One Young Fool in Dorset

by Victoria Twead

  One week, Matron rather pointedly pinned up a plan on the door of the dorm. It was a map of St Mary’s showing the nearest fire exits.

  “Well, that’s easy,” said Snort. “If there’s a fire, we just dash down the stairs, through the locker room and out of the back door.”

  “Correct,” said Matron, then added darkly, “but what if that route was blocked?”

  We had a think about that.

  “And mind you gels read the rules at the bottom of the sheet.”

  Matron left, and Snort read the rules aloud. We listened carefully.

  Do not take any possessions with you, even items of value or teddies.

  Put on slippers or shoes and a pair of linings.

  Vacate the dorm in a single orderly line.

  The Dorm Captain should be the last to leave, having made sure everyone is out.

  Unsurprisingly, that very night, a fire drill took place.

  Rrrrrrrrrrrrrinnnngggg…

  “Dusty! Wake up! It’s a fire drill!”

  “Wh…”

  Snort had been voted Dorm Captain, probably much to Matron and Mrs Driver’s dismay, as she was the most unruly girl in the dorm.

  “Quick,” shouted Snort. “Put your knickers on! And your slippers! Hurry up! Everybody out!”

  I was heading the line, but to my surprise, the flight of stairs leading down to our nearest exit was blocked. Shirley, my GO, was standing there holding up a large piece of paper saying FLAMES.

  “Oh, Shirley!” I said, pretending to swoon, the behaviour expected when one met one’s GO.

  “Not now!” she hissed. “Quick, you’ll have to go up the next flight of stairs, along the corridor past Mrs Driver’s room and down the stairs on the far side.”

  I turned and led the line up the stairs. However, outside Mrs Driver’s room was another prefect holding up a sign saying FLAMES. I had no choice but to turn right and led the line into the back corridor that housed the isolation room and was haunted by Emily the scullery maid. Our slippers clumped along the bare floorboards until we reached the big window that opened onto the fire escape. Out we climbed, one by one, and clattered down the very fire escape where Emily was said to have met her tragic death.

  “Well done, gels,” said Matron when we reached the bottom. “And I’m very pleased to see you all remembered to put on your linings.”

  Now I understood why we had to put on our underwear. If it had been a real fire, the firemen would have gained more than an eyeful as we girls descended that fire escape.

  Within ten minutes, we were back in the dorm, in bed and dozing off to sleep again.

  However, there was one particular night when every girl and member of staff was wide awake in the middle of the night, and it had nothing at all to do with fire drills.

  11 Bad Boys

  Crispy Crunchy Crackly Crack

  As we climbed into our beds one moonlit night, we had no idea of the spectacle we were about to witness.

  “Goodnight, gels,” said Matron at the doorway of the dorm as she switched off the light as usual. “No more talking now.”

  “Goodnight, Matron,” we chorused.

  We drifted off to sleep as owls screeched to each other in the woods. By midnight, all the girls and staff would have been asleep. It was a warm, still, summer night, with just the occasional cloud sliding across the moon, throwing the world into momentary darkness. As the hand of the clock clicked round into the small hours, St Mary’s lay silent and peaceful. Until…

  Vroooooom! Vroooooom!

  Night sounds always seem louder, but this noise was deafening, and growing louder by the second. Even we young girls couldn’t sleep through that. We sat up, wide awake.

  “What on earth?”

  Vroooooom! Vroooooom!

  Snort sprang out of bed and ran to the window, tugging the curtain aside.

  Vroooooom! Vroooooom!

  “Oh golly! Quick, come and SEE!”

  We leapt out of bed and pressed our faces against the glass, then gaped. Outside, on the drive, six or seven motorbikes were idling, ridden by boys!

  Suddenly, the dorm door was thrown open, framing Matron. I didn’t know whether to stare at her in her pink quilted dressing gown, with rows of curlers in her hair, or at the scene outside.

  “Gels! Stay in the dorm, we are dealing with the situation. And come away from the windows.”

