The Last Of Marbledown And Merrifield

12

The Last Of Marbledown And Merrifield

August 15 Not. That was it, then. Goodbye to the regimentation of putrid school! Exams were over and Alysse and I had sent in our university applications. We looked at each other and grinned weakly.

    “Othello’s occupation’s gone, eh?” she said.

    “Right. Now we can look forward to Guests’ Day, the Garden Party, and the End of Year Combined Merrifield and Marbledown Dance,” I replied with an awful leer.

    “Ugh!”

    “Plus of course,” I noted affably, “Marbledown’s Rowing Regatta, their School Against the Rest Cricket Match, and their Open Day, equivalent of our Guests’ Day: they stopped calling it ‘Parents’ Day’ a while back, too, too many broken families and oddities like me and my siblings. It’s kind of a combined Guests’ Day and Garden Party, with a scrimmage on the lawn for the strawberries and cream. The boys are supposed to serve the guests nicely.” I eyed her drily.

    She gulped. “I bet. …You’re not really going to go, are you?” she added feebly.

    “Yes. Someone has to support poor little Bean Minor. And even Bean appreciates some familial back-up as he stands on the bank with damp feet wondering which lot of sweating rowers is the right one to cheer.”

    “Um, I think one usually says ‘oarsmen’, actually, Mel,” she said kindly.

    “Really? Thanks, Alysse,” I sighed. “Most people assume that it’s my native language because I don’t sound foreign, and never correct me. How can one learn if one’s mistakes are never corrected?”

    “That’s why I try to correct you, Mel,” she replied with her customary placidity.

    At this I smiled at her and said: “Well if you’re game for putting on a pretty dress, you could come with me: it’s always a double invite: you know: ‘and partner’. What the Yanks call ‘plus one’,” I ended with relish.

    “Do they really?” she said with a look of startled distaste.

    “Oh yes.”

    “Um, well… I haven’t got a pretty dress,” she admitted, going rather red.

    Help, did she actually want to come, then? Surely she couldn’t have conceived a crush on the Bean, like the bimbos! Er… possibly it was Flossie or Egg, they have been over to see me a few times this year—usual furore in the Seniors’ Over-Scented Battleground.

    “Nor have I. But what I have got is five hundred quid that Dad sent me out of the blue the other day. Possibly having thought it was my birthday—actually I think it was his wedding anniversary.”

    “Gosh, five hundred?” she gasped.

    “Well it doesn’t go far these days. But yes, that strip that John Raice tore off him must actually have registered. So we could go shopping!” I finished, grinning.

    “If you mean you’ll pay, I can’t let you, Mel,” she said, redder than ever. –Alysse was a scholarship girl, one more reason for the beastly bimbos to scorn her, and until very recently we’d been equally broke.

    “Rubbish. Tell you what: we’ll both have a Make-Over,” I said with relish, “and put the bimbos’ eyes out!”

    “Um, well, those Marbledown friends of your brother’s have pretty well done that, but… Would it work?” she said wistfully.

    Why not? She had good features, neat but not gaudy, at least when not decorated with smudges of ink from leaking biros, and a decent figure, under the putrid uniform, or on this particular mufti day the saggy grey tracksuit trousers and even saggier grey Tee. The hair was a disaster, admittedly, a sort of tangle of mouse, but (a) there are plenty of hairdressers in Brighton and (b) I happened to know one who owed me a big favour consequent on a trip to Paris last year which she could only afford because she stayed with the cousins at Resto LeBec, result, a huge crush on such idiots as Jean-Louis and Marc-Antoine.

    “Of course! And don’t worry about your hair, Janine will do it at mates’ rates, she more than owes me one!” At which I outed with the rather new mobile phone (John Raice again, also one each for the boys, parting gifts at the end of the Easter break) and rang her. Only too pleased, she’d do it at home, not the salon (giggle) plus and details and date.

    “Fixed!”

    “Thanks awfully, Mel.”

    “Well we have to do something to celebrate getting the exams over, and we might as well have a go at pretending to be little ladies: it’ll be noses to the grindstone again soon enough if we get into a decent university. –Oxford in your case!” I grinned.

    She smiled feebly. “I’m still worried about that last Greek paper. –You’re more likely to get in than me, really.”

    Yes, well, there or elsewhere. I’d finally given in and asked the Brain’s advice about the bac and A-levels, and she’d been very sympathetic and said: “I see. In spite of your granny’s belief in the superiority of the bac, it’s generally considered that it’s not what it was in her day. Something like eighty percent of final-year students pass in France, whereas a much more acceptable level of national passes would be thirty percent, which is around the over-all figure for A-levels in Britain. –Just a moment; I can give you copies of the relevant articles.” –Hitting keys rapidly. The printer next to her desk whirred and she handed the sheets to me. Well they were a mixed bag, some from the BBC, which you’d have expected to crow over the French, but some from French sources… Oh, dear. Very acid criticism indeed. So I admitted she was right and Grannie was living in the past with this as with so much else. Then she said: “Five A-levels—with decent grades, of course—should get you into pretty much any university you want, here or in France. Or elsewhere, indeed. And since you were born in France you won’t be forced to do a lesser degree.” She twinkled at me.

    “No,” I said limply. “It’s not that I want an academic career, like Dad, but I sort of feel that my mind hasn’t done enough, yet. Um, I’m afraid that sounds puerile.”

    “No, Melly-sand, my dear, it sounds honest, and I think if you talk it over with Alysse Johns you’ll find it’s very much her feeling, too,” she smiled.

    So I did, and we found that we had more in common than we’d been assuming. And Alysse even asked me to take a look at this awful Classics Scholarship application she’d been struggling with, because two heads were better than one. I gave it a go, tho reminding her that English wasn’t my first language, and we pretty well nutted it out. Tho on second thoughts I scanned it and emailed copies to Egg and Flossie to get their opinions. I can’t say I was astounded when Egg rang up and talked us through it. Nor when Flossie emailed back: “Marbles totally lost, darling?” followed by nothing.

August 19 Not. Continuing: So Janine duly did our hair, Alysse rather surprised, I think, to find that (a) she was a Black girl, (b) her own hair was in corn rows, tho at the same time with streaked blonde bits, and (c) the household consisted of her, her mum, her older sister, Bette, and Bette’s rather new little Melly-sand. Two friends were also present: Jules (feminine, short for Julie), who was a manicurist, and Shelley, a make-up expert. I must admit Shelley overdid the make-up, tho with the best of intentions, but the hairdoes were superb. Alysse’s long tangle of mouse was  combed out, shampooed, trimmed, and very slightly streaked, the victim goggling at herself in Janine’s mum’s big mirror and saying in awe: “So that’s how it’s done”; and the final product, when properly brushed and combed and pinned up just slightly at the back of the head with a plastic tortoiseshell clip that was claimed to be going begging, was really stunning! Long and wavy, gleaming, thanks to the shampooing and the streaking, and unlike certain persons, not looking at anyone, Angela Purviss, no extraneous pieces needing to be fixed in underneath by devious means to bulk it out.

    Janine admitted sadly that short of straightening it there wasn’t much she could do for mine, it had a mind of its own; but it certainly needed a trim, so she got busy. The effect achieved was rather too 21st-century so I persuaded her to get going again and the resultant bob was much more like what I had in mind for the putrid Garden Party. Tho not having disclosed the full plan to Alysse: I had a feeling she might not think it was funny.

    After that and a snack courtesy of Janine’s mum (no clichés need apply, she was into health foods and it was a delicious salady mixture in a thin wholemeal wrap). there was just time for an initial foray to the Boutiques to Compare Prices…

    By the time we got back to School it was dinnertime and we were both exhausted. And it hadn’t even been a proper bimbo-type Salong! Tho the Seniors’ Over-Scented Battleground refused utterly to believe us and there were cries of: “Tell us!” And: “I bet it was … (insert unlikely name)!” And: “You’re just saying that to spite us!” And: “It must’ve been a Salong!”

    “Hah, hah, hah,” I concluded as we exited in good order.

    “Yes!” gasped Alysse, collapsing in a gale of giggles. “The biters bit! Wonderful!”

