Beswitched (4 page)

Though she was so loud and jolly, Miss Bradley seemed to be a little afraid of the head. She smoothed Flora’s hair and tugged at her collar. “Speak when you’re spoken to—and for the love of Mike, don’t mention time travel!”

She knocked once on a door of gleaming dark wood.

“Enter!” cried a majestic voice.

Flora stood up as straight as she could and squared her shoulders. She could see that it was no use trying to make
Miss Bradley understand her, or even listen to her, but it was vital that she made herself clear to the headmistress. There had been a mistake—a gigantic mistake, a cosmic mistake. Something had to be done about it.

Miss Bradley gently pushed her into the headmistress’s room. It was large, with long windows from floor to ceiling, but this was not what Flora noticed first. The room was dominated by a great, gleaming, carved desk, which seemed to loom out of the lamplight like the prow of a ship.

“Here’s Flora Fox, Headmistress,” Miss Bradley said. “She’s rather tired, and she hasn’t had a thing to eat. I’m afraid the parting upset her rather.”

Flora stared across the desk at the head. Her dark gray hair was scraped into a bun at the back of her neck. Otherwise you would have thought she was a man. Just like Miss Bradley, she was wearing a suit with a collar and tie, and not one scrap of makeup. She seemed extremely old—as old and strong as a mountain, and equally remote.

“Yes, it’s often hard,” the headmistress said. “I’ve seen it so many times. Tell Ethel to bring her a plate of bread and butter and some tea.”

“Yes, Headmistress.” Miss Bradley gave Flora an encouraging smile and ducked out of the room.

The headmistress stood up and came round the desk. She was very tall, with the long, curved nose of a Roman emperor. Her eyebrows were like two hairy black-and-gray caterpillars. Flora tried not to stare—but didn’t she have tweezers?

She shook Flora’s hand. Her fingers felt cold and strong. “How do you do, Flora. I am Miss Powers-Prout—or, as the girls insist upon calling me behind my back, Old Peepy. Your father’s letter informs me that you have never been away to school. I hope you will find St. Winifred’s a home away from home.”

“There’s been a mistake,” Flora blurted out. This time, she was determined to be heard. “My dad can’t have written to you—I’m not meant to be here. I’m meant to be at Penrice Hall—I don’t know exactly where it is, but the headmaster’s called Jeff.”

The words died in her mouth. Miss Powers-Prout was glaring down at her with a stern look on her face.

“I’ve got the brochure in my backpack,” Flora galloped on desperately. “I don’t know where it’s got to—my proper luggage just disappeared when I was on the train. I’ve lost my iPod and my laptop, and all my Jacqueline Wilson books, and these stupid clothes certainly don’t belong to me—”

“I can see you’ve never been to school before,” Miss Powers-Prout said. “At St. Winifred’s, Flora, little girls do not address their elders in that rude manner.”

“But I’m not being rude! I’m only trying to explain what’s happened! And you’ve got to listen to me!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’ve come to the wrong school! I’m expected at Penrice Hall!”

“Stop this nonsense at once!” snapped Miss Powers-Prout. “Good gracious—has no one taught you manners? That is
something you will certainly learn while you are here. A St. Winifred’s girl is known for her ladylike demeanor. Politeness was enshrined in our rules by Dame Mildred Beak herself!”

Flora wanted to scream with frustration. Why would nobody listen to her? “Look, Miss Peepy, or whatever your name is, for the last time, I’ve been taken back into the past—I’m from way in the future—I don’t even know if this is real or part of my dream—and I can’t possibly stay at this stupid school!”

The awful speckled eyebrows pulled together in a frown. “That is quite enough, Flora. Foul language will not be tolerated. If you had not just arrived, I should be forced to give you a black mark. Please be quiet.”

“No!” Flora shouted. “Why should I? You can’t tell me when to speak! Get me out of here! I want to go home!”

Suddenly, her senses were spinning again. Her mind was a pack of cards, and it was being violently shuffled. Memories shifted inside her head, and not all of them belonged to her—she remembered heat and dust, spices and elephants, a monkey named Fritz and a brown lady in a sari whom she loved. Were these the memories of another Flora Fox—the one who had really been expected here? If so, what had happened to
her
? Was she sitting, at this very minute across time, in the study of Jeff at Penrice Hall?

It was hopeless. Her proper memories were running away from her, and the modern world where she belonged seemed as distant as a dream. Her heart ached with longing for Mum and Dad—and even there, the wrong memories kept getting
in the way of the right ones. Had her mother ever worn a flowered hat? Had her father ever carried a rifle?

Flora felt like the loneliest person in the universe. All the fear and bewilderment of the day came rushing out of her in a storm of tears. She cried now as she had never cried in her life—she almost howled.

Miss Powers-Prout said, “T-t-t-t-t!” She put her arm around Flora’s heaving shoulders and steered her towards an armchair beside the fire. “Come now! Let’s not give way! I know it’s hard to say goodbye to your parents for such a long time. But don’t you think they’d want you to be brave?” She gave Flora a handkerchief made of stiff white cotton.

There was a knock at the door.

“Enter!” cried Miss Powers-Prout.

Ethel came in, carrying a large tray. She put this down on the low table beside the fire. Flora made an effort to swallow her sobs. From behind the handkerchief she watched Ethel setting down pale blue cups and saucers, a plate of bread cut into triangles and a silver teapot.

“You will feel better,” said Miss Powers-Prout, “when you have had something to eat. Thank you, Ethel.”

