Effy's War- 3

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“Over here girls, if you please!” cried a woman, somewhere, in a piercing voice. Effy couldn’t see over the heads of those in front of her and was being guided on sense of hearing alone.

“First years to the front please!” cried the same woman. Effy clutched the handle of her trunk, which she had retrieved from the pile of luggage just a few moments ago, and tried to push her way through.

“Um, excuse me.” “Can I just get through here?” “Excuse me please.” “Are you completely daft?” “Can you actually hear me?” “Excuse me.” “Excuse moi?” “JUST MOVE!”

Eventually, a path was fought, and she emerged into bright sunlight victorious. The piercing voice belonged to a middle-aged woman who towered above the little eleven year olds before her in all her bean-pole arrogance like a queen above peasants. Her face, when Effy craned her neck enough to see it, was pale, her cheeks gaunt, her black hair permed so tightly it looked physically painful.

“Right,” said the woman, in her shrill voice. “All here are we? Well, my name is Mrs Oxford. I shall be teaching you Mathematics. But for now I have been saddled with the task of leading you all to school, so you must follow me. Second years and third years, follow Miss Oliver, fourth and fifth, Mrs Freeman, and sixth year follow Mrs Beckett who is your new Art and Drama teacher this year. Okay? Off we go then- do try and keep up.”

So, before they had barely had the chance to take it all in, twenty or so terrified little girls hurried along at the heels of their minder, without so much as a whisper.

Cherryworth was a sweet little village. Even as she sped down its main road, with little time to take in the view, Effy could see that. There wasn’t much about, not compared to the hustle and bustle of town that she was accustomed to- just few shops, scattered about between storybook cottages and neat flowerbeds, their blossoms cultivated in at regular intervals and sitting pretty like tiny gemstones. A church loomed high at the centre, opposite the green. Sleepy locals, on their way to work in the nearby towns, gave cheery waves to the girls. School children had become as much a part of the landscape as the spire of St Barnabus, or the trees in Wickley Wood.

“Good morning Ma’am,” one old gentleman called to Mrs Oxford, tipping his cap.

“Good morning Mr McDonnell,” she replied, an actual smile pulling across her face. But it was only slight, as if a single degree more would cause her skin to crumble like fine china, and disappeared in the blink of an eye.

After traipsing through the village- and after one of the first years nearly got her leg bitten off by a dog (she had threatened to get her Daddy to sue the school, until Mrs Oxford pointed out that perhaps she shouldn’t have been poking the poor pooch with a stick) -the girls reached a fork in the road. To the right was a long, flat driveway, which would eventually lead to St Christopher’s School for Boys and to the left was a shorter gravel lane heading to Cherryworth Hill, and the Girl’s School atop it.

“This way then girls, chop chop!” Mrs Oxford said, clapping her hands together, and briskly hurrying the girls past the righthand fork. Heaven forbid they should encounter the boys again.

Eventually, the group reached the school. Many of the girls had very nearly fainted on the exhausting clamber up the hill, but they’d made it in one piece. Mrs Oxford could breathe a sigh of relief in regards to her future employment.

A small throng had already gathered in the courtyard, an assortment of girls who lived too far away for the train to reach them, or too near to warrant any transport at all. They stood around, on their own or in groups of two or three, scattered about. When the rest of the pupils emerged, teachers roused themselves from where they leant against the walls- half-dozing- and barked orders. The girls were split by year group into six long lines. The second and third years put up a bit of a struggle, as always, chatting or lagging into another row. Meanwhile, the first years silently and obediently followed their instructions. Effy was somewhere in the middle, still clutching her trunk. Her knuckles were white- she hadn’t let go through the entire journey.

As the little girl stared up the school, at black strings of ivy that clung to the walls, the central turret that stretched up and up into the clouds, the two large doors swung open. And a woman stepped out. She was of her late thirties- at a guess, although time had not been kind to her, and lines were etched into her skin- with long brown hair wrapped into a bun.