    The School Against the Rest Cricket Match at Marbledown was the first of our thrilling end-of-year social engagements. It didn’t rain, so I had to go, to show solidarity with the miniscule legume. Alysse opted out, confessing she really couldn’t sit through a whole cricket match. No blame, I assured her. And shoved a couple of emergency vols into my fourre-tout. (An old one of Tante Émilie’s but the bimbos had gasped over the Name on it nonetheless.)

    It was, of course, Marbledown’s First Eleven and the thing was a do for Seniors and Belongings, tho their whole school was allowed to watch. Or more probably expected to watch. Those of our Seniors who were going (all of the bimbos, natch) had to be inspected by Miss Stinkerton in case they were looking Unsuitable, before being collected by whoever.

    She looked in some dismay at my very tight yellow Tee (Tante Louise; I think we might have mixed up the French and English sizings, between us) and the very French jeans from Oncle Patrice, not to say the genuine Tennis Shoes of the Junior Drones outfit.

    “Don’t you think a pretty blouse might be more suitable, Melly-sand, dear?”

    (No.) “Yes, but I haven’t got one, Miss Pinkerton.”

    —Sniggering from the bimbos in the background.

    “I see,” she said sadly. “Er, that handbag is rather bright, dear.”

    It was rather bright, yes. A clear blue. Crocodile. This time the bimbos weren’t sniggering, they were gasping in horror at her faux-pas, serve them right.

    “It’s an old one of my French aunt’s, Miss Pinkerton, de l’année quatre-vingt seize.”

    This was rather mean, as I knew perfectly well that she claims to read French but like most Anglophones is hopeless at French numbers. On the other hand I did think that by now it should have dawned there was no-one in our family that threw suitcasesful of brand-new expensive boutique-type garments and accessories at me.

    “Is it, dear?” she said feebly. “That’s nice… But, well, the colour does look a trifle odd with that pretty scarf on your sunhat.”

    It was my Junior Drones cravat: the bright pink silk scarf with the white polka dots. And she had unwittingly put her finger on the precise reason why it was being combined with a bright blue bag and a yellow Tee.

    “I thought it looked quite cheerful,” I said sadly.

    “Er—yes, of course, Melly-sand,” she agreed quickly. “Well at least you’re not overdressed, dear. Now, have you got a cardigan, in case it turns chilly?”

    “No, but I’ve got a blazer!” I said proudly, feeling in my fourre-tout and hauling out not the putrid School blazer but a spare one that Egg had recently found in their attic and had passed on to me as an alternative to my more official or dress Junior Drones one in the blue and black stripes. Not as altruistic as it seemed, as he’d admitted the sleeves were too short for him, Flossie, Crumpy and Bean. It was black, nicely trimmed in pink.

    Poor Miss Stinkerton turned positively pale. “Is that— That’s— You can’t possibly wear that, Melly-sand!”

    “It’s a bit wide across the shoulders for me, but it’s quite warm.”

    “It’s a Worcester Rowing Eight blazer!” she cried.

    “Oh, is it? Then it’d be more suitable for the regatta, I suppose.”

    “What? No! It’d be the most dreadful solecism!”

    “Why? Do the boys compete against the Worcester schoolboys, then?” I groped.

    —Several bimbos were heard to snort scornfully and several noses were looked down, at this point.

    “What? No: the Oxford college!” the poor woman gasped. “Worcester College, Melly-sand!”

    “Oh,” I said blankly. “You’d have thought it’d be dark blue, not black.”

    “It’s not the way it— Never mind,” she sighed. “There will be people there who will recognise it, Melly-sand. You cannot possibly wear it.”

    “I’d better run up and get my School blazer, then.”

    “Much more suitable, dear,” she said in huge relief. So I shot upstairs and whiled away a few minutes idly looking out the window of our room, which if one knelt on my bed afforded quite a nice view of a bend in the front drive…

    “Look out,” said Alysse drily. “You’ll be as bad as Angela Purviss if you don’t take care.”

    “Impossible! I’m watching for the car, not the body driving it, actually, ’cos if ever there was anything one-up in the one-upmanship stakes it’s a— Ah, hah!” I said, as Crumpy’s vehicle crawled up the drive at his usual 5 m.p.h. Well yes, there is a speed-limit notice to that effect but I’ve never seen anyone else pay it the slightest heed.

    Alysse came to look. “Flat,” she discerned. “That’s more with-it, or something, is it?”

    “A flat Porsche or in the bimbo vernacular, Porsh,” I explained carefully, and she choked.

    Grinning, I went downstairs eagerly. Certain junior types were stationed in the front hall officially to show Seniors’ visitors to the Seniors’ Over-Scented Battleground. And I happened to know that they’d been unofficially bribed by the bimbos to announce the luckless body in Q. in a certain form.

    I was looking frightfully casual as poor Crumpy surfaced behind the announcement: “Mr Lucius Lamont with a Porsh for Melly-sand Fullarton-Browne.”

    It slaughtered them! The faces went absolutely puce!

    “What-ho, Crumpet, old chap!” I said cheerily. “Thanks awfully for collecting me. Lovely day for it, isn’t it?”

    “What-ho, Sister Bean,” he replied feebly, following me out.

    “I say,” he croaked once we were in the blessed fresh air, free of all that scent, “why on earth did that kid have to announce my car?”

    “The bimbos—largely Angela Purviss—have bribed her to. It’s so as they can sneer at the unfortunates who are being picked up by lesser vehicles.”

    “God. I knew they were bad, but that takes the jolly old Victoria sponge!”

    “Yep, putrid. But the really good thing about it is that the Purvis officially engaged Boyfriend only drives an Audi!” I grinned.

    “Got it! Round one to us, then!” he said with a laugh, opening the door for me like a little gent.

    “Crumpy, dear old consumer of toasted namesakes and raspberry-choc ices, I’m not a lady, you don’t have to,” I said kindly,

    “They might be watching!” he hissed, winking.

    “Good one!” I choked, getting in.

    And off we crept at 5 m.p.h. down the School drive in his bally Porsche. Oh, well. One couldn’t have everything.

    Well of course I wore the pink-trimmed black blazer, that was the point. I must say it looked jolly, open over my yellow Tee. Egg grinned like anything as I appeared in it.

    “Hullo-ullo-ullo! Sight for sore eyes, Sister Bean!”

    “It looks spiffing with the jolly old hat, don’t you think?” put in Crumpy on a proud and, alas, somewhat proprietorial note. Honestly, once they get you into the manly vehicle—!

    “Abso-bally-lutely! Thought I’d remembered your pink scarf with the polka dots aright,” the Egg agreed. “I say, did anyone spot you over at Merrifield?”

    I coughed slightly.

    Promptly he collapsed in sniggers. “Go on!” he urged, wiping his eyes.

    “Well just as a coincidence, you understand, but sometimes the Almighty smiles upon one in such a way, the unfortunate Miss Stinkerton, who insists on inspecting the dear gels before they depart for these beanfeasts, happens to have an illustrious cousin—who never so much as speaks to her, as far as one can determine—who was at W—”

    “Worcester!” they all howled, breaking into roars of laughter.

    And Bean concluded: “Three cheers for the Egg! Hip, hip—”

    “Ra! Ra! Ra!”

    After that, given it was Cricket, it would not be true to say that a good time was had by all. Well, one or two luminous interludes. And I have to admit that the players were all adorably serious about it. Oh, dear! I felt about a hundred and two.

    Bean Minor of course insisted on pointing out the notables not to say the finer points of the Game. Mud-like clarity—quite.

    And the ball tossing, ball missing (batters), occasional ball hitting, ball missing (fielders) and end-changing—was it? Well when they’ve had a Six, no I mean an Over and they swap—hah, hah—over—and Etcetera continued…

    “What-ho again, Sister Bean!” Flossie appeared as from nowhere. He’d initially been wearing the sort of thing Seniors were allowed to sport during Sports matches to which Belongings were invited, to wit, clean jeans (they had a choice; the Junior Drones had opted for jeans, which was why I was in mine, natch) and a putrid maroon Marbledown Tee with the putrid Marbledown logo emblazoned approx. over the manly nipple. He’d now added a new blazer to the outfit.

