It was a square green jacket with a beige-gold braid around the edges of the lapels and pockets. A shield was embroidered on the single breast pocket, with some Latin wording around it.
‘This is your school blazer,’ she said.
Rusty slipped it on. The woman wrapped a striped green-and-beige scarf around her neck and placed a green round-brimmed hat on Rusty’s head.
Rusty wondered what the Omsks would say if they could see her. Aunt Hannah always said that green suited her, but then so did blue, and yellow and cream and She thought of Skeet and couldn’t help smiling. He would just crack up. And Janey? She’d either gasp and say how it didn’t do anything for her figure, or she’d swoon and go all ‘Anglophile’ and say how wild it must be to go to a real English girls’ boarding school. Suddenly, Rusty longed to be with Uncle Bruno and have him wrap his big arms around her, and hug her tight.
But they weren’t finished. Her mother bought brown lace-up shoes, galoshes, sandals, a pair of black canvas shoes with rubber soles that looked a little like sneakers, but were called plimsolls, lacrosse boots, stockings, a Greek dance tunic, two pairs of flannel pyjamas, and a plaid woollen dressing gown.
When Rusty and her mother left the shop, laden with large bags and boxes, it was pouring with rain. They stumbled into a J. Lyons teashop nearby. Rusty’s mother told her the names of the four School Houses. They were Nightingale, Curie, Fry and Butt.
‘Butt!’ exclaimed Rusty.
‘Yes. That’s your House, the red one.’
Rusty doubled over, laughing.
‘I don’t see what’s so funny,’ said Peggy. ‘Nightingale House is after Florence Nightingale, Curie after Marie Curie, Fry after Elizabeth Fry, and Butt after Dame Clara Butt.’
Rusty almost choked.
‘Virginia!’ whispered her mother. ‘Please. Behave yourself
‘Butt House!’ she repeated.
Peggy Dickinson cleared her throat. ‘Dame Clara Butt was a famous classical singer,’ she explained, but her words were having no effect on Rusty. ‘Now come on, Virginia,’ she said, ‘you’re getting hysterical.’
Rusty leaned over the table. ‘Don’t you know what your butt is?’
Her mother looked blankly at her.
‘It’s your ass!’
By the time they had walked up the steps of Number 83, wet and dripping, the bags had begun to fall apart. Her mother knocked at the door.
‘We’ll begin sewing on name-tapes as soon as possible. I’d like to send off the trunk tomorrow.’
Mrs Grace opened the door. ‘Mrs Dickinson Senior is in the drawing room,’ she whispered. She appeared very grave.
‘Is anything the matter?’ said Peggy.
Mrs Grace opened her mouth for a moment and then closed it again.
‘I think I’d better let Mrs Dickinson Senior tell you herself.’
‘It’s not Beatie, is it?’
‘Beatie?’
‘Obviously not,’ said Peggy, relieved.
‘It’s Charles.’
‘Oh, my goodness!’ she said, dropping the bags immediately on the hall floor. ‘What’s happened to him? Is he all right? Has there been an accident? Where is he?’
Mrs Grace opened the drawing-room door. Peggy ran in, quickly followed by Rusty.
Seated on the sofa next to Rusty’s grandmother sat a tall elderly woman with a huge aquiline nose and heavy-lidded eyes. She wore a suit, hat and gloves.
‘Where’s Charlie?’ began Peggy.
‘Charles is in bed,’ said Mrs Dickinson Senior. She indicated her guest.
‘Oh, excuse me,’ said Peggy hurriedly.
Rusty saw her grandmother gaze disapprovingly at her mother’s old grey gabardine coat and darned lisle stockings. Her guest was transfixed by Rusty’s saddle shoes.
‘Hi,’ she said, reminding her that there was a body attached to them.
The woman opened her mouth in dismay and glanced at her grandmother, who nodded in an I-told-you-so manner.
‘Will you have some tea, Margaret?’ she said.
Rusty’s. mother was growing frantic. ‘For goodness’ sake,’ she panted, ‘what’s happened to Charlie?’
‘Charles has misbehaved.’
Poor kid, thought Rusty, he’s probably wet his pants again.
