Authors: Jess Vallance
I thought about what Mr Hurst had said all the way home. ‘A difficult time of it,’
he’d said. What could that mean?
The important thing, I thought, was whether the phrase ‘difficult time’ had come from the new girl herself or from Mr Hurst. If it was from the girl or her family, it could mean anything. It could mean nothing. Some people announced they were having a difficult time if they’d got behind with their homework or if they’d had an unfortunate haircut. Mr Hurst, though … he didn’t really go in for melodrama. He probably wouldn’t call it a ‘difficult time’ unless you’d been sentenced to life in prison for an offence you didn’t commit or had had at least two limbs amputated. In a way, I hoped the words had come from him. It would be good to meet someone with a bit of mystery and intrigue about them. Someone who would make me look like the normal one.
When I got home that afternoon, I found my grandparents exactly where I found them every day: Nan in the kitchen standing at her ironing board, occasionally turning to the stove to stir a bubbling pot of some kind of sludgy stew, Granddad in the living room, sitting bolt upright in his beige armchair listening to the cricket. As usual, he was wearing a proper shirt and tie, shoes shined to perfection, white hair combed backwards.
I went into the lounge and put a crossword on the arm of Granddad’s chair. I’d nicked it from history I think – it was a photocopied thing, all the clues describing different twentieth-century world leaders or stages to war or something.
‘Here you go, Granddad. Got this for you. It’s a tricky one!’
Granddad looked up at me and smiled, but he didn’t say anything so I just picked his pen up from where it’d rolled on the floor and gave his hand a squeeze. Just when I was going to take my hand away he put his other hand on top and we stayed like that for a minute, in a hand sandwich. Until I slid mine out and then Granddad just smiled again, but in a bit of a sad way perhaps.
Granddad loved doing puzzles, especially crosswords. Nan encouraged it – she said it kept his mind sharp. I didn’t see the point of bringing up the fact that if you looked at one of his completed grids for more than a second or two, you’d quickly see he’d just filled it in with any words that would fit the squares. In fact, by this point, I think he was just sticking any old letters in there. Looking back now, I think Nan knew this really. It just wasn’t something anyone wanted to acknowledge. All my life Granddad had been there, always so capable, fixing things, not talking a lot but always offering a few wise words of advice and a kind smile any time I was down in the dumps. I hated to think about what was happening to him, about that clever old brain of his slowly crumbling away. I suppose Nan felt the same, although she’d never say so. It wasn’t really Nan’s style to talk about all the parts of our lives that had gone wrong. Which is probably why she ended up not saying very much at all.
I went upstairs to my bedroom and tucked the copy of
Brave New World
that I’d picked up from the school library under my mattress. I was a big reader. I could spend whole days absorbed in a book, whole weekends in the library or the park, completely oblivious to my surroundings. ‘Escapism’, I suppose they’d call it, but I never really liked that term much myself. I mean, who is it exactly who gets to decide which parts of your life are real and which parts are only allowed to count as an escape from that reality? I preferred to think that good books
were
my real life and all the other stuff – school, chores, all the rest of it – was just an interruption. I was quite into dystopias at this point. I’d already worked my way through
1984
and
Fahrenheit 451
. It fascinated me, the idea of these awful oppressive societies. I suppose it was just nice to read about people whose lives were more depressing than my own. Helped keep my spirits up, really. I was pretty sure Nan wouldn’t share my captivation though.
There were at least ten books under my mattress at this point which was on account of the fact that Nan had very strict ideas about which books were ‘suitable’ and which might lead me astray in some unspecified way. Nan categorised most books, TV, clothes, people – most
things
– in the second category. Along a single shelf above my bed were the things that Nan had decided were acceptable: a copy of the Bible, a small selection of Enid Blyton books,
Pride and Prejudice
, a jigsaw puzzle showing an oil painting of Lake Windermere and an atlas. I’m fairly sure that Nan had never read
Pride and Prejudice
any more than she’d read
1984
, but that didn’t matter. Nan’s verdicts of unsuitability never had much to do with logical reasoning.
