In the Fifth at Malory Towers (15 page)

Alicia was white. “I’m not performing any more tonight,” she said, in a cold and angry voice. “You’re quite stealing the performance yourself, aren’t you, Moira? Wonderful demon queen you’d make, with that look on your face!”

It was so exactly what Moira did look like that there were quite a lot of guffaws. Alicia walked off the stage. Darrell was petrified. Sally took charge.

“Who’s on next? Come on, Bill.”

Bill came on the wrong side as usual, determined to flout Moira, too. She stalked in, her hands in her breeches pockets. She always wore riding things when she rehearsed. She said it made her feel more baronial!

“BILL! You know perfectly well you don’t come in that side,” shouted Moira, who also knew perfectly well that it was just Bill’s way of showing that she sided with Alicia. Bill stood there like a dummy.

“Go back and come in the right side,” ordered Moira, harshly.

“No. I’m going riding,” said Bill. Quite simply and mildly, just like that! She walked off, humming, and Moira heard her calling to Clarissa.

“Clarissa! Come on! I’m not feeling fit for acting tonight. I want to do something energetic!”

“This is silly,” said Betty. “Everyone walking off. Let me take charge, Moira. You’re rubbing them up the wrong way tonight.”

Moira shoved her roughly aside. She had a wicked temper when she was really roused, the same kind of temper as her sister Bridget, who liked to smash things up if she really felt mad!

“I’m going on,” she said, between her teeth. “Once we let things get out of hand, we’re done. We’ll take the servants” chorus.”

The chorus came on, giggling and ready to play up Moira if they could. They all resented her hard ways, even though they admitted that she could get things done and done well.

Moira picked on Gwen and Maureen at once.

“You two! You’re not singing! Oh no, you’re not! So don’t say you were. You’re pretty awful every time, and you’d better pull your socks up now, or you won’t even be in the chorus. I’ll get some third-formers instead.”

“I say! Do shut up, Moira,” said Betty, in a low tone. “You know you’ll never do much with those two, and certainly not if you go for them like that.”

Moira took not the slightest notice. “Did you hear what I said, Gwen and Maureen?” she called. “Come out in front and sing by yourselves, so that I shall see if you
do
know the words.”

Gwen hesitated. She longed to cheek Moira, or walk off as Bill had done. But she was afraid of Moira’s sharp tongue.

“Very well then — stop where you are and sing there,” said Moira, suddenly realizing that she couldn’t very well go and drag Gwen and Maureen to the front by main force. “Music, Irene!”

Irene, looking very glum and disgusted, played the servants' chorus. Gwen’s reedy voice piped up and Maureen mumbled the words, too.

“Stop,” said Moira, and the music stopped. “You don’t know the words and you don’t know the tune — and it is about the seventh rehearsal. You’re the worst in the whole play, both of you.”

Gwen and Maureen were furious at being humiliated like this in front of everyone. But still they dared not answer Moira back. They were both little cowards when it came to anything like that. They stood mute, and Gwen felt the usual easy tears welling up in her eyes.

Needless to say the rehearsal was not a success. Everyone sighed with relief when the supper-bell went. Moira went off scowling. Many of the girls sent scowls after her in imitation.

“Beast,” said Daphne. “She gets worse!”

“She’s worried because she has so many rehearsals to take, and so much to do,” said Darrell, trying to stop the general grumbling. It made things so difficult if the girls didn’t come willingly and cheerfully to rehearsal. It was
her
pantomime,
her
masterpiece — she couldn’t let their resentful feelings for Moira spoil it all.

“
Saint
Darrell!” called Betty, in delight. Darrell grinned.

“I’m no saint!” she said. “I’m as hot and bothered as everyone else. But what’s the good of messing up the show just because we’ve got a producer who can’t keep her temper?”

“Let’s chuck her out,” suggested somebody. “We’ve got Betty — and there’s you and Sally and Alicia at hand to help. We don’t need Moira now the donkey-work is done.”

