by Hilary Wilde
‘Well?’ Craig Lambert asked impatiently. ‘You look surprised.’
She turned to stare at him. ‘I didn’t expect this. It’s so English!’
‘You sound disappointed. What’s wrong with looking English?’
‘Nothing, oh, nothing at all. It is beautiful, really marvellous,’ she said quickly, and meant it.
It was just that it was the opposite of what she had expected, which was absurd anyhow. What had her foolish impossible dream to do with a school of this size? Yet she still felt disappointed. Had she come nearly seven thousand miles from England just to live in an English house?
‘What a lovely lot of . . .’ she began enthusiastically.
‘Facilities for games? Yes, we watch our students’ health carefully and always make sure they can play their part in a social world. Here we expect the staff to help and play their part. Now, Miss Crane,’ Craig Lambert’s voice changed, became grave and almost stern, ‘I’m not always here. You must appreciate that Miss Tucker is always in charge and conform to her wishes. Is that clear? The staff you may find difficult at first. It’s inevitable in such a small confined community that adults of different nationalities will not always see eye to eye, but I must ask you to remain neutral as far as possible, since we have enough temperamental females here as it is.’
Megan coloured. Was that what he thought she was? A temperamental female?
‘Not to worry,’ he went on. ‘I feel I know you well enough to trust you to soon adjust yourself, taking your part in the social life of the school as well as passing on your very excellent talent as a dancer. One final point.’ His voice hardened. ‘Please remember that you are on the staff. Do you understand? No nonsense about sympathising with the students. You’re on the staff’s side. Understand?’
A little puzzled, she nodded. The car was drawing nearer the huge house that seemed to tower above them almost ominously. Was she going to be happy here? she wondered. She glanced quickly at Craig Lambert. But he was staring proudly up at the school, no doubt delighting in the fact that he had made it become what his grandfather would have liked.
His school. Craig Lambert’s school . . . that he was afraid some people were trying to destroy.
He turned to her. ‘When we arrive, I must leave you at once. The servants will show you your flat. I’ll send for you in about two hours’ time—that’ll give you time to wash and change before you meet Miss Tucker.’ Even as he spoke, the car stopped. He was out of the car immediately, striding up the wide white steps into the door that had been opened.
Megan sat alone. Never had she felt so alone before.
A tall, slender dark-skinned girl came to the car.
‘Would you this way please come?’ she said politely, leading the way into the tall hall with its curving staircase and huge oil paintings on the walls.
Megan followed her up the stairs, down a long corridor, then the girl opened the door, stepped back and gave what might resemble a very mild curtsey.
‘I hope it is all well,’ the girl said. ‘I am Odette. This is your flat.’
Slowly Megan walked in. First, there was a not-so-large but neither was it small, squarish room, brightly decorated with pale yellow walls, deep sea-green curtains that showed a wide open French door that led to a balcony. Megan was drawn immediately to the window and then stood there, hardly able to breathe, it was so beautiful.
She could look straight out over the garden to the Indian Ocean. How far away seemed the horizon, not a sign of a ship or even a fishing boat. When she turned, Odette had left her, so Megan explored on her own. The sitting-room had two armchairs, a desk, a small table and two chairs. Everything was very tidy and polished vigorously. The bedroom led out of the sitting-room and was narrow with a built-in wardrobe and a divan bed. Here again, the walls were pale yellow, the curtains and bedspread green. Out of the bedroom was a small bathroom with a shower and alongside it a tiny kitchen annexe, with a small electric cooker, refrigerator and dresser.
It was far nicer than she had dared to hope, Megan thought, as she wandered round. Her luggage was waiting for her. The air was hot but not too humid.
She began to unpack, frowning a little as she shook out the well-cut dresses of drip-dry material, some pale blue, others green or white. Miss Wilmot had taken her shopping. Part of the contract was that the school would supply what Craig Lambert called ‘uniform’. Megan thought he had evidently been shocked by her drab clothes, and she had felt furious with him for suggesting that she couldn’t buy her own clothes, or even choose them—but talking to Miss Wilmot had made Megan see it in a different light.
‘The staff must set an example of perfect taste and good dressing,’ Miss Wilmot had said gravely. ‘They must be up to date but definitely not avant-garde.’
