by Joan Lindsay
There were no answering smiles, no hum of excited greeting. In silence the ranks broke to the shuffling of rubber-soled feet on the sawdust floor. Sick at heart, the governess looked down at the upturned faces below. Not one was looking at the girl in the scarlet cloak. Fourteen pairs of eyes fixed on something behind her, through and beyond the whitewashed walls. It is the glazed inward stare of people who walk in their sleep. Oh, dear Heaven, what do these unhappy children see that I do not? So the communal vision unfolds before them and Mademoiselle dare not pierce the taut gossamer veil by a spoken word.
They see the walls of the gymnasium fading into an exquisite transparency, the ceiling opening up like a flower into the brilliant sky above the Hanging Rock. The shadow of the Rock is flowing, luminous as water, across the shimmering plain and they are at the picnic, sitting on the warm dry grass under the gum trees. Lunch is set out by the creek. They see the picnic basket and another Mademoiselle – gay in a shady hat – is handing Miranda a knife to cut the heart-shaped cake. They see Marion Quade, with a sandwich in one hand and a pencil in the other, and Miss McCraw, forgetting to eat, propped against a tree in her puce pelisse. They hear Miranda proposing the health of Saint Valentine; magpies and the tinkle of falling water. Another Irma in white muslin, shaking out her curls and laughing at Miranda washing out cups at the creek. . . . Miranda, hatless with shining yellow hair. A picnic was no fun without Miranda. . . . Always Miranda, coming and going in the dazzling light. Like a rainbow. . . . Oh, Miranda, Marion, where have you gone . . .? The shadow of the Rock has grown darker and longer. They sit rooted to the ground and cannot move. The dreadful shape is a living monster lumbering towards them across the plain, scattering rocks and boulders. So near now, they can see the cracks and hollows where the lost girls lie rotting in a filthy cave. A junior, remembering how the Bible says the bodies of dead people are filled with crawling worms, is violently sick on the sawdust floor. Someone knocks over a wooden stool and Edith screams out loud. Mademoiselle, recognizing the hyena call of hysteria, walks calmly to the edge of the dais with madly thumping heart. ‘Edith! Stop that horrible noise! Blanche! Juliana! Be silent! All of you be silent!’ Too late; the light voice of authority goes unheard as the smouldering passion long banked down under the weight of grey disciplines and secret fears bursts into flames.
On the lid of the piano stood a small brass gong, normally struck for silence and order. Mademoiselle struck at it now, with all the force of her slender arm. The junior governess had retreated behind the music stool. ‘It’s no use, Mam’selle. They won’t take any notice of the gong or anything else. The class is quite out of hand.’
‘Try to get out of the room by the side door without them seeing you and bring the Head. This is serious.’
The junior governess sneered: ‘You’re afraid, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, Miss Lumley. I am very much afraid.’
Above a sea of thrusting heads and shoulders where Irma stood hemmed in by the laughing sobbing girls, a tuft of scarlet feathers trembled, rising and falling like a wounded bird. The voice of evil cackled as the tumult grew. Years later, when Madame Montpelier was telling her grandchildren the strange tale of panic in an Australian schoolroom – fifty years ago, mes enfants, but I dream of it still – the scene had taken on the dimensions of a nightmare. Grandmère was no doubt confusing it with one of those villainous old prints of the French Revolution that had so terrified her as a little girl. She recalled for them the mad black bloomers, the instruments of torture in the gymnasium, the hysterical schoolgirls with faces distorted by passion, the streaming locks and clawlike hands. ‘Every moment I thought: they will lose control and tear her to pieces. Revenge, senseless, cruel revenge. That is what they wanted . . . I can see it all now. Revenge on that beautiful little creature who was the innocent cause of so much suffering . . .’ Now on a pleasant March afternoon in the year nineteen hundred, it was a hideous reality to be faced and somehow dealt with single-handed by the young French governess Dianne de Poitiers. Gathering up her wide silk skirts she took a flying leap from the dais and was hurrying towards the milling group when something warned her to walk sedately with head held high.
Meanwhile, Irma, limp and utterly bewildered, was near suffocation. Fastidious Irma, who deplored all female odours and protested that she could smell Miss Lumley’s peppermint-laden presence in the classroom six feet away, was inexplicably hemmed in by angry faces enlarged in hateful proximity to her own. Fanny’s little snub nose hugely out of focus and sniffing like a terrier with an exposure of bristling hairs. A cavernous mouth agape on a gold-stopped tooth – that must be Juliana – the moist tip of a drooling tongue. Their warm sour breath came and went on her cheeks. Heated bodies pressed on her sensitive breasts. She cried out in fear and tried in vain to push them away. A disembodied moonface rose up somewhere in the background. ‘Edith. You!’
