No Talking after Lights (17 page)

‘D'you think she'll ever come back?' Fiona asked Charmian.

‘Doubt it,' said Charmian authoritatively, though in fact she had no idea. As the only person who had been allowed to say goodbye to Sheila, she was the sole source of information, and she intended to guard her precious hoard and only release it slowly, letting the rumours and speculation go on as long as possible in order to savour her power over them all.

Mrs Birmingham sat in the pale turquoise and beige serenity of the drawing-room, marvelling that such horrors could happen under a clear blue sky and a
steady sun. The Somme had been like that, Jamie told her; astounding, flaming sunsets of utter glory, so that it seemed impossible that the guns didn't stop for everyone to admire the brilliant colour lighting up the undersides of the clouds. Or so he had thought at first.

She had asked him once if he'd actually killed a man, and he had said after a pause, yes. She didn't ask how many. But she did want to know what it was like, and he said it was like pushing a knife into earth. Not nearly as bad, he thought, as watching the gamekeeper finish off a wounded stag.

Today was high summer, nature flaunting its perfection, and only man is frail. There was a knock at the door, and she tightened her hands and feet together and straightened her back as Miss Parry entered. Her thoughts rumbled a coda to her words, like a drum or double bass adding its muted thunder to the clear notes of the piano.
O God, it is hard to do my job. They all expect me to be strong and omniscient, and sometimes I feel quite at a loss. Give me Thy wisdom, Lord …

‘Miss Parry, I wonder if you can explain this morning's incident?' she said, her voice calm and steady.

That poor child. What will happen to her? Bring her Thy peace, Lord, and the comfort of Thy everlasting arms …

‘I am not aware of any incident,' replied Sylvia Parry. ‘A child interrupted my lesson without explaining herself, and I dismissed her. I was not to know you had sent her. She burst in …'

‘What was it that stopped her, I wonder, from telling you her errand?'

How the hell should I know? thought Miss Parry.

‘I'm afraid I don't know, Headmistress,' she said.

It is an emotional day, Mrs Birmingham thought. I must collect myself. Speak only of what I have seen. Do not make unsubstantiated accusations.

‘When
I
entered your classroom, the figure you presented might well have silenced a little girl. You looked upset about something. Your class seemed nervous, too. Had something happened to distress you?'

‘On the contrary. It had been a very orderly lesson.'

‘In that case perhaps you could offer an explanation.'

Silence. Sylvia's hands were stiffening unconsciously into fists.

‘You may sit down, Miss Parry.'

Her movements minimal, concentrating on seeming impassive, she walked smoothly forward and seated herself in a deep armchair. On the occasional table beside it was a highly polished silver ashtray with an inscription in the centre.
Presented to the Rt Hon. the
… She forced herself to meet the Head's eyes as Mrs Birmingham began to speak.

‘The children in this school are placed in my care and under my responsibility. But I am concerned for all members of staff as well. Your teaching is satisfactory, Miss Parry, but your demeanour is not. Let me be frank. You give the impression of a very angry, deeply unhappy woman.'

Their eyes locked in silence.

‘If I can help or advise you in any way I would like to be given the opportunity to do so. You may speak to me in perfect confidence. I hear many people's secrets.'

Silence. Several minutes passed. The bell for the end of Rest clanged in the distance. Mrs Birmingham drained her cup of cold Camp coffee and looked frankly into the closed face opposite her.

‘I have no secrets, Headmistress. But my private life, such as it is, must remain private.'

How dare she snub me? Her colour is rising again, almost imperceptibly, mottling her neck. She has great self-control, but that she can't hide.

‘Miss Parry, you are at least twenty years younger
than I, and doubtless more familiar with the modern treatments available from psychiatrists and suchlike. I believe they can be extraordinarily efficacious. Would you like me to ask my personal doctor if he can recommend a good man? Please do not be offended.'

Now Sylvia flinched; a tiny shudder, as though a dart the size of a pin had embedded itself in her cheek. At last she spoke.