“Good morning girls,” she said, far too louder than necessary, in a voice dripping with authority.

“Good morning Mrs Dorchester,” Years two to six replied in unison, while Year one looked around, confused.

“Welcome to you all, as we begin a fresh year at Cherryworth Hill School. I and my colleagues will continue to expect the highest level of effort from everybody. But that begins tomorrow. Today, of course, is for settling back in. At twelve o’clock, we gather for lunch, and in the afternoon there will be assemblies for all year groups. For now, please make your way to your dormitories and unpack.”

Line by line, the girls vanished through the same doors that Mrs Dorchester had appeared. Despite her nerves, Effy’s toes itched to follow them. But she had to stand in her place.

“And so we come to you, little first years,” said the headmistress, standing with her hands tightly clasped behind her plump derriere. “How scared you all look, like little baa lambs at the abattoir. But do not fret. I am sure you will find yourself warmly accommodated by your elder peers. That does not mean you should get too comfortable. Some girls,” here she started to pace up and down before them, hands still clasped. “Take this school for granted, treat it like a holiday. They mess about and let standards slip. Know now, little first years, that that sort of behaviour shan’t be tolerated by myself or my staff. Misbehave, or get complacent, and punishments will be enforced.”

One girl, near the back, started crying. Everyone else just watched their new headmistress pace with terrified eyes, the hairs on the back of their necks standing tall. Kindly as her tone had first appeared, Mrs Dorchester had something dark in her eyes that wiped all assurance from her words.

“Your first school day shall start tomorrow,” she continued. “There are timetables and maps on your beds, which will tell you where to go and at what time. Expectations will be at the highest level, and will stay there. Today, you will merely focus on settling in- learning the names of your classmates, sorting out your belongings. There will also be an opportunity after lunch for you to visit the school library, and we hope that you will take up.”

Mrs Dorchester inclined her head a little, and stepped to one side. Mrs Oxford stood straight again.

“Follow me,” she said, and lead her little army of school girls through the doors.

Effy dragged her heavy trunk, and hurried to keep up with the bobbing head of curls in front of her.

She was first met with the lobby- the centre of the school, with a ceiling that reached up and up right to the top of the building. If she craned her neck she could see the older girls, scuttling along the balconies, popping in and out of doors. The whole place was alive with chatting and giggling. Margo leant on a banister on the third floor, maybe higher. She swung her long legs and threw her head back in gails of laughter. A whole hoard of people had gathered around her- watching her like she was one of those beautiful actresses in the movies. One of them broke their gaze from her face, and pointed down to the little assembly of first years, and said something that Effy didn’t quite hear. Margo turned around, and gave a small wave and a flash of a grin to her sister. The first years gasped, and all turned to Effy.

“Do you know her?” one girl asked. Effy felt her cheeks flush.

“She’s my sister,” she replied, after a moment.

“Wow!”

Mrs Oxford cleared her throat.

“That’s quite enough, girls,” she said. “There’s nothing special about Margaret Greenwich- and you will keep away from her if any of you have an ounce of sense.”

Four staircases, and hundreds of steps, later, and Effy and her classmates reached the top floor, and their dormitory. Mrs Oxford opened the door, and ushered them all inside.

“Choose your beds. There are no set places. You each have a locker for your belongings- keep it neat, there are full dorm inspections carried out by the head mistress every Monday.”

It was a long hall of a room, with little iron beds lined up against the walls. Between these were small single wardrobes. And that was just about it. Small windows sat on the back wall, their grey curtains held back with string. The walls were painted white- though time and dust had dulled the colour- and the floor was covered with old floorboards and a distinct lack of rugs or carpet. One tiny radiator was fixed in a corner. Other than that, the only heat would come from thin brown blankets stretched over the beds.

