ridiculous it seemed, that there could be a whole other world up there. At any rate, she simply said, ‘Yes, I’ve always thought so too,’ and dealt another hand of Old Maid.
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