‘You are quite right, Mrs Birmingham, in assuming that I did not enjoy an altogether happy childhood. I trust that I have dealt with it in my own way. May I say that I regret the manner in which I dismissed your messenger this morning?'

Oh, the proud, silly woman!
Lord, Lord, help her, help me, for we are both Thy servants
.

‘Very well. But remember that the children here are my first responsibility. It is my duty to protect them. It is yours to keep your anger in check, whatever its origins. And now, I am afraid this conversation must count as a warning. If I hear of any more such episodes we may have to consider your resignation … or dismissal …

She stood up. Sylvia Parry stood too, turned her back and walked to the door, her face grimacing wildly, hideously, in the few seconds before she reached for the handle.

As the girls queued up in the Covered Way for supper, forming lines according to which table they were assigned for the week, Charmian contrived to lean across to Constance and hiss, ‘Gardens! Afterwards! Meet you there!' before resuming the expression of patient grief which she had worn all afternoon.

Constance arrived first, and picked at weeds or poked the earth with twigs until Charmian flopped down beside her.

They all keep asking me questions!' she said. ‘How should I know?'

‘What
has
happened to Sheila?' asked Constance. ‘Is it her parents?'

‘Her mother's dead. Got killed in a car crash. Last night, I think. She said to give you a message to ask you to look after her garden for her. I mean, it's my garden too. We share it. That and the rabbit.'

‘Do you want me to look after the rabbit as well?' asked Constance.

‘Pore ickle wabbut!' said Charmie, in the quacky Donald Duck voice that some of the girls used when talking about things that were ‘sweet' - baby animals, tearful children, or beaming, white-haired old people.

‘What's his name?'

‘Flopsy. Don't ask me why. It was Sheil's idea.'

‘Flopsy, Mopsy, Cottontail and Peter,' said Constance.

‘No, just Flopsy. Shall I go and get him and you can hold him?'

She dashed to the pets' shed, and Constance stared into the dry soil of Sheila's well-tended garden. Would Sheila come back after her mother's funeral? Everyone would be frightfully nice to her, and soft-voiced, and put their arms round her. In the meantime it was clearly her own fate to act as a replacement. She'd wanted a friend so badly, but she wasn't sure if she wanted Charmie, especially now that she was getting on OK with the twins. She crouched down and the warm ST shifted stickily between her legs. Her nostrils flared as she tried to detect its strange, visceral smell.

‘Here you are!' said Charmian, and she plonked the shivering grey-and-white rabbit into Constance's lap. Constance stroked it, marvelling at the soft sheen of its fur and the corrugated boniness of its spine, before placing it on the grass.

'She also said you ought to be my friend now. Till she gets back,' said Charmian.

‘Oh.'

‘You haven't got a best friend. Some hope.'

‘No.'

‘Well then?'

‘I might, but first you must tell me about the things that are missing. Do you know who took them?'

‘'Course. You do, too, don't you? You're not dim. But if I tell, you've got to cross your heart and hope to die.'

Gradually, defiantly, the story came out. Charmian revelled in her stealing, but she couldn't do it without an ally - someone cleverer than she was, who would protect her and cover up for her. Sheila had fulfilled that role and now the lot had fallen to Constance.

‘Charmian, I won't. I can't do it. It's wrong.'

The rabbit had relaxed at last and was whiskering the grass edging their garden, its long ears upright and alert. Charmian grabbed it and smacked its nose.

‘Naughty Flopsy! Mustn't eat our nice garden!' Then she looked at Constance. ‘You can call me Charmie, if you like. Sheil used to.'

‘Lots of people do.'

‘So what?'

‘I'm friends with the twins now anyway.'

‘No, you're not. Shall I tell you how Sheila's mother got killed? She was riding along in this open-topped sports car and her long silk scarf got wrapped around the wheels and strangled her to death! Isn't it ghastly?'

‘I don't believe you.'

‘Don't, then. See if I care. No-one else knows ‘cept me and you. It's our secret. I bet even Sheila doesn't know.'