    Golly. Totally nauseating. Pale washed-out blueish and slightly grimy cream wide stripes.

    “I say, Flossie! What a find! Is that from Egg’s attic as well?”

    “Certainly not,” he replied, looking down the nose. “Uncle Flossie. He found it stowed away in the ancestral H. Thought I might like it, since he’s heard all about the Junior Drones outfits. And be warned, darling, he wants to join.”

    “Well he’s a decent old sort… I suppose he could be an Auxiliary, like Mr L.”

    “Auxiliary Hon. Mem.,” he corrected. “Well if everyone agrees I suppose I won’t blackball him: he means well.” He brushed carelessly at the thing’s lapel. “Extremely well.”

    Little Bean Minor was goggling at him.

    “Something wrong, very minor legume?” he asked on a careless note.

    “It— I mean,” Bean Minor stuttered, turning very red as to the cherubic physiog., “I know Sister Bean’s is a joke, but— I mean…” His voice tailed off.

    “Yes?” said Flossie blandly.

    He swallowed hard.

    Flossie eyed him drily. “Put it like this, oh insignificant leguminous one. I rolled up to the Beak with it in hand, looking frightfully innocent, don’tcha know, and bleated: ‘I say, sir, my uncle gave me this. Just thought I ought to run it by you in case it might not be the Done Thing. Do you happen to know what it is?’ To which he replied, as might have been expected and indeed was: ‘Don’t you, Nightingale?’ So I answered innocently: ‘Not a clue, sir, I’m afraid.’ And got a very hard look for my pains.”

    “And?” I prompted, as the dashed chap had paused for effect.

    “Well y’see, our respected Beak was up at Cambridge.”

    I took another look at the wide pale blueish stripes in the appalling thing. “But…”

    “I knew it! cried Bean Minor in the voice of Cassandra.—Doom had struck, clearly.—“It’s a Cambridge half-blue!”

    “Do you know,” replied Flossie cordially: “those are the very words our respected Beak used.”

    “You can’t wear it!” he protested.

    “He said that, too.”

    “Is it really bad?” I ventured. “It can’t be a sacking offence, can it? Not that I’m sure what a half-blue is, actually.”

    “Er—never mind, dear,” Flossie replied, grinning. “Just take it from me it’s one of the most frightful solecisms one could possibly commit. A true gaffe, indeed. A faux pas to end all faux pas.”

    “Got it!” I gasped, giving way to helpless giggles, to Bean Minor’s further horror.

August 26 Not. Continuing: After that, since certain luminaries of the Junior School came up and joined Bean Minor and started talking Cricket Talk, apparently oblivious to our social solecisms, Flossie and I strolled off in search of light refreshment, and incidentally to find someone to torture with our blazers.

    … The trick was, we discovered, to approach a group of Correctly Dressed older cricket fans. Most unfortunately we didn’t spot anyone in a blazer in a sickening shade of faded pale blue, but there were several in very dark blue...

    And a jolly good time was had by all, the more so as the Egg spotted what we were up to and he, Crumpy and Bean abandoned Seniors’ Duties and joined us. In their Junior Drones blazers—with their Tees and jeans, natch, so that we all matched. It was glorious. The typical reaction was a tolerant smile at the dear children… Then it slowly sank in and the older gent in Q. would turn reliably puce. We got several wordless spluttering fits, they were good. Tho on the whole the ones that Spoke Seriously to us were the best. Oh frabjous day! Luminous, indeed!

    “I have a plan for this afternoon,” said the Egg over the trifle which was the high spot of the usual unexciting Marbledown Cricket Lunch, “but only if you have the guts to carry it out, Honourable Sister Bean.”

    Of course I did. The victim was their Mr Pedersen, who teaches something putrid in the science line, and is the Hearty to end all Hearties, being the School’s Rowing Coach. He had let his scorn for the Junior Drones members show once too often, so my pink-edged blazer was really a gift from the gods. Given that he is not only an alumnus of respected Worcester but actually belonged to its famous Boat Club.

    He was discovered down by the river, nominally inspecting the boats but actually sulking, cricket worship being anathema to him.

    “Hullo, sir!” said the Egg brightly, proffering a glass of fizzy lemonade and a plate of cake at an appropriate hour. “Thought you might care for a little refreshment.”

    He turned in astonishment. “Thanks very much, Oven… den.” His eye fell upon yours truly. He turned so puce that for a moment I feared an apoplexy.

    “Anything up, sir?” asked Flossie in a frightfully casual voice.

    “Thuh-that girl…!” he stuttered.

    “Mm? Oh,” said Egg mildly. “Well she isn’t a Martlet, actually, sir: she found it in an op shop, and she thought she was doing her bit—casual dress for the day, sort of thing—so we haven’t disabused her, so to speak.”

    “She has no right to wear it!” he cried in sort of strangled squawk.

    At that point I had an inspiration and said: “Que dit-il?”

    “Foreigner, y’see, sir: don’t think she’ll understand if we try to explain,” said Flossie smoothly, taking my elbow. “Alors viens, ma chérie, le prof n’aime pas ton blazer.” (Pronouncing it “blay-zaire”.)

    Looking bewildered, I allowed myself to be led off.

    We got as far as the next clump of bushes before we all gave way to gales of laughter. I think he probably heard us but serve him right! How pathetic can you get? Antediluvian.

    And that, alas, was the last luminous moment of the day. I did my duty and rejoined Bean Minor, who explained very seriously what had happened so far. Oh, fielding again, were they? Mm.

    So after quite a lot of running about carrying very unwieldly bats with even unwieldier pads on the legs, and a great deal of ball missing by figures stationed haphazardly here and there on the greensward, and a certain amount of stopping, conferring on the Pitch, and swapping of bowlers, he pointed out breathlessly, as one of them actually caught a ball and the watching Marbledown boys clapped madly, what time their Belongings blinked, came to, smiled tepidly and made a show of putting their hands together: “That’s Stephenson!”

    “Oh, is it? Mm.”

    “Mel! Stephenson,” he breathed reverently.

    Er… “Famous, is he?” I groped.

    “Mel! He’s the Captain of the First Eleven! He’s the best fielder Marbledown’s ever had! Did you see that catch?”

    Er… sort of. Fortunately I didn’t have to respond, it turned out to be a rhetorical question and he went on for quite some time in similar vein.

    And so the ball tossing, ball missing, occasional ball hitting, and lumbering down the Pitch continued… To the bitter end, yes. Oh, well. That’s cricket for you. But I just wish poor little Bean Minor could see that the bally place is indoctrinating him.

    The second highlight of the social calendar was Merrifield Guests’ Day. Alysse’s mum and dad had long since opted out, there’d been too many noses looking down at them in the past, so we joined forces. Before we were allowed downstairs we had to be Inspected. (Whether the Brain ever ordained these inspections is open to doubt. I rather suspect she merely let Miss Stinkerton get away with them.)

    Alysse was approved smilingly. It was a nice dress: one I’d scored in Brighton, not during the preliminary scouting expedition with Janine and Co., but later. Op shop. It only had a smudge of nail polish on the hem, at the side, completely unnoticeable, as it had an all-over pattern of nasturtiums on a background of a pale fawn shade which evidently in English is referred to as oatmeal. I thought that meant porridge—however. It was fairly slim cut, with a little tie belt at the back, a modest scoop neckline and cap sleeves. She’s taller than me, but it still looked really good on her.

    Then a deep breath was taken. Jeans were not appropriate on such an occasion, Melly-sand. Did I have a pretty dress? I was saving it for the Garden Party, Miss Pinkerton. Oh, dear. Well let her see… This!

    “Ah non! Pas ça!” I cried in anguish. “C’est la robe BTBG de Grannie!”

    “Your Granny chose it, did she, dear?” she said, faint but pursuing. “Very suitable!”

    When the door was safely closed after her Alysse said in a strangled voice: “Mel, why didn’t you tell her that this is your dress?”

    “None of her business. Plus I wanted the jeans to get up her nose: I’m fed up with the inspections.” I got into the putrid little BTBG black number with the pattern of tiny white flowers all over it. The cut was similar to the one Alysse was in, but it had elbow-length sleeves and a sort of cross-over effect at the front which the incessant pattern managed to nullify completely. La robe BTBG et déprimante, in fact.

