Another reflection appeared in the mirror – another white face to match her own: Molly Fletcher.
‘Are you … all right?’
‘Go away.’ Celandine found that she could speak. Her voice was shaky, but she could speak. She continued to look at the mirror, watching as Molly cautiously drew a little closer.
‘I’m sorry, truly I am. We all are.’
‘Are you? You will be. And don’t you dare come near me!’
‘How’s Ninky – did she … did she say anything?’ Molly shrank back again, wringing her hands, uncertain.
Celandine turned her head, and looked at Molly directly.
‘No, she didn’t say anything, Fletcher. She’s unconscious – she couldn’t say anything. She might be dying, for all you know. She might even be dead. What did you do to her? What did you do?’
‘Oh … oh God …’ Molly began to cry. ‘We didn’t mean to … we didn’t think she’d … oh God. She jumped. We … we made her walk the plank – they did. I said no. They were making her walk the plank. On the diving board. It was just a joke. But she jumped.’
Celandine snatched her hands from the basin, sending gouts of water splattering heavily to the floor. Molly turned and ran from the echoing washroom.
The dormitory was silent as Celandine entered. She stood at the threshold for a moment and looked around. Most of the girls were in their nightgowns, just sitting on their beds. Molly Fletcher, closest to the door, was already in bed – hunched forward, face hidden against her drawn-up knees.
Mary Swann was in the far corner of the room, casually perched on the bar of her iron bedstead – one bare foot on the floor, the other resting on the cross-rail.
Nina’s bed stood empty, of course. It looked so neatly made and sad somehow, the tartan dressing gown carefully folded at the foot of the bed, that the sight of it made Celandine’s fury rise again. What cowards they were. What stupid, ugly … brainless … pig-faced …
The loud clack of her nailed heels echoed the rhythm of all the bad words she could think of as she strode down the length of linoleum between the rows of beds. Her swollen palms burned with outrage.
Mary Swann pushed herself upright from her bedstead. She folded her arms, defensively, as Celandine came storming towards her.
‘Don’t you touch me, you little savage …’ she muttered – then louder, beginning to panic; ‘I’m warning you, Howard! You’d better not touch me …’
Celandine marched straight up to her, holding Mary’s eyes with her own, not allowing them to be diverted for a moment. She knew exactly what she was going to do. Without losing a single beat of the rhythm that pounded through her, she raised her right foot high at the final stride and stamped her booted heel down as hard as she could onto Mary’s bare toes. A quick step back, in order to brace herself, and she hurled herself forward again, straight-armed, and shoved the big girl in the chest with all the force that raged within her. Mary Swann shot backwards, tumbled straight over the bedstead and bounced sideways – hitting her head against the distempered wall with a dull thump.
Mary howled in agony and rolled over, clutching frantically at her foot as Celandine swung herself around the bedstead and grabbed a fistful of hair. She began shaking Mary’s head from side to side, as a terrier might shake a rat.
‘’Ware Bulldog! Bulldog!’ Celandine caught a glimpse, even through her red fury, of Molly Fletcher wildly signalling from her position by the door. ‘Bulldog!’
Miss Belvedere was coming. Celandine’s own sore hands were a reminder to her of what that meant, and it brought her back to her senses. She did not want another interview with the house-mistress. With a last twisting wrench of Mary’s hair, she finally let go. Her footsteps, as she walked back up through the room, were quite inaudible now for the shrieking behind her.
She reached her own bed just as Miss Belvedere sailed through the door.
‘What is the meaning of this appalling noise?’ The house-mistress put her hands on her hips and stared in disbelief towards the writhing figure of Mary Swann.
‘You girl! You down there! Cease that infernal screeching immediately!’ Miss Belvedere quickly walked down through the room and stood by Mary’s bed.
‘Are you deaf, child? Stop this thrashing about!’
