Back Home by Michelle Magorian
They both nodded.
At the next station they hung round one another like glue while hordes of chattering girls pushed past them.
Outside the station stood two double-decker buses. Rusty grabbed Charlotte’s and Rosalind’s hands and dragged them towards the front one. ‘Let’s go find a seat!’
As they scrambled on board, a commanding voice shouted, ‘No holding hands!’
Rusty glanced over her shoulder.
A tall girl of about sixteen indicated their joined hands with a disapproving shake of her finger. ‘No holding hands,’ she repeated.
‘Who says?’
The girl looked astonished. ‘I do,’ she said angrily.
‘Big deal.’ And she dragged the two small girls up the stairs so that they could sit at the front. It was a three-seater. Perfect. A solitary one-seater stood next to them on the other side of a tiny aisle. Rusty threw her Beanie on it and nudged Charlotte and Rosalind. ‘For another new girl,’ she explained.
They stared uncomfortably back at her, already sensing that they were breaking some unseen rule. At that moment a small, mousy girl, drowned in a voluminous blazer and felt hat, emerged from the stairway. She looked petrified.
‘Hey,’ yelled Rusty. ‘You a new girl?’
She nodded.
‘I saved a seat for you.’
The girl scuttled hurriedly towards them and sank gratefully into the seat.
‘I’m Rusty. This is Rosalind and Charlotte. What’s your name?’
‘Fiona,’ she whispered. ‘Are you the person who’s looking after us?’
‘Uh-uh. I’m new, too.’ Fiona had a purple stripe on her tie, which meant Nightingale House.
Just then two older girls came striding up to the front.
‘What a nerve!’ exclaimed one. ‘New girls bagging the front seats.’
‘Excuse me,’ said the other one, icily, ‘but front seats are a Fourth priority.’ It was the girl with the straight hair.
‘Well, how about that?’ said Rusty, enjoying herself.
The other new girls began to rise nervously. Rusty pulled them firmly down again.
‘As a matter of fact, I happen to be in the Fourth.’
The girl noticed the red stripe in Rusty’s tie. ‘Oh no,’ she said.
Her friend had the red stripe, too.
‘I guess we’re all in Butt House,’ said Rusty, and she broke into a fit of the giggles. Boy, she’d never keep a straight face saying that.
The two girls turned sharply away, muttering angrily.
Within minutes of the bus moving, Rusty began to relax. They passed hedgerows, fields and trees.
‘I have to remember every bit of this,’ thought Rusty. ‘I’ll take a snapshot inside my head so’s I can describe it to everyone when I write.’
Rosalind tugged at her arm. ‘Look,’ she cried.
Through the trees, across a field, they could see a large brick building.
The bus stopped and all the girls leapt down, still chattering noisily. They followed the crowd past a towering brick wall and up to a pair of high wrought-iron gates.
Ahead of them, a long drive led to the school. It was a little like a castle, Rusty thought, without the turrets. At the corners of the building were four wings. Rusty decided they must be the Houses. An arched entrance stood in the centre. Encompassing the entire building from top to bottom were rows of scaffolding and planks.
As they walked up the long drive, Rusty felt someone jostle against her. Immediately three other girls followed suit, sniggering. They were the four who had been looking at the snapshots in the railway compartment.
Rusty pretended not to notice.
‘You’re awfully brave,’ whispered Rosalind. ‘I’d die if anyone did that to me.’
They reached the archway and stepped into a vast hall. Rusty was transfixed by the wood-panelled walls, the large glass cabinets with trophies and shields in them, the oak staircase that swept up and curved around. She breathed in the smell of beeswax.
Charlotte and Rosalind tugged at her arm. ‘The new girls have to go and meet Miss Bembridge. She’s the Headmistress,’ whispered Rosalind.
A group of girls was huddled together at the foot of the stairs. Rusty was conspicuous by her height.
‘How old is everyone?’
‘I’m eleven,’ said Charlotte.
‘Me too,’ said Rosalind.
‘Eleven!’ gulped Rusty. ‘You’re only a year younger than me.’
