Beswitched (12 page)

“Most imaginative, Flora—I especially liked the super-oven that splits atoms and heats food in a few seconds. Between ourselves, I could do with one in my study!”

The only teacher who didn’t like the essay was Miss Harbottle. “All very well,” she croaked, “but I don’t trust a gel with too much imagination. Imagination is very bad for gels.”

Flora wished Harbottle would get off her back—the old witch always seemed to be watching her suspiciously. As far as everyone else was concerned, however, Flora was doing very well. She spoke French at breakfast. She sang the hymns in assembly. She wrote polite letters to the other Flora’s
parents. She played hockey. She learned to darn, hemstitch and make buttonholes. To the naked eye, she was a normal schoolgirl of the 1930s.

But of course, she wasn’t. The 1930s schoolgirl was a shell, with a twenty-first-century girl hiding inside her, and her friends had not forgotten their promise to find a way of sending her home. When the term was a few weeks old there was a half holiday in honor of Dame Mildred Beak’s birthday, and—even better—it was pouring with rain.

“We’re allowed to wander round the house when it rains,” Pogo explained. “The attics are still out of bounds, but nobody will notice if we sneak upstairs. We couldn’t have better conditions for another raid on the secret room.”

Flora’s heart gave a leap of hope. She was getting used to the past, and even liking some bits of it, but the longing to go home nagged at her like a toothache. She couldn’t wait to search the secret room.

In the morning they had a special assembly, with a prayer of thanksgiving for the life of Dame Mildred, and a girl from the lower sixth played the violin. The head girl, Audrey Biggins, solemnly placed a big vase of spring flowers on the mantelpiece under Dame Mildred’s stern portrait in the hall. This was followed by the usual morning school, then lunch.

In the afternoon the rain still poured. The girls had to amuse themselves indoors, and the old house resounded with shrieks of laughter and the sound of pounding feet and slamming doors. Old Peepy believed it was sometimes necessary for girls to let off a little steam, and the teachers kindly kept their distance.

The four girls found Ethel, and asked if they could use her bedroom window.

“Go on, then,” Ethel said. “Just don’t go killing yourselves. Are you looking for magic again?” She was laughing at them. “Bring back a nice spell for me.”

“What kind of spell would you like?” Dulcie asked seriously.

“A rich husband, please.”

“We’ll do our best.”

“She doesn’t believe us,” Flora said, when they were hurrying upstairs. “Wouldn’t it be great if we really found her a rich husband?”

Dulcie sighed romantically. “It’d be just like
King Cophetua and the Beggar-Maid
! That’s a picture I have in my bedroom at home.”

“I’d rather have a handsome husband,” Pete said.

The stairs and corridors swarmed with girls. In their bedroom corridor, some second-formers were having a lively game of cricket, using rolled-up stockings as a ball. Nobody noticed the four girls darting up to the attic floor, where the servants slept under the eaves.

Ethel’s door was at the end of a narrow passage, and beside it was the flat piece of wall where the door to the hidden room had been bricked up. Flora touched it curiously.

Pogo had brought her shoe bag, to carry any promising books or papers. She slung this over her shoulder. “Dulcie, you don’t like crawling along gutters—you stay here and keep cave.”

“Righto.”

“If you hear anyone coming, thump on the wall.”

“Righto—then what?”

“Use your initiative,” Pogo said.

“My—what?”

“Never mind, there isn’t time. Come on, you two—we should aim to be out before the bell for tea.”

Flora followed Pogo and Pete into Ethel’s tiny bedroom. Pete wriggled out through the small dormer window, and Pogo nimbly crawled after her. From where Flora stood, it looked as if they were about to fall over the stone rail outside and plunge to the ground. When it was her turn, however, she saw that it wasn’t as dangerous as it appeared. The gutter was very broad, and though the stone rail was low, it would be hard to fall unless you were standing up. All the same, she didn’t dare to look down.

It was raining hard. Flora spent an unpleasant couple of minutes on her hands and knees in the gutter, with the rain drumming down on her back. By the time she crawled into the secret room, she was wet and shivering.

The secret room was a bit of a disappointment. Flora had pictured something dark and cluttered and full of mystery, but this was simply a small, bare room with a sloping ceiling, furnished with three plain wooden boxes. Dust lay everywhere, in drifts and puffs and swirls. And there was an odd atmosphere—not exactly creepy, but Flora had a sense of a personality, or the memory of one, and she couldn’t decide if it was good or bad.

They took a box each. Pogo doggedly sifted through every single paper in the third box, putting the few papers that
were in English into her shoe bag. Flora went through the old books. These were very old and heavy, and—as they had told her—mostly in Latin and various unknown scripts. Pete poked about in the box that was full of glass bottles and tubes. She soon got bored, and started making patterns in the dust with her feet.

“This looks promising.” Pogo held up a small, shabby school notebook.

“Huh,” said Pete. “Someone’s old homework.”

“Golly—it’s a lot better than that!” Pogo was excited. “Look!” She showed them the faded, looped writing on the cover: “Private Experiments.” She opened the notebook, and slowly read the small, neat handwriting. “ ‘First November 1875. Today I commence my private record of certain experiments in Alchemy, Sorcery and Witchcraft, using books from the secret library amassed by my late father, Sir Wilberforce Beak.’ ”

She stopped. The three girls stared at each other. Flora started shivering again.

