Beswitched (2 page)

“Which one is my grandchild again?” she had asked Dad one evening. “Is it the lumpy one or the little weasel?”

Ella was now her ex–best friend, and hadn’t really spoken to her since. Flora had been furious about the “little weasel,” and she didn’t blame Ella for being angry with Granny for calling her lumpy—but why was Ella angry with
her
? She had tried and tried to put it right, but Ella carried on avoiding her. It had spoiled the first term at APS (short for
Alderman Popham Secondary), which should have been so much fun.

And now her grandmother had to slip on a squashed grape and break her hip. The Italian mansion was too much for her to manage now, so Dad had decided to convert their garage in south London into a small flat. The scary old woman hung over them like a shadow.

Flora said, “I feel as if I’ve lost my home.”

Mum reached across the table to squeeze her hand. “My precious, try not to worry too much. Even if she wanted to, Granny couldn’t turn a semi in Wimbledon into a copy of the Casa Boffi. We’ll all have some adjusting to do.”

Flora said, “But now I’ve got to face the boarding school. It’s going to be a nightmare.”

“Honestly, darling, Penrice Hall is incredibly relaxed and easygoing—you’ll have your own little room—I think you’re allowed to do your own cooking and phone out for takeaways—there’s an Olympic-sized pool—five rock bands—”

“Blah-blah-blah-blah,” Flora said rudely.

“Ponies—”

“It’s no use, Mum. I know I’m going to hate it.”

“Well then, you’ll just have to hate it,” Mum said.

There was a throb of anger in her voice that Flora recognized. When she was three she had screamed and screamed until she was finally allowed to wear a leotard to nursery in January. In exactly the same voice, Mum had said, “Well then, you’ll just have to catch pneumonia.”

Flora had learned then that no amount of screaming could
make a January morning less cold. Her parents obeyed most of her wishes, but they couldn’t change the weather or prevent old ladies from breaking their hips. They were going to Italy for three months, and she was going to the terrible school, and that was that.

“Oh bum,” said Flora. “Fart and bum.”

“Stop being so negative.”

“I really will, you know. I really will totally hate it. For one thing, I’ll be literally miles from everyone I know in the world.”

Dad came back to the table and caught the end of this. “But you’ll have your phone, darling. You’ll be able to talk to us anytime you like, day or night. And send us emails.”

“It’s not the same,” said Flora. “And anyway, it won’t do me much good. If I hate it you won’t take me away.”

“Yes, but you might not hate it. Penrice Hall is a famous school. We’re lucky they had a place.”

“Dad, please. I’ve just had this conversation with Mum. Spare me the rock bands and ponies.”

The three of them spent the next few minutes in miserable silence. Flora looked at her reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall. She definitely did not look like a little weasel. But if only she didn’t look so short and
young
—Yasmin, who was (sort of) her new best friend, looked at least fourteen. Still, the blond streaks in her light brown hair added a bit of sophistication, and her new clothes were amazing. Her parents felt so guilty about sending her away that Mum had finally stopped trying to dress her in little skirts and flowery
cardigans like a six-year-old, and let her choose exactly what she wanted—today, black jeans, red Converses, red T-shirt, silver belt and a seriously cool leather jacket.

Dad gulped his tiny cup of black coffee. He really did look old this morning, Flora thought crossly. It was his own fault, for waiting so long to get married and have a baby. People sometimes thought he was Flora’s granddad. He was so old that he had been born in 1950. If he hadn’t been so old, his mother wouldn’t have been such a dinosaur.

A large pigeon pecked at the crumbs on the floor. Station announcements boomed foggily overhead.

“That’s us,” Dad said. “Platform Seven.” He leapt up and grabbed Flora’s suitcase—almost as if he were relieved to be getting rid of her.

Two huge cases had already been sent ahead by Red Star—cases crammed with wonderful new clothes, makeup and books. Flora only had her snazzy new backpack containing her iPod and the small case for her laptop. Flora had to admit that there were some good things about going away to boarding school. Yasmin had even confessed that she was jealous—“I’d go to army boot camp if it meant I got a new laptop.”

But Yasmin didn’t understand how it felt to be let down by your parents. Flora’s selfish parents thought they were angels because they wouldn’t put Granny in a home—even though she was a notoriously tough old lady who might even have liked it. Yet they saw nothing wrong with banishing their sensitive daughter. She was determined not to let them think they had been forgiven.

“There’s no need to get on the train with me,” she told her dad haughtily.

As usual, her parents ignored her and climbed onto the train with her like two clucking old hens.

Dad put her laptop case on the small table. “Now, darling, the train manager knows you’re an unaccompanied minor, and he’ll—”

“Dad, stop telling me. That’s the billionth time this morning.”

Mum handed her a posh tuna baguette. “He’ll make sure you get off at the right station—”

“I’m not a baby,” Flora said crossly. “I know where to get off.”

“—and you’ll be met by Fiona, who’s one of the teachers at Penrice Hall.”

“Any problems, just call us,” Dad said. “Call us whenever you like.”

“Oh, my darling”—Mum hugged her hard—“I’m going to miss you so much!”

Dad said, “Bye-bye, bunny rabbit,” and gave her another big hug.

And then the whistle shrieked, and they had to leave her.