Unseen by the headmistress, Ethel managed to give Flora’s arm a reassuring squeeze. Flora was a little ashamed that Ethel had seen her tears, but her kindness was very comforting.

Miss Powers-Prout poured them both a cup of tea. She handed Flora the plate of white bread and butter. Flora was very hungry. She devoured the bread and butter—making an effort to do it politely because she couldn’t face another
lecture about manners. The bread tasted good, and so did the tea.

Miss Powers-Prout took the armchair on the other side of the fireplace. “I shall overlook your disgraceful exhibition just now, because I know how hard it is for girls whose people are in the colonies. We have quite a few such girls at St. Winifred’s, so you will not be alone.”

Flora wondered if the “colonies” had something to do with ants.

Her bewilderment must have shown on her face. Miss Powers-Prout stopped frowning, and leaned across the low table to look at Flora more closely. Her eyes were black and brilliant under the thick gray brows. “Of course you miss your life in India—that is only to be expected, when you have never known anything else. But, Flora, your father writes that he wants you to know England, and learn to love its peculiar beauty—a somewhat cold, damp beauty, I must admit.”

She stood up briskly and snapped on a lamp. It lit up a big map of the world on the wall behind it. “You must not feel, however, that you are far from home. As an English person, you are at home in every corner of the world.” She pointed to the British Isles: a little patch of pink. “This is where you are now.” Her hand moved across to India, also pink. “And this is where you came from. Think of all the pink countries as home.”

Flora looked at the map. Most of the countries were pink. She remembered Ms. Stuart, her history teacher in the twenty-first century, telling her that Britain had once ruled
a lot of other countries. She wished she had paid more attention in Ms. Stuart’s lessons.

“That’s the glory of the British Empire.” Miss Powers-Prout switched off the lamp. “You are at home in every corner of the world. But England is the Empire’s heart and soul, and your parents expect us to turn you into a real English schoolgirl. I will make every possible allowance for your inexperience, Flora—but I warn you now, I will not tolerate rudeness. While at this school, you will be polite and ladylike. You will work hard. Do I make myself understood?”

“Yes,” Flora said.

“You will address me as Miss Powers-Prout.”

Flora’s face burned. She hated the way the old bag glared at her, but didn’t want to set her off again. “Yes, Miss Powers-Prout.”

“Good.” The headmistress gave her a frosty smile. “I’m afraid you’re the only new girl, since it’s not the beginning of the school year—but I’m sure you’ll soon settle in. It is already past lower-school bedtime. Your form prefect will show you to your dormitory.”

4
The Bluebells

F
lora left the head’s study in despair.

I’m doomed
, she thought—
nobody’s ever going to believe me, and my real life feels so far off, I might as well have dreamed it
.

There was one other person in the deserted hall. A tall girl in school uniform waited beside the fireplace. She smiled at Flora. “Hello. You must be the maggot.”

“The—what?” Flora’s tired head swam. Despite the uniform, this girl looked too old to be at school. She was thin, with a sharp and rather sarcastic face, and a neat cap of dark hair.

“Don’t take it personally,” the tall girl added, “it only means you’re new. I was a maggot once, if it’s any consolation.”

“Are you a—teacher?”

“Certainly not—I’m in the lower sixth, and I have the honor to be your form prefect.” She held out her hand. “Virginia Denning.”

Flora shook her hand. “Flora Fox.”

“How do you do, Flora? It’s only half an hour till lights-out, so we’d better hurry up to your dorm.” She started up the large staircase.

Flora had to scamper to keep up with her. “My what?”

“Your dormitory.”

“You mean—I have to share with other people?”

Virginia was amused. “That’s the general idea.”

This was the last straw. Flora hated sharing a bedroom—except with Ella, who was no longer her best friend. “How many other people?”

“Three.”

Flora groaned. “Three other people! And I suppose that means we have to share a bathroom?”

“I’m afraid so.” Virginia looked over her shoulder. Her eyes were as green as grapes, smiling and quick behind her glasses. If she had worn contact lenses, and a little blush on her pale cheeks, Flora thought, and done something about that old-lady hairstyle, she would have been pretty. “You’ve never been to school before, have you?”

“No.”

“Of course, you’re an Indian girl. Did you go to a day school out there?”

Flora could not tell Virginia about coming from the future. She decided to lie, but what came out felt true,
and she even had memories to go with it. “I had a governess.”

Whose name was Miss Foster; I shared her with the two girls next door and we had lessons on the veranda
.

This was odd. Her brain kept darting off into the mind of another Flora, the girl whose life she had slipped into.

“I know exactly how you feel,” Virginia said. “I stayed at home with a governess until I was twelve.”

“Are you from India too?”

“No, we lived in Paris and Vienna. School came as a shock, to say the least. I was horrified by the lack of coffee, and the coarseness of the sheets.”

“I have an en suite shower room at home,” Flora said. “I like a hot shower every morning.”

“Hmm, I’d better show you the cloakrooms for your floor—that’s what we call bathrooms here.” Virginia led Flora into a long corridor, lined with doors, and opened the first of the doors. Flora looked inside. There was a row of toilet cubicles and sinks. Facing this was another row of cubicles, each containing a bath—she could see because one of the doors was open, and there was a girl inside drying her hair with a towel. There was a strong smell of the stuff Mum used to clean the sink.

“Sorry, Cynthia—don’t mind us,” Virginia said. “I’m just giving the gen to the maggot. This is she.”

“Hello,” said the girl under the towel.