No Talking after Lights (25 page)

As she explained what had happened the girls were silent, awed by the presence of a real crisis overshadowing what suddenly seemed the petty, footling business of the thefts.

‘Finally,' she said, ‘I want to make it quite clear to every one of you that this is no time for hysterics. I don't want anyone drawing attention to herself with imaginary symptoms. The sanatorium is already rushed off its feet. One silly, self-important girl
pretending
she is ill could prevent a real case from being attended to. I want you all to get on quietly with your lessons. End of term exams will go ahead as usual. There are over a hundred girls in the school, of whom seven are in hospital. There is no reason to suppose any more will be taken ill. The specialist hopes there will be no more cases and so do we all. Your parents will be informed by letter today. Meanwhile I want you all to behave like responsible people and get on with normal school life. Is that quite clear?'

‘Yes, Mrs Birmingham,' the school answered, docile and sibilant.

They stood up as the Head and her Deputy rose and watched them process with slow, heavy steps towards the door.

In the study the two women looked at one another.

‘You were wonderful, Henrietta. Calm, firm, reassuring. I half-expected them to panic … burst out crying … you never know. You held them all in check. Oh, my dear, well done.'

‘I had a sleepless night,' said the Head. ‘I hope I've done the right thing. It would have been simple to send
them all home but that would be shrugging off our responsibilities, surely?'

‘You did the right thing. Now, we have a hundred letters to write. We can't possibly do them individually. You make a fair draft and I'll run them off on the duplicator.'

The morning's post lay in the centre of Mrs Birmingham's desk.

‘Better deal with these first, to clear my desk …' she said, and began to slit open the dozen envelopes with a silver paper-knife.

After a few moments' silence she drew a sharp breath, then passed a letter across to Miss Roberts.

‘As though we hadn't got enough on our plate! Read
this.
'

The letter was on the headed paper of Dr Barnardo's Homes.

Dear Madam,

I write with much pleasure to thank an anonymous donor from your school for a series of generous gifts which have arrived for our homes over the last few weeks. One of your pupils has kindly sent us a number of items for our children, among them a couple of beautiful fountain-pens, some coloured pencils, a scrap-book doubtless prepared by herself with postcards of our Royal Family, and
most
generously, two small necklaces and a valuable silver photograph frame. This last item we plan to sell at a forthcoming raffle, at which I expect it to raise at least £10 for the homes. I am particularly touched that the child in question clearly required no thanks, for she did not even include a note giving her name. Indeed, I would not be writing to you now, were it not that the latest gift was wrapped in brown paper
bearing, on the inside, the address of your school and the name Miss Charmian Reynolds. I assume, therefore, that we have young Charmian to thank. Before I write to her personally, perhaps you would verify that she is indeed the donor. I congratulate you on running a school which is obviously so keenly aware of its civic duties towards those less privileged.

Peggy Roberts looked up.

‘Charmian Reynolds! Is
she
the thief? It could have been anybody's sheet of brown paper she picked up.'

‘I know,' said the Head. ‘But somehow I fear it
is
Charmian. I foolishly allowed myself to be sidetracked by her over that sorry business of her parents' divorce. I would never have expected a child of her age to be so devious. Well, I shall have to deal with this straight away. Dear heavens, what a time …'

Five minutes later Charmian was in the study, very small in the upright chair, all her bravado gone as she faced the Head across her desk.

‘I have received a letter this morning, Charmian, from Dr Barnardo's Homes,' began Mrs Birmingham. There was no need to continue. Charmian glanced up, then dropped her eyes and her shoulders shook. She said nothing.

‘I suggest you tell me about it,' said the Head. ‘Why did you steal other people's things and send them away under the guise of charity?'

‘I don't know,' muttered Charmian.

‘You knew that what you were doing was wrong. You have caused a very great deal of trouble for everyone. The whole school has been punished because of you. No sweets, no puddings at lunch, and perhaps worst of all, a horrid atmosphere of suspicion. Everyone has suffered. You must have realized that?'

