Beswitched (8 page)

A
fter history with Miss Bradley it was geography with Miss Horton. Pogo helped Flora to gather up her books and put them in her satchel. She led her out of the classroom into the corridor.

“I can’t wait to ask you about this war,” she muttered into Flora’s ear. “But we’d better wait till we’re alone—unless you want the whole school knowing you’re from the future. You’d better try not to blurt out anything else.”

“I was mixed up, that’s all,” Flora hissed crossly. “Something weird’s happened to my brain—thanks to you lot and your stupid spell.”

“What do you mean?”

She couldn’t explain, and this made her crosser. “I don’t know—it’s like there’s stuff I’m not allowed to remember about the future—when I try, I just get a lot of old Indian memories from the other Flora.”

“Well, do your best not to make any more staggering statements before lunch.”

“Of course I won’t!”

Geography, fortunately, was less bewildering than history had been—perhaps her brain was starting to settle down. The lesson was quite easy to understand. Miss Horton had chalked a map of Europe on the blackboard, and the girls had to write in the names of the rivers and cities. This time, Flora’s memory did not let her down. She remembered some things from APS and some things from the map of the world in the Wimbledon kitchen, and Miss Horton said she had been “well grounded.”

Lunch was disgusting, but she was so hungry that she ate every scrap of the pale meat, boiled potatoes and soggy boiled cabbage. For pudding there was a lump of stodgy cake, topped with red jam and custard. It was surprisingly delicious, and Flora had a second helping.

At APS you lined up with a tray to get things like filled rolls, chips and drinks in cartons. At St. Winifred’s, the food was dolloped out by a squad of servants. One of them was Ethel, and she gave Flora a very friendly smile. Flora smiled back, to show she was grateful to Ethel for unpacking her bag last night.

On the other side of the table, Pete took a small silver coin
out of the leg of her knickers, and put it on the table. Ethel quickly picked it up while she served Pete’s pudding.

“She buys us sweets,” Dulcie explained (luckily, lunch was in English). “We’re not allowed to go down to the village until the fourth form.”

“It’s enormously secret,” Pogo said, on Flora’s other side. “Don’t tell anyone, or we’ll all be in hot water.”

Flora pushed away her bowl. “How can you think about sweets? I’ve never been so full!”

“Oh, you wait,” Dulcie said. “You’ll be ravenous again by teatime.”

“We ought to think about this afternoon.” Pogo frowned. She glanced across the table at Pete, who was busily talking to the red-haired girl next to her, and taking no notice of her friends.

Pete’s already tired of me
, Flora thought bitterly.
She resents having to look after me
.

Pete was a selfish, lazy person who only did nice things when it didn’t cost her any effort. The whole stupid summoning spell had been her idea, but she left all the hard slog to Pogo and Dulcie.

Pogo spoke in a low voice. “I’m afraid it’s Latin with Miss Harbottle, and she’s a gorgon. You’d better keep as quiet as possible and pray she doesn’t notice you. She’s very mean, and so incredibly old that she probably taught Florence Nightingale—you do know who Florence Nightingale was, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Flora said. “The nurse. She’s still famous in my century.”

“Well, keep your head down—this is no time to give yourself away.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.” Flora didn’t really see what the fuss was about. The woman was only a teacher. How bad could it be?

The classroom door opened with a crash. It was like a cold wind rushing in. Every girl sprang to her feet.

Miss Harbottle was tiny—hardly taller than Flora—and dressed in a black teacher’s gown very rusty at the seams. Her lips were thin, her eyes were little and beady, and she looked like an angry, wrinkled turtle.

She faced the class. “
Salvete
.”

Everyone chorused “
Salve
!” and sat down.

“Good afternoon, gels.” Her voice was deep and gravelly. “It is our first lesson this term, so let us pick up where we left orf. Daphne Peterson.”

Pete stood up. “Yes, Miss Harbottle.”

“Remind us—what did we talk about in our last lesson, all those weeks ago?”

“I—I—” Pete’s face turned bright red (
Now she knows how it feels
, Flora thought meanly). “Was it—one of Pliny’s letters?”

“I should think it was, since we spent the whole of last term studying the younger Pliny’s letters. And what was he writing about?”

Pete held up her head proudly, as if facing a firing squad. “I don’t remember.”