Flora did not like this moment at all. Suddenly, seeing her parents on the other side of the glass made her feel very young and very lonely. They waved as the train pulled out of the station, and bravely tried to smile—though they obviously felt more like crying.

Suddenly, all she remembered was how much she loved
the foolish old things, and she blew kisses at them for as long as she could see them—and then there was a massive lump in her throat. But there were other people in the carriage, and Flora did not want them to think she was pathetic—the “bunny rabbit” Dad had let slip was embarrassing enough. She sniffed a couple of times and stared out of the window, until there was no more danger of breaking down.

After this, she found that she felt fine. A woman came round with a trolley, and Flora bought herself a bottle of apple juice. There was something rather elegant and mature about traveling alone, she decided. The train was going so fast that the nearest houses and gardens slipped by in a silent blur. Now that her parents were no longer watching her, Flora could take a proper look at the brochure for Penrice Hall.

The big white house, she had to admit, didn’t look at all bad. Inside the brochure, there was a photo of a man with a beard. “Hi, I’m Jeff, the headmaster,” said the text underneath. “Here at Penrice, we believe education should be tailored to the individual. Young people know instinctively what they need to learn, and our students are encouraged to draw up their own timetables. A Penrice teacher is a good mate—not an authority figure!” There were pictures of a swimming pool, a pottery shed and a music studio, all thronged with grinning kids in cool clothes. If it really looked like this, the place might be all right.

She had meant to send a text to Yasmin—something like “This sux!”—but Yasmin wasn’t such a good best friend as Ella had been. Suddenly, Flora felt desperately tired. She
barely had time to wonder why before a great wave of sleep crashed over her.

A voice was speaking very close to her ear—so close that Flora heard it deep inside her head. It was the voice of a girl, solemn and clear.

She knew it was not a real voice. She was in the middle of a dream.

It was pitch-dark. Flora tried to open her eyes, but her eyelids felt as heavy as two metal shutters.

Then, while her eyes were still tightly shut, she saw it all.

She was in a dark room lit by two misty smears of candlelight. She did not know why she was there, except that she had somehow obeyed the mysterious summons.

There were three figures draped in white—like ghosts in a cartoon. Did they want to scare her? Flora tried to concentrate harder on this dream, so that she could see them more clearly. If the white shapes had arms, they seemed to be waving them. There was an odd noise—like loud screams heard from very far away.

Flora was not scared. She felt quite calm. She could see a large window, with long, blue-patterned curtains on either side. One of the spirits began to move towards her, and Flora felt herself being pulled away—not painfully, but very firmly. The dark room with the white figures suddenly vanished, like a candle being blown out.

She was flying now, or perhaps falling. It was like being sucked back into a gigantic vacuum cleaner. She could see nothing but darkness. A great whirlpool of sounds was babbling inside her head—voices and engines, explosions, crowds cheering. She was flying faster than the wind.

It did not last long. Flora felt herself gasping as she was suddenly thrown out of the dream and poured back into her sleeping body on the train.

But something was wrong. Her arms and legs seemed to be wrapped in thick, soft layers of cloth. Her feet had landed in shoes that were hard and heavy.

“Flora,” a woman’s voice said. “Wake up, dear. We’re nearly there.”

2
Changing Trains

T
his was not a dream. Flora was sure she was not dreaming now. She struggled to open her sleep-swollen eyes. Who had spoken to her as if they knew her? Where was she? Yes, she was on a train—but a different train. It swung and creaked and clattered, with a regular rhythm—ta-ta-ta-TUM, ta-ta-ta-TUM—that made her thoughts march in time to it like soldiers.

The light was dim and yellow. It came from two funny little lamps in the wall. She was in a compartment with a sliding door. Outside the window were gray hills that were fading into darkness. On the wall underneath the luggage
rack was a small framed picture of a sunny beach, and the words “PAIGNTON—England’s Summer Playground.”

Flora looked down at her own arm, and her heart did a somersault of shock. Instead of her long-sleeved T-shirt, she appeared to be wearing a dark green jacket. Something was throttling her neck uncomfortably—a green tie with red stripes, like the tie her dad wore to his office. How did it get there? She had never worn a tie in her life. Had she been knocked out and kidnapped and forced into someone else’s clothes? No, don’t be silly.

“Come along, come along!” said the strange voice. “Dear me, we are a sleepy owl today!”

There was one other person in the compartment. It was a solid, shapeless woman, with neat rolls of brown hair under a brown felt hat, and glasses with heavy brown frames. Flora could not tell how old she was. At first glance, she looked older than Mum because her clothes were so old-fashioned. When you looked more closely, however, her beaming face was round and fresh. She was wearing a man’s tweed suit with a collar and tie, except that instead of trousers the suit had a long, stiff skirt. Her shoes were clumpy brown lace-ups. She was reading a magazine called
Time and Tide
. Flora’s heart was thumping hard. Something very strange and terrible was happening, and her brain was too stunned with shock to take it in.

She croaked, “Where am I?”

“You fell asleep, dear,” the woman said, “that’s all. I’m not surprised that you’re tired—you’ve had a long journey today.”

“Long?” Flora echoed. She had only come from Wimbledon, and the journey had hardly started. She did not understand. This woman obviously thought she was someone else—but who?