And Nothing But the Truth (7 page)

Before they went back to the school, they had tea at the store restaurant. They munched on scones and jam while Mrs. Blake told Polly that she had a two-year-old boy.

“But who looks after him?” Polly asked. “Your husband?”

“His father is dead,” said Mrs. Blake briskly. “Johnny stays with my landlady, and I see him on my days off. I wish
I could find a job where I could come home at night, but I’m lucky to have one at all these days.”

“That’s terrible!” said Polly. “You must really miss him.”

“I think of him every moment … but that’s just the way things are.” Mrs. Blake smiled. “Maybe one day I’ll bring Johnny to school to meet you all.”

How could she be so cheerful all the time?
Polly wondered. She squirmed. Having to be a full-time boarder seemed so trivial a problem in comparison. The closer Friday came, however, the more miserable she felt about not being able to go home.

O
N
F
RIDAY
D
AISY
, R
HODA
, AND E
LEANOR EAGERLY TOLD
Polly all that was to happen the next day.

“First we have prep,” said Eleanor.

“Prep on a Saturday?” said Polly.

“It’s only for an hour,” said Daisy. “Then we can do what we want for the rest of the morning. After lunch, they take us somewhere—to the beach or shopping. But that’s when you’ll be at your art class, Poll.”

“The matron cooks us supper and we all help,” said Rhoda. “Last week Mrs. Blake made us something called ‘toad in the hole’—it was scrumptious! But this weekend Miss Poirier’s on, so it will probably be something ghastly.”

At breakfast the next morning Polly looked around the
dining room. “Where’s Miss Guppy?” she asked. The headmistress wasn’t there.

“She goes out on Saturdays—I don’t know where. But she comes back after supper.”

“Tonight she’s taking us to a concert,” said Daisy.

“It sounds boring,” said Rhoda. “I’m not going.”

“I am,” said Eleanor. “Are you, Poll?”

“I guess so,” said Polly.

At least they were allowed to wear their own clothes today. Polly had put on her oldest skirt and blouse, to be ready for art.

After prep, Daisy led them over to the gym. They took turns throwing baskets and tried climbing the ropes. Daisy and Rhoda were much better than Eleanor and Polly.

“Race you to the playing field!” said Daisy.

They collapsed at the far end of the field and lay on their backs. The other three began pointing out cloud animals.

“There’s a horse,” said Rhoda. “Did you know that I take riding lessons at home? I won second prize in a jumping competition last year.”

“Really?” said Daisy. She and Eleanor asked Rhoda questions, but Polly refused to be impressed. Instead, she wondered what Biddy and Vivien were doing this morning. Would they be walking Bramble? Would they take Tarka along?

“You’re awfully quiet, Poll,” said Eleanor.

Polly swallowed her threatening tears and tried to think of something to say … “Guess what? Mrs. Blake has a little boy!”

They all sat up. “
Really
?”

Polly told them what she knew.

“What a shame she’s on her own,” said Daisy. “Did she say how her husband died?”

Polly shook her head. “We could ask her sometime.”

“She’s so nice,” said Rhoda. “We’re lucky to have her instead of the Crab.” That was what everyone called Miss Poirier.

“Are you ready, Polly?” Dottie came up to the lunch table. “We should leave for Miss Falconer’s in five minutes.”

“Should I bring anything?” Polly asked her. “I have a sketchbook and pencils and my watercolours.”

“Miss Guppy said that all our supplies are provided.”

How free it felt simply to walk down the driveway! They made their way to the streetcar stop. When the streetcar arrived, they boarded at the front, paid their fare, and found two seats. The car rattled away from the school.

Polly was in awe sitting beside someone from the upper sixth form. But Dottie seemed a jolly girl, relaxed and friendly. “I knew your sister,” she said. “She was so perfect she must be hard to live up to.”

Polly nodded; at last someone recognized that. “Maud’s wonderful, but we’re really different from each other,” she said shyly.

“Of course you are! My older sister couldn’t be more different from
me
—she wants to be a nun! She isn’t even Catholic, but she’s going to convert. My parents are fit to be tied.”

Dottie chattered all the way, and all Polly had to do was listen. Finally, they reached their stop. Dottie consulted her directions. “Let’s see … we go three blocks down here, then turn right … now left … here’s Morris Street … and here’s number 32. It looks like her house faces the sea.”

They stopped in front of a ramshackle cottage on the water side of the road. Honeysuckle draped the porch, where several pots overflowed with purple asters.

