And Nothing But the Truth (5 page)

“The house seems so lonely with you
both
away. At least your grandmother and I have Tarka to keep us hopping.”

“I hope he’s behaving,” said Polly. “Remember he needs a lot of walks, or he’ll chew things.”

“Don’t you worry. We’re taking good care of him.”

Tarka is
my
dog!
thought Polly. I
should be the one taking care of him
.

After lunch, Polly spent a blissful few hours on the beach, drawing the view of Walker Island across the pass. But then Noni called her to come and pack.

Late that afternoon, Polly stood on the boat deck, holding
Mrs. Hooper’s cake and cookies in a large box. Noni and Aunt Jean and Uncle Rand and Tarka were already tiny figures in the distance. She waved until the steamer went past the point.

Mrs. Cunningham stood beside her; she was travelling to Victoria to visit friends. “Let’s go inside, dear,” she said to Polly. “We’ll sit in the lounge and you can tell me all about your new school.”

Polly had to spend the whole of the trip talking about St. Winifred’s.

“T
HIS IS
SCRUMPTIOUS
!”
SAID
D
AISY, CRAMMING MRS
. Hooper’s cake into her mouth. “Thanks, Polly!”

The Fearless Four were sitting in the dining room. Each dorm was allotted an evening before bedtime when they could dig into the tuck boxes they kept in the kitchen. Their evening was Monday; Polly was glad of that because the cake was still fresh.

“The cookies are great, too,” said Eleanor. She inspected her own box. “I’m going to throw out these they’re so stale.”

“Tell us about your weekend, Polly,” said Daisy.

Polly didn’t want to talk about the island with them; it made her miss it too much. “There isn’t much to tell,” she said. “I just saw my family and my dog and my friends, and
we took out the boat, and then my friends came for dinner.”

“I bet you were glad to see your mum and dad,” said Daisy sadly. “I really miss mine.”

Polly flushed. “I … umm …”

Eleanor rescued her. “Polly lives with her grandmother,” she said quietly.

“Oh!” said Daisy. She was too polite to say any more, but Rhoda asked, “Where are your parents, then?”

Polly wished she could leave the room. “My mother died when I was two, and my father lives in Kelowna,” she muttered. There was no point in explaining he was in Winnipeg at the moment.

“Why don’t you live with
him
?” asked Rhoda.

Polly couldn’t answer. “She just doesn’t,” said Eleanor. “Let’s tell Polly what
our
weekend was like.”

“Yesterday was
so
tedious,” said Rhoda. “We had to walk in a crocodile to church. Everyone stared at us. In the afternoon we had to talk about God and stuff with Miss Guppy. It was incredibly boring.”

“Saturday was okay, though,” said Eleanor. “They took us to the beach after lunch. When we got back, we could do what we wanted.” She smiled at Daisy. “We played a
lot
of basketball! Dais here is a pretty fast dribbler. Rho’s pretty good, too.”

Daisy smiled back. “Sorry, El, but I need to practise if I want to get on the team.”

Dais? El? Rho?
Suddenly, the other three seemed best chums.

“This cookie is kind of bland,” said Rhoda. “Our cook puts nuts and raisins in hers.”

“Don’t eat it, then,” retorted Polly.

Now I’ve caught her!
she thought as Rhoda mumbled that it wasn’t that bad and finished the cookie.

“Rho, will you help me wash my hair tonight?” asked Daisy. “I can never get all the soap out of it.”

“Sure! I’ll lend you some of my special shampoo.”

“But Rho, I thought I was going to help you with those history dates tonight,” said Eleanor.

“Oh, right. Sorry, Dais, we’ll have to put off the hair washing until after the history test.”

Polly turned her back on them and put away the remains of the food. How could they be so accepting of Rhoda? And how had they become a trio in only two days? She wondered if Eleanor had shown them the hideaway.

“Thanks again, Poll!” said Daisy. “We really missed you, but I’m glad you returned bearing food!” She raised her glass of juice. “Here’s to the Fearless Four!”

Polly clinked her glass with the others.

By the end of Tuesday, Polly had had a first lesson in all her
courses except her extra art class. In literature they were studying
As You Like It
. Noni had read some Shakespeare to Polly, but never a whole play. Polly was relieved when she found the rich words easy to understand.

Her piano teacher, Miss Austen, was young and friendly. She told Polly she’d teach her to play some jazz as well as classical. Now Polly was allowed to miss the first twenty minutes of prep to practise in one of the piano rooms in the gymnasium. The first time she went, Alice was in the other room practising her singing. She was so good that Polly stopped playing her scales to listen to her.

