03.5 Visitors for the Chalet School (15 page)

“But to be ‘seek’, Evadne?” queried Suzanne Mercier, raising her eyebrows in true Gallic astonishment.

“But that is so very disagreeable. Surely you do not wish to be sick, even to miss Maynie’s lesson?”

“Oh, Evadne doesn’t mean
sick
like that, Suzanne,” Margia explained kindly. “It’s just her funny little American way of saying ‘ill’.”

“Here, less of the ‘funny little American’,” growled Evadne, with a toss of her fair curly head. “And
I
can’t see anything one mite funny about saying ‘sick’, anyway.”

“Nor can I!” Jo Bettany’s voice assured her. Joey with Marie von Eschenau and Simone Lecoutier, had just caught up with the Fourth form group. “I must say you kids do have the most charming topics of conversation,” Jo went on in lofty tones. “What’s it all about, anyway?”

“It’s just that Evadne would wish to be sick – ah no!
ill
– during our mathematics lesson,” Suzanne answered her.

“Now that’s something I really do understand,” Jo said. “Even to think of maths can sometimes make me feel ill. But Evvy, the snag about really truly feeling ill is that it lasts too long. And,” she added, with feeling born of experience, “it can bring some jolly unpleasant consequences in the shape of Matron.”

A speculative light was beginning to dawn in Evadne’s eye. “What will you bet me, Joey, I could be allowed to miss Maynie’s lesson and no one suspect a thing?”

“Get on and talk sense, do!”

“Bet you anything!”

“It’d be quite impossible,” Jo said with conviction. “Maynie’s all there, you know.”

And Simone added, “Anyway it is not ladylike to bet, Evadne.”

“Oh, pooh-pooh to that!” Evadne retorted. “Are you on, Joey? ‘Cos if you are I must go and prepare.” And without waiting for a reply she dashed off at top speed across the field and disappeared in the direction of the school, leaving the others to speculate on what she could possibly be planning.

Soon afterwards the bell warned them that Break was at an end, and everyone hastened to the house to get ready for the next lesson.

When they reached their classroom the members of the Fourth form looked with great interest at Evadne; but she was sitting at her desk, wearing an air of other-worldly innocence. Indeed, as the lesson continued along its ordinary course, everyone began to presume that Evadne must have abandoned any schemes she might have had.

Miss Maynard finished explaining the method of working quadratic equations and told them to open their textbooks at the correct page and work through the first six exercises. They all obeyed her instructions, Evadne with a virtuous expression that would not have been out of place in a stained-glass window. Miss Maynard began to do some corrections in the Fifth form’s exercise books. There was silence; everyone worked away industriously.

Suddenly Evadne blew her nose noisily, and a moment later drew in her breath in a sort of gasp. They all looked up to see her dabbing frantically at her nose with a handkerchief which – so it appeared – was gradually being covered with scarlet drops.

Now Miss Maynard had been trying, with mounting exasperation, to unravel some of the mysteries of Jo Bettany’s arithmetic. Jo was gifted in English subjects and had a great facility for learning languages, but she had something of a blank where maths was concerned and a wholehearted dislike of the subject. Her form had been working on problems, and in struggling with one of these Jo had produced an untidy forest of calculations, stretching over nearly a page; after much cross-cancelling she had written, “Answer – 2½ “.

But, as the question had asked the number of
men
required to plant a certain field of potatoes, this seemed, to say the least, unlikely. Miss Maynard had at last traced the actual arithmetical error leading to this brilliant conclusion; she was now, with grim satisfaction, writing a bitingly acid commentary at the foot of the page.

Her mind was fully occupied and there was no reason for her to suspect that Evadne’s nosebleed was not genuine. It seemed unnecessary to send the girl to Matron who, in any case, had gone over to Le Petit Chalet immediately after Break to attend to one of the Juniors. So Miss Maynard merely told Evadne in matter-of-fact tones to go and bathe her nose with cold water. “If that doesn’t help, you had better go and lie down till it stops,” she added.

Nothing loth, Evadne went to the door, resisting with difficulty the temptation to say “I told you so” to her friends as she left the classroom.