Effy was second to make a move. First was a petite, red haired girl with a skip in her step who took her trunk to the bed nearest the radiator. Effy followed soon after her, lugging her own trunk to the next bed along. Slowly, everyone else followed, and Mrs Oxford left.

“So,” said the redhead, as she unpacked a seemingly never-ending stream of flowery dresses into her locker. “What’s your name?”

“Um, Elizabeth,” Effy replied, after a moment. She remembered her nanny’s words yet again.

“Oh,” said the girl. “Not Lizzy? Or Beth?”

“Well, people call me Effy…”

The girl grinned. “Effy it is then. I’m Tabby.”

After sorting out their things, the girls all sat awkwardly on their beds, waiting for something to happen. A few had got into conversation in one corner, but other than that the dorm was shrouded in silence. Effy was looking through her timetable, and trying to memorise it. Things didn’t go too well, and by the time she’d gotten to Sunday evening, Monday morning had flown out of her head.

“I shouldn’t worry about all that,” Tabby said brightly, as Effy cursed, and began at the top of the page once more. “It’s not as if they’ll test us on it. Besides, I’m sure you’ll have learnt it as well as you will before the month’s out- looking at it every day and what have you.”

“Nanny would have come up with a rhyme,” Effy sighed. “Find some sort of pattern and sing the lessons and time of day. She hasn’t the best of voices, but it doesn’t stop her.”

“You should hear my little brothers,” Tabby said. “Mother signed them all up for the choir the day they turned five. Our neighbour’s cat got run over by a tram last May, and still made a more appealing noise.”

Effy found herself laughing for the first time in what felt like an age. And for one beautiful moment, she forgot about Tommy, and her parents, and the ache in her heart for home.

But then, the moment was gone- just as soon as it came. That night, when Effy lay in her new bed, between itchy moth-eaten blankets, she yearned for home. She squeezed her eyes closed, and shut out the snoring of Tabby beside her, and the foreign hoots of the owls outside, and wished that she were in her own bed, in her own nightdress. She wished for Mamma to come kiss her cheek, and for Father to give his gruff “Goodnight”. She wished for Tommy to tiptoe across the landing in his dressing gown and striped pyjamas, to hug her tightly and will away the nightmares.

Minutes turned to hours, and yet the darkness of the night dragged on. Effy lay right in the centre of the soggy mattress, curled tight into a little ball. She slid one pale arm out from under the blankets, and retrieved the half-playing card from underneath the bed. She had stowed it there after undressing that evening, and tucked it into her shoes. But now she held it tightly in her palm. Perhaps Tommy was holding his- way over the fields in his own little bed.

At two o’clock or so, Effy heard sobs from the bed just a few down from her’s. Wiping her own tears away, she pushed back the blankets, and sat up.

“Hello?” she whispered, into the black, quickly putting the card away again. “Are you okay?”

There was a small gasp, then a lot of scuffling and stiffing, before a tiny voice murmured. “Yes.”

Not convinced, Effy got out of bed as quietly as she could. The old springs creaked but no one stirred. Then she made her journey across the cold floorboards that stung her bare toes. Creeping slowly, holding her hands in front of her to check for obstacles, Effy eventually made it to the girl. There was more shuffling, as the girl moved her feet, and Effy sat down on the edge of the bed.

“What’s your name?” came a timid voice from the darkness.

“Effy.”

“Oh. I’m Mary.”

“Hello, Mary,” Effy replied. “Aren’t you the girl with the curly brown hair?”

“Yes.”

There was a moment or so of silence.

“You won’t tell anyone I was crying, will you?” Mary asked. Effy shook her head. Then she realised that Mary wouldn’t be able to see that, and said, “No, I won’t.”

“Thank you.”

“I miss my family too you know,” Effy confided. “We all do. But I’m sure it will get better.”

“Are you really?”

“Yes.”

But she wasn’t. She wasn’t sure at all. Assuring people is one thing, believing in it is a completely different thing entirely.