Mistress of the Storm (2 page)

‘I’m sure they’ll be delighted to have you,’ her mother encouraged. ‘It must be terribly difficult to find cast members with your looks and talent.’

Poppy glanced across the kitchen. ‘You should try too, Verity,’ she urged. ‘Shouldn’t she, Mother?’

Mrs Gallant looked uncertainly at her elder daughter. ‘There’s no harm in trying,’ she agreed hesitantly.

Verity knew her mother didn’t mean to be hurtful. Still, as her old friend Alice had often said to her:
Not everything in life turns out as we would like
.

Nor should it, Verity reminded herself. It just seemed a little hard sometimes to be tall for your age – and sturdy – with long brown hair that strayed from its clasp in an unruly fashion. To be the exception that proved the rule in a family of slender blondes.

Verity did not match the rest of the Gallants. Her solemn little face with its pink cheeks and charcoal eyes wavered constantly between very pretty and very plain. But it wasn’t just her looks. Like all good parents, Verity’s mother and father had lined up the full range of appropriate activities for their daughters: horse-riding, piano lessons, dance classes, choir practice … the list ran on and on. Poppy seemed to love them all, and Verity didn’t want to be ungrateful, but sometimes, when she was walking down the hill, she caught herself looking out to sea and wishing it was possible to pick herself up in the air and fly away. To feel the wind in her hair, and dirt on her face.

Not everything in life turns out as we would like. But things can change
.

Verity’s father – a tall, fair man – entered the room, already absorbed in a new manuscript which had just been delivered. Mr Gallant edited books for a living and spent most of his time at home in the study – a room Verity loved.

‘Sleep well?’ he asked his elder daughter.

Verity perked up. Perhaps her father might be able to throw more light on the matter? This was a little optimistic: Verity’s parents rarely discussed any subjects other than school and ladylike behaviour.

‘I was wondering—’ she started.

‘Good, good …’ Mr Gallant said, benevolently rubbing the top of Verity’s head, clearly not listening at all.

Seeing her husband, Mrs Gallant began to clear her throat. ‘Now, girls,’ she announced in a carefully cheerful tone, ‘we have some news for you. Rather an event actually.’

Verity wondered what she could possibly be about to announce that would make her so anxious. Her mind raced with possibilities. Were they planning a journey perhaps, or a long voyage? She drifted off for a second: would they be going by sea, or maybe even by car?

‘… so you’ll have another little sister, or brother,’ her mother finished, smiling tentatively. ‘Isn’t that nice?’

‘It’s wonderful,’ declared Poppy, running to give her a hug.

The words dragged Verity’s focus unceremoniously back to the here and now. Her face filled with confusion.
Mrs Gallant sighed. Why was her elder daughter always off in a dream world? ‘We’re expecting a baby, Verity,’ she said.

‘I …’ murmured Verity uncertainly.

Mr Gallant smiled and patted her arm fondly. ‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ he reassured her. ‘Isn’t that right, Felicity?’

‘Of course …’ said Mrs Gallant brightly.

Verity found herself staring at her mother’s fingers, which were anxiously twisting and untwisting a tassel from the tablecloth.

‘There’s nothing to say we’d have three girls in a row …’ her mother finished.

‘We agreed, Felicity,’ insisted Mr Gallant, ‘that superstitious nonsense has no place in a modern household.’

Verity’s mother avoided her husband’s gaze. ‘I’m sure it will all be fine,’ she said.

Verity ambled slowly towards Priory Bay College, a few yards behind a group of girls from her year: all slim, all pretty, and all allowed to choose their clothes on the basis of fashion, not practicality.

The school sat at the top of Wellow’s overcliff and could be approached by a number of paths that ran through its surrounding parkland. As the imposing gothic towers of a more recent extension came into view, scores of children could be seen trudging towards it.

Verity, meanwhile, battled with her own internal struggle. Her mother was having a baby, and she wasn’t sure
how she felt about it. She was used to things as they were. What would a baby be like? Would it cry all the time? In truth, Verity didn’t see the appeal of babies. They seemed to keep everyone awake at night, and she was fairly sure there was sick involved. They took up quite a lot of time, didn’t they?

Was it wrong to feel sad – more lonely still – at the idea that there might be yet another person in your home who was better at getting on with people than you were? Was it shaming to be jealous of a baby that hadn’t even been born yet? Why couldn’t she just be pleased for her parents like Poppy?