“Dame Mildred’s diary!” Pete said slowly. “How funny that we found it on her birthday.”

“We can’t read it now, the light’s going,” Pogo said. “And—I don’t quite know why—but I’d rather like to get out of here.”

Flora knew what she meant. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but something in the atmosphere made her very uneasy. She was glad to leave this strange, uncanny room and crawl back along the gutter. A few minutes later, they burst out of Ethel’s bedroom to show the diary to Dulcie.

“I vote we go up to the bedroom directly after tea,” Pogo said, her eyes shining through a mask of dust. “Thank goodness it’s a half holiday and there’s no prep.”

Dulcie giggled. “You’d better clean off some of that dirt—you look as if you’ve been up the chimney!”

Flora, Pogo and Pete suddenly noticed the state they were all in and burst out laughing. They were covered with dust that the rain had turned to mud. Pete had a beard of dirt, and one of Flora’s stockings had fallen down. Far below them the bell rang for tea, and they all pelted down to the cloakroom to scrub off the worst of it—Dulcie kindly came with them to help.

They were late for tea, and Pete had the misfortune to run smack into Mademoiselle Dornay, who crossly gave her “
un pony
.”

“Pallox!” Pete swore. “I do have the most awful rotten luck!”

The “pallox” nearly made Flora choke on her tea—Pete certainly loved rude words, and she decided she’d try not to let out any more, or where would it end?

“Do hurry up, Dulcie!” hissed Pogo. “That’s your third piece of cake.”

“I can’t help it if I’m hungry. If I eat any faster I’ll choke.”

The four girls were free to run up to their bedroom as soon as Dulcie had stopped eating. Though Flora was eager to discover the secrets of Dame Mildred’s private diary, she was enjoying herself today. It was fun to run around and talk in a loud, unladylike voice, and generally behave more like a girl from the twenty-first century.

Just as they were going into Bluebell, Jill Scott leapt out of Eglantine and smacked Pete in the face with a pillow.

“OW! Bedroom battle!” roared Pete.

As Dulcie hurriedly explained, this meant they had been challenged to a pillow fight. Flora rushed into the bedroom with the others, to grab her pillow. There were no rules to the pillow fight, but it was hilarious—Flora managed to give Bunty Hardwick a tremendous whack on the bottom, and Pete laughed so much, she had to lie down on the floor. Two other bedrooms joined the fray, and the corridor was a riot of girls and white pillows, all shrieking blue murder. Pete and Flora barricaded three girls inside Japonica, and Pogo saved Dulcie from being taken hostage in Lily.

It only stopped when Miss Bradley waded in. “All right, you hooligans—that was the bell, so kindly put up your pillows and sign a peace treaty!”

At last, the four girls were settled in a solemn circle on the bedroom floor. Pogo, who was best at making out Dame Mildred’s faint writing, held the diary under the light of the lamp and began to read.

11
Diary of an Amateur Sorceress

1
ST
N
OVEMBER
1875

Today I commence my private record of certain experiments in Alchemy, Sorcery and Witchcraft, using books from the secret library amassed by my late father, Sir Wilberforce Beak. I did not know about the books until I found them after his death. He left instructions to burn them, but I have decided to ignore him, in the interests of Science. The time is right for a serious study of the crafts too often left in the hands of cranks and fools
.

The most practical volume is unquestionably the small, crude book of traditional country spells. (Father’s notes: published 1638—he bought it for sixpence off an old dame in the village.)
This is the only evidence I have seen of the lost knowledge of the peasantry
.

This evening, I locked myself in my study and tried a simple spell for making water boil without a fire. Following instructions, I placed a quart of cold water in an earthenware bowl on the floor. Using a compass, I positioned myself facing exactly eastwards, took a sprig of lavender in either hand, and recited the incantation
.

RESULT: Nothing. Temperature of water remained constant throughout
.

OBSERVATIONS: It is possible that my feeling very foolish when doing the above spoiled the effect of the magic
.

2nd ATTEMPT: Tried again, lowering voice to dramatic stage whisper
.

RESULT: Again, nothing
.

OBSERVATIONS: Either this is all so much moonshine, or I am doing something wrong
.

3rd ATTEMPT: This time, no play-acting. I said the spell as if giving an order to a member of staff. A person of my distinction cannot be at the mercy of any force, real or imaginary. The moment I took command, a kind of strength entered me like an arrow, shot through me and poured from the ends of my fingers
.

RESULT: Water boiled merrily. Made a pot of excellent tea
.

OBSERVATIONS: This appears to be a crude method of harnessing an unknown power by force of personality
.

23
RD
N
OVEMBER
1875

Further experiments delayed by the distractions of overseeing a school. Poor Celeste H. ran away again, and many anxious hours passed before she was returned to us by a policeman. Her mother died last year and she does not want to live with her father’s new wife. She ran away when she heard she was to be sent home. Her dearest wish is to stay at school, but Mr H. will not hear of it. He does not see the point of educating a girl, even when she is as promising as Celeste. He says she will leave us at Easter, as soon as he and his wife are returned from their wedding journey. Celeste is resigned to doing her duty as a daughter, but very downcast
.

Another successful experiment—made a jug of fresh milk turn sour and (much harder, needing greater strength of will) I then made it turn fresh again
.