Beswitched (11 page)

“Why couldn’t Daphne have told me this herself?”

“Because you despise sneaks.”

“I do,” said Harbottle. “And I suppose I should commend you for owning up. But I can’t help knowing that you are a crony of Miss Peterson’s, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if
you had arranged this whole charade between you, to disguise her atrocious handiwork. Sit DOWN!”

Flora was dismayed—this was totally backfiring. Suddenly, she didn’t care what trouble she got into. She had to put it right. “Look, Miss Harbottle, I swear I didn’t do it on purpose—everyone here knows I’m telling the truth. If you want to give me another punishment, that’s fine. This isn’t about me. The point is that Pete—Daphne, I mean—shouldn’t have detention. She worked very hard at that homework. If you look underneath the blots, the actual work is fine.”

Miss Harbottle’s astonished outrage had changed to ordinary nastiness. “Good gracious, child, why should I trouble to look under the blots? Daphne’s work is ALWAYS atrocious!”

“Not this time—as you’d see if you looked properly.”

The rest of the class were gawping at Flora as if she had put her head between the jaws of a dragon, but Flora suddenly felt braver. Miss Harbottle was not shouting out insults, but looking at her very thoughtfully.

“Interesting,” she said. “And what do you think I should do about this situation?”

Feeling she had nothing left to lose, Flora said, “I don’t know. I just know it’s not fair on Pe—Daphne.”

“Hmmmm. You are very sure of yourself, Miss Fox.” Harbottle came over to Flora, and stood devouring her with those sharp, black eyes. “Why, I wonder, do I feel I’m not hearing the whole story?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you covering up for someone?”

“I’m trying to make sure Pete—Daphne—doesn’t get in trouble because someone else is a bully.” It was very uncomfortable, being so close to the watchful, wrinkled face. “At my other school—I mean, the one I used to go to—we all had to sign an antibullying charter, and if someone’s a bully, you’re actually supposed to tell on them.”

“Your other school?”

“Y-yes.” Flora had forgotten about the other Flora’s governess, but there was no going back now. She remembered something Mr. Burton, the headmaster of APS, had said in one of his assemblies last term. “If you give in to bullies, you just perpetuate the culture of bullying.”

“Fascinating,” said Miss Harbottle. “You’re quite the barrack-room lawyer, Flora Fox.” To Flora’s surprise, there was a gleam in the little black eyes that might have been amusement. She seemed not to hear the whispers of “Own up, you beast!” that were hissing round Consuela. “You have put your case eloquently, if not elegantly. Daphne, you will NOT have detention. As the poem says,
Curfew shall not ring tonight
.”

Pete’s tearful face lit up all over with joy, and she gave Flora a radiant smile.

“As for you, Flora, since you are fond of making courtroom speeches, you will spend your free time this Saturday and Sunday learning one by Shakespeare—Portia’s famous speech from
The Merchant of Venice
, beginning ‘The quality of mercy is not strained.’ You will recite it to me on Monday morning, instead of the Latin verbs. Sit DOWN.”

“Yes, Miss Harbottle.” The Shakespeare sounded tough, but Flora was too happy to care. Pete was her friend again, and it felt lovely.

“I know I’ve been a beast to you,” Pete said. “You were a brick to stand up for me, and I’m sorry I was so—so—”

“Selfish,” suggested Pogo.

“Shut up! I’m trying to apologize, and you know how I hate it! Look here, Flora, shall we call it pax?”

“That means ‘peace,’ ” Dulcie said helpfully. “It’s Latin.”

“I’d love to call it pax,” Flora said. They shook hands (1930s girls did not hug), and Dulcie gave them all a piece of fudge to celebrate.

