The White Tower

by Cathryn Constable

  ‘Livy!’

  Livy grabbed her uniform and tried to shut out the sensation of being on the roof. But as she pulled on her trousers, she saw that the skin was rubbed raw on her knees and she felt again how she had climbed up on to the roof tiles and how she had run towards the balloon, feeling lighter with each step.

  She tugged yesterday’s socks over her heels, did up just two buttons on her blouse and thrust her feet into her shoes. She felt heavy and out of place once more. There was nothing but a whole day of school ahead of her. How different she felt from those other more confident and accomplished pupils – scholars! She saw Celia being given a lift in some fancy car; she thought of Amy sipping on a fresh smoothie handed to her by a maid; and Martha arranging her hair in a grand gilt mirror, a butler holding a silver tray with hairbrushes and combs laid out for her. And then she imagined Joe Molyns jumping down the steps of his large house and running towards the bus stop. They were all confident, fully themselves. Whereas Livy felt lost and as if she didn’t know who she was any more. She pulled her rucksack – so rustic! – from the back of her chair and went reluctantly down the stairs. The boy called Alex, though, who had helped her with her maths. She couldn’t imagine him leaving a large house. Perhaps that was the real reason that Amy and Martha were so mean to him.

  ‘Tempus fugit,’ she said to herself, thinking of the long and lonely day to come. ‘If only it would.’

  Livy closed the front door but didn’t immediately walk around the corner to Temple College. From the front steps, she looked up at the roofs of the houses in the narrow side street. She scanned the route she thought she must have taken the night before, following the clusters of chimney pots until she reached the wings of the stone creature, his face turned to look over the Court of Sentinels. It was impossible that she had managed without falling to her death. It was too high and too narrow for anyone to have got across. But even as she decided it was impossible, she felt again how easy it had been: she had not given any thought to what she was doing until she had tried to get back to her bedroom.

  And who had pulled her back? Because someone had. She could still feel that sharp tug on her arm.

  How could she make sense of what had happened? She couldn’t. She hadn’t really thought about it at all. It was her body that seemed so sure; every part of her had wanted to step into the sky, and she would have done . . . if she had not been pulled back.

  She needed to talk to someone, to explain how she had felt. But who? Who would even believe that she had climbed out of the window and run along the roof?

  Perhaps it would be better just to find someone who could tell her that she was wrong.

  Celia, Martha and Amy were waiting for Livy on the steps to Burgess. Celia smiled and waved to her.

  ‘I tried messaging you last night,’ she said. ‘But you didn’t reply. Did you manage all your homework?’

  Livy, seeing Amy and Martha looking at her closely, nodded, although she had not been able to concentrate on her French composition after climbing back in from the roof. She had scarcely managed to crawl on to her bed and lie there as the room spun around her.

  ‘Miss Burgess?’ The school secretary, Miss Lockwood bustled up to them. ‘You’re needed in Dr Smythe’s study, now.’

  ‘It’s only your second day!’ Amy said, her eyes round with surprise. ‘What could you have done?’

  As Livy turned away she heard Martha whisper, ‘She’s murdered fashion!’

  Livy dragged her feet; they felt as heavy as the blood weighing down her veins. What could she have done to cause her to be summoned like this? She looked again at the certificates that lined the stairs. They looked impressive with their gold lettering and gold medallions stamped on to the thick paper.

  The door was ajar and Livy could see Dr Smythe standing to the side of her desk. She was looking at the portrait of Master Burgess.

  ‘Come in!’ Dr Smythe’s voice rang out even before Livy’s knuckles had touched the wood.

  Dr Smythe turned and seated herself behind her enormous desk. The Sentinel filled the window. The Sentinel that Livy had stood next to last night, whose wing had shivered when she had touched it.

  ‘Don’t stand in the doorway,’ Dr Smythe called to her.

  Livy edged forwards, keeping her gaze away from the Sentinel.

  Dr Smythe indicated for Livy to take a seat. Peter Burgess looked down at her, his painted face impassive, unreadable.

  ‘I saw you talking to someone on the street yesterday evening,’ Dr Smythe began. ‘A man wearing a hat and a brown suit?’