She made her way to the splashery, still in a positive fizz of excitement and suppressed giggles. There, it being prudent to keep up the charade, she began dutifully to bathe her nose with cold water.

It was very quiet everywhere in the school. Everybody was busy about their lawful occasions. A fly buzzed somewhere out of sight. The only other sound came from the distant music room, where Grizel Cochrane was practicing some extremely difficult octave-studies, very slowly and with endless repetitions.

Evadne very soon began to feel bored. It was odd how quickly the feeling of exhilaration faded when she no longer had an audience. She glanced at her watch and saw that there were still twenty-five minutes left of the maths lesson. There seemed nothing to be gained from continuing to splash ice-cold water over her perfectly healthy nose. So, holding the prepared handkerchief conspicuously in front of her in case she should meet anyone, she made her way upstairs to her dormitory.

Rows of empty cubicles met her gaze, the beds neatly made and the curtains thrown back over the rails. It was not an inspiring sight. With a sigh Evadne went and sat disconsolately on her bed, which would have outraged Matron had she known of it. The time passed slowly. Evadne found herself wishing she were back in the classroom. Never for one moment would she have acknowledged it, but even maths with Maynie was better than being stuck up here all alone and with nothing to do. When at last the bell sounded for the end of the lesson she was deeply thankful to run down and rejoin her form.

Miss Maynard, who was busy collecting an armful of exercise books, looked round briefly to enquire if she had recovered. And there seemed no reason against replying, “I’m quite all right now, thank you, Miss Maynard.” That, after all, was the exact truth. Or
was
it? For a niggling suspicion that her behaviour could hardly be called honest was beginning to trouble Evadne. At the Chalet School honesty was a most highly esteemed virtue, and although she was often thoughtless, Evadne was not given to deceit. A confession hovered on her lips.

But already Miss Maynard was more than halfway through the classroom door, which Suzanne Mercier was politely holding open. And Evadne, feeling oddly deflated, sank down at her desk, uncertain whether or not to feel relieved.

Her spirits revived a little as the others came crowding round, eager to know how she had managed her trick. She was easily persuaded to demonstrate how she had daubed one half of her handkerchief with red poster paint, keeping this side out of sight in her hand when she blew her nose, then gradually letting the red-stained side appear. But she was brought unpleasantly down to earth when Margia said: “By the way, Evvy, Miss Maynard said would I tell you that we have to do numbers 7 to 12 for prep, and will you also finish the first six numbers which we worked in class.”

Evadne grimaced hideously at the prospect of twelve algebra sums; but she was realistic enough to acknowledge it was her own fault. For the moment she was considerably sobered … but only for the moment, as it turned out.

Things in the school went on undisturbed until after
Mittagessen
; and what occurred that afternoon on the hockey field was a pure accident.

The Chalet School victory in the hockey match against Grange House had fired their games captain, Grizel Cochrane, to even more than her habitual enthusiasm. Grizel had decided to devote some extra time to coaching the Second Eleven, being wise enough to see that a good second team must lead to a general raising in the standard of play throughout the school.

On this particular Monday afternoon, Grizel had arranged a practice game between First and Second Elevens and, from the side lines, she was alternately encouraging and castigating the players. At one point, Simone Lecoutier managed to stop a particularly swift ball and immediately dropped her hockey stick, with a little scream. The only surprising thing was that Simone should have stopped the ball in the first place; she was not good at hockey. But this side of the question did not strike Grizel.

“Really, Simone, what a complete and utter baby you are!” she cried in scornful tones. “Just because it stung your hand a little bit. Grip your stick more firmly and don’t be such a muff.” She turned and addressed them all militantly: “It’s useless softies and molly-coddles trying to play this game. You simply must be prepared to get the very
dickens
of a whack from time to time when you’re playing hockey.”

“Oh, lawks, how unbearably hearty Grizel can be,” muttered Joey to Rosalie Dene. Indeed, it was not an unfair comment.

Simone, very pink in the face, looked ready to weep; but she had learnt a lot since her early days in the Chalet School, when she had been prone to crying with alarming frequency for the most trifling reason.

Tears were very near, but she caught Joey’s eye fixed fiercely on her and this, combined with her own growing self-control, helped her to keep them at bay.

