No Talking after Lights (10 page)

All three knew how difficult it would be to find a determined thief. The staff could threaten or hint that they knew the identity of the culprit and it would be best if she owned up. Then they could warn that the whole school would be punished unless the guilty child came forward, and this sometimes worked if she had confided in someone else. But if a girl had the wit to keep her mouth shut, they were powerless.

‘There is, of course, no proof that the thief is a member of my class,' Miss Valentine added hopefully.

‘No
proof
, no … Of course not. Well, for the time being I don't think we say anything publicly. It may all blow over. You might just ask Anne Hetherington whether she's found her pen yet.'

‘Right. Well, the O levels will be waiting for me.'

When she had gone the Head and her Deputy looked at each other and sighed. Stealing, like poison-pen letters, was one of those adolescent crimes that broke out from time to time, but it was bad for the school's reputation and for their authority.

‘Let's hope that pen turns up,' said Peggy Roberts.

When Mick emerged from the study during Break, Flick was waiting for her in the Reading Corner. Together they vanished through a side door and took the long way round back to their form-room.

‘She swore me to secrecy,' said Mick.

‘Cross my heart and hope to die.'

‘Someone's stealing.'

‘Well, we knew
that
. Stale buns. What else did they think had happened to the photo frame and writing-case and all that? Just vanished into thin air? But
who?
'

‘Haven't the foggiest. They don't know either. They asked me if anyone had been' - she mimicked Mrs Birmingham's weighty, aristocratic voice - ‘“behaving in an unusual fashion”.'

‘In an
unusual
fashion? So you said, yes, everyone!'

‘Shut up, Flick, don't be daft. It is serious, actually.'

Their sandals scrunched across the gravel. Secretly they were excited. This was a drama, and they were the first to know about it. Apart from the thief, of course.

‘Old Ma B doesn't want me to say anything about it yet. Our best hope is to lie low and watch.'

‘Who do
you
suppose it is?'

‘Haven't a clue. Could be Gogs. She's in your dorm.'

‘She's always writing secret letters after lights and things.'

‘Well, watch her, OK? That's your job. Watch her.
Who else? Has anybody got a grudge against Anne? Her pen's missing.'

‘I thought she'd lost it.'

‘Well, perhaps. Or perhaps someone's pinched it.'

‘She's got a Parker 51. Like Gogs.'

‘And hang on to all
our
things. I'll be livid if anything of ours gets pinched.'

The twins joined hands and ran back to their form-room, their short white socks flashing, their bunches bobbing stubbily.

The summer days became warmer, started earlier and ended later. The school settled into its disciplined routine and even Constance found herself adapting, despite herself, to the pattern of days divided into forty-minute sections. The teachers began to emerge from anonymity and assemble themselves as distinct figures, those she liked and those who liked her. They ceased to be merely ‘grown-ups' among a crowd of hostile girls. In the first week of term she had learned to recognize their faces and put names to them, then to identify their handwriting, and finally she was able to anticipate what a lesson would be like - who was strict and made you sit still and keep quiet; who let you muck about; who gave generous marks and who jumped on every weeny mistake or untidiness. The English mistress, Miss Worthrop, was her favourite, and not just because she praised Constance's work and encouraged her to read. She suggested it was time to move on from animal classics and stories of happy families to more rewarding books like
Jane Eyre
and
Wuthering Heights
. Constance devoured these in greedy gulps.

‘I envy you,' Miss Worthrop had said, ‘reading
Jane Eyre
for the first time. Don't forget to tell me what you think of it.'

Serious but with shining eyes, Constance had told her.

‘And did they write any other books?' she had asked.

‘Quite a lot, yes. But you may find them a bit difficult for the time being.'