I’d lived with my grandparents since I was two and a half. Since the day my alcoholic mum decided that living with me was too much to cope with and swallowed eighty-four sleeping pills, which turned out to be just enough to send her into that special kind of sleep from which you never wake up. I was left to shiver in a disintegrating nappy and forage for food in the bin. Apparently it was four days until anyone found me. What with all the drinking and the drug-taking to be doing, not to mention the odd bit of shoplifting to pay for it all, Mum didn’t have much time for friends and she hadn’t bothered to keep Nan and Granddad posted on her whereabouts so they were rather surprised to find out I existed at all. I suppose there must’ve been a funeral although I don’t know who would’ve gone to it. I’m pretty sure I didn’t. Who knows where my dad was. Who knows
who
he was, come to that.
Before you start feeling all sorry for me at this point – don’t bother. I don’t feel sad about my parents. If I had to put an emotion to it, I’d say angry would be the most accurate choice. Angry at how Mum could’ve done that to Nan and Granddad. I wonder what they would’ve been like if she hadn’t. I wonder if Granddad would still be well if she was still alive. But even so, it’s just not a big deal for me. You’re just going to have to take my word for that.
Dinner was at six-thirty sharp, just as it had been every day for the last twelve years. Wednesday meant beef stew and carrots. Having specific meals on set days was important, Nan always said. Made sure we were ‘balanced’. Mealtimes in our house were quiet. Nan didn’t believe in having the radio on when we were eating, so usually the only sounds would be our cutlery scraping on our plates and the kitchen clock ticking loudly on the wall above the door. I don’t know if there’s a more depressing sound on earth than a ticking clock.
‘How’s the cricket?’ Nan asked Granddad after a while.
Granddad nodded and chewed slowly. ‘Good,’ he replied. ‘Fine.’
Nan knew better than to ask about the score or runs or batters or anything. Neither of us wanted to watch Granddad frown as he searched his mind for the details of the match, only to shake his head, defeated, when nothing came to him.
We were quiet again.
‘How was school?’ Nan said.
‘OK,’ I said, pushing my meat around my plate.
We couldn’t afford the good bits of a cow, so we always had the stuff everyone else would probably have thrown away. Chewy, gristly stuff. Ears. Nostrils. Arseholes, probably. I’d rather have gone vegetarian but there’d have been no way Nan would’ve stood for that kind of ‘new age, hippy claptrap’.
At dinnertimes I always tried to think of jolly, upbeat anecdotes I could tell them about my day, anything to try to make the room feel less gloomy, but the truth was, nothing very jolly or upbeat ever really happened to me. I didn’t mind making things up from time to time but it was a bit of a creative challenge, inventing new stories every evening. At least today I had my little chat with Mr Hurst to tell them about.
‘There’s a new girl coming,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow. I’ve got to look after her. Mr Hurst said I’d been especially picked to show her around and things, you know – because they think I’m a good advert for the school.’
‘Don’t play with your food,’ Nan replied.
Then after a pause she added, ‘What do you mean, new? Who is she?’ Nan peered at me suspiciously, no doubt already deciding that this new girl was likely to be unsuitable.
I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Alberta Fitzroy-Black is her name. That’s all I know. But I’ll have to look after her and help her settle in and everything. It’s quite a big responsibility really.’ I decided it wasn’t a good idea to mention the difficult time she’d had. That was bound to be seen as evidence of unsuitability.
Nan crinkled her nose. ‘Funny name,’ she said. ‘Never understood why people feel the need to double-barrel themselves like that. What makes them think they’re so bloody special, that’s what I want to know. She’ll be stuck up, that one. Mark my words.’
I nodded and we finished our meal in silence.