    Gosh, in the Seniors’ Over-Scented Battleground we were confronted by the spectacle of a very, very flushed Melissa Canning-Foulkes entertaining…

    “John! I thought you couldn’t make it!” I cried.

    Colonel Raice grinned. “Told the bosses that I hadn’t taken all that post-trauma leave and they could stick it,” he explained, getting up. “How are you, Mel darling? You’re looking très BTBG!”

    And he came and kissed my cheek gently. It was a real kiss, too, not just cheek-brushing.

    “Yes, I am,” I said a trifle breathlessly. “Grannie forced this thing on me.”

    “Never mind, the lipstick brightens it up,” he said kindly. “And this might help. It’s nothing, really: got it off a market stall. But I thought you might like it.”

    It was a plastic brooch in the shape of a Scottie dog. Bright red. Ideal!

    “It’s adorable!” I pinned it on immediately. It brightened the putrid dress up no end.

    “Just the ticket, eh?” he said with a laugh. “Good thing you’re not wearing pink!”

    “Ugh! Please!”

    “This your friend?” he added, smiling at Alysse, who in spite of my undoubted score over the bimbos was standing there looking agonised.

    So I quickly introduced them and he shook hands very nicely, saying it was lovely to meet her.

    Then of course she tried to say that she didn’t want to intrude but we both rubbished that, and so he gave an arm to each, and we exited in triumph.

    “What now?” he asked with a grin in the hall.

    Er… “Belongings are supposed to want to take an avid interest in the dear gels’ doings, John.”

    “Can I stand it?”

    “Well in our case there’s nothing to stand. We don’t do Art, so you won’t need to pretend to admire our frightful daubs, or Music, so you won’t have to try not to wince as we scrape or bang or caterwaul. There is an Art Show in the assembly hall, if you want to brave it. And a display of gymnastics in the gym. Juniors in little shorts and black vests and in the case of the more developed ones, sports bras,”—he choked—“doing handstands and things.”

    “I wouldn’t be averse to the sports bras, Mel!” he said with a grin.

    Alysse at this point turned scarlet and clapped her hand to her mouth.

    “I did tell you he isn’t particularly mealy-mouthed or delicate-minded,” I reminded her. “Well we can stroll over there, John, if you like.”

    “I would quite like to see all the facilities. There’s a swimming-pool, is there?”

    “Yes, but all there is to see there is Miss Hollings, who’s considerably more masculine than you are,”—he felt his chin in fright; Alysse gulped—“explaining the swimming curriculum to various dazed parental persons.”

    “Got it. Well—try anything once?”

    “On your head be it,”

    And off we strolled. Two strings to his bow, as he noted with amazing originality.

    … “But they’re adorable, Mel!” he hissed, all smiles, as a crowd of Littlies jumped up and down and tried to climb ropes in the gym.

    Ignoring the fact that Alysse was once more looking agonised I agreed: “Yes, they are, aren’t they? They’re from Merrifield Preparatory. We don’t see much of them, possibly in case they pick up bad habits, but they use the gym and the pool, and muck round in the Art Room.”

    After a bit he sighed and said: “I envy those parents.”

    “Personally,” said Alysse crossly, “I can’t understand why anyone’d want to send a kid of that age away to school!”

    “Nor me,” I agreed. “But most of them have parents that work abroad and don’t want them to pick up frightful tropical diseases. And some are day girls.”

    “A few, whose parents can afford it,” she said heavily.

    “Yes, well you can’t say the Brain hasn’t tried to push the School scholarship programme, Alysse! If the Old Girls won’t cough up, it’s not her fault.”

    “No,” she admitted. “Well when you see what some of them have produced—I mean, Melissa Canning-Foulkes?—it’s obvious they must be frightful snobs and mean as they come.”

    “No argument there.”

    “So you two would keep your little girls at home, would you?” asked John, smiling.

    Oh, dear. We both went very red.

    “Of course,” said Alysse shortly, sounding strangled.

    “Yes, me too,” I agreed, trying to sound normal. “And boys. But if they came from unsuitable homes, it wouldn’t be a good thing.”

    “No.” John gave me a bit of a squeeze. “Tommy loves it at Marbledown, Mel. He sends me regular emails, full of stuff about so-and-so carrying out his bat for—” My expression registered. “Oops!” he laughed. “Had some of that, have you?”

    “She went to their awful Marbledown Against the Rest Match, Colonel Raice,” Alysse explained.

    “John, please, Alysse,” he returned with his lovely smile, and rather naturally she went red again. “I get it: the iron has entered into her soul, eh?”

    “Yes!” she agreed with a sudden laugh.

    “Well I’m glad he’s writing to you,” I said. “I think he was pretty impressed by you tackling Dad.”

    “Oh shut up!” he replied with a grin. “Come on, shall we brave the pool?”

    “You asked for it.”

    … “Well?” I said as we retreated.

    “It’s a nice pool,” he replied somewhat limply.

    Abruptly Alysse burst out laughing. I immediately joined in.

    John grinned like anything. “The best bit was when that bemused chap with the moustache tried to say that the regimen sounded a bit stiff for little guh-hurls!” He broke down in awful sniggers.

    “Uh-huh,” I agreed. “Our young women athletes—Commonwealth Games—Swimming for England—he got the lot, didn’t he? He won’t try that one on again!”

    He shook all over. “No!” he gasped. “Jesus! Er—there wouldn’t be a flagon or two around for staying one with, I suppose?”

    “At Merrifield? Please!”

    “We’ve got teabags in our room,” said Alysse dubiously.

    “And an electric kettle,” I explained.

    “Lead me to it.”

September 1 Not. Continuing: And with that we headed for our room…

    “You can see a bit of the drive, if you kneel on my bed,” I pointed out, as he looked round it, trying to conceal his dismay.

    “Mm? Mm. I see, divans that you can use as sofas.”

    “Yes. If you’re looking for the frilly cushions, there aren’t any,” I said briskly.

    “Likewise the frilly curtains, John,” added Alysse. “Tho if you want some I’m sure Melissa Canning-Foulkes would be only too happy you show you her lair. –Hard to move in it, really, for the frills.”

    “That’s if you can make it through the fog of hairspray and scent,” I added.

    “This Melissa wouldn’t be that busty girl with the predatory look in her eye who accosted me in your common room, would she?”

    “Got it in fourteen, John. Have a seat,” I said graciously.

    He subsided weakly onto my bed.

    “We don’t want frills, we want A-levels, you see,” I explained.

    “Yes. Well can’t say I go much on frills, either… Has your mother— I won’t ask.”

    Alysse eyed me cautiously.

    “Has that kettle conked out, Alysse?”

    “What? No. I was just wondering… May I tell him what she said?”

    “Heavens, yes, I don’t think anything about her would surprise him.”

    “Horrify, almost undoubtedly; surprise, no,” he said in a grim note. “Yes, go on, Alysse, my dear.”

    Extremely pink about the gills, she gave him a flustered smile and revealed: “She said she’d come down if Merrifield would pay her for a public appearance.”

    John took a deep breath. “I see. That is horrifying.”

    “Yes. Mum and Dad wouldn’t believe me at first, they thought I was exaggerating,” she added.

    “They’re not here today because the bimbos and their Belongings looked down their noses at them once too often, John,” I explained quickly. “But they’re coming to Prizegiving, of course.”

    “Yes,” Alysse agreed. “When a man with a Bentley glared at Dad and ordered him not to let that heap get anywhere near his car it was the last straw, really.”

    “Yes. And it isn’t a heap at all! It’s a dear little camion!”

    “A van. But it’s got the firm’s name on it. Dad always thought it was funny, so he’s kept it,” Alysse explained sadly. “‘Onions Nurseryman’. He bought out Mr Onions, you see, John.”

    Bless him, my darling Colonel made exactly the right reply. “I do see, Alysse! It’s perfect! Of course he had to keep it! I’d like to meet your dad, it sounds as if he’s got a great sense of humour!”

