Celandine (21 page)

So magically.

Yes, she would think of that. She still had her secret, her strange and wonderful secret, and nobody could take that away from her. She would hold that secret to her, and hug it in the darkness, and though every hand might be against her – Miss Craven and Miss Belvedere, Mary Swann and the stupid Pigtail Twins, and the whole jumbled up lot of them – they could never take that secret away. She had seen things that they would never see. She knew things that they would never know. She was special.

Her eyelids began to droop, and she eventually left the snuffles and creaks of the restless dormitory behind. Once more she sat beneath the trees on
Howard’s
Hill on the day she had attacked Miss Bell, watching in tear-blurred amazement as Fin dropped from the overhanging boughs to crouch awkwardly before her, clasping his hands in child-like anxiety, wanting to help her and not knowing how.

Chapter Eight

PERROTT’S ORCHARD AND
Five Springs are out of bounds to all Juniors except as part of supervised Hare and Hounds . . . The Bell Monitor Rota is posted on the noticeboard outside Tratt
 . . .

What on earth was Tratt? It didn’t matter – just try and memorize it, along with all the other rules and regulations.

‘Come in!’

Celandine pushed open the staffroom door in response to the muffled summons from within, and nearly tripped over a Sealyham terrier that was apparently keen to leave.

‘Don’t let him out!’ Miss Belvedere’s voice thundered across the room from somewhere amidst the noisy huddle of black-gowns at the far end.

Another girl was present, just inside the doorway – Molly Fletcher – but it was Celandine who automatically reached down and grabbed the dog’s collar. The little animal came to a halt without much of a struggle. It looked up at her for a moment, a vague glance from eyes that seemed filmy and dull, and then
stood
still, head down, listless. Celandine waited awkwardly, holding onto the stiff leather collar as Miss Belvedere crossed the room. One or two of the teachers turned to stare at her.

The dog was shivering. Celandine could feel the tremor of it against her knuckles. A curious feeling came over her, a chilly moment of darkness that drifted by her and then passed on. There was a funny smell about the little animal, and a sudden image of Tobyjug came back to her, lying white and still on the stable floor.

‘Carol – basket!’ Miss Belvedere came to the doorway, and pointed backwards into the room. Celandine let go of the dog’s collar, and straightened up. The terrier wandered off a few paces, but then stopped once more and looked around uncertainly.

‘Basket!’ Again Miss Belvedere barked out her command and the dog moved away a little further.

‘Now then – Howard, isn’t it? Let us see how productively you have spent your first Sunday at Mount Pleasant. What do we never do in corridors?’

‘Loiter or run, Miss Belvedere.’

‘And where must we keep our tuck boxes?’

‘In the . . . in the common room, Miss Belvedere.’ The dog – Carol – was now walking in circles. It didn’t look at all happy.

‘And when may we whistle?’

‘Um . . . never. Under no . . . um . . . no . . .’

‘Circumstances. Under no circumstances. On what occasion is it permitted to wear white socks . . .?
Howard!
I seem not to have your full attention! What is it that you keep
looking
at, girl?’

‘Sorry, Miss Belvedere. I was . . . I was watching the dog. Your dog, I mean. I don’t think it’s very well.’

‘My
dog
?’ Miss Belvedere turned briefly. The terrier had finally decided to go to its basket and was now ambling in that direction. It seemed content enough, all of a sudden.

‘Howard, if this is some ploy to distract my attention then I can assure you that I’m not so easily fooled. The dog is
perfectly
well, thank you very much – fit as a flea, in fact – and is in any case no concern of yours. School motto,
if
you please.’

‘Um . . .
Venite filii, obedite mihi
 . . .’ The loud clatter of the Assembly bell suddenly filled the corridor outside, an urgent disorientating sound. Celandine could hardly hear herself speak. ‘
Timorem domini . . . um
 . . .’

‘Come along girl!
Timorem domini
 . . .’ Miss Belvedere had no difficulty in raising her own voice above the clamour of the bell.