‘How do the staff react? Or is it only me who’s being treated like this?’ Megan had asked, trying to hide her indignation.
Miss Wilmot’s horrified expression had been answer enough.
‘Of course not. I always advise the staff when they’re first engaged. Certainly a few are difficult, but most of them will accept the common sense of it. They are allowed to wear what they like when they go off duty, but not if they are still in the school. Only if they go into the town, for instance. Even then, there are limits.’
‘It sounds like a convent or a prison,’ Megan had found herself saying. ‘Do the staff really accept it.’
Miss Wilmot smiled coldly. ‘They don’t have to take the jobs, do they? It’s up to them. The salaries are high, the perks even greater. The school has a name to keep up, we can’t risk damaging it.’
Not that she should complain at all, Megan told herself, as she carefully hung up the clothes. Never in her life had she had such lovely well-cut dresses. There were even several evening dresses, for apparently the social life of the school was considered important. Miss Wilmot had shopped carefully, occasionally asking Megan if she liked the dress but more often consulting with the assistants and proving difficult to please.
Now, as Megan hastily showered and brushed her hair, twisting it round her head, leaving her slender neck exposed, she tried on a pale green dress. As she stared in the mirror at herself, she thought how grateful she should be. Never in her life had she dreamed of wearing a dress like this . . .
With her eyes watching the clock, because she mustn’t be late on this first day, Megan tried to work out to whom she should be grateful. Miss Wilmot for choosing such attractive clothes? Craig Lambert for footing the bill? Mrs Arbuthnot for finding her the job? Perhaps her father for turning her out, Megan thought sadly, for it still hurt . . . or should the thanks go back still farther? To Patrick for needing money so urgently that it had triggered off the whole . . . whole incident, if it could be so called.
A gentle tap on the door made Megan jump. It was Odette.
‘If Mademoiselle will follow me,’ she said politely.
A little nervous, Megan obeyed. Craig Lambert’s comments about the headmistress had not been exactly comforting: a fine woman but rather out of date, also Miss Tucker had come of a military family, hence very keen on discipline. He had even said he hoped she would be congenial—so it sounded as if he wasn’t too sure they would be . . .
Odette led the way back downstairs, down the lofty, cool hall to where it seemed to divide into various tributaries of corridors, leading away. She stopped outside a closed door, knocked, opened it and stood back.
‘Mademoiselle Crane,’ Odette said, then quietly left Megan and closed the door.
Megan stood just inside the room. She couldn’t believe her eyes, for there was an almost monastic simplicity about the room that was in complete reverse to what she had seen, so far, of the rest of the school. Severely white walls, white curtains, a broad walnut desk with a chair behind it, and an armchair. A shadow of someone standing by the window moved.
He turned. It was Craig Lambert.
Looking her up and down, he nodded. ‘Miss Wilmot has superb taste,’ he
said.
Flushing, Megan nodded. She couldn’t speak, she was so angry. In other words, she hadn’t superb taste? He was comparing her old-fashioned drab dress with this . . . this one that had cost probably twenty times as much as the dress Megan had worn and all she could afford.
‘Miss Tucker won’t be a moment. Sit down,’ Craig Lambert said curtly.
The cosiest, most comfortable-looking item in the room was the armchair that Megan sank into, facing the desk.
‘Well, how do you like your flat?’ There was a note of impatience in Craig Lambert’s voice. Was it because she hadn’t said a word so far? Megan wondered. Somehow she found her voice.
‘It’s lovely. It’s really lovely,’ she said.
He smiled. He smiled so rarely that it always startled her, for it completely altered his face. Normally it was so stern, almost as if carved in stone, but when he smiled, it was as if the skin, drawn taut over the bones, relaxed.
‘I’m glad you like it. No regrets?’ he asked, and then added: ‘So far.’
‘No, of course not,’ Megan said quickly. Why was he always hinting that she was going to regret it, that it wouldn’t all be roses and honey?
The door opened, Craig Lambert turned round promptly and Megan scrambled ungracefully to her feet.
Miss Tucker.
