Relatively Strange

by Marilyn Messik

  “Hallo,” she said aloud, a low voice, surprising from such a small frame, “We bumped into each other earlier didn’t we?” I sat mute, sweaty and gawping.

  “You were waiting your turn at some tests.” she reminded me politely and, with fizzy lemon-sherbet recognition, came a familiar irritable snap in my head.

  “Answer me – aloud. Now!”

  “Ah yes,” I said, nodding my head up and down. Turning to Merry with a slight smile, she answered the unasked question,

  “Soap,” she said, “This young lady uses my favourite, Morny, Lily of the Valley, I’d recognise it anywhere. Right?” She raised an eyebrow in my direction, I continued to nod, then realised belatedly she couldn’t see.

  “Yes, yes, that’s right. My mum always buys it.” I had not the faintest idea what soap we used, but if she said it was Morny, then Morny was fine with me.

  “You had a bit of a funny turn – feeling OK now?” she asked,

  “Yes, thank you.” like a nodding toy dog in the back of a car on a bumpy road I was having a terrible problem with my head.

  “Good,” she said and made to move on. Miss Merry, grasped her arm and asked a soft question, her eyes on me and I saw the woman shake her head and shrug. Miss Merry said something else, sharply and from where I was sitting I could see white indentations where her nails were digging into the flesh she held. For a moment the younger woman was still, then gently but firmly she lifted the spitefully restraining hand from her arm, “No, I’m sorry.” She said, “Nothing.” And she moved on.

  Baffled, but emboldened and, as fright receded, dangerously nosy, I reached out tentatively and was slapped down hard, a sharp mental cuff round the ear.

  “Scat.”

  “One question?”

  “Quickly.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Glory Isaacs.”

  “No, I meant …”

  “I know what you meant.”

  “You work with them? I thought … I don’t understand. Why?”

  “Go home, forget about today.”

  “But …”

  “I said shut it.”

  “Right.”

  Shadowed by Merry, Glory continued her deliberate circumnavigation of the room, once or twice she stopped and spoke to people but I didn’t think it was politic to stare. When I looked up again she was at the door. I saw her shake her head firmly in answer to more questions and then she turned to go. She couldn’t see the expression on the face of the lovely Miss M. – but maybe she knew anyway. They say the eyes are the windows of the soul, for a moment as Merry turned back to the room those eyes met mine and I felt an atavistic shiver run all the way up my spine and lodge jarringly in the back of my head. This was one lady not to be on the wrong side of and unless I was mistaken, that’s exactly where I was and I certainly didn’t need any special powers to tell me that in the Merry popularity stakes, Glory wasn’t lagging far behind.

  After the drama of preceding events, the rest of that day was anti-climactic, even though about twenty of us were kept behind after two of the coaches and the majority of children had left. We were required to do a further hour-long session of what they called Rorschach Tests, which involved looking at splodges and saying what they looked like. I studiously followed the earlier-given advice, kept my answers random and ignored the images being broadcast by the members of staff with whom we were working. Despite this, I didn’t relax, even a little, until we late-stayers were finally given the go ahead to clamber wearily on to the last coach and head back to London. We would be informed by letter which of us, if any, had been picked to continue.

  Chapter Fourteen

  There returned from Newcombe an infinitely wiser, more cautiously subdued person. Everything had suddenly moved on to a different and altogether more serious level. Grandma’s pronouncements suddenly didn’t seem quite so paranoid and my parents saw all their vague fears coalesce into clearly identifiable threat.

  “Work harder at pretending, sweetheart.” my mother demanded again and again, “Keep telling yourself you can’t do … things and after a while, perhaps you won’t be able to.”

  And I did try. After all, I wasn’t stupid. At home there was a radical change of regime and foibles, tolerated over the years, were now banned completely. The phrase ‘Hands, darling, hands.’ became part and parcel of our lives and I woke on several occasions, sweaty from nightmare scenarios featuring slick-soled Merry, the unctuous Doctor and small animals blasted bloodily apart. Two weeks after my return, to our relief, a letter arrived informing my parents that regrettably I was not one of the pupils selected to continue on to the next stage and we blessed Glory, whoever she was, whatever her motivation.

