No Talking after Lights (19 page)

‘I agree with the Headmistress,' said Miss Valentine. ‘I don't like it, but I have no better suggestion to offer.'

Heads bowed, the staff each scribbled a name, folded
the papers and placed them in a large platter which Miss Roberts handed round.

For Diana it was a worrying decision. She knew the golden languor of the summer term had been overshadowed for the girls, and she pitied them. She didn't want to accuse anyone, for she had no real suspicions. An unreliable moment of intuition told her it might be Mick and Flick, but perhaps this was just the fantasy of the only child, whose deepest desire is always to be a twin. It couldn't justify naming them. In the end she wrote ‘I don't know' and folded the paper.

Sylvia's memory travelled along the lines of desks, recalling two girls who'd giggled, one who had blushed when startled out of a daydream, another who'd covered her paper as she approached. (It had been revealed as an elaborate piece of calligraphy forming the words I LOVE HERMIONE FOREVER.) It could be any of them - stupid, giggling, spoiled brats! Fat Rachel, oozing her shame in spots and pimples? Cocky little Mick and Flick flouncing around arm-in-arm? Hang-dog Constance, trailing around at Charmian's heels now that Sheila had gone? Charmian herself, tarty little blonde … ? In the end, because she didn't like Americans with their cocky voices, she wrote down Deborah's name, followed by that of Charmian. Her pulse raced and she had to force herself to write with slow and controlled strokes. That should give them a nasty quarter of an hour each! She pursed her mouth and folded the paper into a tiny rectangle.

Mrs Birmingham's device was unproductive. Two of the staff had written ‘I do not know'; Miss Emett had written ‘I object on principle' and signed it S. Emett; and the only names that occurred more than once were those of Constance, Charmian and Michaela Simpson.
O Lord
, she prayed,
give me the courage to admit that

I have made a mistake. I have always been puffed up
with pride and unable to retreat from a path once embarked upon
.

Steering her car up the drive through the long dusk of early July she remembered Lionel's proposal. Touched by his humility and the shameless pleading in his eyes (which she took to be love) she had unexpectedly said, ‘Yes, yes, I will - dear old Lionel. Yes, I'll marry you.' That night she had told her mother, who was sitting in the great canopied bed while her father nodded with his brandy and his dogs before the library fire; she had told her mother that she had accepted Lionel Birmingham's proposal.

‘Hetty, darling,' her mother had said guardedly, ‘are you sure? This
is
a surprise. He should have approached your father first for his permission, you know. Papa will be quite put out. I had no idea you loved him, or indeed that matters had gone so far between you. Are you
really
sure this is what you want?'

Stung by the clear implication that Lionel wasn't good enough for her - which she knew to be true, less for her mother's reason, that his family was socially inferior, than because his mind and spirit could not match her own ardent energy - she had said emphatically, ‘I
want
to marry him, Mama. I'm sure I can make him happy. There's more character to him than you realize. He is shy - you and Father overawe him -but …' But? But what? But he is a surviving man, he wants me for his wife, he is not maimed or hopping on a wooden leg, and he will not cry out and curse in the night. Because he is older than I am, and grateful that someone will be his wife and make him a home, and not bring to it a clutch of another man's fatherless children. Because he is made bold by my necessity, because he is a snob, because he is fearful and he clings to my strength.

Had she really known all this at the age of twenty-five, thinking herself destined for spinsterhood like so many others, or was it with hindsight that she believed she had steered so confidently into her great mistake?

‘I love him,' she had insisted to her parents. ‘I love him,' she had said after the first lamentable family dinner, when Jamie had looked at him with contemptuously narrowed eyes. ‘I love him,' when Lionel had misattributed the ancestral portraits, and her parents had not bothered to correct him. So they had put the announcement in
The Times
, the date was fixed, and she began to be fitted for her wedding dress and the trousseau she would wear in Egypt. Lionel professed a great interest in archaeology. They were to sail down the Nile and see the Valley of the Kings.

