Beswitched (10 page)

“There isn’t any homework at Penrice Hall.”

“I’m sick of Penrice Hall. I don’t believe it even exists! Pogo and Dulcie can do your prep if they want—but I simply don’t have time.”

This was awful. All Flora could say was “But you promised!”

“That was before I knew how stupid and ignorant you future-girls are.”

“Flora’s not stupid!” Dulcie cried. “It’s not her fault she doesn’t know anything!”

She meant to be kind, but Flora was hurt. They all assumed that all “future-girls” were stupid, and all schools in the twenty-first century were rubbish.

And that’s my fault
, she thought,
because I’ve been so lazy and stroppy since I came here. I’m not exactly an advertisement for APS
.

“Even if we don’t actually do your prep, we’ll still help you as much as we can,” Dulcie assured her.

“You only have to do the easiest parts,” Pogo said. “And of course we’ll keep telling you how to fit in, and so on.”

She spoke politely, but Flora got the message loud and clear. They all thought she was a moron, and they were sick of looking after her. She drew herself up proudly. “Please don’t bother. I’ll manage perfectly well on my own.”

“Steady on,” Pogo said. “Is that wise? There seems to be such a lot you don’t know. And you have to pass as a schoolgirl from 1935.”

“I can easily do that—what’s so brilliant about you 1930s girls, anyway? You might laugh at me because I’ve never heard of the Battle of Blenheim, but at least I know about the war and the moon landings!”

“Moon landings?” Pete let out a bellow of laughter. “Now I KNOW you’re making it all up!”

“Do people live on the moon in the future?” Pogo asked, interested. “Who colonized it? Us, I suppose.”

“She made it up, you drip,” Pete said, with withering scorn. “Nobody lives on the moon, and it’s not made of green cheese, either. I vote we forget this whole future business, and leave Flora to sink or swim!”

“Fine—I don’t need any of you!” Flora grabbed her satchel
and stormed out of the common room. Her fury did not die down until she was out in the corridor, being swept along in a crowd of girls she didn’t know. She realized what she had done. Without her three guards—the only people who knew about her coming from the future—she was officially the loneliest person in the universe.

The first lesson was English, and that wasn’t too bad. The teacher, Miss Palmer, was quite young and wore a flowered dress under her gown, instead of the usual tweed suit and tie. She had written a poem on the blackboard. The girls all stood with their hands behind their backs, chanting it aloud in perfect unison:

Lunch, however, was an ordeal. Flora was in the middle of a chattering crowd, but nobody spoke to her. She might as well have been invisible. Dulcie gave her a pleading look and patted the chair beside her, and Flora nearly gave in—but Pete was pretending she didn’t exist. She turned her face away angrily and dropped into the first spare seat she saw.

“Look who it is,” said Consuela Carver. “Lo, the poor Indian!”

Flora frowned down at her plate of shepherd’s pie and cabbage. It was just her luck to end up bang opposite the Carver. She’d have to try to ignore her.

“She’s far too ashamed to open her mouth,” the Carver told the table. “She doesn’t want us to hear that frightful chichi accent—no wonder they had to send her to England!” She tittered nastily, and added, in what was meant to be cockney, “This is the weather wot the cuckoo likes!”

A few girls giggled.

“Lawks!” someone said.

“Cor blimey!” said someone else.

More giggling. Flora was surprised. Was this how she sounded—like someone in
EastEnders
? She’d always thought her speaking voice was rather posh. The other girls here all spoke with incredibly posh, old-fashioned voices—just like Granny, who said “thenk you” and “perheps” and “gorn.”

“Do tell us,
Florrie
,” the Carver said smoothly. “Is your mother a charwoman?”

Now she expects me to burst into tears
, Flora thought. She knew that “charwoman” meant the same as “cleaning lady.” “No,” she said, looking the Carver straight in the eye, “but so what if she was? I wouldn’t care. Only snobs care about things like that.”

The Carver’s face reddened with annoyance. “If my parents wanted me educated with the daughters of charwomen, they’d have sent me to a council school!”

Flora held up one hand, and said in her best imitation of Granny, “Talk to the HEND—the face jolly well doesn’t care!”

Consuela was flabbergasted. There was a long moment of silence. Someone giggled—but not at Flora.

A voice down the table muttered, “Good for the maggot—how priceless!”

Consuela’s eyes narrowed, and she stared at Flora with real dislike. This piece of twenty-first-century rudeness had made Flora a serious enemy. At this moment, she didn’t care. Pete couldn’t help looking impressed, and that was what counted.

Going solo wasn’t easy. On that lonely first evening, Flora found a spare place at one of the tables in the lower-school common room and sat down to tackle her 1930s homework.

At APS she usually got a printed worksheet. At St. Winifred’s there was more learning by heart. She had the Latin verbs to write out and learn (present indicative:
sum, es, est, sumus, estis, sunt;
imperfect indicative:
eram, eras, erat, eramus, eratis, erant
), and also the first two verses of the cuckoo poem. Flora rather enjoyed writing with the other Flora’s fountain pen, though you had to be careful not to get covered with ink.

When the prep was done, the other two girls at the table struck up a friendly conversation. It was nice, though pretending she was a 1930s girl was hard work. Flora did her best to concentrate on the memories of the other Flora (she was getting quite a knack for this), and managed to answer questions without looking too thick.

Their names were Jill Scott and Bunty (short for Barbara) Hardwick. Jill was short, with thick brown hair and millions of freckles. Bunty was tall and thin, with goofy teeth (at home in the future, she would’ve had elaborate braces on her teeth, like Ella’s).