Constance, to prove her wrong, had started
The Professor
, and found that Miss Worthrop was right; the story seemed turgid by comparison. But it didn't stop her reading. She dived into books as though entering another world, one in which she could blot out her loneliness. She could forget her surroundings more easily in the pages of a book than in becoming a tree. Tree-ness was becoming harder to achieve. She was no longer simply instinctive, able to tune in to anything at will. Instead she browsed in the school library; she read
Pride and Prejudice, Sohrab and Rustum
, and
Salome
, as Miss Worthrop had recommended, but also the
Herries Chronicle
and Mazo de la Roche,
Peter Abelard
and Georgette Heyer, and
Green Dolphin Country
by Elizabeth Goudge, which she loved. She devoured them all, following them like pageants, incorporating them into her mental furniture. She no longer hung around the junior common-room, or bothered to go up to the pets' shed in the hope of being asked to join in a game. She spent her evenings sitting under, or in, a tree, looking up from her book to see wild rabbits venturing out in the early dusk or the seniors frowning over their mottled brown revision files as they crammed for their imminent exams.

From a perch above their heads she would hear snatches of conversation as people passed below: ‘Promise you won't split?' and ‘Cross your heart and hope to die and I'll tell you who
I
think …' She learned that she was a prime suspect for the thefts. This stung, for Constance had been brought up to be scrupulously honest, according to her father's
old-fashioned code, and would no more have touched someone else's things than made an apple-pie bed -the trick that was played on her one evening. Too proud to complain, and unable to make a joke of it, she spent the night curled up in the top half of her bed, cramped and uncomfortable, but with the satisfaction of knowing that the girls who had done it derived no pleasure from her humiliation. ‘Spoil-sport,' someone muttered, but Constance knew it was one up to her.

The books saved her from the misery which had smothered her first three weeks at school. In fact, to her surprise, she found that it was easier once her parents and Stella had left for Kenya, extinguishing the last small hope that she might somehow, miraculously, go with them after all. It even made the loss of her pen easier. The knowledge that her mother wouldn't hear about it for weeks was better than having to confess within days. Constance said nothing, just in case it should somehow turn up in her desk, her locker, or blazer pocket, though she had searched them all.

It had still not turned up when the Head summoned her.

‘Ah, yes, Constance King,' said Mrs Birmingham as Constance entered and sat down nervously on the far side of her imposing desk.

‘You've made a very good start, my dear, and your teachers are very satisfied with your work. Well done. You seem to be settling in.'

‘Yes,' said Constance, for it was true.

‘Let's see … English, history and geography seem to be your best subjects. Maths not so good, Latin not bad, considering you've never done it before. Biology not so good. Art…'

‘I'm hopeless at art,' said Constance. ‘I can't draw for toffee.'

‘Well, if you can't draw pictures you'll have to learn
to write vividly, won't you? I expect you'll manage that. You seem to be good with words. But you ought to do something creative with your hands. There's needlework, or dressmaking, or … would you like to take up pottery?'

‘Yes,' said Constance. She had looked through the windows of the pottery hut and seen girls with squelchy worms of wet clay oozing through their fingers, and it looked fun. She'd seen their absorbed expressions. Yes, she'd like to have a go at that.

‘Now, games. Good at athletics, not good at team games. Why's that?'

‘I don't know,' said Constance. ‘I've never played rounders before. Or tennis. But I like swimming.'

‘I should hope so too,' said Mrs Birmingham. She smiled. ‘Everyone likes swimming. Now, what about your parents?'

Constance, startled, drew down the shutters.

‘They're all right.'

‘I'm sure they are. What about you? Still homesick?'

‘I'm all right,' said Constance, adding unexpectedly, ‘I've lost my pen. I'm dreading telling them. They're going to be absolutely livid.'

‘“Livid” is a much misused word. Its dictionary definition is dark blue, purplish. A bruise is livid. Do you mean your parents will be angry?'

‘Furious,' said Constance. ‘It was fearfully expensive.'

‘I'm sure they won't be furious. Perhaps it wasn't your fault.'

‘Last Monday I couldn't find it, but I know it was in my pencil-box on Sunday because I used it to write home. It must have gone after that, and I've looked everywhere.'

‘I'm sure you have, dear. Keep your fingers crossed that it'll turn up. Have you tried looking in the confiscation cupboard?'

‘No.'

‘Well, then. Now, what about friends? Have you made friends?'

‘Not really. Sort of, a bit, with Rachel and Jennifer. They're jolly decent to me but they're friends with each other. They don't need me.'