‘Yes.' She stared white-faced into her lap, hands knotted into triangular fists to stop them trembling. I want my mummy, she thought. I want to go away from here. I don't feel well.

‘Look at me, Charmian,' said the Head. ‘Are you all right?'

Charmian remembered what had been said in Prayers that morning about the danger of pretending to be ill. The sun always upset her, and it had been baking for almost three weeks now. She was in enough trouble already.

‘I'm OK,' she said. ‘I mean, I'm fine, thank you very much.'

‘Are you sure? You needn't be afraid to tell me.'

‘It's been awfully hot,' muttered Charmian.

‘Yes. Well, we are all suffering from that. Can you explain to me now why you took other people's things, and why you posted them off to Dr Barnardo's Homes?' And how you managed it, she added to herself.

‘I suppose I just wanted to cheer up the poor children without any mothers or fathers. I don't know. I shouldn't have done it. I'm sorry.' She looked at the Head. One more try, she thought wearily. ‘I'm really awfully sorry. I sort of didn't think I'd, you know, get away with it.'

‘You haven't got away with it, Charmian. You know, of course, that I shall have to tell your parents. I realize that this sad business has been very upsetting for you. Was that perhaps why you did this wicked thing?'

‘I don't care,' Charmian muttered. ‘I'm going to live with Mummy and Uncle Dickie and he's very nice to me and gives me money and things. Mummy says I'll soon call him Daddy.'

‘Is that what you
want?
'

‘Are you going to have to write to my real Daddy as well?'

‘Yes, I am afraid I am. I dare say he'll be very disappointed in you. Charmian,
why
did you do it? You're a popular girl, you have friends. You don't do too badly in your lessons. Why did you steal, and why did you lie to me?'

Charmian clutched her fists together, a hard square of fingers. I will not cry, she thought. She'll only despise me if I cry. My head hurts so, I can't think …

‘I can't think,' she said aloud.

The Head glanced upwards in exasperation, and straightened her back. Her tone was brisk.

‘Very well, Charmian. I have tried to understand, but you show no sign of remorse. From now until the end of the week you are to be silent each day until after luncheon. You may not speak a word to anybody unless it's absolutely imperative. You will take your meals at a separate table. And you will go to bed at the same time as the Lower Third. Now, since you may not speak, will you please take a note to your form captain, asking her to come and see me directly after Break. I myself will write to the director of Dr Barnardo's. I don't propose to ask him for the things back, since I imagine they will already have been distributed among the children. The exceptions are Miss Peachey's jewellery and the silver frame. Those must be returned. I suggest you had better make a donation of £10 to the charity.'

‘Ten pounds! It's a terrific lot of money.'

‘It is indeed. You should have thought about that before you took them. Now you may go. I hope you will pray to God to forgive you.'

After lunch Sylvia and Diana carried the kitchen tables and two chairs out to the small back lawn and settled down in the shade of the trees. Sylvia was finishing the term's examination papers before having them run off
on the ancient school machine that produced damp pages of smudged purple type. Diana, bent over a pad of Basildon Bond, was not really writing a letter. She was absorbed in fantasy. Sylvia would contract polio. It would cripple her down one side - the right side -so that she couldn't continue teaching. The school would allow them both to stay in the cottage. Sylvia, mellowed by her illness, would be nursed devotedly. She, Diana, would do everything for her. Together they would offer a living example of the love that was possible between two women. Above her head, a bird sang in the clear blue sky. She sighed.

‘Fuck it, Monk, can't you stop that bloody sighing?' said Sylvia.

‘I'm sorry … I didn't realize.'

‘What's the matter? Don't tell me
you're
going to come down with it now?'

‘I suppose one of us might — the staff -
then
what?'

Then you'll be a bloody cripple, pensioned off and living with your mother. How would that suit you? At least one would get away from these blasted girls. God, how I loathe teaching.'

And what else could I do with my life? Sylvia thought, clear-sighted and bitter. Born into the wrong sort of body, to the wrong parents, from the wrong class, I'm not brilliant, or rich or pretty. No hope for me of escaping a lifetime of futility. I'm thirty-five. Another forty years to go. Jesus, what a prospect. What a life.