Megan saw a tall, thin woman dressed in a severely plain white jersey dress. She wore a crimson stone on a thin gold chain round her neck. She was not beautiful, yet in a way she had a fascinating face, for she had high cheekbones, and red hair. Really red hair, naturally red, Megan thought quickly, comparing it in her mind with Miss Wilmot’s, which was obviously dyed.
‘Welcome, Miss Crane.’ Miss Tucker came forward, holding out her hand, shaking Megan’s firmly, then releasing it. ‘I’m sorry you had to wait. Do sit down,’ she said, going behind the desk, then looking up at Craig Lambert.
‘There’s no need for you to be detained, Mr Lambert,’ Miss Tucker said coldly. ‘I think it would be wiser if we talked alone.’
He stood, feet apart, hands on his hips, and his eyes narrowed a little.
‘I agree entirely, Miss Tucker, but first I want to make a few things clear if you have no objection.’
‘Naturally I can have none,’ Miss Tucker said, even more coldly. ‘Would you care to sit down? I can get a chair.’ Her hand was on the bell on the desk, but Craig Lambert put up his hand.
‘Please don’t bother, Miss Tucker. I shall only be here a few moments.’
‘I see,’ Miss Tucker replied, quite obviously showing by her tone of voice that she didn’t, and had no intention of trying to see.
Megan, sitting silently, her hands moist with nervousness, was puzzled. Why this hostility between the headmistress and the owner of the school?
‘Well?’ Miss Tucker asked, the fingers of one hand drumming lightly on the desk.
Craig Lambert was not disturbed at all. He half-smiled before he began talking. ‘In the first place, Miss Tucker, I must warn you that Miss Crane suffers from an outsize inferiority complex . . .’
Megan caught her breath, feeling the colour surge through her cheeks. If they looked as red as they felt hot, she hated to think what she must look like. A boiled lobster, perhaps! How dared he! How could he be so cruel?
‘She will, of course, deny this,’ Craig Lambert continued, still looking with half-closed eyes at Megan. ‘She’s a fine dancer, one of the most natural I’ve ever seen. Unfortunately through her father’s inability to move without help, Miss Crane had to leave school early after her 0-levels and also give up her dancing, which was, I consider, a great loss to the world.
‘You may wonder, as she obviously does, why I went to a comparatively unknown school in Hastings to find a new dancing mistress. Actually I had been told by several people that the school had a good reputation. I must confess I’m rather tired of having entirely classical ballet dancing. I think dancing should interpret what the music means to you. Mrs Arbuthnot, who had instructed and then employed Miss Crane, allowed me to watch Miss Crane at work without her knowing it. As I think I’ve said, I was impressed. I liked the way she handled her pupils, too, and the way she behaved herself. I felt she would be an asset to the school.
‘It’s time we moved with the times.’ He smiled again as if at himself. ‘I think Miss Crane will satisfy us in every respect.’ He stood straight, glancing down at his hands for a moment. ‘I’m telling you this, Miss Tucker, because Miss Crane may come up against some hostility; it may be asserted that she’s not fully qualified because she had not taken the usual examinations. I say it’s time this was no longer considered necessary. I employed Miss Crane because I believe her to be an excellent dancer and teacher. I know that having asked you to support me in this, I can rely on you to give Miss Crane all the assistance required. That’s all. Thank you.’ He walked to the door and smiled at Megan. ‘Don’t look like a terrified rabbit, Miss Crane. I’m sure you’ll be happy here and I know Miss Tucker will help you. I can rely on her,’ he added, and left the room.
There was an uncomfortable silence as Megan stared at Miss Tucker. What had that all been about? she wondered unhappily. It was as if he had been cracking a whip, subtly threatening Miss Tucker . . . or, even worse, warning he would not tolerate any hostility shown towards Megan. Would there be hostility? Megan wondered anxiously.
‘Mr Lambert is right, Miss Crane,’ Miss Tucker said, her voice suddenly friendly. ‘Don’t look so frightened. I won’t eat you.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Megan felt the bright colour again which made it all worse. ‘I’m rather tired and . . . and Mr Lambert is right, I can’t help wondering if I’m capable of doing . . . I mean, I wasn’t trained as a teacher and . . .’
