Priscilla Doughty-Smythe, a prize-winner in the shadow pictures competition, possessed considerable artistic talent and a flair for making water-colour sketches. During the recent good weather she had completed a large collection of views of Briesau and the Tiernsee sketched from different vantage points. She had also painted several from the windows of the hotel, and these included some in Impressionist style done during the days of rain and mist; altogether the pictures covered a wide range.
Patricia and Pamela agreed enthusiastically with Joan’s suggestion for a showing of the pictures, and they decided to put it to Priscilla at lunch-time.
‘And you’ve given me another marvellous idea,’ Patricia said. She did not go on to explain; and the other two knew better than to ask questions. Patricia, as Joan had once said, could give a first-rate imitation of an oyster when she wished.
After lunch, a most enjoyable meal at the Café Kindler, the afternoon passed only too quickly in visiting the glass shops. Here the girls would instantly have launched into an orgy of buying, for not only was the glass beautiful but the prices, by English standards, were extremely reasonable.
Miss Bruce soon stemmed the flood of enthusiasm. She crisply pointed out that, since they would not be returning to London for nearly seven weeks, a large number of extremely fragile parcels was unlikely to prove an asset on their journey. Reluctantly the girls accepted her dictat that each might buy a maximum of six small or two larger objects.
When all the choices were finally made — and no one who has ever been shopping with even a few girls will doubt how long this took — the Londoners made their way back to the station and collected their cases from the gnome-like station attendant. He informed them that there was no train direct to Innsbruck, and that they must take a local train, leaving in about ten minutes, as far as Spärtz; there they must change and take the 16.57 to Innsbruck. It all seemed simple enough; nevertheless they were about to fall into another of the minor traps lying in wait for the unwary traveller in Austria.
At Spärtz they were the only people waiting on the platform. Spärtz is a busy little station at all times; apart from local traffic, many of the main-line trains to and from Innsbruck pass through it. Even in the short time the Londoners stood waiting a considerable number of trains came and went in either direction. The party had been told to wait at Bahnsteig 2, and at about a quarter to five they saw a train appearing from the direction of Kufstein; it roared into the station, slowed down and stopped at their platform.
‘But are you sure this is the right train, Miss Mortlock?’ Patricia asked doubtfully, as the girls streamed forward and began mounting the steps.
‘Well, it says Innsbruck.’ Miss Mortlock, surprised at the query, pointed to the board beside the door of the coach, which stated clearly ‘München — Kufstein — Innsbruck.’
Miss Bruce had already negotiated the steep climb up into the carriage but, telling them to wait for a moment, she asked a passenger standing in the corridor, ‘Bitte, dieser Zug fährt wohl nach Innsbruck?’ On being assured that it did, she signalled to them all to get in quickly, and a moment later the train was on its way.
It did not stop at any of the little stations beyond Spärtz, and in ten minutes they were almost halfway to their destination.
‘But surely this can’t be our train,’ Patricia persisted, looking at her watch with a puzzled expression. ‘It was only due to leave Spärtz about now, and it was going to take nearly an hour to get to Innsbruck.’
‘Quite right, Patricia,’ Miss Bruce agreed. ‘Another train altogether . . . and much quicker . . . get us to Innsbruck far sooner . . . not a bad thing either . . . give us more time this evening . . . and everyone’s tired now.’
Joan Hatherley wondered, not for the first time, how it came about that anyone who wrote as beautifully as Miss Bruce did, and was as demanding with her pupils over the niceties of English style and rhythm, should always speak so very inelegantly.
The mystery of the trains was solved a moment later when a ticket collector entered their carriage; after seeing their tickets, he informed them politely but firmly that they were in the wrong train. For one horrible moment they thought they might actually be travelling in the wrong direction, but he reassured them; the train was certainly going to Innsbruck. However, this was an express train (an ‘Eilzug’), and their tickets entitled them to travel only in one of the slower stopping trains. Another time the gracious ladies must look for the sign ‘Personen Zug’.