Celandine tried to calm her breathing. She wiped her damp hands on her tunic. A wisp of dark hair and a few grey flakes of distemper floated to the ground. It occurred to her that she ought to get herself undressed whilst Miss Belvedere’s attention was elsewhere. She quickly opened her locker drawer and took out her nightgown – all the time keeping a watchful eye on what was happening at the end of the room.
Mary was still holding her foot and rocking backwards and forwards in pain, but she was merely sobbing now, no longer screaming.
‘Now then.’ Miss Belvedere’s voice dropped to a tone of weary patience. ‘Perhaps you can tell me what the trouble is. Quietly if possible. Reasonably, if you are capable of reason.’
‘She … she …’ Mary was still struggling to control her sobs. Her intake of breath came in short painful gulps. She shook her head, unable to continue.
‘She – she …?’ Miss Belvedere’s prompting was unsympathetic. ‘But who – who? And what – what?’
Celandine straightened her nightgown, and tied the drawstring ribbon in a bow at her neck. Should she bother taking her boots off? It was apparent that Mary was going to tell all as soon as she was capable of speech, and that would mean another walk down to the staffroom. Well, she didn’t care. It was worth it – and Mary would be in far more trouble than she, once the truth was out.
‘Now let us try again,’ said Miss Belvedere. ‘What has been going on here?’
‘She …’ Mary looked towards Celandine, then hesitated. She glanced around at her friends, then looked at Celandine again. Finally, she dropped her head. ‘I … I …’
‘Ah,’ said Miss Belvedere. ‘It’s “I – I” now, is it? And what did “I – I” do?’
‘I … stubbed my toes. On the bedstead.’
Celandine sat down, and began to pull off her boots.
Miss Belvedere stood with her hand on the electric light switch. The expression on her slab-like face, never cheerful, was particularly grim this night.
‘You will all be aware that a very serious incident has occurred in this school – as serious as any that I have had occasion to deal with during my time here. I have just returned from the sanatorium, where I have talked with both Matron and Doctor Nichols, and the news is not good. Nina Jessop is breathing, apparently, but has yet to regain consciousness. She appears to be most severely concussed. It is too early to say what the outcome will be.’
Miss Belvedere’s gaze fell on Nina’s empty bed, then shifted towards Celandine.
‘I am in no way convinced that I have got to the bottom of this. Such information as I have so far received has been inadequate to say the least. If there is a culprit here … or culprits … or if anybody has any knowledge of this matter at all, then they would do well to come forward now. Does anybody wish to say anything?’
Miss Belvedere looked slowly around the hushed dormitory, taking time to study every face. Eventually her eye fell upon Celandine once more, and remained there.
‘Very well. But please don’t imagine that you have heard the last of this. I strongly suspect that somebody in this dormitory is in a very great deal of trouble – and if so, I shall find them out. I’d like you to think about that. Goodnight, Hardy.’
‘Goodnight, Miss Belvedere.’ The faintest whisper of a reply, and the room fell dark.
Celandine lay on her back in the gloom and listened to the creaks and shuffles of those around her. She would not be the only one who would find it hard to sleep tonight, and that was some comfort. The palms of her hands burned and throbbed, and she clenched them tight as she remembered how she had dealt with Mary Swann. She wondered whether that would be the end of it, or whether there would be more trouble to come –
and decided that she no longer cared.
The sound of muffled sobbing was coming from one of the beds opposite. Molly Fletcher, probably. It was Molly who had told her where Nina was. It was also Molly who had warned her of Miss Belvedere’s approach. Molly had betrayed Mary Swann – and the rest of her tribe. No wonder she was crying. What would happen to her now?
But more importantly than any of this, what was happening to Nina? How could she just lie here, doing nothing, whilst Nina lay unconscious in the san? She couldn’t. Visitors were only allowed into the san during the hour between afternoon lessons and tea. She couldn’t wait that long for news. She had to see Nina for herself, somehow, and help in any way that she could.