‘Nonsense. We all need friends. “No man is an island, complete unto himself.” You wouldn't know who wrote that?'

‘No.'

‘John Donne. A very great poet and preacher of the seventeenth century. You'll enjoy reading him one day. I think you'll find poetry a friend.'

‘I do already.'

Mrs Birmingham looked up, and saw that the child was serious.

‘Good. Try Browning. Not Elizabeth Barrett. Robert. Look up a poem that begins, “Grr, there go, my heart's abhorrence! Water your damned flower pots, do!'”

‘Didn't he write “The Pied Piper of Hamelin”?'

‘Good
girl
. That's right. This is a few steps on from that. Run along to the library now, and look it up before you forget. We'll have another chat in a few weeks' time.'

As the door closed behind Constance, Miss Roberts said, ‘Another pen missing?'

‘Yes. She hasn't lost it, poor little mite. It's been taken. So have a silver photograph frame, a leather writing-case, another pen, half-a-dozen glass animals, and a ten-shilling note pinned inside a birthday card.'

‘Will you talk to the school?'

‘I suppose it's time I did.' Mrs Birmingham sighed heavily. ‘There's always one rotten apple.'

‘She's a clever child, Constance King. She'll be a credit to the school one day. Pity she's not getting on with the Lower Fourth.'

‘Well, she is a bit of an odd-bod. What can I do, Peggy? I can't possibly move her down, but I can't put her up with the fourteen-year-olds, either. She'll just have to find her level. Shame about her pen - but a bit of a relief as well. It means she is unlikely to be the thief.'

That seemed unlikely anyway.'

‘You're right, though. It's time to talk to the school.'
Dear God
, prayed Henrietta,
show me Thy wisdom, give me an understanding of the hearts and minds of others. Fill this my school with Thy goodness …

‘Fill this Thy school with Thy goodness and fellowship, that it may be an example of a Christian community to all who live and serve within it. For the sake of Thy son, our Lord Jesus Christ…'

‘Amen,' intoned the school.

Once they had left the common-room, teachers and girls, safe from being overheard by one another in form-room or staff-room, began to speculate.

‘Poor girls,' said Miss Worthrop. ‘It's horrid when everybody's under suspicion. They all looked guilty.'

‘If you ask me, it's Charmian Reynolds,' said Sylvia.

‘We've got absolutely
no
evidence about anyone so far. Let's try and remain fair and open-minded,' said Miss Valentine. She hated her own form being under suspicion and privately thought Charmian far too vapid to carry out a series of thefts. ‘You are only accusing Charmian Reynolds because you don't like her.'

‘That's untrue and uncalled for. I think you should withdraw that remark,' said Sylvia.

‘Withdraw, withdraw. There goes the bell. Into the fray, everyone!'

Waiting for the first lesson, the girls buzzed with drama and outrage.

‘No sweets for anyone!' said Fiona. ‘Gosh, I think that's a swizz.'

‘Me too,' said fat Rachel.

‘Won't do
you
any harm,' said Charmian.

‘Mean pig,' said Jennifer.

‘My pen's gone too,' ventured Constance, admitting it for the first time.

‘Are you sure?' said Flick, nastily.

‘Of course I'm sure.'

‘OK, OK, keep your hair on. Hey, quick, shut up everyone, here comes Batey Parry!'

‘What do you make of this?' asked Henrietta Birmingham, passing a letter across to her Deputy. Peggy read the letter rapidly: ‘“Deeply distressing time for all of us … despite our best efforts … forced to the conclusion … fear I must ask you to break the news to poor Charmian … bound to be terribly upset at first … probably best if she can spend half-term with a friend to help her get over the shock … sending her to my sister for the summer … Yours sorrowfully” –Sorrowfully! She's got a nerve! “Fay Reynolds.”'

‘What are
we
supposed to do about it? It's not Charmian I'd like to talk to, it's her mother!' said Henrietta.

‘That goes for many of the parents,' said Peggy Roberts. ‘There's several I wouldn't mind having a word with. Paying off guilty consciences or just plain indifference by sending their daughters here. And then they tell them they aren't really homesick and furthermore how
lucky
they are.'