Cuckoo

by Anne Piper

  June 15th. Yesterday was half-term.

  The Brylcream Girl decided to take the whole form for an outing. She said we were working too hard. She’s not a bad old thing for a form-mistress really. We arranged to go in the bus to Winchley Common, which is only about four miles away. Half of us had to go in the next bus an hour later because we absolutely filled the first. We played a mad silent game which the others couldn’t guess what it was, waiting on the grass by the bus stop. It was lovely and hot and we took our shoes and socks off till we found there were small thistles. The B.G. leaned out of the first bus shouting that we were to keep our hats on, but of course we didn’t, though Pouncey, who’s form captain this term, tried hard to make us.

  In the end, another bus came and we got to W. Common without more than to be expected confusion. Prue left her lunch parcel in the bus, but it was such a happy day that I wasn’t as angry as usual but only said we would give her bites all round. She looked as if bites wouldn’t be enough, but she didn’t say anything then.

  It was twelve o’clock by now, and the B.G. said we could all disperse and meet again at the bus stop at four o’clock, but that nobody was on any account to go off the Common on to the road. Rather to my surprise, Prue had disappeared when I came to look round, but it was such a relief to be without her for one day that I didn’t enquire too closely. Phil and Browney and I made off into a little wood and had a simply heavenly afternoon talking about our careers and who we were going to marry. Phil wants to marry a sailor because of being so much in the sun, but Browney said she might as well marry a tea-planter if that’s what she was after because ten to one the sailor would be in the sun, and Phil would be sitting at home with six children on her knee living a coarse uncultivated life like that poor family in Mansfield Park. Phil said she hoped we wouldn’t be such snobs as Fanny, but that we would all come and fill our knees with her children and give them lollipops to take their minds off poverty.

  The sun poured into the clearing and smelt all the hot pine-needles and then the wind waved the tops of the trees gently just like the sea. At last it was four o’clock, and we had to brush ourselves down. When we reached the bus stop everyone was there except Prue and Titty and Griff.

  “Did they go together?” asked the B.G. Nobody seemed to know. Then a bus came and as it was almost empty the B.G. put us all in it in charge of me (unfortunately), and she and Pouncey stayed behind to wait for the others.

  All the rest Prue told me in the evening. Apparently she had heard the B.G. say about not going on the road, but Titty and Griff had wandered off a bit and didn’t know, and she caught up with them and said, “We’ve got to be back by four. I’ve lost my lunch and I’m very hungry. Shall we walk down to Cross Oaks and buy some for me?”

  That meant walking about four miles. At least two of them also off the Common. And worst of all of course P. should have given in all her money and not have hidden any to spend.

  They walked and walked and lost their way a bit, and it was nearly five miles in the end, but they got some sausage rolls and chocolate cake and sat in a nice hay-stack to eat it. Prue says they all fell asleep they were so tired and hot, but I think just Titty’s watch must have been wrong, the others hadn’t got any. Anyway the end of it was it was after five before they got back to the bus stop and found the B.G. and Pouncey in their hats, straw and linen respectively, sitting bolt upright and most disapproving, on a pile of sharp stones by the side of the road. Then they had to wait ages more in crossness for another bus. Titty was v. penitent (though of course it wasn’t her fault), but Prue was impossible about the whole thing.

  They had to see Miss A. when they came in, and were then sent to bed. I crept in to see Prue after supper bringing her an apple because I only knew they were late, I didn’t realise they’d gone off the Common. I said, “Oh, Prue. I am sorry. What a shame. It just would happen to spoil today.”

  Then she said she was sorry too, and told me about going down to Cross Oaks.

  “Was Miss A. cross?” I asked.

  “No — there was really nothing to be cross about.”

  “But, I mean — the B.G. told you.”

  “Oh, I know she did. Everyone’s been telling me that and I’m very sorry and I can’t do any more.” Then she began to laugh. “I happen to see the funny side of it.”

  Me (puzzled): “What funny side?”

  Prue: “My dear, you should have seen the B.G.’s face when we came back, she cut us dead — I’ve never been cut dead before, a new sensation.”