  Livy started. She hadn’t seen Dr Smythe watching her – was she everywhere? ‘I don’t think we were in any danger,’ she muttered.

  ‘What did he want? Did he ask you for money?’

  Livy shook her head.

  ‘And he didn’t threaten you in any way?’

  ‘No. Of course not,’ Livy said, surprised.

  ‘But he spoke to you.’

  Livy nodded.

  Dr Smythe made a soft ‘tut-tutting’ noise. ‘And what did he say?’ She picked up a pen and started making notes on a small pad of paper. ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Not much.’ Livy frowned. She didn’t feel like telling Dr Smythe about the book she had been given, as a gift from a distant friend. It would sound too silly.

  Dr Smythe underlined something twice on her pad. Her handwriting was all curls and flowing lines, and Livy, normally quite adept at reading things upside down, couldn’t understand it.

  ‘Did the man speak to Tom at all?’ Dr Smythe said.

  ‘No. He just told us his name.’

  ‘I think we don’t need to involve the police at this point,’ Dr Smythe said. ‘But perhaps if the man approaches you again, you will tell me first?’ She frowned. ‘Can you do that?’

  Livy nodded.

  ‘And don’t speak to him,’ Dr Smythe added. ‘Don’t tell him anything. And if he asks for anything . . .’

  ‘Like money?’ Livy offered.

  ‘Like money,’ Dr Smythe nodded. ‘Or anything that he could sell . . .’

  ‘I don’t think he’s capable of doing anything bad at all,’ Livy blurted out.

  Dr Smythe made a cage out of her fingers and placed her chin on it. There was a streak of black dust on the inside of her wrist, just where the cuff of her white blouse stopped. She must have seen Livy noticing it because she discreetly tugged on her sleeve and the mark was covered.

  ‘The man I saw you talking with is the ex-librarian of Temple College.’

  ‘Mr Hopkins was the librarian?’ Livy thought about the man’s well-cut suit and his neat appearance. So this was the man that Celia had said Dr Smythe had fired. He had been thrown out of his house too. The house that her family were now living in. How awful! How could Dr Smythe have been so heartless?

  ‘You feel sorry for him?’ Dr Smythe pursed her lips. ‘Well, don’t. The man is a menace.’

  ‘He’s not!’ Livy said, feeling her voice rise. ‘He’s nice!’

  ‘I think I should be the judge of that.’ Dr Smythe looked down at her notes and her golden hair fell across her face. ‘Thank you, Livy, you can go. You’ve been most helpful.’

  Livy walked slowly down the stairs past Dr Smythe’s many certificates. Why was she so interested in what poor Alan Hopkins had said to her? And why would she think that the man was a menace?

  ‘Livy!’ Celia was standing at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I told Mr Green that I didn’t feel well. I had to come and find you. I couldn’t bear the suspense! And this has nothing to do with the fact that Mr Green is the most boring teacher ever!’ She squeezed Livy’s arm. ‘Tell me! What did Dr Smythe want?’ Celia looked serious. ‘You’re not in any trouble, are you?’

  Livy shook her head. ‘Dr Smythe saw the old librarian talking to me yesterday, after school. She wanted to know what he said.’

  Celia frowned. ‘Why would Dr Smythe care?’ s
he said. ‘She got rid of him, after all.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Livy slowly. ‘She did.’

  The bell went for the change of lesson as they stepped out into the Court of Sentinels.

  Celia stood quite still. Joe Molyns was just a few feet away. ‘I knew I’d see him,’ she whispered. ‘I could feel it in my blood.’

  ‘Have you ever said anything to him? About how you feel?’ Livy said. That was something Mahalia had wanted to do and never got the chance.

  ‘Er, no!’ Celia said, looking astounded. ‘Why would I go and do something like that?’

  ‘Because he might like you too.’

  ‘But he doesn’t have a clue who I am! Imagine it, Livy. I pluck up the courage to say something–’

  ‘What would you say?’ Livy interrupted her.

  ‘Something like –’ Celia’s cheeks were scarlet, as if she were actually speaking to Joe – ‘Hi . . . I saw you play football . . . No . . . Hi . . . I’m Celia and . . .’ She shook her head. ‘He’s not going to be very impressed!’