Go now – after lights-out? Was that what she was intending to do? Was she? Celandine began to test the idea, to rehearse the journey in her imagination. Put on her dressing gown and slippers and creep over to the door. Make sure that the Bulldog was not still lurking in the corridor outside. Tiptoe past Wyndham dormitory and down the main staircase. Go to the front door … no, that was too close to Miss Craven’s study. Perhaps the back door would be better. Yes, past the downstairs washrooms and up the short flight of steps to the back entrance. Unlock the door …
An hour later she finally sat up and forced herself to make a decision. Molly’s whimpering had ceased. Others might still be awake, but then they might be awake all night. Now would be as good a time as any – if she really dared do it.
It wasn’t until the cold and damp of the night air hit her that Celandine realized she had forgotten to put on her dressing gown – the very first stage of her plan. She gently pulled the heavy arched door towards her, closing it as quietly as she could, and shivered. It had been horribly creepy, tiptoeing alone through the panelled corridors and down the unlit stairwell. Every creak and tick of the settling building had startled her as though it had been a whip-crack, every draught of air through a loose casement had felt like a passing ghost.
Outside was little better. It was cold. The earlier mist had blown away and a damp drizzly breeze folded itself around Celandine’s hunched shoulders. Her hands still ached and now her head was beginning to ache also. She didn’t feel well. But she had come this far and she would not turn back.
The pathway to the san was bordered by high foliage on either side. Shadowy fronds of rhododendron reached lazily out towards her, like clumsy fingers, and the rustling of nameless creatures in the undergrowth made her catch her breath. This was a feeling she had not rehearsed.
Celandine was surprised to see light in one or two of the sanatorium windows, a faint glow. Did that mean someone was awake? She began to wonder how she would ever find Nina without perhaps accidentally finding Matron first.
The glass-fronted door to the porch, at least, was unlocked. Celandine hesitated for a moment, then crept quietly in. A tiny light glowed from a gas-mantle. It was enough to illuminate the porch – the rubber boots, the walking stick, the mackintosh that hung upon the wall.
Celandine gently turned the brass handle of the front door and pushed. It was open!
The surgery was on the right of the hallway that she now found herself in. She knew that much. She also knew that Matron lived on the premises – upstairs perhaps? If that was the case, then the other downstairs rooms could be sick wards.
This was worse, much worse, than creeping through the school itself. This was like being a burglar. Celandine told herself that she was here to find Nina, not to commit a crime. And if she was caught then perhaps she could simply say that she felt sick – something that was not so very far from the truth.
She could see that there were two more doors – one on the left, and one at the end of the passage. Celandine reached for the handle of the first door, but then changed her mind. There was something about the other door, the one at the end of the passageway, which made her think it the more likely one. There was no telling why – it was just an instinct, and she crept towards it.
The handle turned easily and the hinge was smooth and silent. Celandine peeped into the room. Here too there was a soft glow of light, another mantle turned down low, and she immediately saw that the room was occupied. A bed stood in the near corner, and there was a sleeping child in it. The girl lay with fists clenched and arms flung out, as though she was running a race. Her face was familiar, but it was not Nina’s face. Tiny Lewis? Yes, Tiny Lewis. One of the second-formers, probably down with a cold.
Her instinct had been wrong, then. Celandine began to close the door, but then realized that there was a second bed at the far end of the room. It was partly hidden behind a folding screen. Was that her? She moved forward, so that she could see around the angle of the screen. Yes, that was Nina.
There was a canvas chair next to the bed – one of the tubular-framed ones that were sometimes used for school concerts. A tumbler of water stood on the bedside cabinet, and against the glass was propped a pale blue envelope, a letter, addressed to Nina. The water was apparently untouched, and the letter unopened. It didn’t look as though Nina had yet regained consciousness. Celandine sat on the chair, put her hands between her knees, and tried to control her shivering.
They had bandaged Nina’s head. It was very neatly done, the broad strips of white gauze criss-crossing perfectly, like a diagram from a textbook. And the pillow and bedclothes were smooth and unrumpled – further indication that Nina had not moved during the hours that she had lain there. She was motionless now, lying flat on her back, as still as a waxwork. Celandine leaned closer. The very slightest rise and fall of the starched cotton sheet, tucked so tightly across the thin shoulders, reassured her that Nina was actually alive and breathing.
