03.5 Visitors for the Chalet School (5 page)

“And we couldn’t find anything about the pictures anywhere,” Margia put in.

“And one is very odd,” said Elisaveta, with a puzzled expression. “There is something in the air that looks like – how do you call it? – a thing that is used to cut the harvest. No, not a scythe, smaller than that.”

“I think you mean a sickle,” Miss Maynard said.

“Oh, yes, a sickle. And it looks almost as though St Nothburga had thrown the sickle at someone. But I think a saint would not do that.”

“No, no, she didn’t!” Miss Maynard suppressed a smile at the unlikely picture this presented. “I haven’t time to tell you the details now, but the story goes that St Nothburga was working in the fields near Eben for a very grasping employer. He was in a great hurry to get one particular field harvested because a storm had been predicted. So he ordered his workers to continue reaping all through Saturday, and he wanted them to keep going on the Sunday as well. But St Nothburga reproached him, saying that Sunday was a day of rest for all. She then let go of her sickle, which immediately flew into the air and remained suspended there.

This, she told him, was a sign that God willed that all people, and even inanimate things, should rest from their labours on holy days. That’s the legend, anyway. And that’s what the picture’s about.”

“What about the other painting?” Joey asked. “The one where it looks as though they’re driving a pair of oxen right through a river?”

“The water’s all tucked up at the sides,” said Margia.

And Elisaveta, who had been well grounded in biblical history by the royal governesses, added, “Like the Israelites and the Red Sea.”

“You’ll have to find out about that for yourselves,” Miss Maynard said briskly. “I’m told, Joey, there’s a wonderful book with all these Tyrolean legends, by some Victorian lady – I’ve forgotten her name for the moment. But we ought to try to get a copy for the library. In the mean time, why don’t you all ask Frieda Mensch or Marie von Eschenau – I’m sure they would know all the old stories.”

“And Frieda’s father is a real mine of information,” Joey said. “Thanks, Miss Maynard, I’ll certainly see what I can find out.”

“Now, girls, I must be off again.” Miss Maynard began to get up from her lowly position but Elisaveta said pleadingly: “Oh, Miss Maynard, do
please
have a cup of tea! I have made it myself, and it is absolutely the first time I have ever made tea.”

Miss Maynard laughed, but she allowed herself to be persuaded to drink the tea, which she pronounced excellent.

Then, in spite of enticing smells from the kebabs, now sizzling over the fire, she refused to remain any longer and departed, reminding the girls to put out the fire most carefully and to clear up all traces of their visit before they left.

“I should think you’ve passed the test easily, Jo,” Margia said later as they sat enjoying their delicious meal.

“It’s funny.” Joey stopped to take a vast bite out of an apple. “I’d quite forgotten about it being a test, it’s been such a gorgeous afternoon. Thanks awfully much for your help, you two. Now I think we’d better get on with the tidying; we’ve got a fair walk back to the school and it’ll be getting dark in an hour or so.”

It was just as they reached the corner by St Nothburga’s church that they saw three girls: obviously English, from both speech and appearance, they were standing there, evidently discussing some problem.

The tallest of the three, a very serious-looking girl, glanced round as the Chalet girls approached and, for a moment, her surprise at seeing a British Girl Guide uniform showed clearly on her face. Then she smiled, the first expression of severity immediately banished, and said, “But of course! You must be from the Chalet School. I wonder if you can help us, please; we seem to have got lost.”

Joey, always ready to make friends, went up smiling: “Yes, we do come from the Chalet School; I’m Jo Bettany and these are Margia Stevens and Elisaveta Arnsonira. Of course we’d like to help you if we can.

Who are you and what’s the trouble?”

“We’re from Grange House School in London,” put in another of the English group, a much shorter girl, with dark curly hair, an upturned nose and deep-set blue eyes. “I’m Pamela Trent; this,” indicating the girl who had spoken first, “is Patricia Davidson, and this is Joan Hatherley. The rest of our party went straight to Briesau, but we three got permission to walk up the mountain from that little town down there; we should be joining Miss Bruce and the others at the Stephanie, and we were just wondering which path would be the quickest.”