  ‘How about if you spoke to him at the bus stop? Just ask him the time. Anything.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Just say it to him. What are you worried about?’

  ‘That he would just laugh in my face and walk off. Or worse, much worse, that he would ignore me.’

  ‘You could get on the same bus and sit near him?’ Livy thought of the jostle to find a seat near Mahalia’s crush.

  ‘Martha and Amy would be watching,’ Celia whispered. ‘And anyway, they’re so much prettier than me. He’s bound to want to talk to them!’

  ‘He wouldn’t,’ Livy said.

  ‘Like you’re the expert.’ Celia laughed.

  Although Celia asked Livy again if she wanted to join them for frozen yoghurt after school, Livy saw how relieved Martha and Amy were when she declined.

  ‘I’m going to see my dad in the library,’ she improvised.

  As Livy walked through the college garden towards the library, she thought about why Celia hung around with Martha and Amy. Livy had known plenty of girls like them in her last school, but she and Mahalia had been such good friends they could ignore the ‘shiny girls’. But perhaps Celia didn’t notice: they were always really nice to her. And they had so much in common – adoring Joe Molyns.

  She found her father’s office, not much more than a cubicle, just inside the front door.

  ‘How’s the job going?’ Livy said to her father’s back.

  ‘Second day in and it’s already impossible.’ Her father glanced up and smiled at her, although he looked tired.

  ‘This place is a mess,’ he went on. ‘I just went to find a book on gravity that Dr Smythe has requested – a rare book by our supposed ancestor, Peter Burgess – but someone’s been playing tricks and replaced it with a 1970s caravanning catalogue.’ Livy’s father waved a battered magazine in front of Livy and then threw it on the desk in disgust. ‘Caravans! Honestly, Mr Hopkins has got a lot to answer for. I don’t blame Dr Smythe for getting rid of him. He clearly had no idea what he was doing or how to look after books.’

  ‘I could go and look,’ Livy said. ‘See what I can find.’

  ‘Don’t go too far,’ her father said, speaking to the screen. ‘It’s a labyrinth and you don’t have a ball of string. Take a wrong turning in here and you might not come back for a year!’

  ‘Where does that go?’ Livy said, pointing to a metal staircase which twisted up to a narrow slanting doorway.

  Her father looked up. ‘Botany,’ he said, turning back to the computer screen, ‘I think. Now, where was I?’

  Livy climbed the metal staircase, going round and round. At the top, she looked down at her father’s head, his hair messy and the collar of his shirt caught in his crumpled jumper.

  ‘Call me when it’s time to go,’ she called.

  Her father waved his hand in absent-minded agreement.

  She drifted through a series of small rooms all lined with books. She thought about how Celia had come to find her after she had seen Dr Smythe, but then left her on her own at lunchtime. True, Celia had apologized later: there had been an art club that she needed to go to and she had been sure that Amy would have looked after her. But Amy hadn’t got the text. Apparently. And Martha never ate lunch on a Tuesday. So Livy had sat with her tray in the enormous dining hall staring at the food she didn’t want to eat, avoiding Mr Bowen’s concerned expression as he looked down from the high table where the teachers ate. Livy had wished that she could dissolve. Alex, the quiet Russian boy, had joined her and slowly eaten a slice of pizza but not said a word, not even looked in her direction. Livy sighed. She longed to be back in the time and place where friendship was not something she had to watch for every minute of the day.

  The floorboards creaked underfoot and the small panes of the mullioned windows made the dusk fall at her feet like a velvet patchwork.

  I’ll see how far I can get, Livy thought, before Dad calls me.

  She played the game she and Mahalia used to play. Closing her eyes, Livy ran her finger along a bookshelf. When she opened her eyes, she took whatever books she had found off the shelf and examined it.

  ‘Urgh!’ she groaned when she picked out the first one. ‘It’s the periodic table!’ She closed it with a snap and shoved it back on the shelf.

  ‘Not funny, Mahalia,’ she whispered. ‘Choose me a nice book.’