  Me (rather cross): “Well considering she took all that trouble to take us out, and then you just did the one thing she had told you not to’

  Prue: “I didn’t mean to disobey her or anything. It was just thoughtlessness.”

  Me: “Well, that doesn’t excuse you.”

  Prue: “Oh, for heavens’ sake shut up. You don’t really think thoughtlessness an awful sin do you?”

  Me: “Well, no, not exactly, — but yes I do in that case.”

  Prue: “Well, Miss A. was v. nice and said it was a misunderstanding.” (Of course Prue hadn’t told Miss A. that she knew she wasn’t allowed to go to Cross Oaks.)

  Me (buttoning my pyjamas very fast and getting into bed): “Good-night. If you’re going to take that attitude it’s hopeless.”

  And I simply haven’t spoken one word to her since, except for asking her to return my hair brush. Honestly I do think she might try and take the blame on herself a bit more.

  June 25th. Parents’ Day was rather a failure because it simply rained the whole time. Or rather it stopped occasionally which made it worse. We all rushed out and started to do massed gym and then down it came again, and we rushed back into the cloisters, parents and their children all muddled up and peering at the sky, and knowledgeable Fathers standing out in it without hats to test the strength of the downpour. Daddy was on leave which was heavenly, because he could come too, and Mary. Prue attached herself to us as her aunt couldn’t come.

  Daddy says it is much hotter in Egypt. He hopes he’ll be sent back there. Mummy looked sad when he said that. Tea was as good as ever, almost, although the marquee had sprung a leak from being so jammed full of people. It was really very funny because some of the old girls had come in positively Ascot creations and they soon began to look silly. The ones in uniform looked much better. I shall be very sensible when I grow up, and never buy a floppy hat.

  The play was marvellous, even though none of us were in it. It went off much better than they had dared to hope. And the parents were pleased they could settle down properly to being indoors, without pretending it was dry enough or warm enough to go out.

  June 26th. Today was better because the sun came out quite often and Mummy took Prue and I to bathe at the old mill. It is a wonderful place to go with little tables on the grass, (like abroad — I expect), and a super tea and you dive into the mill race. Prue can’t swim but she splashes about very bravely in the shallow parts. Mary and Daddy went home again yesterday, but Mummy kindly stayed the night.

  I forgot to ask Mary how Caroline was yesterday, but Mummy says today she is very well, and laughs a bit now. Perhaps she will be better company in the summer holidays than she was in April, and I shall manage to get fond of her. I suppose I shall have to ask Prue to come for part of August. Quite apart from her dreary aunt, it is so horrid in London in the summer.

  June 28th. Now all the excitements of Parents’ Day are over, there is nothing to do, but work in earnest. Beety tells me that she revises under the bed-clothes with a torch after lights-out, but I think that is rather awful. Anyway I’m so sleepy by then.

  June 29th. Beety says she reads not only for revising but because Jackson won’t let her snore. It is a terrible story of Persecution. I wouldn’t ever expect anyone in the VIth to be so cruel. It seems that if she goes to sleep before Jackson, Jackson throws things at her for snoring. Sometimes quite heavy things, once even a tennis racquet, so Beety has to stay awake until she can tell by Ja
ckson’s beastly refined regular breathing that she is asleep.

  Poor Beety gets under the bed-clothes with her books and works away, but she says she gets sleepy very quickly because it is so hot inside the bed. She has to close the gap between the sheet and the pillow or the torch shows, and then no air can get in. When she is almost suffocating she surfaces and sometimes she even has to climb under the bed to get cold enough to keep herself awake. Luckily Jackson always turns her face to the wall as soon as she lies down so she never sees what Beety is doing. Beety says one can have no idea how long a quarter of an hour can be by the chimes of the Common Room clock until one has sat on the floor in the dusk under an iron bedstead straining one’s ears for a bit of regular breathing.