Rusty looked around, baffled. She knew that her mother had been surprised by her height and that thirteen-year-old Beth was not as tall as most girls back in the States, but she thought that that was just Beth. Maybe all those oranges and sunshine everyone in England kept talking about missing had made her taller for her age.
A Fifth-former stood on the stairs.
‘Quiet, please,’ she said. ‘I’m going to call out your names, and I want you to form into pairs.’
‘Can’t we stay with who we want?’ said Rusty.
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Those are the rules.’
She was about to comment, but Rosalind squeezed her hand. She looked so frightened that Rusty remained silent. When everyone had paired up, Rusty found herself alone at the end of the line.
On a landing upstairs, twenty-one chairs were placed against the wall. Rusty was put at the end, since all the other girls were Third-formers. They were told to sit down and remain silent.
The wait seemed endless. Somewhere along a corridor a clock ticked loudly. Along a passageway, sunlight poured through the windows, sending oblong patches of light on to the dark wooden floor.
‘Mind if I take a look out the windows?’ said Rusty, rising.
She strolled down the passage. There was a lovely window-ledge, wide enough for sitting on. She hitched herself up and gazed out over the grounds.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ whispered the Fifth-former angrily. ‘Get back to your chair.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Rusty. ‘I thought it was O.K. You didn’t say not to.’
‘And you’re not allowed to use slang here,’ she added.
‘What are you allowed to do here?’
There was a gasp from the new girls who had been watching. Rusty sat down again. Gradually, several Fifth-and Sixth-formers drifted up the stairs to meet the new girls as they came out of the Headmistress’s study. When Charlotte, Rosalind and Fiona had disappeared with their escorts, Rusty took a writing pad out of her satchel. She had hardly written ‘Dear Skeet’ when she felt the girl in charge tap her on the shoulder.
‘Letter-writing day is Sunday,’ she said.
‘What?’ said Rusty.
‘You’re not allowed to write letters except on Sunday.’
‘You’re kidding!’
The girl sighed. ‘It’s one of the rules.’
‘Well, it’s a dumb rule.’
‘That’s an order mark.’
‘Huh?’
‘For slang.’
The door opened and another girl came out. Including Rusty, there were now only three girls left. Rusty pushed her writing pad back into her satchel, and when the girl in charge had turned her back she made a rude face at her, sending the other two girls into fits of giggles. The Fifth-former whirled round, only to find an innocent-faced Rusty and two red-faced girls looking hastily down at the floor.
Up the stairs came three more older girls. Rusty noticed that one of them was wearing a red cord around her gymslip and had a red stripe in her tie. The girl was tall and lean, with short, black, wavy hair. She had a smooth pink-and-white complexion. She glanced at Rusty.
‘Hi!’ said Rusty.
‘Quiet,’ said the girl in charge.
At last it was Rusty’s turn. Although her heart was beating, she opened the door with a firm hand.
The Headmistress was a grey-haired woman in her sixties. A pair of glasses hung on a black tape around her neck. She gave a nod and indi
‘Hi,’ said Rusty. ‘I’m Virginia Dickinson.’
The Headmistress raised her eyebrows. ‘Sit down, please,’ she said.
Rusty did so and gazed about the room. It was just like an English movie. The windows, which were made up of diamond-shaped pieces of glass, were flung open. Old faded curtains with a horses-and-hounds design hung heavily beside them. Lining the walls were framed photographs of women wearing mortarboards and black gowns like the one the Headmistress was wearing.
‘Now,’ said Miss Bembridge. ‘I have your school report from your principal in Connecticut. She seems to think very highly of you. You were in what’s called junior high, I believe.’
‘Uh-huh. I mean, yes, Miss Bembridge. I was in seventh grade. I should have been in sixth, but they put me a year ahead.’
‘I see, by this, that you have done no French or Latin. Don’t they teach languages in American schools?’
‘Oh, sure. But we don’t start till high school.’
‘I see. Well, I’m afraid you’ll be a little behind here. I was thinking of putting you in a B form.’