This morning Mrs. Horner had stomped into history muttering “Numbers one to twelve” before she even reached her desk. Polly had finally managed to memorize the kings, but she got two dates wrong and received ten out of twelve. Half the class failed, and the Hornet was disgusted. The girls who had failed had to stay in at break and go through the list while she drilled them.

At lunchtime, Rhoda was in tears. “I
hate
her!” she sobbed. “She told me I’d never catch up in British history because I’m an American. What about the other girls?
They
aren’t American, but they failed, too! We have to miss break again tomorrow and do the test again. I’ll
never
learn everything by then!”

The others tried to calm her down. “Don’t worry—I’ll keep helping you,” said Eleanor.

“We all will,” said Daisy. “We’ll quiz you tonight after lights out. You won’t be allowed to go to sleep until you know all the kings!”

I’m much better at memorizing than Rhoda
, thought Polly with satisfaction.

Tuesday afternoon was Polly’s first house meeting. She assembled in a classroom with the twenty or so other girls who belonged to Sussex. She wondered if anyone would mention her order mark. At least she wasn’t the only person with one now. Many of the names on the other house charts had numbers beside them.

Sussex’s house captain was one of the prefects, a large, blustery girl named Babs Cook. First she welcomed the new girls. Then she went on to describe all the activities this term: house competitions in grass hockey, basketball, tennis, and drama. “I expect everyone to do her bit in trying out for these,” she told them. “So far we’ve earned ten points, which is a very good start. We won most of those points in debating last week. The rest were earned by Pauline Osborne for receiving the posture award. Attagirl, Pauline!”

Everyone clapped and Pauline sat up even straighter. Then Babs frowned. “Unfortunately, four members of Sussex have already received order marks, which have been deducted from those points. I’m very disappointed that these girls have let us down so early in the term. Edna, Audrey, Mary, and Polly, would you please stand?”

Polly had to hold the edge of the desk she was quivering so much. She listened to the other three explain why they’d received order marks; then it was her turn.

“Miss Netherwood gave me the order mark,” she murmured. Then her voice grew stronger. “But all I did was draw a cube!”

“You must have done more than that, or she wouldn’t have given you one,” said Babs. She appraised Polly. “I was thrilled to learn you would be in Sussex, Polly. Your sister was the best house captain we ever had! We won the cup last year because of her inspiration. I’m going to try my best to follow her example, and I want you to, as well. From now on, every time you wonder how to behave, think of Maud and do what she would do.”

Polly sat down, fuming. Like everyone else at St. Winifred’s, Babs was talking about Maud as if she were a saint.

When another letter arrived from Maud that day, Polly forgot her anger as she rushed out to the steps to read it.

Maud and Ann were trying to get into a sorority. “It’s called ‘rushing,’” Maud wrote. “We get asked to teas and lunches, and we butter up the girls so we’ll be invited to join. So far, we like Delta Gamma the best.”

The rest of the letter was about Robert. “He’s the bee’s knees!” Maud gushed. “He has long eyelashes like Clark Gable. I see him every day. We meet between classes for coffee, and we’re going out again this weekend. Ann says I’m stuck on him, and she’s right!”

Maud had never had a beau before. She had never drunk coffee before, either. She seemed so grown-up.

“I tried the church Miss Guppy recommended, but I didn’t like it at all,” wrote Maud. “Don’t tell the Guppy, but I’m not going again. Robert and I talk a lot about religion. He’s making me look at God in a new way. I had a nice letter from Daddy, but I haven’t heard one word from
you
. I’m sorry I can’t be on the island for your birthday, Doodle. I hope you’re all right. Write to me at once and let me know how you like school.”

Why hadn’t
she
heard from Daddy? Polly wondered. And how could she write to Maud? She couldn’t lie and say she liked St. Winifred’s, but if she said how much she hated it, Maud would be so disappointed in her.

That evening in prep, Polly slipped a piece of paper on top of her math homework and scribbled “Dear Maud.” She pondered a moment, then began: “I’m sorry I haven’t written to you yet. Here is what school is like.”

Polly proceeded to list the names of her roommates. She told Maud how the Fearless Four had set up an obstacle course in the dorm and jumped from one bed to the other
until Rhoda crashed through a mattress and Mrs. Blake stopped them. How they had smuggled chocolate up from Daisy’s tuck box to celebrate when Rhoda passed the history test. How one warm evening Eleanor and Polly had led everyone out onto the fire escape. They had whispered on the stairs, daring one another to go down, but no one had had the nerve. Polly told Maud how she and Eleanor had snuck off to their hideaway again, where they sprawled on the moss and talked about their dogs. She went on to write about how a boarder had got locked in the bathroom, and how some boys in a car had passed them on their walk and honked and hooted at them.

