A Royal Match (7 page)

‘Bugger, Misty,’ I cursed, just as Miss Cribbe walked in to say it was time for lights out.

‘Language, Calypso!’ she trilled.

‘Miss Cribbe, it’s not fair. My duvet is all wet. Misty’s weed on it.’

She put her hand on my soggy duvet to feel if it was wet. ‘Don’t be silly, you don’t know for certain that it was Misty.’

Hello
, it smelled of dog wee and Misty was the only dog living in Cleathorpes!

‘Now, stop fussing. Give it to me and I’ll wash it. It’s a warm night and you can sleep with a sheet just for tonight.’

Star waded in to my rescue. ‘Miss Cribbe, that is so
unfair! Poor Calypso will freeze. And anyway, it
was
Misty. You know it was.’

‘That’s enough cheek from you, young lady. Apologize immediately.’

‘I will not,’ Star shouted. (She can be very stubborn.) ‘Misty’s always weeing all over the dorm – it’s disgusting.’

‘Star, I’m warning you, that’s enough,’ Miss Cribbe replied with a wobble in her voice. ‘Misty is a lovely dog. She adores you girls – why, you’re like family to her. She’d be devastated if she heard what you were saying.’

‘It’s OK, Miss Cribbe. I don’t mind sleeping under a sheet,’ I assured her. I hated it when Miss Cribbe cried. It meant someone had to cuddle her and she’d completely soak you in tears. I gave her the duvet and she grabbed me for a beardy kiss on the cheek.

‘You don’t really think Misty did this dreadful thing, do you, dear? It was probably a dog from the village.’

Yes, that would be right. A dog had walked the two miles from the village, managed to get through the electrified, barbed-wire fence, negotiated its way past the hordes of roaming attack dogs and armed security guards, found its way inside our locked building, just in order to pee on the faded faces of Club’N.

‘Yes, you’re probably right,’ I comforted her as I patted her back, hoping to escape from her bosomy embrace sooner rather than later. She smelled a bit like dog wee herself.

‘Now, Miss Cribbe will bring you a nice clean sheet and
tuck you in, dear.’ She often referred to herself in the third person, as if she were royalty or something. I wondered if Freddie referred to himself in the third person. I didn’t think I’d want to pull a boy that did anything to remind me of Miss Cribbe.

‘You can use my spare duvet, Calypso,’ Georgina offered.

‘See what a lovely friend you have in Georgina, dear.’ Miss Cribbe wiped away a tear with her sleeve. ‘You might take some notes from Georgina, on how to be a good friend yourself, Star.’

‘As if,’ Star muttered. But Miss Cribbe didn’t hear, or pretended not to, anyway.

‘Now, I know you don’t mean to be unkind, but it’s very hurtful when you talk about dear Misty like that. I love you girls as if you were my own – you know that, don’t you?’

‘Yes, Miss Cribbe,’ we all said – anything to shut her up.

‘Good girls. Now, say your prayers and go to sleep.’

Georgina and I nodded solemnly. Star turned over to face the wall and muttered something under her breath that no one could hear.

‘As for you, young lady,’ she said, referring to Star. ‘You can see Sister Constance tomorrow after supper for a suitable punishment for cheeking me.’

‘What did I do?’ Star yelled.

‘I won’t have you cheeking me, young lady.’

‘Fine,’ Star replied, but when Miss Cribbe left the room she blew a big raspberry.

‘What a freak,’ Georgina said, climbing out of bed to get me her duvet.

‘Sorry about getting you in trouble, Star,’ I told her.

‘You didn’t get me in trouble. I hate her stupid old dog. Everyone knows Misty is always weeing everywhere. This whole building stinks. It’s foul. Besides, all Sister will do is make me sweep the corridor.’

‘And give you a big fat Mars Bar afterwards, darling,’ Georgina added, and all three of us laughed. It was nice laughing together. Star even gave me a look as if to say, Maybe Georgina’s not that bad
really
.

