No Talking after Lights (16 page)

‘Who d'you think's the thief, Gogsy? Go on, say

‘Haven't an earthly. I thought you might know.'

‘Some people say it's you.'

‘I know and I think it's foul. Obviously it's not me. I wouldn't steal my own Parker 51.'

‘Charmie thought you had, and hidden it.'

Stung by the injustice of this, Constance said, ‘Well if you really want to know, I think Charmie's the thief herself.'

‘Charmian Reynolds?' said Mick.

‘You don't!' said Flick.

‘Why? Go on, tell us why.'

Constance withdrew her confidence from them,
pulled at a long grass stem and sat chewing its sweet, pointed end, her teeth leaving flattened marks.

‘Don't be so
mean
, Gogs,' they wheedled. ‘It's not fair. You're staying with us, aren't you? We wouldn't tell anyone, honestly. Cross our hearts and hope to die.'

‘I just made it up,' said Constance, after a pause. The fine fluff at the top of the grass drifted between her fingers and she scattered it on the wind.

‘Bet you didn't,' said Flick. ‘You wouldn't. You're not such a clot.'

Constance was worried. It was true she suspected Charmian of stealing, mainly because she was always inventing suspicions that diverted attention away from herself and on to others, but she couldn't justify her theory to the twins, and she knew that, in the last resort, they'd take Charmian's side.

‘Did you say anything to Old Ma B?' Flick persisted.

‘No.'

‘Who then? Miss Valentine?'

‘I haven't told anyone. I said, I was making it up. It was just the first name that came into my head.'

‘Liar! Liar! Your house's on fire!' chanted the twins.

From the terrace Mrs Simpson shaded her eyes with her hand and called, ‘Are you all right, darlings? What are you playing?'

‘Nothing. Just mucking about…' yelled Mick.

‘Good girls …' drifted on the wind. ‘Lovely to have you here.'

Constance lay back in the long grass, letting the sun beat down on her closed eyes. The twins sat cross-legged, but although Mick said once more, ‘You are a swizzler, Gogs. You might
tell
…' the dangerous moment had passed. Insects buzzed through the grass, the sun rode lazily through the midsummer sky, and the three girls gradually fell silent, and slept.

That evening after supper Mrs Simpson taught them
to play mahjong and they sat on scratchy white-painted garden seats out on the verandah, the small bamboo tiles clicking like insects, until the light failed and they went indoors.

In her attic room, stuffy with the drowsy heat of the midsummer weekend, Constance undressed as far as her vest and knickers and went to the bathroom one floor below. Pulling her knickers down, she gasped and stood stock-still, looking at the stained cotton between her legs. Last time she spent a penny she had noticed a reddish-brown patch, a bit unusual but nothing to worry about. Now it had grown to a large, sticky area of dark blood. Constance stood rigid with embarrassment and panic. How could she wash her knickers? What with? Soap? How? Where would she hide them while they dried? A thick blush suffused her face, until her cheeks seemed to bulge with blood and her neck swelled and felt thick, as it did when she was being a tree. The curse. This must be the curse. This was what the whispers and giggles were all about.
This
was ‘STs, if needed.'

The twins would be wanting the bathroom. Constance took a towel and wrapped it round herself, then hobbled quickly back up to her room; aware for the first time of the prickly stickiness between her legs which, come to think of it, had been there all evening, every time she shifted her bottom on the flaky paint of the wooden chair. There must be a mark on her dress! Everyone must have seen! She snatched up the cotton dress from the back of the chair. Inside the skirt there was a faint brownish stain, but from the outside it was practically invisible. Someone knocked at the door and Constance dragged her cotton nightie over her head before asking, ‘Who is it?'

‘It's me, dear,' said Mrs Simpson's voice. ‘Come to kiss you night-night.'

‘Um. Yes. Sorry,' said Constance.

‘Are you all right, duckie? You look a bit shaky. Anything up?'

‘No, nothing … important … Just' - she tried to sound offhand - ‘started the curse.'

‘Poor old you, what a bore.'

‘Yup.'

‘Have you got your doings with you?'

‘Have I got
what?
'

Mrs Simpson looked at her. ‘I say, it's your first time, isn't it? Oh, my
dear

She stepped forward and hugged Constance; then said briskly, ‘Right. Got some clean knickers? No? Never mind - I'll go and hunt out a couple of old pairs of the twins'. You get out of those things and I'll rinse them through for you.'