‘Yes, ducky. It’s me.’ In the novel role of ringleader Edith was beside herself, smugly wagging a stumpy forefinger. ‘Come on, Irma – tell us. We’ve waited long enough.’ There was a nudging and muttering. ‘Edith’s right. Tell us, Irma. . . . Tell us.’
‘What can I tell you? Have you all gone crazy?’
‘The Hanging Rock,’ Edith said, pushing to the front. ‘We want you to tell us what happened up there to Miranda and Marion Quade.’ The more silent of the New Zealand sisters, rarely articulate, added loudly, ‘Nobody in this rat-hole ever tells us anything!’ Other voices joined in: ‘Miranda! Marion Quade! Where are they?’
‘I can’t tell you. I don’t know.’
Suddenly possessed of a power that drove her slim body between the closed ranks like a wedge, Mademoiselle was standing beside her, holding Irma’s arm. She cried in her light little French voice, ‘Imbeciles! Have you no brains? No hearts? How can la pauvre Irma tell us something she does not know?’ ‘She knows all right only she won’t tell.’ Blanche’s doll’s face was an angry red under the tousled curls. ‘Irma likes to have grown-up secrets. She always did.’
Edith’s great head was nodding like a Mandarin’s. ‘Then I’ll tell you if she won’t. Listen all of you! They’re dead . . . dead. Miranda and Marion and Miss McCraw. All dead as doornails in a nasty old cave full of bats on the Hanging Rock.’
‘Edith Horton! You are a liar and a fool.’ Mademoiselle’s hand had come down smartly on Edith’s cheek. ‘Holy Mother of God.’ The Frenchwoman was praying out loud. Rosamund, who had taken no part in all this, was praying too. To Saint Valentine. He was the only Saint she was acquainted with, and so quite rightly she prayed to him. Miranda had loved Saint Valentine. Miranda believed in the power of love over everything. ‘Saint Valentine. I don’t know how to pray to you properly . . . dear Saint Valentine make them leave Irma alone and love one another for Miranda’s sake.’
Not often, surely, is the good Saint Valentine – traditionally concerned with the lesser frivolities of romantic love – offered a prayer of such innocent urgency. It seems only fair that he should be credited with its speedy and practical answer: a smiling messenger from Heaven in the guise of Irish Tom, open mouthed and gloriously solid and masculine at the gymnasium door. Dear kindly toothless Tom fresh from a visit to the dentist at Woodend and overjoyed, despite his aching jaws, to see the poor young creatures having a bit of a lark for once in a way. Tom, grinning respectfully at Mademoiselle and waiting for a suitable interlude in the larks (whatever they can be) to ease off, so that he can deliver Ben Hussey’s message to Miss Irma.
The arrival of Tom caused a moment of distraction and turning of heads, in which Irma shook herself free; Rosamund rose from her knees, Edith pressed a hand to her burning cheek. The messenger presented Mr Hussey’s compliments, and if Miss Leopold was set on catching the Melbourne express she had best come this minute; adding as a personal postscript, ‘And good luck to you Miss from meself and all in the kitchen.’ It was all over, as simply and quickly as that, with the girls falling back in the old orderly manner to let Irma pas
s between them and Mademoiselle kissing her lightly on the cheek. ‘You will find your parasol hanging up in the hall, ma chérie – au revoir, we shall meet again.’ (Ah, but never . . . never again, my little dove.)
There was a perfunctory murmuring of farewell as they watched her walking with the old remembered grace towards the gymnasium door. Here, filled with an infinite compassion for sorrows unguessed at and forever unexplained, she turned, waved a little gloved hand and wanly smiled. So Irma Leopold passed from Appleyard College and out of their lives.
Mademoiselle was consulting her watch. ‘We are late this afternoon, girls.’ The gymnasium, always poorly lit, was rapidly darkening. ‘Go at once to your rooms and change those ugly bloomers to something pretty for supper tonight.’