  With that, she turned on her fluffy high-heeled slippers and clacked off down the stairs.

  Come away from the windows? She may as well have asked us to recite the alphabet in Icelandic whilst standing on our heads. No way could we tear ourselves away from watching the events outside with the boys!

  The motorcyclists had paused in a line, their engines still rumbling. They sat astride their machines, one foot on the ground, looking up at our building. I followed their gaze. Every dorm was awake, every curtain drawn open, every window had faces staring out, even the prefects’ windows. The motorcyclists waved cheekily, revved their engines and roared out of sight round the building.

  “They’re leaving,” said Corky, disappointment in her voice, as the noise of the engines grew fainter.

  But she was mistaken. The boys merely circled the building, and in seconds they were back below us, slowing to wave to their adoring audience of girls, standing at the windows above. Round and round they roared, until suddenly, just as they reached the steps up to our entrance door again and slowed to wave, the front door was wrenched open. We gasped.

  There stood Mrs Driver dressed in a pair of green tartan pyjamas and waving a furled umbrella.

  “Go away, you’re trespassing!” she shouted, shaking her fist.

  The youths probably couldn’t hear what she was saying over the engine noise, but her wrath was clear. However, it had no effect on them whatsoever. They merely grinned and set off on another circuit.

  “Hurrah!” we cheered, loving the excitement.

  Matron appeared behind Mrs Driver, just as the motorcycles completed another lap and skidded to a halt.

  “I have called the police!” shouted Matron, her hands cupped like a megaphone.

  The boys laughed, and waved at the girls in the windows, who waved back. Then they revved up and shot off on yet another circuit.

  Mrs Driver and Matron were livid. Together they marched out into the middle of the drive and stretched out their arms, as if to bar the way. Round swept the motorbikes. But they didn’t hesitate; they appeared to be heading straight for the crazy-looking woman in green tartan pyjamas and the other in the pink dressing gown and slippers, with rows of curlers in her hair.

  “Gosh, they’re brave!” said Snort, as we watched the confrontation.

  The bikers hardly checked their speed. They headed straight for the two women, but at the last second, peeled off sideways, swerving onto the grassed area, thus avoiding any collision.

  Dozens of girls at the windows exhaled. This was better than any movie, even the latest ones like Coolhand Luke or Bonnie and Clyde.

  Mrs Driver and Matron were a formidable duo. As the motorbikes swept round again, the ladies tried again to become human barricades, doing their best to obstruct the approaching machines. The boys narrowly missed them and began another lap.

  In our dorm, nobody had said a word for ages; we were too engrossed in the scene below. Many of us had our hands clapped over our mouths in disbelief.

  I don’t know who or what lent Mrs Driver such courage that night, although I could hazard a guess judging from the slight sway in her walk. Whatever, when the motorbikes circled for a third time, she was purple with rage. As they neared her, she leaped out in an attempt to physically seize one of the trespassers. He swerved and successfully avoided Mrs Driver and her umbrella. At the same time, we suddenly heard distant police sirens.

  The boys decided that the game was over for the night. They really didn’t want to face the crazy suicidal, tartan pyjama clad harridan again, neither did they want to spend a night in a police cell.
With a last wave to their adoring fans at the windows, they turned and headed their bikes down the drive towards the campus entrance gates.

  But Lady Luck wasn’t smiling on one of the bikers. He was so intent on waving to his female audience, he didn’t realise how close Mrs Driver was to her quarry. Her eyes narrowed, and she launched herself at him.

  All the girls in our dorm, and probably all the girls in the other dorms and prefects’ rooms, gasped. The other motorbikes had already accelerated out of the grounds and vanished. The police sirens were markedly closer.

  Mrs Driver’s rugby tackle didn’t quite connect, but it was enough to unnerve the young man, who lost control of the bike, sending it into an uncontrollable wobble. The bike wasn’t travelling fast, but Mrs Driver was.

  “I’ve got you, boy!” she yelled, lunging at him and grabbing at his jacket.