  Browney says we should send an anonymous letter to the R.S.P.C.A., but I think a simple campaign of Jackson boycotting would get us into less trouble. Phil suggested a message every night on her pillow such as “Gaol for Jackson,” or “Death to deep Breathing,” but Beety pointed out Jackson would take it out on her, and probably never go to sleep all night. So for the time being we are just going to Glare whenever we see Jackson and no one in the whole form will vote for her to be a prefect. If we can bring S.C.B. in on it too that should just about wreck her chances.

  Anyway it has cheered me up about being nasty to Prue. I’ve never done anything like that to her, only spoken my mind occasionally, when much provoked, and always for her own good.

  July 1st. We had a wonderful Sunday night acting. It’s surprising really, when we are all so worried and harassed, that we can manage to take our minds right off the exam, for a whole evening. We did a most moving version of Cyrano, (mostly in English,) with Phil as Cyrano, Prue as Roxane and me as the beautiful dumb young man who gets her. We did the Panache bit at the end in French. Browney had to be ever so many Cadets de Gascogne; she got very out of breath rushing round a screen and banging hearty beer mugs.

  July 3rd. Now all is hushed and tense, and by the drawn faces even a stranger could pick out S.C.A. from the whole school. Miss A. gave the form a little talk about keeping things in proportion, but how can one ignore such an important event in one’s life? I feel I shall never live beyond it. My brain is a jogging, rattling, tumult of unrelated facts like trout’s gills, and blue litmus paper and the Wars of the Roses. How lovely it must be to be grown up and not have to know anything. Mary never learnt a thing after she left school except how to iron a shirt, and she seems very happy.

  July 5th. Rained all day.

  A terrible thing has happened. I think Prue has stolen my fountain pen. I simply don’t know what to do about it. Could she have? It seems too awful, even for her. I lent it to her to do a History time paper with, because it writes faster than hers. She says she gave it back to me at the end of the morning, but I just know she didn’t and of course there are no witnesses either way, only I haven’t got my darling pen and I’m sure I shall fail the exam, without it. I can’t very well accuse a friend of absolutely lying in her teeth, all I can do is watch her like a hawk and see if she uses it. My faith in human nature is quite destroyed.

  July 5th. Watching Prue till my eyeballs burn, but no sign of pen. In fact she is now writing with a relief nib as she insisted on my having her pen. My mind is away off my work. I just sit gazing at Prue’s bent head in front of me, hating her industrious slow-moving right arm. She doesn’t notice her left plait moving nearer and nearer to her inkwell, and often I see her stab it absentmindedly on the blotting paper to dry off. The B.G. glanced up and saw me this morning with my lips moving in soundless curses, and looked quite startled.

  “Are you feeling all right, Elizabeth?” she asked, so I must be more careful. Lay awake for more than an hour last night wondering what to do.

  July 10th. Exam, began today with the worst possible things, Latin and Maths. Lost without my pen. Gave Prue back hers as a relief nib seems no worse if I can’t have my own. I shall fail anyway.

  July 12th. Cried for hours last night. Mixture of self-pity and exhaustion. Muffled sobs for ages but finally Prue heard. She came and sat on my bed and patted the top of my head rather stupidly, but I could only think of the Falseness of her Friendship and was quite Uncomforted. It shows a very little mind to be so dependent on material things, like a pen. I didn’t know how much I was, until it went.

  July 18th. The exam is over. It has been the finest week of the summer of course and all the rest of the school careering about enjoying themselves in the sunshine. I feel I shall never laugh again. Have written to Mummy to say to expect me back with a nervous breakdown and without Prue. I told her I would never have Prue to stay again. I didn’t say why, but it would mean the silver wasn’t safe.

  July 20th. Rained again, just suddenly after looking as if it never could.

  Started off for a walk with Phil and Browney. Prue tagged on as usual a few yards behind. The woods were dank and dripping, as Phil said,

  “Annihilating all that’s made

  To a gum-boot in a glum shade.”

  We were all depressed with the anti-climax of no more work and worry, and squelched our feet through the boggy under growth with lowered spirits. Suddenly there came a great screaming shout from behind us. We three stopped dead, I wondered if a green mamba had fallen on Prue. She was standing rooted to the moss, and pale as uncooked pastry.

