Mistress of the Storm

by M. L. Welsh

  Verity blushed as the girls pealed into chimes of laughter.

  ‘And what’s this tatty old volume?’ he continued.

  Verity’s heart jumped anxiously. Not her book …

  George opened the front cover to inspect it. Tapping the library form glued inside, he shook his head in mock disapproval. ‘Past the return date, Verity,’ he scolded. ‘How are you going to maintain your reputation as the world’s biggest swot when you’re making silly errors like that?’

  The girls shrieked with delight.

  Tired of this particular game, George threw the book over his shoulder and thrust the bag into Verity’s hands. ‘Cheer up, Gallant,’ he told her. ‘Might never happen.’ Then he ran off, giving her skirt a quick parting flick. She fended him off with an anxious flap of her hands – which just made everyone laugh all the harder.

  As her tormentors headed towards the school gates, Verity bent over to pick up the red leather-bound book and dusted it down. In the distance the girls’ giggles rang out as the two brothers tauntingly slapped their hands at each other. ‘Not my books, not my books,’ she heard Oscar simper.

  Verity knelt forlornly on the grass and began to put the rest of her belongings back in her bag. She could feel a familiar pricking in the corners of her eyes. Staring hard at the ground, she concentrated on not crying. A new peal of laughter prompted her to look up. Charlotte was leaning on Amanda, the two of them bent over in mirth.

  Verity’s chest squeezed with misery. Uncontrollable hot tears streamed down her cheeks. She had never felt so out of place and alone.

  At the edge of the park an elderly man stood watching. His once handsome face was lined and scored but his blue eyes burned. He looked troubled. As Verity began to walk dispiritedly towards the school gates, he appeared to make a decision. Turning round, he headed for the town.

  Verity’s day hadn’t got any better by the afternoon, when she found herself sitting on a gym bench, filled with quiet dread. She hated games lessons. She hated the cold, damp changing rooms for a start. But she also hated trudging up and down muddy fields in winter. She hated being stuck in some rubbish position on the pitch. She hated indoor athletics. She hated cross-country runs in the rain. But most of all she hated the way she felt standing there on her own, shivering from the cold: the last person to be chosen for any team.

  ‘Ready, girls?’ boomed the head of games as she strode in. Mrs Watson wasn’t just heavier than the other teachers; she also seemed to be taller, wider, and somehow … denser. A heated discussion had been taking place amongst the rest of the class. And now an envoy was dispatched to communicate with her:

  ‘Charlotte’s bailing out of Sunday’s sailing match. And it’s our first against the Whale Chine girls.’

  ‘I have to,’ insisted the same girl who’d witnessed Verity’s humiliation that morning. ‘Mother says it’s this weekend or never for shopping and I’ve simply nothing to wear.’

  Verity listened with half-hearted interest as she pulled on an ugly games sock in a particularly virulent shade of blue. She wondered what it would be like to look forward to a shopping trip. Mother’s store of choice was Dereham’s: a small, dour emporium that took a Puritan approach to girls’ clothes. Mrs Dereham believed that apparel should have purpose.

  ‘Gallant,’ Mrs Watson announced. ‘Gallant can take Chiverton’s place.’

  Verity froze with shock. She’d never sailed before. She’d never even set foot on a dinghy.

  ‘Gallant?’ howled one particularly incensed member of the group, backed immediately by a chorus of disapproval.

  ‘Don’t see why not,’ said Mrs Watson. ‘Can’t believe we’ve never fielded you before. Probably been out on the water with the family.’

  A fleeting vision of her parents trying to manoeuvre a dinghy on the open sea flashed through Verity’s mind. She stifled a giggle. Laughing was not going to help. ‘I won’t be much use to the team,’ she agreed. ‘Couldn’t someone else fill the place?’

  ‘You’ll be fine, girl,’ Mrs Watson replied, to Verity’s dismay. ‘May be a little below your standard, but it’s a day out. Tactics session Friday at the club – four o’clock – don’t be late.’

  ‘Below her standard?’ snorted a frustrated classmate.

  ‘Verity can’t sail,’ moaned another girl.

  ‘Verity isn’t good at anything sporty,’ said a third.

  The accusation stung, but Verity nodded her head earnestly in agreement. ‘It’s true. I can’t,’ she said.

