The Matron was a tall, bony woman with a grim face. She handed Rusty a pile of clean sheets and towels, and a laundry bag.
Rusty rejoined her escort, and they descended a flight of stairs that led to a tiny hall and a porch with an arched doorway.
‘This is Butt House,’ muttered the girl.
‘How many are in this House?’
‘Thirty-seven, but the Juniors all sleep in a different section. Their dormitories are bigger.’
‘Oh,’ said Rusty, disappointed. ‘I met a couple of neat kids from the Third Form on the way here, and I was hoping, maybe…’
‘Mixing with different forms isn’t really encouraged here,’ interrupted her escort.
‘Why not?’
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ she said, icily.
‘ Uh-uh.’
The girl looked confused. ‘Does that mean yes or no?’
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ said Rusty.
The girl began climbing another flight of stairs. Rusty was determined not to give up. ‘So why isn’t it encouraged? I mean, you’re older than me and we’re together.’
‘It’s so that the younger girls respect the older ones,’ said her escort, glaring.
‘I don’t see how keeping people separate makes them respect one another. Doesn’t make sense.’
‘No, well it wouldn’t to you, would it?’ the girl muttered. She took a deep breath. ‘What dormitory are you in, by the way?’
‘Number three. I guess those are all Lower Four As. Right?’
‘No. It’ll be a mixture of Lower Four As and Upper Four As.’
‘But I thought you said there was no mixing of the forms.’
‘Oh Lor’! Wait until I explain before asking so many questions.’
Eventually they arrived at the end of a long landing, outside a door marked ‘3’.
‘I’ll wait downstairs for you,’ said the girl. ‘Baths for this dormitory are Wednesdays. When you’ve made your bed and unpacked your trunk, bring your coat, hat and shoe bag down with you, and I’ll show you the Fourth Form cloakroom. Then I’ll bring you back here so that you can change into mufti for supper.’
‘Mufti?’
‘Ordinary clothes. Out of your uniform,’ she added slowly, as if speaking to a mental defective.
‘O.K.,’ said Rusty.
‘Order mark,’ growled the girl.
Rusty shrugged and opened the door.
The four girls in the dormitory were sitting on their beds talking. Rusty closed the door quietly behind her. ‘Hi!’ she said.
They fell silent and turned to look at her. Slowly two of them stood up. They were the girls who had come up to her in the bus.
‘You?!’ they spluttered.
‘I hope so. I sure wouldn’t wanna be anyone else.’
But nobody smiled.
Rusty cleared her throat. ‘My name’s Virginia but everybody calls me Rusty. What’s yours?’
The four of them gazed at her in horror.
‘I’m in Lower Four A,’ she continued.
At that the straight-haired girl smirked. ‘Well, we’re both in Upper Four A.’
Rusty turned to the other two girls. They seemed awfully small, but then she’d been used to being with girls a year older than herself. One of them had waist-length long blonde braids, a round nose and a broad mouth. Her eyelashes were so white that they were almost invisible. Her friend had cropped, dark hair. Her round face and freckles gave her the appearance of a lost nine-year-old schoolboy.
‘Are you Lower Four A?’
They nodded.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Rusty, manoeuvring her belongings to the other arm.
They shook hands.
Suddenly the girl with the straight hair tossed her head to one side. ‘For a new girl you talk too much,’ she remarked. ‘And considering the way you talk, it’s a wonder you dare open your mouth at all.’
Her friend moved in beside her. ‘Come on, Judith,’ she said to the straight-haired girl. ‘It’s like being in a G.I. camp in here.’ And with that, they both flounced out.
Rusty was astounded by their rudeness.
‘I was only trying to be friendly,’ she murmured.
The two girls in her form blushed.
‘Filly,’ said the one with the boy’s haircut, ‘fancy having a dekko at the stables?’
Rusty faked a smile. ‘What’s a dekko?’ she said lightly.
‘A look at.’
‘Oh,’ said Rusty. ‘That’s what we call a look-see.’
At that they burst into giggles and fled out of the door.