Tactfully she disappeared.

Constance sat down on the edge of her bed, got up again hastily, took her knickers off, peered at the sticky dark-red substance again - it smelt funny, not like ordinary blood, more sort of zooish - and folded the knickers carefully into a tidy white parcel with the stain hidden inside. She waited. She put her foot on the end of the chair and picked a scab on her knee with elaborate care, enjoying the tweaks of pain and the beads of blood that grew into a tiny trickle. She pushed the blood aside with her fingertip and sucked the finger. It tasted sweet and bitter. She squeezed the scab between her thumb and finger, watching the irregular brown crust split and ooze more blood. The sound of footsteps on the stairs made her straighten up quickly as Mrs Simpson walked in.

‘Here we are! Three pairs. They're pretty shabby, so just chuck them away when you've done with them. Here's half a packet of STs as well. You fix them on to this belt …' She held up a tangled, droopy piece of
elastic. ‘Just like suspenders, really. Don't put your STs down the lavatory, there's a good girl. They clog up the works. I'll leave some brown paper bags in there. Now, what have you got to give me? Dress OK? Well done.'

She stopped talking and looked into Constance's face. ‘Don't be frightened. You'll soon get used to it. Happens to us all. You're a young woman now. Tummy hurting? No? Here's an aspirin, just in case. Night-night, dear. Sleep tight. Don't let the bugs bite.'

She closed the door behind her, and Constance picked up the twisted sanitary belt and the squashy packet called Dr White's. It said ‘sanitary towels' on the outside. She took out an ST, a long pad of cotton wool covered with a layer of gauze. It was soft and smelled of nurseries. It looked comfortable. She bent her knees outwards and held the pad between her legs. It felt nice. Now I need STs, thought Constance.

The next day Mrs Simpson had arranged a lunch party for two girls who lived nearby and had been at the twins' former school. They arrived with their mother, a plump, shiny little woman called Priscilla Kenworthy-Browne. She wore a tight dress that emphasized her stomach.

‘Do you
love
your new school, darlings?' she asked, and didn't wait for their answer. ‘I'm sure you do. I bet it's super. Wizard. We're having such problems finding somewhere suitable for these two. Darlings' - she turned to her listless daughters - ‘wouldn't you like to go to the same school as the twins and, what was your name, dear? Never mind. Wouldn't
that
be fun? You could be chums and get up to all sorts of mischief. You can't fool
me
, I know what you naughty girls are like …'

Everyone else ate steadily through their cold ham and salad blobbed with Heinz salad cream. From time
to time one of the girls would mutter, ‘Mummy I don't feel well,' or ‘I'm not hungry,' which Constance interpreted as, I'm bored, can we go home? Not until the lunch was almost finished did their mother notice that they had eaten almost nothing.

‘So ungrateful of you both! Whatever will Mrs Simpson think? My dear, you must forgive their disgraceful manners. I can't
imagine
what's wrong. They're normally such good eaters.'

‘Mummy, we
told
you,' said one of the girls wearily. ‘Me and Patsy don't feel well. Our legs hurt. And my head aches.'

‘Nonsense, darlings!' said Mrs Kenworthy-Browne, and laughed merrily. ‘A nice walk in the sunshine, that's what you two could do with! Mick and Flick will take you down to the meadow, won't you, darlings, show them the pony

Glumly, the five of them trooped out.

The Lower Fourth sat bolt upright. They were tense and quiet. Their classroom had been animated and buzzing with half-term gossip when Miss Parry marched in. As she strode up to the desk, her highly polished Elliott sandals slapping over the parquet floor, the gored pleats of her brown linen skirt flapping against her sturdy legs, the whole form braced itself. She banged a pile of biology prep books on to a desk in the front row before seating herself at her table next to the blackboard.

‘Hand these out and NOT A WORD!' she ordered.

Her gaze travelled from one scared face to another. Nobody met her eyes. Sheila was trembling; Charmian was composed and demure. Mick was rigid, the form captain on the alert; Flick looked down at her books. Constance was sucking her finger. While the books were distributed, Sylvia continued to observe them all. She knew her anger was very close to the surface, knew it was not their fault, and she was struggling to master it. If only she could have a cigarette! Osmosis. She must pull herself together and think about osmosis.

