Celandine (32 page)

So she tried, for a while. Instead of simply accepting her solitude, she made an effort to be friendly, to ignore the taunts and whispered comments and just
be
nice to everyone. She tried especially hard to be friends with Molly Fletcher, who always appeared to be on the outside of Mary Swann’s group of followers.

It didn’t work – in fact it only seemed to make things worse. Her eagerness to please was seen as a sign of weakness, and any effort to join in a game or a conversation was met with open hostility. Go away, Witch. Did you say something,
fraulein?
Sorry, we don’t understand
German
.

Go away. If only she could . . .

Celandine stared vacantly at the hunched shoulders of the girl in front of her. Another hour of prep to go. No sound but the scratching of pens, the occasional sigh, the shifting of uncomfortable bodies on hard wooden seats. Gillian Aberdeen sat at the head of the class, on prep duty for the week, and looked as weary as those in her charge. The hour would pass, the bell would ring, and then it would be supper and bed. And again tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow. She couldn’t stand it – couldn’t take it any more. Anything would be better than this.

But even if she did escape, where should she go? There was no welcome awaiting her at home, that much was clear. Her father would simply send her back to Mount Pleasant. She could run away to . . . to London, for instance, but what then? She had no money to speak of, and where would she live, and how?

It was no good. There was nowhere else for her to be. If only she had her own desert island. If only she could sit for ever beneath the trees and eat
blackberries
and catch fish, and have no more worries, like Robinson Crusoe.

Or like Fin.

Fin! The sudden idea of him, and of Howard’s Hill, and of that secret other world she knew, ran through her with such a shock that it made her gasp out loud. She could go there!

Could she, though?
Could
she?

‘Something the matter, Howard?’ Aberdeen was looking at her, stifling a yawn as she spoke.

‘No, Aberdeen. I . . . I just thought of something, that’s all. An answer.’

‘An answer? I should write it down, then, if I were you.’

She had failed a second time, and she felt utterly ridiculous. To imagine that she could just try the same method of escape, albeit in her ordinary clothes, and get away with it had been brainless. The stuffed animals grinned at her horribly as Miss Craven lectured her yet again.

‘I can see that I have been far too lenient with you, Howard – a failing of mine, so I am told. I try to be charitable, where I should simply chastize. I try to persuade, where I should punish. Very well. Enough. It appears that mere words have no effect upon you, and so we must resort to something more fundamental. We shall not be beaten in this. But you
will
be, I’m afraid. Miss Belvedere,’ the headmistress turned to her colleague, ‘I wonder if you’d be good enough to spare a little of your time and show this girl
how
we deal with persistent truancy? I would do it myself, but I find that I have yet another unfortunate letter to write.’

‘Certainly, Miss Craven. You can leave it to me. Come along, Howard.’

Celandine followed Miss Belvedere to the staffroom, where the leather strap would be waiting for her, coiled and ready in its dark wooden drawer.

This time she felt as though she
had
been beaten – and not just on her hands. Celandine looked at her tearstained face in the washroom mirror and saw that she was helpless, her spirit all but gone, drowning in the icy water that swirled around her aching palms. She was ready to give up. There was no escape. There was no alternative to this. Her daydream of running away and living with the Various seemed ridiculous to her now. The Various! For all she knew, they were another of her silly imaginings, like the girl at the window, or like Nina’s ‘cure’. She wasn’t
different
. She wasn’t
special
. She was just stupid, and strange. And lonely.

They sensed her defeat, the girls who had once been so wary of her. They jostled her in the corridors now, flicked wet towels at her in the changing rooms, chanted her name in derision. ‘
Celandine, Celandine, caught the seven thirty-nine
 . . .’ She was no witch. She had no powers. She was a limping fox, a blind snake, a creature that could be kicked with impunity by the smallest among them. There was no fight left in her.

Mary Swann, who had waited so long for her revenge, made an announcement one Saturday at
lunchtime.
‘I’ve been thinking about what I should do when I leave school. I shall have to have a career of some sort, you know – and I’ve decided to become a hairdresser.’