The thing about not having much in the way of excitement in your life is that anything out of the ordinary suddenly seems very big indeed. Almost too big sometimes. I felt like this about the arrival of the new girl. Although initially I’d been a bit excited about being singled out to look after her, the more I stewed about Alberta Fitzroy-Black, the more it seemed like a bad idea that she should be handed over to me. As I walked to school the next morning, I used the tiny nuggets of information I had to build up quite a picture of her:
She was posh, obviously, and Nan was right – that’d mean she’d think she was too good for Whistle Down. Her ‘difficult time’ would’ve been some falling out with another posh girl at an exclusive private school. Her parents would dote on her and would’ve assured her that the whole thing was all the other,
nasty
girl’s fault, so she’d be all full of angst but she’d have that righteous way about her that people get when they feel they’ve been wronged. And she definitely wouldn’t like me, of course. She’d ditch me at the first opportunity and be off with Megan or someone, laughing at how ridiculous it was that they’d tried to partner her up with a loser like me in the first place. No, I decided. I didn’t want anything to do with her. I’d find Mr Hurst and ask him to buddy her up with someone else. They were welcome to her.
But as I headed up to the staffroom, hoping to catch Mr Hurst before the bell, I bumped into him coming the opposite way.
‘Ah, Frances!’ he called when he saw me. ‘Good, there you are. She’s here already. Alberta. Come and meet her.’
She was sitting in reception, on one of the cracked leather chairs that were arranged in a semicircle around a coffee table. She was sitting upright, her hands folded in her lap, but she didn’t look nervous as such. More just alert. Keen, I suppose.
‘Alberta!’ Mr Hurst called as we approached.
She turned to look at us. Her expressions seemed exaggerated – wide, surprised eyes, then breaking into a huge, delighted smile. She stood up.
‘Hello!’ she said, and she actually waved. I wanted to laugh.
She seemed so grown up. That was the first thing I thought. Almost like an adult. She was big. Not fat, not at all, but tall-ish. Five foot nine, she’d later tell me. A good half a foot taller than me. She wasn’t lanky though, she didn’t stoop like lots of the tall ones do. She looked sturdy. Solid. Her skin was tanned and her hair was flecked with blonde like she’d been in the sun. She looked clean and wholesome. Everything about her glowed with health.
She stood and looked at us, holding her bag in both hands, letting it dangle around her knees. Even if I hadn’t already known, her uniform would’ve automatically given her away as a new girl.
The uniform at Whistle Down was black and white. The boys had to wear a tie, but the best the teachers could get out of most of the girls was black trousers and some kind of white top. Some of us – me included – wore the official school sweatshirt, which showed the school’s leaf logo embroidered in blue in the corner, but that’s about as smart as we got. Bert, however, was sporting the full works: pleated black skirt, white shirt with proper collar and tie and – this was the real giveaway – black Whistle Down blazer complete with light blue logo and dark blue trim. I didn’t think I’d seen that on anyone older than Year Seven before. The thing was though, she actually didn’t look bad. Somehow, she made the whole thing seem rather stylish.
Mr Hurst extended his hand as if going to shake Bert’s, but he seemed to think better of it at the last moment and gave her an awkward pat on the upper arm instead.
‘Welcome, welcome!’ he said. ‘Welcome to Whistle Down Academy. I’m Mr Hurst, your form tutor, so I’m afraid you’ll be seeing me twice a day, for this year at least.’ He did a nervous laugh and Bert beamed back and nodded.
‘And this,’ Mr Hurst went on, ‘is Frances. She’s in your tutor group – 10KH that is – and she’ll be looking after you for a few days.’
‘Hey,’ I said, giving her a wide smile that I hoped said ‘welcome’ rather than ‘I’m mental’.
‘Hi, Frances!’ Bert said, turning her attention to me. I noticed straight away that Bert had this way of gazing at you when she was talking to you, like she thought you were quite important. ‘I love that name. Do you know, I met a family in Brazil once who called every one of their children Frances. Two girls, and then Francis with an i for the three boys. “It’s our favourite name,” the parents said when we asked about it. That was all there was to it as far as they were concerned. How brilliant is that?’
I blinked, slightly overwhelmed by this onslaught of information. ‘Uh, yes. Brilliant.’
Her voice interested me. There was something very clear about it. A little bit posh, but not very. She just sounded very, very English.
