The Glass Bird Girl (15 page)

Thrillingly Private

E
die had her supper early and then she went upstairs to have a bath. Miss Fotheringay explained that as her parents were coming she was going to put Edie in the little room off hers, rather than in the spare bedroom as had been planned. Edie was glad as this meant she was able to see Miss Fotheringay's bedroom. It had a thrillingly private atmosphere, with books scattered on the unmade bed, and an armchair strewn with clothes. On the windowsill was a pair of binoculars, and what looked like a rusty metal camping lamp.

‘That's an old Navy flashlight – it belonged to my grandfather,' Miss Fotheringay said, seeing Edie looking at it. She walked towards it, and on the way Edie saw her take a small photograph from the mirror on her dressing table and slip it into the pocket of her cardigan.
‘Do you know how to the make the SOS signal, Edith?' she asked unexpectedly.

Edie shook her head.

‘Three short flashes,' Miss Fotheringay said, picking up the flashlight to show her. ‘Then three long ones, followed by three short again. Always useful to know.'

Edie blinked, for the light was almost blinding. Miss Fotheringay put the flashlight down, and turned to the window. ‘This room has the best view in the whole school,' she said. ‘On a clear day I can see the spires of Oxford.'

‘Is it true you can see into this bedroom from the top window of Helen's tower?' Edie asked impetuously, remembering what Anastasia had told her. ‘I mean . . .' She hesitated, worried that she had given away the prefect's secret.

‘I had not heard that theory,' Miss Fotheringay said delicately. ‘I shall have to remember to close my curtains in the summer. But you can certainly see the tower from here. Look.'

Edie peered out. There was a clear moon, and she found she could just define the black point of the tower looming over the silvery treetops. She thought of the fire, and wondered for a moment if she should tell Miss Fotheringay how certain she was that Anastasia hadn't caused it – and how nearly certain she was that the Man had. But she pushed the thought away. She needed proof – and besides, she did not want to let anything spoil tonight.

Next to Edie's bedroom there was a small bathroom
with green tiles. Miss Fotheringay set the bath running while Edie unpacked her bag.

‘That's for you,' Miss Fotheringay said matter-of-factly, seeing Edie looking in surprise at a pale blue nightdress laid out on her pillow. ‘There you are,' she said, handing her a towel, ‘you won't be disturbed,' and she left before Edie could thank her.

Edie unfolded the nightdress and sat on the bed holding it for a long time. It was new, with its label still attached, and she wondered if Miss Fotheringay had been into a shop and chosen it specially for her, or whether the headmistress stockpiled pale blue night-dresses for stray gated girls. Then she remembered that her bath was running and jumped up just in time to turn off the taps.

If only Miss Fotheringay was a suspect
, Edie thought happily, as she made a neat pile of her clothes,
then I could have a really good spy all round her bedroom
. She did not really wish it. She did not wish for anything except that the weekend should go on for ever. Her mind flickered, briefly, over the image of Miss Fotheringay removing the photograph from the mirror. She wondered if the headmistress had a boyfriend, like Miss Winifred, but she could not imagine what sort of man he might be.

When she went back downstairs to say goodnight, Miss Fotheringay's parents had arrived and were sitting round the table.

‘It's not a comfortable place to live,' a large, forceful-looking old lady was saying. ‘Really, Caroline, wouldn't
you be better getting somewhere in Oxford?'

‘I like it here,' Miss Fotheringay said firmly. Then, seeing Edie in the doorway, she beckoned her over to be introduced.

Edie thought Miss Fotheringay's father had the kindest face and the bluest eyes she had ever seen. ‘I'm an awful bore, I'm afraid,' he said, waving his glass in the air. ‘Can't hear a thing.'

Edie smiled, thinking how unlike Babka he was – her grandmother always talked as though her age and loss of sight made her more interesting than other people. She noticed that Miss Fotheringay was very tender with her father, and that he caught hold of her hand and held it for a moment as she bent over the back of his chair to fill up his drink.