Once again supplementary fares had to be paid. Miss Bruce, catching Joan Hatherley’s deliberately expressionless eye, was human enough to laugh. And Joan felt an unspoken agreement now existed that there would be no further reference to the morning’s episode.
‘All the same,’ she confided to her two special friends later on that evening, when they were installed in an enormous, extremely grand room at the Maria-Theresia Hotel, ‘I’m remarkably glad that particular little trouble was not any fault of ours.’
CHAPTER XVII.
MAYNIE AND THE MIDDLES.
AT the Chalet School this same Monday had begun quietly enough — on the surface, at any rate.
During the time after Frühstück that was always devoted to bed-making and tidying in the dormitories, a good many girls must have found their thoughts straying enviously to the Grange House party: those lucky creatures would be on the way to Rattenberg now! And it can well be imagined that every Chaletian would rather have been accompanying the Londoners than settling into the normal Monday morning school routine.
Mrs Russell and Mademoiselle Lepâttre, joint headmistresses of the Chalet School, had given much thought to the question of their girls joining Grange House’s expedition. There would have been much to recommend the plan; but in the end, mainly because there were now only two weeks left before the school’s half-term holiday, they had decided against allowing it.
‘I’m really very sorry, Elise,’ Madge Russell said when they were discussing the matter. ‘The girls must certainly visit Rattenberg some time — and I’d like to see it myself, wouldn’t you? Joey will be furious with me; you know how keen she is on anything historical. But it would mean upsetting all the timetables yet again; and besides, it would be a very tiring day’s outing for them. I think we mustn’t allow their school-work to suffer.’
Mademoiselle had given her whole-hearted approval; and added, with a gently humorous smile: ‘After all, Marguérite chérie, it is a school that we are running here, and not a colonie de vacances!’
The girls had naturally been disappointed when their heads’ decision was announced, but most of them had accepted it philosophically. However, certain undercurrents of restlessness did begin to stir among the Middles; and when, on Monday morning after prayers, Mademoiselle stood up to make the day’s announcements, she was not unaware of these.
She began by telling the assembled girls that during the coming week they would be reverting to the normal school timetables with only one or two minor adjustments. Today, accordingly, everything would be as usual until Abendessen; then everyone would do mending for three-quarters of an hour: ‘There has been very little time for mending on any of the recent weekends, and I feel sure that many of you’ (did she look in the direction of the Middle School?) ‘will have more than enough to occupy the time.’
Not even the most outrageous Middle would have dared, here in the presence of headmistress, staff and prefects, to groan aloud; but the announcement caused some exceedingly glum faces; no one relished the prospect of giving up forty-five minutes of free time to do her mending, however necessary. Mademoiselle did not fail to notice those black looks; and when she continued, it was in tones still gentle but with a hint of severity:
‘Mes chères enfants, during these past weeks you have often been excused from lessons and preparation and have been allowed much extra free time. We have been happy to make these arrangements so that you might profit from the continuing good weather and also enjoy the company of our visitor
s from London. Now it is your turn to make up a little for the time which has thus been lost. And we in the Chalet School do not seize all the pleasant things and then complain when we have to give back something in return.’
Most of those who had been looking mutinous now began to feel slightly conscience-stricken. Indeed Mademoiselle’s words had an excellent effect, and behaviour throughout the school was exemplary during the first half of the morning.
It was while they were having their mid-morning break that an imp of mischief began to whisper in the ear of Evadne Lannis. She and her fellow-members of the Fourth Form were strolling round the playing-field, talking non-stop and with very little eye for the beauties of the autumn scenery around them.
‘Suffering cats, it’s beastly maths next lesson.’ Evadne gave a heart-felt groan. ‘And I’ll give a dollar to a dime that Maynie will be putting the screws on today; she was threatening the most grisly horrors last week.’
‘Really, Evvy, your language!’ Margia said lightly. ‘I’d be a bit more careful; you know those prefects have a nasty way of appearing from nowhere.’