‘Misbehaved?’
‘I’d rather you sat down and we talked about it calmly over a cup of tea. Mrs Grace,’ she said, ‘another cup for Margaret.’
To Rusty’s surprise, her mother removed her gabardine coat and sat down in one of the stuffed chairs.
The guest looked awkwardly at Rusty.
‘I’m Rusty,’ she said, throwing her Beanie over the back of her mother’s chair.
‘Virginia is her real name,’ said her grandmother, smiling. ‘Why she was given that silly nickname I can’t imagine.’
‘Because of my hair.’
‘I suppose,’ said her guest, ‘Americans do find anything longer than two syllables a trial to pronounce.’
And they both laughed.
Before Rusty could answer back, her mother interrupted.
‘I’d like to know what Charlie’s done.’
‘Now, now, now.’
Boy, thought Rusty, she was treating her mother as if she was a kid!
Mrs Grace hobbled in with a cup and saucer. All was quiet as she poured out some tea.
Mrs Dickinson Senior took a deep breath. ‘Charles was
‘playing in the back garden. Unfortunately the fences dividing these gardens are somewhat inadequate. In fact, in some places there aren’t any fences at all. I told Charles not to go farther than a certain point. While Mrs Grace’s back was turned, he deliberately disobeyed me. He wandered off and picked flowers from other people’s gardensl At first I had no idea that this had happened until Mrs Smythe-Williams’ – and here she indicated her guest – ‘came to the door. Apparently all her Michaelmas daisies and peonies had disappeared. Charles was nowhere to be seen. We discovered a small trail of water going up the stairs to your room. He had filled a vase, one of my best vases, with her flowers and put them by your bed. I found him lying asleep there. When I told him off and asked him to apologize to Mrs Smythe-Williams, he was not only extremely rude to her, but he ordered her to go away. And he told her that she had a big nose. I’ve locked him in his room without any supper.’
Peggy rose slowly. ‘You’ve what?’ she said.
Boy, thought Rusty, here comes the showdown.
‘The boy’s wild. He needs a firm hand.’
Peggy turned swiftly to Mrs Smythe-Williams.
‘I’m sorry about your flowers. My son is used to living in the country, where the flowers don’t belong to anyone. It’s only his second day here and he doesn’t understand. I will pay for any damage that has been done. Now,’ she said, facing her mother-in-law, ‘I’d like the key to that room.’
‘Margaret,’ she exclaimed. ‘He must learn!’
‘I want that key.’
Mrs Smythe-Williams gave a small gasp.
‘And if she doesn’t give it to you,’ added Rusty, ‘I’ll help you break the door down.’
Alone in her bedroom, Rusty drew the dull chintz curtains across the window. Anything to keep the draughts at bay. Her uniform was spread across her bed. Along the landing, she heard her mother go into Charlie’s room.
As she unpacked her suitcase, grip and duffel bag, she had an odd feeling that someone had been prying into her belongings. She opened a letter from Aunt Hannah and Uncle Bruno and realized, to her horror, that the letter had been read. It was folded differently. She scrabbled through all the others to make sure that none of them was missing.
After a while she heard her mother walking along the landing, past her own room, and down the stairs. Rusty peered out. Her mother was carrying Charlie in her arms down to the bathroom. Soon she could hear the sound of running water and Charlie giggling over something. She envied him.
After half an hour her mother looked in. ?
??You can come downstairs now,’ she said. ‘Mrs Smythe-Williams has left.’ She paused. ‘I think you owe your grandmother an apology.’
‘What for?’
‘Well, it wasn’t necessary to threaten to break down the door.’
‘Is Charlie O.K.?’
‘He’s asleep.’
Rusty gave a shiver.
‘There’s a fire in the drawing room. Come on.’
‘Is she down there?’
‘Yes.’
Boy, was it cold. She looked down at her hands. They were mauve.
‘I’ll stay here, then,’ she said.
14
Rusty and her mother sat on a wooden bench on the station platform. It was a dark, grubby station with jagged gaps in the roof where bombs had shattered the glass.
‘You look quite the young English girl,’ said her mother brightly.
Rusty nodded numbly. She felt angry that her mother was sending her away again, and she felt helpless to do anything about it.