The nuns were never particularly interested in punishing us. Not unless we got caught taking drugs or fighting in the corridor or smashing school property or something heinous like that. We all quite liked the nuns, actually, mostly because they were very old and seemed to live in their own little nun world, complete with its own sweet little cemetery.

Georgina threw the duvet over me and then pretended to tuck me in like Miss Cribbe. ‘Now give my moustache a big sloppy kiss, Calypso dear.’ She put loads of saliva on her lips so they glistened, and then puckered them up the way Miss Cribbe did.

After the lights were out I snuggled into the lovely, plain, white Egyptian cotton-covered duvet, said a few silent Hail Marys, and asked Mary if she would petition God on my behalf so that a horrific accident might befall my teen duvet (something more permanently destructive
than Misty weeing on it) so that I could have a nice grown-up duvet like this one. Then I fell asleep.

That night, Star walked and talked in her sleep. It wasn’t a new thing. As long as I’ve known Star she’s talked in her sleep, although usually she only did it when she was at home. We woke up to find her sitting on Georgina’s bed, babbling on about not wanting to die. Georgina helped me get her back into bed.

She was quite sweet about Star’s sleepwalking, really, considering she’d been woken up. I would have expected her to go ballistic and scream about what a freak Star was, but all she did was giggle.

Maybe Star and I had got Georgina all wrong before, I mused as I drifted off to sleep.

But then Georgina whispered to me, ‘Hey, Calypso. Tomorrow let’s tell Star she was going on about pulling Professor Sullivan.’

As it turned out, there was no time to tease Star for sleeptalking about Professor Sullivan, because the three of us slept through all six bells and finally Miss Cribbe came into our room, bashing away on her wretched copper gong.

‘Wakey, wakey, girls! Wakey, wakey!’ she cried out in her special morning sing-song voice.

There was a mad scramble to dress, then we all clustered around the sink in our en-suite bathroom to clean our teeth before tearing down the stairs in time to grab a dry croissant each from the canteen. We shoved these in our pockets, planning to eat them surreptitiously during first period, which was English literature with Ms Topler. Yawn.

I swear, Ms Topler is the Antichrist of literature. Theoretically it should have been my favourite subject, given how I love reading and writing. I’ve had two letters
published in
Teen Vogue
, but my dream is to write articles in the witty, satirical vein of Nancy Mitford or Dorothy Parker.

Ms Topler doesn’t appreciate my wit or satire, though. If anything, she is ethically opposed to wit and satire. Where there is literary joy she can be relied upon to throw cold water on it through critical analysis, and if she happens to prescribe a classic like Simone de Beauvoir, you can rest assured she will slaughter it with one of her diabolical deconstructions.

Mostly, though, she loved giving us tragic books to read, like
Little Women
, and as if this weren’t bad enough, she made us discuss them
ad nauseum
in class.

Every time I was about to put a piece of croissant in my mouth, she’d ask me something lame about the tragic Jo. I told her that ‘despite an indefatigable independent streak, Jo was the classic L to the power of three – a Literary Lady Loser.’

I wasn’t even trying to be funny, but Star and Georgina and a few other girls laughed – and no, not in a piss-take sort of way. Georgina’s crowd were acting like I was actually one of the girls now, and then to top it off, Georgina announced that Tobias couldn’t bear
Little Women
and had refused point-blank to let her read it.

The class fell into paroxysms of mirth.

Ms Topler gave me a ‘blue.’

A ‘blue’ handed out by a teacher means having to write lines, like ‘I must pay closer attention in class,’ one
hundred times or something annoying like that. It’s called a blue because you write the lines on blue paper. Older girls can hand out blues too, but we could usually slack them down – although not when we were in the younger years. In Year Seven once Star tried to slack down one of the older girls who gave her a blue for something really minor, and the older girl reported her, then Star ended up having to write lines from six a.m. to seven a.m. (Pre-breakfast lines have now been deemed too barbarically cruel, even for boarding school.)

