The Glass Bird Girl (20 page)

Behind the Headlines

E
die woke to the familiar sound of a bell. Startled, she pushed back the covers, looking about her in surprise. It was dark outside, and in the thin orange glow of the bedside lamp the furniture looked eerie and unfamiliar.

She saw the plastic trolley by her bed and wondered if she was in Babka's room at the nursing home. ‘Babka,' she croaked – but it was Anastasia's voice she heard:

‘You can't keep me from her any longer. You can't, you can't! I know she's better because Helen heard Miss Mannering say so.'

‘Just wait—' Matron protested, as the door opened and Anastasia ran in. Her face was flushed and excited, but seeing Edie her expression turned to dismay.

‘Oh, Edie,' she gasped, sinking into the chair by the
bed and clutching her hand. ‘You look awful.'

‘Not dead yet,' Edie smiled.

The two friends sat in silence, looking at one another as if noticing things they had never seen before.

‘Water,' Edie whispered at last, pointing to the bedside table where there was a jug and a glass. There was also a forest of get well cards, and the little glass bird perched among them, its violet eyes gleaming.

Anastasia filled a glass, and gently raised Edie's head on the pillow, then held it to her lips. ‘Tell me what happened after they took you from the tower,' Edie asked finally, waving the glass away.

‘I can't really – not all of it, anyway,' Anastasia said simply. ‘They say I was unconscious for nearly three hours. And when I woke up the first thing I heard was your name. They were arguing – Miss Winifred and the doctor – and it was all about you, Edie, they were talking about you.' A shadow passed over Anastasia's face. ‘Actually, Papa says it's best if I don't talk about it. Do you mind?'

Edie thought that perhaps she did mind, but lacked the strength to say so.

‘Thank you for not making me,' Anastasia said. ‘Papa said it was better if I didn't think about it. That I would forget quicker. Papa thinks the world of you, by the way.'

‘He doesn't know me,' said Edie quietly.

‘He knows that it was
you
who saved me. Do you remember anything? Like Miss Fotheringay finding you in the tower, and you giving her the ferry tickets – that's
how the police caught up with us.'

Edie frowned, wishing she could find a way through the haze of images which kept returning to her . . . She remembered the storm, and the voices floating up the narrow stairway, and the soot choking her in the chimney. Then she remembered lying in a freezing ball by the window, and the relief when she had looked up into Miss Fotheringay's eyes.

But today Edie had buried herself under the covers, and driven Miss Fotheringay away. She tried to push the rush of confused thoughts from her mind, listening as Anastasia told her how her father had arrived at the school by helicopter and tried to take her away at once.

‘He was on a plane to Mexico when it happened. He got the news as soon as he landed, then he had to turn round and fly all the way back again, and by the time he got back to England I'd left the hospital and was back at school. But I refused to go with him. I wasn't going to leave you here and the doctor said you couldn't be moved. So then Papa took rooms at the Old Stoke in Oxford because he said he couldn't bear to let me out of his sight. Charles stayed a night and we all had supper together – and honestly, Edie, from the way he was talking, anyone would have thought he'd masterminded the whole rescue himself. I had to remind him that he'd called you off the job.'

‘What did he say?'

‘He just laughed and said that I was a minx, and you were his blood relation, so of course you didn't give up.'

‘But that's so . . .' said Edie in a choked voice.

‘I know,' Anastasia said cheerfully. ‘Grown-ups, eh? Papa's also trying to claim some credit. He says that people always laugh at him for being over-protective, but wasn't it just as well that he'd employed a spy to keep an eye on me because if he hadn't . . .' Anastasia looked at Edie with a grateful smile. ‘Well, he says it doesn't bear thinking about.'

‘But he stopped believing in you.'

‘I know, and you wouldn't believe how sorry he is. He's promised he'll never doubt me again. Oh, Edie, just think of the tricks we can play. We can start as soon as you're better. Papa's going to stay in Oxford until the end of term!'