A strong gust of wind buffeted her. Verity buried her hands deep in her coat pockets and gripped the strange wooden ball. She shook it. It was oddly comforting. Was it a rattle of some kind? A thought occurred to her: if Mother was having a baby, then their family would get bigger. She smiled. That would be fun.

Two large boys loomed on the horizon: George Blake and his brother, Oscar. Jostling past Verity, George grabbed her bag. The girls in front giggled as he raced ahead brandishing his prize.

‘Give the bag back, George,’ chanted one, Bella, in a tone that clearly implied this was the last thing she thought he should do.

‘You are mean,’ chimed in her friend, Amanda, batting his shirt flirtatiously.

The most popular, Charlotte Chiverton, moved to
Verity’s side and nudged her. ‘Aren’t you going to ask for your things back, Gallant?’

George Blake was obviously very pleased with himself. He walked backwards, opening the bag, investigating its contents and grinning ear to ear.

‘Sure there’s nothing you want to keep?’ he asked as he extracted Verity’s things. ‘Pencil case? No. Exercise books? No.
Three
bags of sweets,’ he exclaimed, pulling out his latest find. ‘Tut, tut, Verity. No wonder you’re so hefty.’

Verity blushed as the girls pealed into chimes of laughter.

‘And what’s this tatty old volume?’ he continued.

Verity’s heart jumped anxiously. Not her book …

George opened the front cover to inspect it. Tapping the library form glued inside, he shook his head in mock disapproval. ‘Past the return date, Verity,’ he scolded. ‘How are you going to maintain your reputation as the world’s biggest swot when you’re making silly errors like that?’

The girls shrieked with delight.

Tired of this particular game, George threw the book over his shoulder and thrust the bag into Verity’s hands. ‘Cheer up, Gallant,’ he told her. ‘Might never happen.’ Then he ran off, giving her skirt a quick parting flick. She fended him off with an anxious flap of her hands – which just made everyone laugh all the harder.

As her tormentors headed towards the school gates, Verity bent over to pick up the red leather-bound book and dusted it down. In the distance the girls’ giggles rang out as the two
brothers tauntingly slapped their hands at each other. ‘Not my books, not my books,’ she heard Oscar simper.

Verity knelt forlornly on the grass and began to put the rest of her belongings back in her bag. She could feel a familiar pricking in the corners of her eyes. Staring hard at the ground, she concentrated on not crying. A new peal of laughter prompted her to look up. Charlotte was leaning on Amanda, the two of them bent over in mirth.

Verity’s chest squeezed with misery. Uncontrollable hot tears streamed down her cheeks. She had never felt so out of place and alone.

At the edge of the park an elderly man stood watching. His once handsome face was lined and scored but his blue eyes burned. He looked troubled. As Verity began to walk dispiritedly towards the school gates, he appeared to make a decision. Turning round, he headed for the town.

Verity’s day hadn’t got any better by the afternoon, when she found herself sitting on a gym bench, filled with quiet dread. She hated games lessons. She hated the cold, damp changing rooms for a start. But she also hated trudging up and down muddy fields in winter. She hated being stuck in some rubbish position on the pitch. She hated indoor athletics. She hated cross-country runs in the rain. But most of all she hated the way she felt standing there on her own, shivering from the cold: the last person to be chosen for any team.

‘Ready, girls?’ boomed the head of games as she strode in. Mrs Watson wasn’t just heavier than the other teachers; she also seemed to be taller, wider, and somehow … denser. A heated discussion had been taking place amongst the rest of the class. And now an envoy was dispatched to communicate with her:

‘Charlotte’s bailing out of Sunday’s sailing match. And it’s our first against the Whale Chine girls.’

‘I have to,’ insisted the same girl who’d witnessed Verity’s humiliation that morning. ‘Mother says it’s this weekend or never for shopping and I’ve simply
nothing
to wear.’

Verity listened with half-hearted interest as she pulled on an ugly games sock in a particularly virulent shade of blue. She wondered what it would be like to look forward to a shopping trip. Mother’s store of choice was Dereham’s: a small, dour emporium that took a Puritan approach to girls’ clothes. Mrs Dereham believed that apparel should have purpose.

‘Gallant,’ Mrs Watson announced. ‘Gallant can take Chiverton’s place.’