‘Everything all right with you, old girl?' he asked her. ‘Mad school still suiting you?'

‘Ssh,' Miss Fotheringay smiled. ‘Mad school has left behind a spy.'

Miss Fotheringay's tone was flippant, but Edie felt her stomach lurch at the mention of spying. If the head teacher ever found out her reason for coming to Knight's Haddon . . .

‘
Amplius postea
,' the headmistress added and Edie looked up, surprised. The words sounded Latin but Miss Fotheringay had told her that no one spoke Latin any more.

‘
Expectabo
,' the old man replied.

‘Come and sit down, dear,' Miss Fotheringay's mother interrupted, patting the chair beside her. ‘That's a pretty
nightdress you're wearing.'

‘Miss Fotheringay gave it to me,' Edie said shyly.

‘Did she now?' Mrs Fotheringay said, glancing at her daughter approvingly.

‘Edith only came down to say hello and goodnight,' Miss Fotheringay said briskly. ‘It's actually her bedtime.'

Edie found herself shepherded upstairs to her room. She climbed into bed and Miss Fotheringay pulled up the blankets to her chin.

‘Thank you for your help this afternoon,' she said, smiling down at her. ‘Having you made it easier having them. Now will you read or will you go straight to sleep?'

Edie did not think she would be able to concentrate on her book so Miss Fotheringay leant down to kiss her before turning out the light. Edie could not remember the last time anyone had kissed her goodnight. Babka did not like kissing, and Aunt Sophia never climbed the three flights of stairs to Edie's room at Folly Farm. ‘If you want anything just call,' Miss Fotheringay said, but Edie knew she would not dare.

She couldn't sleep. There was a pipe spluttering and the small room felt warm and airless, so she turned on the light and slipped out of bed to open the window. A murmur of voices came up to her and she realised that she was sleeping directly above where the others were sitting. She listened carefully to hear if she could make out any words and found that old Mrs Fotheringay was the clearest. Her voice was almost trumpet-like – a result, Edie supposed, of having always to shout at her
deaf husband.

‘I hope you're still coming to France for Christmas, dear . . . have you booked your ticket?'

‘Yes, yes, I'm coming,' Edie heard her headmistress reply. ‘I must chase my new passport, it still hasn't arrived. When I rang last week they said it had been signed for so there's obviously been a mix-up.'

‘Well, you'd better sort it out . . . your brother won't want to come if you're not there. You know how bored he gets with us.'

Edie leant against the window, greedily gathering these little snippets about Miss Fotheringay's life. Then suddenly she heard a name that made her stand completely still.

‘Michael, this will interest you. You remember Caroline's friend – Anna Carter? That awkward-looking child is her daughter. Arrived here quite by chance a few weeks ago. Isn't that amusing, dear?'

Mr Fotheringay's response, if it came, was not audible. But Edie could hear her headmistress's voice, urgent and pleading: ‘Please, Mummy, Edith doesn't know . . .' and the sound of a window being pulled shut.

Edie heard nothing more.
Caroline's friend, Anna . . .
The words echoed in her head as she went back to bed and lay there in a state of fearful elation, trying to make sense of what she had heard. Edie's mother, the mother she had never known, had been Miss Fotheringay's friend.
You remind me of someone I used to know . . .

Edie thought back in a daze on all their conversations – on the gentle interrogations, when Miss Fotheringay
herself had so often seemed on the brink of confiding something. And now she knew. Miss Fotheringay and her mother had been friends! She wriggled under the heavy blankets, her mind filled with magnificent possibilities. Perhaps Miss Fotheringay would offer to adopt her! For as long as she could remember, Edie had dreamt of a long-lost friend of her mother's turning up and laying claim to her. It had always been a guilty dream, for it seemed ungrateful to Babka, but now that Babka had retreated into a home what harm could there be?

A small, needling voice in her head asked why Miss Fotheringay had not told her of their connection – but Edie silenced it. She was sure to tell her soon enough, she was probably just waiting for the right time. Edie tried to imagine how Miss Fotheringay might present such an intimate revelation, but couldn't.

