Verity Sparks, Lost and Found (6 page)

“No,” I said.

“We’ll teach you.”

“No, thank you,” I said. “I’d rather read.” I moved towards the bookcase, picked a book at random and went to sit by the fire. Serve me right. When I opened it, I found I’d chosen
The Higher Mathematics
. I put it back, and while I was looking for something a bit more interesting, Jessie said coaxingly, “Are you sure you don’t want to join our game, Verity?”

There was no use pretending, just to be polite.

“I don’t like your game,” I said, pulled out another lucky dip from the shelf (
Goldfish Ponds for Beginners
this time) and sat down with my back to them.

“Come here, Connie,” said Jessie in a silky voice. “We need you to score.”

Connie turned around with a stricken look on her face.

“I’ll score for you, Jessie,” said Emily, snapping her book shut.

“No, thanks. Connie wants to do it. Don’t you, Connie?”

Connie nodded slowly, and Jessie pulled the chair out for her. “Come on then. Let’s get started.”

The game of bezique was fast and noisy. Jessie and Alice were trying to show me what fun I was missing. But it was no fun for poor Connie.

“No, Connie, four knaves is forty. I told you that last time.”

“Show me what you’ve written. Four knaves, not four kings, you big silly.”

There was a brief interruption when Jemima sidled up to the cardplayers.

“What is it, Jemima?” asked Jessie, sharply.

Jemima had run out of blue embroidery silk and wanted to know if she could use some of Jessie’s.

“Can’t you see I’m playing cards?”

“But Jessie,” said Jemima. “You don’t have to stop your game. I can get it myself.” She opened the cupboard and picked up Jessie’s sewing basket, but Jessie jumped to her feet and snatched it away from her.

“I told you to wait,” said Jessie, giving her a black look.

Jemima blushed. “Sorry, Jessie.” She went and sat down again without her silk. If Jessie was like that to her friends, I’d hate to be her enemy.

The game continued.

“Sixty and forty are a hundred, Connie. Didn’t you learn to add in the bush?”

Surely there was something I could do to stop the torture. But what? I looked across to Emily, who gave an infinitesimal shake of her head.

“Connie, you idiot! You’ve done it again,” cried Jessie, and Connie dissolved into tears.

“Oh dear,” said Jessie. She turned to look at me, and her eyes were narrow slits. “The little bush lassie is such a crybaby.”

Why were they being so cruel? Then I realised. It was a show of power. Alice and Jessie were demonstrating what I had to look forward to if I didn’t join them.

Mrs Enderby-Smarke sailed into the room, followed by the maid with the tray.

“Good evening, girls,” she trilled.

“Good evening, Mrs Enderby-Smarke,” we chorused. Except Consolata. It was bad luck that Mrs Enderby-Smarke noticed.

“It is impolite not to return a greeting,” she said, and waited.

Consolata mumbled good evening, but that wasn’t good enough.

“
With
a bright smile, if you please.” She waited, but poor Connie was unable to produce any kind of a smile. “You may go to your room without supper,” snapped Mrs Enderby-Smarke, and Connie stumbled from the room, once more in tears.

“She’s got a headache, poor thing,” said Jessie, oozing sympathy.

“That is no excuse,” said Mrs Enderby-Smarke, dispensing toast and hot cocoa. “She brushed past me in a very rude fashion.”

“Yes, but–” I began, meaning to tell about Jessie’s behaviour. “Ow!” Emily had kicked me under the table.

“Not worth it,” she whispered.

None of the other girls said anything.

Why is it, I wondered, that some people just have to hurt others? I thought about Bill Bird. He was my uncle, Ma’s sister’s husband. Once I saw him kill Auntie’s pet kitten with his bare hands, looking at Auntie all the while. Jessie McGryll of Gryll Grange would no doubt think she was far above the likes of Bill Bird, but they were the same under the skin. Bullies. So Jessie thought she ruled the roost? We shall see, I said to myself.

After we finished our cocoa, Mrs Enderby-Smarke began her lecture. It was about feet.

“The foot,” she began, “is one of the chief points by which a girl’s social position is judged. Let her feet be small, well-shod and prettily used in walking, and they add a ladylike charm to her whole appearance …”

Emily’s eyes met mine, and I nearly had an attack of the giggles.

“Jessie, as you may have noticed, has particularly small feet.” She added, “As I do myself.”

I’d left my unfinished novel home at Alhambra, but that didn’t mean I’d given up on my writing. Just to keep my hand in, I’d decided to keep a journal of school life. Besides, one day I might write a story about a girls’ school. This was research.

The lecture turned out to be no laughing matter
, I wrote when I was back in my room and away from that droning voice at last.

It went on and on. It was an agony of boredom and I wished I could run out of the room like Connie. Just when I thought it was over, she changed topic
.

I sighed as I remembered. After feet, it was the perfect taste in jewels of the late Marchioness of Londonderry. I picked up my pen again and wrote my opinion – so far – of our headmistress.

I must confess, I wonder why Mrs Enderby-Smarke is running a school. She is passionate about fashionable society and polite manners, but she seems to have no interest in literature, or science, or art. In fact, she doesn’t seem to care much for education at all. Emily told me that the former headmistress, Mrs Morrison, was a great believer in education for girls. But since she handed Hightop House over to Mrs Enderby-Smarke, most of the senior teachers have gone. Emily is particularly anxious for Miss Smith’s return. Emily intends to take her matriculation examination, and Miss Smith had been coaching her in mathematics
.