A week before the wedding, she and her mother were in London doing last-minute shopping. From the house they always rented in South Kensington they made endless trips to Harrods and Barkers and Debenham & Freebody, buying what to Henrietta seemed pointless objects at enormous cost. She had already received sufficient wedding presents to furnish in Scottish baronial style the Bayswater house that she and Lionel were to occupy. Lionel pretended to find them inappropriate, but she guessed that secretly he was pleased by these outward signs of the elevation of his status. His mother and sisters lived modestly in a rambling house north of the park, and Henrietta flinched from their evident awe of her. But the transition to married woman was an elevation in status for her, too, and she stowed away her fears behind good intentions and lengthy prayers.

After an evening at the theatre (they had gone to see
Hay Fever
and were emboldened by its daring informality) her mother had tactfully left them to dine à
deux
at Boulestins, after a quiet word with the head
waiter. Over dinner, warmed by a glass or two of wine, Henrietta had felt honour-bound to confess. She had tried to explain that she was not - she thought she might not be - she was uncertain, but … He had looked at her in a bewilderment which grew to dismay and, finally, when she didn't know whether to expect anger or sympathy, into gloating triumph.

‘
You!
' he'd said, and his hands clutched his knee gleefully. The cherished virgin daughter of the clan Campbell-Leith: not a virgin after all, eh? What a turnup! Well, I‘ll be damned!'

She shrank from his vulgarity.

‘I'm not sure. It was only once. I was just a girl.'

‘Once is enough. Either you are or you aren't! No, don't tell me how it happened, I don't want to know.'

There was still a week left. She could have changed her mind. Was she sorry? Looking down the twenty-seven years of their marriage, Henrietta Birmingham surprised herself by thinking, no, not really. I am not sorry. I feared much worse. Without him there would be no James. Without him, the parents of these girls would despise me, as I see them despising Peggy, for being a spinster. With a husband and son I am the equal of any of them. It was not such a mistake after all. No, I do not regret my marriage. And with a flourish she turned into the Lodge, braked, yanked at the hand-brake, heard it squeak, felt the car throw its bonnet up like a startled horse, and turned the engine off.

‘Darling!' she shouted up the stairs as she entered the house. ‘Lionel! It's me! I'm back! Coming!'

Constance had escaped from Charmian that evening by hiding in the spreading cedar that shed its greeny-black shadow across the cool green turf. Her senses were scratched by its rich smell and her skin by its
rough bark. Scared by the drop, paralysed for moments at a time, she had climbed higher than ever before, till she could straddle a branch twenty feet above the ground and lean back against the uneven trunk. She fished her mother's latest letter out of her knickers, sniffing the delicately crackling paper, inhaling deeply as though there were some faint memory of her mother's hand resting on it; but all she could smell was the sticky resin on her own fingers.

Darling Constance,

I'm just snatching a quick twenty minutes before I have to get dressed, as Daddy and I are going out to dinner, but it's cool enough for me to sit on the verandah with a nice pink gin and write to you. Oh, darling, we're leading such an exciting life out here! People are simply too social for words - parties, parties, all the time - and as we're quite new, they pump us for all the gossip from England. (Not that I've got any, of course!) I could have done with twice as many cocktail frocks. Even though you know in advance it's going to be hot, you don't really understand until you get here. We've all picked up lovely tans already - we look like Riviera folk, imagine!

I'm so pleased to read between the lines of your last letter that you're cheering up. Trust us, darling, we knew you'd be happy there. Once you find a nice friend to confide in and share secrets, the way girls do (well, I did, anyhow!) you'll wonder what you ever thought you had to be miserable about! Stella's settling in very happily too, except that she's a bit too ‘chummy' with the Africans. Poor pet, she isn't used to servants!

Well, Connie dear, I must go or Daddy will be cross with me for making us late. Work hard and
play hard, and make us both proud of you. A big hug and lots of kisses from your loving Mummy.

Below this her father had scribbled ‘and Daddy'.

Constance shifted her bottom on the roughness of the branch as she hitched up her skirt and tucked the letter back into her knickers. The dormitory bell would be going soon, and she hadn't had time to think what to do about Charmie. She was tempted to confide in Hermione - being a senior and a prefect, she would know what to do - but when she caught her eye, Hermione had looked away.