It had been Joey’s turn to look astonished when the girl mentioned Grange House. Now she burst out: “But we thought you weren’t arriving till next week; we were told you’d be coming on the seventh of October.

Today’s only the fourth. Do they know at the hotel? – because I’m pretty certain they weren’t expecting you today!”

The three Grange House girls looked at each other in consternation.

“Help! Does that mean we’ve nowhere to stay?”

“What can have happened?”

“I say, what a lark! Orphans of the storm!”

The light was beginning to fade and a chilly breeze began to make itself felt.

“Well, it’s no good hanging round here. We’ll have to buzz off and find the others,” Patricia Davidson decided. “They’ll have arrived by now; they must have got something sorted out.”

“Better cut along with us then – we’re on our way back to Briesau; we can show you where the Stephanie is.” And Joey led the way at a brisk pace.

“What though the schoolgirl knew someone – quite obviously … had blundered!” Joan Hatherley misquoted darkly to herself, as she fell in behind Pamela Trent.

They made haste up to Seespitz, past the landing stage and along the lake-path; but even so, it was almost dark when they reached Briesau. Before running back to the school, Joey and her companions escorted the Londoners to the hotel. Here the two mistresses, Miss Bruce and Miss Mortlock, and the other nine girls, were awaiting them disconsolately.

It appeared there had indeed been a misunderstanding over the date of their arrival. The explanation was quite simple: when Grange House’s headmistress had written to confirm their reservations, she had said they would be arriving on the fourth of October; this she had written as “4 October” without mentioning any day of the week. The figure four in her handwriting had been misread as an English seven, and all arrangements made accordingly for the party’s arrival on the seventh of October.

“I am so sorry, so very sorry, Madame,” Herr Dobler, the Stephanie’s proprietor, apologized to the worried Miss Bruce, who fortunately spoke excellent German. “See, here is the letter. Be so good as to look at it.”

Miss Bruce scrutinized the words in question and shook her head. “
Not
clear … really not clear at all – it is most unfortunate … but certainly not your fault … The question is … what to do now?”

Matters were further complicated because Herr Dobler, thinking the hotel would be empty, had allowed all his kitchen and domestic staff to go home for the weekend. Hotel workers got very little free time during the tourist season, so naturally they had been delighted to take this short holiday.

By now it was almost seven o’clock and the whole party was looking very forlorn. Miss Bruce had remained calm outwardly, but even she was beginning to wonder about their chances of finding other accommodation at this hour on a Saturday evening, in such a very small place.

However, she had not been allowing for Austrian traditions of hospitality. Herr Dobler had disappeared to consult his wife; and he now returned beaming to tell them there was no need to worry any more. The bedrooms were always kept in readiness; and, he assured them with many apologies, he and his wife would do all they could to make the gracious ladies comfortable. Frau Dopler would be happy to give them breakfast on the Sunday and Monday mornings. She even began bustling round to see if she could make something now in the way of a simple evening meal.

However, at this moment a “good-angel” arrived: Mademoiselle Lepâttre had heard of the visitors’ plight from Joey and had immediately come round to offer help. Mademoiselle insisted on taking them all back to
Abendessen
at the Chalet School. She would not consider a refusal. Moreover, she arranged with them to have all their meals, with the exception of breakfast, at the school until Monday. By then the staff would have returned to the hotel and things would be back to normal. Miss Bruce accepted this generous offer with gratitude and relief.

“How awfully kind they are at the Chalet School,” observed Pamela Trent, as she was getting dressed the following morning in the bedroom she and Patricia Davidson were sharing. “And that was a topping supper they gave us last night. Do you suppose they always have meals like that, the lucky things?”

“I think it couldn’t have been anything out of the usual,” replied her friend. “After all, they didn’t get enough warning to put on a special show for us. It certainly was a bit different from the usual school diet.”

Patricia, who always did things quickly, was already dressed; her deceptively simple-looking tweed dress paid tribute to her mother’s excellent and expensive taste in clothes. Wandering over to the window, she stood brushing her thick brown hair and gazing out at the view over the southern part of the lake. The weather was rather disappointing after yesterday’s golden sunshine. But, although the mountain tops were swathed in soft grey mist, the lake looked not grey, but intensely dark green; the whole impression was one of peace, with a touch of mystery.

