Forbidden Lessons Read online

  "You’ll fade away if you don’t eat," Margery warned her.

  "I would eat, quite happily, but I just can’t bear school food," Laura said. "I wish we could have packed lunches, or a canteen. I’ll have to eke out my tuckbox like starvation rations."

  "If only you could do Home Economics you could smuggle yourself some more provisions," Charlotte said. Only lower set girls did Home Economics: those that weren’t considered bright enough for Latin, extra Maths and a second modern language.

  "Perhaps I can bribe one of them to make me flapjacks. A homework swap maybe," Laura said.

  "You can eat apple pie can’t you?" asked Charlotte.

  "The apple, not the gluggy custard and crust," Laura said.

  "Well here, have my apple part at least then," Charlotte offered generously. "You’ll need your strength for Games this afternoon."

  * * *

  It was a beautiful afternoon to be out on the hockey pitch. Clear and a comfortable temperature, it was also nice to escape the classroom. Maths had been absolutely horrendous and they were all sure they were going to fail Physics.

  Laura felt herself sinking back into the timetable, the routine. She couldn’t fight against it, none of them could. School was all consuming and all absorbing. Every hour of their day was arranged and decided for them save some precious, cherished free time on Saturday evenings and Sunday after chapel.

  Miss Partridge was the head Games mistress though other teachers took part in supervising sports as well. This term she had something different to announce.

  "Those of you who don’t make the squad this year will only play hockey two afternoons a week. The third afternoon will be cross country, in rotation depending on your group."

  There was a groan at this from some girls, and Margery’s face blanched. She hated hockey enough as it was, but the prospect of cross country running overwhelmed her with terror. "I’ll be ok," Laura whispered. "We’ll get through it. We’ll find short cuts."

  "Laura Cardew, no chattering or you’ll get a demerit," ordered Miss Partridge.

  Laura felt too anxious for Margery to care, but she obeyed. I’ll have to make sure I don’t make the squad, she thought. Absolutely no way could they leave poor Margery to suffer cross country by herself. There was no question that Charlotte wouldn’t make the squad for their age group as well as the actual team selected for matches, so that left Laura having to sacrifice for their friend. It was a bit of a shame as truth be told she didn’t mind hockey, but at least cross country would only be for one afternoon a week. It might even be interesting if the route took them out of the school grounds, she thought, trying to find a silver lining.

  * * *

  That night they sat down dutifully with their diaries, after the two hours of homework were finished. Supper was at six then it was back to the house for homework from seven to nine, then bed by nine-thirty for Lower School girls. Sixth formers enjoyed marginally more freedom - an extra hour of leisure before their bedtime - but they had so much more homework that they tended to use it all for study anyway.

  If you were quick getting ready for bed, you had up to thirty minutes before lights out. This had now been decreed Diary Time.

  "Dear Diary…" Laura began, then stopped. "How are we supposed to do this?" she asked. "Like Samuel Pepys, or like Anne Frank, as though we were writing to someone?"

  "I’m writing mine as though I was the sports correspondent for the BBC," Charlotte said.

  "You can do it however you like," Margery told her. "I’m writing mine as a simple, historic account."

  "I have no idea what I’m going to write on non-sports days, as every day and week is basically the same here. I can hardly keep writing 'Double Maths was awful, Liver and Onions again for Supper’," Charlotte said.

  Laura decided that "Dear Diary" would be adequate.

  "Dear Diary. The world changed today. I’m not sure if it was coming back to school and starting another year. Everything seemed the same yesterday, like it would be the same as it was last year, and the same for ever more. And now I’m not sure of anything at all."

  All she could think of, as she closed the journal and lay in bed, was a pair of penetrating grey eyes.

  3. Exchanging glances

  They sat in straight, silent rows one either side of the school chapel, listening to the Headmistress’s address. The staff sat on the pews at the furthest end by the altar, and Laura looked for Mr Rydell. He was on the same side as Laura but several rows in front so she could only distantly see the side and back of his head.

  The first assembly of term was held on Tuesday, because its timeslot in the first morning back was used to brief new girls. The first Monday was usually so chaotic that extra time was needed anyway to get everyone to the right classrooms. There were always changes from the previous year, sometimes at the last minute. This term the History and Geography classrooms had been inexplicably swapped around, and the new Chemistry lab still had wet paint so a temporary room had had to be found.

  "Now I’d like to welcome our new staff, I hope you will all help them feel at home at Francis Hall," Mrs Grayson said. A widow with steely grey hair and military bearing, she had an absolute command of the school. She taught Maths but only to the sixth form.

  "I’d like to introduce Miss Quayle, who’ll be filling Mr Carlisle’s much-missed shoes in Biology." Miss Quayle half stood and gave a sort of nod. She looked rather like a quail, Laura thought, she was shortish with dowdy brown hair and clothes.

  "Miss Wingrove joins Mr Peters’ English department," the Headmistress continued. Miss Wingrove looked more interesting, in her early thirties, fair haired, intelligent. She had a nice smile. Laura hoped they’d get her rather than Mr Peters. They hadn’t had English yet so she didn’t know whom had been allotted.