Rusty stood motionless in the large room with its brown scrubbed walls. On the dark wooden floor stood five black iron bedsteads. She could see instantly that the far bed had to be hers. It was the only one that was unmade. At the foot of each bed stood a trunk and a laundry bag. There wasn’t a rug on the floor, not a picture on the walls, no curtains and, worst of all, no sign of any kind of heating.
Rusty dumped the sheets on her mattress. After making the bed, she opened up her trunk. There was nowhere to hang anything, not even a chair. She gave a sigh, slowly folded everything carefully into her three dresser drawers, tucked her pyjamas under the pillow, and slung her dressing gown across the end of the bed. At the side of the bottom drawer she squeezed in her green-and-white sneakers. She was just putting her loafers in on the other side when she lifted up the fringed tongue of one of them and felt the little slit underneath. Carefully, she drew out an American penny. She twisted it fondly over and over between her fingers before sliding it back in again. She didn’t know why she was putting her shoes in a drawer. It had something to do with them being American shoes. It sort of protected them, being hidden away.
Finally, she opened her satchel and pulled out her photographs of the Omsks, the Fitzes, Janey and the gang, and one of Skeet by himself, and placed them on the chest of drawers. She pushed her plimsolls, sandals and lacrosse boots into her black shoe bag and was just picking up her Beanie and hat when her escort stormed in.
‘Oh, do get a move on,’ she said. ‘You’ve probably missed the tea and bun.’
‘That’s O.K.,’ said Rusty. ‘I don’t go much for tea anyways.’
‘Look,’ said the girl angrily, ‘are you deliberately trying to break the rules?’
‘You mean there’s a rule I have to drink tea?’ she exclaimed.
‘No! You said “O.K.” again.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t even notice.’
‘Well, you’d better start noticing, otherwise you’re going to be jolly unpopular. The more bad marks our House receives, the less chance we have of winning the Shield. Now hurry up.’
‘Oh –’ She stopped midstream. ‘- Kee-dokey,’ she added hurriedly.
The girl pressed her lips together.
Oh boy, thought Rusty, as she followed her out of the door.
As the day progressed, not one girl made her feel welcome. They all seemed to have their own friends or cliques, and each time she attempted to join in a conversation, she was made to feel as though she was butting in.
When she was back in the dormitory, changing for supper, she stared hard at her photographs of the Omsks and pretended that they were all keeping her company. Inside her head they were laughing and cracking jokes. It took her all her concentration to keep them there, but every time she felt them fading away, and the dormitory coming into view, she’d take another glance at them.
She put on her slip, her cream-coloured blouse, her plaid tan-green-and-yellow skirt, and her emerald-green sweater. With great care she folded down a pair of white cotton bobby socks and put her sneakers on. She could hear the others whispering and giggling behind her. She sat on the bed and unplaited her hair, giving it some firm brush-strokes. From a central parting she brushed it to two sides and held it in place with hair-grips.
When she turned round she found herself staring into four very hostile faces. Rusty gulped, for their jerseys and skirts w
ere faded and darned. The two older girls were wearing shapeless grey suits.
‘What do you think you look like?’ commented the straight-haired girl called Judith.
‘I was told to bring sweaters and skirts,’ said Rusty.
‘Did you have to choose traffic-light colours?’ And she and her friend turned their backs on her.
‘You know,’ said Rusty quietly, ‘at my school in the States we made a point of making new kids welcome. So far the only people who’ve been nice to me have been the new kids. How come? Is it one of your rules to be nasty?’
‘Oh,’ said Judith. ‘Did they have schools in the States, then? I thought they all rode around on horses and chewed gum.’
At that they all giggled.
‘What a bunch of stupid kids you are!’ said Rusty angrily.
Judith whirled round. ‘You watch what you’re saying, New Girl. I’m in the Upper Fourth, so you’d better show a bit of respect.’
‘Respect? For you? You gotta be kidding!’
Judith glowered back. ‘You’ll pay for that!’
‘Come on, Judith,’ said her friend. ‘I don’t like the company in here.’
