The Worst Witch to the Rescue (4 page)

aud and Enid made their way up one of the winding staircases which led to the art room. ‘She’s up to something,’ said Maud anxiously.

‘Who?’ asked Enid.

‘
Mildred
, of course,’ said Maud. ‘I just know there’s something funny going on. She’s
hiding
something in her cat basket and pretending she isn’t.’

‘Perhaps you imagined it,’ said Enid hopefully.

‘Imagined what?’ called Mildred, who had dashed up the stairs behind them.

‘Um – I imagined that I saw Ethel being nice to one of the first-years,’ laughed Maud.

‘That wouldn’t surprise me actually,’ said Mildred. ‘I met her on the way in and she was
really
nice.’

‘Perhaps she’s been on a “niceness course”,’ suggested Enid. ‘She always takes about three hundred courses during the hols.’

They all giggled as they trooped into the art room, which was Mildred’s favourite room in the school. There was a row of hooks from which hung dozens of overalls and the girls took one each and struggled into them before they sat down. The room was very large, with stone walls and slit windows, exactly like all the other rooms in the school, with a wooden picture rail all the way
around so that framed pictures and the pupils’ drawings and paintings could be displayed, and a double sink with draining boards along one wall. At the far end was an empty space for the girls to work on sculptures. The rest of the room was full of tables and chairs. The teacher’s desk was on a raised wooden platform with two steps up to it and sitting at the desk was Miss Mould, the new teacher.

Miss Mould looked surprisingly normal for a teacher at Miss Cackle’s Academy. She had short mousy hair, parted in the centre and pulled into a ponytail at her neck, where it was secured by a black velvet bow. Her black
skirt was topped by a grey twinset and a neat row of black pearls. Her voice was soft and kindly a welcome change from Miss Hardbroom’s crisp way of speaking and certainly a great relief after the extremely weird Miss Granite, who had caused such chaos the term before.

Mildred felt a tiny flicker of disappointment that Miss Mould wasn’t more arty-looking, but apart from that she seemed quite pleasant.

‘Good morning, Form Three,’ said Miss Mould with a shy smile.

‘Good
morning
, Miss Mould,’ chorused the girls, who were now standing behind their tables.

‘You may sit,’ said Miss Mould. ‘I was slightly dismayed,’ she continued, ‘to find that there is hardly any equipment for pottery at Miss Cackle’s Academy. Ceramics is my favourite subject and I was looking forward to passing on my
skills to you all. I think art has been a little
basic
here until now, but Miss Cackle has promised me a second room with enough potters’ wheels for everyone
and
a kiln if we can show a real aptitude for the subject this term. So, let’s try and make master craftsmen – or should I say women! – of you all. What do you say, girls?’

It was not the sort of school where anyone dared to shout ‘YESSSS!’, so Form Three just smiled and mumbled in agreement.

‘Right,’ said Miss Mould with enthusiasm, heaving a huge sack of wet clay from behind the desk. ‘I want you all to take a lump of clay – enough to hold in both hands – back to your desks.
Dig
your fingers in and
scoop
it out. Don’t be
afraid
of the clay, girls!
Feel
the
squishiness
of it, get it under your nails. That’s it,
scoop
it out,
knead
it. Bring that clay to life! Become one with the clay!’

The girls exchanged amused glances at the flowery language as they formed a queue and then each pulled themselves a dollop of clay which they took back to their tables. Meanwhile, Miss Mould had distributed bowls of water to each table so that they could keep their work damp to avoid the clay drying out. There was a wooden board, a set of sculpting tools and a rolling pin, neatly laid out at each place.

Miss Mould showed them how to make coil pots, which involved rolling out thin sausages of clay and stacking them on top of each other. They could then smooth the coils into each other to make a substantial pot.

Mildred felt almost hysterical with hope about the way her new term was progressing. First of all, she had a superb project with which to amaze Miss Hardbroom that afternoon. Then there was Ethel being so friendly on the way to school – she hadn’t once sneered about Tabby or about Mildred dropping her bag, and had even helped to pick everything up. Now there was a new teacher for a subject that Mildred enjoyed and was actually good at. By the end of the day she might have gold stars all over her personal chart and be in line for a merit badge at the end of the week. With joy in her heart, Mildred plunged her fingers into the squelchy lump and became one with the clay.

or a while there was very little sound as everyone concentrated on their task. First of all they rolled the clay fat with little rolling pins, then they cut clay bases for the coils to sit on.

‘It’s just like cookery,’ said Enid.

Next they set about making their rolls of clay. Mildred made hers especially thin and laid them out in neat rows, deliberately grading them in length so that she could narrow them on the way up the pot to make an interesting shape.

Miss Mould wandered among the tables, keeping an eye on proceedings. She stopped and looked over Mildred’s shoulder.

‘What is your name?’ she asked.

‘Mildred Hubble,’ replied Mildred nervously.

‘Have you done this before?’ asked Miss Mould.

‘No, Miss Mould,’ said Mildred. ‘But I have made lots of things out of shoeboxes and cotton reels. I do like making things.’

Miss Mould wandered around the rest of the class, giving the odd word of encouragement and examining the girls’ progress. After a while, she stepped back on to the platform and clapped her hands.

‘Listen a moment, girls,’ she said. ‘I’d like you all to go and take a look at Mildred Hubble’s work. She seems to be a real natural at pottery and you could
all benefit from seeing how neatly she has arranged and graded her coils.’

Mildred blushed with delight and Maud nudged her proudly under the table.

‘
Un
fortunately,’ continued Miss Mould, ‘some of you are positively
un
natural when it comes to clay – that girl at the back, for instance. What is your name?’

Ethel realized with horror that Miss Mould was gesturing in her direction. She glanced sideways, hoping it might be her friend Drusilla, who was sitting next to her. In fact, Drusilla couldn’t believe it either and pointed at her own chest, mouthing ‘Me?’