  "And finally Mr Rydell will be teaching German, following Frau Goettner’s return to Hamburg."

  There was a rustle of interest among the rows on the opposite side as the new German teacher stood momentarily, the majority of girls not yet having seen him. He was certainly the most attractive male member of staff by a long stretch. Not the youngest perhaps - Mr Poynter who taught History was under twenty-five, but he was short with a round, boyish face and owlish glasses. And fey Mr Lanaway in Art was too odd for words. Rare were the hearts that fluttered in either of their classrooms.

  Then there were various part time music masters, some of whom were younger than thirty, but unless you played a specific instrument you would never see them. Beyond that, most teachers were elderly males or female.

  All in all the school appeared to take care to choose its male teachers from the ranks of the romantically untouchable in Laura’s view. Ironic perhaps that the only one crossing the line seemed to be horrid old Mr Peters. Either way, Mr Rydell was an aberration.

  Charlotte grinned at Laura and whispered: "just wait until they see what Rydell’s like in class!"

  "He wasn’t so bad," Laura whispered back.

  "He’ll knock Peters off his perch with the sixth form," Charlotte said, then quickly closed her mouth as she spied a prefect glaring at her.

  The organ strummed up, and the final hymn played. Laura sang without really thinking about the words. Francis Hall promised a "Christian education" but it rather washed over her, she wasn’t one of the earnest girls who went to confirmation classes and Christian Union. Neither, fortunately, were Charlotte or Margery.

  Charlotte was an avowed atheist, Margery professed a sort of inactive belief, and Laura didn’t really know or care. There was too much else to think about and learn. Religion just buzzed along in the background, always there, more boring than offensive.

  * * *

  They didn’t have German that day but Laura saw Mr Rydell in the dining hall at lunch. She thought he looked back at her, but before she could be sure they had to turn around to say Grace and start the meal, which left her with her back to him. She could hardly crane around again and look at him.

  She felt the
changed world again. For a fleeting moment, she and the German teacher were the most important people in the world and everyone else in the room was a grey mush.

  "Snap out of it, you’re daydreaming again," Charlotte said. "I asked you if it was History or Latin first this afternoon." Charlotte was hopeless with timetables unless they concerned Games practice or matches.

  "Latin."

  "Good. I’ve decided to try and enjoy Latin this term," Charlotte said.

  This was startling coming from Charlotte. Even Margery raised her eyebrows.

  "We’re stuck with it, so I thought we should make the best of it. Maybe if we managed to get on top of it it wouldn’t seem so awful. Last year it was the utter drag and dread of the week to me, and it put me off my game," Charlotte explained.

  "So is this a resolution for all of us?" Laura asked.

  "If you like. It will probably be easier as a group effort."

  * * *

  True to her word, Charlotte displayed a new and disturbing diligence in Latin. She answered questions, concentrated throughout the entire class, and even suggested to old Mr Tyrrell that they do slightly more than the usual amount of translation so they could reach the end of a particular poem. He agreed in happy surprise, and everyone else groaned.

  "You’ll get death threats if you keep this up," Laura warned.

  "Oh they’ll all handle it," Charlotte said. "They’ll thank me once exam time comes."

  "Not from them - from us. I don’t mind paying a bit more attention to Latin homework, but I wasn’t bargaining on extra lines. If Margery doesn’t end up strangling you in your bed then I will." Laura was still slightly bewildered by Charlotte’s Latin resolution. Some secret lay at the bottom of it, she was quite certain, and she would find out in time what it was.

  "At least we’re through all the grammar this year. All the conjugation tables and so on." Last year had progressed through noun declensions, verb conjugations, tenses and voices. There was endless memorisation every homework, and tests at the start of every lesson.

  Every few weeks had seemed to required them to double their knowledge. Re-learning everything in the passive had been bad enough. But when Mr Tyrrell introduced the subjunctive they had nearly collapsed in despair.

  "We’re not really through it all though, only the testing," Margery said. "I still struggle to remember them all." It was an honest admission as languages were Margery’s thing.

  * * *

  Happily they had the new female teacher for English, though she explained that classes would alternate with Mr Peters this year. Miss Wingrove was as pleasant and as interesting as she appeared and Laura mentally ticked English as a look-forward-to lesson.

  With the plays taken up by Miss Vine and Mr Peters, Miss Wingrove’s side project that year was going to be a poetry recital. "All kinds, not just Keats and Shakespeare. Your own works if you like."

  Laura liked this idea. Margery detested it. Charlotte was indifferent. She had a good voice and plenty of confidence but no real interest in the arts. It was no issue to her whether she took part or not, though if Laura did, she’d probably give it a go. "Maybe you could write something for me, and I’ll recite it," she suggested to Margery.

  * * *

  Once again they scurried to finish in the bathroom so they could pick up their pens for the diary writing.

  "Should we read one another’s work every week or so?" Margery asked. Laura blanched.

  "God no," said Charlotte.

  "Why? Are you writing horrid things about me?" Margery asked.