As they left, Rusty looked at the two girls in her form.
‘Mind if I follow you?’ she said. ‘I’ll walk a long way behind you, so you can pretend I’m not with you.’
They reddened.
‘Look here,’ said the girl called Filly. ‘You can’t expect everyone to drop their friends and surround you just because you’ve got an American accent and new clothes.’
‘So what am I supposed to do? Walk round naked and keep my mouth shut?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said the boyish-looking one. ‘You’ll learn that there are more important things here in England than dressing up. It’s bad form not to look shabby. There’s been a war on here, you know.’
‘I know it. But I’m not dressed up. This is just a sweater and skirt.’
‘Oh, come on, Cecil,’ said Filly, grabbing her friend’s arm.
Rusty followed them at a distance.
Eventually they arrived at the Refectory, a vast room with four long wooden tables. A mistress sat at each table end. Rusty noted which table Filly and Cecil sat at, and slid into an empty chair.
After grace, Rusty attempted to eat the meal, which consisted of Spam, turnips and a plentiful supply of potatoes. She didn’t know what they’d done to the turnips, but they tasted so foul that she nearly retched. There was no fruit to be seen, no ginger ale or milk or seltzer to rid herself of the dry sensation in her mouth, only a cup of lukewarm water.
No one spoke until dessert, which they called pudding. It was that heavy white mixture with currants in it that her mother had made for her, Spotted Dick. Everyone went nuts about it, as if it was a special treat. The speckled blob was covered with a hot, tasteless yellow mixture that was supposed to be custard. At the end of the meal they stood up for grace and pushed back their chairs. As everyone left with their friends, Rusty realized that she had been the only new girl in the Refectory. She was about to leave when she heard someone call her name. It was one of the mistresses.
‘Good evening,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’m your House Mistress.’
She was a little taller than Rusty and about fifty-five years old. Her thin brown hair was flecked with grey, and she wore a simple brown tweed skirt, blouse and cardigan. ‘I’m Miss Paxton.’
‘Oh,’ said Rusty, relieved almost to tears. ‘Hi! I sure am pleased to meet you.’
‘That’s quite an accent you have there.’
‘So everyone keeps telling me. I keep thinking it’s everyone else who has got an accent.’
‘I thought we could go somewhere for a chat. You’ve never been to boarding school before?’
‘Uh-uh. I’m used to public school.’
The teacher looked puzzled for a moment.
‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Of course. Your public schools are like our elementary schools. And our public ones are private. It’s a little confusing.’
‘I guess,’ said Rusty, smiling.
‘Come with me,’ Miss Paxton said, ‘and we can talk in private.’
She led Rusty through several corridors and into an empty classroom full of old wooden desks. ‘Sit down,’ she said, indicating one of the desks. Rusty hitched herself on to it and swung her legs. ‘On a chair,’ she added.
‘Oh, sorry,’ said Rusty, jumping off and pulling one out.
What followed was a lecture about the history of the school, its achievements and its aims, which were to produce courteous, good citizens, young women who would make good wives and mothers, who would serve their King and Country to the best of their ability, and who could be dependable in any place and at any time.
Then came a list of the rules that had been handed down from year to year, to help form the tradition of the school. These had produced girls worthy of the school, some of whom had not only played an active part in the armed services during the War, but had also been officers and leaders.
‘Sometimes it can take as long as two years for a new girl to settle down and become a Benwood girl,’ she said, ‘but courage, hard work and goodwill are what count. Now I know already that you’ve been in a bit of trouble over the use of slang’ – and here she smiled – ‘but this rule applies to everyone. Miss Bembridge also thinks that the sooner you can lose that accent, the sooner you’ll fit into the school community. Now, if you have any problems, you just come and see me. That’s what I’m here for.’
Rusty nodded, dumbfounded. King and Country? She believed in Democracy and Freedom. Everything she’d learnt in history was how the kings had lived off the hardworking Americans. Now that she’d tasted the lousy tea, she understood why they’d dumped boxes of it into the harbour in Boston.