After an excellent breakfast – all the girls agreed that they had never tasted such delicious rolls – the whole group set out for the Chalet School, where they had been invited to attend the informal service held in the school each Sunday, for those girls and staff who were Protestants.

“Golly! This is certainly quite a place!” remarked Joan Hatherley, as she and Pamela Trent followed the others along the lake-side. “I shan’t make any objections to being here for a month, I can tell you.”

“And nor shall I; it’s absolutely terrific,” Pamela agreed. “Will you just look at those mountains!”

They turned up the path towards the school, which was set back a little distance from the lake. “I suppose that other chalet must belong to the school too,” Joan said. “I didn’t notice it last night, did you?”

“No, but then it was dark. And I didn’t realize they’d got so much land, miles and miles of it.”

“I think perhaps you exaggerate, dear girl! But quite a few square yards, certainly. I suppose that

‘stockade’s to keep the wild beasts from straying.” Joan pointed at the high wooden fence encircling the school grounds.

At that moment a line of Chaletians came marching through the gate in this fence and on down the path towards them. Joan hastily dropped her hand.

“Now where would they be going?” whispered Pamela. Joan shook her head silently.

In fact these were the Chalet School Catholics making their way to the tiny whitewashed church, with its quaint frescos on the walls, situated behind the Kron Prinz Karl Hotel.

The Chalet girls were accompanied by Mademoiselle Lepâttre and Miss Wilson, who taught science. They were walking formally, two and two (“crocodiling”, Joey had once called it), so although smiling greetings were exchanged, there was no chance for conversation.

However, there was no lack of talk later on, at
Mittagessen
in the Chalet School’s big dining-room, nor afterwards, when the girls were getting ready for the afternoon outing proposed by Mademoiselle Lepâttre.

Just before lunch Mademoiselle had summoned the Chalet School’s head girl to her and suggested that the visitors would enjoy a walk up the Tiern valley, which stretches from Briesau far up through the mountains, eventually leading to Germany by way of the great Tiern Pass. Mademoiselle explained to Bette that she wished the prefects to take entire charge of the expedition. “You will have only the older and more sensible girls with you,” she continued. “The younger Middles will not be going. Nor, of course, will the little ones.

And as some of our staff are away this weekend, our mistresses will all be needed here.
Enfin, c’est très bien

… it will be a chance for you and our visitors to get to know one another.”

“Will the two Grange House mistresses be coming with us, Mam’selle?” asked Bette.

“
Mais non, ma petite
; they are tired after their journey and would prefer to rest here this afternoon.”

There was naturally a lot of disappointment among the younger children at missing the treat, especially as this was to include
Kaffee und Kuchen
at the
Gasthaus
in Lauterbach, a tiny hamlet though which they would pass both going and returning. But since the expedition would take over four hours it was considered too long and tiring for some of the Middles, and out of the question for the little ones.

A few of these, who were playing in the garden after
Mittagessen
, gathered near the gate to watch the party leave. On, who voiced clear dissatisfaction with the plans, was Margia Stevens’s little sister, Amy.

“I think it’s jolly mouldy leaving us behind! Really mouldy!” she said to Margia, who retorted unsympathetically, very much the elder sister:

“I shouldn’t let any of the staff or prefects hear you using
that
expression, Amy, or you’ll be in trouble, even if it is Sunday.”

(There was a very strict rule at the Chalet School against the use of slang.) Even eight-year-old Robin Humphries, an exceptionally sunny-natured child, added her small protest. As she walked down the path from Le Petit Chalet, hand in hand with Joey Bettany, she was heard to say reproachfully: “I have walked much – but so much further than that, Joey; and I would not get tired, no, really, I would
not
!” Her dark curls were dancing in her fervour, and her eyes were fixed pleadingly on Jo.

“And now I shall not see you, my Jo, not all of today, because when you return I shall have gone to bed.”