  "No. I simply don’t want to read your entries, I suspect they’ll bore me to tears," Charlotte said. Laura silently thanked her. Right now her journal was her only confessional. She had craved writing it since the morning, even though she didn’t plan to write very much.

  "Perhaps we can read our favourite excerpts aloud once a month," she suggested to mollify Margery. She also didn’t want Margery peeking. Laura wasn’t sure what was going on with herself right now, but it felt like she had entered another dimension.

  They were running out of time before lights out, so they hurriedly picked up their pens.

  "Dear Diary. I have never felt so alone. I feel that something has taken me away from my friends, and put me in a new reality that they can never understand. It’s like the rest of the world has vanished. Is anyone else feeling this way? Is everyone? I can’t be the only one. I had a crush on Nick James all last year but it was nothing like this. What do I do? Will it go away? I wish you could answer me."

  4. Skipping Lunch

  In their next German lesson Mr Rydell remarked on Laura’s handwriting when he handed back their corrected translations. "Fine handwriting, what pen do you use?" The neutrality of his tone made it more like an observation than a compliment.

  Laura did have good handwriting. A couple of years ago a history teacher had held optional calligraphy classes, and she had tried and enjoyed them. She had since practiced incorporating some of the features in her regular writing.

  "It’s a cursive Italic nib."

  "Does it slow you down?" he asked.

  "Not really." She tended to use a different nib in exams, when faster writing was required. But homework was generally written out carefully and it took her no longer with the Italic nib than with a rounded one.

  He nodded, looking directly at her. He held the glance just a fraction longer than necessary, and for a moment she thought he was going to ask her something further, before he moved to the next desk. We connected, she thought. Or am I reading too much into this? She felt shaky from merely speaking with him.

  "Are you ok?" Charlotte whispered to her.

  "I’m fine, why?"

  "You look odd. Pale. Like when you fainted in gym." A couple of terms ago Laura had been coming down with a bad virus and had fainted during a gym lesson.

  She pinched her cheeks to flush them, and smiled at Charlotte. "Better?" Then she looked up and saw Mr Rydell looking at them both, his eyebrows raised slightly, and blushed for real. Fortunately he didn’t censure them for talking and the lesson continued.

  * * *

  Morning break was twenty minutes between lessons, which they tended to spend in the courtyard unless something had been forgotten for the next class.

  The "court" was the centre point of the various buildings at Francis Hall. It had a flowerbed surrounded by a low wall - red brick like the surrounding architecture - that was convenient to sit on. Different groups of girls might have appeared to be seated randomly, but there was in fact a distinct and unspoken understanding on who was supposed to sit where, based on social hierarchy.

  Charlotte, with her confidence and figure and her rumoured success with boys, had risen the ranks over the past year, taking Laura and Margery with her. This elevated them to a coveted position on the west wall.

  No one ever sat where they were not supposed to sit. Laura always marvelled at the order of it. "What would happen if we simply went and sat on the east wall one day?" she said.

  "Prefects would kick us off and be on our backs all term," Charlotte said.

  "It’s idiotic though, it’s just a wall. I mean if we went and sat on the steps with the fourth formers, would anyone care? It’s not like it’s a rule."

  "Some things matter more than rules."

  * * *

  Laura dreaded lunch more than supper at the moment. Mrs Ayers was assigned to their table that week, and her gimlet eye made it nearly impossible to swap unwanted food or smuggle it into a pocket. Worse still, it was liver today - grey-green and scummy - and Laura didn’t think she could bear to even taste it.

  Skipping lunch without reason was a severe offence, so she went to the school nurse’s room to try and contrive an illness and get a pass. A sore throat, requiring a liquid diet? Nausea? She had to be careful, because too many attempts to avoid meals might put her under even more scrutiny. If they thought she had an eating disorder she would be done for, with a teacher breathing down her neck ever
y meal.

  The nurse was in a kind mood that day. "It’s liver today, isn’t it?" she said, when Laura started to invent symptoms.

  "Yes." There was no point lying. "I honestly have a healthy appetite, but I just can’t do it, I really can’t."

  "You don’t look underweight. I don’t want you getting that way though, so be careful. You can have a note today, but it won’t be possible every Tuesday."

  Laura thanked her.

  "What about registering as vegetarian? Would your parents agree?" the nurse suggested.

  It was an idea. Laura tried to think of meat dishes she would actually miss. Beyond cottage pie, there weren’t many. "I’ll write to them this evening." She wondered why she hadn’t thought of it before.

  Thanks to the note she could safely avoid the dining hall altogether, and so she decided to sit and read in a sunny spot overlooking the tennis courts. For some time she lost herself in Rebecca, one of the approved novels in the school library.

  "Isn’t it lunch time?" She heard a voice behind her and froze. It was him. He seemed even taller outdoors in the sun, his shoulders broad, forming his body into a triangle shape as it narrowed to his hips. He looked so strong. She wondered wildly what it would be like to be crushed in his arms.

  "I have a sick note."

  "Are you ill?" She realised there was actually concern in his voice, which made her feel embarrassed, particularly given her very healthy train of thought.