  “What’s the matter, Prue?” yelled Phil. “Got cramp?”

  “Oh, Liz,” Prue moaned, and seemed unable to say more. I walked back to her and she held out her hand without a word. On the palm of it lay my black pen.

  “Prue — wherever?”

  “I found it in my inside mac pocket. Oh Liz, I’m so sorry. I must have put it there last time we went for a walk in the rain. I don’t remember anything about it. I was so sure I gave it back to you. Will you ever forgive me?”

  “I don’t suppose so,” I said. “But perhaps when I can’t get a job from having failed the exam, you will make enough money to keep both of us.”

  She flung herself sobbing into my arms which was rather Awkward. But luckily Phil and Browney had walked ahead tactfully, and weren’t looking.

  “Cheer up, Prue,” I said. “It’s not really as bad as all that.”

  “Oh yes it is,” she sobbed. “I’m hopelessly awful, Liz. I never do anything right even when I most want to.” She snatched off her glasses and stuffed them in her pocket and rubbed her eyes till I thought the lashes would break. They always look slightly false. I handed her my hankie and she had a frantic blow. She has a funny little nose, almost too small to support her glasses. It was now swollen up to almost an ordinary size with crying.

  “Yes, I expect next thing you’ll do is sit down on that pocket and smash your glasses to smithereens.”

  “I shouldn’t be surprised. But it wouldn’t matter any more now the exam is over. I might as well not see anything to the end of my life. In fact I might as well be dead for all the good I do to anyone.”

  This dramatic thought brought on a fresh burst of sobs; I called to the others to go on without us, then I turned sternly to Prue.

  “Now don’t you try anything like that again,” I said. “You know I’m very fond of you for one.”

  “Oh Liz, are you really?” She lifted her hideous mottled face to me with an awful shining in her eyes. I couldn’t decide how far to perjure myself for the sake of feeling magnanimous. Of course I’m fond of her, we’ve been mixed up together, and I’ve been looking after her for too long not to be, but at the same time she makes me madder quicker than anyone else in the world. I felt crossness coming on fast so I spoke before I could think.

  “I wouldn’t have written to Mummy to ask if you could come home for at least half the summer holidays would I, if I didn’t enjoy your company?” I fixed my eyes on a clump of harmless toadstools so as not to see Prue’s naked gratitude.

  “Come on,” I said. “We’ve lost the others so we may as well finish the walk on our own.”

  It looks like Prue is my life
-sentence. I took her hand and we stumped off in the rain, Prue’s fading sobs blending well with Nature’s Mood.

  Part III

  THE AUNT

  CHAPTER I

  I’ve always refused to share my flat, even with a man, so it was a particularly depressing day when Prue finally left school and came to live here. The Williamses invited her for Christmas, but she was back with me on the first of January, and now I’ve got her until I can marry her off, and frankly I can’t expect that to be soon. Katharine would turn in her grave, poor sweet, if she could see her ewe-lamb now, overgrown, awkward, sullen, spotty — I suppose we’ve all been through it, but really eighteen is a sad age.

  She has started at the Royal College of Music and gangles off down Church St. about the same time I leave for the office. She has her grand piano in her bedroom. I told her finally I would not have that architectural monstrosity crying out for silver photo-frames in the living-room with my shiny white paint and the Graham Sutherland. Her bed now has to go practically under the piano to fit in at all, but if she is wedded to music she must take the consequences. I don’t see why I should be the only one to make adjustments. Heaven knows she’s caused enough chaos in my private life. I’ve had to tell Allan not to come at all for a bit. I was glad of an excuse to see less of him, but it’s the principle of the thing. I don’t mind about Allan but there may be other people — What then?

  As a matter of fact I don’t see how I am to entertain or to give any dinner parties, with the child in the flat. I had the Hannays in last night and made them bring their cousin, who is only a year older than Prue, and would the dear young people say one word to each other? Not on your life. Prue sat scowling, and the boy was no better. It would have been something if they had gone into Prue’s room and scowled at each other, but they just scowled at us frivolous old things and blighted the whole evening.