Verity froze with shock. She’d never sailed before. She’d never even set foot on a dinghy.

‘Gallant?’
howled one particularly incensed member of the group, backed immediately by a chorus of disapproval.

‘Don’t see why not,’ said Mrs Watson. ‘Can’t believe we’ve never fielded you before. Probably been out on the water with the family.’

A fleeting vision of her parents trying to manoeuvre a dinghy on the open sea flashed through Verity’s mind. She stifled a giggle. Laughing was not going to help. ‘I won’t be much use to the team,’ she agreed. ‘Couldn’t someone else fill the place?’

‘You’ll be fine, girl,’ Mrs Watson replied, to Verity’s dismay. ‘May be a little below your standard, but it’s a day out. Tactics session Friday at the club – four o’clock – don’t be late.’

‘Below her standard?’
snorted a frustrated classmate.

‘Verity can’t sail,’ moaned another girl.

‘Verity isn’t good at
anything
sporty,’ said a third.

The accusation stung, but Verity nodded her head earnestly in agreement. ‘It’s true. I can’t,’ she said.

For the first time ever, she saw something like astonishment on Mrs Watson’s face. ‘Can’t sail?’ she repeated. ‘Verity
Gallant
can’t sail? Extraordinary.’

Verity felt slightly disgruntled. Lots of people couldn’t sail, she reflected to herself. She didn’t see the need to make such a fuss about it.

‘Well, you can crew anyway,’ Mrs Watson continued, to a collective groan of disappointment.

‘Really?’ asked Verity. She’d never been deliberately chosen for anything before.

‘Absolutely,’ confirmed Mrs Watson. ‘Apparently the wind will be getting up so we could do with some weight.’

The next day found Verity on the well-worn path to school once more. And once again the sizeable figures of George and Oscar Blake emerged in the distance. They looked … purposeful. Verity’s heart sank. She knew this did not bode well.

‘Heard they’re using you as ballast for the sailing team,’ sneered Oscar as he wrenched Verity’s bag from her futilely folded arms.

‘What do you think you’re playing at, Gallant?’ demanded George, taking the stolen item from his brother and proceeding to extract its contents again.

The girls from yesterday had spotted this latest incident and were on the scene already. ‘You’re going to bring the whole team down with you,’ agreed one crossly.

‘This season is make or break for us,’ added a second. ‘The school’s reputation is at stake. Do you really want that on your head?’

George had Verity’s hockey kit now. A rare glimmer of original thought found its way into his mind and he
grinned … then, with one deft movement, threw her skirt up into the branches of a nearby tree. The watching girls shrieked with delight.

Verity gasped in horror. ‘I need that,’ she protested.

George prepared to launch her shirt in the same direction, then bellowed and dropped the bag in shock. Verity looked at him with a start. The top of his head was covered in a mess of mud and leaves. His audience exploded with laughter. Only as he swung round did it become apparent that the creator of George’s new head-wear was a small sandy-haired boy, growing smaller still as he disappeared off into the distance.

‘Henry Twogood,’ bellowed George, running after him at full tilt. ‘I am going to kill you.’

Verity picked up her bag and smiled. One of her tormentors giggled as she made her way past. ‘Lucky you, being helped out by Henry
Twogood
,’ she mocked.

Better than not being helped at all
, thought Verity to herself as she stared upwards at the lost skirt, stuck now on a branch from which she would never be able to dislodge it.

Lunch time found Henry Twogood joining the queue for school dinner. Ahead of him the usual pleas could be heard:

‘Just the
tiniest
bit of cabbage please.’

‘A really, really, really, really
little
scoop of swede thanks.’

In response the dinner ladies continued to ladle out overcooked vegetables in equal and unchanging portions.

Henry moved past them to the dessert section. ‘Hi, Mum,’ he muttered.

Mrs Twogood beamed as she looked up. ‘Hello, cherub,’ she replied.

Henry flinched. ‘Mu-umm.
Please
. Not in school.’

‘Sorry, love.’ She put a slab of bread pudding on his tray.

Henry glared at it. ‘I thought we agreed,’ he said. ‘No more cakes, no more pies and no more bread pudding.’

Mrs Twogood looked down in dismay. ‘Force of habit,’ she confessed. ‘Saw that George Blake chasing you across the grounds this morning,’ she added conversationally.