“Come in—come in!” said Miss Falconer, opening the door. “The other girls have already arrived.” She wore red slacks and a loose yellow tunic. A cigarette dangled from her fingers. Polly smiled; that reminded her of Aunt Jean.

Miss Falconer led them through untidy rooms to the back of the house, which was a large studio. Beyond it was the water, with steps leading down to a log-covered beach.

“Gosh, what a view!” said Dottie.

Polly stared hungrily; it was so soothing to see the sea again.

“Yes, we’re very lucky to live here.”

The five girls glanced at one another, but no one was brave enough to ask why Miss Falconer had said “we.”

“Now, let me show you around.” The walls were lined with bright paintings. Polly examined them curiously: some were landscapes, but many were simply swirls of colour.

“Those are called ‘abstracts,’” Miss Falconer explained, “and here are some of my sculptures.” Clay figures of birds and animals and people covered the floor and windowsill.

Some of the paintings and many of the sculptures were nude figures. Jane turned crimson and Dottie suppressed a giggle. Polly just stared. Never in her life had she seen depictions of unclothed bodies.

“I’ve managed to clear this table for you,” said Miss Falconer. “Everyone take a seat, and I’ll tell you what we’ll do today.”

Just like last week, they were to work on their own and then critique one another. Miss Falconer had set up a still life of fruit in a bowl. She handed out sticks of charcoal. “You won’t be able to erase, so think carefully before each mark you make,” she told them.

Polly had never used charcoal. She started with one of the apples, observing it so intently that it filled her mind. Then she drew its whole circumference in one long stroke. As she continued, her hands and face and blouse became smudged with black.

“I can’t start,” said Jane. “I’m too afraid of making a mistake.”

“Just plunge in, dear,” said Miss Falconer. “There
are
no mistakes! You don’t have to make an exact representation.”

What would Miss Netherwood think of
that? thought Polly as she gleefully experimented with lines and shading. Beside her, Katherine was pressing so hard she kept breaking her charcoal.

Once again, Polly forgot about everything but what she was drawing. Once again, her work was heartily praised. At the end of the class, something deep and quiet inside her said she had made the right decision.

Miss Falconer laughed. “Look at my dirty girls! Go and wash up, and I’ll bring you tea.”

After they’d dusted their clothes and scrubbed off the charcoal, they sat in front of a fireplace at the far end of the studio. Miss Falconer poured them tea and passed around a plate of buns filled with chocolate. She showed them pictures of charcoal drawings from a book. Polly longed to leaf through the rest of the pages, and the many other volumes of art that filled a bookcase and spilled over the floor.

“Whom do we have here?” said a booming voice. A man came into the studio. He was bald, with a long, deeply lined face.

“This is Mr. de Jonge,” said Miss Falconer. “Frans, these are my students from St. Winifred’s—Dottie, Margaret, Jane, Katherine, and Polly.”

Mr. de Jonge solemnly shook each of their hands.

“Would you like some tea?” Miss Falconer asked him.

He poured himself a cup and took two buns, but remained standing. “I’ll take these upstairs. I need to finish this chapter before we go out tonight. I am charmed to meet you, young ladies!” He spoke with an accent, and his hooded eyes showed amusement.

“Mr. de Jonge is a novelist,” Miss Falconer explained proudly, after he’d left. “His writing room is on the top floor, away from all my messes.”

No one knew what to say. Finally, Dottie asked, “Does he rent it from you?”

“Rent?” Miss Falconer laughed merrily. “Oh, no, Mr. de Jonge
lives
here. We’re a couple.”

Dottie bravely broke the silence. “I hope you don’t think this is rude, Miss Falconer, but why do you have different last names?”

“Because we’re not married,” said Miss Falconer calmly. “I know that’s bohemian of us, but we’ve never seen the point of marriage.” She paused. “It’s best if you don’t tell Miss Guppy, however. She won’t want her young ladies exposed to such immorality.”

Dottie grinned and Jane looked nervous. Polly was both shocked and thrilled. This was like one of Aunt Jean’s romantic novels!

“Don’t worry, Miss Falconer. We won’t say a word,” said Dottie.

Now they all shared a secret; they gazed at one another with importance.

“Isn’t she remarkable?” said Dottie on the way home. “I wonder what the day girls will say to their parents. Mine wouldn’t like it, but I just won’t tell them. Will you?”

“Umm, I don’t know …” said Polly. Noni would definitely disapprove, but perhaps Daddy wouldn’t care.

“I think Miss Falconer is really brave going against convention like that,” continued Dottie, “and she’s an awfully good teacher. We’re lucky to have her, aren’t we?”