“You—are—an—IMBECILE,” croaked the turtle-mouth. “And a HALFWIT—and a NINNY! You are also a SLATTERN—where is your collar button? You will report to me tomorrow morning before breakfast, and if I find ONE HAIR out of place, you will earn yourself a
poena
.”

“Yes, Miss Harbottle.”

“Sit DOWN.”

Pete collapsed thankfully into her chair.

“Consuela Carver.”

“Yes, Miss Harbottle.” The Carver stood up.

“Please refresh Daphne’s memory.”

Smoothly, the Carver said, “The letter was about a man who was murdered in his bath by his slaves.”

“Thank you. Sit down.”

Consuela Carver sat down, unbearably smug.

“New gel.”

Flora slid a quick glance at Pete, still red-faced and miserable, and stopped feeling mean.

“NEW GEL!”

Fart and bum, Harbottle was talking to her. Flora leapt to her feet. “Yes, Miss Harbottle.”

“Are you DEAF?”

“N-no, Miss Harbottle.”

“In that case, you are a DAYDREAMER, and I do not tolerate daydreamers in any class of mine. Let us wake you up with a little mental exercise. Open the book at page sixty-five, and translate the first paragraph.”

Flora looked down at the dark red book Dulcie had placed
on her desk before the lesson. It was called
A Shorter Latin Primer
.

“I’m waiting,” said Miss Harbottle.

She was horrible, with her grating voice and spiteful little eyes—as if she wanted you to fail. Flora felt her face turning hot.

“I can’t do it,” she said. “And before you call me names, it’s not my fault. I’ve never had a Latin lesson in my life.”

A shudder of horror passed through the silent girls.

“Really? Your father informs us that you have been learning Latin for three years—am I to take it that he is a LIAR?”

“No—” (Bum!)

“NO? Then YOU must be the liar—logically, only one of you can be telling the truth. Page sixty-five, if you please.”

Flora opened the book and found the page, with shaking hands. Why did it look familiar?

It was past eleven, and the sun climbed relentlessly. Drowsy in the heat, Flora did her best to concentrate while Miss Foster took them through the translation for the umpteenth time, mainly for the benefit of Joan from next door, who was a year older but rather dim
.

“Balbus has built a wall. The wall is well made, and pleases him. Drusilla is the wife of Balbus. The well-made wall pleases Drusilla.”

“So you HAVE learned Latin!” croaked Harbottle.

Flora realized she had read it out loud. For once, the memories of the other Flora had come in useful. “I don’t know—”

“And now she DOESN’T KNOW!”

“What I mean is, I don’t know how I know.”

“Let me tell you, Flora Fox, that I do not tolerate such
UNDERHAND behavior. For your prep tonight, you will write out all the verbs on page twenty-six.”

“Yes, Miss Harbottle,” Flora said miserably.

“If this is the kind of gel they’re sending from the colonies these days,” Harbottle said, “I DESPAIR. Stand up straight when I’m talking to you!”

There was a burst of giggling, hastily stifled.

“I have seldom heard anything as appalling as your accent, never mind your grammar—are you a lady or a kitchenmaid? Sit DOWN, and pay ATTENTION!”

Flora sat down, trembling. This old woman was a witch. She thought of her warm, noisy classroom at APS, and had to swallow several times, so she didn’t cry. St. Winifred’s was a bad dream. The others had to find the reversing spell, before she died of unhappiness.

After the Latin lesson, things were a little better. The lessons were baffling, but the teachers were nicer. They had tea, and Flora discovered that she owned a tuck box. The parents of the other Flora had been generous. The large wooden box, which she found in her cubbyhole in the box room, was packed with jam, chocolate, honey and a sticky fruitcake in a tin. It was supposed to last until the end of term. Flora allowed herself a small bar of chocolate, in an antique Cadbury’s wrapper, and took a jar of strawberry jam to spread on her teatime bread and butter.

After tea, the girls did homework—prep, as they called it—in the lower-school common room. This was a large, shabby, comfortable room, furnished with tables and big,
sagging armchairs. Flora had no intention of doing any homework. She handed hers over to Pete, who looked furious.

“Why do I have to do your blasted Latin verbs?”

“Keep your voice down,” Pogo said. “You know perfectly well why. Now, stop complaining—the Latin’s by far the easiest. Unless you’d rather do her maths.”

“Why can’t Dulcie do it?”

Pogo was stern. “You know how slow she is—no offense, Dulcie, but you do take ages.”