She lay very still, smiling in the darkness. She did not know how late it was when she finally heard her headmistress come upstairs to bed. But long after Miss Fotheringay's light had gone out Edie was still pinching herself to stay awake, fearing as her eyes grew heavy that it was all a dream, and that if she fell asleep the dream would end.

The Fact of a Deception

E
die was very quiet at breakfast, bursting with questions she dared not ask. She knew so little about her mother, although she had thought about her so much, and the knowledge that Miss Fotheringay had been her friend pushed everything else from her mind. Even Anastasia's problems, she realised guiltily, seemed less vital than before. But she felt impatient. If only everything were out in the open . . .

‘Not very well, I'd say. She's in a complete dream,' mused old Mrs Fotheringay, touching Edie gently on the arm.

Edie looked up, confused, to see the headmistress's mother smiling at her kindly. ‘My husband was just wondering whether you slept well, or did we keep you up with our talking?'

Edie felt her face burn. ‘I slept very well, thank you.'

‘So well that you're still half asleep this morning, eh?' Miss Fotheringay's father said in a teasing voice. ‘She should have been allowed a lie-in,' he added in mock indignation to his daughter.

‘She's too young for lie-ins,' Miss Fotheringay replied firmly.

‘Are you?' Mr Fotheringay asked, looking at Edie with a mischievous expression. ‘Or is it possible your headmistress doesn't know you as well as she thinks?'

‘I . . . I don't know,' Edie stammered, wishing she could think of some light-hearted reply. Everyone was laughing, but she felt too seized up inside to make any pretence at joining in.

After Mr and Mrs Fotheringay left, Edie and her headmistress set off to visit Babka in St Benedict's Nursing Home. Edie sat in the front of the car, staring nervously through the window. She felt she could not bear to wait much longer, and wondered if she dare confront Miss Fotheringay with what she had overheard last night. That way, Edie calculated, she would be spared the awkwardness of having to pretend to be surprised when Miss Fotheringay finally chose to raise the matter herself.
Now is the time
, she thought, feeling her chest tighten – but the words would not come.

‘I expect you would like to see your grandmother on your own,' Miss Fotheringay said, breaking the silence.

Edie frowned, unsure. Babka could be very rude, but Edie found herself wanting to share every part of her life
with Miss Fotheringay, even if it meant subjecting her to Babka's scathing tongue. Then suddenly she understood. Of course Miss Fotheringay did not want to see Babka – Babka might remember her and give the secret away. Miss Fotheringay clearly wanted to tell Edie in her own time, and if that meant keeping the pretence alive a little longer, then Edie would have to swallow her impatience.

‘It might be best,' she agreed.

‘Will you talk to your grandmother about school?' Miss Fotheringay asked.

Edie shrugged. ‘She's not interested in school. We'll probably talk about chess.'

‘She won't want to hear horrid stories about all your teachers?'

Edie hid a smile.
I'll ask her about you!
she thought. If Miss Fotheringay had been a friend of her mother, then Babka would probably have met her. Edie could hardly wait.

It was only eleven o'clock when they arrived at St Benedict's but it looked as though lunch had already been served. Babka was sitting with several other old people in a room dominated by a large television playing an antiques show – at full volume. She was in a wheelchair, her empty plate on the plastic table that trapped her in. When Edie tapped her arm she looked up angrily, but on seeing Edie she greeted her with a tired smile.

She raised a withered arm and a young male nurse came over. ‘I would like to talk to my granddaughter in my room,' she said in an imperious tone.

‘Why is she in a wheelchair?' Edie asked, running to keep up as the nurse wheeled Babka away.

The nurse looked at her in surprise: ‘Ah, sure she cannae see very well,' he said.

‘She doesn't need a—' Edie began, but her grandmother silenced her with an irritable shake of her head.

‘How many times did I teach you
not
to fight battles you can't win, Editha?' she said sharply when the nurse had gone.