‘Well, I think that’s a
lovely
idea,’ said Alicia Tremlett, and there were murmurs of general approval up and down the length of the dining table.

‘Yes,’ said Mary. ‘The thing is, I want to start practising now – today. I have some
very
sharp scissors and a jolly good hairbrush. Now all I need is a volunteer to practise on. I could do with someone with
lots
of hair so that I can get plenty of practise in, you see.’

Celandine was aware that all eyes were now looking her way, but she took another spoonful of tapioca and said nothing.

‘Howard has lots of hair,’ said Alicia.

‘Yes, that’s true,’ said Mary. ‘And being
German
, it would probably look well on her if it was cut quite short. Like the Kaiser’s. What do you think, Howard? Let’s make an appointment for later on today shall we? Just after the hockey match with Queen’s. At about half-past four – would that suit?’

‘She doesn’t look very happy about it,’ said Alicia.

‘Probably a bit nervous,’ said Mary. ‘I may need a few of you to help me hold her down.’

Just as lunchtime was coming to a close, Celandine was summoned from the dining hall. A message to go and see the headmistress. Miss Craven’s office
again?
What had she done this time?

Halfway along the main corridor, she faltered. A horrible cold feeling had come over her – a creeping
about
her shoulders, a cloudiness of vision. This was something bad. She forced herself onwards, and knocked at Miss Craven’s study door.

The headmistress was seated at her desk, an opened letter in front of her – a depressingly familiar sight.

‘Come and sit down.’ Miss Craven’s voice was quiet and serious. A chair had been placed in front of the heavy oak desk. Why?

Celandine sat on the chair and placed her hands in her lap. The cloudiness seemed to fill the room. She could almost smell it – an atmosphere, faintly acrid, like Guy Fawkes Night. She watched Miss Craven’s thin mouth, and waited.

‘I am afraid that I have some bad news for you, Howard. I hope that you will be able to accept it with courage.’

Celandine knew, then, what it was. She knew what had happened and she knew what it was that she could sense: the ghost of smoke and gunpowder.

‘Your father has written to me, asking that I should inform you personally, rather than you should first learn of it from his letter. Your brother has fallen in France, fighting for his country.’

Miss Craven’s mouth had stopped moving, and the room was completely silent.

Ages passed, with no sound and no motion.

The creases deepened around Miss Craven’s mouth as it opened once more. ‘Naturally this will have come as a shock to you, and so I am giving you special permission to return to your dormitory. There
you
will be able to sit for a while and reflect, and read Mr Howard’s letter for yourself. Sad as this news may be, I must advise you not to give way to grief or hysteria. There is no nobler cause for which to give one’s life than King and Country, and we must honour that sacrifice by displaying similar courage. Once you have had time to reflect, you will go to lunch as usual, and you will then attend this afternoon’s hockey match against Queen’s College.’

There were just two sheets of paper. Was that all? Had her father no more to say to her than would fill two sheets of paper?

‘How . . . did it . . . how did it . . .?’ She couldn’t get the sentence out.

‘Mr Howard has wisely limited himself to the facts. Detail can only cause unnecessary distress. I understand that your brother’s death was due to an accident whilst handling munitions, rather than to enemy bombardment. There was an explosion.’

An explosion. The word itself exploded in Celandine’s head and became a spreading cloud, a rolling white fog that filled every corner of her. She could feel nothing.

‘Howard . . . you must understand that it is not only our soldiers who are fighting this war. We at home are fighting also, and we shall not give in. We must stand upright, and never allow the enemy the satisfaction of seeing us bowed. I therefore expect to see you up on the playing field at 3 p.m. in support of the First Eleven hockey team against Queen’s. This is a very important match, and I want the entire school
there
to cheer our side on, without exceptions. As we play our games, so we fight our wars. Here is your letter, Howard. Please remember what I have said. Dismissed.’

Celandine wandered towards the dormitory window, where there was better light, and read through the letter once again. The words were plain enough – Freddie had been killed – but the words refused to mean anything. They were just patterns. She saw how her father’s neat lines of handwriting became slightly cramped at the bottom of the second page, as though he had not wanted to begin a third. There would be a memorial service next week, he said. Robert would be sent to collect her.