‘Nina,’ she whispered. ‘Can you hear me?’
No response. Not a flicker. Celandine glanced beyond the folding screen at the sleeping figure of Tiny Lewis, whose tousled hair and sprawling pose seemed so full of life and energy by comparison.
Gingerly she put out her hand as if to touch the bandaged head of her friend, but then thought better of it. Nina looked so pale and vulnerable. She would not disturb her. Instead she held her palm uncertainly for a moment above the neat bindings, before slowly withdrawing it.
Curious, though, the brief sensation of heat that she had felt in that moment: as if her outstretched fingers had passed through a wisp of steam. Had she imagined it? Celandine considered for a while longer, before hesitantly extending her hand once more, allowing it to hover just above Nina’s forehead.
A tingling sensation in her palm – it was definitely there – but then it was probably just a reaction from the beating she had taken. That must be the reason. Celandine closed her eyes and slowly moved her hand from side to side, surprised at how the feeling strengthened and faded accordingly, and yet she did not find it alarming. It was peaceful to just sit in silence, to let the turmoil of this day recede. Her thoughts began to drift, as though she were upon the edge of sleep, and she gradually let her consciousness float where it would.
She was looking down into the darkness. A pool of darkness it was – a pit, an ocean, a millpond, black with leaf-mould. It was an unhappy place. There was pain down there. The darkness itself was a concentration of pain, and she could feel herself being drawn towards it. No, it was the other way round; the pain was being drawn upwards to meet her, a ragged cloud of swirling substance, attracted to her outstretched hand …
Stop – this was too strange a feeling. Celandine briefly opened her eyes, became aware once more of her surroundings. The quiet room was still there and she was still sitting next to Nina, with her hand steadily resting above the bandages. Nothing had changed, except that now her heart began to beat a little faster. Had she momentarily fallen asleep? She felt woozy, uncertain.
Again she allowed her eyes to close, and this time she ventured a little further into the darkness. Nina’s pain, that was what she could feel. Her hand was resting above Nina’s head, and she could feel the pain in there – the inky cloud that reached out towards her and sucke
d at her palm. It clung to her, greedily attached itself, thick as road-tar, sticky as the cobwebs that festooned the corners of Mill Farm’s dusty stables. If she withdrew her hand, then the pain would come with it. She would somehow bring the pain from its dark hiding place, draw it upwards and into the light, set it free. Could she?
The thought frightened her. Her heart was beating so fast now that it hurt, and her shoulders trembled. A trickle of perspiration ran down onto one of her eyelids and she half blinked it away, catching a sparkled glimpse of the room around her as she did so. She was still here, and all she had to do was bring her hand back, if she could only find the strength.
It seemed so heavy. The dead weight of it sapped at her fading energy. She reached out with her other hand, in order to grasp the wrist of the first, to drag it back, to gradually reel in that long tangle of confusion, waterlogged, from the silent depths.
Up it came then, in one twisted mass, a skein of pain, a monstrous catch. As she lifted her aching hands, the thing unfolded itself before her imagination; a creature of oilskin, a bat-winged sail, a tattered tarpaulin that covered her in its circling shadow before drifting away. Far and away it spun, whirling up into the heavens, around and around, until it became no more than a leaf upon the wind. One among many. It was gone.
Celandine let her hands fall back into her lap, dizzily conscious once more of her own being. She didn’t feel at all well. For a long time she sat with her eyes closed, waiting for her beating heart to subside, waiting for everything to be normal again. She tried stretching her neck from side to side, but this made her dizzier than ever, and she was frightened that she was going to be sick. Slowly she opened her eyes. Tiny Lewis was staring at her, propped up on one elbow in her bed, a look of outright astonishment on her small white face.
‘Hallo.’ Nina’s voice, faint and distant. ‘How long have you been there?’
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