“We ought to be chums,” Jill said. “I’m from India too. Are your people army or civil service?”

“Army.”

“We’re civil service. Where are you stationed?”

“Poona.”

“We’re in Bombay. Have a toffee.”

By the time the bell rang for lower-school bedtime, Flora had been the other Flora for so long that she had almost forgotten the future. The twenty-first century came rushing back to her in the cloakroom. It was the Bluebells’ night for baths, and she would have given half her tuck box for a hot shower at home—with shampoo and shower gel and conditioner.

If you could believe it, the baths here had lines drawn round the insides, to show the amount of water you were allowed. Flora washed herself and her hair in a few lukewarm inches. It was extremely difficult to rinse the shampoo out of her hair without a shower attachment. She came out of the cubicle shivering like a dog in the rain.

Needless to say, there was no such thing as a hair dryer, and the soap smelled of public toilets. But she was not going to complain. Pete had left her to sink or swim, and Flora was determined to swim. She would show them all what future-girls were made of, starting with that witch Harbottle.

On her last night at home in Wimbledon, she had fallen asleep with her iPod stuck in her ears. On her fourth night at St. Winifred’s, she fell asleep muttering Latin verbs.

Amare—to love. Amo, amas, amat, amamus, amatis …

9
Portia

“B
y the end of this lesson,” Pete said, in a tragic voice, “my life may be in ruins. If Harbottle doesn’t like my prep, I’ll miss the trials—and I know I’m good enough for the lower-school team!”

“Do stop worrying,” Dulcie said soothingly. “Of course you’ll be in the team.”

“I sort of HAVE to be—I’ve already told my people.”

“Hmm,” Pogo said, with a wry glance at Flora. “That was counting your chickens a bit, wasn’t it?”

Pete snorted crossly. “How did I know Harbottle would try to ruin everything?”

They were back in the classroom after morning break. Pete
was at her desk, with the redone homework in front of her, anxiously checking it one more time. Despite being so cross with Pete, Flora couldn’t help sympathizing. Pete had totally slaved over that homework. Being tidy was harder for her than it was for everyone else, and a teacher from the future would never have picked on her.

“Oh, what a pity you won’t make the hockey trials!” sighed Consuela Carver, strolling past Pete’s desk.

“Who says I won’t?” growled Pete.

“Well, if Harbottle doesn’t like your prep—oh—WHOOPS!”

Pete let out a howl of anguish.

The Carver had been fiddling with her fountain pen, and she suddenly sprayed a shower of blue ink across Pete’s homework. “SO sorry!”

“You minger!” Flora gasped. “You did that on purpose!”

“I’m afraid I don’t speak Indian,” the Carver said. “No understandee!”

Every girl in the class was watching now.

Pogo said, “Of course you’ll own up to Miss Harbottle.”

“Own up?” snapped the Carver. “Whatever for? Her work’s awful anyway—a few blots won’t make much difference.”

There were a few sharp breaths at this, and someone whistled.

Consuela looked defiantly at the whistler. “You can tell her if you like, Bunty Hardwick—if you’re a beastly SNEAK! You know how the Harbottle despises a sneak.”

Everyone went quiet and still. Pete’s head was hanging, and her ears were scarlet. She was trying very hard not to cry.
Dulcie was mopping up the worst of the ink with a piece of blotting paper, but the homework was still a mess.

Flora couldn’t believe this was happening. “You’re just going to let her get away with it?”

Pogo muttered, “Shh! You don’t understand—”

“Well, I don’t see what’s so bad about being a sneak—I’ll tell her!”

This time, there was a universal gasp and (from the Carver and her friends) hisses of “Sneak! You wouldn’t dare!”

The door banged open, and all the girls turned to statues as Miss Harbottle stalked into the classroom.

“
Salvete
!”

The class chorused “
Salve
!”

“Sit DOWN.”

They all sat down. Harbottle swept her glinty little eyes across the class. “Daphne Peterson!”

Pete stood up. Her lips formed the words, “Yes, Miss Harbottle.”

“Bring me your book.”

Pete picked up her exercise book and slowly took it to the front of the class. Harbottle snatched it with her small, wrinkled claw, and stared at Pete’s spoiled work for what seemed like ages.

“This is worse than carelessness,” she said eventually. “This is out-and-out INSOLENCE! I will not have my patience tried by insolent, LAZY little gels! You will report to my study, directly after lunch.”

The blow had fallen. Pete bowed her head. She wasn’t even trying to look brave.

It was so incredibly unfair that Flora couldn’t bear it. She jumped to her feet. “Excuse me, Miss Harbottle, but it wasn’t her fault!”

“I BEG your pardon?” Harbottle was outraged.

“It’s not fair, that’s all. Pete—Daphne—shouldn’t have detention, because it wasn’t her fault that her homework got covered with ink.”

“Really? Whose fault was it?”

Flora looked round. Everyone was staring at her. Dulcie looked appalled, and the Carver was trying not to smirk. The fact was that even in the twenty-first century, you still didn’t grass up your classmates, no matter how nasty they were. There was only one thing she could say.

“It was my fault—I did it.”

This caused a sensation. Nobody made a sound, but the atmosphere was electric.

Harbottle stared at her coldly, for what seemed like ages. “You?”

“Yes.”

A flurry of underground whispers ran through the class. “Own up!”

Consuela folded her arms and tried to look as if she didn’t care—though her cheeks were redder than usual.