‘But you don't have to do everything they say!' Edie protested. ‘If you tell them you don't need a wheelchair then they can't make you use one.'

‘Can't they?' Babka laughed scathingly. ‘There is a lot you don't understand, Editha.'

‘Like what?' Edie asked, alarmed by the bitterness in her grandmother's tone.

When Babka spoke again her face was twisted, and her voice little more than a hiss. ‘I can say what I like to them: “Wheelchair, no wheelchair, pills, no pills, bath, no bath . . .” but they won't listen, not to an old fool like me. They say I'm senile!'

‘
Senile?
'

‘Oh yes, Editha! You had better believe it. Crazy old lady! That is what they call me.'

‘But you're not!' Edie pleaded.

Babka waved a hand impatiently. ‘I am to them. It suits their methods. If I'm mad they don't have to take notice of what I say. It gets me out of the way. In the end, I agree. It suits me to agree. It gets me my lunch.'

Edie started, struck by a sudden recall of her
conversation at the piano with Anastasia . . . ‘
You know, Edie, this is how you send people mad. It's what they used to do, in Russia. And probably, in the end, I shall go mad. People do . . .
'

Then Edie remembered the strange expression on Anastasia's face as she had spoken the words, and she looked at Babka fearfully. Could it be true that someone was trying to get Anastasia out of the way, by showing her to be mad?

‘Don't fret about me, Editha, I don't forget who I am,' Babka said, assuming Edie's concern was for her.

Edie shook herself, trying to shut her mind to the echo of Anastasia's stricken voice. ‘Babka,' she said gently, taking one of the old lady's hands and pressing it between her own, ‘don't you want to hear about my school?'

Babka sniffed. ‘A school chosen by your English relations. The decision was nothing to do with me.'

‘But
I'm
to do with you.'

‘Are you? Then show it. Show me your game.' She nodded to the plastic trolley, on which the chessboard was laid out. Edie wheeled it over and Babka mechanically returned the pieces to their starting positions, feeling each one in her fingers.

Edie started badly and Babka tapped her hand in rebuke. ‘I don't want to play!' she cried, surprising herself by her sudden rebellion. ‘Why won't you let us talk, ever?'

Babka moved her rook and looked at her through pale, unfocused eyes. ‘What do you want us to say?'

‘Why don't I know any of my mother's friends?'

‘You know her sister,' Babka replied.

‘
They
weren't friends. You know they didn't like each other – Aunt Sophia never talks about her.'

Babka shrugged. ‘Perhaps,' she said, ‘your mother was not such an easy person. Perhaps she had no friends.'

‘Of course she had friends,' Edie said furiously. ‘You've just kept them away from me. But now I know one of them!'

‘So,' said Babka. ‘What is their name? Eh? Tell me that, little girl.'

‘C-Caroline Fotheringay,' Edie said, stumbling on her headmistress's Christian name which she had learnt only the day before. Babka burst into an ugly cackle.

‘
Caroline Fotheringay?
Now that takes the biscuit. Oh, my dear Editha, is that the best you can do? What is the saying in your language? With friends like those, who needs enemies? Caroline Fotheringay, indeed.'

Edie felt as though she had been struck in her stomach. She put her hand to her mouth and threw her grandmother a pleading look.

Babka stared back, cat-with-creamy.
She is loving this
, Edie thought, hating her suddenly.
She is enjoying my distress
. ‘Tell me what you mean, Babka,' she begged, her voice rising through a sting of tears. ‘I need to know . . .'

‘Why?' Babka asked suspiciously. ‘Where do you find this name anyway,
Caroline Fotheringay
?' Edie made no answer. ‘So,' said Babka, waving a hand in dismissal, ‘you give me nothing, I give you nothing. It is even-steven.'

‘I don't have anything,' Edie protested weakly. ‘I just heard someone say they were friends.'