    After that she was pretty much his slave for life.

September 4 Not. Continuing: Merrifield’s Guests’ Day was followed all too closely by Marbledown’s Open Day. Bean Minor had ordered me sternly to look and behave like a Belonging. (It is the Marbledown vernac., tho long since adopted by Merrifield.) Slight consternation ensued, as Alysse and I got out the available garments and surveyed them.

    Finally she said: “You shouldn’t have spent all that money on those stupid shoes.”

    “Three of them, I mean three pairs, were from the op shop,” I reminded her. “But if we were going to wear dresses like ladies we had to have shoes.”

    “Yes, but those black BTBG ones”—she’d agreed, after translation, that there was no other way to put it—“cost far too much.”

    Something like that. Far too much for second-hand shoes, possibly, if one hadn’t read the name in them and realised they were a genuine Find des années soixante, now as rare as the proverbial dentition of your domestic fowl.

    “Well,” I said dubiously, “do you think if I wore the souliers BTBG and the putrid robe BTBG and a hat, I’d look like a Marbledown Belonging?”

    “You’ve only got your big straw sunhat. Aren’t you saving it for the Garden Party?”

    Er…

    “Oh dear. You’ve got something outrageous in mind for that, haven’t you?”

    “Not outrageously so. Just annoyingly. It’ll have to be the sunhat, but it’s got my Junior Drones cravat round it,” I reminded her.

    “It’s a bit loud for a Belonging…”

    The bright pink scarf with the big white polka dots got the chop. The plain straw sunhat looked awfully bare without it, tho. Then Alysse had an inspiration. My eyes bulged as she produced a little-used but officially ordained black Merrifield Gym Vest from a drawer and found a large pair of scissors… Gosh! A carefully folded strip of black vest made the perfect hatband for a BTBG hat! Neat and positively discreet! She then removed the scarlet Scottie dog brooch from the dress, informing me that a boy of Bean Minor’s age would be embarrassed by it, not amused,

    So I was ready. A lamb to the S., quite.

    John picked me up in the M.G., but that was only, alas, a slight consolation. He had to ask where the brooch was, of course, so I told him. He laughed like a drain, but conceded Alysse was undoubtedly right, and off we went. Under—a jolly bright spot, this—the resentful eyes of Melissa Canning-Foulkes, who just happened to be on the lawn near the front sweep with several of her toadies at the time, hah, hah.

    Bean Minor was thrilled to see Colonel Raice, of course, and inspected me with an eagle eye, but apparently I passed muster, tho I was told sternly not to make jokes.

    “Little Me? Tommy, darling, would I?” I gasped, pressing one ladylike hand to the bazoom.

    “That’s exactly what I mean,” he replied darkly. And led us off to our fates.

    His form room. The stinks lab. The Juniors’ Common Room (one draws a veil).The sacred Study of the sacred Stephenson—the owner, a tall, handsome fair lad, standing by with a tolerant smile meanwhile, so John introduced us, shook his hand and thanked him, getting the response: “Think nothing of it, sir. M’father saw you bat against the Rest: remembers it as it if was yesterday.”

    “John Raice,” I croaked as we went back downstairs, “do you mean to tell me that you once played cricket?”

    “Of course he did!” cried my small sibling with huge scorn.

    “Er—yes. One had to play something at School, after all.”

    Oh really? I’d resisted it pretty well. I breathed heavily.

    “Cheer up! There’s strawberries and cream still to come!” he reminded me with a laugh.

    “Not yet,” said my appalling little blood connection firmly. “You haven’t seen—”

    Oh, God. And off we trailed to them…

    We did at long last totter out to the lawn, usually a sacred site adorned with nothing but a few sticks and bits of string put up by the gardeners in order to keep boys off bits under special care, but now crowded with Belongings and boys.

    “I say, there you are at last!” said the Egg with a laugh. “We thought you must have got lost.”

    Weakly I greeted his parents. Mrs O. thought my dress looked very smart but I assured her she didn’t have to say that, Grannie had chosen it, and the poor woman swallowed hard.

    Crumpy and Mr Lamont then joined us, the latter favouring me with a smacking kiss on the cheek and a sort of squeeze round the waist and Crumpy looking as if he’d like to, but didn’t dare. And Egg promptly dragooned the other two boys into forging off into the hinterland after the promised refreshments.

    “Isn’t Michael with you?” asked Mrs O.

    Er…

    Quickly John said, not looking at me: “We did see him earlier, Margot, but he said he didn’t want to inspect the horrors of the Junior School, and slung his hook.”

    “Silly ass,” noted Mr O. “Sounds just like Henry.”

    Ugh! …Actually he wasn’t far wrong. Golly.

    “I suppose Tommy showed you everything, did he, Mel, dear?” said Mrs O. kindly. “Mm,” she acknowledged as I nodded glumly. “They do at that age, bless them. Oh dear… Alan was just as adorable, wasn’t he, Ian?”

    “Something like that!” he agreed with a laugh.

    “He’s pretty good value now, Mr Ovenden,” I said quickly. “You should be proud of him. All the boys respect him.”

    “Mm, well I just wish he’d make up his mind what he wants to do.”

    “Give him time, Ian,” sighed Mrs O. “University will be a breathing space—let him sort his ideas out.”

    “It had better,” he admitted, tho looking more cheerful. “How about you, Mel? What are you going to do with yourself, eh?”

    “Depends on my A-level results. La Sorbonne, I hope.”

    Oh dear, they were all looking at me in consternation. Given their individual helpings of tact, however, it was only Mr Lamont who uttered: “But we thought you’d want to go to university here, with the boys!”

    “I’ll pop over and see them when I can. But I’ve had enough of unadulterated England. I need a solid dose of France, and the cousins, and French cooking.”

    “And French cheese,” added John mildly.

    “Yes,” I agreed gratefully, smiling at him. “Being able to just nip down the road and buy a melting Camembert or a lovely soft Brie…” I sighed deeply. “Paradise.”

    “If you say so, sweetheart,” Mr Lamont concluded in bewilderment, trying to smile.

    No well, John Raice understood me, but I didn’t think there was a single other Anglais who would.

    Fortunately the boys resurfaced at that moment, not only with the promised strawberries and cream but also with Bean (QED: food on offer), plus Flossie and his beaming, genial Uncle Flossie. So the subject was changed and a good time was had by all. The more so as Flossie had had the forethought to liberate a bowl of sugar. And because for a miracle the sun shone all afternoon.

    Merrifield’s Garden Party is always a select affair, for Seniors and their Invited Guests (typically parents plus the Boyfriend). Not to say the members of the School’s Board of Governors, complete with their partners. In the case of the male partners generally looking agonised and rather as if they’d been stuffed; in the case of the female partners, over-frilled, over-hatted, over-giggly and scarcely desirable rôle models for the sort of level-headed, well educated, capable young women the Brain was endeavouring to produce. Tho precisely what the bimbos were destined to be within a very short space of time.

September 7 Not. Continuing straight on: I had initially invited my Colonel but he couldn’t make it, his Powers That Be had something highly significant on that whole weekend, so after some thought I’d asked Flossie, as being rather more likely than the Egg to—I think the English expression is “connive at”—anyway to agree to and join in with my Fell Plan.

    Dratted Bean had refused utterly to escort Alysse but good old Crumpy had told him he was a dashed puerile idiot and volunteered.

    In the end it was the boys who were the more striking. They looked spiffing!

    Flossie was actually in morning dress! (Hired, of course: Moss Bros.) Striped bags, tail coat, and topper. Hang on: and actual spats? Where the Dickens—?

    “Theatrical costumier!” he said with a snigger.

    And Crumpy was extra-smart in a lounge suit which did not precisely smack of today… Okay, the same theatrical costumier, a genuine 1920s design.