It made a great end to this stormy day. The four of them had managed to bag the two big armchairs beside the common-room gas fire. Flora and Pogo sat together in one chair, Pete lounged in the other, and Dulcie sat on the rug at their feet. They had spent the gray, drizzly afternoon shivering on the hockey field, and Pete—to her joy—had been chosen for the lower-school team. Rhoda Pugh, the games captain, had even called her a “promising youngster.” She had added, “But don’t forget your team spirit, will you? A good team player never plays just for herself.”

Which is exactly what Pete does
, Flora thought.
It’s a pity she didn’t listen to that bit
.

But she was friends with Pete again, and nothing else mattered. It felt almost as good as if she had made up with Ella. The hot fire and the cozy shabbiness of the room made Flora feel warm and safe. A lot of the girls had gone to choir
practice (the choir could be heard across the hall, singing a song called “The Wild Brown Bee Is My Lover”) and the common room was half empty.

“You’re quite a heroine, Flora,” Dulcie said. “Everyone’s talking about it. And they’re all disgusted with the Carver. She’s a bully, just like Flashman in
Tom Brown’s Schooldays
.”

“Steady on,” Pogo said. “She hasn’t roasted anyone over an open fire yet.”

“She would if she could,” Pete said darkly.

“Pete,” Dulcie said, “have you gone back to believing Flora’s from the future?”

“Oh, crikey.” Pete had the good grace to look ashamed. “I didn’t really stop believing it. I was just so boiling mad about the extra prep. Sorry, Flora. I swear I’ll atone for it now. I’ll let you go on about computators and portable telephones as much as you like.”

“Thanks,” said Flora.

“We promised we’d help her to get home,” Dulcie said.

Flora was touched—it was like Dulcie to remember a promise. She was also a little guilty that she had almost forgotten about wanting to go home. Of course she did. She had to get home.

“I don’t want to send you away,” Pete said, giving Flora one of her brilliant smiles. “Why don’t you stay for a bit?”

“Pete, you really are the pink limit,” Pogo said, chuckling. “She isn’t here to amuse you. Perhaps we should have yet another look at the spellbook—though I wish I knew why Flora’s spell worked and none of the others did.”

“I vote we have another go at making the Carver bald,” Pete said. “We left out the cobweb last time.”

“That’s because it’s impossible to carry a cobweb in your pocket,” said Dulcie. “It just sort of disappears.”

“Watch out,” Pogo said suddenly.

Consuela Carver had come into the room. She was scowling. She walked stiffly up to the four girls. “I’ve come to apologize,” she said furiously. “I inked your work on purpose, and—and—I’m sorry.”

Pete said, “You don’t look particularly sorry.”

“That’s because I’m not,” the Carver said sulkily. “I’m only doing it because Harbottle told me to.”

“Harbottle?” Pogo was surprised.

“Yes. Thanks to Pete and that vulgar little beast from India, I had to spend the whole afternoon with her, being lectured about ladylike behavior. Please don’t imagine you’ve heard the last of this.” She whisked round and stomped out of the room.

“Well, I never,” Pogo said thoughtfully. “It’s not like Harbottle to get involved in something like this.”

“Huh,” sniffed Pete. “The Carver’s not very good at apologizing!”

“Crikey, look who’s talking,” Pogo said. “Do try not to put her back up, Pete. It’ll only make more trouble for Flora.”

“I can handle her,” Flora said. Standing up to Harbottle had given her confidence. She didn’t care if Carver thought she was a vulgar little beast. “I’ve decided to carry on
managing on my own. It’s not that I don’t want to be friends with you lot,” she added hastily. “But we don’t know how long I’ll have to stay here, do we? And this school isn’t as horrible as I thought. I’ve decided to try to get used to it.”

“I call that jolly brave,” Dulcie said warmly. “Have another piece of fudge.”

“I call it sensible,” Pogo said. “Of course we’ll help you whenever you need it—but I have a feeling you won’t be needing us much. I’d say you future-girls are made of pretty good stuff.”