The previous evening she had been tempted to say, ‘I’m not going and that’s that!’ But she couldn’t bear being at her grandmother’s place either. Her life there consisted of making sure Charlie didn’t pick any more flowers in the back garden. Poor kid, he was so miserable. Since leaving Devon, he’d wet his bed every night.
Just then, a woman and a young girl wearing the Benwood House uniform appeared on the platform. The girl had short straight brown hair and a round face. Rusty sat up sharply and nodded to them as they walked past. The girl glanced briefly at her out of the corner of her eye and then looked away.
‘Of course,’ said her mother suddenly, ‘it’ll be a bit different from your American school.’
‘I know it,’ mumbled Rusty. ‘I told you before, the principal said it might be a little tough at first, but that I had a good head on my shoulders and I’d catch up soon.’
She stared down at her brown lace-up shoes. She hurt so much inside, she could hardly breathe.
A year ago she had begun her first semester at the junior high. She’d been so proud. She had had her own locker with its own combination. No more satchels. She had walked down the corridors in her sweater and plaid woollen skirt, from classroom to classroom, the new books in her arms, just as if she was in high school.
That was when Aunt Hannah and Uncle Bruno had let her have her own bedroom, with a real worktable of her own to do her homework on, and a corner in the studio and the workshop.
She pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket. It had a name-tape on it. It read ‘V. E. Dickinson’. Her grandmother had said that her mother ought to have had all the name-tapes marked ‘V. C. Dickinson’ so that when Charlie went to boarding school, she’d just have to cut the V off.
Charlie had got into a terrible state. ‘Are you sending me away, Mummy?’ he had asked frantically. Her mother had had to hold him on her lap for hours, comforting him. And her grandmother had said, ‘Well, really, he shouldn’t have been listening, should he?’
She blew her nose furiously and put the handkerchief back in her blazer pocket.
‘You’ll soon make lots of new friends,’ her mother said.
‘I guess so.’
‘Look, here come some more girls.’
But they passed with hardly a glance.
As the train pulled in, several schoolgirls were hanging out of the windows, waving to those on the platform.
‘Bag me a seat!’ yelled the straight-haired girl.
‘Already bagged,’ answered one of them.
Rusty picked up her Beanie and satchel and stood up. Her mother gave her an awkward peck on the cheek and ushered her to a door. As it swung closed behind her, she pushed down the window. ‘Don’t worry,’ Peggy said. ‘There’ll be someone to show you around.’
‘It’s O.K.,’ said Rusty dismally. ‘I can ask.’
The whistle blew and the train pulled slowly out of the station.
‘I’ll see you on Friday,’ said her mother.
Rusty nodded and hastily drew herself away from the window.
From a nearby compartment came the sound of shrieks and laughter. Rusty moved along the narrow corridor and slid the door aside.
‘Only Upper Fives,’ yelled the girls inside. ‘Scram!’
‘I’m sorry,’ began Rusty. ‘I’m new. I don’t know what an Upper Five is.’
At that, they all laughed. Rusty grinned. ‘What’s so funny?’
A tall girl with light-blonde hair and a long face leaned forward.
‘Upper Fifth,’ she explained curtly. ‘And what’s funny is your accent.’
‘Hardly funny,’ interrupted her friend opposite. ‘Frightful would be a better word.’
They all started laughing again and making comments. Rusty stood, perplexed, for she could hardly understand a word they were saying.
Eventually the blonde girl turned to her abruptly. ‘Didn’t you learn English at your school?’ she said. ‘Scram. This is our patch.’
‘Perhaps they haven’t got as far as having schools in America,’ added her friend.
Rusty flushed, slid the door shut, and opened the door of the next compartment. Four girls were seated on the edges of their seats, looking at holiday snapshots. They looked up and frowned.
Hi,’ said Rusty. ‘I see you have a spare seat. Mind if I join you?’ And with that she walked in and sat down.
The girls stared at her in disbelief.
‘This compartment is bagged,’ said the straight-haired one she had seen on the platform.
‘What?’
‘Bagged,’ repeated the girl. ‘Taken.’