  In horror, the youth dropped his motorbike on the ground and fled towards the woods, with Mrs Driver in hot pursuit.

  “Come back here, boy!” she shouted.

  But the lad had no intentions of doing anything of the sort. He disappeared into the woods, his black leather-clad figure instantly melting into the shadows. Mrs Driver was quite a big woman, and although out of breath, she didn’t give up. Seconds later, she, too, was swallowed up by the woods as a convoy of police cars with screaming sirens and blue flashing lights screeched to a halt outside St Mary’s. The abandoned motorbike on the grass had stalled, but one wheel was still spinning.

  Policemen leaped out of the cars leaving the doors hanging open. Matron, holding her dressing gown together at the throat with one hand, used the other to point a long finger at the woods. The policemen turned and ran into the trees.

  “This is better than Tom and Jerry,” said Snort. “I hope he gets away.”

  Nothing happened for a long time. Gradually faces disappeared from the windows as there was nothing to see except the blue lights flashing on the roofs of the police cars. Matron went inside and did a round of the dorms, ordering us all back to bed.

  “Settle down now, gels,” she said, drawing the curtains firmly. “It’s all over.”

  Snort and I waited until her slippers had clacked away up the corridor, then we slipped out of bed again and peeped through the gap in the curtain.

  We had to wait quite a long time. We heard owls, and saw bats flitting round the lamp that lit the steps to the entrance, but there was no sign of the man-hunt. We were just about to give up, when a procession emerged from the woods. It was headed by two policemen, one handcuffed to the sorry youth, who was black with dirt. Next came a line of more policemen, looking satisfied with themselves, pleased that their quarry had been apprehended. And finally, the familiar figure of Mrs Driver, in her tartan pyjamas, and picking the odd pine needle out of her hair, brought up the rear.

  The youth was put into the back of a police car, the policemen climbed into their cars, and the whole convoy pulled away. Mrs Driver came back into St Mary’s and I heard her climb the steps to her floor, muttering darkly to herself. The young man’s motorbike was left lying on the ground, but somebody collected it the next day.

  “Matron, how did they catch the boy in the woods?” asked Snort the next day.

  “Never you gels mind. The important thing is that they caught him.”

  However, we did learn how the youth had been caught, but not from Matron or Mrs Driver. It so happened that one of the Day Bugs had an uncle in the police force, and he’d been called out to the incident. According to him, this is what happened.

  The young man fled into the woods, with Mrs Driver close behind. The boy zig-zagged through the trees but the incensed Mrs Driver somehow kept up. In spite of the moon, it was dark, and the boy was not familiar with the layout of the woods. He made a bad mistake. As he looked over his shoulder to sense how close Mrs Driver was, he didn’t see Pug’s Hole opening out in front of him. He fell down the steep incline. Mrs Driver couldn’t stop in time, lost her footing and also toppled down the slope.

  At the bottom, the two looked at each other for a brief second.

  “I’ve got you now!” crowed Mrs Driver, grabbing his arm.

  “Oh no, you haven’t,” he said, wriggling out of her grasp and jumping back onto his feet.

  The chase continued. Mrs Driver was more than twice the lad’s age, and was soon out of breath and wheezing. The boy was probably tired of being hunted down, and frightened by the police sirens. He changed tactics. As Mrs Driver stopped to catch her breath, he caught sight of an air raid shelter and decided to hide from her and the Law. When a cloud obscured the moon briefly, the lad tugged up the manhole cover, which opened surprisingly easily considering its age and the soil and vegetation that had collected on it. He quickly climbed in and down the ladder, quietly closing the manhole cover behind him.

  Unfortunately for the trespasser, Mrs Driver had seen where he went.

  It can’t have been very nice inside the ancient air raid shelter, pitch black, crawling with spiders and who knows what else. And matters didn’t improve when Mrs Driver stood on the cover.

  “Haha, I’ve caught you now!” she cried, dancing a crazy little jig on the lid.