Yrs. affectionately, Father
.

Yrs
. That abbreviation had saved a little space.

Celandine remained by the window for a while, trying to get her dazed thoughts in order. Eventually she took her fountain pen from her blazer pocket, turned her father’s letter over and wrote a few words on the blank side of one of the sheets of paper. She put the letter back in its envelope and altered the name and address on the front.

Then she knelt at her bedside. There was plenty of time, but she might as well get started. She hauled forth her canvas bag from beneath the bed, and began to undo the stiff leather straps.

Celandine sat for an hour or more on the edge of her bed, packed and ready to leave, her feet gently kicking
against
the bag. The second luncheon bell came and went. The building grew quiet.

Later, she became aware of the distant sound of a motor coach, grinding its way up the steep curving drive. That would be Queen’s College hockey team arriving.

Later still, she stood up and opened one of the dormitory windows, listening for the signal that would be her cue to leave. She could hear nothing but the birds, cheerful as always, despite the dreariness of the weather.

She had reflected, just as Miss Craven had advised, and this time she had a better plan. This time she would not be caught.

A muffled cheer drifted across from the hockey pitch – the sound that Celandine had been waiting for – and she picked up her bag. The match had started. The whole school would be safely up on the playing field, and it was time to go. The bag felt quite heavy, and she wondered whether she would be able to lug it all the way to Little Cricket. Perhaps she should leave her mackintosh behind? No, she would need that, and everything else that she had in there.

Outside in the corridor she stopped. Two galvanized buckets had been left standing near the doorway, each covered with a folded sheet of newspaper. A piece of wood had been laid across the top of each bucket, presumably to keep the newspaper in place. Celandine put down her bag and uncovered the buckets. There was pale green distemper in one, white in the other. The decorators had obviously finished
work
for the week and would not now be back until Monday.

Celandine picked up the pails and carried them, milkmaid fashion, back into the dormitory.

Neither bucket was much more than half full, but it was surprising to see just how far it went. She was able to tip green paint all over the beds of Mary Swann, the Pigtail twins, and Alicia Tremlett, and still have plenty left over. Give her a haircut, would they? Hold her down, would they? Around the dormitory she walked, steadily pouring the creamy distemper up and down each bed, along the linoleum, into locker drawers and slippers and the laundry bag that hung by the door, over pillows and dressing gowns, anywhere and everywhere. And when she had shaken the last few drops from the green bucket, she started on the white . . .

By the time Celandine had finished, the room looked so spectacularly ruined, so deliciously shocking, that she was half tempted to stay, just to witness the screams of outrage. It would almost be worth the consequences.

Almost, but not quite. Celandine picked up her bag once more and hurried through the silent corridors.

Outside in the deserted quad she felt more exposed. Anybody might be looking down upon her from those high windows. She scuttled across to the dining hall and hid herself around the back, where the dustbins were kept. From here she would only have to push her way through the scraggy hedge that
bordered
the croquet lawn, pass through the little wooden gate on the other side of the lawn, and then she would be in the lane. After that she had a good chance, by taking the back roads, of getting to the railway station at Little Cricket unseen. Then she would buy a ticket back to Town, and make it look as though she was travelling towards the school rather than running away from it. Except that she would not be getting off the train at Town station, not if she could help it . . .

She peeped around the corner of the building, waiting for the right moment. The croquet lawn was for prefects only, and she wanted to make quite sure that there were none about before crossing that open space.

It was smelly by the dustbins; the remains of yesterday’s supper, if she wasn’t mistaken. Yes, a loosely wrapped piece of damp newspaper had a fish’s head sticking out of it. Phew. Another cheer from the playing fields reassured her that she had done well to bide her time. The entire school would be up there by now. Celandine glanced down at the dustbin again, gingerly pulling a corner of the newspaper away between finger and thumb to expose the fish. A mackerel. Complete, and raw, and very smelly.