Forbidden Lessons (5 page)

Supper passed quite quickly and being forced to talk about other things was helpful. After the meal and by the time they had got back to the house for prep, Laura had quite gathered her thoughts. Nothing had really happened, when she had had time to think about it. The turmoil was all in her mind, and she wasn’t willing to share that with the others. Yet. But they would enjoy the incident with The Axe.

* * *

"So?!" Charlotte was bouncing on her bed in anticipation. "What have you been up to this afternoon? Getting into accidents and rushing off. But that’s not it. It’s the cagey look on your face. Spill everything."

"It really isn’t much to be honest," Laura said. She related the incident with The Axe, which they drank up avidly. Laura was a good storyteller, and conjured up an image of the furious Geography teacher very vividly.

"I can’t believe Mr Rydell came to your rescue like that! How amazing. And how wonderful, if it means open warfare between the two of them. She must hate him already given she lost so many pupils from Geography to German," Charlotte said.

"But what about after History?" Margery asked. "You still haven’t explained that."

"Mr Rydell just wanted to check I was ok. It was nothing, really."

"NOTHING?!" The other two practically turned on Laura physically. "You absolutely cannot say that the most fascinating teacher to ever enter these hallowed halls rescuing you from The Axe and then requesting your personal presence is 'nothing'."

"I wouldn’t described them as hallowed," said Laura, trying to change the subject.

"Well what did he say?" Margery asked.

Laura gave a brief account, much more concise than her report of the accident. "Honestly it was very mundane. He was just shocked how nasty she is, I think. Who wouldn’t be?"

Charlotte rolled her eyes and went back out to the bathroom for something she had forgotten.

Margery looked at her rather anxiously. "You know that he looks at you sometimes," she said.

Laura’s stomach lurched over but she didn’t respond. Margery was strange when it came to observation. She was frustratingly obtuse about everything most of the time even if it was right before her nose. Then once in a while she would notice something - really subtle yet often quite significant - that had passed the others by.

"He looks at all of us," she said. "Probably to make sure we’re not messing around."

"Dear Diary, I don’t what to make of today. I don’t if this is normal, or if I’m trying to read something into it because I want to. I should be excited about the Museum on Sunday, but all I can think of is the endless wait for the weekend to be over and it to be Monday and German again."

Mr Peters did not like Miss Wingrove. She had not been his first choice - or in fact his choice at all - for the English department. But she had been personally recommended by a close acquaintance of Mrs Grayson, who had decided to go above Mr Peters’ head on this occasion. The Headmistress was aware of the rumours surrounding the Head of English, but for as long as he kept getting a contingent of girls into Oxford and Cambridge each year she was under pressure not to disturb the waters.
 
After all, no girl nor parent had ever complained.

So Mrs Grayson had decided that a sensible young woman like Miss Wingrove would be a useful addition to Mr Peter’s department, someone whom the girls might feel comfortable approaching if there were indeed any issues. Someone who also might be trusted - at some point - to keep her eyes open.
 

Mr Peters did not know any of this but the appointment alone was enough to rankle him. He had taken to calling her "Miss Winsome" sarcastically in his mind, and once or twice it had slipped out in class. The Lower School assumed it meant he fancied the new teacher and found it hilarious. The Sixth Form were a little more worldly wise and read his tone more accurately. Unfortunately for Mr Peters it only increased their liking of and loyalty towards the new teacher, rather than encouraging them to have any warmer feeling towards the Head of English.

"Sir? Sir? I’ve forgotten my Merchant of Venice. Can I run back and get it?"
 

Irritated, he nodded. He wasn’t going to wait for the child. He couldn’t even remember her name, she wasn’t particularly bright or of any other interest to him. The girl, who was Mary Rudge, ran out to fetch the forgotten book.

The Head of English was indeed having a difficult year. The school play being handed over to that simpering Miss Vine - for that foolish experiment with St Duncan’s - had enraged him. Quite apart from the fact that it was a huge obstacle to his customary private acting lessons, the sixth form girls would have their heads filled with pimply schoolboys. Eyeing the Lower School form in front of him, he idly wondered if he should take a leaf from Nabokov and set his sights a little younger this year.