‘Can I wear my pink?’ Edith wanted to know. The governess looked up sharply. ‘You may wear what you like.’ Only Rosamund lingered. ‘Shall I help you tidy the room Mam’ selle?’ ‘No, thank you, Rosamund, I have a migraine and would like to be alone for a little while.’ The door closed on the empty room. It was only now that she remembered that Dora Lumley had never come back with the Head.
It is no easy matter to emerge with dignity from a crouching position in a narrow cupboard with one eye glued to the keyhole. Something pretty indeed! Dora Lumley, who now thought it prudent to step out from safe asylum, could hardly believe her ears.
‘So! The brave little toad has come out of its hole!’ A trickle of saliva moistened Dora Lumley’s dry lips. ‘You are insolent, Mam’selle!’ Dianne, meticulously putting away her music, tossed the junior governess a contemptuous glance. ‘I might have guessed! You made no attempt to give my message to the Head?’
‘It was too late! Somebody would have seen me. . . . It seemed better to stay here until it was over.’
‘In the cupboard? Oh, the wise little toad!’
‘Well, why not? The girls were making a disgraceful exhibition of themselves. There was nothing I could do.’
‘You had better do something now and help me put some order into this horrible room. I don’t wish that the servants notice anything unusual tomorrow morning.’
‘The point is, Mam’selle, what are we going to tell Mrs Appleyard?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘You heard me! Exactly nothing.’
‘You astound me! If I had my way they should be whipped.’
‘There is a word in the French language that fits you à merveille, Dora Lumley. Malheureusement, decent people do not use it.’ The sallow cheeks flushed. ‘How dare you speak to me like that! How dare you! I shall inform Mrs Appleyard myself of these disgraceful goings on. This very night.’
Dianne de Poitiers had picked up an Indian club from the floor. ‘You see this? I have the wrists exceptionally strong, Miss Lumley. Unless you give me a promise, before you leave this room, that you will not tell one little word of what happened here this afternoon . . . I will hit you with it very hard indeed. And nobody would suspect the French governess. You understand what I say?’
‘You are not fit to be in authority over innocent young girls.’
‘I agree. I was brought up expecting something much more entertaining. Alors! C’est la vie. You promise?’
Dora Lumley, looking desperately towards the closed door, decided the necessary dash was too much for her fallen arches and heaving chest.
The Frenchwoman was idly twirling the Indian club. ‘I am perfectly serious Miss Lumley. Though I don’t intend to give you my reasons.’
‘I promise,’ gasped the other, now trembling and marble white as Mademoiselle calmly replaced the club on top of the pile. ‘Mercy on us! What’s that strange sound?’
From the far corner of the room now almost in darkness came a single rasping cry. Miss Lumley, under the stress of a most unpleasant afternoon, had forgotten to unfasten the leather straps that held the child Sara rigid on the horizontal board.
13
Whether the events just related were eventually made known to Mrs Appleyard can only be surmised. It is unlikely under the circumstances that Dora Lumley broke her promise of silence to Mademoiselle. At supper that evening, over which the Headmistress presided as she occasionally liked to do, the boarders were quiet and orderly, if not particularly hungry. A little desultory conversation was indulged in, and to all appearances as far as Dianne de Poitiers could judge nothing special was amiss apart from Sara Waybourne’s absence with a migraine and Edith Horton complaining to Miss Lumley of a touch of neuralgia in the right cheek. Edith supposed she must have been sitting in a draught in the gymnasium. ‘The gymnasium can be a very draughty room,’ put in Mademoiselle from her end of the table.
The Headmistress, gloomily attacking a lamb cutlet at the opposite end, might have been engaged in expertly dismembering a man-eating shark. Actually she had far more important fish to fry, the cutlet being no more than an outward symbol of inner conflict concerning the two letters, one from Mr Leopold and one from Miranda’s father, still unanswered on her desk. However, she felt it was necessary for purposes of morale to keep the conversational ball rolling and forced herself to enquire of Rosamund, on her right hand, whether Irma Leopold was travelling to England by the Orient or P.& O. Line?
‘I don’t know, Mrs Appleyard. Irma stayed such a very short while this afternoon we hardly spoke to her.’
‘My sister and I thought she looked rather pale and tired,’ piped up the more articulate of the New Zealand pair.
‘Indeed? Irma assured me herself she is in perfect health.’ The gold padlock on the Head’s heavy chain bracelet rattled against her plate, She felt herself start and fancied that the French governess at the other end of the table was looking at her in rather a peculiar way; noted the emeralds sparkling on her wrist and wondered if they were too large to be real. The sight of the jewels brought her thoughts back to the Leopolds, said to own a diamond mine in Brazil. She made a vicious stab at the cutlet and decided to sit up all night if necessary and get Tom to post both letters by the early mail on Friday morning.