When we got lines we could petition Sister Constance and usually get a transmuted sentence, something really easy like sweeping the corridor. As Georgina pointed out, the best part of getting Sister Constance involved was that she always gave you a sweet reward afterwards – which sort of defeated the point of giving a punishment, but like I said, you don’t need to be rational to be a teacher, let alone a nun.

Having missed breakfast, my mouth was watering at the thought of a Mars Bar.

By the time class was over I was starving and the already-stale croissant was a pile of flakes in my pocket. Our sadistic dorm matron was going to go mental when I put it in for wash if I didn’t remember to get every miniscule crumb out. I would try to remember to flush my pocket out tonight, but deep down I knew I would forget and get one of Matron’s lectures about my manifest lack of wash-bag respect and how I would end up being ridiculed
by my children – if I ever had the good fortune to have any, which she seriously doubted because what sort of man would want to marry a slattern like me, who eats food from her pocket?

A sense of proportion isn’t part of the job description for working at Saint Augustine’s.

Because of the wretched Ms Topler keeping me back late in order to give me my stupid blue (Star and Georgina had both waited for me), we were late for everything and on the charge to the canteen at lunch, we were all clutching our stomachs with exaggerated hunger pains. Even though it was unprecedented, it just seemed natural to sit with Georgina and her group to eat. Georgina, Arabella and Clementine all seemed fine with that. Clemmie even squeezed over, practically sitting on Arabella’s lap, so that we could all fit on the bench. Even Star seemed fine with it, but Honey glared at me when I sat down with my tray.

‘Are you sure you have enough there, Calypso?’ she asked nastily.

I had encouraged the dinner lady to pile the fish nuggets pretty high, because they were one of the few edible things they served us at Saint Augustine’s and I was famished after missing breakfast.

Star grabbed one of the fish nuggets off my plate and threw it at Honey. She riposted with a chip. And that was it. The food fight was on …

Clementine tossed a broad bean from her salad at Arabella, who chucked it across at Star. Georgina wiped a
glob of mayonnaise on my nose and I flicked a pile of peas at her with my spoon. Within seconds it was a free-for-all. Food was being pelted around the canteen by everyone.

We were told to report to Sister Constance in her office after supper.

Sister sat in silent prayer under the massive gruesome crucifix that loomed above her desk. Its ivory Christ with an enormous spear jutting out of his bleeding side always made me feel really guilty and a little scared. In this setting, Sister Constance looked quite scary too. Generally, she has a very stiff, formal manner (although sometimes you catch her suppressing a smile).

Her office was lined from floor to ceiling with holy texts. The ancient literary feel was rather spoilt by a nasty, grey metal filing cabinet, supporting an enormous wooden statue of Our Lady of Lourdes. I don’t know why, but Sister Constance’s office always smelled of an old church Bible, that mixture of mustiness, wax, frankincense and furniture polish.

Seconds turned into minutes and I swear I heard Christ groan with the agony of it all as he hung from his cross. Although maybe it was just my tummy – I hadn’t actually got to eat any of my fish nuggets, because of our food fight. And at supper they’d served us the grey slops, which I had vowed never to eat after a rumour went around the school that it was made from dead pets from the pet shed.

Eventually Sister broke her meditation. She looked up at the six of us standing in front of her table and told us
how disappointed she was. We bowed our heads solemnly, striking what we hoped was a remorseful pose.

‘How wantonly wasteful to treat food in such a cavalier manner.’

‘Yes, Sister,’ we all said together.

‘Did you even spare the slightest thought for the poor little hungry children of the world who haven’t got enough food to fill their distended bellies?’

‘Yes, Sister,’ we repeated. I was looking out of the window and was slightly distracted by the sight of a group of girls heading off through the bluebells towards Puller’s Hill.

But I was brought back to attention by Sister Constance, gasping in shock.

‘Well, if you thought of those poor little hungry children and their desperate need for food, what possessed you to throw it about?’

We looked at one another, startled. Star spoke for all of us. ‘We meant no, Sister.’