There was a scrabbling sound at the door.

“Who’s there?”

“Me.” It was Lottie. She’d sneaked out to say goodnight. She scrambled onto my bed and gave me a big hug and a kiss.

“Sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite,” she giggled.

“Sweet dreams,” I called softly after her as she scampered out again. I put my journal under my pillow, blew out my candle and snuggled down to sleep.

After three weeks at Hightop House Academy for Young Ladies, I have made the following discoveries:

(1) The cockatoo’s name is Lucifer. He is fifty years old. First he belonged to Miss Deane’s great uncle, who was a vicar. And then to her uncle, who ran what Miss Deane calls a “sly grog shop”. I think that is some kind of tavern. And now he belongs to her
.

(2) Jessie McGryll gets away with her bullying because she’s got Mrs Enderby-Smarke wound around her little finger. It’s as if she can do no wrong. Alice is almost as bad. They’re very clever. They act as sweet as pie in front of the teachers and it makes my blood boil. Emily stands up to them but Jemima and Louisa are so scared that they even join in with the teasing. The Fanshawe sisters, who are seventeen and could squash Jessie if they chose to, don’t seem to notice what is going on under their noses. All they think about is leaving school and getting married
.

(3) Connie McTavish has a very sad story. Her mother died when she was born. Her name – Consolata – is not foreign but refers to her being a consolation to her poor Papa. Her home is hundreds of miles away at a place called Riverbend Station (which is, however, nowhere near a railway) on the banks of the Murray River. She showed me a photograph of her father on his horse. He had written “From your loving Papa to my little bush lassie” on it. Trust Jessie to tease her about that
.

Connie lived very happily at Riverbend with her Papa until some interfering aunts decided she should not grow up among farm workers and their families and the local Aborigines, without respectable female company
.

All her things are very shabby. Two years ago, when the Riverbend wool clip was being transported by riverboat, the boat caught fire and the wool was ruined. Now they are quite poor. The aunts have done their best, but their taste in clothes is terrible. For example, mustard yellow
.

My heart aches for Connie, because I know what it is like to lose your mother
.

I put my pen down. Poor Connie! I thought. Only yesterday she showed me what was inside her locket. It was a picture of her mother, the only one she had.

Connie is not good at her lessons, but she is extremely fond of music and sings beautifully
.

(4) I do not sing beautifully. I have not inherited my mother’s gift, for it seems I am tone-deaf. Mr Albertini, the music master, says so. He is very temperamental
.

(5) The Colonel is very keen on dates. Especially of battles, both naval and military. I think he has memorised them from the prints that are hung on every wall. I have a very good memory for dates, and am already at the top of the class
.

(6)

Here I paused. My last item was more of a feeling than a discovery.

Miss Deane is worried about something
.
Yesterday I had to come upstairs during class and I saw her in Jessie and Alice’s room, looking under Jessie’s mattress. What was she searching for? Have Jessie or Alice hidden something? I wriggled my fingers. I rubbed my hands together. Not the slightest tingle. Not the hint of an itch. I tiptoed away
.

Again I paused.

I wish I still had my gift
.

I closed my book, wiped my pen and corked the ink bottle. I was just about to blow out my candle when I heard a noise in the corridor. A soft, patting, tapping sound. I couldn’t make out what it was. It wasn’t Lottie, for she would have walked straight in. I got out of bed and crept to the door.

“Miss Deane!” She was on her hands and knees, lifting the hall carpet in sections and looking underneath it. She stood up quickly and came into my room.

She explained, “I was just checking.”

“Checking?” What on earth for? She must have read the puzzlement on my face, for she said quickly, “For moths. They have been at the Juniors’ hall carpet, and it’s full of holes. And anyway, what are you doing up so late? It’s against the rules.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” I said. I pointed to my book. “I was writing.”

“Is that a diary?” she asked.

“Not really. Well, perhaps. I have been writing down my observations about school life.”

Miss Deane gave a soft chuckle, then said in a serious tone, “Just be careful. Some of the girls here are not to be trusted. If I were you, I’d hide it, or–”

“It’s all right, Miss Deane,” I said. Encryption had been part of my confidential agent training. “It’s in code.”

She chuckled again. “What a funny thing you are. But it’s a very good precaution. Blow out your candle now, dear girl, and goodnight.” She stopped by the door. “And thank you for befriending Connie. If ever a girl needed a friend, it is her.” She came back and dropped a light kiss on my cheek. “Sleep well.”

Outside in the passage, I heard that same soft sound, only now it was a little further away. So Miss Deane had resumed her search. What a bad liar she was. She was looking for something, and it wasn’t moths. The something would have to be flat and small if it could fit neatly under the hall carpet. Papers? Documents or letters? Or perhaps banknotes, or a cheque … As I drifted off to sleep, I wondered if I should have asked her straight out, and offered her my services. I liked Miss Deane.

I dreamed again that night. As in my recurring nightmare, I was in the same dreary mist, searching high and low for something. Again, I tried to use my gift. But it was no help to me, and then suddenly I found I had a book in my hands. It was Papa’s gift,
The Young Ladies’ Treasure Book and Complete Companion
. The pages fluttered open, showing diagrams, illustrations and instructions for knitting, knotting, netting and other crafts.

I do believe that at times, our dreams hold messages for us. But in this case? When I woke in the morning, it seemed my dream was just silly nonsense.