  She closed her eyes, bumped into a bookshelf, corrected herself and, her finger still trailing along the bookshelves, felt the bookshelf stop and a doorway appear to her touch. She stepped through, almost tripping down a shallow step into the next room, her eyes still closed.

  When she next opened her eyes, she was aware of a person in the room. She held her breath and dipped behind a bookcase.

  Sitting at a table, surrounded by piles of books, was Alex. His hair stuck up as if he had recently raked it with his fingers. He had loosened his tie and his Adam’s apple stuck out as if he had swallowed a walnut. He was writing furiously in a notebook and flicking the pages backwards and forwards as if he had lost something in the tangle of words.

  ‘Hello.’ Livy stepped out from behind the bookcase.

  Alex jumped. He looked panicked as he pulled the books towards him. ‘Don’t tell your dad I’m here,’ he whispered.

  ‘Why would I tell my dad? He’s a librarian. He likes people to read!’

  The boy looked relieved.

  ‘What are you reading?’ Livy took a step forwards.

  Alex looked nervous and put his arm across the old book with thick black type that he had been reading. ‘I . . . I am doing research,’ he said.

  ‘What on?’

  ‘History,’ Alex muttered, moving the books around so that the book he had been reading was now at the bottom of a pile. ‘It interests me. I want to know what tempus fugit means. I have searched through all these books and I can’t find the answer.’

  ‘Oh, but that’s simple,’ Livy said. ‘It means “time flies”. It’s Latin.’

  The boy stared at her with disdain. ‘I know that!’ he muttered. ‘Do you think I’m stupid? Are you like Martha and Amy?’

  ‘I don’t think you’re stupid,’ Livy said, quickly.

  ‘The words tempus fugit mean something more than just “time flies”, I am sure.’ He seemed embarrassed at his outburst and his cheeks had coloured. ‘Because why are they written all over the school? And always they point to Master Burgess . . .’ He put his head down and stared at his studies. ‘Although –’ he looked up again, attentive, like a bird – ‘perhaps you might have some idea. When I asked Mr Hopkins, he said that only a real Burgess would know. And you’re a real Burgess!’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Livy said.

  ‘It’s such a shame that Dr Smythe got rid of Mr Hopkins. Now I don’t have anyone to ask. Your dad doesn’t seem to know anything. Sorry,’ he added.

  ‘My dad is a really good librarian,’ Livy said. ‘I’m sure he’ll know more than
Mr Hopkins in no time.’

  Alex pulled a face. ‘Unlikely. Mr Hopkins had been here for forty years. He knew everything – every book and every scientific paper. Did you know that all the notes of all the scientists who were educated here are kept in this library? It’s all part of the Temple College collection!’ Alex’s cheeks were flushed with excitement. ‘Apart from Peter Burgess. There’s hardly anything of Peter Burgess’s work. I asked Mr Hopkins and he said there was nothing. But isn’t that odd? The founder of the school and no one can find out anything about his experiments.’

  ‘I suppose . . .’ Livy said. ‘And yet Dr Smythe seemed to know stuff about him. She told me she had found out about him when she worked in Prague.’

  Alex looked surprised. ‘When did she say that?’

  ‘At my interview.’

  ‘What did she find out?’

  ‘She said he was rich and paid for some poor boys to be educated here. He paid for the Sentinels and he bought lots of books for the library.’

  ‘But nothing about his experiments?’ Alex looked hopeful.

  ‘She mentioned the Garden of Eden . . . and angels.’ Livy shrugged. ‘I can’t really remember. It didn’t make much sense to me.’

  Alex looked down at his books. ‘Very scientific,’ he muttered sounding unimpressed. Livy had disappointed him with her meagre information.

  ‘Bye, then,’ Livy said as the silence became longer.

  Alex didn’t look up. ‘Bye.’

  Livy continued with her game, walking further and further, bumping into doorways and bookshelves. Why had Dr Smythe been so intent on getting rid of Mr Hopkins? And what was it about her father that meant that he had been installed in the job so quickly? Dr Smythe knew about Peter Burgess’s experiments and yet Mr Hopkins told the woman that there was nothing written by him in the library. Perhaps Mr Hopkins had been hiding something . . .