  For the first time ever, she saw something like astonishment on Mrs Watson’s face. ‘Can’t sail?’ she repeated. ‘Verity Gallant can’t sail? Extraordinary.’

  Verity felt slightly disgruntled. Lots of people couldn’t sail, she reflected to herself. She didn’t see the need to make such a fuss about it.

  ‘Well, you can crew anyway,’ Mrs Watson continued, to a collective groan of disappointment.

  ‘Really?’ asked Verity. She’d never been deliberately chosen for anything before.

  ‘Absolutely,’ confirmed Mrs Watson. ‘Apparently the wind will be getting up so we could do with some weight.’

  Chapter Two

  The next day found Verity on the well-worn path to school once more. And once again the sizeable figures of George and Oscar Blake emerged in the distance. They looked … purposeful. Verity’s heart sank. She knew this did not bode well.

  ‘Heard they’re using you as ballast for the sailing team,’ sneered Oscar as he wrenched Verity’s bag from her futilely folded arms.

  ‘What do you think you’re playing at, Gallant?’ demanded George, taking the stolen item from his brother and proceeding to extract its contents again.

  The girls from yesterday had spotted this latest incident and were on the scene already. ‘You’re going to bring the whole team down with you,’ agreed one crossly.

  ‘This season is make or break for us,’ added a second. ‘The school’s reputation is at stake. Do you really want that on your head?’

  George had Verity’s hockey kit now. A rare glimmer of original thought found its way into his mind and he grinned … then, with one deft movement, threw her skirt up into the branches of a nearby tree. The watching girls shrieked with delight.

  Verity gasped in horror. ‘I need that,’ she protested.

  George prepared to launch her shirt in the same direction, then bellowed and dropped the bag in shock. Verity looked at him with a start. The top of his head was covered in a mess of mud and leaves. His audience exploded with laughter. Only as he swung round did it become apparent that the creator of George’s new head-wear was a small sandy-haired boy, growing smaller still as he disappeared off into the distance.

  ‘Henry Twogood,’ bellowed George, running after him at full tilt. ‘I am going to kill you.’

  Verity picked up her bag and smiled. One of her tormentors giggled as she made her way past. ‘Lucky you, being helped out by Henry Twogood,’ she mocked.

  Better than not being helped at all, thought Verity to herself as she stared upwards at the lost skirt, stuck now on a branch from which she would never be able to dislodge it.

  Lunch time found Henry Twogood joining the queue for school dinner. Ahead of him the usual pleas could be heard:

  ‘Just the tiniest bit of cabbage please.’

  ‘A really, really, really, really little scoop of swede thanks.’

  In response the dinner ladies continued to ladle out overcooked vegetables in equal and unchanging portions.

  Henry moved past them to the dessert section. ‘Hi, Mum,’ he muttered.

  Mrs Twogood beamed as she looked up. ‘Hello, cherub,’ she replied.

  Henry flinched. ‘Mu-umm. Please. Not in school.’

  ‘Sorry, love.’ She put a slab of bread pudding on his tray.

  Henry glared at it. ‘I thought we agreed,’ he said. ‘No more cakes, no more pies and no more bread pudding.’

  Mrs Twogood looked down in dismay. ‘Force of habit,’
she confessed. ‘Saw that George Blake chasing you across the grounds this morning,’ she added conversationally.

  ‘Glad to hear you sounding so breezy,’ said Henry. ‘Wouldn’t like it to bother you.’

  Mrs Twogood gazed at her son fondly. ‘I think if you can handle all six of your brothers, one Blake boy should be fine.’

  Henry raised his eyebrows to concede the point. ‘He was picking on Verity Gallant,’ he explained, looking a little self-conscious. ‘I didn’t think it was fair.’

  Mrs Twogood smiled and surreptitiously added another slice of pudding to his tray. ‘Why don’t you go and see how she is?’ she suggested. ‘Could be a bit shook up.’

  Henry looked pointedly at his mother and removed both the contraband items.

  As the end-of-day bell rang at Priory Bay, Verity made her way despondently towards the school gates. It had been an even more hideous day than usual. Her fellow classmates had complained bitterly at being lumbered with her for an important sailing match. And to make things worse, Mrs Watson had refused to let her off hockey even though there were no replacement skirts in the lost property cupboard.