Charlotte Bevan looked older than her years, with her tall, shapely figure. She was also intelligent and spirited, qualities he admired. Her friend Laura Cardew piqued his interest slightly as well. Still waters, he thought. But neither girl was truly his type. He liked a darker, more Mediterranean appearance. The "Dark Lady" of Shakespeare’s sonnets as he rather foolishly liked to think.

"We’ll read around the class. Charlotte, you’ll read Antonio." Having an attractive girl taking a male lead always gave him a frisson. "Laura, Portia." Teresa Hubert scowled at this, for she had wanted to be the heroine. He designated other roles. "I shall read Shylock," he proclaimed. Mr Peters always gave himself a character role, he adored the sound of his own voice.

The lesson progressed, little Mary Rudge slipped in again almost unnoticed, and had to work out which page they were on from her neighbour. Charlotte and Laura had discovered there was a character called "Old Gobbo" which had given them a fit of the giggles. Charlotte kept having to cough to suppress her laughter as she spoke her lines and Mr Peters was getting progressively more irritated. It didn’t help that whenever Charlotte calmed down, Laura would murmur the offending name under her breath, setting Charlotte off again.
 

"I don’t know what you both found so funny," said Margery, when the lesson was finally over and they were outside. The other two had tears in their eyes, and had been doubled over laughing. Laura’s thumbs were dented all over from her nails.

"I don’t know either - it was just the mood," said Charlotte, regaining her composure.
 

"Bit creepy Peters giving you Antonio," Laura commented. "He always puts his pets in the lead roles. I hope you’re not going to be his thing this term."

"You were Portia, you can hardly comment."

"It’s not the same with the female roles. He had Judith McLeod read Titania in A Midsummer Night’s Dream last year, and she’s as plain as punch."

Margery, who had been given the prominent role of Hermia in that play, felt privately affronted.

* * *

It was the first cross-country running session that afternoon for the girls who hadn’t made the hockey squad. Laura was slightly sad to have flaked out but Margery was so grateful to her that she didn’t regret it for long.

As anticipated, the route took them inside the perimeter of the school grounds, all around the hockey pitches and on the edge of the wasteland area that led down to the strictly out-of-bounds brook. Miss Vine was supervising, but she planned to ride her bicycle back and forth so she could check on the stragglers as easily as the front runners. She was also not in peak fitness herself.

We’ll all be stragglers, thought Laura. Just look at this crowd.

Miss Partridge stopped by to give some final instructions before they set off. She basically repeated what Miss Vine had already told them about the route, advised them to warm up with some stretches, and told them that they could pace themselves and walk sections until they got their fitness up. "But the best thing for a stitch is to run through it." Off she went to her hockey girls.

Laura hung back to keep pace with Margery, who wasn’t quite the worst. There were roughly three groups. At the front were relatively fit girls who were just useless at hockey. Then there were Laura and Margery and a few others. At the back came the fatties and the weedy girls who always tried to get out of everything due to their periods.

It was a cold day, and sharp on their lungs. One of the weedy girls had an asthma attack and dropped out. Margery and Laura gently jogged the first stretch and then started walking along the far end of the pitches, as Laura noticed that Margery was looking slightly puce. The path took them past a small house divided into two cottages. It was known as the "groundsman's cottages" even though a groundsman hadn’t lived there for decades, as they were usually married and the one-bedroomed dwellings didn’t suit a wife and family.

Instead, one cottage was generally taken by one of the teaching staff and the other by the summer tennis coach, lying empty the rest of the year.
 

"I heard Mr Rydell took the cottage this year, after Mr Carlisle left," they overheard another girl say to a friend as she jogged past and overtook them.
 

Laura suddenly felt as though her legs couldn’t move. What if he was inside right now, and watching them? She had to literally count one-two, one-two in her head to keep herself moving. She hadn’t even thought about where he might live. If she had done she would have presumed he would take a flat in town like most other teachers did. Cross country suddenly became a very different ordeal. She hoped desperately that they would vary the route in future weeks.