Rusty felt herself grow hot. The Bs! That’s what Charlotte and Rosalind called the duds.
‘The B forms don’t do Latin and French. They tend not to take the School Certificate either, but your mother seems keen for you to be in an A stream so that you can eventually go on to take Higher and Matriculation.’
‘What’s Matriculation?’ said Rusty.
‘They don’t have matriculation examinations in America, I take it,’ she said slowly and somewhat wryly.
‘No, but they have other exams and tests. They’re nuts about ‘em.’
Miss Bembridge frowned. ‘Before I continue, it is a rule here that no slang is allowed.’ Before Rusty could say anything, she held her hand up. ‘The Matriculation Examination is what is required for entrance into university or college. If you wish to attain a university place, you will also be required to have Latin. To matriculate, you must pass a certain number of subjects which must include a language, like French or Latin, and mathematics.’
‘Oh,’ said Rusty. ‘It’s the same as the Regents exams. Alice took those. She graduated last semester. You should have seen her! She wore a gown, like yours only it was maroon and grey, and a mortarboard like in those photographs you have on your walls.’
Miss Bembridge cleared her throat. ‘Don’t interrupt,’ she said firmly. ‘Now, your mother has some idea of you going to university. A little on the ambitious side, I feel, but we’ll see what we can do.’
Rusty was surprised. Her mother had never mentioned anything about wanting her to go to a university. Rusty had always assumed she would do something more artistic.
‘This means,’ said Miss Bembridge, ‘that you are to be in an A form. I know that you’re used to being a year ahead, but I’m putting you into a form with girls of your own age. That will be Lower Four A. We’ll see how you progress this week and go on from there. Your mother also seems to think that you might need elocution lessons to eradicate your accent.’
Rusty rose from her chair, blushing.
‘Sit down,’ said Miss Bembridge. ‘I have dissuaded her. I think your accent will disappear of its own accord. But we’ll have to watch the slang, my girl,’ she said, smiling.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ whispered Rusty.
‘It’s always a little difficult for a new girl at first, but once you join in the school activities, I’m sure you’ll be very happy. All our girls are. You’ll also learn that we have a system here of marks and points, which are based on the rules and regulations of the school. The rules are for your own protection, for the smooth running of the school, and are a way of learning to be a valuable and useful member of the community.’
She indicated the door. ‘And by the way,’ she added, ‘we don’t say semester here. We call them terms.’
‘Terms,’ repeated Rusty, and she backed out of the room and closed the door behind her.
‘Virginia Dickinson?’
It was the tall girl from her House.
‘I’m here to show you around.’
Rusty swallowed nervously. ‘O.K.,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’
The girl frowned, swung on her heel, and headed for the stairs.
15
Rusty followed the girl down numerous corridors and staircases. ‘Don’t you ever get lost here?’ she asked.
‘You get used to it,’ said her escort, looking ahead.
‘How many kids are in this school?’
Still the girl avoided turning round. It was almost as if she wanted to give the appearance that she wasn’t with Rusty at all.
‘About a hundred and fifty.’
‘Is that all? Back in the States there were over four hundred in my elementary school, and in junior high there...’
They turned a corner into a wide corridor outside an assembly hall. A group of girls were peering up at several notices on the walls.
‘I knew she’d be Head Girl!’ exclaimed one.
‘Oh no,’ groaned her friend. ‘It’s Ciggy Cuthbertson for Games Captain.’
‘I say, what beastly luck!’ exclaimed another.
‘What’s everyone getting so excited about?’ said Rusty. As she spoke, five of the girls turned round quickly and stared at her.
‘Hi,’ said Rusty. There was no response. ‘I’m just trying to find my way around,’ she added. ‘I’m new.’
To her amazement, they turned their backs on her and burst out laughing.
‘Come on,’ said her escort, embarrassed.
As Rusty began to follow her again, she overheard one of the girls say, ‘Thank heavens she’s not in our House!’