    As flappers, the two of us paled in comparison. Well almost. I had painted my wide-brimmed sunhat black: that made it look much smarter! My garment had possibly started off as a curtain; anyway, I had spotted it in the op shop and immediately seen its possibilities. It hadn’t taken much sewing at all, as it was basically just wrapped round me. With a big bow of the stuff on one hip, très années vingt. It was what could vaguely be called a figured yellow. Well slightly verging towards the mustard side, as Flossie noted happily. But Alysse’s frock was really the pièce de résistance, a purplish shade which Flossie assured her could only have been called “morve”—bowing and kissing her hand as he congratulated her. It had started off as a granny-type two-piece outfit in some slimy, slithery granny-type artificial fabric that drooped wonderfully. It was something like six sizes too big for her: that gave us plenty of scope. So long as one didn’t examine the inside seams, it was a superb effort. Verging on the Crossover Look, very In, tho whether the bimbos would realise it was a hit at them, doubtful. At the side, a huge sort of droopy frilled piece. Also very In—well, certainly Angela Purviss, who hadn’t left us yet, tho threatening, was planning to be in something very similar. We both of course had lowered waistlines, flappers have to. Mine was merely emphasised by the bunchy bit on the hip, but Alysse had gone the whole hog and added a white satin belt which at one stage in its history had been a sash from a white satin dressing-gown of Melissa Canning-Foulkes’s, on which she’d spilt nail polish in a shade of screaming watermelon pink. The ruin then being tossed at Alysse with the remark that she dared say she could make use of it. Naturally the first impulse had been to burn the thing, but I’d persuaded her that You Never Knew.

    Our garb conformed strictly to the List provided by Miss Pinkerton. Pretty dresses: check. Skirts not extreme; no mini-skirts: check. (Ours were not above our knees, no: for garden parties in the Twenties and Thirties one drooped to approx. two inches above the ankles.) Nice hats (optional), no fascinators: check. (Did she think this was the Derby?) Good shoes, high heels not extreme: check. (That cut out most of the collections in the bimbos’ wardrobes, yes.) And make-up discreet: check.

    Well our make-up was discreet enough if you compared it to the average bimbo’s, tho it was true the lips were rather red, and rather rosebud-like and bowed as to the centre, while the sides were rather narrow, the effect achieved by very careful shaping, as Flossie verified by pee-eering, then collapsing in roars of laughter. And the eyes were distinctly inky, but one look at Angela or Melissa would have convinced even Miss Stinkerton that she couldn’t in all fairness object. The more so as the bimbo over-all effect was positively Technicolor.

    Of course she was stationed in the Seniors’ Over-Scented Battleground. Not merely to check up on us, no. To cast her eye over the escorts, too. Tho whether she envisaged bodily ejecting anything unsuitable… She greeted the boys’ HUGE bunches of flowers with cooing delight, while Alysse and I just stood there with our mouths open. Had they run mad? …No, as we found when we’d “run upstairs, dears” to put them in water. The flowers were disguising bottles of bubbly. Hooray!

    Then we went downstairs, accepted our gallant escorts’ arms, and sallied forth…

    The bimbos didn’t know whether to sneer at us or die of jealousy at the sight of Flossie and Crumpy in their finery. I think only the Brain actually got the point: she was trying not to laugh—after years of incarceration in the bally place I’d got to know her expressions rather well.

    “Very garden-party indeed, Melly-sand,” she said. Adding: “I think you may know Sir Charles Nightingale?”

    And good grief, there was Uncle Flossie, beaming and nodding amongst the nobs!

    “There y’are, Jimmy!” he said. “Didn’t think you’d have the nerve. Well done! –Lovely to see you, little Mel!” Swooping on me and kissing me heartily on the cheek. “And is this your friend? –Lovely to meet you, dear!” Swooping upon the startled Alysse and kissing her heartily on the cheek, as Flossie hurriedly performed introductions.

    She went very red, but didn’t seem exactly offended. Well he is a terrifically good-looking chap, tall, broad-shouldered, kept his figure, and with a head of thick, wavy, fetchingly silvered hair. Very like what one imagines Flossie will develop into forty years hence—yes.

    It turned out he’d been asked if he’d like to be on the Board of Governors, so he’d come along to, as he expressed it, “look the place over.” Actually what he was doing, it was pretty clear, was looking all the girls over. Not with any precise intentions, no; he’s just that sort of chap.

    It didn’t take him long to draw our group aside and say in agonised tones to his nephew: “Why the Devil didn’t you warn me the damn thing’d be teetotal?”

    “Er… didn’t know you were coming, sir,” Flossie replied, for once sounding very feeble indeed.

    “Eh? Oh—no, that’s right, they contacted me after you’d gone back to School. Frightful do. I swear I’ve been accosted by two dozen bucktoothed hags wanting my opinion on women’s education!”

    “It is an establishment of female learning, sir,” his nephew replied, having got his second wind.

    Uncle Flossie awarded him a tremendous buffet on the back—he duly staggered—and ordered him heartily not to try it on with him. Adding: “Where the Devil’s the nearest pub, then?”

    “In the village, but you don’t have to go that far.”

    Crumpy emitted an agonised snort of laughter at this, so even Uncle Flossie, who’s not the brightest of the bright, tho he made a hefty fortune in business, hence the Sir—well with a huge donation to the Party funds, natch—as I say, even Uncle Flossie cottoned on.

    “Lead me to it!” he hissed, his eyes lighting up.

    We looked round cautiously but nobody was taking any notice of us. The Brain was re-absorbed in a gaggle of Board members and other dignitaries—one sporting a mayoral chain, shades of Lucia!—and all the other staff had been swallowed up in the crowd gobbling putrid English cucumber sandwiches and drinking revolting fizzy lemonade or orange squash and shrieking their heads off.

    So we quietly slid off to our room.

    And had a perfectly Paradisical time sipping champers, chatting, and listening to Uncle Flossie’s reminiscences of other ghastly parties, garden or not, he’d known…

    He wasn’t fit to drive by the end of the p.m., but luckily he’d brought a driver, assuming that there’d be actual booze on offer. And with hearty kisses on our cheeks for me and Alysse and a certain amount of bum-patting, he allowed the boys to escort him away.

    Silence fell.

    Finally Allyse uttered weakly: “Is he always like that?”

    “Yep! Good, isn’t it?”

    Our eyes met. Abruptly she collapsed in giggles, gasping: “Yes! He’s fright-ful!”

    That was Uncle Flossie, all right. A gent of the old school.

    Next day dear old Crumpy rang up to make sure she hadn’t taken offence (tho I’m pretty sure Flossie didn’t give a damn if she had). So maybe my hopes will be fulfilled and he’ll fall for her. And forget all about yours truly.

September 12 Not. Continuing: As Bean Minor informed me sternly, the Marbledown Rowing Regatta was a tradition, and therefore had to be taken seriously. And if you lot (the Junior Drones, QED) weren’t going to, he wasn’t going to be seen with us. Okay, if he said so.

    The day of the regatta had always been a huge beano for the entire School. Historically there had been some sort of fair in the village that evening but that had been discontinued during the War and never revived, possibly because the villagers themselves had never made a penny from it, all the attractions, merry-go-rounds, stalls, etcetera, having come from elsewhere. Marbledown’s own tradition, however, continued, and the day was scheduled to end with a giant blow-out featuring such gourmet delights as Sausage Rolls and Cream Doughnuts.

    All of the senior members of the Junior Drones had voted, shuddering, to avoid this Lucullan repast like the plague. Flossie had suggested also avoiding the actual rowing, but Egg had pointed out that the Hearties who worshipped it would be far more irritated if we all wore our Junior Drones regalia complete with boaters to it. Another vote carried it unanimously.

    At first Alysse had thought that she wouldn’t come, not having anything suitable to wear, but lo and behold, Crumpy turned up, rather flushed, with a parcel for her. A Very Good Sign, perhaps he was falling for her? Even tho he then shot off at high speed. Metaphorically speaking—actually five m.p.h., of course.

    By the time she’d unwrapped it Alysse was even more flushed. “Mel,” she said in a strangled voice: “these look brand-new.”

    I inspected the cream silk shirt and the cream bags. Oh. “Never mind, Mr Lamont can more than afford them. But that blazer’s definitely old.”

    As a matter of fact it was probably once his own, tho it was hard to imagine him having been that slim, but I didn’t say so. And persuaded her that since they were a gift she couldn’t possibly turn them down. She thought the tie was a tie so I quickly explained it was a belt. And got her into the lot, trying not to wonder if any of the masters at Marbledown were Old Etonians.