From a distant window came the sound of someone's wireless playing ‘
Oh mein Papa
'.

‘Cheer up,' said Diana. ‘It'll be a beautiful evening. Let's sneak off for a walk. You're not on supper duty are you? No, nor me. We can talk about plans for the holidays.'

‘Oh, goody-goody-gumdrops,' mocked Sylvia. But she didn't disagree.

Constance had started her period that morning and so she was off swimming. The rest of the Lower Fourth, in Jantzen swim-suits, were shrieking in the pool, hurling curves of transparent spray against the shining sky. She walked past and went on up to the pets' shed. It was stuffy inside, the air foetid, the animals panting in the heat. She drew back the bolt of Flopsy's cage, reached in and picked him up. His food bowl was empty; he hadn't even got any water. She looked around and saw that none of the pets had water. She went out with Flopsy in her arms to look for the gardener, but he wasn't on the games field or in the kitchen garden or the potting-shed, so she leant her back against a tree and let Flopsy nibble the grass at her feet. Her mother had written that morning giving the departure time of the flight for Kenya. ‘Auntie Marjie will meet you at Waterloo and take you to the airport. You'll be luckier than us, darling. You're flying BOAC, because the office pays. It's a long journey and you'll have two re-fuelling stops, but by Friday the twenty-fifth we'll be together again!'

How can I talk them into letting me leave? She felt like that Greek king her father had once read her a story about, who had to push a huge stone uphill, and it kept rolling back down again. As soon as she felt she had made some impression on them ('Don't think Daddy and I aren't worried that you're so unhappy, darling, we talk about it a lot …'), the stone would begin to roll down again ('We both wish we could do something to make you see sense …') and soon it was back at the bottom of the hill ('You must trust in our better judgement, Connie dear. Things will cheer up for you very soon, we both feel sure.')

The rabbit had stopped nibbling and lay panting in the heat, its flanks heaving, back legs outstretched
behind its pointed tail. It was the gardener's job to give the animals water, so, cradling the rabbit in her arms, Constance set off again to look for him. He was sitting in the shade of the sports pavilion, the rake propped up beside him. Constance summoned her courage and went up to him.

‘I'm frightfully sorry to bother you and all that,' she said, ‘but none of the pets have got any water.'

‘Quite slipped my mind in this heat,' he said. His sparse hair was stuck to his skull and he smelt sweaty. Beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead.

‘Give us a hand up, there's a good lassie,' he said. Constance didn't like the thought of clasping his hand, its creases and finger-nails dark with earth, but she put the rabbit down for a moment and helped him up politely.

‘Would you like me to give them their water?' she asked.

‘That'd be right good of you,' he said. ‘Don't know why it slipped my mind. Must be the weather. Take one of them watering cans from the potting-shed, twist off the rose or you'll be spraying it all over them - not that I'd mind a bit of a spray, myself - and then you can fill it up from the rain barrel. Not the tap. They like rain water.'

‘You look dreadfully hot, if you don't mind my saying so,' Constance told him shyly.

‘It's shocking, this weather. My legs have gone all to jelly.'

‘You'd better look out, or you'll get polio.'

‘What's that? Polio?'

‘The Head told us all in Prayers. Five people have got it already, and two possibles.'

‘Nobody said nothing to me.'

‘Well, I don't suppose you've got it. Anyway, I'd
better go and give the pets their water. Look at him. Poor old Flopsy's dying of thirst.'

‘Good of you, Missy,' he said again. ‘Run along, then. And if you happen to see that lazy lad of mine, send him here and tell him I said to get a move on!'

The pets' shed was dark and filled with rustling sounds. Some of the animals stood up eagerly on their hind legs, their front feet pressed against the wire, as Constance walked in holding the handle of the watering can with both hands. One by one she drew back the bolts of the tiered cages and filled the dusty water bowls. She felt tender and responsible as she watched the guinea-pigs, rabbits and hamsters emerge from their nests in the straw. She was concentrating so hard that she didn't hear anyone enter, and Charmian's voice made her jump.