Polly nodded, feeling as if she had just visited a new and beautiful country.

Walking through the stone gates of the school felt like passing from summer into winter. Polly trudged up to the dorm to change out of her grimy clothes.

The other three were sitting on Rhoda’s bed, poring over a photograph album.

“Hi, Poll!” said Daisy. “Rhoda’s showing us some snaps of her holiday in France. How was art?”

“What did you
do
there?” asked Rhoda, making a face. “You’re filthy!”

“Charcoal drawing,” said Polly shortly.

“Was it fun?” said Daisy.

Polly just nodded. “Fun” seemed such a tame word to describe the afternoon.

“What exactly
is
‘charcoal’?” said Eleanor. “How do you use it?”

Polly explained that she didn’t know what it was made of. Then her voice warmed as she told them about sketching the fruit.

“That doesn’t sound very hard,” said Rhoda. “In
my
art class we did still lifes with oil paints.”

“Does Miss Falconer have a nice house?” said Daisy.

“Yes … she has a big studio that overlooks the sea. And guess what … she lives with a man and they aren’t married!”

“Wow!” The others listened avidly while Polly described Frans.

“Isn’t that against the law?” said Daisy.

Eleanor laughed. “It’s not against the law—it’s called ‘common law.’ A couple on our street live like that. My mother is friendly to them, but no one else is.”

“It’s not
right
,” said Rhoda. “I can’t believe Miss Guppy would let you take art from someone like that, Polly.”

“Miss Guppy doesn’t know,” said Polly, “and don’t you dare tell her, Rhoda! What does it matter? What Miss Falconer does is her own business, not anyone else’s.”

Rhoda shrugged. “Why would I tell her? I still think it’s wrong, though.”

“
I
think it’s really interesting,” said Eleanor. “I wonder why some people don’t get married.”

“Miss Falconer told us they’d never seen the point of it,” said Polly.

Everyone was silent, digesting this new information.

The Crab crabbily cooked scrambled eggs for supper. The girls helped wash and dry the dishes. Then Miss Guppy appeared at the door. She had a strange, intense look in her eyes.

Polly realized where she’d been all day. Maud had told her that, every Saturday, Miss Guppy attended a different church from the one the school went to on Sundays, a church where people were “born again.” Sometimes she took a few of the girls with her. When Maud was here, she herself had been born again. She had driven Polly mad by trying to convert her, as well.

Polly smiled. What would the Guppy think if she knew that Maud was loosening her beliefs?

“Those of you who are attending the concert, change into your best clothes,” ordered Miss Guppy. “In half an hour, two taxis will arrive to take us downtown.”

Polly changed once again. She put on clean white socks, and held back her hair with her new barrettes.

“You look so pretty in that dress,” Daisy told her.

Polly flushed. She
felt
pretty in the green print dress she wore to church at home. She wished she could wear her fitted blue Sunday coat, as well, instead of this shapeless grey one.

“How do you like
my
dress, Dais?” Rhoda asked. “It’s from a department store in Seattle.”

Rhoda had changed her mind about coming. “I don’t want to be here all by myself,” she told them. “But I wish we were going to a movie instead of a recital. I read in Mrs. Blake’s paper that
Hopalong Cassidy
is playing.”

Nine boarders had chosen to go. Miss Guppy inspected them in the hall. “Very nice, girls. Now, I’m sure you all know how to behave at a concert, but let me remind you—no talking, not even whispering, until it’s over. Sit perfectly still, and only clap when everyone else does. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Miss Guppy,” they chorused.

Polly didn’t say that she’d never even been to a concert.

Alice was squished beside her in the taxi. “I’m so excited!” she told Polly. “My singing teacher said that this group is really good.”

The girls spilled out of the taxis and followed Miss Guppy into the theatre. Someone handed them programs, then they walked up to the second level and took their seats in the balcony.

Below them, a piano player and two violinists played
opera selections. A majestic woman with a powerful voice joined the three musicians. Polly liked the music, but she found the singing too dramatic. She couldn’t take her eyes off the singer, however; she wore a blue sparkling dress that was cut so low you could see her bosom!

To their astonishment, Miss Guppy produced a box of chocolates at intermission. The group stood in the upper lobby and sampled them. Polly let one melt in her mouth, savouring its creamy sweetness.

“Do you like the concert, Polly?” Alice asked her. “I think it’s terrific!”

“Sort of,” said Polly. “But why does the singer have to go so high? It hurts my ears!”