Edie looked at her friend sadly. Her own mind was still in chaos, but Anastasia seemed to have put all the trouble behind her, as if it had just been a scene in a play.

‘You've been
so
ill, Edie, we had to pray for you in assembly. Even Phoebe looked quite solemn about it. And then in history Miss Mannering wrote “pneumonia” on the blackboard, and only half the class knew what it was. I'd heard of it – Mummy had it once – but I thought it was spelt like “new money”, with an “a” on the end. We were allowed to spend the whole lesson writing cards to you, and then I was allowed to bring them up to the sickroom – Birdy came too, making her a sort of carrier-pigeon – and when I got here I found Helen was dropping off a card of her own.'

‘Has the play happened?'

Anastasia shook her head. ‘It's been cancelled until
next term. I said Portia couldn't possibly go on without her maid.'

‘
Next
term,' Edie murmured.

‘That's right, in the second or third week . . . that's what Helen said,' Anastasia went on eagerly. ‘And the other years are delaying their plays too – they'll all be judged together. Just think, Edie, everything's being held over, just for you.'

Edie turned her head. It was not Anastasia's voice she heard now, but that of Lyle, calling after her in the woods: ‘
If you hate us, go. Go on, run away . . .
' Edie had run, but now her job was over. She wasn't needed at Knight's Haddon any more.

‘But next term . . .' she began.

‘Next term what?' came a quiet voice, and Edie looked up to see the tall angular form of Miss Fotheringay advancing towards the foot of the bed.

‘The headmistress has been waiting to speak to you for days now,' Matron said. ‘Do you feel well enough for it, duck, or shall I tell her to go?'

‘I can talk now if – if you like,' Edie said to Miss Fotheringay, smiling uncertainly at Matron's cheek.

‘I hope that doesn't mean
I
have to go away too,' Anastasia moaned, seeming quite unabashed by the headmistress's presence.

‘I am afraid it does,' Matron said firmly. ‘One person at a time. Doctor's orders. Now hurry along or you'll be late for supper. Or is Daddy taking us somewhere fancy again?'

‘Don't be horrid,' Anastasia retorted playfully. ‘Papa
can't help it that he spoils me.'

‘I think that may be true,' Miss Fotheringay murmured, as she took Anastasia's place by the bed. ‘Now what can I get you, my dear,' she asked Edie. ‘Some tea?'

Edie shook her head, both pleased and embarrassed at this unaccustomed endearment. Miss Fotheringay looked at her kindly, but even when the others had gone she did not speak.

‘It's not very easy to talk,' Edie said faintly, wondering if she were supposed to account for what had happened.

‘I know that,' Miss Fotheringay replied. ‘It's my turn to talk, and there are things I should have told you long before now. But I might begin by saying that you are the bravest child I've ever met. Or perhaps,' she added thoughtfully, ‘there is one other person who was your match.'

‘It was much worse for Anastasia,' Edie began earnestly. ‘She—'

‘I'm not talking about Anastasia. She had no choice but to be involved in the drama. You chose to help her. I'm just so sorry that you couldn't trust me.'

‘I – I did,' Edie protested. ‘I mean, I could . . . but then—' She faltered, as Babka's hateful words came flooding back: ‘
With friends like those, who needs enemies? She said she was a dangerous woman, Editha. Her urge to control was out of control. A dangerous woman
.'

‘You discovered that I had not been straight with you?' Miss Fotheringay suggested.

‘I know that you knew my mother,' Edie said, hearing the accusation in her voice. ‘I found out that weekend,
when your parents came. I didn't mean to eavesdrop but your mother talked so loudly I couldn't help it. I was excited, but I wondered why you hadn't told me, especially after all the things we'd talked about. Then the next day I asked Babka and she said—' She stopped, at the end of voice and strength. ‘It doesn't matter, anyway,' she said, in a quite different tone.

