Cora Ravenwing (9 page)

The term seemed to get quickly under way after that first fragmented sort of a day, and I soon found that I was well up to standard academically. My favourite lessons were English and gym. I was always keen and attentive in those, but my concentration wavered a fair amount in the other lessons and I doodled with bits of poetry and wrote notes to Susan, trying to make her laugh. Hermione and Barbara were fairly strait-laced and good during class but Susan and I notched up one or two order marks and
detentions
as the term went on, nothing too disgraceful though.

There was one very naughty girl in the class. Her name was Georgia Jamieson. I didn’t like her very much as she seemed such a show-off, but she could be very funny and cheeky, and I often found myself hoping she’d start up some sort of diversion to get us all through a particularly tedious lesson. Once I found her all swollen and blotched in the cloakroom. She’d been sent to the headmistress by Miss Bayliss, the art teacher, who’d finally had enough of her insolence and tomfoolery. Some time later I had asked permission to fetch a hanky from my coat pocket in the cloakroom, and there was Georgia, sobbing away, her face buried in her coat. I was absolutely amazed. I couldn’t understand how she could carry on being naughty if she was so upset by the resulting rows and trouble.

“What’s wrong, Georgia?”

“Nothing. Miss Todd said awful things, that’s all.” She brought her wet face out from her coat. Her eyes were very red and her breath came in gasps.

“What things?”

“Oh, that they were all sick of me, she wished she’d
never taken me into the school, I was a menace, other parents had complained …”

“Oh, Georgia! That’s awful!”

“I’m not so bad, am I?”

“Well, I don’t think so. But the teachers do seem to get irritated. Perhaps you should make a real effort to be good.”

“I do try—but I never seem to manage it. They pick on me a bit.”

“I suppose they’re expecting you to do something bad all the time—I’ll have to go, Miss Bayliss’ll be wondering where I am. Are you coming back to art?”

“No, I don’t want to see anyone like this. I’ll go and wash my face.” By the time she rejoined the class for the next lesson she looked just the same as usual. I had the utmost difficulty convincing Hermione and Barbara and Susan of the state that the irrepressible Georgia had been in in the cloakroom.

“She gets my goat a bit,” said Hermione. “She overdoes it all the time. It’s not really all that funny.”

“Mummy says she’ll get herself expelled if she doesn’t look out,” said Barbara. “Mummy and Daddy met her parents one parents’ night. They’re very nice and it’s a great mystery to them why Georgia’s always in trouble. Mrs. Jamieson told Mummy she dreads the parents’ nights because she never knows what she’s going to hear next.”

Cora, to my surprise, was very quiet and industrious at school. She seemed to be quite a favourite with the teachers. They didn’t appear to share the local hostility to her at all. I wondered if they knew what a sad and difficult life she’d had and if they were trying to compensate her in some way. At any rate, she didn’t cause any difficulties in class and at breaks just kept herself to herself. If I hadn’t seen and heard all I had during the holidays it would have taken
me weeks to notice her at all. As it was, I was fairly well aware of her most of the time and it wasn’t very long before we began to exchange a few covert glances. After about ten days I found a note from her in my desk.

“Shall we meet?” it said. “Say when and where.”

The obvious time to suggest was Thursday, after my piano lesson. I stayed late at school for that; all the other days I had taken to walking home with my three special friends. I suggested one of the old air-raid shelters in a field near the school for our secret meeting place. There were about a dozen shelters in the field. They were half sunk into the ground and entered by steps at one end or an iron ladder through a hole in the roof at the other. I don’t know why they had been left standing. The field couldn’t be ploughed because of the huge hummocks they made on the surface of the ground; cows were grazed there sometimes.