‘If Mr Lambert has seen you dance and listened to your methods of teaching, you can rest assured, Miss Crane, that you are capable of coping.’ Miss Tucker’s face creased into a smile. ‘Mr Lambert knows what he’s talking about and is a good judge of character.’
‘But why . . . what did he mean about . . . well . . .’ Megan hesitated, looking for the right words. ‘The hostility he talked of . . .’
‘Well, that is rather difficult.’ Miss Tucker stood up, moved to the window, drawing back the curtain a little so that both could see out of the window at the girls playing tennis. Miss Tucker turned round. ‘Unfortunately Mr Lambert dismissed our last dancing mistress for no apparent reason. Quite abruptly, too. I’m aware that he made it worth her while to go, but there was no doubt about it, she didn’t want to go. I’m afraid there’s a feeling here that she was . . .well . . .’
‘Erased?’ Megan found herself saying, then wished she hadn’t.
‘Erased?’ Miss Tucker repeated, a smile warming her face. ‘A good word, and appropriate. I’m afraid the staff resent this, they feel Miss Pointer was sacked in order to give you the job.’
‘But that’s absurd! He didn’t even know me.’ Impulsively Megan was on her feet, going to join Miss Tucker at the window. ‘When did he . . . when did Miss Pointer leave?’
‘Six weeks ago.’
‘Well, I wasn’t looking for a job then,’ Megan said. ‘Please believe me, Miss Tucker. It all happened so quickly about three weeks ago . . .’
‘Three weeks? Is that all? Suppose we sit down and you tell me just why you applied for the position, how you came to hear of it, and so on.’ Miss Tucker’s voice was kind so Megan went back to her chair quite happily.
‘It all began when . . .’ Megan stopped in time. She had been about to say when Patrick wrote, saying he needed money urgently, but instead she told Miss Tucker about the startling announcement made at the breakfast table.
‘When my father said he wanted to sell the house and go and live with Aunt Lily, I felt awful,’ Megan confessed. ‘I had thought Dad needed me and suddenly I was a burden, a nuisance, in his way. I was very upset, and when Mrs Arbuthnot—I worked for her—saw me she made me tell her. I said I didn’t know how I’d ever get a full-time job as
I wasn’t trained for anything, and then . . .’
‘Then . . . ?’ Miss Tucker leaned forward over the desk, her face thoughtful.
‘Then Mrs Arbuthnot told me that someone had visited her, asking if she could recommend anyone suitable for . . . for this job. Of course, believing I was tied down with Dad, she never thought of me and she had no one suitable and told him so, but this man—she didn’t even mention his name—gave her a phone number in case she ever should have someone suitable.’
‘So your Mrs Arbuthnot phoned him and he came to watch you, unseen by yourself? And then, I imagine, interviewed you?’
‘Yes. I was amazed, but,’ Megan smiled, ‘it was the answer to my prayer, because I was feeling desperate.’
‘It hasn’t taken long for you to get here?’
‘No. That was one of the conditions—that I had to come out at once. I couldn’t leave Dad, so we sorted out everything, sold our furniture, though Dad took quite a lot down to Dorset— that’s where Aunt Lily lives—and the house is up for sale. Dad went straight down to Dorset as soon as he could and Miss Wilmot . . .’
‘Supervised the purchase of your wardrobe,’ Miss Tucker said dryly. ‘Did you mind?’
Megan bit her lip. ‘In a way, yes. In another way, no. I’ve never been able to afford such clothes. I was angry at first, I thought it was . . . well, suggesting I couldn’t afford to buy good clothes or had any good sense, but Miss Wilmot made everything plain.’
‘She would,’ Miss Tucker said dryly. That was another surprise to Megan. So Miss Tucker didn’t like Miss Wilmot either? ‘It must have been chaotic—with the house to clear up, clothes to buy, a passport to get, for I imagine you hadn’t one, the necessary injections.’
‘It was,’ Megan agreed with a smile. ‘I still don’t seem to know quite where I am. It’s all happened so fast.’
‘And it wasn’t, then, until three weeks ago that you knew you needed a job?’
‘Yes. It was quite a few days before I met Mr Lambert. I was so surprised when he engaged me. I mean, I’ve not been trained.’