Rusty stopped, completely stunned. Surely they couldn’t mean her? Before she had time to think any more about it, her escort was hurrying her on.
‘What’s going on there?’ said Rusty bravely.
‘They’re finding out who’s Head Girl and Games Captain, and who the prefects are.’ She turned slightly. ‘They’re selected from the Sixth Form. They’re the girls who wear skirts and blouses instead of gymslips. There’s also a list of rules on one of the notice boards, which you’d better look at. We have an order and points system here. I expect Miss Bembridge explained it to you.’
‘Well, not much,’ said Rusty, trying desperately to look the other girl in the eye.
‘Oh.’ The girl fell silent for a moment. She gave a sigh.
‘Each year, a Good Conduct Shield is presented to the House with the least amount of marks. There’s another shield, too, which includes conduct, achievement in games, good works, and so on. We nearly won it last year. We came second.’
‘So tell me about these marks,’ said Rusty, puzzled. ‘I have a feeling I’ve already gotten one.’
The girl glanced at her out of the corner of her eye. ‘Yes. So I’ve been told.’ She stared ahead again. ‘There are bad marks, order marks, punctuality marks, and’ -she paused – ‘the worst kind. Discipline marks.’ She then went on to explain that each House had a House Prefect, a Games Captain, and various dormitory monitors who saw to it that everyone kept to the rules. The House which already had the Head Girl or the Games Captain didn’t usually elect another one. Then, one by one, she began to reel off the rules.
No talking or running in the corridors. No talking in class. No talking after Lights Out. No holding hands or physical contact of any kind. Those old enough to go for walks without the supervision of a mistress must go in a foursome...
Here Rusty touched her arm. ‘Hey, wait a sec. You mean if I want to go take a walk, I have to be with three other girls?’
‘That’s right.’
‘So I have to find three other girls to go with me?’
‘Yes.’
‘You mean I can’t ever go out alone?’
‘Of course not,’ said the girl, amazed.
‘But,’ stammered Rusty, ‘what if I can’t find three girls to go with me? Do
‘No. It means that you’d have to go with the Juniors. They’re the Third-formers. They go in crocodile with one of the mistresses.’
‘In crocodile?’
‘In pairs. Two by two. Anyway, you don’t have to worry about that. Miss Bembridge has told me that you’re going home every weekend.’
‘So?’
The girl gave an exasperated sigh. ‘We’re only allowed out during the weekends.’
Rusty couldn’t believe it. ‘You’re not kidding me?’ she asked. ‘How come nobody’s complained about not being able to go out except weekends?’
The girl whirled round, furious. ‘Complained! You’re jolly lucky to be in a school as free and easy as this one. In most other boarding schools, one isn’t even allowed out of the school during the weekends. And also, you’re jolly lucky to be allowed to go home for them!’
At that she turned and strode angrily away.
Neither she nor Rusty spoke again until they reached the end of an extremely noisy corridor.
‘I’ll wait for you here,’ said the girl abruptly. ‘You have to go down to Matron to get your linen, sheets, that sort of thing. Your trunk with all your other clothes will be waiting for you in your dormitory.’
‘O.K.,’ said Rusty.
No sooner had she turned than her escort called her back. For a moment Rusty didn’t recognize her own name.
‘Virginia Dickinson!’ repeated the girl.
‘Oh, sorry, that’s me. I’m so used to being called Rusty that I –’
‘Virginia Dickinson, “O.K.” is considered slang.’
‘It is?’
‘I shan’t report it as you’re new, but from now on I’ll have to give you an order mark if you say it again.’
‘O.K. Oh boy, that did it!’ she exclaimed, and she burst out laughing.
‘That’s an order mark.’
Big deal, thought Rusty. She shrugged, and headed on down the corridor. Behind her, her escort stood open-mouthed, horrified that this ghastly girl should be put into her House and amazed that, being new, she hadn’t crumpled on being given an order mark.
Rusty, who was struggling between a desire to weep and to walk angrily out of the building straight for the nearest train, swaggered as nonchalantly as she was able towards a line of chattering girls.