I felt strangely nervous and excited as I darted out of school after my piano lesson and ran down the hill
towards
the field. It was a sunny day, birds were singing loudly and the hedgerows were still thick and green and flowery. There was nobody about. I threw my music-case and satchel over the five-bar gate and began to climb over myself, pausing at the top to scan the field for Cora. She wasn’t in sight. She must be in one of the shelters but I didn’t know which; I foolishly hadn’t specified any
particular
one. I didn’t like the field; the grass was long and full of nettles and thistles, and the bumps made by the shelters looked like giant graves. I’d only been in once before, with Hermione and the others. The shelters were dark inside and it took moments to adjust to the gloom; drops of moisture constantly seeped through the arched roofs and splattered on the floor. Hermione said her mother said they weren’t safe, as odd bricks had started to fall out of the ceilings. I
always wondered if madmen or murderers might lurk there and usually scurried past at top speed on Thursdays when I was on my own. I imagined the war, and the terror of bombers going over—screaming women and children,
explosions
, blood everywhere! In fact, I believe the shelters were scarcely used at all and only one stray bomb landed on Okefield during the course of the entire war.

I wished desperately that I had had the sense to tell Cora exactly where to wait for me and almost thought of abandoning the meeting and going on home. But it didn’t seem fair to leave her sitting alone in one of these dark, derelict tunnels, so I gingerly retrieved my music-case and satchel and picked my way through the tough, weedy grass to the entrance of the nearest shelter. I hurried down the steep brick steps and peered in. I couldn’t see a thing. “Cora,” I whispered into the pitch blackness. No answer. Just the noise of my own breathing and the nervous
pumping
of my heart as I paused for a few seconds. Then up the steps I dashed and on to the next shelter. I was becoming terrified by my own imaginings. The grass was so tall I could hardly struggle through it. What if someone jumped up suddenly and grabbed me? I was getting further and further away from the lane; nobody would hear my screams. Cora wasn’t in the second shelter or the third. I was almost sobbing with fear as I emerged the third time and looked around.

“Coo-eee! … Becky!” Across the field came her bright, clear voice. There she was! I caught sight of her dark little head sticking up out of one of the shelters like a sweep’s brush. In a flash I felt completely recovered. No maniacs sneaking through the long grass to club me down, just Cora waiting patiently and, no doubt, very pleased that I’d come. I made my way over to her and clambered up the
slope to where she was standing at the top of the ladder leading down the “chimney” of the shelter.

“I like these ladders, don’t you? Much more fun than the steps.”

“I’ve never tried one of the ladders, actually.”

“Oh. Well, come on in.” Cora disappeared down inside the chimney and I climbed inside after her and started to feel my way down. There were only fifteen rungs down to the floor of the shelter. To my surprise, Cora had lit the place with candles and I had no difficulty seeing when I got down.

“Golly! You’ve made this super, Cora.” She’d brought some bright old rugs and cushions and pictures and made a little secret hideout for us at one end of the shelter.

“Do you like it? I thought if we were going to meet here regularly it ought to be nice. We couldn’t just sit shivering in the dark.”

“No. It’s smashing. Actually I was a bit frightened out there just now when I was looking for you. I was wishing like mad that I hadn’t suggested this field. But now I think it was a good idea. Did you bring all these things today?”

It turned out that Cora had actually put a lot of thought and work into planning our secret den. The day I’d planted my reply to her note in her desk she’d come to the field by herself and inspected all the shelters. This one was in the best state of repair, the least damp and musty. She thought we migh be able to leave the rugs and cushions here
without
them getting covered in mildew. She hoped I’d agree to this being our permanent
rendez-vous.
Perhaps we could meet every Thursday. I was taken by surprise by Cora taking command like this and excited by the aspects of secrecy surrounding the arrangement—my secret friend, our secret den, our secret meetings. My earlier fear
heightened the thrill of it all. “Oh Cora,” I whispered as the candles flickered, throwing strange shadows on the damp, brick walls around us, “you’re very clever! It’s a terrific little hideout. Nobody’ll ever find us. Yes, let’s meet every Thursday.”

Then Cora triumphantly pulled a bag of crisps and a bottle of lemonade out of her satchel. “Let’s celebrate,” she said, and we lingered there for about half an hour, eating, talking about school, and planning further improvements for the shelter. I felt as if I was in the middle of an
adventure
story and later, as we picked our way back across the field, I rather enjoyed frightening myself with fearful imaginings and striding on regardless with Cora by my side. At the gate we parted. Cora decided to let me go on ahead in case we should meet someone accidentally. I raced home in time for tea and told Mother that the piano lesson had lasted longer than usual and then I’d been delayed by school friends I’d met in the lane. She didn’t mind in the least.