‘It is the same with me,' said Babka, shrugging. ‘I cannot tell you what I never knew. She told me nothing, your mother. Just black brows around the name of Caroline Fotheringay. Anna was a good hater, Editha. Oh yes, she did not forgive a quarrel.'

‘What did they quarrel about?'

Babka cocked her head, frowning as if in deep concentration, but when she spoke her tone was impatient. ‘She said that Caroline Fotheringay was a dangerous woman. That her urge to control was out of control. Something like that. It was not interesting to me, Editha – your mother had too many passions. But your father was not like that and he also hate this woman. They were joined against her.'

‘But why?' Edie asked, her voice trembling.

Babka shook her head. ‘Enough is enough,' she announced grandly. ‘It is the past. There is no more to say. Now you tell me something, Editha, something about your new life. What is the play you mentioned in your letter?'

‘
The Merchant of Venice
,' Edie replied flatly.

Babka smiled. ‘
All that glisters is not gold
. Remember that, Editha, with your English relations. And now I am tired of talking. Ring the bell, please.'

When Edie returned to the hall Miss Fotheringay greeted her with her warmest smile. Edie looked back at her helplessly. Every part of her longed to trust her headmistress. Perhaps, she thought wildly, her grandmother
had been playing games, in some desperate attempt to claw back power. Perhaps it was Babka, not Miss Fotheringay whose urge to control was out of control . . . ?

But why hadn't Miss Fotheringay been open with her? If she had been her mother's enemy, as Babka claimed, then her secrecy made sense. She must have done something terrible. What? Edie followed her in silence to the car, Cousin Charles's words ringing in her ears: ‘
Sometimes the only thing you have to go on is the fact of a deception . . . You have to work backwards from there . . .
'

And there
was
a deception. Miss Fotheringay had been deceiving her from the start.

Edie had neglected her mission all weekend but now a new suspicion began to grow on her: could it be that Miss Fotheringay had some part to play in the persecution of Anastasia? She scrunched her eyes tight, recoiling at the very idea of it – but the seed, once planted, took root at an alarming rate.

She knew – from Cousin Charles – that Miss Fotheringay had been dismissive of Anastasia's problems when Prince Stolonov had raised them with her. And Anastasia was convinced that Miss Fotheringay had told the prince she was making things up. The headmistress seemed determined to make out that everything was Anastasia's fault. But why? The working backwards, Edie resolved, should begin at once.

‘Well, how was she?' Miss Fotheringay asked, as they pulled out of the car park.

‘They make her sit in a wheelchair,' Edie said dully.

Miss Fotheringay threw her a sympathetic glance. ‘It often happens, in homes. It's upsetting, I know. How was her mood?'

Edie shrugged.

‘I have a feeling you don't want to talk,' Miss Fotheringay speculated correctly, and reached to turn on the news.

When they got home Miss Fotheringay produced a delicious lunch of ham and pâté and soft round cheeses, and little tarts and biscuits and sweet cakes, all pulled from the fridge in their brown paper bags and spread like a picnic on the kitchen table. Edie sat down, resolving neither to eat nor speak. She saw something perplexed in her headmistress's expression, as though she were wondering what she had done to hurt her.

‘Eat up, Edith,' Miss Fotheringay said quietly, putting food on her plate.

Edie lowered her eyes, hearing another unwelcome echo of Cousin Charles's voice:
It often turns out that the person deceiving you is someone you have grown to trust . . . to be good at this work you must detach . . . Are you capable of that, Edith? I have a hunch you might be . . .

After lunch the headmistress went into the garden to plant some bulbs, leaving Edie to do her maths homework. But she was very far from being able to settle down to her sums. She walked over to the window, and waited until she could see Miss Fotheringay in the garden below. Then she picked up the telephone on the desk and dialled Cousin Charles's number.

It was answered at once. ‘Rodriguez.'

‘It's Edith.'

‘Edith! Do you know, I was about to write to you.'

‘You – you said to ring if anything was ever . . . urgent.'

‘Of course. You have something to report?'

‘Y-yes.'

‘About Anastasia's recent troubles?'