Evadne looked around with an air of elaborate unconcern. At that moment there was no prefect to be seen nearer than the opposite side of the field, but she did contrive to lower her normally ringing tones just a little when she continued her plaint: ‘Gee, don’t I wish I could be sick for a short time, just long enough to miss that old maths lesson.’
‘But to be “seek”, Evadne?’ queried Suzanne Mercier, raising her eyebrows in true Gallic astonishment. ‘But that is so very disagreeable. Surely you do not wish to be sick, even to miss Maynie’s lesson?’
‘Oh, Evadne doesn’t mean sick like that, Suzanne,’ Margia explained kindly. ‘It’s just her funny little American way of saying “ill”.’
‘Here, less of the “funny little American”,’ growled Evadne, with a toss of her fair curly head. ‘And I can’t see anything one mite funny about saying “sick”, anyway.’
‘Nor can I!’ Jo Bettany’s voice assured her. Joey, with Marie von Eschenau and Simone Lecoutier, had just caught up with the Fourth Form group. ‘I must say you kids do have the most charming topics of conversation,’ Jo went on in lofty tones. ‘What’s it all about, anyway?’
‘It’s just that Evadne would wish to be sick — ah no! ill — during our mathematics lesson,’ Suzanne answered her.
‘Now that’s something I really do understand,’ Jo said. ‘Even to think of maths can sometimes make me feel ill. But Evvy, the snag about really truly feeling ill is that it lasts too long. And,’ she added, with feeling born of experience, ‘it can bring some jolly unpleasant consequences in the shape of Matron.’
A speculative light was beginning to dawn in Evadne’s eye. ‘What will you bet me, Joey, I could be allowed to miss Maynie’s lesson and no one suspect a thing?’
‘Get on and talk sense, do!’
‘Bet you anything!’
‘It’d be quite impossible,’ Jo said with conviction. ‘Maynie’s all there, you know.’
And Simone added, ‘Anyway it is not lady-like to bet, Evadne.’
‘Oh, pooh-pooh to that!’ Evadne retorted. ‘Are you on, Joey? ’Cos if you are I must go and prepare.’ And without waiting for a reply she dashed off at top speed across the field and disappeared in the direction of the school, leaving the others to speculate on what she could possibly be planning.
Soon afterwards the bell warned them break was at an end, and everyone hastened to the house to get ready for the next lesson.
When they reached their class-room the members of the Fourth Form looked with great interest at Evadne; but she was sitting quietly at her desk, wearing an air of other-worldly innocence. Indeed, as the lesson continued along its ordinary course, everyone began to presume that Evadne must have abandoned any schemes she might have had.
Miss Maynard finished explaining the method of working quadratic equations and told them to open their textbooks at page 53 and work through the first six exercises. They all obeyed her instructions, Evadne with a virtuous expression that would not have been out of place in a stained-glass window. Miss Maynard began to do some corrections in the Fifth Form’s exercise books. There was silence; everyone worked away industriously.
Suddenly Evadne blew her nose noisily, and a moment later drew in her breath in a sort of gasp. They all looked up to see her dabbing frantically at her nose with a handkerchief which — so it appeared — was gradually being covered with scarlet drops.
Now Miss Maynard had been trying, with mounting exasperation, to unravel some of the mysteries of Jo Bettany’s arithmetic. Jo was gifted in English subjects and had a great facility for learning languages, but she had something of a blank where maths was concerned and a whole-hearted dislike of the subject. Her form had been working on problems, and in struggling with one of these Jo had produced an untidy forest of calculations, stretching over nearly a page; after much cross-cancelling she had written, ‘Answer — 21⁄2’. But, as the question had asked the number of men required to plant a certain field of potatoes, this seemed, to say the least, unlikely. Miss Maynard had at last traced the actual arithmetical error leading to this brilliant conclusion; she was now, with grim satisfaction, writing a bitingly acid commentary at the foot of the page.