‘But you have empty seats,’ said Rusty.
The girl sighed wearily. ‘Go and find somewhere else,’ she said. ‘We’re having a private conversation.’
‘Do you own this train?’
‘What a cheek!’ said one of the other girls. ‘Are you deaf or something? We don’t want you here. Or perhaps you can’t understand good English when you hear it.’
‘Don’t,’ said a girl in the corner, gently. ‘She’s a new girl.’
‘Bit cheeky for a new one, don’t you think? I’d never have dared answer back.’
Rusty snatched up her Beanie and satchel from the seat.
‘Ah, go stuff yourself,’ she snapped, and she flew back out into the corridor.
There was a section in the train where the carriages were joined. Through the gaps Rusty could see the earth and the rails moving underneath her. Even though it seemed dangerous standing there, it felt like her own territory. The rest of the train seemed to be claimed.
‘Now what?’ she whispered fiercely to herself.
As she stood there she remembered Uncle Bruno saying that when you started something new, like a business, and no one knew you, you were bound to have a lot of rejections at first, but that for every thirteen no’s, the fourteenth was sure to be a yes. So every time someone said no, it meant that you’d be getting nearer a yes. ‘I got twelve to go, Uncle Bruno,’ she muttered.
Rusty walked down the corridor, opening compartment doors. Every time she was told to go away, she smiled more broadly, for she knew she was getting closer to a yes. The yes came at the twelfth compartment.
Two small girls were seated by a window. One of them, a skinny, dark-haired girl with plaits, looked as though she had been crying.
‘Hi,’ said Rusty, sliding back the door. ‘You new?’
They nodded.
‘Mind if I join you?’
‘No. Of course not,’ they said eagerly.
‘Are you a prefect?’ said the dark-haired one.
‘A prefect?’ Rusty shook her head. ‘Uh-uh.’
‘You’re American, aren’t you?’ said the other one, who was plump and fair-haired.
‘Uh-uh. I don’t feel so English, though.’
They giggled.
‘I lived in the States for five years. I only got back this summer. I was evacuated there.’
‘So you’re new, too?’
‘You said it.’
They all looked at one another and gave nervous laughs. The dark-haired girl looked away for a moment and then forced a smile.
‘There’s going to be someone to show us around when we get there,’ she said, ‘isn’t there? Mummy said there’d be someone.’
‘I guess so,’ said Rusty, ‘but we got each other. We can just follow everyone else or ask the way.’
The plump girl looked relieved. She leaned towards the dark-haired girl. ‘Do you know what form you’re in?’ she said.
‘Upper Third.’
‘A or B?’
‘I’m not sure. I’m hoping it’s A.’
‘Me too.’
‘What’s all this A and B stuff?’ said Rusty.
The girls looked pleased that they could impart information to someone.
‘Each year has two forms,’ said the dark-haired girl. ‘The As are for the bright ones. Bs are for the duds.’
‘Hey, watch it,’ said Rusty. ‘One of us might be in a B.’
They giggled.
The fair-haired girl looked expectantly at Rusty’s tie. ‘Oh,’ she said disappointedly. ‘You must be in Butt House. I’m in Curie.’
‘Well, let’s stick together anyway till we meet someone from our houses.’ Rusty grinned. ‘My name’s Rusty, by the way - what’s yours?’
‘Charlotte,’ said the fair-haired one.
‘Rosalind,’ said the other.
‘So listen,’ said Rusty. ‘About this class business. I’m in what you call the Fourth. I’m not too sure what that means. We have grades back home. I mean, back in the States.’
‘Which Fourth?’ said Charlotte. ‘Upper or Lower? A or B?’
‘I don’t know.’
Just then the train jerked to a halt, sending them flying.
‘These English trains sure keep you on your toes,’ Rusty remarked. ‘Or maybe I should say, your knees.’ She peered out at the station.
‘Only one more to go,’ said Rosalind quietly.
Rusty leaned with her back against the window for a moment. She suddenly felt sick. Maybe it was those tiny tasteless little cabbages she had been given at lunch time. Brussels sprouts.
The train began moving. The two Third-formers were staring at her.
‘Scary, isn’t it?’ she said, straightening up.