  ‘Gym shorts will be absolutely fine,’ she’d boomed firmly.

  Verity shuddered at the memory of seventy long freezing minutes on the playing field dressed in what for all the world looked like a large unflattering pair of pants. She’d got so cold she’d ended up running about to keep warm and inadvertently scored two goals – which just made her team-mates all the more furious.

  Verity didn’t hear her name being called at first. Her mind was busy replaying the hideous embarrassment of it all. Only when Henry eventually caught up did she snap out of it.

  ‘Oh, er … hi,’ she mumbled awkwardly.

  ‘So, are you all right then?’ he repeated for the fifth time. As an enquiry, it had lost the intended casualness after the third attempt but he supposed it would have to do.

  All right? Verity was so focused on her own personal world of self-loathing she immediately assumed he must be talking about the playing field incident. Had it really got round school that quickly?

  ‘I couldn’t get my skirt back out of the tree,’ she snapped. ‘I didn’t wear them on purpose.’

  Henry looked confused. ‘I, er … I just meant after George Blake this morning. Was your bag all right?’

  Verity felt terrible. He’d only helped her out a few hours ago and she’d forgotten already. ‘Sorry. I thought you were talking about something else … I had a pretty bad games lesson this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh.’ Henry’s face filled with sympathy. ‘I hate games,’ he offered. ‘Never get chosen for any of the teams, hate cross-country running and standing around in the freezing cold.’

  Verity smiled. ‘Yeah, it’s rubbish,’ she agreed.

  ‘I could walk you home if you like,’ he volunteered.

  She looked up in surprise.

  Henry looked embarrassed. ‘You know, in case George Blake is hanging around.’ He looked down at the ground, clearly expecting a no.

  Verity didn’t particularly want to be around anyone at the moment but: ‘I have to drop in on a family friend …’ she started. Henry looked resigned to a refusal, so she relented: ‘But if you don’t mind meeting her, then that would be nice.’

  Henry beamed. ‘No, that’s fine.’

  Together they made their way across the park.

  ‘So they made you play hockey in your underwear?’ he asked.

  Verity’s family friend, Alice, lived near the school at the top of the uppercliff: Wellow’s most desirable area. Verity’s mother and father approved of their weekly meetings because they assumed (wrongly) that the time was spent reading improving texts and making small talk.

  As Verity and Henry turned into Alice’s road, he blew a low whistle to indicate his approval. ‘Priory Avenue? Very nice …’ Each house was different to the next, but all sat in their own grounds, with trees and shrubs aplenty to shade the windows from view. ‘Though I could take it or leave it … Having your own bedroom is probably very overrated.’

  ‘Do you share a bedroom then?’ asked Verity.

  ‘Yeah,’ he sighed, booting a stray stone. ‘With my brothers Percy and Will.’

  ‘With two other brothers?’ Verity could have kicked herself for sounding surprised, but Henry didn’t seem to mind.

  ‘I know. It’s rubbish: I’ve got six brothers. Me, Percy and Will are the closest in age so we share one room. Bertie and Fred get the other because they’re older. Charlie and Frank left home a couple of years ago. And you’ve got one sister?’ he asked.

  Verity nodded.

  ‘It’s funny how people from the same family can be so different,’ said Henry – an early display of his talent for not thinking before he spoke. ‘Poppy doesn’t seem at all like you – she’s so—’

  Verity smiled wryly and interrupted. ‘Likeable? Pretty?’

  Henry looked uncomfortable and a little defiant. ‘Blonde. I was going to say that she’s very blonde. Whereas, of course, you’re not.’

  Verity nodded slowly and came to a halt, indicating a particularly unkempt house. ‘This is it,’ she said.

  Like many other houses in the road, Alice’s boasted an ornate wrought-iron veranda, and like some, it had an air of genteel decline. But none of its neighbours managed to combine both to such effect.

  The front door swung open vigorously. ‘Verity, my dear, you’re going to have another sibling.’

  Verity was slightly taken aback. How did Alice know already?

  ‘Is your mum expecting?’ asked Henry.

  Verity nodded.

  ‘Don’t dawdle, come on through,’ instructed Alice. Henry was astonished at the speed with which someone so old could move. She shot back down the hallway with great purpose.