A hand went up. Fat, spotty, greasy-haired Rachel. God, the child was ugly. Stupid too.

Put that hand down! Even you should have the wit to understand that I want NO TALKING.'

The trembling hand was lowered. Osmosis, thought
Sylvia Parry again. Like the edge of my skirt in a rock pool, absorbing the sea-water, the colour gradually getting darker as it became damp, then wetting the back of my legs as I stood up and looked for seaweed to pop. She took a deep breath, turned to the board and wrote with firm strokes of the chalk, OSMOSIS. She underlined it and the lesson began.

Mrs Birmingham returned to her study from a divinity lesson with the Upper Fifth. As she walked in, Peggy Roberts said, Telephone call for you from Mr Dunsford-Smith. He wouldn't tell me what it was about. Said he needed to talk to you.'

‘Did he leave a number, or is he going to phone again?'

‘Here's his number. He's waiting by the phone for you to ring.'

A moment later Henrietta Birmingham listened, appalled. There'd been a car accident, in the south of France. No, not he himself; once half-term was over, his wife had gone away for a few days with her sister, Sheila's Aunt Muriel. They'd taken a train down to the Cote d'Azur, and hired a car there. Not used to driving on the right. French such bad drivers. Police looking into it. The bodies were being flown back. Sheila would have to be told. Didn't think he was quite up to doing it himself.

Mrs Birmingham replaced the receiver and sat for a few moments with head bent and eyes closed.
Give her Thy peace; may she find rest and forgiveness for her sins. And forgive me my intolerance and malice against the mothers of these girls. I too have sinned, above all the sin of pride. Grant Thy comfort, Lord, to this motherless child
.

She looked up at last.

‘Bad news. The worst possible. Sheila Dunsford-Smith's mother has been killed in a car crash. I shall
have to tell the child myself. Her father feels he can't. Not that I blame him. Peggy, my dear, can you find someone to bring Sheila to me? And if you could perhaps…'

‘Of course. Do you want to talk to her in here or next door? I'll make myself scarce.'

Proud of her errand, the self-important third-former trotted into Austen where the biology class was rigid with concentration. Miss Parry wheeled round from the blackboard.

‘What on earth is the matter now?' she exploded. ‘Is it quite impossible for me to teach for ten minutes without interruptions? Will you LEAVE MY CLASSROOM! now!'

As the little girl checked her step and hesitated, Miss Parry seemed about to run through the room and chase her out. The child fled.

Moments later the stately figure of Mrs Birmingham appeared at the door of Austen. At the sound of the handle and the latch Miss Parry had turned, her face dark with rage. She saw the Headmistress and her hands dropped to her sides.

‘I sent for one of the girls a moment ago, Miss Parry. Was it not possible to release her from your lesson?'

‘I didn't realize, Headmistress - the child didn't explain

‘Never mind. Can you spare Sheila Dunsford-Smith for the rest of this period, please?'

‘Certainly. Of course. Yes.'

The Headmistress walked calmly through the room to Sheila's desk and laid a hand on her shoulder.

‘Miss Parry will excuse you. Come with me, dear.'

She looks like the pope giving his blessing, thought Constance. She is so kind and yet so awe-inspiring. Even Batey Parry's scared of her. Poor old Sheil. Wonder if it's about the stealing? The girls met each
other's eyes briefly and questions danced like motes through the bright air.

‘May I have your attention please girls?' asked Miss Parry, almost deferentially, and the lesson continued without any more interruptions.

Sheila sat down opposite the Head and met her pale-blue, watery eyes, noticing the tiny tributaries of lines and folds and the way her eyelids drooped at the corners, and the eyelashes, white, like her hair. The Head smiled gently and laid both hands palms upward on the blotter in front of her.

‘Sheila, dear,' she said. ‘I've just been talking to your father on the telephone.'

From the third-floor bathroom window that overlooked the drive and main entrance, three heads craned out for a last look. They saw Matron hand a suitcase to Miss Roberts, who stowed it away in the boot, and then the small figure of Sheila, her face hidden by the brim of her straw hat, got into the front. Miss Roberts closed the car door softly behind her, got in on the other side, and gravel swished under the tyres as they drove off.