  Fright engendered by the Newcombe experience lingered, reinforcing the value of tight control. But raging hormones and the ups and downs of early teenage angst don’t lend themselves to restraint. As I reached adolescence, all hell seemed to break loose. Looking back, I’m filled anew with admiration and wonder at the way my family coped, unperturbed by temper tantrums but, as always, concerned about how much might be revealed.

  When I’d just turned thirteen, Dawn was seven with, it seemed, the sole aim in life of making mine a misery. One day a bicker grew into a row which escalated into a fight. My mother hot-footing into the room to haul us apart, as usual, blamed me – I was older, more responsible. Hot, bothered, scarlet faced, chest aching where my sister had punched me – I turned away in high dudgeon. It wasn’t fair, she’d started it. I could feel the rise of frustration and anger. Beyond my control? Probably not at that exact point but heading there fast without any argument from me. Two books flew off my bedside table, and thwunked heavily against the far wall.

  “Stop that, right now.” ordered my mother. A china ornament, one of my favourites – a little bit of martyrdom creeping in maybe, rose and smashed oh so satisfyingly against the opposite wall.

  “Stella.” a rising note of alarm, “Enough now, you’ve made your point.” The light in the centre of the ceiling began to sway, at first gently then faster, my mother and sister looked apprehensively upwards.

  I started to cry. Not sad, simply constipated with crossness and frustration and all the feelings that come with being thirteen and sorely misunderstood. Events suddenly took off of their own accord and I temporarily, and not unwillingly, mislaid the off-button. My bedside table heaved ponderously sideways sliding alarm clock, lamp and glass of water in leisurely fashion to the floor, while a large framed poster of Sean Connery ripped sharply away from the wall to swamp the cat just emerging from a favoured position beneath my bed. Dawn, shrieking with fear-fed outrage rushed to the rescue. Connery was shaken but not stirred, unlike the cat who was patently both. Things were well and truly out of control now and what was coming out was unstoppably on its way. Around and above all three of us, crouched now in the middle of the room, swirled ever-faster, pictures, books, clothes, pillows and finally and ignominiously the cat.

  I honestly didn’t think I could stop until I saw the sharp end of the broken china Dresden lady slam sharply into Dawn’s forehead. With the welling of blood and the expressions of horror on the faces of my mother and sister, I remembered the Russian girl I’d seen and what she could do. I was suddenly appalled beyond words. I’d never for one moment in all the years imagined this thing could move beyond my ability to control, become almost a separate entity. The indisputable fact that it could, was a salutary lesson that maybe I had to learn the hard way.

  I made myself an Angry Box which had, in an earlier incarnation held Quality Street but now became the repository of so much more. I worked desperately hard at analysing and focusing. I had no real terms of reference but knew I had to recognise and haul back those high-voltage surges I could haul back, and channel safely to a specific point, those I couldn’t. The box lies today, dented and scarred with frustrations and failures, at the back of my wardrobe, an ever-lasting reminder of and testimony to the values of self-discipline.

>   Chapter Fifteen

  I’d passed my eleven-plus exam with flying colours, a rewarding combination in differing ratios of my ability and Elizabeth’s brains and had moved on to St. Margaret’s County Grammar School for Girls. In the smaller, safe environment of Junior School I’d had an assured place in the hierarchy. In this new establishment I was a somewhat nervous small fish in stiffly unyielding, brand new winter uniform, clambering daily on to the bus and heading to a vastly larger pond. In my form there was no one from my previous school and I was, frankly, unsure whether there was best friend material there at all – certainly not another Elizabeth.