10
A Discovery

F
lora worked hard at settling in. Over the next couple of weeks, thanks to the memories of the other Flora, the lessons began to seem less puzzling, and her own knowledge from the twenty-first century turned out to be surprisingly useful. She astonished Miss Fosdyke, who taught botany and general science, with the amount she knew about the solar system.

“I’m most impressed, Flora. You have evidently made a serious study of astronomy.”

If only she knew
, Flora thought,
that at home I can summon up the entire galaxy on my computer screen
.

It was good to know that she wasn’t stupid. The other
girls were better at things like verbs and times tables and historical dates. But Flora, who watched the Discovery Channel and Animal Planet at home, and often browsed through Wikipedia on her computer, was able to reel off facts about all sorts of interesting things—earthquakes, volcanoes, the life cycle of the penguin and the dinosaurs of the Jurassic age. The magic might have blocked off certain things, but she had no trouble remembering all this, and she began to get good marks in geography and science.

In private, Pogo was wild with envy. “I’d give my right arm to see that film about earthquakes—and the one about the inside of a meerkat’s house—and the close-up pictures of the moons of Jupiter. You future-girls are so lucky!”

Yes, they were rather lucky. The more Flora got used to the past, the more she appreciated all the things in the future that she had always taken for granted—things like hot showers, television, computers, microwaves, iPods and decent hair products. Everyone in the 1930s had appalling hair. Because they hardly ever washed it, it was either lank and stringy, or frizzy.

Even without products, something had to be done. One evening, armed with nothing but sharp scissors, a comb and a bowl of water, Flora gave her three friends a makeover.

“I wish you lot could see my proper hair—at home in the future, I have a kind of spiky, layered cut, and blond streaks.”

“Gosh, you dyed your hair!” gasped Dulcie. “Weren’t your people furious?”

“Course not—it was one of my birthday presents. Everyone
has dyed hair in the future. If Old Peepy lived in the future, she’d dye her hair to cover up all that gray. And she’d do something about her eyebrows.”

Flora was working on an unwilling Pogo. She undid her two short, thin pigtails, and carefully snipped her hair into a shoulder-length bob with a fringe.

When she had finished, Pogo stared at herself in the mirror for ages, without saying a word.

“You look—different,” Dulcie said. “Actually, you look awfully nice.”

“It doesn’t feel quite right, that’s all,” Pogo said doubtfully. “My mother and father would say I was being vain. My father’s a bishop, don’t forget. He doesn’t approve of vanity.”

“What about me?” Pete demanded. “How would my hair look in the future?”

Pete’s shambolic dark hair was more of a challenge. Flora flattened it with a wet comb, and did her best to trim the edges so that it looked a little neater. If only she’d had her hair straighteners—but Pete was delighted, and even Pogo relaxed her disapproval. “I say, Pete, you look almost human!”

Dulcie picked up one of her own blond plaits. “Do all future-people have short hair? Should I cut off my plaits?”

“No way!” Flora said firmly. “Your hair’s gorgeous—you don’t do enough with it. Why not wear it loose?”

“It’s against the rules.”

“Long hair must be neatly tied back,” Pogo said, grinning, “in case it escapes and gets into the custard!”

Flora was a little annoyed that she couldn’t send Dulcie down to breakfast in the morning with a glorious blond mane. Pete and Pogo, however, created a sensation—especially Pogo, whose peaky little face was transformed by the flattering fringe. Mademoiselle Dornay, the French teacher, grabbed her chin and said, “
Tiens, c’est jolie
!” And several girls asked Flora if they could have makeovers too.

Suddenly, Flora was a success. People stopped treating her like the village idiot. She wrote an essay about life in the twenty-first century, in which she tried to explain modern things in a way that people in the 1930s would understand. She worked extremely hard at it, even in her free time when she could have been finishing
The Secret Garden
(which turned out to be the best book of all time—what a shame she couldn’t discuss it with Ella—Mary was SO going to marry Dickon when she grew up) and Miss Bradley said she would publish it in the school magazine.