  I imagine the movement showered loose soil and filth onto the poor lad below.

  The police arrived with flashlights to see Mrs Driver still dancing on the manhole cover.

  “We’ll take over from here,” said a policeman. “I can see you’ve caught the suspect.”

  Reluctantly, Mrs Driver stepped aside.

  The policeman bent down and raised the cover. He shone his torch down into the darkness.

  “Hello, we have you surrounded,” he called down. “Are you ready to come up with your hands in the air?”

  “Yes!” echoed the youth’s voice from below. “As long as you protect me from that madwoman in tartan pyjamas!”

  As meek as a woodland mouse, the boy scrambled back up the ladder. A couple of officers stood close to Mrs Driver to make sure she didn’t try to take the law into her own hands. As soon as the youth climbed out, the policeman clapped handcuffs on him, and that was that.

  I don’t believe the boy or his accomplices were ever charged. I hope not, because their offence wasn’t serious, and it provided huge entertainment for us girls. Shortly after, I believe the gates into the campus were locked nightly, so nothing like that ever happened again while I was there.

  I was very happy at TH. When her time came, my sister elected to leave, attend college and live at home. I didn’t think it would affect me, but I was in for a big surprise. When my parents arrived to take us home for the holidays, along with the trunks for packing, they brought shocking news.

  12 Summer Break

  Zwetschgenknödel (Plum Dumplings)

  Packing our trunks for the holidays was so much easier than packing for the start of a new term. All we had to do was throw stuff in, with no need to check the inventory carefully. However, there always seemed to be more to take home than we had initially brought.

  “I can’t get it to shut,” I said. “Snort, come and sit on this side.”

  Snort obliged and the trunk snapped shut.

  “Well, that’s it,” I said. “I’m not opening it again. If I’ve forgotten anything, I’ll just have to collect it next term.”

  “Ach, well, that’s the thing,” said my mother. “We’ve decided that as your sister is no longer here, it would be better for us all if you went to day school closer to home.”

  My jaw dropped and I sat heavily on the trunk beside Snort.

  “Dusty’s leaving?” asked Snort.

  “Yes, Helen, she is. But of course you two must see each other during the holidays, lots of times…”

  I was heartbroken, and so was Snort, but the decision had been made. Looking back on it now, I imagine it was probably more of a financial decision as my father had just retired from the army.

  I never saw Snort again. Her parents lived in Singapore, so we couldn’t meet in the holidays. We wrote let
ters for a while, but as our lives progressed, the letters faded and finally died away.

  I tried to put the thought of starting at a new school behind me and concentrated on enjoying my summer break. The first week was always tricky as my parents opened our end of term reports. As usual, my sister’s positively glowed, while mine was a little worse than mediocre.

  * * *

  School Report

  English: Victoria may have ability but this is not evident as she is disorganised, untidy and rarely produces homework.

  Mathematics: Victoria’s defeatist attitude and daydreaming do not assist her progress in this subject.

  It would seem that Victoria has made very little progress this term. Unless her overall attitude improves, it is unlikely that Victoria will succeed in her new school. However, we wish her well.

  Mrs Driver (Housemistress)

  * * *

  It was fortunate for me that my younger brother’s school report was even worse than mine. The comments from his teachers were so appalling that my parents decided to send him to a ‘crammer’ the next term. A crammer is a school that prepares pupils for examinations. I felt sorry for him, but pleased that my report was marginally better than his.

  It wasn’t my happiest time. I felt settled at boarding school and I missed Snort already. I was thirteen and I couldn’t even imagine going to a new school and having to start all over again. At one point, I even considered running away, although I’m not sure how I thought that would help the situation. What I actually did was pretend to run away, just to see if anybody cared. I shut myself in the outside toilet, a place nobody used as it was a home for spiders.

  “Ach, where has Victoria gone?” I heard my mother say on her way down the garden to visit her beloved compost heap.

  “Probably gone round to see Annabel,” said my brother.