“You’re quite right,” Dulcie said mildly. “Granny says I’m constitutionally incapable of hurrying. I live with my grandmother,” she added to Flora, “just like you—I mean, when you go home to the future.”

“Poor you,” Flora said—though she wouldn’t have minded Granny if she could see Mum and Dad. Thinking about Mum and Dad brought out all kinds of worries. Were they all right? Had they noticed that the girl they spoke to at Penrice Hall wasn’t their real daughter?

Dulcie said, “Oh, my granny’s not like yours. She’s a darling—and she’s only had one husband. I’ve always lived with her, because my parents are dead.”

“Oh …” Flora was shocked, and very sorry for Dulcie. “How sh— I mean, how awful.”

“They both died when I was a baby,” Dulcie said. “It’s all right. I don’t remember them, so I don’t really miss them.”

“Judging by the contents of your tuck box,” Pogo said, “I’d guess your granny is the spoiling sort. I’ve never seen so much fudge.”

Dulcie smiled. “Yes, she spoils me terribly. She says she has to love me for three.”

“She’d better go easy,” said Pete, “or you’ll be the size of three!”

Flora thought this was mean, but it made Dulcie giggle delightedly.

Pogo, Pete and Dulcie found space at one of the tables and settled down to their homework—and Flora’s. Of course they were all annoyed about this, though Pete was the only one who showed it. Flora went to the other side of the room and curled up in a vacant armchair. She had the other Flora’s lovely red writing case on her knee, and it was sad that she had nobody to write to.

How great it would be if she could write a letter to Ella. Even if they had not been in different centuries, however, Ella was no longer her best friend. Yasmin was easier to boss than Ella, but she didn’t understand things in the same way.

Flora opened the writing case. On the sheet of blotting paper, someone had penciled, “Write to us often, darling!”

Flora had stared and stared, until the hanky her mother waved was no bigger than a white speck. They had both tried hard to be brave, but when Flora stood on the dock at Southampton and Mother waved from the boat, they were both crying
.

For the first time, Flora felt sorry for the other Flora. Yesterday she had felt too sorry for herself to care about the girl who had taken her place. She had only envied her for having television and proper bathrooms at the luxurious Penrice Hall. Now, she saw how bewildering it must be to land in the next century—and how lonely.

Other Flora, I wonder what you’re doing now, at this very moment across time? Perhaps you’re thinking about your mother, and waving goodbye to her on the boat. Perhaps you’re thinking about my mother, and how she looked when I was pulling away on the train. I wish I could talk to you
.

The room was quiet, except for scattered murmurs and the sound of pens scratching on paper. Flora went to the bookcase beside one of the long windows. At home in the future, she didn’t much like reading. She had never really understood how Ella could like books more than films—her ex–best friend always had her nose in a book. In 1935, however, there was nothing else to do except read. These books had hard covers in drab colors, and Flora didn’t recognize any of the titles, except
The Secret Garden
, a “classic” Mum had given her last Christmas.

She took this back to the big, sagging, comfortable armchair, beside the scorching gas fire, and started to read. The story was surprisingly gripping—it opened in British India, where the other Flora came from, and both the heroine’s parents died of fever in the first chapter.

Flora was almost sorry when Dulcie came up to her to tell her prep was over.

“We have a free hour before bedtime,” she explained. “It’s for practicing music or going to clubs. Or we can just go up to our bedrooms.”

“Let’s go to the bedroom,” Flora said, closing her book. “I’m so tired of pretending not to be modern. And someone has to mend my stocking.”

The three girls looked at each other, and Pete rolled her eyes rudely.

“I’ll do it,” Dulcie said.

“But I wanted you to do my collar button!” cried Pete. “That’s not fair!”

“You could try doing it yourself,” suggested Pogo.

“Oh, very funny—you know I’ll make a complete bish of it! Now I’ll get another pony—and it’s all Flora’s fault!”

“Bollocks!” Flora gasped, too angry at the injustice to care about minding her language. “This is your fault! You made me come here!”

“Yes, and I can’t wait to send you back!”

Pogo put her hand on Pete’s arm. “Steady on, old thing.”

“Oh, all right. Sorry.” Pete didn’t look sorry. She looked like thunder. When they reached their bedroom, she flung herself on her bed with a dramatic moan. “What an utterly putrid day! I had no idea it’d be such beastly hard labor! It’s like dragging round a ball and chain!”