    A beaming Mr Lamont turned up in person to collect us, waved away her stuttered thanks, kissed us both heartily on the cheek, patted both our bums, and we were off! I think Alysse was a bit stunned that he was actually in the gear, but I had a feeling that that was as nothing to the spectacle that was due to greet us…

    I was right. Uncle Flossie was glorious. The blazer was a fruity maroon with a white trim. (Tho it was outshone to some extent by the screaming emerald and pink silk scarf tied cravat-wise.) I peered at the crest on the breast pocket. Help. Wasn’t that the same prancing lion as had once adorned that dark blue blazer the Bean was in?

    “That is the Oxford lion, yes, darling,” said Flossie’s malicious voice in my ear. “Balliol. Rowing Eights.”

    “Ba— Was he—?”

    “No. Tho he did wear it when he was up. The Hearties had him hauled up before the Dean. One gathers the man just smiled slightly and said that it might be infringing a Mede and Persian but hardly a law of England, and perhaps they should all grow up!” He grinned.

    “Help. Did he go on wearing it?” I hissed, as the said uncle was paying no attention to us, being currently engrossed with fending off Mr L. and getting his arm firmly round Alysse’s waist, what time poor Crumpy stood by nonplussed.

    “Of course.”

    Immediately I collapsed in helpless giggles.

    Naturally after that one could have faced anything. Which was pretty much what we did. The more so as I had been unable to resist the temptation of wearing my Worcester College 1st VIII rowing blazer again…

    Ooh, the Beak himself! He was observed to take a very deep breath, possibly largely because Flossie was once again appearing as a Cambridge half-blue, but in view of our august company merely greeted the gentlemen somewhat stiffly, wished them a pleasant day, and headed off looking purposeful. Promptly we all broke down in sniggers, the said gentlemen included.

    “It’s the pedagogical syndrome,” the Egg concluded, grinning. “They never shake off the shackles of the alma mater.”

    This was more than proven in the course of the day. Five masters turned puce and spluttered. One idiot pedagogue in a dark blue blazer that was the same shade as the Bean’s told us stiffly but kindly that he was sure that you gentlemen were unaware of this but— This went down so well that we all had to stagger off and sit down for a while.

    Those in statu pupillari didn’t overlook us, either, in spite of the magnetic sights on the river. Uncounted Senior Boys hissed things like: “Letting the side down!” And: “Would’ve thought better of you, Ovenden!” And—deliriously—“Y’might not realise this, Fullarton-Browne Major, but in England that blazer isn’t the Done Thing!”

    About fifteen—we lost count—male Belongings looked at us angrily but said nothing. Six more looked hard and then deliberately turned away. Tho one of their wives went into delighted trills of laughter, give the woman a medal!

    Perhaps fortunately for his blood pressure Pedersen the Hearty Rowing Coach was so busy leaping up and down and giving orders and shouting through a megaphone that he didn’t have time to turn round and notice us.

    Well some races were won and some were lost and some were hopeless fiascos, but as the boys fervently assured us, this was very much par for the course on Marbledown’s Regatta Day.

    And leaving the eager Bean Minor to the joys of Sausage Rolls, Cream Buns, et al., we piled into various cars and headed off to a nice little riverside restaurant Mr L. knew of that would do us something decent.

    … It did. Smoked salmon mousse, duck breast with an incredible caper sauce, real Stilton cheese which they allowed us to have before the pud without a blink, crème caramel for those that fancied it (all the males did), and homemade strawberry ices for me and Alysse. Real strawberries, no pink colouring need apply. Ambrosia. Washed down with fizz, why not?

    Alysse and I got somewhat over-friendly kisses and hugs from Mr L. before Elton drove him back to London but there, we’re all human, aren’t we?

    We didn’t attend the End of Year Combined Merrifield and Marbledown Dance. At least, we did officially, our names were duly checked off the List as we entered the assembly hall, decked an’ all as it was. Then we headed rapidly for the back door, which was not locked because of the fire regs., and exited into the night. Well—evening. The lads then removed their finery. We damsels not being put to the blush, no, as they’d simply put it on over their jeans and Tees. Alysse and I, not owning any Ballgowns, were merely in our flapper gear—scornful looks from all the bimbos, natch. We went quietly in through the back door of our House and up to our room, where we rapidly got into our jeans and Tees. And grabbed a couple of blazers, England isn’t too warm in early summer.

    Egg had his mum’s car this term, and he and Flossie were waiting in it at the back entrance together with Crumpy’s car with him and Bean in it. So Alysse and I piled in with Egg and Flossie, and off we all went. Not to the village, no: too close for comfort. To the next village, which had a very nice little pub. And did very nice chops and chips which owing to the restrained early hour of the great M. and M. Combined Jollification, were still on. We were more than happy to flash IDs, mine, Egg’s and Flossie’s being not quite genuine (tho the others had already turned eighteen), but funnily enough we weren’t asked for them. So we washed the dinner down with beer and then just sat happily in the bar with a bit more beer…

    “I say,” said the brilliant Crumpet, rather flushed, at the end of the evening, “that was the best dance I’ve ever been to!”

    We had to agree.

    It would of course have been terribly sad to have got the Order of the Boot at this late stage, but re-entry to our respective Houses was somewhat aided by the duplicate keys supplied by dear old Oncle Alphonse from the Resto LeBec, who’s a whizz at any sort of metalwork.

    Next morning, rather late, Alysse and I went downstairs to one of those typical furores in the Seniors’ Over-Scented Battleground. Not over a Boyfriend this time, astoundingly. No: Angela Purviss had disappeared!!

    Well so what? She had been threatening to all year, after all.

    “Good riddance,” we concluded, exiting stage right.

    Prizegiving at Marbledown was the next jolly event on the social calendar. Normally I wouldn’t have gone but this year I had to support Bean Minor, who was getting a prize for French. Wholly undeserved, when one considered it, but that’s the English Public School System for you.

    Both schools had a custom of informing the lucky winners of class prizes well before The Day, presumably to avoid tears and humiliation in front of the assembled multitude, and I had also been told that I’d won a prize for French. Which I turned down. Thereby flabbergasting both the Brain and Miss Pinkerton, who were jointly presiding over these sessions. The latter gasped that I couldn’t possibly refuse it but Miss Swayne merely remarked coolly: “Well you are a free agent, Melly-sand, it’s up to you, but would you mind giving us your reasons?”

    So I pointed out that I had an unfair advantage over the rest of the class, French was my first language and I’d spent years at French schools.

    “One might say,” she replied coolly, “that the English girls have an unfair advantage over you when it comes to English.”

    One might, if one didn’t know that they were brainless bimbos, yes. And of course at our level it was Eng. Lit., which apart from breathless admiration of Mr Darcy (TV epic, no print media need apply) had made no impression whatsoever upon them.

    But in any case that was beside the point, so I said so. Miss Stinkerton was horrified but the Brain didn’t even blink.

    “Quite,” she said drily. “Very well, it’s your decision.”

    Well yes, it was.

    The Junior Drones duly gave me a round of applause, tho noting that boycotting the whole bally do on principle would have been even more meritorious.

    “I can’t: Alysse is getting a prize for Classics, and I think she’s in line for Dux of the School, they only announce that at the last minute, is it the same at Marbledown?” It was, but I was assured hurriedly that it wasn’t going to be any of them. And in fact warned to roll up without expectations of any kind.

    So I rolled up. Well, my darling Colonel collected me, since Bean Minor had emailed him the joyous news. I was duly disguised as a Belonging, once again. La robe BTBG et déprimante, yes.

    It was terrifically jolly! First came the Sports Prizes! …All of them. Fortunately the Invited Guests were segregated from the Boys, so at least I didn’t have to endure continual injunctions to clap, that was (insert name of Marbledown Sports God).

    Naturally we did clap madly as Bean Minor received his prize, a book. Chosen from a selection available to the winners when they were informed of their achievement. It was a hefty modern tome—in English—on steamships in the Victorian era. One might well ask Why? But the other choices had been Oliver Twist, a vol. of “sickening poetry,” and Vol de nuit: one could hardly blame him. In fact John had a choking fit when I informed him of same.