“It’s a friendly little place, isn’t it, Becky? Just as long as you’re always back in time for tea …”

I
FOUND LIFE TOTALLY PLEASING FOR JUST ABOUT THE WHOLE
of that first term at Okington School. Hermione and I
enjoyed
each other’s company every day at school and most weekends we met at each other’s houses and read our poetry, went walks and had tea together. Several times she took me back to Paradise and, while the summer lasted, we picnicked there and enjoyed the secrecy and solitude. I never felt smug or deceitful about the fact that I had another secret place that she wasn’t privy to. Looking back, it seems
surprising
that I didn’t feel guilty or dishonest in my dealings with her, but I didn’t. I just kept the two friendships totally separate in my mind and valued both of them. In fact, I was much more honest with Cora, although I saw
considerably
less of her. There was nothing I couldn’t say to her. She knew all about my activities with Hermione—posh teas at Stansfield House, poetry readings, Paradise. I think she thought it all rather affected and silly, but she didn’t scoff; she accepted the fact that I was impressed by the Phillips
set-up and wanted to be a part of it. I don’t think I was a snob or a social climber and I don’t really think my mother was either (although she did seem to relish my friendship with Hermione). I would have envied Hermione’s frail beauty and heightened sensitivity even if she’d been as poor as a church mouse. And I wouldn’t have treated Cora any differently if she’d been rich; given otherwise identical circumstances we’d still have ended up in our secret alliance.

After half-term, activities at school began to centre on the Christmas concert. Apparently Okington School put one on every year and the parents always enjoyed it very much and were very impressed. There were various instrumental solos, and the junior and senior choirs sang selections of songs, and there were recorder groups, a percussion band, various bits of elocution and choral speaking. I was in the junior choir and a recorder group, and Barbara and I were selected to play a piano duet together, so I felt very much a part of the whole programme and threw myself into extra rehearsals with gusto. Mother and Father seemed very pleased that I was so involved and were looking forward to furthering the acquaintance of other parents at the
interval
and afterwards.

One or two of the girls in our class weren’t included in a single item on the programme, and I thought they must feel very depressed about that. Georgia Jamieson, who could actually sing very nicely, had been thrown out of the choir for giggling and talking and was in nothing else, and Anne Price, a weakly, chesty girl, who was always off school, wasn’t in anything either. I must say I thought it very game when I heard they were intending to come on the night just to listen to the rest of us. Hermione said Mr. and Mrs. Jamieson would be dragging Georgia there by the hair of her head, and we’d probably all be better off if she didn’t
come as she’d be bound to be disruptive in some way. I think Hermione was particularly anxious as she’d been chosen to recite some of her own poetry and she wanted everyone to pay attention. It would be just like Georgia to create a disturbance; the sight or sound of anything pretentious did tend to bring out the worst in her. All the same, with a Jamieson parent on either side of her, I didn’t really think there’d be a squeak out of Georgia and I just felt sorry for her. At least Anne Price had been considered responsible enough to help with selling programmes and serving coffee at the interval, but nobody was going to risk giving Georgia a chance to be included in any way at all.

I was secretly very envious of Hermione for getting a chance to perform as a poetess. I wished it was going to be me and yet I could see that she certainly looked more the part. When she was reciting she would cast her blue eyes around so wistfully and sometimes pull thoughtfully at one of her curls. Then she would reel off a perfect description of a bluebell wood or snow-clad mountains or a stormy night sky or something, all composed by herself. I was
certain
she would be the star of the evening. I consoled myself with the thought that I really looked far too pink and rosy to be a poetess and people might find it rather hilarious if I publicly set myself up as one.

Cora, who’d seen some of my poems by now and thought them quite nice, did break her silence about Hermione’s poetry during one of our Thursday meetings. The days had become cold by this time and the air-raid shelter was pretty uncomfortable, but we liked to be certain of our half-hour together on Thursdays, so we still met there every week and huddled, side by side, in the candle-light, wrapped in our damp rugs.