Then she signed the letter. There! She had managed not to say whether she liked school. Instead, she had turned St. Winifred’s into a story, like the boarding-school novels Maud used to devour. Maud would assume Polly was having as jolly a time at school as she had had.

Polly’s gloom lifted after school on Thursday. Today was her first extra art class. She started whistling as she left her classroom.

“Stop that at once,” called out a prefect.

But Polly whistled under her breath the whole way out of the building.

The art class was right after tea. Polly waited in a classroom with five other girls. They were all older than her, and they were all day girls except for Dottie.

“Miss Falconer is new,” one of them explained to her. “Last year we had Mrs. Simon, but she left because she was having a baby.”

“My parents told me Miss Falconer is famous,” said Dottie. “She’s even exhibited in San Francisco!”

Polly’s anticipation grew. She had never met a real artist.

“Here she comes!” said one of the girls.

A small, trim woman carrying a basket flew into the room. She had messy grey hair tied into a bun and she wore a woven cape and a red wool tam. Her blue eyes twinkled.

She put down the basket and took off her cape and hat. Underneath was an embroidered purple smock. Polly immediately wanted one just like it.

In a light, musical voice Miss Falconer said, “Hello there, girls! Sorry I’m late.” She looked around the room. “This isn’t a very suitable space. Never mind—it will do for today. Arrange these desks into a circle, will you? That’s better! Take a seat and let me get to know you all.”

They gazed in amazement as the woman boosted herself nimbly up onto the teacher’s desk and perched on the edge,
swinging her legs. They were sheathed in lacy grey stockings; her shoes were red, with silver buckles.

“I’m Miss Falconer, but of course you know that. Now tell me
your
names, and about your experience in art.”

Dottie, Margaret, Jane, and Katherine introduced themselves. They had all taken art for years, some of them in classes outside the school.

“Now for our little one!” Miss Falconer smiled. “You must be Polly. How long have you done art?”

Polly flushed. “I’ve been drawing and doing watercolours for three years. My grandmother taught me.”

“Good for her! Let me tell you a little about me. I’ve been a professional artist for thirty years—don’t start guessing how old I am! My favourite medium is oil, but I also do a lot of sculpture. I conduct many classes, and I’m delighted to have the opportunity to teach you, as well.”

She smiled even more warmly. “Let’s call this course
‘special
art’!”
You
are all special because you want to create. That’s what humans are meant to do. We’re going to try many mediums this term—drawing, watercolour, oil painting, pastels, clay work, and collage. I want you to sample everything, and then you can learn what you like the best.”

Painting in oils! Clay! Something mysterious called ‘collage’! Polly was so excited she thought she might be sick.

“Today we’re going to draw leaves,” said Miss Falconer, digging into her basket. “Everyone take a sheet
of paper, and a hard and a soft pencil.” She pulled out a handful of colourful leaves. “Choose a leaf and draw it any way you feel like—but try to use each pencil. If you finish your drawing, do the leaf again from a different angle.”

Polly chose a large yellow leaf. For the next hour, she forgot everything but how it looked. Hating St. Winifred’s, missing the island … they both went out of her head as she explored each leaf vein, hole, and notch with her pencil.

Miss Falconer came around and gave quiet suggestions to each of them. “You might want to try adding the shadow on the table—see? Did you notice how the stem widens at this point?”

When she got to Polly, she watched her for a long time. Polly continued to draw, trying not to feel self-conscious. Miss Falconer moved on without saying anything.

For the last part of the class, they gathered around each girl’s drawing while Miss Falconer commented on it, pointing out what was strong and weak in each one. She told Margaret she had an excellent sense of design, and she suggested that Jane try a smaller leaf with less detail. She encouraged the girls also to make comments.

Polly was amazed at how different everyone’s was. Dottie’s leaves were dark and wild. Jane’s drawing was so precise and careful that she hadn’t even finished one leaf. Margaret, on the other hand, had filled her page with dozens of leaves. Polly liked Katherine’s the best: she drew one
huge leaf that bent and curled so realistically it looked as if it could be lifted off the page. Polly wanted to say how much she liked Katherine’s drawing, but she couldn’t make her mouth form the words.

Finally, they stood around Polly’s desk. Her heart pounded so hard she was sure the others could hear. Their drawings were so experienced, like ones in a book. Hers seemed so childish in comparison.