The game continued in a wary silence. Grizel, realizing that she had been too sweeping, moderated the tone of her criticisms, with the result that gradually everyone began to enjoy the game and to play much better.

And then, when there remained only about three minutes of game time, it happened. Grizel, wishing to illustrate some point of style, stepped forward behind Marie von Eschenau. At exactly the same moment, Marie, having no idea that Grizel was there, turned and gave the ball a firm wallop, and Grizel was in just the right place to receive the full power of Marie’s stick across her shin. She gave an exclamation and, in the midst of the general consternation, stood rubbing her leg, fighting for control.

It was lucky that she did not hear Joey’s sepulchral whisper: “Dear, dear! The very
dickens
of a whack!” Jo was not really unsympathetic, but she simply could not resist quoting the unfortunate phrase that had boomeranged against its perpetrator.

Marie, deeply distressed, kept apologizing to Grizel and trying to comfort her. The others all stood awkwardly waiting.

Now Grizel had many faults, but she did not lack courage and she did increasingly try to be fair. As soon as she could trust her voice, she said curtly: “All right, Marie. Do stop fussing, I’ll survive. It wasn’t your fault. Another time just don’t hit quite so hard.” The words sounded brusque but were obviously well meant, and Grizel rose several notches in the estimation of all present, including Joey and the unfortunate Simone.

After this, the ordered peace of afternoon lessons was positively welcome; but there are days when some Middles seem compelled to keep breaking out of line, and after
Kaffee
there were once again plots of mischief in the air.

The Middles had about forty minutes of free time between
Kaffee
and the beginning of prep. They felt suddenly tired of all their usual occupations, and Evadne had the bright idea that they should liven things up by playing a game of Forfeits. It must be said that their exploits were on the whole harmless. Had they confined themselves to the common-room, probably no one would have noticed anything amiss. However, when it came to Margia Stevens’ turn to decree the forfeit, she had the colourful idea of demanding that Evadne and Elisaveta should race each other down the corridor and back, on all fours and barking like dogs.

All the Middles lined up at the common-room door, eager, not unnaturally, to watch this undignified spectacle. They took care not to speak a word, as talking was forbidden in the hall and corridors. But the amount of noise that can be made be a group of schoolgirls, all struggling to suppress their laughter and to be “terribly quiet”, is really formidable, and they were luck not to attract the immediate attentions of the staff.

Evadne, emitting a final frenetic “bow-wow”, reached the common-room door first; close behind was Elisaveta, hair in a glorious tangle, brown eyes sparkling with amusement; the sounds she was making would have come more suitable from a strangulated Hound of the Baskervilles than from a princess of Belsornia.

Absorbed in their idiotic performance, the two did not notice that a sudden genuine silence had fallen on the spectators. Evadne, struggling to be first on her feet to claim the victory, was frozen with horror at finding herself face to face with Mary Burnett, the prefect on duty that afternoon. Mary was looking exceptionally stern, which was partly, had they but known it, because she was secretly dying to laugh. She managed to conceal this and scolded them all severely for their childish behaviour:

“And just look at your stockings, Evadne, and you, Elisaveta!” she admonished them. “Those must be mended tonight. If that means you aren’t able to finish your other mending, well, you must give up half an hour of your free time every evening until it is all finished. Now, go at once and change your stockings; and the rest of you go to your classroom in silence and begin your prep.

Mary confessed, when she was describing the incident later to Bette Rincini, that she had nearly been floored at this point, because Elisaveta, looking at her with a melting expression, had said courteously: “But please, Mary, were we breaking any rule?”

“Now, Bette, I really couldn’t imagine a school rule that expressly forbade crawling along the corridors and barking; and I could hear Evvy muttering, ‘Guess were weren’t
talking
, you know, Mary, we were just barking’, and I simply didn’t know where to look.”

“What did you say?” the head girl enquired with interest.

“Oh, I just told them not to make matters worse by being cheeky; and that they all understood perfectly that the rule against talking in the corridors would also apply to making any noises; and that it was high time they all tried to behave like Fourth formers and not like babies in a kindergarten.”