‘And now,’ said Miss Paxton, ‘I’ll take you to the Fourth Form sitting room.’
‘I’d like to go to my room, if you don’t mind.’
‘I’m sorry, that’s not allowed until bedtime.’ Miss Paxton smiled again. ‘You’ll never make friends if you go offon your own, will you?’
‘I guess not.’
For the remainder of the evening Rusty sat at a table in the Fourth Form sitting room and pretended to read a book. Occasionally, when she heard snippets of a conversation that aroused her interest, she attempted to join in, but her remarks were ignored. Several of the girls talked about a Harvest Camp they had worked at in June.
In June, thought Rusty, she had gone on a camp trip, too, with Janey. She remembered the campfires at night; she and Janey sitting with all the others, singing every single song they could think of, and roasting marshmallows. Their favourites were s’mores. Janey and she made theirs up with a slice of apple, a melted marshmallow, chocolate chips and another slice of apple, so that it ended up like a weird kind of sandwich. And everyone kept on saying, ‘Oh gimme some more s’mores.’ It was all so corny. But out there in the dusk, with the sunburn on their faces and the different smells coming from the wood all mixed up with the sweet smell of the marshmallows, it was just beautiful. Janey even forgot to squeeze vanishing cream on her freckles. Away from her mother, she said, it was a relief not having to be dressed smart and act grown up all the time. It was such a strain being sophisticated. And Rusty had laughed till she was almost sick. She laughed so much, she didn’t even know what she was laughing about, only that everything seemed so funny.
It was a heck of a long time since she’d laughed like that.
Just then a bell rang, and everyone started leaving the room.
In the dormitory Rusty lay in bed, freezing. The sheets were starchy and cold. There was no chance of her breaking the rule of talking after Lights Out, for there was no one she could talk to. She heard the girls whispering to one another, and then it was silent. Gradually, as her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she looked over at her photographs.
‘Good-night, Skeet,’ she whispered. ‘Good-night, Kathryn; good-night, Aunt Hannah.’ But when
she tried to say good-night to Uncle Bruno, she started to cry. She didn’t want the others to hear her, but every breath she took only seemed to hasten the flow of tears. She drew her knees up and put her hands around her feet in an attempt to warm them.
16
Rusty had just put her gymslip on over her blouse when a bell started ringing.
She flung on her cardigan, threw her tie around her neck, and ran with her pyjamas and dressing gown back to the dormitory. When she opened the door, a strange sight greeted her. The four girls were standing by her bed, peering at her photographs. They looked up, startled.
‘You’re not supposed to leave your bed until the bell rings,’ said Judith.
‘What if I have to go to the bathroom?’ said Rusty, striding towards them.
‘Bath nights are Wednesdays,’ said Judith’s friend Reggie.
Rusty threw her pyjamas on the bed. ‘I know that. I meant the John.’
Filly and Cecil shifted hastily towards their wash bags. The other two followed.
‘By the way,’ said Judith, turning at the door, ‘are those photographs of relatives?’
‘They’re my American family.’
‘And the boy?’
‘That’s Skeet,’ she began. ‘He’s my –’ but she got no further.
‘I see,’ said Judith meaningfully, and she and her friend gave each other a knowing look and disappeared.
Rusty soon learned that there were bells for waking up, bells for breakfast, bells for assembly, bells for each lesson, bells for recess – which they called break - bells for everything.
It was certainly different from her school in the States. In Lower Four A there were only twelve pupils. Each girl had a wooden desk with a lid, underneath which was a deep well for her books and stationery. Their class teacher, who was a tall, crisp, fast-talking woman in her sixties called Miss Everton-Harris, told each girl where to sit. As she rose to leave, they all had to rise and say in unison, ‘Good-morning, Miss Everton-Harris. Thank you, Miss Everton-Harris.’ And they rose all over again when the next teacher walked in for math, only they added an s and called it maths.
The mathematics class consisted of algebra, which the others had all been doing for a year. Rusty hadn’t even begun. She was given arithmetic problems to sort out on her own. The following lesson was French, and she was no wiser.