‘
Timorem domini . . . ego . . . ego vos docebo
.’

‘Right. Well. We seem to have run out of time, and so that will have to do – for the moment. Off you go to Assembly. But remember, Howard, I may well decide to continue this little interview at a later date. I know something of your history, and I shall be keeping a very close eye on you. Go. Now then, Fletcher, let us see what you have learned about remaining in bed after lights out . . .’

Celandine hurried away – thankful that at least she had not been required to translate from the Latin.
Stupid
language. But anyway, she had survived. She joined the jostling stream of girls who were now making their way to Assembly, and wondered at her own sad certainty about the little white terrier, Carol. The dog was dying. Why on earth did she think that?

‘It should be the duty of all Mount Pleasant girls to follow the progress of Great Britain and her allies in the war against Germany and Austro-Hungary. Where there are men fighting on our behalf, our prayers shall accompany them. In mind and spirit we are at their side, and there we shall remain until the enemy is overthrown.’

Miss Craven stepped aside from the Big School lectern and grasped the lapels of her long black gown. The rest of the staff stood in a row behind her, silhouetted against the tall stained-glass window.

‘Naturally I shall keep you informed as to events. Today’s news is that the British army has crossed the Marne and the Germans are in retreat as a consequence. Yes – we
may
allow ourselves a brief murmur of approval and relief, but this does not mean that the war is over. There could be many more weeks of fighting to come before we are able to lay aside our arms. In the meantime you will be asking yourselves “What can
we
do, to help?” – and I shall tell you. Number one; minimize wastage . . .’

Miss Craven went on to list the ways in which materials could be saved, how she intended to set up extra sewing and knitting classes to provide the troops with socks and balaclavas, how it had been decided to exclude certain luxuries from the dinner menu. The use
of
hot water was now to be monitored and limited, and a correspondence was to be started, strictly regulated of course, in the form of a weekly newsletter to the local regiment – the Somersets – via the adjutant at Taunton barracks. This newsletter would bring uplifting thoughts of home to those who were battling abroad.

‘And finally, we must do all that we can to boycott German goods. We shall
not
be seen to be assisting the Hun economy. All items of German origin shall be confiscated – pens, jigsaws, pocket-watches, games equipment – and no more shall be purchased or used until further notice. Now let us pray.’

Celandine closed her eyes and put her hands together. A startling image appeared before her of the stained-glass window and the figures standing in front of it. It was like a photographic negative, the window-glass darkly clouded, the lead patterns and solid mullions picked out sharply in white. The motionless figures of the teachers were also shown up in white, a ghostly tableau.

The strange picture continued to float around the corners of her vision as Assembly came to an end and she shuffled off to first lesson, lost in the murmuring crowd.

* * *

Celandine spent most of that first week expecting some sort of blow to fall upon her. Mary Swann did not seem the type to simply let bygones be bygones, and revenge for the business with the lockers was surely on its way. In the classroom Celandine felt safe enough, but on the games field, or in the changing hut, and particularly in the dim echoing corridors between the washrooms and the dormitories, she was continually prepared for the worst.

Yet nothing happened. Mary and her group of followers acted as though she were invisible. They never spoke, never acknowledged her presence. Other girls, not of Mary’s set, ignored her less pointedly but kept their distance nevertheless, and treated her with extreme wariness whenever contact was unavoidable.

Nina Jessop was the only girl who would willingly talk to her, although Nina’s stammered half-sentences could hardly be called talking. Really, the girl was impossible – reddening like a strawberry at every question or remark. It was rare that Nina had any observation of her own to make, or any opinion to voice that was not extracted from her as though with a corkscrew. Her words were as carefully rationed as the Thursday night bath-water. And yet she could be stubborn, in her own shy way. She continued to deny all knowledge of how Celandine’s locker had come to be neatly and correctly packed, and no amount of public threatening from Mary Swann, or private cajoling from Celandine could shift her. ‘I really don’t
know
what you’re talking about’ was her unvarying, if blushing, response.