Bert laughed. ‘They had to have nicknames,’ she went on. ‘The Franceses I mean. To tell them apart. I can’t remember them all now though …’ She frowned as she thought about it.
‘Well, anyway, shall we –’ Mr Hurst said, starting to turn back towards the main school building.
‘Criceto!’ Bert said suddenly, her frown clearing and her smile back, brighter than ever. ‘That was one of them. Criceto. It means hamster, in Portuguese. He was little, that one.
Ginormous
teeth though. Perfect name for him, really.’
Bert laughed, poking her own front teeth over her bottom lip and scrunching up her nose.
I just stared at her. I wasn’t really sure what to make of it all, of this tall, tanned, slightly posh girl I’d only just met, standing in reception in a shirt and tie, doing an impression of a Brazilian hamster.
I think Mr Hurst could tell he was going to have to be more decisive if he was going to move things on. ‘Right, yes,’ he said briskly. ‘Very good. Let’s get to our tutor room now though, shall we? So there’s time for you to meet everyone before lessons begin.’
‘Oh yes,’ Bert said, nodding. ‘Terrific. Let’s.’
Bert followed us back to registration, the whole time gazing around with her mouth slightly open, as if we were leading her through a mythical land. On the way we passed the girls’ toilets and I wondered if I should point them out to Bert, but I chickened out. I felt self-conscious starting my tour with Mr Hurst there. I decided to wait till I had Bert to myself.
Mr Hurst was a geography teacher so our tutor room was in the humanities area of the school – Green Block. All the areas of the school were named in this way – Blue Block for science, Red Block for arts and so on. The school wasn’t really divided into blocks at all though, it was just a spiral of corridors arranged around the main hall so who knows why they decided to call everything a block. I always thought it made the place sound like a prison. Maybe that was the idea.
When we got to the classroom, most of the rest of our tutor group were already there, slouching across the chairs, their feet up on the desks.
Gary Chester and Jac Dubois were tossing a mini rugby ball between them. As we came in, it bounced off the wall and hit Megan Brebner on the back of the head just as she was applying her lip gloss. The stick shot off to the side, painting a bright pink line across her cheek. Megan’s mouth hung open, and she blinked a few times. Then she got up and thumped Gary on the arm.
‘You’re such a
dick
,’ she said. She bent down to use the bottom of Gary’s shirt to wipe her cheek clean and the whole class laughed.
I didn’t join in the laughing though. It wasn’t because I didn’t find it funny so much, just because it wasn’t my place. It’s like when you’re on the bus and some people behind you are sharing a funny story. You don’t join in, do you? You don’t sit there giggling. You just accept that you’re not part of it and mind your own business.
‘That’s enough!’ Mr Hurst called, clapping his hands. ‘Gary, Jac, sit down now. Put your toys away. Megan, you know the rules about make-up. If you’re going to break them at least be subtle about it. Everybody, quiet please.’
I took my own seat at the front of the class and there was the sound of shuffling and scraping chairs as people settled into their places. A few people were looking at Bert now, noticing her for the first time.
‘Everyone,’ Mr Hurst called. ‘I’d like to introduce Alberta. She’s joining this tutor group today. I’m sure you’ll all make her very welcome.’ He sat down at his desk and turned to Bert. ‘Uh, Alberta? Would you like to … say a few words, introduce yourself?’
God, I thought, what an awful thing to make her do – surely no new person wants to stand at the front and introduce themselves. Bert seemed unfazed though.
She smiled around at everyone. ‘Hello!’ she said, in her loud, clear voice. ‘I’m named after the place, Alberta. Not the big one in Canada, the little one in Virginia. It’s tiny actually – only about a hundred people live there. Mum and Dad were driving across America when Mum started to get terribly sick so they stopped at the chemist there – you know, for the pregnancy test – and so that’s where they were when they found out I was on the way: Alberta, Virginia. I suppose they might’ve decided to call me Virginia but I must say on balance I think I prefer Alberta. There’s something rather austere about the name Virginia, I always think.’ Then she stopped herself, her eyes wide again. ‘Oh sorry,’ she said. ‘I mean, if anyone’s name is Virginia or anything. It is a lovely name still, just wouldn’t really suit
me
I don’t think.’