‘Of course it matters,' Miss Fotheringay said fiercely. ‘And now, Edith, you must listen to what I have to say.'

Edie looked at her headmistress, and noted the flushed cheeks and the imperious light in her eyes, and she felt a strength come to her from she knew not where. ‘Why must I?' she cried. ‘I don't want to hear about my mother from you! I thought I did but I don't, not any more. I've built up a picture of her, you see, and it's all I've got and I don't want to let it go.'

‘And I don't want to take anything away from you, Edith, except—'

‘Then don't!' Edie said, with sudden violence. ‘Don't talk to me about my mother! I don't want to listen and you can't make me.'

For a moment Miss Fotheringay looked angry. Then she got up and walked to the window. ‘You win,' she said, lowering her eyes. ‘For now.'

Edie sank back on her pillows. ‘D-did Miss Winifred light the fire in Helen's tower?' She wanted suddenly to bring Miss Fotheringay back.

‘Yes,' the headmistress replied, without turning round. ‘It was part of her plan to make Anastasia look as though she needed help. Ah,' she added, pressing her
face against the glass. ‘The police have just found another journalist lurking in the bushes.'

‘A journalist?' Edie asked in surprise.

‘The place has been swarming with them.
Russian Princess in Boarding School Kidnap Plot
. Pretty good headline, wouldn't you say?'

‘I suppose so, although . . .'

‘What?' ‘Is that the whole story? I mean, if Miss Winifred and the doctor wanted to kidnap Anastasia, why didn't they just snatch her? Why did they first have to make her appear mad?'

‘Time, Edith. Time explains everything. If they'd snatched her in the village we'd have alerted the police within minutes. They needed the alibi of the doctor's appointment to give them time to get to the coast. But maybe something else will emerge at the trial. You are quite right to look behind the headlines.' Miss Fotheringay turned to face her. ‘It is what your mother always did,' she said, in a voice that was almost harsh.

‘I – I know . . .'

‘Edith, if you would only—'

‘No!' Edie cried, stumbling into the speech she had rehearsed in her head. ‘I know that you and my mother hated each other, and I don't want to hear about it. It doesn't mean that I have to hate you. I . . . I don't hate you . . . I . . .'

Edie saw an expression of puzzled horror on Miss Fotheringay's face, but she went on, fitfully: ‘J-just because you hated my mother it doesn't mean that I
have to stop loving her—'

‘Hated her?' Miss Fotheringay cried. ‘I didn't hate your mother! I loved her! She was the best friend I ever had!'

Edie looked at her headmistress in astonishment. She wondered if it was some sort of cruel jest, but Miss Fotheringay returned her stare with one of cool perturbation. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks even redder than before, but when she spoke her voice was steady.

‘It's true that we quarrelled. And the fact we didn't –
I
didn't – put things right before your mother was killed is my greatest regret.'

‘What – what did you quarrel about?'

‘Risk,' Miss Fotheringay answered gravely. ‘We quarrelled about risk. Now, will you let me tell you the story?'

Miss Fotheringay paced the length of the room, as if winding herself up to speak. Edie did not hear the deep intake of breath, or see the tightening of her eyes. By the time the headmistress returned to her seat by the bed her face was composed again. But she talked as if to herself, her eyes fixed in the distance.

‘I met Anna at school, when we were both the age that you are now, and even then she stood out from all the rest,' Miss Fotheringay began. ‘She had a restlessness about her, an energy that lit her like a flare. She wasn't happy at home. She didn't get on with her sister – your Aunt Sophia – and she felt that my parents understood her better than her own. We were day girls, and she liked to come back to my house after school, and often
she would stay the night. We all looked upon the spare bedroom as hers.

‘After school we went up to university together, to the same college at Cambridge, and after university we shared a flat in London. Anna was often away in those days – she was making her name as a journalist, reporting on the break-up of the old Soviet empire.'