Directly the meal was over and the Lord duly thanked for rice pudding and stewed plums, the Headmistress rose from the table, retired to the study, locked the door, and sat down, pen in hand, to her odious task. Most women faced with a situation so dangerous, so entangled by a thousand side issues, would long ago have taken the simplest way out. It would still have been possible, for instance, to plead urgent business in England and regrettably close down the College for good. Even to sell it for what it would bring while it remained a going concern. What was it called in business? ‘Goodwill.’ She ground her teeth. Precious little of that! The College was already being talked about as haunted and God knows what other mischievous nonsense. She might sit in her study behind closed doors for the better part of the day but she had eyes in her head, and ears. Only yesterday Cook had mentioned quite casually to Minnie, that ‘they’ were saying in the village that strange lights had been seen moving about the College grounds after dark.
In the past Mrs Appleyard and her Arthur had skated hand in hand over some remarkably thin ice. But never before had they been confronted by a situation impregnated with such personal and public disaster. To take a sword and plunge it through your enemy’s vitals in broad daylight is a matter of physical courage, whereas the strangling of an invisible foe in the dark calls for quite other qualities. Tonight her whole being cried out for decisive action. Yes, but what kind of action? Not even Arthur could have worked out a plan of campaign while the damnable mystery at the Hanging Rock remained unsolved.
Before settling down to either of the letters, for the second time that day she took the Ledger from the bottom drawer and studied it closely. On present calculations it seemed probable that only about nine of the former twenty pupils could be expected to return when the new term began after Easter. Once again she ran down the list of names. The last to be crossed off was Horton, Edith, whose insufferably stupid mother had written only today announcing ‘othe
r plans’ for her only daughter. A few months ago the news would have been only too welcome, and the school dunce easily replaced. Without Edith only nine other names were left, including Sara Waybourne. There was a bottle of cognac in the cupboard behind the desk. She unlocked it and half filled a glass. The thread of fiery spirit touched off a train of clear factual thinking. She sat down at the desk again and made a few notes in the impersonal copperplate hand that gave away nothing of the background character and iron will of the woman who held the pen. It was nearly three o’clock when at last the letters were stamped and sealed and the Headmistress dragged her weary body upstairs.
The following day passed without incident. There was a note in the post from Constable Bumpher saying that he had nothing fresh to report, but one of the Russell Street men would like to see Mrs Appleyard some time next week when convenient. There were one or two points concerning matters of school discipline prior to the day of the Picnic which some of the parents had suggested should be elucidated. . . . The weather was mild and fine and Mr Whitehead had requested a long-deferred day off, which he passed in reading the Horticultural News with his boots off. Tom went about his duties with his raging jaws tied up in a strip of Minnie’s flannel petticoat, and Sara Waybourne, on special instructions from Mademoiselle, spent most of the day in bed. Otherwise, all was as usual.
Saturday was usually a day taken up with small domesticities and household tasks. The boarders did their mending, wrote their letters home – their correspondence rigorously censored at Headquarters with the aid of a spirit lamp on the desk – played croquet or lawn tennis in fine weather or wandered aimlessly about the grounds. Tom was making heavy weather of a chat with Miss Buck beside the dahlia bed when the arrival of Hussey’s cab at the front door set him free. There was no luggage to be taken off, however – only a seedy-looking young man of about his own age carrying a small seedy-looking bag who asked the driver to wait out of sight of the front windows until further instructions. Insignificant as he was in appearance, Tom at once recognized Miss Lumley’s cocky little squirt of a brother. It was the first time for several months that Reg Lumley had paid his sister a visit at the College. Why in the name of Heaven had he chosen today? thought the Headmistress, watching him pulling on a pair of gloves and smoothing down a shabby overcoat preparatory to ringing the doorbell. Mrs Appleyard, who secretly prided herself on being able to get rid of an unwelcome visitor within three minutes – if necessary with all graciousness – had recognized Reg at the very first handshake as a sticker and stayer. In short, like his sister Dora, a fool and a bore. However, here he was, or rather his not very clean card with his business address in the township of Warragul. ‘You may show Mr Lumley in, Alice, and tell him I am very much occupied.’