    Could we then escape? No: more exciting class prizes! Third Form Chemistry! Fourth Form English! Et tout et tout…

    Thrilling climax! Dux of the School and the Marbledown Senior Scholarships! We slumped in our seats…

    What?

    John rolled his eyes frantically at me. I shook my head madly. This was complete news to me!

    An expectant hush…

    Nothing.

    More expectant hush…

    Right up at the back of the assembled Boys a certain amount of stir might have been discerned.

    Then nothing.

    The prizes were being Presented by a Big-Wig in a dinner suit, but the Beak himself was making the announcements. He repeated: “Senior Modern Languages Scholarship: James Nightingale.”

    Most of the School had now turned in its seats to stare up the back…

    Then Flossie got up and there was a sort of collective sigh. He had to walk all the way down the aisle, of course, which he did without hurry, and up the steps at the side and onto the stage. The Personage nodded encouragingly and proffered a ribbon-bound scroll. “Congratulations, my boy. I’m happy to present—”

    Flossie held up his hand and said very clearly: “No thanks, sir. I’ve spent all my years of incarceration in this establishment avoiding the prevailing unhealthily competitive culture. For God’s sake give it to someone who needs it or better still, use the money to support a bright kid whose parents can’t afford to pay for his education.”

    Stunned silence.

    Then Egg cried loudly: “Well done, Flossie!” and jumped up, starting to clap, and Bean—Bean, of all people—bounced up beside him and roared: “Three cheers for Flossie! Hip, hip—”

    And with that most of the School was on its feet bellowing applause.

    Flossie just flipped a hand at them and strolled back to his seat. As he neared it the cheers had died down so we clearly heard him say: “Come on, Junior Drones, for God’s sake let’s shake the bally dust.”

    “Ra-ther!” replied Egg with a loud laugh. “Come on, you chaps!” And they all filed out.

    Well it probably would have been a sacking offence if they hadn’t been in their last year but even the Beak apparently realised it’d make him look dashed stupid if he tried that on, so it didn’t happen.

September 17 Not. Continuing: Oops, next day the Brain called me into her study, gave me a hard look and said: “I do hope nothing similar to the Marbledown fiasco will happen at our Prizegiving, Melly-sand.”

    “Well,” I said fairly, “not unless you attempt to force something on me that I haven’t earned, Miss Swayne.”

    Her lips might have been seen to tighten. Then she said: “As a matter of fact I had intended to offer you one of the Senior Scholarships, which would have helped you through university.”

    “Then please don’t. Give it to someone who needs it. I don’t know what lies Grannie may have told you, but I’ve got about sixty relatives in Paris just begging to feed, house and clothe me.”

    “I see. But I shall just say this, Melly-sand. If you’re in any trouble at all you can always call on me, no matter whether you’re abroad or not.”

    Okay, Grannie had told her a load of— Er, probably not lies, actually. “That’s very generous of you, Miss Swayne. I appreciate it. If I need to, I promise I will contact you.”

    “Good,” she said with a little sigh. “I hope you’ll keep in touch in any case. And—well I try to say something of the sort to all the girls who are going on to tertiary education in the Arts, but I think in your case it may not need saying. Just try to enjoy the literature for its own sake. Modern criticism seems to fall between the two stools of completely subjective over-interpretation, which typically fails to set the work in its context, and sterile textual criticism which amounts to little more than nit-picking. I don’t think you’re temperamentally suited to either approach.”

    I nodded. “I know. The whole academic shtick is a farce, really, isn’t it? Conform to the current fads or perish. I’m not aiming at that sort of life.”

    “Good. Well good luck, my dear.” With that she shook hands.

    Well she’s not all bad, I’ve always known that.

    Alysse’s parents duly turned up and since one was allowed to sit with Invited Guests at Merrifield P.-giving, we were able to sit one on each side of them in the back row, sheltering them from the noses being looked down.

    And the thrilling proceedings commenced!

    … Senior Tennis Gold Cup: Barbara Rowntree. … Senior Diving Championship: Barbara Rowntree. … Senior Sprint Champion: Barbara Rowntree. … Etcetera.

    “Doesn’t anyone else play sport?” wondered Mr Johns jovially as the egregious Babs jogged up for yet another award.

    “Not with her true dedication, Mr Johns,” I explained.

    “Passed her exams, did she?” he asked airily.

    “No!” Alysse and I chorused, collapsing in muffled giggles. In which we were ably joined by Mrs Johns, who had to clap her pocket hanker over her mouth.

    At long last, having awarded Babs the prize for School All-Rounder, they were able to get onto the class prizes. By this time Mr Johns had run out of peppermints (clearly, where Alysse gets her taste for them).

    “Oy, don’t suppose there’ll be any drinks on offer, will there?” he hissed.

    “No.”

    “I did warn you, Dad!” hissed Alysse.

    “Just checking,” he sighed.

    At long last they got round to the major prizes for the Seniors. Senior Classics Scholar for Alysse, of course. We clapped like mad and Mr Johns yelled: “’Ray!” into the bargain. Causing his offspring to return to her seat very flushed, but pleased nonetheless.

    Then she won Dux of the School and the very first Double Senior Scholarship as well: all fees and tuition, plus living allowance for three years!

    Mr Johns and I stood up and cheered like mad, and Mrs Johns burst into tears.

    The Term being due to end two days later, or technically one and a half, twelve noon being the witching hour, most parents stayed on, that was, had booked hotel rooms in Brighton, but Mr and Mrs Johns weren’t up for the inflated prices those places charge.

    Well that left us with nothing to do next day, didn’t it?

    Meanwhile the bimbos were frantically packing and unpacking and Swapping Clothes and Shoes and deciding which Juniors to honour with gifts of This, That and T’other discarded rag, and who should have the sacred frilled curtains of the thrice-blessed Senior Study and blah, blah—

    “Thought you two might need rescuing!” said Egg with a laugh around noon that day. “I’ve got Mum’s car: come on!”

    “Egg,” I objected faintly, “Bean Minor said the boys were going to vote you Most Popular or something at their last lunch: wouldn’t that be today?”

    “Probably,” he said indifferently. “Come on.”

    Okay, then: we came on.

    Crumpy was waiting for us in the car. “What-ho!” he greeted us cheerily. “Thought we’d absorb a chop or two at that decent little pub. You girls up for that?”

    “Gosh yes!” I assured him.

    And off we went: Alysse in the back with the Crumpet and me in the front with the Egg.

    Well not wholly a bad thing but I do hope Egg didn’t mean anything by it, ’cos I certainly didn’t.

    … “That’s it, then,” I said as Bean, Bean Minor and I, having been decanted by various School buses, settled into our seats in the train. En route for London, brief stopover at John’s flat, then the train to Paris, where Oncle Patrice would meet us.

    “Thank God,” Bean agreed.

    “Are you sure you want to do this viticulture course, Bean?” I asked uneasily.

    “It’s more than just viticulture, it—”

    He plunged into it. At least he seemed keen. And it’d mean he’d be in Paris where I could keep an eye on him while he imagined he was keeping an eye on me. Oh well. One can only hope that Grannie will have dropped off the twig by the time he graduates, because there is no way any newfangled ideas are going to be welcomed at Château LeBec under her régime. Tho as I pointed out to the Bean, there are other châteaux in France, and they grow a lot of wine grapes in places like California, South Africa and Australia, too. In fact the world will be his oyster, won’t it? And it’ll serve the old hag right if he does take off for the other side of the world and Bean Minor follows him, that’s all I can say!

September 20 Not. Continuing: After some time Bean Minor remarked sadly: “I’ll be all by myself at School next year.”

    “You love School, you silly chump,” replied Bean tolerantly. “You’ve got loads of pals.”

    “Ye-es…”

    “And if you stay in France Grannie’ll get her claws into you,” he reminded him.

    “I’d rather go back to School!”

    Well quite. The lesser of the evils by far. But for my part I’m very, very glad that it’s over forever.

Next chapter:

https://theeggandfriends-anovel.blogspot.com/2025/11/le-passage-jacob-or-business-as-usual.html