Is Charmian my friend? Must I be loyal to her? Is it always wrong to tell tales? Would they call me a sneak? I bet nobody would believe me.

People were strolling beneath the tree. She stayed quite silent and held her breath. The chattering voices passed and in the silence that followed, Constance recognized the tree sensation stealing through her, more powerfully than ever … I am a tree, strong and dark and green and eternal, I am a tree, my limbs thicken, I am this tree, my tongue thickens, I cannot speak, my head swells, I cannot hear or feel, my eyes close, I cannot see, I am a tree, a tree I am.

Charmian had had two letters that day, and was wandering round by the games field looking for Constance. She meant to read her mother's letter to Constance. Not the other one; Gogsy mustn't see the other one. Her mother's letter said,

My dearest darling little Charmie,

How is my pretty baby? Not too sad, I hope. What
shattering
news about Sheila's mother. I remember your friend, of course, but did we know her mother? Was she anybody? You must tell me their surname in your next letter. Perhaps I ought
to send a little note of condolence to Sheila's Daddy. What a shock all this must have been for you, my precious. I'm sure you're being very brave and strong. Mummy is having to be brave, too. It's all so difficult, and Daddy doesn't try and make it any easier. But Uncle Dickie has been an absolute tower of strength and he takes me out and about and tries his very best to cheer me up.

That's all for now, darling, don't worry about me, keep your chin up.

Lots and lots of love and a great big hug from Mumsie.

Her other, secret letter was from Sheila. It said,

Dear Charmie,

Thank you very much for your letter. It's very sad that Mother is not with us any more but I'm sure she has gone to a better place. I have been to lots of theatres and films but I miss you and even miss
school!
I've been thinking, I should write to Old Ma B and tell her it was me that took the things, ‘cos she'll forgive me now, and then it will be all right again and the school needn't be punished any more. You said something awful would happen if I told. Well it already has. So this is to say don't take any more things and I'll own up and then you'll be let off. Don't tell anyone it was you all along. Promise on your word of honour. Sorry to be so bossy but I've been thinking about it a lot. Tell Mick and Flick I miss them and blow a kiss to Hermione (ha ha, bet you don't dare) and please look after Flopsy and give him a cuddle from me.

Lots of love, Sheila.

She'd have to answer her mother's letter, but she
wouldn't write back to Sheila. What cheek! Just because her mother was dead she thought she could say anything she wanted and get all uppity.

‘Gogsy!' yelled Charmian. ‘Gog-sieeee! Hey' - she appealed to a passing girl - ‘have you seen Gogs? Tell her I'm looking for her if you see her.
Go-ogs.
'

But Constance, high up in her tree, didn't catch the voice that drifted downwind. Charmian stood still, unaware that what she wanted was her mother. Then she went off to torment the rabbit. She'd pull another of its whiskers out, she thought, and watch it wriggle. She skipped along to the pets' shed.

Later in the dormitory Charmie cried again at the sight of Sheila's smooth, unnaturally flat bed, and the others clamoured for more of the story. Charmie said it would cheer her up, so Constance went on:

‘So you remember from last time, Sohrab and Rustum are getting ready to fight each other without knowing who each other really is. Rustum's in plain armour with just a scarlet plume on top of his helmet, but his army, that's the Persians, know him because of his horse …'

‘Tell us about his horse,' said Fiona, forever homesick for her ponies.

‘Well, he's got this awfully famous horse called Ruksh, who follows like a dog at his heels, because Rustum found him when he was just little, just a baby, a colt beneath its dam—'

‘Isn't that a bit cruel?' whispered Fiona, but was shushed.

‘What sort of horse was he?' asked Anne.

‘All it says is that he was a bright bay with a lofty crest,' said Constance.

‘Arab,' said Anne. ‘Obviously. Must have been.'

‘Well, anyway don't interrupt. I'm telling it. Rustum walks out in front of the Persian host, followed by
Ruksh, his faithful Arab, and none of the Tartars know who he is. And at the same time Sohrab comes out of his tent all done up in magnificent armour and then there's a wonderful bit where it says' - Constance shut her eyes to remember the beautiful words exactly - ‘oh, yes, I've got it: