Blow Out the Moon

by Libby Koponen

  So, we were each going to have a senior as a partner.

  The partners would walk to church together and sit next to each other. The idea was that the senior would make the junior behave.

  Sisters, Marza had said, could be partners. So Retina picked Brioney, and Carol picked Clare. The head girl, Alice, walked up to Veryan and nodded: Of course, she would pick Veryan — she was Veryan’s favorite senior. At Sibton Park it was the custom for each senior (girl in the Upper School) to look after a junior (a girl in the Lower School) not all the time, but when someone older was wanted. All the juniors who didn’t have older sisters at the school had a senior who did this.

  If, for example, Veryan was upset, we would go get Alice and she would come down to the Night Nursery and talk to Veryan. Matron, I guess, was the one who did this for me, though the only time she’d ever had to was the time I fell out of the tree. So I didn’t know who would pick me.

  Another prefect did: a girl called Buffer. She frowned and then nodded at me. I’d never talked to her before, but I knew who she was, and I stood on line next to her.

  When everyone had a partner, we walked out of the school in what they called a “crocodile” (a line), two by two.

  I knew that Buffer’s real name was Elizabeth since there were so many Elizabeths in the school they all had nicknames — but I don’t know why her nickname was Buffer. She was tall, with gray eyes and brown hair cut straight across her forehead, like mine! Only her hair was much thicker and much neater. She was a lot bigger than I was, but most of the seniors were.

  In school stories, the prefects were in charge of things like making people go to bed on time; at Sibton Park, they were just older girls Marza picked to be prefects. There were four.

  Even though Buffer took long steps, she was kind of a slow walker, and I walked a little in front of her, turning around or walking backward to look up at her.

  She seemed very serious. She didn’t talk much on the way to church; I did. I think I talked the whole way without stopping. Every now and then she’d give a sudden laugh and then (just as suddenly) her face would get serious again.

  I always liked the walk to church: It was along lanes with wide strips of grass on each side — that rich English grass that feels springy under your feet. I don’t really remember what I talked about — whatever I was thinking or noticing, probably; I didn’t really pay much attention to what I was saying.

  I do remember that just before we got to the church the air suddenly smelled almost sweet, in a way it never had before, and I said, “What’s that beautiful scent?”

  “Lavender,” she said. “It grows in the churchyard.”

  Maybe you’ve smelled lavender soap? This smelled drier and sunnier — that scent seemed all mixed up with the sun and Sunday and summer.

  The church was gray stone, very old, and inside, cold, even that day. Banners that people had carried in real wars hung on the walls.

  Church was the only time at Sibton Park that I was bored. Of course, we weren’t allowed to talk; we weren’t allowed even to read the other parts of the prayer book or the words of the other hymns. We had to just look at the page in the book that we were on. Sometimes hymns are loud and fun, but if we sang too loudly in church, Marza got cross (the Sunday before we’d really bellowed “Onward Christian Soldiers”).

  The only things to do in church were say the prayers, sing the hymns, and think.

  After church, we went to our form rooms to write our letters to our parents. If you were a junior, your form mistress read your letter and corrected any mistakes; you wrote it over if there were any and then she read it again. When it was passed you could play until dinner time. No one read the seniors’ letters.

  That Sunday I wrote two letters, one to Emmy and one to the rest of the family. But first, I reread their letters to me: My mother had already written me twelve letters, and Emmy had written me one. Willy and Bubby each sent a letter, too, but not real letters — Bubby’s was pretend writing (two pages of scribbles about the size of letters) and Willy’s was a picture with his name in capital letters and X’s for kisses.

  This is Emmy’s letter; she drew a picture on the back of it, too.

  Philip was the pet budgerigar they had promised her — my mother had written to me about getting him, and that they had started a new school.

  I had written to her first:

  Dear Emmy,

  I’m having a wonderful time. You are allowed to go into the fields and pet the horses. I wish you were here with me. It isn’t very long until May 16th. There are four children in my dormitory counting me: their names are Clare, Veryan, and Brioney. If you came you would be in the 1st form. I am in 2B. I would be in 2A probably if it wasn’t for my French. What are you doing? Are you smart in school? Can’t wait until May 16th.

  Love, Libby.

  My mother’s last letter was:

  Dear Libby —

  We all hope you are having a good time.

  Great excitement here this week as Emmy and Willy started their new school, and guess who else did? Bubby! Bubby will go only in the mornings. Emmy and Willy will have every Wednesday afternoon as a half-holiday, and their half-term holiday will be the same as yours. They all enjoyed school; liked their teachers and the other children. It’s a very nice school and I think all three will learn a lot and have a good time, too.

  Have the clothes we ordered arrived yet? You should be receiving your riding clothes, ballet tunic, mac, and another skirt. When we come to visit you, we can bring along anything you may have forgotten to pack if you will let us know what you want. Will bring along your other jumper, too. Are your pajamas warm enough, Libby?

  Bubby considers herself quite grown up now that she has started school. She was very shy about going into her classroom the first day, later told us she had played with plasticene, gone out in the garden, taken a rest, listened to a story, and played with a horse.

  Be sure to let us know if there is anything you need or want, and we can bring it when we come to see you on the 16th. Love from all of us, dear.

  Mother

  I wrote this to everyone else:

  Dear Mother and Father and Willy and Bubby,

  How are you? Mo says Bubby’s writing looks exactly like Persian. So Bubby may be writing in Persian and we don’t know it! We have lessons on Saturday until 12:30. Are you pleased with how smart Emmy is? At night we play a game called Hospital. We made it up. We use my nail set for the doctor’s tools. The operation we did last night was appendix. With a blunt thing we poked around, with the sharp one we gave shots, one that is like a scraper we use to open the skin. With the tweezers we take out the appendix, with the nail file we take the patient’s temperature and with the scissors (the handles of them) we sew it up. The title of the hymn book I need is The Common Prayer Hymns Ancient and Modern. When will my riding clothes be ready? Give my love to everyone.

  Love, Libby.

  Then I put some kisses and hugs at the bottom. I would be seeing them on Saturday, May 16th, one day less than two weeks away — not VERY long.

  Chapter Twenty-one:

  My First Riding Lesson

  Finally my riding clothes came: thick brown jodhpurs, a tweed jacket, string gloves, and a hard hat. I didn’t need boots — most juniors rode in their walking shoes.

  I was VERY excited. In my class were Brioney, someone who was only five, and Clare. They had all ridden before — quite a lot — and Clare had real jodhpur boots.

  Clare on Frisky. They are in the stable yard; Miss Monkman is in the stable doorway.

  We started in the stable yard — I had Tuppence. Miss Monkman showed me how to get on (it was much easier with a stirrup and saddle), and she made the stirrups the right length and put my feet in them; she pushed my heels down and told me to keep them down. She pushed my lower legs back a bit and pressed my knees into the saddle, and then she put my fingers around the reins, so that my two fists were facing each other with the thumbs on top, and the bottom
s of my fists were pressed into Tuppence. She said, “Whatever you do, don’t let go of the reins — even if you fall off.”

  She glanced at the others, told Brioney to shorten her stirrups, and then, with Tuppence’s reins in one hand, she led us out of the stable yard. We walked down the road, through the cow pasture, and into the horse pasture, with Miss Monkman holding my reins and talking to me the whole time. Finally when we got to the paddock, she let go of the reins and let me ride by myself.

  I was really riding. I was on a horse, I could feel it moving underneath me, and see its mane kind of flapping up and down, and its ears flickering back and forth — listening, maybe wondering who I was.

  I tried to keep the reins where Miss Monkman had put them: in my fists, with my thumbs on top, and the bottom of my hands on the pony’s withers (two bumpy bones right in front of the saddle). I held my hands still, so I wouldn’t hurt Tuppence’s mouth — Miss Monkman told me that, and I remembered what Black Beauty said about the bit, too. I pushed my toes up and my heels down.

  I gripped with my knees. I sat up straight and looked straight ahead, between Tuppence’s flickering ears, keeping my elbows pressed to my sides.

  I could do all those things at once while we walked.

  Then Miss Monkman, who was standing in the middle of the paddock while we rode round her, called, “Trot!” and all the horses went faster and Tuppence did, too. I bumped up and down, wobbling all over the place and almost losing my balance — my arms went out, my hands jerked off the withers and into the air; but I didn’t let go of the reins.

  “Libby, grab the saddle or a bit of mane if you feel yourself losing your balance! Sit up straight!” Miss Monkman shouted. “Keep your hands on the withers!”

  I tried to but I kept bumping up and down and so did my hands.

  “Heels down, Libby — it’s easier to balance that way!” Miss Monkman said. “Post.”

  (That means watch the outside shoulder — when it goes forward, push yourself up. You can pretend there’s a string from the horse’s shoulder to the middle of your belt, pulling you up and forward. Miss Monkman had explained all that but it’s hard to do.)

  “It’s a RHYthm. ONE two, ONE two. Up! Down! Post — one, two! One, two! Up, down! Count with me, come on.”

  I watched and counted — ONE two, ONE two — but I still bumped. Once or twice I did actually post in rhythm — I think, I’m not sure. Most of the time I just jostled around, but I did stay on.

  There was so much to think about and try to do all at once. Riding was MUCH harder than I expected; the only thing that was easy was sitting up straight.

  The next day my bottom and the inside of my thighs hurt quite a lot. I asked Clare about it.

  “You’re saddle-sore,” Clare said. “It’s because riding is new to you.”

  “I’m not very good at it,” I said.

  “You will be once you can post,” she said. I asked how long that would take. She said, “Posting is a bit like riding a bicycle — one day you just do it and after that you always know.”

  I tried to remember how long it had taken to learn to ride a two-wheeler, but I couldn’t; and riding a horse seemed much harder. But I’d learn.

  Chapter Twenty-two:

  May 16th

  On Saturday, May 16th, right after lessons, I waited in the corridor by the Tudor Garden: this was where people always waited for their parents when they were being taken out. I knew that because lots of people already had gone out. It was only in your first term that you weren’t allowed to see your parents for the first six weeks.

  There was a door with glass panes at the top: You could see the Tudor Garden and beyond it, the front drive.

  I waited and waited, listening for a car. I had written them where I would be waiting, and written them again on Wednesday to remind them of the date and time.

  While I was waiting, Sarah Riley came by and asked me what kind of car they had.

  “I don’t know,” I said. She looked surprised, and I added, “It’s a different one every time they go someplace.”

  “Oh, you hire a car, do you?” she said — she sort of drawled the words and pronounced “hire” as though it was “har” in a way that made me uncomfortable.

  Finally I heard a car in the distance slow down, and then saw it turn into the driveway. I got to the car before anyone got out.

  “Mummy!” I shouted. “Mummy!”

  Emmy made a little face at me (because of the “Mummy,” I knew).

  I asked if I could show Emmy the horses, and my parents looked at each other. I had written to them about Nella that first day, and my riding lessons, but not about riding Tuppence.

  “Oh, please can I?” she said.

  “We’ll be very careful,” I said.

  “Me come too?” Bubby said with a big smile, and we all laughed.

  “You older girls may go if you promise to just look at the horses from over the fence: Don’t go into the field.”

  We promised.

  As soon as we could talk privately, Emmy looked at me and said, “Mummy?”

  “Well, that is how it’s pronounced in England,” I said. “We usually stand on the fence like this.”

  I put my feet on the bottom rail and held the top one; Emmy did, too. We leaned over the fence and watched the horses eating grass in the sun. I told Emmy all their names, and about my riding lessons (I’d had several by then).

  “It’s much harder than I thought it would be,” I said. “But I’m getting better: I can ALMOST post.”

  I explained what posting was, and told her about riding Tuppence in the field that day, and she laughed, but when I asked her if she’d like to come to Sibton Park, too, she said no, she’d rather stay at home.

  “If you came you could take riding lessons — we have three each week. And you could pet the horses whenever you wanted to,” I said. “I come into this field almost every day.”

  Bubby in the back seat with her birthday teddy.

  “It’s good — but, I don’t want to leave home,” Emmy said.

  When we got into the car, Bubby proudly showed me her new teddy bear (it was almost as big as she was).

  “My birthday teddy,” she said. “I’m three.”

  She DID seem older. She seemed like a person, not a baby.

  A lot of other things had changed at home, too. Jill was gone, they had moved (which I knew from my mother’s letters), but my father told me anyway, adding, “The new apartment has a big garden the children can play in.”

  “Do you play in it?” I said.

  “Sometimes,” Emmy said.

  Bubby and Willy didn’t answer: They were talking to each other (or her new teddy and his old Raggedy Ann doll) in growly, very low voices and giggling, as usual. THAT hadn’t changed.

  Willy and Bubby in the back seat.

  We went to an inn for lunch and ate in the garden, until it started to rain heavily. That happened a lot on English outings.

  The first part of lunch at the inn. You can only see a little of Emmy — she’s sitting between Willy and my mother, across the table from me.

  After lunch, we drove back. Emmy wanted to go see the horses again, and I wanted to show them to Bubby and Willy, too; but it was time for them to go home and for me to be back at school, my father said.

  I hugged him, and my mother, and Bubby, and Willy, and Emmy; and then they drove away. Emmy waved her arm back and forth across the whole rear window — I could see the gray sleeve of her sweater going back and forth until the car went out of sight.

  Chapter Twenty-three:

  “That Was My Father’s Legion”

  “You’re awfully quiet today,” Matron said at lunch the next day.

  I still sat next to her at meals; everyone else wanted to sit next to her, too, so they took turns sitting on her other side. To make it fair, everyone but me sat in the same order and at each meal, they all moved one place — like at the Mad Tea Party in Alice in Wonderland.

  I li
ked Matron as much as everyone else did, maybe more! But I didn’t like having to sit next to her because of my manners. I wanted to be able to eat the way everyone else ate.

  “I’m concentrating on eating properly,” I said. Soup you had to tilt into your mouth, with the spoon sideways. Only the very edge of the spoon could touch your lips.

  Matron laughed.

  “But that’s no good! You must carry on a conversation and eat properly.” It was like riding, I thought: everything all at the same time. “Tell us where the Koponens are going for the summer holidays.”

  That’s what they had been talking about: where everyone was going for the holidays. Matron’s parents and Clare were all going to Greece.

  “To a farm in Cornwall for part of the time,” I said. “They’re not sure about the rest of the holidays. My father wants to take my mother to Italy, but they haven’t found a new nanny yet, so there’s no one to take care of us.”

  “I’ll look after you!” Matron said eagerly.

  I was VERY surprised — and pleased.

  “I’ll write and ask!” I said. “Oh, I hope they say yes!”

  Clare and I talked about it while we stood on line for sweets and walked to the Lower Garden, where we had a story after lunch. Miss Davenport was already sitting in her chair under the old oak, waiting while everyone found places on the grass.

  Sun coming through leaves made little wavering patches of light and shadows on the lawn. And it was so bright and sunny that when I sat down, even the grass felt warm! I looked up at the big branch high above us, then around the lawn, at the dappled light and all the girls in their striped summer dresses: white with pale blue stripes, white with pale pink, white with pale green — they all looked white in the pale bright sun. When everyone was still and quiet, Miss Davenport began to read.

  It was a happy feeling, looking at the dappled light, listening to the story. It was about an English boy in ancient Britain, and I liked it until a grown-up in the book told about a Roman legion that marched off into the mist and never came back. They just disappeared. There was a pause and the boy said, “That was my father’s legion.”