We all just stared at her for a moment, fascinated by the unusual creature before us. You didn’t really come across people like Bert at Whistle Down.
‘Anyway, I’d best sit down,’ she said to Mr Hurst. ‘Shall I sit next to Frances?’
‘Uh, yes. Yes, good idea,’ Mr Hurst said, clearly as taken aback as the rest of us.
As Bert headed to her seat, Jac Dubois lifted his arm and held up one index finger high above his head. Over the other side of the room, Gary caught sight of the gesture and laughed.
‘No way, man! You can’t be serious.’ He shook his head. ‘You got no standards, mate.’
Jac just shrugged and smirked, and a few of the other boys laughed.
Bert looked between them, confused, her smile fading for the first time. Then she slipped into the chair next to me. I could smell her shampoo, I think. Or maybe it was the soap her clothes had been washed in. She smelt like apples and cut grass. A sunny sort of smell.
‘That’s enough, Jac!’ Mr Hurst said, managing to raise his voice at last.
Jac smirked again and lowered his hand. ‘What did he mean, that boy?’ Bert whispered to me as Mr Hurst began the register. ‘Why did he put his finger up like that?’
‘Nothing,’ I whispered back. ‘They’re morons. Don’t worry about it.’
Bert frowned but she didn’t say anything else. Instead she opened her bag and took out a whole selection of items – a brown leather pencil case, a long metal ruler, an A4 notebook, a calculator and, for some reason, a bag of cherries. I watched her, wondering what she was up to.
She saw me looking and misread my expression. She held the bag of fruit out to me. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered. ‘Would you like one?’
I shook my head. ‘No, I’m all right thanks. But … you know, you don’t really need any stuff at the moment. This is just registration. We’ll be moving for first period.’
Bert nodded. ‘Ah. OK,’ she said. ‘Say no more.’ She slid her things back into her bag, then she turned to me again. ‘What’s registration?’
I looked at her, wondering if she was for real. I decided at this early stage in the game I was going to have to humour her.
‘Well, it’s this bit,’ I said. ‘Where Mr Hurst takes the register. To check who’s here. Then we’ll go to lessons after that.’
Bert nodded, but she had the slightest crinkle between her eyebrows. ‘I see. Jolly good.’
Bert obviously hadn’t forgotten Jac Dubois and his finger because as soon as Mr Hurst closed the register, she brought it up again. ‘Tell me, please,’ she said, her blue eyes wide. ‘Was it about me?’
I sighed. ‘It just means one,’ I said. ‘Out of ten.’
Bert frowned and she looked upwards, trying to work it out. ‘One out of ten? Well that can’t be a good thing, whatever it is. One seems ever so low.’
I tried to think of something I could say to gloss over the matter but nothing came to me.
I sighed again. ‘It means out of ten, he’d give you
one
.’
I cringed at the sound of it. I wished I could’ve thought of some other explanation instead. But it didn’t really matter because Bert still wasn’t getting it.
‘But why? Based on what? What have I done to deserve such an abysmal rating?’ She didn’t seem annoyed, just genuinely concerned.
‘No, it means …’
I hesitated, not sure how to explain it any more explicitly than I already had. I was having a hard time making an assessment of Bert. I wasn’t sure what she’d be more offended by – the truth of what Jac meant or if I left her thinking she’d got a low score for some reason. The last thing I wanted to do was upset or embarrass the girl when she’d only been at school five minutes. I was annoyed with Jac Dubois. Why did he have to be such an idiot?
‘It just means he’d like to … kiss you,’ I said eventually. ‘He’d like to give you
one
kiss.’ That would do – not quite as pervy as the truth but at least she’d know she hadn’t done anything wrong.
‘Oh!’ Bert said, blinking. ‘Oh, OK.’ She frowned again but she didn’t say anything else on the subject.
I hoped I’d done the right thing.