As the bell clanged for bedtime, Charmian was showing Constance her hiding place behind the sacks of oats. Blithely she offered to steal another Parker 51
but Constance knew that would create more problems than it would solve. Let Sheila come back soon, she thought, as they ran down the path past the swimming-pool towards their dormitory.

Starlings was emotional that night, looking at Sheila's neat counterpane and hearing Charmie's inconsolable weeping. Ignoring the promise of secrecy which had finally persuaded Constance to join her in the conspiracy, Charmian had given them all a dramatic account of Mrs Dunsford-Smith's fatal accident, complete with dark purple bruises on her long white throat. The nearness of sudden death touched them all. Constance offered to tell a story, and they lay quietly in the deepening dark as she began.

‘Once upon a time there were two famous warriors called Sohrab and Rustum. They lived far, far away in Persia, long before Jesus was born, near a river called the Oxus. The Persian army had a champion, sort of like Goliath, and Sohrab was the champion of the Tartars, sort of like David. Their two armies had been fighting for a long time and were very well matched, so neither side could win.

‘Sohrab's terrifically young and handsome, but really he's only gone to war because he's looking for his father, who he knows is called Rustum, but he's never met him. His mother told him stories about how Rustum was a great warrior, and he wants to find him and say, look Father, I am your son and I've tried to be worthy of you.

‘So he decides the best way to do this is to issue a challenge to the enemy's, i.e. the Persians', bravest man, to fight him in hand-to-hand combat. Then whoever wins it'll mean their army has won the war. So he goes and tells the king of the Tartars and the king sadly agrees. Well. The two armies are camped on the plain
beside the River Oxus, and the king goes out in front of them all and says to the Persians, who're the enemy, “Choose a champion from among your lords to fight our champion, Sohrab, man to man.”

‘Now the Persians get scared, because they've heard of Sohrab and how young and brave he is, and they've got nobody who can beat him. But they have to agree to the challenge, so they do. But what no-one realizes is that an old warrior, who's just arrived to join the army, is actually Rustum - that's Sohrab's father. He himself thinks his son is lost or dead or something. So when he hears of the young man's challenge, he says, “Yes, I'll fight him, only on one condition, that I fight in plain armour.” So they agree, which means that, unbeknownst to them, father and son are going to fight one another to the death … and I'll go on with the story next time.'

They pleaded for more, called her a spoil-sport and said it was a swizz to stop just when it was getting exciting, but Charmian took Constance's side and told them all to shut up and anyway
she
wanted to sleep now before she started to think of Sheil and get mis again.

‘Night, Constance!' she called across the dormitory.

‘Sleep well, everyone,' Constance replied.

Some of the girls prayed ostentatiously beside their beds for longer than usual, but one by one they dropped into bed and into sleep.

Half an hour later Henrietta Birmingham sat alone in her drawing-room thinking about death. Sheila at thirteen is younger than I was when I first heard that Alistair had been killed. It was 1916. I was sixteen. I remember the grief, how it came in waves, so that I'd wake up after no matter how bad a night with temporary forgetfulness, and for a few blessed seconds the fact of death would be far away. But then, like a car
travelling along a dusty road, the great thunderous cloud comes rolling towards you, and from out of it appears this roaring black monster. He is dead. He will never be alive again. Not when I'm grown up, not for my birthday or Christmas, not once the war is over. He's dead for ever. And then the wave would recede -during a lesson when I was concentrating on French with my governess, or when I was lost in a book, or on my best behaviour at table in front of guests - until once again the memory would envelop me. Nor was it any better when Hugo died. Worse, if anything, because he had survived three and a half years of the fighting and we were beginning to believe he must lead a charmed life, that no harm could come to him. And then came the telegram, like an electric shock.

Now Sheila will have to learn the facts of death.
Grant Thy Grace and give Thy comfort, Lord, to this child, Thy servant. May she in this time of sorrow be granted Thy peace that passeth all understanding. And grant too that father and child may draw close and honour her mother's memory. For we are all sinners. Amen
.

Look, the waves do eventually recede. I have thought of my brothers without grief and even without praying. But what consolation would that be to Sheila, to know that in thirty or forty years' time she may think of her mother in tranquillity?