“We can’t possibly chuck her out,” said Darrell, decidedly. “It would be mean after she’s got it more or less into shape. I do honestly think she’s irritable because she’s so interested in getting it perfect, and every little thing upsets her. Give her another chance!”

“All right,” agreed everyone. “But only ONE more chance, Darrell”

DARRELL spoke to Moira rather nervously about the failure of the last rehearsal.

“We all know you’re a bit overworked because you’ve done so much for the show already,” she began.

“Oh, do be quiet. You sound like Saint Catherine,” said Moira, with a glance at the nearby Catherine. “She’s already tried to make a hundred silly excuses for me. I hate people who suck up. I wasn’t angry because I was tired or overworked. I was angry because people like Alicia and Bill and Gwen and Maureen were defiant and rude and silly and lazy and didn’t back me up. Now you know.”

“Well, look, Moira — for goodness” sake be more understanding and patient next time,” said Darrell, holding tight on to her own temper. She felt it suddenly rising up. Oh dear! It would never do for two of them to get furious!

“Will you let me get on with my French or not?” asked Moira, in a dangerous voice. Darrell gave it up.

The next rehearsal was a little better, but not much. Darrell had insisted on writing in Alicia’s chant, and Moira had frowned but said very little. After all, the script was Darrell’s business. Moira didn’t find any fault with either Alicia or Bill this time. She didn’t need to. Both were admirable and knew their parts well. Bill, at Darrell’s request, came on the stage from the right side, and all was well.

But other things went wrong. Other people came in for criticism and blame, the courtiers were ordered to sing their song four times, the servants didn’t bow properly, or curtsy at the right moment, Buttons was talking when she shouldn’t be!

Moira didn’t lose her temper, but she was unpleasant and hard. She fought to keep herself in hand. She was head-girl of the fifth. She was chief producer of the show. She had done all the donkey-work and licked things into shape. She meant to have her own way, and to have things as she liked — and she wasn’t going to say please and thank you and smile and clap, as that idiot of a Betty did!

There was a lot more grumbling afterwards. Darrell and Sally began to feel panicky. Suppose the pantomime went to pieces instead of getting perfect?

And then another horrid thing began. It was the coming of the anonymous letters — spiteful, hateful letters with no name at the end!

Only one girl in the form got them — and that was Moira. She got the first one on a rehearsal day. She slit open the envelope and read it in the common-room. She exclaimed aloud in disgust.

“What’s up?” said Darrell. Moira threw the letter across to her. “Read that,” she said.

Darrell read it and was horrified. This was the letter:

I
F ONLY YOU KNEW WHAT PEOPLE REALLY THINK OF THE HEAD-GIRL OF THE FIFTH!
B
AD-TEMPERED, UNJUST, BOSSY — IF YOU LEFT AT THE END OF THE TERM IT WOULDN’T BE TOO SOON FOR

ME
.

“What a disgusting thing,” said Darrell, in dismay. “Who could possibly have written it? It’s all in printed capitals, to hide the writer’s own handwriting. Take no notice of it, Moira. The only place for anonymous letters is the fire.”

Moira tossed the note into the fire, and went on with her work. Nobody could tell if she was upset or not — but everyone wondered who had written such a horrible letter.

The next one arrived the following day. There it was, on top of Moira’s pile of books, addressed in the same printed writing.

She opened it, unthinking.

S
O YOU GOT MY FIRST LETTER.
I
HOPE YOU ENJOYED IT.
W
OULDN’T YOU LOVE TO KNOW WHAT THE GIRLS SAY ABOUT YOU?
I
T WOULD MAKE YOUR EARS BURN!
Y
OU’VE CERTAINLY GOT THE DISTINCTION OF BEING THE MOST UNPOPULAR GIRL IN THE SCHOOL — BUT WHO WANTS THAT DISTINCTION?
C
ERTAINLY NOT

ME.

“Here’s another of them,” said Moira, in a casual tone, and gave it to Darrell and Sally. They read it, dismayed by the spite that lay behind the few lines.