“I think your poetry’s better than Hermione’s.”

“Oh rubbish! You’re just saying that to please me. Hers is frightfully atmospheric.”

“Just frightful if you ask me! It’s so artificial. And the way she recites it … I think she’s a scream.”

“Well, you must be odd, then. Nobody else finds her amusing.”

“Don’t they just! You should see Georgia Jamieson taking her off!”

“Oh, well—
Georgia
! I’d expect her to make fun of
anybody
who was trying to be serious.”

“Georgia’s not as bad as all that.”

“What d’you mean?”

“She’s like me in a way. People have made their minds up against her. She’s an outcast …”

“Oh, look, you can’t deny she’s awfully naughty. She asks for it.”

“She doesn’t mean to, though. She says she can’t stop.”

“Are you friends with her, Cora?”

“No, not really. We’ve had one or two talks, but she’s not really allowed to talk to me.”

“Who says?”

“Her parents. She’ll get a beating if she does.”

“A beating!”

“Her dad beats her up.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! You’re exaggerating!”

“I’m not, you know.”

“That mild little man! He couldn’t swat a fly.”

“He more than swats Georgia. He leathers her.”

“But everyone says he’s so nice …”

“Well, everyone says Mrs. Briggs is nice, but see what she’s done to me.”

I was absolutely thunderstruck and could hardly think of anything else for several days. Poor Georgia! What horrible
lives she and Cora led. It seemed grossly unfair that my life should be so unproblematical and pleasant in
comparison
. It was frustrating not being able to discuss what I’d heard with anyone at all. It was obvious that Georgia had confided in Cora because of a sense of their mutual
experience
of misery and loneliness. Although Georgia was constantly surrounded by a group of girls laughing at her antics and enjoying her displays, when the show was over they vanished. Nobody wanted to be too closely associated with her “performances” for fear of incurring a share of the wrath which usually followed. In any case, it was actually very difficult to know what Georgia was really like behind the clownish exterior.

I did attempt to hint to Hermione that the Jamieson parents might not be all they seemed, but she was puzzled and sceptical of the idea.

“What on earth are you on about? They’re
terribly
nice. Mummy and Daddy have had them to cocktails and all sorts.”

I wished I could tell her what Cora had said, but
everyone
assumed I’d severed relations with her completely. “She’s got odd bruises sometimes. I’ve seen them when we’ve been changing for gym.”

“Becky! You can’t go around suggesting that sort of thing. You’ll get into awful trouble. Why don’t you ask Georgia, anyway?”

“You can’t go up to someone and say ‘Did your father beat you last night?’”

“I don’t see why not. If he had she’d probably be quite pleased to go on about it.”

“I don’t think it works like that. If Daddy hit me, really hard I mean, I wouldn’t be in a rush to tell you about it.”

“Why not?”

“I’d rather pretend I had as nice a father as you. Even if he was horrible I’d still rather you thought he was nice.”

“How odd.” Hermione paused and thought about it. “Mmm. All the same, I wouldn’t let Barbara hear you
saying
all this. Her parents are very pally with the Jamiesons and if Barbara told them what you’d said they’d be furious with you.”

So the whole thing got hushed up and Georgia carried on being naughty and getting into bad trouble all the time. Once I tried to be friendly but she was rather abrupt with me. I think she was ashamed of the fact that I’d seen her in the cloakroom that day, all the defences down, tears streaming down her wretched face.

During the last month before the concert, Barbara and I were frequent visitors to each other’s houses. We were determined that our little piano duet, which came quite early in the programme, should be absolutely flawless. I was playing the top part, which was very fast in places, and Barbara was playing the bottom part, with a lot of heavy chords, although sometimes she took over the tune while I just played frilly bits way up high.

I enjoyed going to the Fosters’. They lived in a neat little modern house on the outskirts of the village and Mrs. Foster, who sometimes worked nights as a nurse at the local hospital, kept the place spotless. It was always clean and fresh-smelling and bright, unlike my own home which was basically clean enough but rarely immaculate. As Mother was always saying in self-defence, it was a hopeless task trying to clean up after Jo and Dory, and she would drive herself insane if she didn’t relax standards while they were little. I don’t remember standards tightening all that much as we grew up, and none of us minded or I suppose we’d have done something about it ourselves, but the light
airiness of the Fosters’ house made a nice change. I was too young then to care much about the architectural
superiorities
of our older house. I would have been equally happy in a contemporary semi-detached house on an estate.