  For a while, things looked bleak. Everything was big and intimidating; miles of beige linoleumed corridors which confusingly all looked the same; new routines; more regulations than you could shake a fist at and a constant balance to be maintained on the horns of my own personal dilemma. I certainly knew by then the rules I had to abide by. On the other hand, I was what I was and it was no more possible for me to switch off some things than it was for others to emulate them. There were times though when I was so much more than thankful for my talents.

  *

  Once a week we had Art which stretched, God help us, over three, forty-minute periods. The two art mistresses Mrs Burrell and Miss Rawn had fiery tempers, fearsome reputations for artistic eccentricity and were spoken of in the hushed tones usually reserved for triple axe-murderers. First weekers, lined up outside the art studio for our inaugural session with Mrs Burrell, beneath regulation green overalls, several sizes too large to allow for future growth, stomachs were a-churning and knees were a-knocking.

  For full ten minutes after the 9.30 bell had tolled and no need to ask for whom, we waited in quivering anticipation. At 9.40 the studio door was flung wide with enough force to hit the wall, where missing plaster chunks testified to previous impacts. In a once-upon-a-time-white now grey and paint-splattered smock, towered Mrs Burrell. Her head was haloed by bright, upstanding hennaed hair and two pairs of glasses, suspended by knotted shoelaces, bounced uneasily on the mobile shelf of her unfettered bosom.

  “Well?” she barked. We all jumped, as one.

  “What in hell’s teeth are you playing at eh? eh?” Twenty eight pairs of eyes widened. No one spoke, no one shuffled and I suspect several of us tried to stop breathing for a while.

  “You sad, sorry lot, just how bloody long were you going to stand there like cows waiting for milking? You,” A nicotine-stained finger shot under the nose of Helen Schlieman, whose misfortune it was to be at the front of the queue. “Was there a little something you might have done?” Even from where I stood, halfway down the petrified line, it was obvious that all logical thought, let alone power of speech had temporarily deserted poor Helen. She opened and shut her mouth a couple of times but nothing was ready, or willing, to come out.

  “My sainted Aunt Fanny!” Mrs B. smote herself dramatically on the forehead, raked her hair to even more upstandingness, stalked further down the line and fixed another hapless victim with a basilisk stare.

  “Well?” she yelled, “Have you not got the wit God gave you. What should you have done?”

  “N-N-N-knock?” ventured one bright and brave soul.

  “No, no, no, no. You don’t knock. YOU. COME. IN! It’s on your timetable isn’t it? It’s your lesson isn’t it? Now for what little time we’ve got left – move!!” Miserably, trampling each other’s heels in our haste, we crowded into the enormous sky-lighted room and stood, huddled together for protection.

  “Well, don’t just stand there stargazing. Find yourselves a donkey.” A donkey? We stared desperately at each other, mutual incomprehension merging with blind panic. The woman was totally mad, certifiable, no doubt about it.

  “A donkey, a donkey.” shrieked the lunatic Burrell, stamping first one sturdily shod foot then the other. “You.” with one demonic bound, she was before me, I nearly wet myself before I realised she was addressing my neighbour – still, too close for comfort.

  “You girl, blondie, what’s a donkey?” In desperation, if ever a bit of extra help was needed it was now, I scanned and knew. Alongside me Sylvia Witters was making a despairing start.

  “Well it’s got four legs and …” I nudged her sharply and she followed my glance to the paint-splattered, wooden combined seats and easels around the perimeter of the room.

  “One of those?” she said pointing doubtfully.

  “Well, thank you, Thank you very much. Now everyone go and sit on one. No, not you.” She’d reached out and secured my arm in a vice-like grip, “Since you’re such a clever puss you can be our model today.”

  In her welcoming speech our new Headmistress, Miss Frearsome, a lady, making up with undeniable and unbendable authority what she lacked in inches – the only time I ever saw her disconcerted was when a camel spat in her eye once on a zoo outing – had informed us our schooldays would be the best of our lives. Sitting for an hour and a half, too terrified to so much as twitch and draped in dusty velvet with a laurel wreath on my head, wax grapes in one hand and anchoring a jug, achingly on my shoulder with the other, I was inclined to think differently.