“But, Moira —
who
can it be?” said Darrell. “Oh dear — it’s horrible. Anonymous letters are always written by the lowest of the low, I feel — and it’s awful to think there’s someone like that at Malory Towers.”

“
I
don’t care,” said Moira. But she did care. She remembered the spiteful words and worried over them in bed. She worried over the rehearsals, too. She badly wanted them to go as well as they had done at first — but poor Moira always found it very difficult to give up her own opinions and ways. She couldn’t alter herself — she expected everyone else to adapt themselves to her. And they wouldn’t, of course.

“Don’t open any more notes,” said Sally to Moira, seeing her look rather white the next day. “You know which they are — chuck them in the fire. You can tell by the printing on the envelope what they are.”

But the next one wasn’t in an envelope. It was stuffed in Moira’s lacrosse locker down in the changing-room. It was actually inside her right boot! She took it out, and saw immediately what was written, for the note this time had no envelope.

W
HAT’S A DICTATOR?
A
SK
M
OIRA.
D
ON’T ASK —

ME.

Just that and no more. Moira crumpled up the note fiercely. This horrible letter-writer! She knew just what to say to hurt Moira most.

She told Darrell. She didn’t really want to tell anyone, but somehow she felt she must put a brave front on the matter, and by telling about the letters and making them public she felt that would show the writer she didn’t care.

She laughed as she showed Darrell the note. “Quite short this time,” she said. “But not exactly sweet!”

“Oh! It’s
hateful
? said Darrell. “We must find out who it is. We
must
stop it. I’ve never, never known such a thing happen all the time I’ve been at Malory Towers. Poisonous, malicious letters! Moira, why aren’t you more upset? I should be absolutely miserable if I got these! Even if I knew they weren’t true,” she added, hurriedly.

“You indent add that,” said Moira, with a faint smile. “They
are
true, actually. More than one of you have called me a dictator, you know — and bossy and bad-tempered.”

Darrell stared at her in horror. “Moira — you wouldn’t think
I
did it, would you? Or Sally? Or Alicia — or...”

Moira shrugged her shoulders and turned away. Darrell stared after her in dismay. She turned to Sally.

“We
must
find out who it is. We can’t have Moira suspecting every one of us! Gosh, what will the rehearsals be like if this kind of thing goes on?”

The fourth note didn’t get to the person it was intended for. It was certainly slipped, unfolded, into a book on Moira’s desk — but the book happened to be one that Miss Potts had lent Moira about play-production. And having finished with it, Moira handed it back to Miss Potts without discovering the anonymous note inside.

So it was Miss Potts who found it. It slipped out to the floor in the room she shared with Mam’zelle. She picked it up and read it.

A
RE YOU WORRYING ABOUT THESE NOTES?
T
HERE ARE PLENTY MORE TO COME!
I
’VE GOT QUITE A FEW MORE NAMES TO CALL YOU, AND ADJECTIVES THAT WILL SUIT YOU.
H
OW ABOUT THE
D
EMON
Q
UEEN?
Y
OU LOOK LIKE A DEMON SOMETIMES.
A
DOMINEERING, BOSSY, SCOWLING, GLOWERING ONE, TOO.
A
T LEAST, THAT’S HOW YOU APPEAR TO

ME.

Miss Potts was amazed at this note. She read it over again. Who was it meant for? She turned it over and saw a name printed on the back. MOIRA!

“Moira!” she said. “So somebody slipped it into the book I lent her. An anonymous note — and a particularly spiteful one. Who in the world is low enough to think out things like these?”

She examined the writing. It gave her no clue, because all the letters were in capitals, very carefully done. Miss Potts frowned as she stood there. Like all decent people she thought that anonymous letter-writers were either mad or cowardly. They didn’t dare to say what they thought openly — they had to do it secretly and loathsomely.

She sent for Moira. Moira told her about the other notes. “Have you any idea at all who sent these?” asked Miss Potts.