Barbara had a twin brother, Derek, who was great fun. There were no other children in the family and the two were a very devoted pair. I could see why Barbara remained unflustered by most events at school, the ups and down of Hermione’s moods, Susan’s scattiness, my arrival in the gang. She was very fond of us all and a loyal, stalwart friend, but her home life was what mattered most to her, and Derek in particular. He had a freckly face like hers and the same sandy, wavy hair. He used to go off and kick a ball around their small garden while Barbara and I
practised
our duet and then, when he thought we’d been at it long enough, he’d come in in his stockinged feet, fling
himself
full-length on the sofa and try to make us laugh.

Once, when I was at the Fosters’, and Barbara and I had practised enough and stopped for tea, Mrs. Foster sat down beside us with her cup of tea and started to chat. We talked about the duet and the concert for quite a while. Then Mrs. Foster said: “Well, then, Becky—it’s nearly the end of your first term. What do you think of Okington?”

“I love it.”

“Do you still miss your old school?”

“Not really—some of my friends I do a bit. But …”

“Mmm. Okington does seem nice. Barbara has always enjoyed it, haven’t you, love? Nearly everyone seems happy with the place. No misfits really—just Cora Ravenwing and little Georgia, I suppose.” I started guiltily at Cora’s name and went pink. Mrs. Foster was watching me closely. “Don’t worry, dear, about your little mistake with Cora. Everyone has forgotten all about it now. And you couldn’t possibly
have been expected to know what she was like. Oh, dear—it’s a pity, really, that there have to be children like that—just bad all through.” I felt enraged on Cora’s behalf and wanted to protest but I didn’t dare and Mrs. Foster moved on before I had time to pluck up courage. “And little Georgia. Well, she’s a real puzzle. What the Jamiesons have done to deserve her I don’t know. But the breeding is there—so we must assume she’ll turn out all right in the end.”

I saw my chance. “Perhaps Cora will be all right in the end too.”

She turned sharply. “No chance of that, dear. The
difference
between her and Georgia is quite clear. Cora’s a
completely
rotten apple but Georgia has just lost her way a bit, that’s all.”

I didn’t like Mrs. Foster so much after that. She seemed hard and cold. I hoped I wouldn’t ever end up in hospital being nursed by her. And her super-efficient house-cleaning began to seem less attractive too. She’d scour and scrub and polish and hoover all the time I was there. But there was no doubt of her pride in Barbara and Derek. They were the ones she laboured for. She was going to give them the chances she and Mr. Foster had never had. He was there only once when I went to practise. He was a representative for some carpet-manufacturing firm and he came plodding in at seven o’clock just as I was leaving. He looked very weary, but took a friendly interest in me and persuaded me to take my coat off again and play through the duet with Barbara, just for him. He was terribly impressed when we’d finished and said it was marvellous …

The concert was to be held in a hall in Heatherton, a market town near Okefield. This was the procedure every year. It was thought that the audience would be too big to fit in the school hall, so we were decamping to a real hall
with dimming lights in the auditorium, spotlights on stage, and a curtain. I’d never known anything like it and felt very excited, though the others enjoyed pretending to be unaffected by the scurry of arrangements as we were ferried to and fro for rehearsals in the hall. Lessons were well and truly disrupted for the best part of a week as individuals were required to leave classrooms and gather at the school gate to get into the green coach that seemed to be at our disposal. “Oh, you get used to it, you know,” said Hermione loftily as I sat, during a wet dinner-hour, nose pressed to the window, watching the senior choir filing across the asphalt to board the bus. “Once you’ve been through it all one year it doesn’t seem so special the next time. Isn’t that right, Barb?”

Barbara agreed that it was nothing to get too worked up about. “All the same, I could feel a bit wobbly about our duet—just Becky and me on stage under the spotlight …”