  Henry pushed his way past a coat-rack laden with clothes and crammed in every orifice with walking sticks, umbrellas, shooting sticks and an apple-picker; past a large glass cabinet of stuffed animals, all dressed, disconcertingly, as mermaids. On the opposite wall hung a large selection of hats balanced precariously on the overfilled hooks. By the entrance to the sitting room stood a very large and battered Noah’s Ark and a collection of old and battered jugs, balancing on a mirrored hallstand. Every spare inch of wall was covered in pictures: framed maps, photographs, oil paintings, portraits, prints and sketches.

  Henry was fascinated. ‘Look at all this amazing stuff,’ he exclaimed. ‘Is that a statue of the Sumerian god Enki? And a Greek tableau of naiads? It looks quite old – I’m surprised you were allowed to keep it.’

  Alice looked slightly taken aback – and amused. ‘You know a lot for someone so young,’ she observed.

  Henry looked abashed but couldn’t control his urge to stare. ‘I have a good memory for things,’ he explained.

  He turned his attention to Alice while a bemused Verity looked on. The old lady’s pink, inquisitive face was deeply lined and scored, but out of it her blue eyes shone in a way that was more alive than anything Henry had ever seen.

  ‘So who is this young man, Verity?’ asked Alice. ‘Are you going to introduce me?’

  Verity shrugged off her coat. ‘Alice, meet Henry Twogood. He offered to walk me home because … well—’

  Henry sensed that Verity didn’t want Alice to know that people were picking on her. ‘I heard you had good cakes,’ he interrupted. ‘I’ll go a long way for a cake.’

  Alice laughed and extended a very pale hand. It was surprisingly supple and strong.

  Verity had moved into the kitchen and was boiling a kettle for tea. Henry continued to gaze about him.

  ‘You can have a look if you like,’ offered Alice as she took a seat. ‘It’s been a long time since anyone was interested in my junk.’

  Henry didn’t need to be asked twice. ‘Was this your Gypsy Moth?’ he asked, picking up a photo of a younger Alice next to a bi-plane in full leather flying kit. ‘Is that how you collected all these things? By flying to different
places?’

  ‘I have been to a lot of different countries, yes.’

  ‘What a collection. I don’t know how you had time to fit it all in.’ Alice just smiled. ‘So, do you remember the Gentry?’ he asked, opening a tin filled with pebbles.

  ‘Henry,’ shouted Verity from the kitchen, shocked into remonstration. ‘It’s rude to make assumptions about a lady’s age.’

  ‘It’s all right, Henry,’ Alice reassured him. ‘Of course I’m quite old enough to remember the Gentry.’

  ‘Did you ever see the famous Rafe Gallant, Verity’s grandfather?’ he asked.

  Alice looked troubled. ‘Verity’s parents don’t talk much of their history. I’m sure you can understand why.’

  ‘Rafe who?’ Verity called out from the kitchen as the kettle whistled energetically on the stove.

  Alice ignored the question. Leaning forward, she began to interrogate Henry. ‘So you’re at Priory Bay too?’

  ‘Yeah, I won a scholarship last year. Mum took a job as dinner lady so we could qualify for places.’

  ‘Sounds like some of the pupils can be quite hard work.’

  Verity peered round the door with a brown and orange knitted tea-cosy in one hand. ‘I’m fine, Alice,’ then, turning her attention to Henry, ‘Would you like tea?’

  Henry nodded, while Alice went on regardless, ‘Do you see much of Verity?’

  He considered his reply, but without waiting for an answer, she continued, ‘She could socialize a little more, don’t you think?’

  Shooting Alice a reproving glance, Verity returned with a tray laden with teacups and saucers, a teapot, milk, sugar, spoons and cake. She knew her elderly friend meant well, but this was embarrassing.

  ‘Alice’s date loaf,’ she said to Henry, deliberately changing the subject. ‘Which is particularly good.’

  After the tea and cake had been distributed, Alice, Verity and Henry settled into comfortable chat about whatever took their fancy: Constantinople, the melting point of magnesium, why certain kinds of biscuit always drop off when you dunk them in hot drinks … Henry would never have thought that taking tea with an elderly lady could be so entertaining.