  *

  Like anyone, I craved popularity at school, and of course it wasn’t hard for me to say the right things. I gained a reputation for being sensitive and intuitive and friends always said I gave good advice, although this was usually because I knew what it was they wanted to hear. In any institution however, there are always those whose main source of entertainment is making someone else’s life a misery. There was a group of four third formers, tall, cruelly supercilious and universally feared by anyone younger and smaller and not a few older and larger. And within the school and its surroundings, there were plenty of unobserved areas, in which head honcho Tina Braun and her coterie could be found on most days, giving someone grief.

  Peripherally aware of them and their activities I happened to be passing the games store one day and heard the unmistakeable, shrill tone of Tina B, amidst much laughter. I knew if Tina and Co were having fun, odds were, somebody else wasn’t. I won’t pretend I leapt in there ready to defend the weak and vanquish the wicked but as I walked past, my mind already on other things, I caught a mental whiff that made me acutely uncomfortable. A musky excitement; feral pleasure multiplied by the several minds concentrating – very unsavoury. Almost against my will, after all it wasn’t my fight, I pushed open the door. In the gloomy, sweat and rubber-scented interior of the large hut used to store rounders and tennis equipment, the gang were in full swing and were delighted to see me. Someone come to stick her nose in – what could be more fun than that?

  The wretched girl they’d cornered, pale face blotched and tearful was in my form. Linda, a nervous person with a habit of rubbing her thumbs frenziedly together when called upon to speak in lessons, as if hoping to produce a spark, physically if not mentally. She was struggling to recover the contents of her school bag which had been strewn around the floor of the shed. Her relief washed over me as I stood there, she saw another victim too, but at least someone to divert some of the attention. I moved forward to pick up one of the exercise books from the floor. Tina moved at the same instant, placed her foot on the open page and ground down triumphantly.

  “Oooh, seems to be ever so stuck.” she announced. Hysteria rocked the ranks – that Tina was a wit all right, no doubt about it. I ignored her, stooped for another book. Quick as you like the foot descended again. This time she also caught the tip of my finger, it hurt. I straightened up, annoyed, this was silly.

  “Haven’t you got anything better to do?” I asked.

  Tina and cronies could hardly believe their ears, or their luck – first-formers didn’t talk back, they did as they were told, made it snappy and were scared. This was way too good to be true.

  Phillipa, another jewel in the crown of the school, sauntered over and turning sideways used her not insubstantial hip to give me a hefty shove that made me stagger. Linda, who’d been unobtrusively backing towa
rds the door, found her exit blocked by a blonde bombshell called Shona. Linda started to cry again and I got fed up. I visualised an ants’ nest we’d had outside the back door last Summer. I remembered clearly how it looked when they swarmed one day in July, a heaving, scuttling black mass, silvered by newly grown wings. It took just a second or two to assemble the picture fully in my mind and then I opened up to Tina. The effect was gratifyingly instantaneous, unexpectedly contagious and truly educational. Tina shrieked loudly and commenced a strange little jig, brushing and slapping desperately at herself. I’d supplied the visuals, it seemed Tina’s imagination and fear was supplying the rest.

  Whilst the other three had no idea what could possibly be causing Tina such sudden grief, the general consensus seemed to be if she was that scared, she knew something they didn’t and they also started shrieking and hopping, it was all rather lively. I helped a baffled, still snivelling Linda retrieve the rest of her books, no interference now – everyone seemed to be otherwise occupied and we left. I felt more than a bit pious and I’d like to say that such a salutary experience reformed my chums in the third form. Sadly that wasn’t the case and although they never troubled me again, poor Linda became the focus of their ire for almost an entire term and short of attaching myself to her permanently, there was little I could do to help. I wondered, guiltily and often whether, without my interference they’d have simply teased, bullied and then moved on.