* * *

That night there was a surprise for them. Grace Grant called them into her office before prep and told them they would be getting a roommate. "Susie Clarke, a very nice girl. I hope you’ll welcome her. She should be in similar sets to you. She’s just come back from overseas which is why she’s joining us late."

This was partly interesting, partly annoying. Charlotte went out on a limb. "Can we start prep late, so we can get to know her?"

The housemistress smiled. "Only if you can get everything done in a shorter time."

They raced up to the dorm to find a pretty, dark-haired girl unpacking her things.

"Hello, I’m Susie," she said. "Sorry to invade, I’m sure it’s annoying for you."
 

They liked her instantly. "So you’ve just been abroad?" Laura asked. "Lucky you to miss the first week."

"In Italy. My great-grandmother’s funeral. Don’t worry," she said, seeing Laura’s embarrassment. "Bisnonna was terribly old and had been ailing for years."

"So you’re part Italian then?" asked Margery cautiously. "Do you speak it?" She didn’t like the prospect of losing her unofficial crown of Modern Languages. Fortunately for Margery’s reign, Susie confessed to understanding it and speaking it a bit but being hopeless at writing it. Languages really weren’t her thing, she told them. She didn’t say what was. Either way, Margery now felt comfortable enough to like Susie as much as the others had decided to.

"I guess the only question we really have for you then is Geography or German?" Charlotte said. Susie looked puzzled so Charlotte explained. "It’s the main choice everyone has to make this year."

"Geography then, definitely not another language."

"I’m afraid you’ll regret that bitterly," Charlotte said sadly.

Susie loved the diary idea and said she would join them. "I probably won’t keep it up as being fickle is my worst vice, but let’s see."

Eventually the others had to get to prep leaving Susie to her own devices.

* * *

"Dear Diary, you must be bored to death with me. I can’t stop thinking about him. I’m sure he’s sick of schoolgirl crushes by now. I think I should try a new focus. It’s the Museum trip on Sunday, and the others plan to track down some Dunks guys."

There was a buzz of excitement in chapel that Sunday among those who had convinced Mr Tyrrell to take them to Welchester Museum. He, poor man, was merely surprised and delighted by their sudden fervour for the Classics.

Laura’s services were in big demand on the coach, as she carefully applied "art room eyeliner" and even rouge she had fashioned out of moisturiser and a filched oil pastel in Damask Rose. Susie, who had been allowed on the trip even though she didn’t do Latin, had a smuggled lipstick she was happy to share.

"Ow! You jabbed my eye!" said Margery.

"I can’t help it if there’s potholes. Keep still."

They had discovered to their delight that Susie simply didn’t do school rules. Morally or pragmatically, the new girl had no scruples whatsoever about breaking them.

She had already given the school food short shrift. "This is absolutely foul, I simply can’t eat this. I’m Italian for God’s sake." She was planning to have a cousin of hers, a medical student in Milan, send her a forged doctor’s note in Italian excusing her from practically everything.
 

Sweet Miss Vine had fortunately been on their table the first day, and Susie had explained how it would simply be totally irresponsible of her to neglect her own health by making herself ill with ingredients proscribed by her doctor. Miss Vine was cowed by such eloquence, and Susie got her way.

They raced through the Museum as quickly as possible to maximise their time in the town. Any worries they had about how to approach the St Duncan’s boys were taken care of by Susie. She simply walked up to a group of them and flashed a smile. Susie didn’t know or care that they were actually Upper Sixth formers and prefects, and thus should have been far beyond their league.

"We’ve escaped prison for the day. Are there any pubs round here?"

Susie was pretty and charming enough to get away with murder, Laura thought. Instead of getting the brush off, they soon found themselves sitting around a café table with the premier league of St Duncan’s boys. They felt slightly overawed - Margery in particular was very quiet and didn’t dare speak - but Susie chatted away quite merrily.

A couple of the boys were particularly charismatic and good-looking and these two seemed most interested in Charlotte and Susie. Particularly after Susie managed to poke Charlotte in the back so she stuck her chest out in surprised reaction. Then there was a swotty looking boy, with a strong resemblance to Mr Poynter the History teacher, who ended up sitting by Margery.