Mary Swann held herself back from outright physical assault, and eventually seemed to give up. Outwardly at least, she ignored both Nina and Celandine, and the others followed her example, but among her own set she began to take a slightly different tack. ‘What if Ninky’s telling the truth? I’ve heard some funny rumours, at home, about that Howard girl. They say she’s not
normal
. It’s very strange, isn’t it, how those things just moved from locker to locker, all by themselves. Like magic. Almost like
black
magic . . .’

Nobody was quite prepared to swallow this, but it gave them something to talk about.

On the second Saturday of term, exactly a week after she had arrived, Celandine was summoned to Miss Craven’s office. Miss Belvedere was also present, and together they made a formidable sight – the one seated, gaunt and pale, the other standing, buckled and belted in acres of Norfolk tweed.

‘Come and stand over here, Howard.’ Miss Craven looked sourly displeased. ‘I have some sad news to report – sad and disturbing. Miss Belvedere has suffered a loss.’

Celandine knew instantly what was coming, and her knowledge frightened her. It was the dog, Carol. She could feel her face begin to redden.

‘A most
sudden
loss, and I was very sorry to hear of it. Miss Belvedere’s terrier has unexpectedly passed away.’
The
headmistress stared at Celandine for a few moments, the pale grey eyes unblinking, cold as a bird’s.

‘The news seems to agitate you, child. I am wondering – though it barely seems credible – whether you are implicated in some way.’

Implicated? What did that mean – involved? At fault?

‘N-no, Miss Craven – Miss Belvedere. How could it be my . . . anything do with me? How could it be my fault?’

‘Don’t question me, girl!’ Miss Craven brought her hand down flat on the leather-bound desk. ‘I’m asking
you
. Do you or do you not have any knowledge of this sad event?’

‘No, Miss Craven.’

‘And yet I am told that you remarked upon the dog’s ill health at a time when it was apparently quite well. How do you explain this
expert
diagnosis?’

‘I don’t know, Miss Craven. It . . . looked ill. I just knew.’

‘Nothing wrong with the animal at all, I can assure you, Miss Craven.’ Miss Belvedere’s booming voice filled the room. ‘It was perfectly fit –
at that time
.’

‘Thank you, Miss Belvedere. I shall take your word for it.’ Miss Craven leaned forward in her chair. ‘Well, Howard? Was this seemingly prior knowledge of yours a prediction? Or was it . . . a
threat
?’

Celandine knew that her face must be burning red. She could feel the tingle of it right through her scalp.

‘No, Miss Craven, I honestly just thought that Miss
Belvedere’s
dog didn’t seem very well. And I never saw her again after that. I haven’t been near her. But I just knew. I . . . I don’t know how. I’m . . . I live on a farm, you see. That’s my home. I suppose I’m just used to seeing sick anim—’ The thought of Tobyjug came into her head, and her eyes welled up with tears. A great wave of homesickness suddenly swept over her, choking her, drowning her, and she longed to be in her own room, in her own bed, listening to the chink of the horses’ harnesses through the open window as the teams returned to the stableyard. She could say no more.

‘I see. Well you can spare us your tears, Howard, whether of guilt or of remorse. I can hardly think that they are tears of mourning, for an animal you saw but the once – according to your account. However, in the light of the veterinary surgeon’s report, and in the absence of any evidence to the contrary, we must accept that the animal suffered from some sort of heart ailment. Yet I still find it
extremely
suspicious that you somehow “just knew” about this illness, whereas the dog’s owner, Miss Belvedere, knew of no such thing. If this incident doesn’t smack of foul play, then it smacks of psychic mumbo-jumbo, neither of which will I tolerate in this school. I believe you capable of anything, Howard, and you’ve a long way to go before I am likely to revise that opinion. Is that understood? I hope so. Now you had better return to your lesson. And if you suffer from any further
premonitions
, you’d do well to keep them to yourself. It would be safer. Dismissed.’