Her mind was fully occupied and there was no reason for her to suspect that Evadne’s nose-bleed was not genuine. It seemed unnecessary to send the girl to Matron who, in any case, had gone over to Le Petit Chalet immediately after break to attend to one of the Juniors. So Miss Maynard merely told Evadne in matter-of-fact tones to go and bathe her nose with cold water. ‘If that doesn’t help, you had better go and lie down till it stops,’ she added.
Nothing loth, Evadne went to the door, resisting with difficulty the temptation to say ‘I told you so’ to her friends as she left the class-room.
She made her way to the splashery, still in a positive fizz of excitement and suppressed giggles. There, it being prudent to keep up the charade, she began dutifully to bathe her nose with cold water.
It was very quiet everywhere in the school. Everybody was busy about their lawful occasions. A fly buzzed somewhere out of sight. The only other sound came from the distant music-room, where Grizel Cochrane was practising some extremely difficult octave-studies, very slowly and with endless repetitions.
Evadne very soon began to feel bored. It was odd how quickly the feeling of exhilaration faded when she no longer had an audience. She glanced at her watch and saw that there were still twenty-five minutes left of the maths lesson. There seemed nothing to be gained from continuing to splash icy-cold water over her perfectly healthy nose. So, holding the prepared handkerchief conspicuously in front of her in case she should meet anyone, she made her way upstairs to her dormitory.
Rows of empty cubicles met her gaze, the beds neatly made and the curtains thrown back over the rails. It was not an inspiring sight. With a sigh Evadne went and sat disconsolately on her bed, which would have outraged Matron had she known of it. The time passed slowly. Evadne found herself wishing she were back in the class-room. Never for one moment would she have acknowledged it, but even maths with Maynie was better than being stuck up here all alone and with nothing to do. When at last the bell sounded for the end of the lesson she was deeply thankful to run down and rejoin her form.
Miss Maynard, who was busy collecting an armful of exercise books, looked round briefly to enquire if she had recovered. And there seemed no reason against replying, ‘I’m quite all right now, thank you, Miss Maynard.’ That, after all, was the exact truth. Or was it? For a niggling suspicion that her behaviour could hardly be called honest was beginning to trouble Evadne. At the Chalet School honesty was a most highly esteemed virtue, and although she was often thoughtless, Evadne was not given to deceit. A confession hovered on her lips.
But already Miss Maynard was more than halfway through the class-room door, which Suzanne Mercier was politely holding open. And Evadne, feeling oddly
deflated, sank down at her desk, uncertain whether or not to feel relieved.
Her spirits revived a little as the others came crowding round, eager to know how she had managed her trick. She was easily persuaded to demonstrate how she had daubed one half of her handkerchief with red poster paint, keeping this side out of sight in her hand when she blew her nose, then gradually letting the red-stained side appear. But she was brought unpleasantly down to earth when Margia said: ‘By the way, Evvy, Miss Maynard said would I tell you that we have to do numbers 7 to 12 for prep, and will you also finish the first six numbers which we worked in class.’
Evadne grimaced hideously at the prospect of twelve algebra sums; but she was realistic enough to acknowledge it was her own fault. For the moment she was considerably sobered . . . but only for the moment, as it turned out.
CHAPTER XVIII.
MORE MISCHIEF.
THINGS in the school went on undisturbed until after Mittagessen; and what occurred that afternoon on the hockey-field was a pure accident.
The Chalet School victory in the hockey match against Grange House had fired their games-captain, Grizel Cochrane, to even more than her habitual enthusiasm. Grizel had decided to devote some extra time to coaching the Second Eleven, being wise enough to see that a good second team must lead to a general raising in the standard of play throughout the school.
On this particular Monday afternoon, Grizel had arranged a practice game between First and Second Elevens and, from the side-lines, she was alternately encouraging and castigating the players. At one point, Simone Lecoutier managed to stop a particularly swift ball and immediately dropped her hockey-stick, with a little scream. The only surprising thing was that Simone should ever have stopped the ball in the first place; she was not good at hockey. But this side of the question did not strike Grizel.
Visitors for the Chalet School Page 12